'■■ m ^ 1H0K00 J / ^ lUv-ry^/ Cy. ^^^/ft^yc^: /^ii/ ///. /ff'f CHAMBERS'S CrCLOP^DIA OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. A SELECTION OF THE CHOICEST PRODUCTIONS OF ENGLISH AUTHORS, FROM THE EARLIEST TO THE PRESENT TIME ; CONNECTED BY A CRITICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL HISTORY. EDITED BY ROBERT CHAMBERS, ASSISTED BV ROBERT CARRUTHER3 AND OTHER EMINENT GENTLEMEN. Complete in two imperial octavo volumes, of more than fourteen hundred pages of douhh column letter-press, and upwards of three hundred elegant illustrations. Price, cloth, $5,00. The work embraces about one thousand authors, chronologically arranged and classed as Poets, Historians, Dram- atists, Philosophers, Metaphysicians, Divines, etc., with choice selections from their writings, connected by a IJiiv graphical, Historical, and Critical Xairative ; thus presenting a complete view of English Literature, from the earliest to the present time. Let the reader open where he will, he cannot fail to find matter for profit and delight. The selections are gems — infinite riches in a little room; in the language of another, "A whole English Librakv FUSED DOWN INTO ONE CHEAP BOOK ! " {):5°"'^'i6 American edition of this valuable work is enriched by the addition of fine steel and mezzotint Engrav- ings of the heads of Shakspeare, Addison, Bvron ; a full-length portrait of Dr. Johnson, and a beautiful scenic representation of Oliver Goldsmith and Dr. Johnson. These important and elegant additions, together with su- perior paper and binding, render the American superior to all other editions. EXTRACTS FROM COMMENDATORY NOTICES. From W. H. Frtscott, Author of " Ferdinand and Isabella." " The plan of the work is very judicious. ... It will put the reader in the proper point of view for surveying the whole ground over which he is travelling. . . . r^iirh readers cannot fail to profit largely by the labors of the critic who has the talent and taste to separate what is really beautiful and worthy of their study from what is superfluous." " I concur in the foregoing opinion of Mr. Prescott." — Edward Everett. " It will be a useful and popular work, indispensable to the library of a student of English literature." — Francis Wayland. " We hail with peculiar pleasure the appearance '~f this work, and more especially its republication in this coun- try at a price which places it within the reach of a great number of readers." — JVorth American. Review. " This is the most valuable and magnificent contribution to a sound popular literature tliat this centurj- has brought forth. It fills a place which was before a blank. Without it, English literature, to almost all of our countrjnien, educated or uneducated, is an imperfect, broken, disjointed mass. Every intelligent man, every inquiriiis; iiiiiul, every scholar, felt that the foundation was missing. Chambers's Cyclopedia supplies this radical defect. It bi^ins with the beginning; and, step by step, gives to every one, who has the intellect or taste to enjoy it, a view of Eng- lish literature in all its complete, beautiful, and perfect proportions." — Onondaga Democrat, JV. Y. " We hope that teachers will avail themselves cf an early opportunity to obtain a work so well calculated to im- part useful knowledge, with the pleasures and ornaments of the Engli.-li classics. The work will unduubliMlly !i:jd a place in our district and other public libraries ; yet it should be the ' vade mecuin ' of ever>' scholar." — Tcuchirs' Adoocate, Syracuse, JV. Y. " Tlie design has been well executed by the selection and concentration of some of the best productions of Eng- lish intellect, from the earliest Anglo-Saxon writers down to those (jf the present day. No one can give a glam c at the work without being struck with its beauty and cheapness." — Boston Courier. " We should be glad if any thing we can say would favor this design. The elegance of the execution fea-ts the eye with beauty, and the whole is suited to refine and elevate the taste. And we might ask, Who cai, tall ti> go back to its beginning, and trace his mother tongue from its rude infancy to its present maturity, elegance, \nd rich- ness.' " — Christian J\Iirrur, Portland. " This Cyclopadia is executed with great fidelity and tact. Wc know no work which we can recommend nore highly." — JVeaCs Saturday Oazette, Phila. " It is a good selection from the most renowned English writers, and has been fitly described as "o whale Eiiirii.-h library fiLsed down into one cheap book." The Boston edition combines neatness with cheapness, engraved portraits being given, over and above the illustrations of the English copy." — JV. Y. Commercial .Advertiser. " Welcome ! more than welcome ! It was our good fortune some months ago to obtain a chince at this vvork, and we have ever since looked with earnestness for its ajipearance in an American edition." — «Vea) Y(rk Recorder. " The industr}', learning, and ability of Mr. Chambers are securities for the excellence of the work, and wo com- mend it to every man of taste and letters as worthy of his patronage." — J\,'cw York Observer. "This is an elegant reprint of the Edinburgh edition, and certainly presents a specimen of typograpliy and en- graving of which we may be proud." — Ladies'' Repository, Boston. "This publication winnows the grain from an interminable mass of literary- chaff; and. in this regard, is most welcome to such a labor-saving age as that in wlilili ue live. No man of taste should fail of possessing a work which is evidently a classic." Morning Signal, Cincinnati. " It embodies a large amount of historical and biographical facts, and illustrates more pcrf.ctly than any other single book. A work like this cannot fail to prove convenient and intere-lini; to the man of letters; while, t.i tiio ordinary reader, it opens a store of information which be will not lie likely to obtain from any other source. We liopo it may be widely circulated in this countrj-, and contribute something to the cultivation among our people of a tasto for the literature of their mother tongue, and an acquaintance with ilie character of its best masters." — Protidinct Journal. GOULD AND LINCOLN, Pcblisueus, Bosto.v. CHAMBERS'S MISCELLANY OF USEFUL AND ENTERTAINING KNOWLEDGE EDITED BY WILLIAM CHAMBERS, EDITOR OF " Chambers's Edinburgh jourxal," etc. Ten volumes, elegantly illustrated. Price, cloth, $10,00. The design of Ihe Miscellany is to supply the increasing doniand for useful, instructive, and entertaining read- iiz. and to bring all tlie aids of literature to hear on tke culticaiiun of the feelniirs and understandimr of the prujilf — :o impress correct views on import.int moral and social questi.iiis — to furni.-li an unobtrusive friend and guide, a iiitiy fireside companion, as far as that object can be attained througli the instniincntalit>' of bo(dular ."tyle, makes it exceediniily interesting and instructive to all classes. The most flattering testimonials from diilinfiuislied school teachers and others, expressing an earnest desire to have it introduced into all school libraries, have been received by the publishers. " I have examined with a pnod deal of care 'Chambers's Miscellany of Useful and Entertaining Knowleiit'c,' p.irticularly with reference to its suitableness to form parts of a library for young persons, h is, indeed, a bhrarij in ir-p//; and one of great value, containing very choice solectivins in history, biography, natural history, poetry, art, ]]liysiol.)gy, elejiant fiction, and various departments of science, made with great taste and judgment, and with the l.i.l:''-t m. ral and philanthropic jmrpose. It would be difficult to find any miscellany superior tjr even equal to it ; it li' lily deserves the eiiilhcts ' useful and entertaining,' and I would recommend it veiy strongly, as extremely well a lapled to form parts of a librarj' fir the young, or of a social or circulating library, in town or country." — Oeor^c il. JCmer.-itin, E.ii]., Ckuirinaii of the Book Committee of the Budton iclwols. " I am gratified to have an. opportunity to be instrumental in circulating ' Chambers's Miscellany ' among the schools of the town for which I am Superintendent. I am vcrj' well acquainted wiih the merits of tlie work, hav- ing a copy in my own librarj." — J. J. Clute, Toion Sitperint ndent of CadtlcUm, Richmond Co., JV. R. " I am fully sati>fiod that it is one of the best series for our common school libraries now in circulation." — S. T. H.inc-, Tuirn Su/ierinleiid nt of Jlucedon, W yne Co., A". Y. " The trustees have examined it, and are well pleased with it. I have engaged the books to everj' district that had library money." — Mites C'lajee, Town Superintendent of Concord, Erie Co., JV. Y. " After satisfying myself, by a careful perusal, that Chambers's Miscellary are the rery brut bocks that have been offered to our libraries, I put the volume into the hands of the trustees of the district, who, after examining it, have asrecd to take full sets, as I did m t doubt they would. Put a volume into the hands of any intelligent tru^tee, and it will recommend itself most effectually. Father and mother, grandpa and grandma. Hank and John, Kate and Sup, from the oldest to the youngest member of the family that can read, all become equally cajitivated and absorbed with reading; and one Vid ime will not satisfy them, so l.ng as others can be had ; and it gives me pleasure to add, that, in my estiniatii;n, they are as useful as they are entertaining. I think the apparatus mania is nearly over, ai:(i if these bcM.ks can he introduced, they will aicouipli-h whit I hive long tried lo etlect — namely, create a taste f^r good reading." — Daniel Dowd, Town Superintemlent if Huron, IVuijne Co., JV. Y. " I cannot resist the desire whirh [ feel to thank you for the valuable service which you have rendered to the pub- lic by placing this admirable Wi.rk within the reach of all who have a desire to i bfain knowledge. I am m t ac- quainted with any similar collection in the English language that can compare with it for purposes of instruction or aiiuisement. I sh.uld rej.ice t.) see that set of books in every house in our coiintr}'. I cannot think of any method by which a father can more materially benefit his children than by surrounding them with good books ; anil if these ciiarming and attractive volumes can be placed in the hands of the young, they will have their tastes formed f..r good reading. I shall labor to see the Miscellany circulated among my friends, and shall lose no opportunity to com- luend it every where." — Rec. John 0. Choules, D. D. " They contain an excellent selection of historical, scientific, and miscellaneous articles, in jiopular style, fn m the best writers of the language. The work is elegantly printed and neatly illustrated, and is sold verj' cheap." — Inde- pendrnt Dcmocr.t, Concord, JV. //. " It is just the book to take up at the close of a busy day; and especially will it shed a new charm over autumn and winter in-door scenes." — Ckristim World, Boston. "The information contained in this work is surprisingly great ; and for the fire=ide, and the young particularly, it ••annot fail to prove a most valuable and entertaining companion." — JVew York Evangelist. " \\v are glad to see an American issue of this publication, and especially in so neat and convenient a form. It is an admirable compilation, distinguished by the good taste which has been shown in all the publications of llio Messrs. Chambers. It unites the useful and tiie entertaining." — JV. Y. Commercial Aduertiser. ' It is an admirnble compilation, containing interesting memoirs and historical sketches, which are useful, instruc- tive, and entertaining. Every head of a family should supply himself with a copy for the benefit of his children." — Coming Journal. " The enterprising publishers deserve the thanks of every Inver of the beautiful and true, for the cheap and tai-te- ful style in which they have spread this truly valuable work before the American people." — People^s jldvocutr. Pa. •' It is filled with subjects of interest, intended for the instruction of the youthful mind, such as biography, hi.-!tor)-, anecdotes, natural philosophy, &c." — Mew O leans Bee. " Our readers will bear us witness that we are not in the habit of 'pufling' indiscriminately the periodical and serial publications of the day ; hut so impressed are we, from such indications as have been afforded, .md In ni Ihe character of the editor and publishers of this .Miscellany, that it will prove a most entertaining and useful work, and especially valuable to those who are forming their reading habits, and to parents who would cultivate a orici t la.-.te ill their children, that we cannot refrain from thus, in advance, asking attention to it." — lalmyra Courier, JV. Y. " Its aim is more desultory and practical than the Cyclipaedia, but if is compiled with equal judgment, and adapte:i to the wants of the people. Its neat and convenient style, as well as its cheapness, warrant the belief that it will be a most siicce.ssful work." — Literary IVorld. " The character of the contents, and the reputation of the editor, will give it a wide circulation. Its design is, ' to furnish an iiiiolitrusive friend and guide, a lively fireside companion, as far as that object can be obtained through Uie inslrumenta.'ity of books.'" Viw York Recorder. GOULD AND LINCOLN, Puuhsiieks, Boston. '-JarSain iSULiXltiSli'lsi.i^ailsio &jsro/v. Goui.! AW JMCOJ CTCLOPiEDIA -ENGLISH LITERATURE A SELECTION OF THE CHOICEST rRODUCTIONS OF ENGLISH AUTIlOllS, FROM THE EARLIEST TO THE TRESENT TDIE, CONNECTED Br 1 CRITICAL AND BIOOrvAPHICAL HISTORY. ELEGANTLY ILLUSTRATED. EDITED BT ROBERT C H A ai B E R S , EDITOR OF THE " EUINBURGH JOURNAL," "" IJifORMATIO.N KuB THE PEOi'LE," ETO. ETC. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. SIXTEENTH THOUSAND. BOSTON: PUBLISHED BY GOULD AND LINCOLN, 5 9 WASHINGTON STREET. 1854. PREFACE. Tms work originated in a desire, on the part of the Publishers, to supply what they considered a defi- ciency in the Literature addressed at the present time to the great body of the People. In the late efforts for the improvement of the popular mind, the removal of mere ignorance has been the chief object held in -view : attention has been mainly given to what might be expected to impart technical knowledge ; and in the cultivation of what is certainly but a branch of the intellectual powers, it has been thought that the great end was gained. It is not necessary here to present arguments establishing that there are faculties for cognising the beautiful in art, thought, and feeling, as well as for perceiving and enjoying the truths of physical science and of fact. Nor is it needful to show how elegant and reflective literature, especially, tends to moralise, to soften, and to adorn the soul and life of man. Assuming this as granted, we were anxious to take the aid of the press — or rather of the Printing Machine, for by it alone could the object be accomplished — to bring the belles lettres into the list of those agencies which are now operating for the mental advancement of the middle and humbler por- tions of society. It appeared that, for a first effort, nothing could be more suitable than a systematised series of extracts from our national authors ; " a concentration" — to quote the language of the prospectus — " of the best productions of English intellect, from Anglo-Saxon to the present times, in the various depart- ments headed by Chaucer, Shakspeare, ^lilton — by More, Bacon, Locke — by Hooker, Taylor, Barrow — by Addison, Johnson, Goldsmith — by Hume, Robertson, Gibbon — set in a biographical and critical history of the literature itself." By this a double end might, it seemed, be served; as the idea of the work in- cluded the embodiment of a distinct and valuable portion of knowledge, as well as that mass of polite literature which was looked to for the effect above described. In the knowledge of what has been done by English literary genius in all ages, it cannot be doubted that we have a branch of the national history, not only in itself important, as well as interesting, but which reflects a light upon other departments of history — for is not the Elizabethan Drama, for example, an exponent, to some extent, of the state of the national mind at the time, and is it not equally one of the influences which may be presumed to have modified that mind in the age which followed ? Nor is it to be overlooked, how important an end is to be attained by training the entire people to venerate the thoughtful and eloquent of past and present times. These gifted beings may be said to have endeared our language and institutions— our national character, and the very scenery and artificial objects which mark our soil — to all who are acquainted with, and can appreciate their writings. A regard for our national authors enters into and forms part of the most sacred feelings of every educated man, and it would not be easy to estimate in what degree it is to this sentiment that we are indebted for all of good and great that centres in the name of Eng- land. Assuredly, in our common reverence for a Shakspeare, a Milton, a Scott, we have a social and uniting sentiment, which not only contains in itself part of our happiness as a people, but much that counteracts influences that tend to set us in division. A more special utility is contemplated for this work, in its serving to introduce the young to the Pantheon of English authors. The " Elegant Extracts" of Dr Knox, after long enjoying popularity as a selection of poUte literature for youths between school and college, has of late years sunk out of notice, in consequence of a change in public taste. It was almost exclusively devoted to the rhetorical literature, elegant but artificial, which flourished during the earlier half of the eighteenth century, overlooking even the great names of Chaucer and Spenser, as well as nearly the whole range of rich, though not faultless productions extending between the times of Shakspeare and Dryden. Tlie time seemed to have come for a substitute work, in which at once the revived taste for our early literature should be gratified, and due attention be given to the authors who have lived since the time of Knox. Such a work it has been tho humble aim of the editor to produce in that which is now laid before the public He takes this opportunity of acknowledging that very important assistance has been rendered through- out the Cyclopaedia of English Literature, and particularly in the jKjetical department, by Mr Kobert Carruthers of Inverness. # LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Page Paje Pas* 1 niuniinalion— Monk writing, I Autocrraph of Sir Philip Sidney, - 232 View of St T>awTence Church, 434 ' Chair iif Hede, - 3 Portrait of Kichard Hooker, - 2:i5 Portrait of Dr Robert South, - 441 ! niiiniinatiDii— a Minstrel, 8 Portrait of Lord IJacon, 2.!9 View of Lslip Church, 441 ' rl Portrait of James I. of Scotland, - 3e Autograph of Howell, £;-.« Portrait of John Locke, »« View of Diinkuld Catlie Autograph of Camden, 262 View of the l!irthi)lace of Locke, 509 Portrait of Sir David Lyndsay, 4!! Portrait of Thom:is .May, 264 Seal of Locke, - 510 Portrait of William Caxton, - 55 Portrait of Thomas Hobbes, 266 Portrait of the Ilonourable Robert ! Portrait of Sir Tliomas Jlore, 59 Portrait of Kobert Burton, 272 Boyle, .... 516 ' AutoKrapli of Sir Tliomas More, 5!) Tomb of Uurton, . . - 274 Portrait of Sir Isaac Newton, - 521 1 Bust of John I.cland, - C!l Portrait of John Selden, 282 View of the Birthplace of .Newton, 521 ' Portrait of William TjTidale, -•■i Autograph of Selden, 282 Portrait of Thomas R,niier, 527 ; Portrait of Sir Jolin Chel 'f ( ; d iriie 1 1 orbert , 131 View i>f the Poets' Corner, West- View of tlie Tomb of Swift in Dub- ! Bust of Hubert Merrick, - 139 minster Abbey, ... 323 lin Cathe Portrait of Allan Ramsay, 582 j Vie.v of llawtliomden, the seat of Portrait of Andrew MarvcU, - 343 Autograph of Ramsay, 582 Druninioiid, ... 159 Portrait of S.imuel liutler, 345 View of Uamsiiy Lodge, 583 Portrait of Buchanan, - Kil View of l{o>e Street, London, in Portrait of .Nicholas Howe. 590 AutoRiaph of liudianan, • Kil which llotlcr. lied, 346 Autogrnph and Seal of Vanbrugh, 597 View of Ciray'b Inn Hall, l&i Portrait of John Dryden, mi Uliimiiiation — Steele Writing the ! View of (! lobe Tlieatre, - 16.5 Autograph of John Dryden, ajo Tatler in a Cort'ee-Room, 602 i Bust of ShalisiMMre, 176 View of Uurlcigh House, 361 Pt, .... 8 Fabulour. aecoiint of tlie first Highways in nngland, 8 Praise of <;oo(l Women, .... 8 English .Metrical Ro.MAwrES, ... 8 K.\tiaet from tlie King of Tars, . . . 9 Extract froiM the Siiuire of Low neorree, . . 10 Immediate I'liEDEcEssoRs OK Chauckr, . , 11 What is in Heaven, . . . . 11 ROKERT I.ANGLAND, ..... 11 Extracts from Pierce Plow-man, . . . 11 Geokkrkv ('hai'( er, ..... 12 Select Characters from the Canterbury Pilgrimage, l.i Pescriptiiin of a Poor Country Widow, . . IH The Death of Arcite, .... IH Pepartore iif Custance, . . . . lii The Pardoner's Tale, .... I!) The C.o.i, ... 36 James I., a Prisoner in Windsor, first sees Lady Jane Reaufort, wlio afterwards was his Queen, . 3? John I.vdoate, .... SJ Descr-jition of a Sylvan Retreat, . 38 The London Lycloni the .Moral The (ianuent of fiood Ladies, William l)f\ hah. The .Merle and .Nightingale, The Dance, .... Tidini.'s fra the Ses-ion, Of Di-eivtioo in Giving and Tailing, . Oavin Doiiii.As, Apostrophe to Honour, .... 44 RlcirTiing n .May, ..... 44 John Sk ELTON, ...... 43 To .Mistress .Margaret Ilussey, ... 45 Earl ok Si'krev, ..... 46 Prisoner in Windsor, he recounteth his Pleasure there passed, ...... 46 Descri]ition and Praise of his Love Geraldine, . 47 How nil a.L'c is content witli his uwn estate, and how the age iif eh Idren is the happiest, if they had skill to uii- derstaiiil it, .... . 47 The .Means to att.-iin Happy Life, ... 4" Sir Tho.mas Wvatt, .... 47 The Lover's lute cannot be blamed, though it sing of his Lady's unKimlness, ..... 47 Tlie iv-eurcd l.nvcrexulteth in his Freedom, and voweth til rcinain free until Death, . . 48 That Pleasure is mixed with every Pain, . , 48 The Courtier's Life, .... 48 (If the .Mean and Sure Kstate, . . .48 Thomas Ti'sSER, ..... 48 Diieetiims for Cultivating a IIop-Garden, . 48 Housewifely Physic, .... 4.') .Moral Reflections on tlie Wind, ... 49 Sir Da viD LvNDSA V, .... 49 A Carman's Account of a Law-'Jiiit, ... 50 Suiiplication in Cnnteinptinn uf Siile Tails, 50 The liuililing of the Tower of liabel, and Confusion of Tonuues, ...... 50 MisrEi.LANEOi's Pieces ok the Second Period, 51 A Praise of his ithe Poct'si Lady, ... 51 Amantium Ira- Amoris Redintegratij est. Ry Richard I'.dwards. l,i2.'i-I.V«;, .... 51 Characteristic of an ICuglishman. I5y Andrew Rourd 51 The Nut-Brown .Maid, . . .52 PROSE WRITERS. Sir ,Iohn Fortesite, .... 54 English Courage, ..... 64 What harm would come to England if the Commons thereof were Poor, .... 54 vii ' CYCLOPEDIA OP ENGLISH LITERATURE. Page P-^ William Caxton, . . . • • 54 Christopher Marlow — Joshua Sylvester— Richard | | 1 Legend of St Francis, .... 55 Barnfield, .... 84 ! The Deposition of King Vortigem, 65 The Passionate SI>epherd to his Love, 84 Jack Cade's Insurrection, . . . • 56 The Nympli's Reply to the Passionate Shei)herd— Raleigh, 84 Scene in the Council-Room of the Protector Gloucester, 68 The Soul's Errand, 85 Sir Thomas Morb, . . . • • 58 Address to the Nightingale, 83 Letter to Lady More, .... 60 Edmund Spenser, .... 83 Character of Richard m., .... 60 Una and tlie Redcross Knight, 89 The Utopian Idea of Pleasure, 60 Adventure of Una with the Lion, 89 ^OHN Fischer, ....•• 62 The Bower of Bliss, .... 90 Cliaracter and Habits of the Coimtess of Richmond, 62 The Squire and the Dove, 91 BiR Thomas Elyot, . . . • • 64 Wedding of the Jledway and the Tbam'^s, 92 Different Kinds of Exercise, .... 64 The House of Sleep, . . 93 HcoH Latimer, ..... 64 Description of Belphcebe, 93 A Yeoman of Henry VII's time, 65 Fable of the Oak and the Briar, . 94 Hasty Judgment, ..... 65 From the Epithalamion, . • . 95 Cause and Effect, ..... 65 Robert Southwell, . . 96 The Shepherds of Bethlehem, 66 The Image of Death, .... 96 John Fox, ...... 67 Times go by Turns, . . ■ 96 The Invention of Printing, 67 Love's Servile Lot, .... 96 i The Death of Queen Anne Bolej-n, 68 Scorn not the Least, . . 97 A notable History of William Hunter, a young man of Samuel Daniel, .... 97 19 j'cars of age, pursued to death by Justice Brown for From the Epistle to the Countess of Cumberland 97 the Gospel's sake, worthy of all young men and parents Richard II , the Morning before his Murder in Pomfret ] | to be read, ..... 68 Castle 96 John Lkland, . ..... 69 Early Love, ..... 98 Georob Cavendish, .... 70 Selections from Daniel's Sonnets, . . 98 King Henrj-'s Visits to Wolsey's House, 70 Michael Drayton, .... 98 Lord Berners, ..... 71 Morning in Warwickshire — Description of a Stag-Hi»nt, 99 Battle of Cressy, ..... 71 Part of the Twenty-Eighth Song of the Polyolbion, 100 John Bellenden, ..... 71 David and Goliah, .... 102 Part of the Story of Macbeth, 71 Edward Fairfax, .... 103 The New Maneris and the Auld, of Scottis, 72 Description of Armida and her Enchanted Girdle , . 103 Extract from the Complaynt of Scotland, 72 Rinaldo at Mount Olivet and the Enchanted Wood, 103 Bishop Bale, ..... 73 Sir John Hap.bington, 104 1 j Death of Lord Cobham, .... 73 Of Treason, ..... 104 ' William Tyndale, .... 73 Of Fortune, .... 104 Miles Covbrdale, ..... 74 Against Writers that carp at other Men's Books, 104 i j Passage from T>-ndale'9 Version of the Bible, 74 Of a Precise Tailor, 104 1 1 Passage from Coverdale's Version, . . . 74 Sir Henry Wotton, .... 104 < Sir John Cheke, ..... 74 To his Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia, . 104 1 Remonstrance with Levellers, . • 75 A Farewell to the Vanities of the World, 105 Thomas AVilson, ..... 75 The Character of a Happy Life, 105 I Simplicity of Style Recommended, . . . 75 Shakspeare, ..... 105 j Moral Aim of Poetry, 75 The Horse of Adonis, 106 ! 1 Roger Ascham, ....•• 76 Venus's Prophecy after the Death of Adonis, 106 j Study should be relieved by Amusement, 76 Selections from Sliakspeare's Sonnets, 106 ' ! The Blowing of the AVind, .... 77 Selections from Shakspeare's Songs, . . • 107 j Occupations should be chosen suitable to the Natural Sir John Davies, .... 108 1 Faculties, 77 The Dancing of the Air, 108 I Detached Observations from the Schoolmaster, 78 Reasons for the Soul's Immortality, . 109 1 Qualifications of a Historian, . . . 79 The Dignity of Man, .... 109 John Donne, .... 109 Address to Bishop Valentine, on the Day of the Marriage C^trtr l^erfotr. of the Elector Palatine to the Princess Elizabeth, 110 Valediction— Forbidding Mourning, . . .110 THE REIGNS OF ELIZABETH, JAMES I., AND TheWiU 111 CHARLES I. [1558 TO 1649.] A Character from Donne's Satires, . 111 Joseph Hall, ..... 113 POETS. Selections from Hall's Satires, 112 Ben Jonson, ..... 112 Thomas Sackttlle, ..... 80 To Celia, ..... 113 Allegorical Characters from the Mirrour for Magistrates, 80 The Sweet Neglect, .... 113 ' Henry Duke of Buckmgham in the Infernal Regions, 82 Hj-mn to Diana, .... 113 John Harrinoton, .... 82 To Night, ...... 113 Sonnet made on Isabella Markham, . 82 Song — (Oh do not wanton with those eyes), . 113 Sir Philip Sidney, . . . • 82 To Celia, ...... 113 Sonnets of Sir Philip Sidney, .... 82 Her Triumph, . . , , , 113 [ BiR Walter Raleioh— Timothy Kendal— Nicholas Good Life, Long Life, 114 Breton— Henry Constable, 83 Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke, . 114 The Country's Recreations— Raleigh, 83 Epitaph on Elizabeth, L. H., . 114 Farewell to Town— Breton, . . 83 On my First Daughter, . . . 114 Bonnet — Constable, . . • • • 84 ToPenshurst, .... 114 riii CONTENTS OF FIRST VOLUME. Page To the Memory of my Beloved Master, William Shak- The Votaress of Diana, , . gpeare, and what he hath left us, . 115 William Cartwrioht, .... On the Portrait of Shakspeare, 115 To a Lady Veiled, Richard Corbbt, .... 116 A Valediction, ..... To Vincent Corbet, his Son, 116 To Chloe, ..... Journey to France, .... 116 The Dream, ..... Farewell to the Fairies, 117 Love inconccalable, .... BiR John Bkaumont— Dr IIkjjry Kino, . 117 To Cupid, ...... On my dear Son, Gervase Beaumont, . 118 Robert Herrick, . . . . . Song— (Dry those fair, those crystal eyes). 118 To Blossoms, ..... Sic Vita, 118 To Daffodils, ...... The Dirge, ..... 118 The Kiss— a Dialogue, .... Francis Beaumont, . . . 118 To the Virgins, to make much of their Time, Letter to Ben Jonson, . . 119 Twelfth Night, or King and Queen, On the Tombs in Westminster, 119 The Country Life, . . . . . An Epitaph, ..... 119 Julia, ...... Thomas Carew, .... 120 Upon Julia's Recovery, . . . , Song— (Ask me no more where Jove bestows). 120 The Bag of tlie Bee, .... The Compliment, .... 120 Upon a Child tliat Died Song— (Would you know what's soft ? 120 Epitaph upon a Child, .... A Fastoral Dialogue, 121 A Thanksgiving for his House, . . , Song— (Give me more love, or more disdain), 121 To Primroses, filled with Morning Deir, . . Persuasions to Lora, 121 Delight in Disorder, . . . , . Disdain Returned, .... 121 To find God, ..... Approach of Spring, . . 121 Cherry Ripe, ...... Phineas AND Giles Fletcher, 122 To Corinna, to go a Maying, Happiness of the Shepherd's Life, 122 Richard Lovelace, . . . . . Decay of Human Greatness, . 123 Song — (Why should you swear I am forsworn ?) . Description of Parthenia, or Chastity, 125 The Rose, ...... The Rainbow, ..... 123 Song — (Amarantha, sweet and fair), . . The Sorceress of Vain Delight, 124 To Lucasta, on going to the Wars, Georob Wither, .... 125 To Althea, from Prison, .... The Companionship of the Muse, 125 Thomas Randolph, . • . . . Sonnet upon a Stolen Kiss, . . . 126 To my Picture, ..... The Steadfast Shepherd, . 126 To a Lady admiring herself in a Looking-Glass, . Madrigal— (Amaryllis I did woo), . • . 127 Sir William Davenant, .... Christmas, ..... 127 To the Queen, ...... William Browns, .... 128 Song — (The lark now leaves his watery nest). A Descriptive Sketch, . . . 128 Description of the Virgin Birtha, Evening, . . . • • 128 John Cleveland, ..... Night, 129 On Phillis, Walking before Sunrise, . . . Pastoral Employments, . . . 129 James Shirley, ..... The SjTen's Song, .... 129 Death's Final Conquest, . . . . Francis Quarles, . • • . 129 Upon his Mistress Sad, .... Stanzas, ..... 129 Echo and Narcissus, . . . . . The Shortness of Life, 129 Richard Crashaw, . . . MorsTua, ..... 130 Music's Duel, ...... The Vanity of the World, 130 Temperance, or the Cheap Physician, . Delight in God only, . . . 130 HjTnn to the Name of Jesus, . . . Decay of Life, . . • . « 130 Sir Richard Fanshawe, . . . To Chastity, . . • . 131 A Rose, ...... Georob Herbert, . • • • 131 A Rich Fool, ..... Virtue, ..... 132 Song— The Saint's Encouragement, . . . Religion, ..... 132 Song— The Royalist, .... Stanzas, ..... 132 Lady Elizabeth Carevt, . . . . Matin Hymn, . . • . • 132 Revenge of Injuries, .... Sunday, . . • . • 132 Mortification, ..... 133 SCOTTISH POKTS. William Habinotoh, . 133 Alexander Scot, ..... Epistle to a Friend, .... 133 Hondcl of Love, . . . . . Description of Castara, . . . 134 To his Heart, ..... BiR John Suckling, .... 134 Sir Richard Maitland, . . . . Song— ('Tis now, since I sat down before). 135 Satire on the To%\ti Ladies, • A Ballad upon a Wedding, 135 Alexander BIontgomery, . . • . Constancy, ..... 136 Alexander Hume, ..... Bong— (I prithee send me back my heart). 136 Kino James VI., . . . . . Song— (AMiy so pale and wan, fond lover ?) 136 Ane Sehort Pocme of Tj-me, . . . The Careless Lover, .... 136 Earl OF Ancrum— Earl OF Stirling, . . Song— (Hast thou seen the down in the air 7) 136 Sonnet in Praise of a Solitary Life, • . Detraction Execrated, 130 William Drummond, . . . . . John Chalkhill, .... 137 The River of Forth Feasting, . . The Witch's Cave, .... . 137 Epitaph on Prince Henry, .... The Priestess of Diana, . • • 138 To his Lute, . . . • • CYCLOP-SDIA OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. I'age P.^'0 The Praise of a Solitary Life, Kill Generosity of Ca-mr, .... ■AH Ti)u NiKlitLngule, ..... Hill Gref iif Aspatia for the Marriage of Aniintor and ;| Siiiiiiets, ....•• Kill Kvadne, ..... 2iKKRT AVTON, .... If.l I'alamnn and Arcite, Captives in Greece, ■H»i Oil Wdinan's Int-Dnstancy, .... Kit Disinterestedness of liiancha. 207 1 di) fiinfess thoii'it Siiumtli nnii Fair, Kil I'listiiial Li.ve, . . . . . iiiH GkoKUK UlU-HANAM— DB AbTHUK J0HW8TOII, llil MehinclK.ly, .... •Mt 1 Tlie l.lTtli I'siilin, ..... Kii S.iug — . Loiik out, bright eyes, and bless the air), 20!) Thf Kirht of May, ..... Wi The I'.nver of Love, 2li!» Ou >'ua;ra, ...... m ToSl.cp, 21 U Soim to Fan, at the conclusion of the Faithful Shep- DRAMATISTS. heriless, ..... 211) JoHV TTeywood, ...... 10.1 G korok Chapman, .... 211) Nkoi.as I'dall, ..... lti4 Thomas Dkkkkh, .... 211 John Still, ...... 104 John Wkhstkr, .... 211 Thomas Sackvillb, ..... lt>4 Scene tVoni the Duchess of Malfy, . 212 nu-HAKu KUU'AKDS, ..... l(i4 Deathof the Duchess, 212 Gkurgk Whktstonk, .... l(i4 Thomas Miuui.KToN, . . . 21.'i i J IHN LVLV, ...... Kill Happiness of Married Life, . . . 214 Cupid and Campaspe, . . . KUi Song— iConie away, come away), • 214 SoMK— 1 Vi'Uiit b.rd bo slugs, yet so does wail 7) i«ii; .John .Mak.ston, .... 213 Gkokuk l't:KLK, ..... Kili KubEKT 'I'avlor- William UowLSif — Cyril TOUR- I'liilogue to Iving David and Fair lictlisabe, . lli7 NKI'R, . 21.5 Thomas Kvd, ..... K.7 Scene from the Witch of Kdmonton, 21.0 Tho.ma.s Nash, ...... lliH A Drowne A .Midnight Scene, 217 i Heauty, ...... 171 Pride i.f Sir (iiles Overreach in his Daughter, 217 1 Kosaliud's Madrigal, ..... 171 Ciiinpassi.m for M.sfcirtune, 2IU Love, 171 l')'e.|ii.il Love, 21)1 i Christophkr Marlow, .... 171 John I'oiio, ...... 219 Scenes fnmi Marlow's Faustiis, m A D\iug lleiiuest, .... 221! l'iL■^saKes from tlie Jew of .Malta, 17.1 Contention ..f a liird and a Musician, 2;!() Scene From MarloWs Kihxaul 11., 174 Tho.MAS 11 KVWIIOI), .... 2-JI Anthony MuNDAV — 11 knrv Ch k.ttls, 174 Song — . Pack cli.iids away, and welcome dayl. 221 Scene from Arden of Feversliam, . . . 17.'> Shepherd's Song, .... 2l'2 1 William Shaksi'kahe, .... 17ii Shi|n\reck by Drink, 222 ( Murder (if King I iimc-an, . . • . 1111 Ja.mks Shihi.ky, .... 222 Liive Scene by .Night in a Garden, in-j The Prcd gal l.ady, . . ... 22.I Description of a .Mminliglit -N.ght, with Fine Music, 1)14 .SieiiefP.m the Hall, .... 2l'4 Ghost Scene in I lamlc*. .... 1K4 .Ml SI Ki.i.ANKoi-s Pi KCKs OP the Third Pkriod, 22.) Mark Antony over Ca'sar's Hody, . . . IK.-, Coiivnial Song, by llishop Still, . 225 Otlielln'„ Itelatiou of his Courtship to the Senate, iJtIJ My .Mind to nica Kingd.ini is. 22.7 Queen .Mab, iKIi S.ing— .What pleasui-e have great princes). 22.'> 1 Kn.li.f all F.artlily Glories, 1(1(1 Meditat'ou when we go to IJed, 22j i Life and Death \\"eis;ied, .... 187 Meditation, ... 22(i Fear of Death, ..... 1»7 Tale of Argentile and Curan, 22(i Description of Ophelia's Drowning, I«7 Sonnet, ...... 22(1 I'ci-si-verance, ...... 1)17 Tlie Wo,.ilmnn's Walk, 22(1 The Deceit of Ornament or Appearances, DC There is a (iardeii in her Faco, . . . 22H Mercy, ....... I}ti< IJ.ibin ( dfell.iw 2£) Bi'litiide preferred to a Court Life, and the Advantages The Old aniMoiing Courtier, 22!) ; of .Adversity, ..... im Time's Alteration, .... 2;m ' The World compared to a Stage, lUK Loyalty Cnnlincd, ..... Stll Description of Ninht in a Camp, . 1)W j The Hlessings of a Shepherd's Life, . IHH PROSE WRITERS. - The Vicissitudes .if Life, .... !HI) Sir Philip Sidnky, .... 2.32 1 Fnlstaff'h Cowardice and Hoastine, . Dill A Tempest, ...... ZVi FalstafT arrested by his Hostess Dame Quickly, . IINl Desei-ipMon of Arcadia, . . . 2:a B*N .loNSON, ...... III! A Stag Hunt, . . . . 2:i.'t The Fall of Catiline, .... l!l.! Praise iil Poetry, .... 2;i4 ; Aeciisiition and Death of Siliiis in the Senate-House, I!M liOlU) UllRI.KIOH, ..... z» L.rve II).'. Choice of a Wife, .... 2,'M A Simpleton and a Hrargadi Kill, . uh; I)..iiiestie I'.eonomy, .... 2.34 Biibadil's I'lan for SaviiiK the ICxpense of ;\n Array, I!»7 iMhieation of Chil.lren, . . . 2.35 j Adv ce to a Heckless Youth, .... I'.c Sill et\slii|i and Horrowing, . . . 235 ; The Alchemist, ..... 1 iif Knowledge, . • . , 24.1 Hunks and tihips Compared, .... 24.') Stmlies, ...... 24.'i Sir Wai.tkb Ralkigh, .... 243 Tliiit the 1"1«(k1 liath nnt utterly defaced the marks of I'aradise, nwr caused liills in the Earth, . 24fi The Mattleof Thennojola;, . . . .247 The Strength of Kiiigs, .... 247 Tlircv Wales to be observed for the Preservation of a .Man's Instate, ..... 248 RlCHAKI) (iKAKTO.V, ..... 2A'.I JoHV Stow, . ..... 24f) Simrts upon the Ice in Elizabeth's ReigTi, . . 2.j(i Raphakl IIol/.vshkd — Wir.Li am llAkRiso.v — Joii.v Hooker — Francis lioTKViLLK, . . S.ld The I-aimnai-'es of Hritain, .... 2.V) Richard IIak Li'vT, .... 2.'il Ba.mi'kl I'ukchas, ..... 2.-.'2 The Sea, ...... 2.":.' John Davis, ...... '2.'i-2 Itavis's V(.yage3 in Search of the North-West Passage, 2.') Gkiihok Sandvs, ..... 2.'i4 Rloilern State of Ancient Coimtries, . . . 2."i4 AVULIA.M I.ITHOOW, . . • . . 2;"l4 Jaiuk.s liowKi.i., ...... 2.'>o To l)r I'rancis .Mansell, .... 2.V> To Sir William St .Jolni, Knight, . . . 2;,(i To Captain Thomas li, .... -I'lJ To the Kinht lion, tlie Lord Cliffe, . . . 2.W Tales i.f Travellers, ..... 2r,ii Bib Thomas IIkkkkrt, ..... 2iil iJescription of St Helena, .... 2(il William Camden, ..... 2(;i Sir H knhv Spkl.ma.v — Sir Robkrt Cottov — John Spked — Samukl Danikl, . . . . 2(>.i Tncertainty of the Kaily ll'story of Nations, . 2(t) Thomas .May — Sir .Joh\ 11a vward— Richard Knollks, 2(>4 2(H 2i;.T •2r,:, ■2ii; 2IL-. iir, 2(W 2lu 21,7 ■21 V, 2i;.s 2(:ji The TakiiiK of Constaiitinoiile hy the Turks, Arthih Wilson — Sir Ku hard L;.iKhR, Sir II KNRV WoTTON, .... What ICdiication Knibraces, .... Every Nature is not a Kit Stock to flraft a Scholar on, Coninieiidation before Trial Injudicious, . THO.MAS IluUHi:s, ..... C!od, ...... Pit\ and Indimation, ..... Kiniilatiiin and Envy, .... Laiiuhter, .... Love iif Knnwlcdire, .... The Necessity of the Will, . . . .an Lord IIkrhkrt, ..... 2i;ii Sir ll.t.n as More's Resifni.-ition of the (Treat Seal, . 27o TRANSLA no.V OK TH K 111 lll.K, . . . 2^0 KiNii .Iawks I., . . . . . .271 Sorcery and Witchcraft, . . . . 271 llou Witches Travel, ..... 271 Robkrt IJcrton, ..... 2/2 The Author's Abstract of Melancholy, . . 272 Milanclioly and Conlcniplation, . . . 272 Thomas Dkhker, ..... 274 A^aiiist Fine Cl.pthes, .... 274 llo« a (oillaiit should behave himself in Paul's Walks, 274 JosKi'H Hall, ...... 27."> V\x>u the .>i>;ht of a Tree Full-bldsM.mcd, . 27.^ tlj«>i) Occasion of a lied breast coiuini; into his Chamber, -Z!') Vpua the kindling of a Cluircoal Fire, . . 275 Upon the Sifrht of two Snails, Ulxm llcarinir of Mils c by -NiRht, I'lK.n the Sight of an Owl in the Twilight, I'poii tlie Sight of a dreat Library, Christ Crucified Afresh by Siunerg, The Hy|Kicrite, .... Tlie Uusy-liody, . . , Sir Thomas Ovbrbl'Ry, TheTnker, .... The Fair and Ilajipy Milkmaid, . A I'lMTikliu, .... John Karl k, .... The Clown OU-KN Fk/.THAM, . Muileration in Orief, Limitation of llunian Knowledge, Against Rcailiness to Take uUciice, Of lieing Over-valued, . Against Detraction, . Of .Negkct, .... No .Man can be Giiod to All, Meditation, .... Pktkh Hkvi.in, . . The Frcncli, .... French Love of Dancinp, Holland and its lubabilants, . . .John Ski.dkn, ... Hvil S|ieaking, .... Honidity K'ing, . . • • , Heresy, . ... Lcuiiiing and Wisdom, . . Oracles, .... Dreams and Prophecies, . . Scruuiiis, .... Libels, .... I)<-vil, in the Head, I'lei' liic|iiiiy, .... Jamks Ishkk. Wri.i.iA.M Chii.i.inoworth, .\:,'ainst the FiiiploMiient of Force in Religion, Reason must !)e appealed to in Religious Discussion? Against Duelling, . . • . John Halks, I'rivate Judgment in Religion, Chililren Kea.ly to liel.eve. Reverence for Ancient Opinions, Prevalence (if an Opinion no .Argument for JoKN I!aiukn, I'he Various l':vents of the Civil War, Jkrk.mv Ta vlor, ■|"he .Age of Hca.son and Discretion, The I'ump of Death, .Maniage, The Frogress of Sin, The Resurrection of Sinners, . Sinful Pleasure, . . . Fsi-fi.l Studies, Comforting the AniicteU, Real and .-Vppareiit ilappinese. Adversity, .... .Misrrusof .Man's Life, On I'la.ver, .... On Death, The Day of .Judgment, Rcligiiiiis Tul 'ration. Sir Tho.mas Umnv.iiK, . . Oblivion, L'ght the Shadow of God, . Toleration, . . . Death, Sttiily of C.ods Wor!c4, Cihuats, .... CYCLOPEDIA OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. OfMyseU Charity, . . . • • John Knox, .... Assassination of Cardinal Beaton, David Caldkrwood — Sir Jamks Mkltil, . John Leslsv, . . . • Character of James "V., Burning of Edinburgh and Leith by the English in John Spotiswood, .... Destruction of Religious Edifices in 1559, James VI. and a Refractory Preacher, Gboros Buchanan, .... The Chamaeleon, .... William Drummond, .... Against Repining at Death, Remarks on the Style of this Period, . Origin of Newspapers, . . . Page 302 302 303 303 304 304 305 1544, 305 30C 306 307 307 308 308 303 309 310 d^ourtj ptriotr. THB COMMONWEALTH AND REIGNS OF CHARLES II. AND JAMES II, [1649 TO 1689.] POETS. Abraham Cowley, On the Death of Jlr Crashaw, Heaven and Hell, . • To PjTTha, .... Anacreontics, . . . The Resurrection, The Shortness of Life and Uncertainty of Riches, The Wish, . . The Chronicle, .... Lord Bacon, .... Ode on the Death of Mr "William Harv-ey, Epitaph on the Living Author, Claudian's Old Man of Verona, Henry Vaughan, . . . Early Rising and Prayer, . . The Rainbow, . • . The Story of EndjToion, . . Timber, .... Thomas Stanley, . . • The Tomb, .... The Exequies, .... The Loss, .... Note on Anacreon, ... Note to Moschus, . . . BiR John Denham, . . . The Thames and Windsor Forest, The Reformation — Monks and Purit&ns, On Mr Abraham Cowley, . Song to Morpheus, William Chamberlaynb, . . Unhappy Love, . . . • Bdmund Waller, . . . On Love, . . . . • On a Girdle, . • • On the Marriage of the Dwarfs, . A Paneg>Tic to the Lord Protoctor, English Genius, . . • The British Na^-j-. At Penshurst, . • • The Bud, .... Song— (Say, Lovely Dream), . Bong— (Go, Lovely Rose), . • Old Age and Death, « • John Milton, .... Hymn on the Nativity, » « On May Morning, • . . . 312 314 314 314 . 315 315 Riches, 316 31fi . 3)6 317 . 317 3J8 . 318 318 . 318 319 , 319 319 . 319 319 . 320 320 . 320 320 . 321 322 . 322 323 . 323 323 . 324 325 . 326 326 . 326 326 . 327 . . 327 327 . 328 328 , 328 328 , 328 331 . 333 Pae« Sonnet on his own Blindness, . . . 333 In Anticipation of the Attack of the Royalists upon tho City On the Massacre of the Protestants in Piedmont, Scene from Comus, . . Praise of Chastity, . . The Spirit's Epilogue in Comus, L'AUegro, ... II Penseroso, . . From Lycidas, Satan's Address to the Sun, Assembling of the Fallen Angels, The Garden of Eden, Eve's Account of her Creation, Morning in Paradise, . Evening in Paradise, . . Expulsion from Paradise, . Satan's Survey of Greece, Andrew Marvell, The Emigrants in Bermudas, . The Nymph Complaining for the Death of her Fa Thoughts in a Garden, A ANTiimsical Satire on Holland, Samuel Butler, Accomplishments of Hudibras, Religion of Hudibras, Personal Appearance of Hudibras, The Elephant in the Moon, Miscellaneous Thoughts, . To his Mistress, . . Charles Cotton, . . The New Year, . . Invitation to Izaak AValton, . A Welsh Guide, The Retirement, . . Earl of Roscommon, . The Jlodest Muse, Caution against False Pride, An Author must Feel what he Writes, On the Day of Judgment, Earl of Rochester, Song— ("VMiile on those lovely looks I gaze), Constancj' — A Song, . . . Song— (Too late, alas ! I must confess), . Song — (My dear mistress has a heart), Sir Charles Sedley, . . . Song — (Ah, Chloris ! could I now but sit). Song — (Love still has something of the sea), Song — (Phillis, men say that all my vows). Duchess op Newcastle, . . Katherine Philips, . . Against Pleasure — An Ode, . A Country Life, .... John Dryden, .... Character of Shaftesbury, . Character of Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, Shaftesburj-'s Address to Monmouth, . Mac-Flecknoe, .... The Hind and Panther, The Swallow, .... Ode to the Memory of Mrs Anne Killigrew, On Milton, ..... To my Honoured Kinsman, John Dryden, Esq. of terton, in the County of Huntingdon, . Alexander's Feast, .... Theodore and Honoria, ... The Cock and the Fox, . . Inconveniences of Life in Rome, . . EnjojTnent of the Present Hour Recommended, John Philips, .... The Splendid ShiUing, John Pomfret, .... Extract from The Choice, . . . CONTENTS OF FIRST VOLUME. Page Page Eakl op Dorset, 377 Of Modesty, opposed to Ambition, . . 410 Song— (Dorinda's sparkling wit and eyes), 377 Thomas Fuller, .... 411 Song — (To all you ladies now at land), . 377 The Good Schoolmaster, .... 412 DUKS OF BUCKIKOHAMSHIRB, . 378 Recreation, ..... 413 Kxtract from the Essay on Poetry, . 378 Books, ...... 413 Education confined too much to Language, . 413 DRAMATISTS. Rules fur Improving the Memory, 413 JohnDrydbn, .... . 379 Terrors of a Guilty Conscience, 414 Savage Freedom, . . • . 381 Marriage, ...... 414 Love and Beauty, . . . . 381 Conversation, ..... 414 Slidnight Repose, .... 381 Domestic Economy, . . . . 414 Tears, ..... 381 Miscellaneous Aphorisms, . . . 415 Mankind, ..... 381 IzAAK Walton, . . . . . 415 Fear of Death, .... 381 The Ani;ler's Wish, .... 417 Love Anticipated after Death, . 381 Tli:uikfiilness for Worldly Blessings, . 417 Adam after the Fall, . 381 John Kvklvn, ..... 419 Scene between Mark Antony and Vontidiu3, lis general, 382 The Great Fire in London, . . . 420 Scene between Dorax and Sebastian, 38i A Fortunate Courtier not Envied, . , 421 Thomas Otwav, 386 Evelyn's Account of his Daughter Mary, . 422 Scenes from Venice Preserved, 3JI7 Fashions in Dress, .... 423 Parting, .... 3(KI Sir Ror.KR L'Estrange, . . , . 423 Picture of a "Witch, ao(i yEscip's Invention to bring his Mistress back again to her Description of Morning, . . 3WI 11 u>b;in.AAr l!,\RKO\v, . . . . . 428 Inconstancy of the Multitude, . 392 The K.\cellency of the Chrib-tian Iteligion, 429 Warriors, ..... 392 What is Wit? 43/ Thomas Shadwell— Sjr Georob Ethereqe- — AViLLIAM AVi.se Selection of Plca.sures, . . . 431 WvcHERLEY— Mrs Aphra Behn, 392 Grief Contmlled by \S"i.-se of Charles H. after the Battle of AVorcester, Character of Oliver Cromwell, . . BULSTRODK WhiTKLOCKE, .... CiLBKRT Itl'RNKT, .... Death and Character of Edward VT., Character df Leighton, Bishop of Dumblane — His Death, 4!!a Characterof Charles J I., .... 41i!t The Czar I'eter in England in 108, . . Aim Characterof William 111 491 John I)ry/)kn, ..... 4.'»2 Bhaksjjeare, ...... 4!).') Beaumont and Fletcher, .... 4!):i Ben Jiinson, ...... 41)3 Improved Style of Dramatic Dialogue after tho Restora- tion, 494 Translations of the Ancient Poets, . . 494 Spenser and Milton, . . • . . 4!Hi Lampoon, ...... 497 Dryden's Translation of Virgil, . . . 4!»7 History and ltiograi)hy, .... 4!W Bir William Tkmplk, ..... 600 Against Excessive Grief, .... 6l>2 Right of Private Judgment in Religion, . . 504 Poetical Genius, ..... 6li4 William Whtton, . . • 506 DevliuH of Pudautry in England, . ^ C07 Paeo Sir Matthkvv Hale, ..... Mt} On Conversation, ..... otfj John Lo<'KK, ...... fiiifl Causes of Weakness in Men's UnderbtJindiiigs, . 512 Practice and Habit, ..... 512 I'rejudices, ... . , 513 Injudicious Haste in Study, .... 613 Pleasure and Pain, ... 514 Importance of Moral Education, ... 515 Fading of Ideas from the .Mind, . . , 515 History, ...... 515 Orthodoxy and Heresy, .... 615 Disputation, . . . . . . 51fi Liberty, ...... 616 Opposition to New Doctrines, . • , , 516 Duty of I'leserving Health, . . . .516 Toleratiivn of Other Men's ()]iinion9, . . 516 The HtiNuimARLK Kohkht IJovi.b, . . . 516 The Study of Natural l'hilnsoj)liy favourable to neligir.n, 517 Reflection upon a Lanthoru and Candle, carried by on a Windy Night, ..... UiHin the sight of Roses and Tulips growing near one another, ...... Marriage a Lottery, .... Some Considerations Touching the Style of the Holy Scriptures, ...... Sir I.saac Nkwton, .... The Prophetic Language, .... John Hay, ...... The Study of Nature TJecommonded, Proixirtionate Lengths of the Necks and Legs of Ani- mals, ...... .'■.25 God's ICxhortation to Activity, . . . 525 All Things not Made for Man, . . .526 Thomas Stanley — Sir William Di'odai.e — Avthony Wood — Elias Ashmole — John AumiKv — Thomas Rymkr, ..... 527 Tom D'Urkey AND Tom BRo^vN, . . .527 Letter from Scarron in the Next World to Louis XIV., 528 An Exhortatory Letter to an Old Lady that Smoked Tobacco, ..... 529 An Indian's Account of a London Gaming-Ilotisc, . 529 Laconics, or New Maxims of State and Conversation, 529 Sir George Mackenzie, .... 5.'!(> Praise of a Country Life, .... o.'il Against Envy, ..... 531 Fame, ....... 531 Bigotry, ...... 6;il Virtue more Pleasant than Vice, ... 5;t2 Avarice, ...... 632 The True Path to Esteem, . . . . bP^ Nkwspai'ers in Enuland, . . . BZ3 REIGNS OF WILLIAM III., ANNE, AND GE0RG3 I. [1689 TO 1727.] POETS. Matthew Prior, . . . For my Own Monument, . . Epitaiih Extempore, . . . An E])itaph, . . . The Garland, .... Abra's Liive for Solomon, . The Thief and the Cordelier— A Baiiad, The Camcleon, Protogenes and Apollcs, . . Richard's Theory of the Mind, . (35 636 BT6 636 636 537 633 538 639 639 CONTENTS OF FIRST A'OLU:\rE. JOSKPH AdDISOM, . . , Fniir. the l.ettiT frnm Italy, . O.le— .II..W iire thy wrviints West. O Lord I) Ode — 'The siiacious firiiiaiucnt on high|, . The Uattleof Ulenheiin, Vniin the Trai;eti'in of the Mnrnintt, . • A Deseriptiim of a City Shower, . Itiiiieis atiil I'hiluinim, . . . Verx.-n oil liis < tun Death, . . The (iniiiil Question Debated, Alkxandkr Tope, . . . The Messiah, .... " Tlie Toilet, .... Description of Bclinrla and the Svliihs, From tlie Kpistle of Kloisa to Abelard, Elecy on an Unfortunate L.idy, Ilapjiine^s Dependi not on Goods, but on Virtue, From the i'rologue to the Satires, addressed to Ar not, ..... The .Man of Ross, .... The DyinK Christian to his Soul, Thomas Tick hLL, .... Colin and I.ucy— a Ballad, . . . Sin Sa MiKL (Iahth, .... Sir KlI'HAKD Ml.AI'KMORE, . . A.MnROSK I'HiLirs, .... Epi-^tle to the Karl of Dorset, The First I'astoral, .... JOHVCiAY, The Country Rallad Sineer, Walking the Streets of London, Song — 'Sweet woman is like the fair flower lustrei, ..... The I'oet and the Rose, TlveCoiirt of Death, The Hare and .Many Friend'?, The l.ion, tlie T;','er, and the Traveller, . Sweet William's Farewell to Black-Eyed Susan. A Hallad, ..... Thomas 1'arnell, .... The Hermit, .... MaTTHBW CiRREM, .... Cures for Melancholy, Contentment — A Wish, . . . AnNK, Col'NTKSS OF WINCHBL3EA, . A Noeturnal Reverie, . . Life's I'rogress, .... William Sojukrville, . . Allan Ramsav, .... Otle from Horace, .... Song — I At setting day and rising mom), Ti.e UiLst Tiinel ciuue o'er the Moor, . Lnicliaber no More, .... Rustic Courtship, .... Dialogue on .Marriage, ... DRAMATISTS. Thomas Soi'therxe, Return of Itiron, . . . Ni<;holas Uou-k, . . . Penitence and Death of Jane Shore, Calista's I'assion for Lothario, . William Lii.lo, . Fatal Curiosity, WlLLlA M CoSOhKVE, . Gay Young .Men uiJon Town, . A Swaggering Hiilly and Uoaster, Scandal and Literatuie in High Life, From Love for Love, . Sir Juum Vanbhuuu, . fi4.t 54.1 54.1 544 544 54.1 64H 54« 64« 54:t 5.-1L' 6.>;t 6.->7 5.i» 5.TH 5.1!» 51 io SCI 5Ht 5fi4 5Ri 5«ri 5<)7 WW mu 5r,'.i 5(, which ap- parition recommends the iierusal of Drelincourt s Hook of Consolations against tlie fears of Death, . 618 The Great Plague in J.oiidi>n, . . . 621 The Troubles of a Young TIpef, . . .622 Advice to a Youth of liaiiibliiig Disposition, . 62.3 T.KKNARD .MaNDEVI LLE, .... 624 Flattery of the Great, .... 624 Society Compared to a Rowl of Punch, . . 624 Pomp and Superfluity, .... 625 A MDRKW l'"LKTrHER OK SaLTOI'N, . . . 625 Jonathan SiviKT, .... 626 Inconveniences from a Proposed .abolition of Chris- tianity, ...... 627 Arguments for the Abolition of Christianity Treated, S"?? Ludicrous Image of Fanaticism, . . 628 A Meditation upon a Hroomst'ck, according to the St \ le and manner of the lion. Robert lioyle's Jledi- tations, ...... 62B Adventures of Gulliver in Rrobdingnag, . . 629 Satire on Pretended Philosophers and Projectors, 611 Thoughts on Varoiis Subjcits, ... 6.14 Overstrained I'oliteness, or Vulgar Hospitality, . 6.34 Alexander Pope, ..... 6.13 On Sickness and Dcith, .... 613 Pope to Swift — On his Retirement, . . 6i6 Po)ie in O.xford, ..... 636 P'lpe to Lady Mary Wortlcy Montagu on the Conti- nent, ...... 6'57 Death of Two Lovers by Lightning, . . 6'!7 Description of an Ancient Hnglish Country Seat, . 618 Pope to Gay— On his Recovery, ... giO Sketch of A iitiinm Scenery, . . . . 6.I9 Pope to Bishop A tterbury, in the Tower, . 640 Party Zeal, ...... 640 Acknowledgment of Error, . . . 640 Disyiitation, ...... 640 Censorious People, ..... 640 Growing Virtuous in Old Ago, ... 640 Lying, ...... 610 Hostile Critics, ..... 640 Sectarian Differences, .... 640 How to be Reputed a Wise Man, . . . 640 Avarice, ...... 040 Minister Acquiring and Losing Office, • . 641 Receipt to make an Epic I'uem, ... 64i CYCLOPiEDIA OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. Page D» John Arbuthjjot, . . . • • 642 The Ilistor}' of John BuU, .... 642 Usefulness of Mathematical Learning, . • 646 Lord Bolinobroke, ..... 646 National Partiality and Prejudice, . . . 647 Absurdity of Useless Learning, . . . 648 Unreasonableness of Complaints of the Shortness of Ilmnan Life, ...... 648 Pleasm-es of a Patriot, .... 649 Wise, Distinguished from Cunning Ministers, . 650 liADv Marv Wortlev Montagu, • . . 650 To K. W. Montagu, Esq.— In prospect of Marriage, 651 To the Same — On Matrimonial Happiness, . 651 To Mr Pope — Eastern Manners and Language, . 651 To Mrs S. C— Inoculation for the SmaH-pox, . 652 To Lady Rich— France in 1718, . . • 653 To the Countess of Bute — Consoling her in Affliction, 653 To the Same — On Female Education, . . 6S3 METAPHYSICIANS. Earl or Shaftesbury, . • . .654 Platonic Kepresentation of the Scale of Beauty and Love, ...... 655 Bishop Berkeley, ..... 656 Verses on the Prospect of Planting Arts and Learning in America, , . • • • 657 Industry, . . • • • .658 Prejudices and Opinions, .... 6iH From Maxims Concerning Patriotism, . . fiA.i HISTORICAL, CRITICAL, AND THEOLOGICAL WRITERS. Lawrence Echard, ..... 6.'"9 John Stryfe, ..... 659 Porter and Kennktt, .... 660 Richard Bentley, ..... 660 Authority of Reason in Religious Mattel's, . . 600 Dr Francis Atterbury, .... 6G1 Usefulness of Church Music, . . . . 6(>1 Dr Samuel Clarke, .... as Natural and Essential Difierenee of Right and Wrong, 664 Dr William Lowth, .... . 6f>5 Dr Benjamin Hoadly, .... 665 The Kingdom of Christ not of this World, . . 665 Ironical View of Protestant Infallibility, . . 666 Charles Leslie, ..... 667 William AVhiston, .... 668 Anecdote of the Discovery of the Newtonian Philo- sophy, ...... 668 Dr Philip Doddridge, .... 668 The Dangerous Illness of a Daughter, . . 670 Happy Devotional Feelings of Doddridge, . . 671 Vindication of Religious Opinions, . . 671 Da William Nicolson— Dr Matthevt Tindal— Dk Udmphrby Phioeaux, . • • . (79 CYCLOPEDIA OF ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. FROM THE EARLIEST TIMES TO 1400. ANGLO-SAXON WRITERS. -", ^ ^ ; I IHE English ' LAN-GfAGE is essentially a braneli of the Teutonic, the language spo- ken by the j inhabitants of central Eu- rope immedi- ately before the dawn of historj^ and hiLh constitutes the foun- ^^^ -ition of the modern Ger- ■^i^ min, Danish, and Dutch, d Introduced by the Anglo- S'lxons in the fifth century, ^'OVlit gradually spread, with the ^_^_ people who spoke it, over neirlj the whole of England; the Celtic, which had been the lui^in^e ff the aboriginal people, shrinking before it into '\^ ilcs, Cornwall, and other remote parts of the islvnd, as the Indian tongues are now retiring before the ad\ance of the British settlers in Xorth America.* From its iirst establishment, the Anglo-Saxon tongue experienced little change for five centuries, the chief accessions which it received being Latin terms introduced by Christian missionaries. Dur- ing this period, literature flourished to a much greater extent than might be expected, wlien we consider the generally rude condition of the people. It was chiefly cultivated by individuals of the reli- gious orders, a few of whom can easily be discerned, through their obscure biography, to have been men of no mean genius. During the eighth century, books were multiplied immensely by the labours of these men, and through their efforts learning de- scended into the upper classes of lay society. This * It is now believed that the British language was not so immediately or entirely extinguished by the Saxons as was generally stated by our historians down to the last age. But certainly it is true in the main, that the Saxon succeeded the British language in all parts of Enghuid, except Wales, Corn- wall, and some other districts of less note. age presents us with historical chronicles, theologi- cal treatises, religious, political, and narrative poetry, in great abundance, written both in Latin and in tha native tongue.* The earliest name in the list of Anglo-Saxon writers is that of Gildas, generally described as a missionary of British parentage, living in the first half of the sixth century, and the author of a Latin tract on early British history. Owing to the ob- scurity of this portion of our annals, it has been the somewhat extraordinary fate of Gildas to be repre- sented, first as flourishing at two periods more than a century distant from each other ; then as two differ- ent men of the same name, living at different times ; and finally as no man at all, for his very existence is now doubted. Nennius is another name of this age, which, after being long connected with a small historical work, written, like that of Gildas, in Latin, has latterly been pronounced supposititious. The first unquestionably real author of distinction is St CoLUMBANrs, a native of Ireland, and a man of vigorous ability, wlio contributed greatly to the advancement of Christianity in various parts of Western Europe, and died in 615. He wrote reli- gious treatises and Latin poetry. As yet, no edu- cated writer composed in his vernacular tongue : it was generally despised by the literary class, as was the case at some later periods of our history, and Latin was held to be the only language fit for regu- lar composition. The first Anglo-Saxon ■writer of note, who com- posed in his own language, and of whom there are any remains, is C^dmon, a monk of Whitby, who died about 680. Caedmon was a genius of the class headed by Burns, a poet of nature's making, sprung from the bosom of the common people, and little indebted to education. It appears that he at one time acted in the capacity of a cow-herd. The cir- cumstances under wliicli his talents were first de- veloped, are narrated by Bede with a strong cast of the marvellous, under which it is possible, however, to trace a basis of natural truth. * We are told that he was so much less instructed than most of his equals, that he had not even learnt any poetry ; so that he was frequently obliged to retire, in order to hide his shame, when the harp was moved towards him in the hall, where at supper it was customary for each person to sing in turn. On one of thes« * Biograpliia Britannica Literaiia : Anglo-Saxon Period. By Thomas Wright, M.A. FROM EARLIEST cyclop.s:dia of TIMES TO 1400. occasions, it happened to be Caednion's turn to keep guard at the stable during the night, and, overcome ■with vexation, he quitted the table and retired to his post of dut3% where, laying himself down, he fell into a sound slumber. In the midst of his sleep, a stranger appeared to him, and, saluting him by his name, said, " Caedmon, sing me something." C^d- mon answered, " I know nothing to sing ; for my incapacity in this respect was the cause of my leav- ing the hall to come hither." "Nay," said the stranger, " but thou hast something to sing." " Wliat must I sing ?" said Cajdmon. " Sing the Creation," was the reply, and thereupon Casdmon began to sing verses "which he had never heard before," and which are said to have been as follows : — Nu we sceolan herian* heofon-rices weard, metodes mihte, and his mod-ge-thonc, wera wuldor fasder ! swa he wundra ge-hwses, ece dryhten, cord onstealde. He aerest ge-sceop ylda beaniura heofon to hrdfe, halig scyppend ! tha middan-geard mon-cynnes weard, ece dryhten, aefter teode, firum foldan, frea eelmihtig ! Now we shall praise the guardian of heaven, the might of the creator, and his counsel, the glory-father of men ! how he of all wonders, the eternal lord, formed the beginning. He first created for the children of men heaven as a roof, the holy creator ! then the world the guardian of mankind, the eternal lord, produced afterwards, the earth for men, the almighty master ! CaBdmon then awoke ; and he was not only able to repeat the lines which he had made in his sleep, but he continued them in a strain of admirable versifica- tion. In the morning, he hastened to the town- reeve, or bailiff, of Whitby, who carried him before the Abbess Hilda; and there, in the presence of some of the learned men of the place, he told his story, and they were aU of opinion that he had re- ceived the gift of song from heaven. They then expounded to him in his mother tongue a portion of Scripture, which he was required to repeat in verse. Casdmon went home with his task, and the next morning he produced a poem which excelled in beauty all that they were accustomed to hear. He afterwards yielded to the earnest solicitations of the Abbess Hilda, and became a monk of her house ; ana she ordered him to transfer into verse the whole of the sacred history. We are told that he was con- tinually occupied in repeating to himself what he heard, and, " like a clean animal, ruminating it, he turned it into most sweet verse."' f Casdmon thus composed many poems on the Bible histories, and on miscellaneous religious subjects, and some of these have been preserved. His account of the Fall of Man is somewhat like that given in Paradise Lost, and one passage in it might almost be supposed to have been the foundation of a corresponding one in Milton's sublime epic. It is that in which Satan is described as reviving from the consternation of his overthrow. A modern translation into English fol- lows :— [Satan's Speech.l Boiled within him his thought about his heart J Hot was without him his dire punishment. * In our specimens of tlie Anglo-Saxon, modem letters are ■ubstituted for those peculiar characters employed in that lan- guage to express th, dh, and w, t Wright. Then spake he words : ' This narrow place is most unlike that other that we formerly knew, high in heaven's kingdom, which my nmster bestowed on me, though we it, for the All-powerful, may not possess. We must cede our realm ; yet hath he not done rightly, that he hath struck ue down to the fiery abyss of the not hell, bereft us of heaven's kingdom, hath decreed to people it with mankind. That is to me of sorrows the greatest, that Adam, who was \vTought of earth, shall possess my strong seat ; that it shall be to him in delight, and we endure this torment, misery in this hell. Oh ! had I the power of my hands * • then with this host I But around me lie iron bonds ; presseth this cord of chain } I am powerless ! me have so hard the clasps of hell so fij-mly grasped ! Here is a vast fixe above and underneath ; never did I see a loathlier landskip ; the flame abateth not, hot over hell. Me hath the clasping of these rings, this hard polished band, impeded in my course, debarred me from my way. My feet are bound, my hands manacled ; of these hell doors are the ways obstructed ; so that with aught 1 cannot from these limb-bonds escape. About me lie huge gratings of hard iron, forged with heat, with which me God hath fastened by the neck. Thus perceive I that he knoweth my mind, and that he knew also, the Lord of hosts, that should us through Adam evil befall, about the realm of heaven, where I had power of my hands.' * The specimen of Caedmon above given in the original language may serve as a general one of Anglo-Saxon poetry. It will be observed that it is neither in measured feet, like Latin verse, nor rhymed, but that the sole peculiarity which distin- guishes it from prose is what Mr Wright calls a very regular alliteration, so arranged, that in every couplet there should be two principal words in the line be- ginning with the same letter, which letter must also be the initial of the first word on which the stress of the voice falls in the second line. A few names of inferior note — Aldhelra, abbot of >l> Thorpe's edition of Ciedmon, 1832. ANGLO-SAXON WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. SAXON CHRONICLE. Malmsbury. Ceolfrid, abbot ofWearmouth, and Felix of Croyland — bring down tlie list of Anglo-Saxon writers to Bede, usuall}- calk'd the Venerable Bede, who may be allowed to stand at the head of the class. He seems to have spent a modest studious life, unehe- quered by incident of any kind, at the monastery of Weannouth, where he died in 735. His works, consist- ing of Scriijtural translations and commentaries, reli- gious treatises, bio- graphies, and an ecclesiastical his- tory of the Anglo- Saxons, which is the only one useful in the jjresent age, were forty-four in number ; and it is related that he dic- tated to his amanu- ensis, and com- pleted a book, on Chair of Bede. the Very day of his death. Almost all the writings of these men were in Latin, which renders it less necessary to speak parti- cularly of them in this place. Our subsequent lite- rary history is formed of comparativelj' obscure names, until it presents to us the enlightened and amiable King Alfred (848-901).* in whom learning and authorship graced the royal state, without in- terfering with its proper duties. He translated the historical works of Orosius and Bede, and some reli- gious and moral treatises, perhaps also JEsop's Fables and the Psalms nfDa vid, into the Anglo-Saxon tongue, designing thereby to extend their utility among his people. No original compositions certainly his have been preserved, excepting the reflections of his own, which he takes leave here and there to introduce into his translations. The character of this monarch, embracing so much gentleness, along with manh' vigour and dignity, and displaying pure tastes, cal- culated to be beneficial to others as well as himself, seems as if it would have graced the most civilised age nearly as much as it did one of the rudest. After Alfred, the next important name is that of Ai.FRic, archbishop of Canterbury, who died in 1006. This learned prelate was a voluminous writer, and, like Alfred, entertained a strong wish to enlighten the people ; he wrote much in his native tongue, particu- larly a collection of homilies, a translation of tlie first seven books of the Bible, and some religious treatises. He was also the author of a grammar of the Latin tongue, which has given him the sub-name of 'the Grammarian.' xVlfric himself declares that he wrote in Anglo-Saxon, and in that avoided the use of all obscure words, in order that he might be understood by unlettered people. As he was really successful in writing simply, we select a specimen of Anglo-Saxon prose from his Paschal homily, adding an interUnear translation : — Hsethen cild bith ge-fullod, ac hit ne brret na {A) fuat/ien child is christinvd,yet he cdfcrcthnot his hiw with-utan, dheah dhe hit boo with-innau his shape without, though he be within awend. Hit bith ge-broht sj-nfull dhurh Adames changed. He is brought sinful through Adam's forgaegednysse to tham fant fate. Ac hit bith athwogeii disobedience to the font-vessel. But he is washed * WTiere double dates are thus Riven, it will be understood that the first is the year of the birth, and the second the year of the death, of the individual mentioned. fram eallum synnum with-innan, dheah dhe hit with- from all sins inwardly, though he out- utan his hiw ne awende. Eac swj'lce tha halige wai-dlij his shape not change. Even so the holy fant waiter, dhe is ge-haten lifes wyl-spring, is ge-lic font wafer, ichich is called life's fountain, is like on hiwe odhrum wffiterum, k is under dheod bros- in shape (fo) other icaters, and is subject to cor- nunge ; ac dhses halgan gastes miht ruption; but the Holy Ghost's might ge-nealascth tham brosnigendlicum wa?tere, dhurh comes (to) the corruptible water ihroxigh sacerda bletsunge, & hit maeg sythan [the) pmests' blessing, and it may aftemards lichaman & sawle athwean fram eallum synnum, body and soid wash from all sin, dhurh gastlice mihte. through ghostly might. Cynewulf, bishop of Winchester, "Wulfstan, arch- bishop of York, and some others, bring down the list of Anglo-Saxon authors to the Conquest, giving to this portion of our literature a duration of nearly five hundred years, or about the space between Chaucer and our own day. During this tin To amuse themselves. ^Xojust. ' Fleet {isnel). *Toleap * Fieffa, gave fiefs. • lie gave them livries of lands A ANGLO-SAXON WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. •with, England, are works written in Latin by .learned ecclesiastics, the principal of whom were John of Salisbury, Peter of Blois, Joseph of Exeter, and Geoffrky of JloNMouTH, the last beingr the autlior of the History of England just alluded to,' whicli is supposed to have been written about the year 11. '38. About 1154, according to Dr Johnson, 'the Saxon began to take a form in which the beginning of the present EngUsh may plaiidy be discovered.' It does not, as already hinted, contain many Norman words, but its grammatical structure is considerably altered. There is a metrical Saxon or p]nglish trans- lation, by one Layajion, a priest of Ernely, on tlie Severn, from the Brut d'A?igleterre of Wace. Its date is not ascertained ; but if it be, as surmised by some writers, a composition of the latter part of the twelfth century, we nuist consider it as throwing a valuable light on the history of our language at perhaps the most important period of its existence. A specimen, in which the passage already given from Wace is translated, is presented in the sequel. With refe- rence to a larger extract given by Mr Ellis, of which the other is a portion, that gentleman remarks — ' As it does not contain any word which we are under the necessity of referring to a French origin, we cannot but consider it as simple and unmixed, though very barbarous, Saxon. At the same time,' he continues, ' the orthography of this manuscript, in which we see, for the first time, the adniission of the soft g, toge- therwith the Saxon 5, as well as some other peculiari- ties, seems to prove tliat the pronunciation of our lan- guage had already undergone a considerable change. Indeed, tlie whole stj'le of tliis composition, wliich is broken into a series of short unconnected sentences, and in whicli the construction is as plain and artless as possible, and perfectly free from inversions, ap- pears to indicate that little more tlian the substitu- tion of a few French for the present Saxon words was now necessary to produce a resemblance to that Anglo-Norman, or English, of whicli we possess a few specimens, supposed to have been written in the early part of the thirteenth century. Layamon's versification is also no less remarkable than his lan- guage. Sometimes he seems anxious to imitate tlie rhymes, and to adopt the regular number of syllables, which he had observed in his original ; at other times he disregards both, cither because he did not consider the laws of metre, or the consonance of final sounds, as essential to the gratification of his readers ; or because he was unable to adapt them throughout so long a work, from the want of models in his native language on which to form his style. The latter is perhaps the most probable supposition ; but, at all events, it is apparent that the recurrence of his rhymes is much too frequent to be the result of chance; so that, upon the whole, it seems reason- able to infer, that La3'amon's work was composed at, or very near, the period when the Saxons and Nor- mans in this country began to unite into one nation, and to adopt a common language.' SPECIMENS OF ANGLO-SAXON AND ENGLISH PREVIOUS TO 1.300. We have already seen short specimens of the Anglo-Saxon prose and verse of the period prior to the Conquest. Perhaps the best means of making clear the transition of the language into its present form, is to present a continuation of these specimens, extending between the time of the Conquest and the reign of Edward I. It is not to be expected that these specimens will be of much use to the reader, on account of tlie ideas which they convey ; but, con- sidered merely as objects, or as pictures, they will not be without their effect in illustrating the history of our literature. [Extract from the Saxon Chronicle, 1154.] On this yaer waerd the King Stephen ded, and bebyried there his wif and his sune wreron bebyried set Tauresfeld. That ministre hi makiden. Tha the king was ded, tha was the eorl beionde see. And ne duiste nan man don other bute god for the micel eie of him. Tha he to Engleland come, tha was he under- fangeii mid micel wortscipe ; and to king bletcad in Lundine, on the Sunnen dasi beforen mid-winter-doei. Literally translated thus : — ' A. D. 1 1 54. In this year was the King Stephen dead, and buried where his wife and his son were buried, at Touresfield. That minister they made. When the king was dead, then was the earl beyond sea. And not durst no man do other but good for the great awe of him. When he to England came, then was he received with great worship ; and to king consecrated in London, on the Sunday before mid-winter-day (Christmas day).' [Extract from tlie account of the Proceedings at Arthur's Coronation, given by Layamon, in his translation of Wace, executed about 1180.] * Tha the kingf igeten^ hafde And al his mon-iceorede,^ Tha bugan^ out of burhge Theines swithen balde. AUe tha kinges, And heore hcrc-flwingesA Alle tha biscopes, And alle tha clarckes, Alle the eorles, And alle tha beomes. Alle tha theines, Alle the sweines, Eeiix iscrudde,^ Helde geoncl felde.^ Summe heo guniierJ centen,^ Summe heo gunnen imien^ Summe heo gunnen lepen, Summe heo gunnen sceoten^^ Summe heo Avra^stleden And u-ither-gome makeden^^ Summe heo on velde Plcouweden under scelde^^ Summe heo driven balles Wide gcond the feldes. iloni ane kunues gomen Ther heo gunnen drinen.^^ And wha swa mihte iwenne Wurthscipe of his gomene,^* Iline ?«el5 ladde mide songe At foren than leod kinge ; And the king, for his gmnene, Gaf him geven^^ gode. * Tlie notes are by Mr Ellis, with corrections. t The original of this passage, by AVace, is given in an earltet page, i Eaten. - JIuItitude of attendants. Sax. 3 Fled. — Then fled out of the town tlie people very quickly. * Their throngs of servants. » Fairly dressed. ^ Held (their way) tlirough the fields. 7 Began. 8 fo discharge arrows. 9 Xo run. '" To shoot or throw darts. " Made, or played at, uiilher-games , Sax. (games of emula- tion), that is, justed. '2 Some they on field played under shield ; that is, fought with swords. '3 ' Many a kind of game there they gan urge.' Dringen (Dutch), is to urge, press, or drive. '^ And whoso might win worship by his gaming. " ' Him they led with song before the people's king.* Me, a word synonymV/ Arabians and to the Scan- , A diiiavians. It has also 'fiiy been disputed, whether a 'J,^< jjoliter kind of poetical "i^tTD literature was first culti- vated in Normandy or in Provence. Without enter- ing into these perplex- ing questions, it may be that romantic fiction appears to have been cultivated from the eleventh century downwards, both by the troubadours of Provence and by the Norman poets, of whom some account has already been given. As also already hinted, a class of persons had arisen, named Jocu/ators, Jongleurs, or Minstrels, whose business it was to wander about from one mansion to another, recit- ing either their own compositions, or those of other persons, with the acconipaniment of the harp. The histories and chronicles, already spoken of, par- took largely of the character of these romantic tales, and were hawked about in the same manner. Brutus, the supposed son of .iEneas of Troy, and who is described in those histories as the founder of the English state, was as much a hero of romance ' Wont. 2 Hreadthways. • Broke, destroyed. * Know. * Delight. " Family. 8 METRICAL ROMANXES. ENGLISH LITERATURE. METRICAL ROMANCES. as of history. Even where a really historical- person was adopted as a subject, such as Kollo of Normandy, or Charlemagne, his life was so amplified with ro- mantic adventure, that it became properly a work of fiction. This, it must be remembered, was an age remarkable for a fantastic military spirit ■ it was the age of chivalry and of the crusades, when men saw such deeds of heroism and self-devotion daily per- formed before their eyes, that nothing which' could be imagined of the past Avas too extravagant to ap- pear destitute of the feasibility demanded in fiction. As might be expected from the ignorance of the age, no attempt was made to surround the heroes with the circumstances proper to their time or country. Alexander the Great, Arthur, and Roland, were all alike depicted as knights of the time of the poet himself, The basis of many of these metrical tales is supposed to have been certain collections of stories and histories compiled by the monks of the middle ages. ' iVIaterials for the superstructure were readily found in an age when anecdotes and apologues were thought very necessary even to discourses from the pulpit, and when all the fables that could be gleaned from ancient writings, or from the relations of tra- vellers, were collected into story books, and preserved by the learned for that purpose.' * It was not till the English language had risen into some consideration, that it became a vehicle for ro- mantic metrical tales. One composition of the kind, entitled Sir Tristrem, published by Sir Walter Scott in 1804, was believed by him, upon what he thought tolerable evidence, to be the composition of Thomas of Ercildoun, identical with a person noted in Scot- tish tradition under the appellation of Thomas the Rhymer, who lived at Earlston in Berwickshire, and died shortly before 1299. If this had been the case. Sir Tristrem must have been considered a produc- tion of the middle or latter part of the thirteenth century. But the soundness of Sir Walter's theory is now generally denied. Another English romance, the Life of Alexander the Great, was attributed by Mr Warton to Adam Davie, marshall of Stratford- le-Bow, who lived about 1312 ; but this, also, has been controverted. One only, King Hum, can be assigned with certainty to the latter part of the thirteenth century. Mr Warton has placed some others under that period, but by conjecture alone ; and in fact dates and the names of authors are alike wanting at the beginning of the history of this class of compositions. As far as probability goes, the reign of Edward II. (1307-27) may be set down as the era of the earlier English metrical romances, or rather of the earlier English versions of such works from the French, for they were, almost without ex- ception, of that nature. Sir Guy, the Squire of Loio Degree, Sir Degore, King Robert of Sicily, the King of Tars, Impomedon, and La Mort Artur, are the names of some from which Mr Warton gives copious extracts. Others, probably of later date, or which at least were long after popular, are entitled Sir Tlwpas, Sir Isenhras, Gawan and Gologras, and Sir Bevis. In an Essay on the Ancient Metrical Romances, in the second volume of Dr Percy's Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, the names of many more, with an account of some of them, and a prose abstract of one en- titled Sir Lihius, are given. ^Ir Ellis has also, in his Metrical Romances, given prose abstracts of many, with some of the more agreeable passages. The metrical romances flourished till the close of the fifteenth century, and their spirit affected English literature till a still later period. Many of the bal- lads handed down amongst the common people are supposed to have been derived from them. * Ellis. \_E:ctract from the King of Tars.'] [The Soudan of Damascus, having .isked the daughter of the king of Tarsus in marriage, receivi-s a refusal. Tlie extract describes liis conduct on the return of the messengers with this intelligence, and some of the subsequent transactions. The language of this romance greatly resembles that of Kobert of Gloucester, and it may therefore be safely referred to the be- ginning of the fourteenth century.] The Soudan sat at his dess,l Y-served of the first mess ; They comen into the hall To-fore the prince proud in press, Their tale they tolden withouten lees, And on their knees 'gan fall ; And said, ' Sire, the king of Tars Of wicked words is not scarce, Heathen hound he doth thee call J And ere his daughter he give thee till Thine heart-blood he will spill, And thy barons all !' When the Soudan this y-heard, As a wood- man he fared,3 His robe he rent adown ; He tare the hair of head and beard, And said he would her win with swerd. By his lord St Mahoun. The table adown right he smote, luto the floor foot hot,-* He looked as a ivild lion. All that he hit he smote downright. Both sergeant and knight. Earl and eke baron. So he fared forsooth aplight. All a day and all a night. That no man might him chast :S A-morron, when it was daylight, He sent his messengers full right. After his barons in haste, That they comen to his parliament, For to hearen his judgment, Both least and maist.6 When the parliament was playner, Thus bespake the Soudan fier',7 And said to 'em in haste : ' Lordings,' he said, ' what to rede 28 Me is done a great misdeed, Of Tars the Christian king ; I bade hira both loud and lede, To have his doughter in worthy weed, And spouse her with my ring. And he said, withouten fail, Erst^ he would me slay in batail. And mony a great lording. Ac certes'" he shall be forswore, Or to wroth-hail that he was bore,'! But he it thereto bring. Therefore, lordings, I have after you sent^ For to come to my parliament. To wit of you counsail.' And all answered with good intent. They would be at his comraandement Withouten any fail. And when they were all at his hest,12 The Soudan made a well-great feast, For love of his batail. ' nigh seat at table. * Mad. ^ Hecamo. * Did hit. He struck the floor with his foot. * Chasten or check. * Both little and great. "! Proud. 8 What do you advise. " First "> But assuredly. "It shall be lU-fortaue to him that Ik was bom. i> Order. 9 FROM EARLIEST CYCLOPAEDIA OP TIMES TO 1400. The Soudan gathered a host unride,! With Saracens of muekle pride, The king of Tars to assail. When the king it heard that tide, He sent about on each a-side, All that he might of send ; Great war then began to ^yracK, For the marriage ne most be take, Of that maiden hend.2 Battle they set upon a day, Within the third day of May, Ne longer nold they lend. The Soudan come with great power, With helm bright, and fair banner, Upon that king to wend. The Soudan led an huge host. And came with much pride and cost. With the king of Tars to fight ; With him mony a Saracen fier'. All the fields far and near Of helms leamed light.3 The king of Tars came also, The Soudan battle for to do. With mony a Christian kniglit. Either host gan other assail. There began a strong batail, That grisly was of sight. Three heathen again two Christian men, And felled them down in the fen, With weapons stiff and good. The stem Saracens in that fight, Slew our Christian men downright. They fought as they were wood. When the king of Tars saw that sight, Wood he was for wrath aplight. In hand he hent'' a spear. And to the Soudan he rode full right, With a dunt^ of much might, Adown he 'gan him bear. The Soudan nigh he had y-slaw. But thirty thousand of heathen law, Coraen him for to weir ;6 And brought him again upon his steed. And holp him well in that need, That no man might him dcr.7 When lie was brought upon his steed, He sprung as sparkle doth of gleed,^ For wrath and for envy. And all that he hit he made 'em bleed, He fared as he wold a weed, ' Mahoun help !' he 'gan cry. Mony a helm there was unweaved, And mony a bassinet to-cleaved, And saddles mony empty ; Men might see upon the field, Mony a knight dead under shield. Of the Christian company. When the king of Tars saw him so ride, No longer there he wold abide, But fleeth to liis own city. The Saracens, that ilk tide. Slew adown by each side, Our Christian men so free. The Saracens that time, sans fail, Slew our Christians in batail. That ruth it was to see ; • Unreckoned. • Gleamed with light. » Blow. « Defend. 2 That gentle maid. •• Took. 7 Hurt. 8 Red coal. And on the morrow for their sake. Truce they gan together take A month and days three. As the king of Tars sat in his hall, He made full great dool withal. For the folk that he had i-lore.' His doughter came in rich pall. On knees she 'gan before him fall. And said, with sighing sore : ' Father,' she said, ' let me be his wife, That there be no more strife,' &c. [Extract from the Squire of Low Degree.] [The daughter of the king of Hungary having fallen into melancholy, in consequence of the loss of her lover, tlie squire of low degree, her father thus endeavours to console her. The passage is valuable, ' because,' says Warton, ' it delineates, in lively colours, the fashionable diversions and usages of ancient times.'] To-morrow ye shall in hunting fare ;2 And yede,3 my doughter, in a chair ; It shall be covered with velvet red. And cloths of fine gold all about your head, With damask white and azure blue. Well diapered* with lilies new. Your pommels shall be ended with gold. Your chains enamelled many a fold. Your mantle of rich degree, Purple pall and ermine free. Jennets of Spain, that ben so wight. Trapped to the ground with velvet bright. Ye shall have harp, sautry, and song. And other mirths you among. Ye shall have Rumney and Malespine, Both Hippocras and Vernage wine ; Montrese and wine of Greek, Both Algrade and despice^ eke, Antioch and Bastard, Pyment^ also and garnard ; Wine of Greek and Muscadel, Both clare', pyment, and Rochelle, The reed your stomach to defy, And pots of Osy set you by. You shall have venison y-bake. The best wild fowl that may be take ; A leish of harehound with you to streek,7 And hart, and hind, and other like. Ye shall be set at such a tryst, That hart and hynd shall come to your fist. Your disease to drive you fro. To hear the bugles there y-blow. Homeward thus shall ye ride. On-hawking by the river's side. With gosshawk and with gentle falcdn, M'ith bugle horn and merlidn. When you come home your menzie" among. Ye shall have revel, dances, and song ; Little children, great and small, Shall sing as does the nightingale. Then shall ye go to your even song. With tenors and trebles among. Threescore of copes of damask bright. Full of pearls they shall be pight.** * ♦ Your censors shall be of gold. Indent with azure many a fold. Your quire nor organ song shall want. With contre-note and descant. The other half on organs playing, With young children full fain singing. Then shall ye go to your supper. And sit in tents in green arb^r, ' Lost. * Go a hunting. ^ Qq. * Figured. * Spiced wine. * A drink of wine, honey, and spices. 7 Course. * Household. "> Set. 10 IMMEDIATE PREDECESSORS OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. With cloth of arras pight to the ground,- With sapphires set of dianioiul. * * A hundred knights, trulj told, Shall play with bowls in alleys cold, Your disease to drive away ; To see the fishes in pools i)lay, To a drawbridge then shall ye, Th' one half of stone, th' other of tree ; A barge shall meet you full right. With twenty-four oars full bright, With trumpets and with clarion, The fresh water to row up and do\vn. * * Forty torches burning bright. At your bridges to bring you light. Into your chaudjer they shall you bring. With much mirth and more liking. Your blankets shall be of fustian, Your sheets shall be of cloth of Ilennes. Your head sheet shall be of pery pight,' With diamonds set and rubies bright. When you are laid in bed so soft, A cage of gold shall hang aloft. With long paper fair burning. And cloves that be swTet smelling. Frankincense and olibanum, That when ye sleep the taste may come ; And if 3'e no rest can take. All night minstrels for you shall wake. IMMEDTJTE PREDECESSORS OF CHAUCER. Hitherto, we have seen English poetry only in the for/ns of the chronicle and the romance : of its many other forms, so familiar now, in which it is employed to point a moral lesson, to describe natural scenery, to convey satiric ivflections, and give expression to refined sentiment, not a trace has as yet engaged our attention. The dawn of miscellaneous poetry, as these forms may be comprehensively called, is to be faintly discovered about the middle of the thirteenth century, when Henry HI. sat on tlie English throne, and Alexander II. on that of Scotland. A consider- able variety of examples wdl be found in the volumes of which the titles are given below.* The earliest that can be said to possess literary merit is an elegy on the death of Edward I. (1307), written in musical and energetic stanzas, of which one is subjoined : — Jerusalem, thou hast i-lore 2 The flour of all chi valeric, Nou Kyng Edward liveth na more, Alas ! that he yet shulde deye ! He wolde ha rered up ful heyge ^ Our baners that bueth broht to grounde ; Wei longe we mowe clepe^ and crie, Er we such a kyng han y-founde ! The first name that occurs in this department of our literature is that of Lawrence Minot, who, about 1350, composed a series of short poems on tlie victories of Edward HI., beginning with tlie battle of Ilalidon Hill, and ending with the siege of Guines Castle. His works were in a great measure un- known until the beginning of tlie present century, when they were published by Kitson, M:ho jiraised them for the ease, variet}-, and harmony of the ver- sification. About the same time flourished Richard RoLLE, a hermit of the order of St Augustine, and doctor of divinity, who lived a solitary life near the ' Inlaid with pearls. * Eilward had intended to go on a crusade to the Holy Land. » High. < Call. * Mr Thomas Wright's Political Songs and Specimens of Lyric Poetry composed in England in the reign of Edward 1. Rcliquice Antiqua,2 Tsls. nunnery of Hampole, four miles from Doncaster, He wrote metrical parajihrases of certain parts of Scripture, and an original poem of a moral and religious nature, entitled The Pricke of Conscience; but of tlie latter work it is not certainly known that he composed it in English, there being some reason for believing that, in its present form, it is a trans- lation from a Latin original written by him. One agreeable passage (in tlie original spelling) of this generally duU work is subjoined : — [ What is in Heaven.} Ther is lyf withoute ony deth. And ther is youthc without ony elde ;' And ther is alle manner welthe to welde : And ther is rest witliout ony travaille ; And ther is pees without ony strife. And ther is alle manner lykinge of lyf : — And ther is bright somer ever to se, And ther is nevere winter in that countrie : — And ther is more worshipe and honour. Then evere hade kynge other emperour. And ther is grete melodic of aungeles songe, And ther is preysing hem ainonge. And ther is alle manner frendshipe that may be, And ther is evere perfect love and charite ; And ther is wisdom without folye. And ther is honeste without vileneye. Al these a man may joyes of hevene call : Ac yutte the most sovereyn joye of alle Is the sighte of Goddes bright face. In wham resteth alle mannere grace. ROBERT LANGLAND. The Vision of Pierce Plouyhman, a satirical poem of the same period, ascribed to Robert Longlande. a secular priest, also shows very expressively the progress which was made, about" the middle of the fourteenth century, towards a literary style. This poem, in many points of view, is one of the most important works that appeared in England previous to the invention of printing. It is tlie popular re- presentative of the doctrines wliich were silently bringing about the Refiirmation, and it is a peculiarly national poem, not only as being a much purer specimen of the English language than Chancer, but as exhibiting the revival of the same system of alliteration which characterised the Anglo-Saxon poetry. It is, in fact, both in this pe. uliarity and in its political character, characteristic of a "great literary and political revolution, in which the lan- guage as well as the independence of the Anglo- Saxons had at last gained the ascendency over those of the Normans.* Pierce is represented as falling asleep on the Malvern liills, and as seeing, in his sleep, a series of visions ; in describing these, he | exposes tlie corruptions of society, but particularly | the dissolute lives of the religious orders, with much j bitterness. : {^Extracts from Pierce Plowman.'] i [Mercy and Truth are thus allegorised.] Out of the west coast, a wench, as me thoughv, Came walking in the way, to hell-ward she looked ; Mercy hight that maid, a meek tiling withal, A full benign burd,'- and buxom of speech ; Her sister, as it seemed, came soothly walking, Even out of the east, and westward she looked, ' Age. 2 Burd, i. e. a maiden. * A popular edition of this poem has been recently piihlishod by Mr Wright. The lines are there divided, as we believe jn strictness tliey ought to be, in the middle, where a pause is naturally made. 11 PROM EARLIEST CYCLOPiEDIA OF TIMES TO 1400. A full comely creature, truth she hight, For the virtue that her followed afeard was she never. When these maidens mette, Mercy and Truth, Either axed other of this great wonder, Of the din and of the darkness, &c. [Covetousness is thus personified.] And then came Covetise, can I him not descrive, So hungrily and hollow Sir Hervey him looked ; He was beetle-browed, and babberlipped also, ^Vith two bleared een as a blind hag. And as a leathern purse lolled his cheeks. Well syder than his chin,' they shriveled for eld : And as a bondman of his bacon his beard was be- drivelled,^ With an hood on his head and a lousy hat above. And in a tawny tabard of twelve winter age, Al so-torn and bandy, and full of lice creeping ; But if that a louse could have loupen the better, She should not have walked on the welt, it was so threadbare. [The existing condition of tlie rt^ligious orders is delineated in the following allegoriciil fashion. It might be supposed that Ihe final lines, in which the lieforniation is predicted, was an interpolation after that event ; but this has been ascertained Dot to have been the case.] Ac now is Religion a rider, a roamer about, A leader of lovedays,-' and a lond-buyer, A pricker on a palfrey from manor to manor. An heap of hounds [behind him] as ho a lord were: And but if his knave* kneel that shall his cope bring, He loured on him, and asketh him who taught him courtesy ? Little had lords to done to give lond from her heirs To religious, that have no ruth though it rain on her altars. In many places there they be parsons by hemself at ease ; Of the poor have they no pity : and that is her charity ! And they letten hem as lords, her lands lie so broad. Ac there Sfliall come a King and confess you. Religious, And beat you, as the Bible telleth, for breaking of your rule. And amend monials,^ monks, and canons, And put hem to her penance — ***** And then shall the Abbot of Abingdon, and all his issue for ever Have a knock of a King, and incurable ihe ivound. GEOFFREY CUAUCER. With these imperfect models as his only native guides, arose our first great author, Geoffrey Chaucer, distinctively known as the Father of English poetry. Though our language had risen into importance with the rise of the Connnons in the time of Edward I., the French long kept possession of the court and higher circles, and it required a genius like that of Chaucer — familiar with difierent modes of life botli at home and abroad, and openly patron- ised by his sovereign — to give literary permanence and consistency to the language and poetry of Eng- land. Henceforward his native style, which Spenser terms ' the pure well of English undefiled,' formed a standard of composition, though the national dis- ' Hanging wider than his chin. * As the mouth of a bondman or rural labourer is with the bacon he eats, so was his beard beslabbered— an image still familiar in Kngland. 2 Lovoday is a day appointed for the amicablo settlement of •litierences. * A. male servant. * Nuns. tractions which followed, and the paucity of any striking poetical genius for at least a century and a half after his death, too truly exemplify the fine simile of Warton, that Chaucer was like a genial day in an P^nglish spring, when a In-illiant sun en- livens the face of nature with unusual warmth and lustre, but is succeeded by the redoubled horrors of winter, ' and those tender buds and early blossoms which were called forth by the transient gleam ot a temporary sunshine, are nipped by frosts and torn by tempests.' Chaucer. Chaucer was a man of the world as well as a student; a soldier and courtier, employed in public affairs of delicacy and importance, and equally ac- quainted with the splendour of the warlike and magnificent reign of Edward III., and with the bitter reverses of fortune which accompanied the subsequent troubles and convulsions. lie had par- taken freely in all ; and was peculiarly qualified to excel in that department of literature which alone can be universally popular, the portraiture of real life and genuine emotion. His genius was not, in- deed, fully developed till he was advanced in years. His early pieces have much of the frigid conceit and pedantry of his age, wlien the passion of love was erected into a sort of court, governed by statutes, and a system of chivalrous mythology (such as the poetical worship of the rose and the daisy) supplanted the stateliness of the old romance. In time he threw off these conceits — He stoop'd to truth, and moralised his song. Wlien about sixty, in the calm evening of a busy- life, he composed his Canterbun/ Talcs, simple and varied as nature itself, imbued with the results of extensive experience and close observation, and coloured with the genial lights of a happy tempera- ment, that had looked on the world without austerity, and passed through its changing scenes witiiout los- ing tlie freshness and vivacity of youthful feeling and imagination. The poet tells us himself (in his Testament of Love) that he was born in London, and the year 1328 is assigned, by the only authority we {Ktssesa on the subject, namely, the insc'ription on his tomb, as the date of his birth. One of his poems 19. ENCxLISH LITERATURE. is signed * Pliilogenet of Cambridge, Clerk,' and hence he is supposed to liaA'e attended tlic Univer- sity there; but ^ya^ton and other Oxonians chum him for the rival university. It is certain that he accompanied the army with -whicli Ed\vard III. in- vaded France, and was made prisoner about the year 1359, at the siege of Eetters. At this time the poet was honoured witli tlie steady and effective patronage of John of Gaunt, whose marriage with Blanche, heiress of Lancaster, he commemorates in hispoem of the Z'/eam. Chaucer and 'time-honoured Gaunt' became closely connected. The former mar- ried Philippa Pyckard, or I)e Rouet, daughter of a knight of Hainault, and maid of honour to the queen, and a sister of this lady, Catherine Swinford (widow of Sir John Swinford) became the mistress, and ulti- mately the wife, of John of Gaunt. The fortunes of the poet rose and fell with those of the prince, his patron. In 1367, he received from the crown a grant of twenty marks, equal to about £200 of our present money. In 1372, he was a joint envoy on a mission to the Duke of Genoa ; and it has been conjectured that on this occasion he made a tour of the nortliern states of Italy, and visited Petrarch at Padua. The only proof of this, however, is a casual allusion in the Canterbury Tales, where tlie clerk of Oxford says of hif tale— ' Learned at Padua of a worthy clerk — Francis Petrarch, the laurcat poet, Ilight this clerk, whose rhetoric sweet Enlumined all Italy of poetry. The tale thus learned is the pathetic story of Patient Grisilde, which, in fact, was written by Boccaccio, and only translated into Latin by Petrarch. ' Why,' asks Mr Godwin, ' did Cliaucer choose to confess his obligation for it to Petrarch ratlier than to Boc- caccio, from whose volume Petrarch confessedly translated it? For this very natural reason — be- cause he was eager to commemorate his interview with this venerable patriarch of Italian letters, and to record the pleasure he had reaped from his society.' We fear this is mere special pleading ; but it would be a pity that so pleasing an illusion should be dis- pelled. Whether or not the two poets ever met, the Italian journey of Chaucer, and the fame of Petrarch, must have kindled his poetical ambition and refined his taste. The Divine Comedy of Dante had shed a glory over the literature of Italy ; Petrarch received his crown of laurel in tlie Capitol of Rome only five fears before Chaucer first appeared as a poet (his Court of Love was written about the year 1346) ; and Boccaccio (more poetical in his prose tlian his verse) had composed that inimitable century of tales, his Decameron, in which the charms of romance are clothed in all the pure and sparkling graces of com- position. These illustrious examples must have in- spired the English traveller ; but tlie rude northern speech with which he had to deal, formed a chilling contrast to the musical language of Italy ! Edward III. continued his jjatronage to tlie poet. He was made comptroller of the customs of wine and wool in the port of London, and had a pitcher of wine daily from the royal table, which was afterwards commuted into a pension of twenty marks. He was appointed a joint envoy to France to treat of a mar- riage between the Prince of Wales and I\Iary, the daughter of the French king. At home, he is sup- posed to have resided in a house granted by tlie king, near the royal manor at Woodstock, wliere, according to the description in his Dream, he was gurrounded with every mark of luxury and distinc- tion. The scenery of Woodstock Park has been described in tlie Dreavi with some graphic and pic- turesque touches : — And right anon as I the day espied, No longer would I in ray bed abide, I went forth myself alone and boldely, And held the way down by a brook side, Till I came to a land of white and green, So fair a one had I never in been. The ground was green y-powdered with daisy, The flowers and the groves alike high, All green and white was nothing else seen. The destruction of the Royal IManor at Woodstock, and the subsequent erection of Blenheim, have changed the appearance of this classic ground ; but the poet's morning walk may still betraccd, and some venerable oaks that may have waved over him, lend poetic and historical interest to the spot. The opening of the reign of Richard II. was unpropitious to Chaucer. He became involved in the civil and religious troubles of the times, and joined with the party of John of Nortliampton, who was attached to the doctrines of Wickliffe, in resisting tlie mea- sures of the court. The poet fled to Hainault (the countrj' of his wife's relations), and afterwards to Holland. He ventured to return in 1386, but was thrown into the Tower, and deprived of his comp- trollership. In May 1388, he obtained leave to dis- pose of his two patents of twenty marks each ; a measure prompted, no doubt, liy necessity. He ob- tained his release by impeaching his previous asso- ciates, and confessing to his misdemeanours, offering also to prove the truth of his information by enter- ing the lists of combat witli the accused parties. How far this transaction involves tlie character of the poet, we cannot now ascertain. He has painted his suffering and distress, tlie odium which he in- curred, and his indignation at the bad conduct of his former confederates, in powerful and affecting lan- guage in his prose work, the Testament of Love. The sunshine of royal favour was not long withheld after this humiliating submission. In 1389, Chaucer is registered as clerk of the works at Westminster; and next year he was appointed to the same office at Windsor. These were only temporary situations, held about twenty months ; but he afterwards re- ceived a grant of £20, and a tun of wine, per an- num. The name of the poet does not occur again for some years, and he is supposed to have retired to Woodstock, and there composed his Canterbury Tales. In 1398, a patent of protection was granted to him by the crown ; but, from the terms of the deed, it is difficult to say whether it is an amnesty for political offences, or a safeguard from creditors. In the following year, still brighter prospects opened on the aged poet. Henry of Bolingbroke, the son of his brother-in-law, John of Gaunt, ascended the throne : Cliaucer's annuitj' was continued, and forty marks additional were granted. Thomas Chaucer, whom Mr Godwin seems to jirove to have been the poet's son, was made chief butler, and elected Speaker of the House of Commons. The last time that the poet's name occurs in any public document, is in a lease made to him by the abbot, prior and convent of Westminster, of a tenement situate in the gar- den of the chapel, at the yearly rent of 53s. 4d, This is dated on the 24th of December 1399 ; and on the 25th of October 1400, the poet died in Lon- don, most probably in the liouse he had just leased, which stood on the site of Henry Vll.'s chapel. He was buried in Westminster Abbey — the first of that illustrious file of poets whose ashes rest in the sacred edifice. The character of Chaucer may be seen in his works. He was the counterpart of Sliakspeare in clieerfulness and benignity of dispositio'i — no enemy , to mirth and joviality, yet delighting in his books, 13 FBOM EARLIEST CYCLOPEDIA OF TIMES TO 1400. and shidious in tlie midst of an active life. He was an enemy to superstition and priestly abuse, but playful in his satire, with a keen sense of the ludi- crous, and the richest vein of comic narrative and delineation of character. He retained through life a strong love of the country, and of its inspiring and invigorating influences. No poet has dwelt more fondly on the charms of a spring or summer morn- ing; and the month of May seems to have been always a carnival in his heart and fancy. His re- tirement at Woodstock, where he had indulged the poeticid reveries of his jouth, and where lie was crowned with the latest treasures of his genius, was exactly such an old age as could have been desired for the \tnerablt founder of our national poetry period of their sojourn ; and we have thus a hundred stories, lively, humorous, or tender, and full of cha- racteristic painting in clioice Italian. Chaucer seems to have copied this design, as well as part of the Florentine's freedom and licentiousness of detail; but he greatly improved upon the plan. There is something repulsive and unnatural in a party of ladies and gentlemen meeting to tell loose tales of successful love and licentious monks while the plague is desolating the country around them. The tales of Chaucer have a more pleasing origin. A com- pany of pilgrims, consisting of twenty-nine ' sundry folk,' meet together in fellowship at the Tabard Inn, Southwark * all being bent on a pilgrinnge to the ■ilirint of Thomas i Betkct at Cmtcibur} ihese j)iUimiigcs were scenes of inucli enjovment, and L^cn mirth, for, sitisficd \Mth th^\ irting the Evil One b\ tlie object of their mission, the de\otees did not eonbider it neeessar^ to preser^e anj religious Chaucer s Tomb The principal of Chaucer's minor poems are the Flower and Leaf, a spirited and graceful allegorical poem, with some fine description ; and Troilus and Cresseide, partly translated, but enriched with many marks of his original genius. Sir riiilip Sidney admired this pathetic poem, and it was long pi)- pular. Warton and every subsequent critic have quoted with just admiration the passage in which Cresseide makes an avowal of her love : — And as the new-abashed nightingale, That stinteth first when she beginneth sing, When that she heareth any herdes tale, Or in the hedges any wight stirring, And after, sicker, doth her voice outring ; Right so Cresseide, when that her dread stent, Opened her heart, and told him her intent. The House of Fame, afterwards so richly paraphrased by Pope, contains some bold imagery, and the ro- mantic machinery of Gothic fable. It is, however, very unequal in execution, and extravagant in con- ception. Warton has pointed out many anachron- isms in these poems. We can readily believe that the unities of time and place were little regarded by the old poet. They were as much defied by Shak- speare ; but in both we have the higher qualities of true feeling, passion, and excitement, which blind us to mere scholastic blemishes and defects. The Canterbury Tales form the best and most durable monument of Chaucer's genius. Boccaccio, in his Decameron, supposes ten jiersons to have re- tired from llorence during the plague of 1348, and there, in a sequestered villa, amused themselves by relating tales after dinner. Ten days formed the labardlnn, Southwark. strictness or restraint by the way. The poet him- self is one of the party at the Tabard. They all sup together in the large room of the hostelrie ; and after great cheer, the landlord proposes that the}- shall travel together to Canterbury ; and, to shorten their way, tliat each shall tell a tale, both in going and returning, and whoever told the best, should have a supper at the expense of the rest. The company assent, and ' mine host' (who was both * bold of his speech, and wise and well taught ') is appointed to be judge and reporter of the stories. The characters composing this social party are inimitably drawn and discriminated. We have a knight, a mirror of chivalry, who had fought against the Heathenesse in Palestine ; his son, a gallant young squire with curled locks, ' laid in presse' and all manner of debonair accomplishments ; a nun, or prioress, beautifully drawn in her arch simplicity and coy reserve ; and a jolly monk, who boasted a dainty, well-caparisoned horse — And when he rode men might his bridle hear Gingling in a whistling wind as clear, And eke as loud as doth the chapel bell. * ' The house is supposed still to exist, or an inn built upon the site of it, from which tlie personages of the Cavkrtnirti Tail's set out upon their pilgrimage. The sign has been con- verted by a confusion of speech from the Tabard — " a sleeveless coat worn in times past by noblemen in the wars," but now only by heralds {Spcrjlit's Glossary) — to the Talbot, a species of liound ; and the following inscription is to be found on the spot: — 'This is tlie inn where GeoO'rcy Chaucer and nine-and- twenty pilgrims lodged on their journey to Canterbury in J083." The inscription is truly observed by Mr Tyrrwhit to be moderoi and of little authority.' — Godwin's Li/e o/Ckaucer. 14 ENGLISH LITERATURE. A wanton friar is also of the party — full of sly and solemn mirth, and well beloved fur his accomniodat- ing disposition — Full sweetly heard he confession, And pleasant was his absolution. We have a Pardoner from Rome, with some sacred relics (as p.art of the Virgin Mary's veil, and part of the sail of St Peter's ship), and who is also ' brim- ful of pardons come from Rome all hot.' In satirical contrast to these merry and interested churchmen, we have a poor parson of a town, ' rich in holy thought and work,' and a clerk of Oxford, who was skilled in logic — Sounding in moral virtue was his speech, And gladly would he ham and gladly teach. Yet, with all his learning, the clerk's coat was thread- bare, and his horse was ' lean as is a rake.' Among the other dramatis personce are, a doctor of physic, a great astronomer and student, ' whose study was but little on the Bible ;' a purse-proud merchant ; a sergeant of law, who was always busy, yet seemed busier than he was ; and a jolly Franklin, or free- holder, who had been a lord of sessions, and was fond of good eating — "Withouten baked meat never was his house, Of fish and flesh, and that so plenteous ; It snowed, in his house of meat and drinJc. This character is a fine picture of the wealthy rural Englishman, and it shows how much of enjoyment and hospitality was even then associated with this station of life. The Wife of Bath is another lively national portrait : she is shrewd and witty, has abundant means, and is always first with her offer- ing at church. Among the humbler characters are, a ' stout carl ' of a miller, a reve or bailifl', and a sompnour or church apparitor, who summoned of- fenders before the archdeacon's court, but whose fire-red face and licentious habits contrast curiously with the nature of his duties. A shipman, cook, haberdasher, &c., make up the goodly company — the whole forming such a genuine Hogarthian pic- ture, that we may exclaim, in the eloquent language of Campbell, ' 'SMiat an intimate scene of English life in the fourteenth century do we enjoy in these tales, beyond what history displays by glimpses through the stormy atmosphere of her scenes, or the antiquary can discover by the cold light of his re- searches !' Chaucer's contemporaries and their suc- cessors were justly proud of this national work. Many copies existed in manuscript, and when the art of printing came to England, one of the first duties of Caxton's press was to issue an imjiression of those tales which first gave literary permanence and consistency to the language and poetry of England. All the pilgrims in the Canterhury Taks do not relate stories. Chaucer had not, like Boccaccio, finished his design ; for he evidently intended to have given a second series on the return of the com- pany from Canterburj', as well as an account of the transactions in the city when they reached the sacred shrine. The concluding supper at the Tabard, when the successful competitor was to be declared, would have afforded a rich display for the poet's pecuhar humour. The parties who do not relate tales (as the poem has reached us) are the yeoman, the ploughman, and the five city mechanics. The squire's tale is the most chivalrous and romantic, and that of the clerk, containing the popular legend of Patient Grisilde, is deeply affecting for its pathos and simplicity. The ' Cock and the Fox,' related by the nun's priest, and ' January and May,' the merchant's tale, have some minute painting of natu- ral objects and scenery, in Chaucer's clear and simple style. The tales of the miller and reve are coarse, but richly humorous. Dryden and Pope have ho- noured the Father of British verse by paraphrasing some of these popular productions, and stripping them equally of their antiquated style and the more gross of their expressions, but with the sacrifice of most that is characteristic in the elder bard. In a volume edited by Islr R. H. Home, under the title of Chaucer Modernised, there are specimens of the poems altered with a much more tender regard to the original, and in some instances with considerable success ; but the book by which ordinary readers of the present day, who are willing to take a little trouble, may best become acquainted with this great light of the fourteenth century, is one entitled the liiches of Chaucer, by C. C. (Tlarke (two volumes, 1835), in which the best pieces are given, with only the spelling modernised. An edition of the Can- terbury Tales was published, with a learned commen- tary, by Thomas Tyrwhitt, Esq. (5 vols. 1778). The verse of Chaucer is, almost without excep- tion, in ten-syllabled couplets, the verse in which by fiir the largest portion of our poetry since that time has been written, and which, as Mr Southey has remarked, may be judged from that circum- stance to be best adapted to the character of our speech. The accentuation, by a license since aban- doned, is different in many instances from that of common speech : the poet, wherever it suits his con- veniency, or his pleasure, makes accented syllables short, and short syllables emphatic. This has been not only a difficulty with ordinary readers, but a subject of perplexity amongst commentators; but the principle has latterly been concluded upon as of the simple kind here stated. Another peculiarity is the making silent e's at the end of words tell in the metre, as in Ereuch lyrical poetry to this day : for example — Full well she sange the service divine. Here ' sange ' is two syllables, while service fur- nishes an example of a transposed accent. In pursu- ance of the same principle, a monosyllabic noun, as beam, becomes the dissyllable beanies in the pluraL When these peculiarities are carefully attended to, much of the difT5c\ilty of reading Chaucer, even in the original spellmg, vanishes. In the extracts which follow, we present, first, a specimen in the original spelling; then various spe- cimens in the reduced sjielling adopted by Mr Clarke, but without his marks of accents and extra syllables, except in a few instances ; and, finally, one specimen (the Good Parson), in which, by a few shght changes, the verse is accommodated to the present fashion. [^Select characters from the Canterbury Pilgrimage,'} A Knight ther was, and that a worthy man, That fro the time that he first began To rideu out, he loved chevalrie, Trouthe and honour, fredom and curtesie. Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre ; And, therto, hadde he ridden, none more ferre, As wel in Cristendom as in Hethenesse, And ever honoured for his worthinesse. * * Though that he was worthy he was wise ; And of his port, as meke as is a mayde : He never yet no vilainie ne sayde, In all his lif, unto no manere wight, He was a veray parfit gentil knight. But, for to telleu you of his araie, — His hors was good, but he nc was not gaie Of fustian he wcrcd a gipon' Alle besmatrcd with his habergeon, 1 A short casscck. 15 F&OM EAULIEST CYCLOPiEDiA OP TIMES TO 1400. B or he was late ycome fro his riage, And weiitc for to don his pilgrimage. ^^'ith him, ther was his sone, ayongc Squier, A lover, and a lusty bachelor ; With lockes cruU as they were laide in presse. Of iwenty yere of age he was, I gesse. Of his stature he was of even lengthe ; And wonderly deliver, and grete of strengthe, And he hadde be, somtime, in chcvachiel In Flaundres, in Artois, and in Picardie, And borne him wel, as of so litel space, In hope to standen in his ladies grace. Erabrouded was he, as it were a mede All full of freshe floures, white and rede. Singing he was, or floyting all the day : He was as freshe as is the moneth of May. Short was his goune, with sieves long and wide. Wel coude he sitte on hors, and fivyre ride, He coude songes make, and wel endite ; Juste and eke dance ; and wel pourtraie and -vvi-itc : So bote he loved, that by nightertale- He slep no more than doth the nightingale : Curteis he was, lowly and servisfible ; And carf before his fader at the table. A Yeman hadde he ; and servantes no mo At that time ; for him luste to ride so : And he was eladde in cote and hode of grene ; A shefe of peacock arwes bright and keue Under his belt he bare ful thriftily ; Wel coude he dresse his takel yemanly : His arwes drouped not with fetheres lowe, And in his hand he bare a mighty bowe. A not-hed^ hadde he with a broun visage, Of wood-craft coude he wel alle the usage. Upon his arme, he bare a gaie bracer ;•* And by his side, a swerd and a bokeler ; And on that other side, a gaie daggere, Hameised wel, and sharpe as point of spere : A Cristofre on his brest of silver shene. An home he bare, the baudrik was of grene. A forster was he, sothel_y, as I gesse. Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, That of hire smiling was full simple and coy ; Hire gretest othe n'as but by Seint Eloy ; And she was cleped^ Madame Eglcntine. Ful wel she sange the service devine, Entuned in hire nose ful swetely ; And Frenche she spake ful fajTC and fetisly," After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe, For Frenche of Paris was to hire unknowe. At mete was she wele ytaughte withalle ; She lette no morsel from her lippes falle, Ne wette hire fingres in hire sauce depe. Wel coude she carie a morsel, and wel kepe, Thatte no drope ne fell upon hire brest. In curtesie was sette ful moche hire lest.7 Hire over-lippe wiped she so clone, That in hire cuppe was no ferthingS sene Of grese, whan she dronken hadde hire draught. Ful seniely after hire mete she raught.'' And sikerly she was of grete disport, And ful plesant, and amiable of port, And peined'" hire to contrefeten'^ chero Of court, and ben estatelich of manere, And to ben holden digne'- of reverence. But for to spoken of hire conscience. She was so charitable and so pitous, She wolde wepe if that she saw a nious Caughte in a trappe, if it were ded or bledde. Of smale houndos hadde she, that she fcddc > On an expedition. ^ in the niRlit-timc. 8 A head like a bullock's. * Armour for the arm. 6 Called. '' Neatly. 7 Her ple.isure. 8 Smallest spot. ^ Rose. >» Took pains. ' To imitate '* Worthy. With rested flesh, and milk, and wastel brede. But sore wept she if on of hem were dede, Or if men smote it with a yerde' smerte :- And all was conscience and tendre herte. Ful semely hire wimple ypinchcd was ; Hire nose tretis ;■' hire eyen grey as glas ; Hire mouth ful smale, and thereto soft and red ; But sikerly she hadde a fayre forehed. It was almost a spanne brode I trowe ; For hardily she was not undergrowe.'* Ful fetise^ was hire cloke, as I was ware. Of smale corall aboute hire arm she bare A pair of bedes, gauded all with grene ; And thereon heng a broche of gold ful shene, On whiche was iirst ywriten a crouncd A, And after, A7noi' rincit omnia. Another Nonne also with hire hadde she, That was hire chapelleine, and Preestes thre. A Monk ther was, a fayre for the maistrie, An out-rider, that loved venerie ; A manly man, to ben an abbot able. Ful many a deinte hors hadde he in stable ; And when he rode, men mighte his bridel here Gingeling, in a whistling wind, as clere And eke as loude as doth the chapell belle, Ther as this lord was keper of the celle. The reule of Seint Maure and of Seint Ben-iit, Because that it was olde and somdele streit, This ilke monk lette olde thinges pace, And held after the newe world the trace. He yave not of the text a pulled hen, That saith that hunters ben not holy mm; Ne that a monk, whan he is rekkeles. Is like to a fish that is waterles ; (This is to say, a monlc out of his doistre) ; This ilke text he held not worth an oistre. Therfore he was a prickasoure7 a right : Greihoundes he hadde as swift as foul of flight : Of pricking, and of hunting for the hare Was all his lust ; for no cost wolde he spare. I saw his sieves purfiled at the bond With gi'is,** and that the finest of the lond, And, for to fasten his hood, under his chinne He hadde, of gold ywrought, a curious pinne,-^ A love-knotte in the greter ende ther was. His bed was balled, and shone as any glas, And eke his face, as it hadde ben anoint. He was a lord ful fat and in good point. His eyen stepe, and rolling in his bed. That stemed as a furneis of a led ; His bootes souple, his hors in gret estat ; Now certainly he was a fayre prelat. He was not pale as a forpined gost. A fat swan loved he best of any rost. His palfrey was as broun as is .a bery. * • A Marchant was ther with a forked berd, In mottelee, and highc on hors he sat, And on his bed a Flaundri.sh bever hat. His bootes elapsed fayre and fetisly. His resons spake he ful solempnely, Sonning alway the encrese of his winning. He wold the see were kept, for .any thing, Betwixen Middleburgh and Orowell. Wel coud he in eschangcs shcldes" selle. This worthy man ful wel his wit besette ; Ther wiste no wight that he was in dette, So stedfastly didde he in his governance, With his bargeines, and with his chevisance.'" Forsothe he was a worthy man withalle. But Both to sayn, I no't how men him calle. ' Rod. ' Smartly, adv. s Neat. " Hunting. 8 Flench crowns, money. s Straight, * Of low statura 7 A hard rider. 8 Fur. 10 An agreement for borrowing 16 3AUCER. ENGLISH LITERATURE. A Clerk ther was of Oxciiforde also, That unto logike hadde long ygo. As lene was his hors as is a rako, And he was not right fat I undertake ; But looked holwe, and thereto soberly. Ful thredbare was his overest courtcjiy, For he hadde geten him yet no beneti(.'e, Ho was nought worldly to have an oiiifo. For him was lever han, at his beddes hcd, Twenty bokos clothed in black or red, Of Aristotle and his philosophic, Than robes riche, or fidel, or sautrie : But all be that he was a philosophre. Yet hadile he but litel gold in cofre ; But all that he might of his frendes hente,! On bokes and on lerning he it spente ; And besily gan for the soules praie Of hem that yave him wherwitu to scolaie. Of studie toke he most cure and hede. Not a word spake he more than was node ; And that was said in forme and reverence, And short and quike, and full of high sentence: Souning in moral vertue was his speche ; And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly tuclie. * A Frankelein was in this compagnie ; White was his herd as is the dayesie. Of his complexion he was sanguin. Wei loved he by the morwe- a sop in win. To liven in delit was ever his wone.3 For he was Epicures owen sone. That held opinion, that plein delit Was veraily felicite parlite. An housholder, and that a grete was he ; Seint Julian he was in his contree. His brede, his ale, was alway after on ; A better envyned man was no wher non. Withouten bake mete never was his hous, Of fish and flesh, and that so plenteous. It snewed in his hous of mete and drinke, Of alle deintees that men coud of thinke. After the oondry sesons of the yere. So changed he his mete and his soupere. Ful many a fat partrich hadde he in mewe ; And many a breme, and many a luce, in stiiwe. Wo was his coke but if his sauce were Poinant and sharpe, and redy all his gere. His table, dormant-* in his halle, alway Stode redy covered alle the longe day. At sessions ther was he lord and sire ; Ful often time he was knight of the shire. An anelace-5 and a iripciere'' all of silk Hens at his girdel, white as morwe milk. A shereve hadde he ben and a countour. Was no wher swiche a worthy vavasour.7 An Haberdasher, and a Carpenter, A Webbe, a Dcyer, and a Tapiser, Were alle yclothed in o^ livere Of a solempne and grete fraternite. Ful frcshe and newe hir gere ypiked was ; Hir knives were ychaped not with bras, But all with silver wrought full cleno and wel, Hir girdeles and hir pouches, every del. Wel semed eche of hem a fayre burgeis, To sitten in a gild halle, on the dels. Everich, for the wisdom that he can. Was shapelich for to ben an alderman. For catel haddcn they ynough, and rent. And, eke, hir wives wolde it wel assent, And elles certainly they were to blame. It is full fayre to ben ycleped IVIadame — And for to gon to vigiles all before, And have a mantel reallich ybore. * * 1 Obtain. * Fixed. 7 Landlord. 2 Mnming. s Dagger. 8 One. 3 ■\Vont, custom. 6 Purse. A good Wif was ther of beside Bathe ; But she was som del defe, and that was scathe. Of cloth making she hadde swiche an haunt, She passed hem of Ipres, and of Gaunt. In all the parish, ;vif ne was ther non That to the offring before hire shulde gon— And if ther did, certain so wroth was she. That she was out of alle charltee. Hire coverchiefs weren ful fine of ground, (I dorste swere they weyeden a pound), That on the Sonday were upon hire hede : Hire hosen weren of fine scarlet rede, Ful streite yteyed, and shoon ful moist and newe. Bold was hire face, and fayre and rede of hew. She was a worthy woman all hire live : Housbondes, at the chirche dore, had she had five, Withouten other compagnie in youthe. But thereof nedeth not to speke as nouthe. And thries hadde she ben at Jerusaleme ; She had passed many a strange streme : At Rome she hadde ben, and at Boloigne, In Galice at Seint James, and at Coloine : She coude moche of wandring by the way, Gat-tothed was she, sothly for to say. Upon an ambler esily she sat, Ywimpled wel ; and on hire hede an hat As brode as is a bokeler, or a targe ; A fore-mantel about hire hippes large ; And on hire fete a pair of sporres shar])e. In felawship, wel coude she laughe and carpe Of remedies of love she knew perchance ; For, of that arte, she coude the olde dance. * * Ther was also a Reve and a Millere, A Sompnour, and a Pardoner also, A Manciple, and myself ; ther n'ere no mo. The Miller was a stout carl for the nones, Ful bigge he was of braun, and eke of bones ; That proved wel ; for over all ther he came, At wrastling he wold here away the ram. He was short shuldered, brode, a thikke gnarre,^ Ther n'as no dore, that he n'olde heve of barre. Or breke it at a renning with his hede. His herd as any sowe or fox was rede, And therto brode, as though it were a spade : Upon the cop right of his nose he hade A wert, and theron stode a tufte of heres, Rede as the bristles of a sowes eres : His nose-thirles blacke were and wide. A swerd and bokeler bare he by his side. His mouth as wide was as a forneis : He was a jangler, and a goliardeis,^ And that was most of sinne and harlotries. Wel coude he stolen come and toUen thries. And yet he had a thomb of gold parde. A white cote and a blew hode wered he. A baggepipe wel coude he blowe and soune, And thcrwithall he brought us out of toune. * * The Reve was a slendre colerike man ; His herd was shave as neighe as ever he can : His here was by his eres round yshorne ; His top was docked like a preest beforne : Ful longe were his legges, and ful lene, Ylike a staff, ther was no calf ysene. Wel coude he kepe a gamer and a binne ; Ther was non auditour coude on him winne. Wel wiste he, by the drought and by the rain, The yelding of his seed and of his grain. His lordes shepe, his nete,^ and his deirie,* His swine, his hors, his store, and his pultrie. Were holly in this Reves governing ; And by his covenant yave he rekening, Sin that his lord were twenty ^ere of age ; Ther coude no man brintr him in arerage. A knot in a tree. Dairy. ' X man of jollity. ^ Cattla 17 FROM EARLIEST CYCLOPEDIA OF TIMKS TO 1-100. Ther n'as bailif, ne herde, ne other hine, That he ne knew his sleight and his covine :^ They were adradde of him as of the deth. His wonning was ful fayre upon an heth ; '^^'ith greene trees yshadewed was his place. He coude better than his lord pourchace : Ful riche he was ystored privily. His lord wel coude he plesen, subtilly To yeve and lene- him of his owen good, And have a thank, and yet a cote and hood. In youth he lenied hadde a good mistere ; He was a wel good ^vright, a carpentere. The Reve sate upon a right good stot That was all pomelee grey, and highte Scot. A long surcote of perse upon he hade, And by his side he bare a rusty blade. Of Norfolk was this Reve of which I tell, Beside a toun men clepen Baldeswell. Tucked he was, as is a frere, aboute ; And ever he rode the hindcrest of the route. A Sompnour was ther with us in that place. That hadde a fire-red cherubinnca face. With scalled browes blake, and pilled herd : Of his visage children were sore aferd. Ther n'as quicksilver, litarge, ne brimston, Boras, ceruse, ne oile of tartre non, Ne ointement, that wolde dense or bite. That him might helpen of his whelkes white, Ne of the knobbes sitting on his chekes. AVel loved he garlike, onions, and lekes, And for to drinke strong win as rede as blood ; Than wold he speke and crie as he were wood ; And when that he wel dronkcn had the win. Than wold he spoken no word but Latin. A fewe termes coude he, two or three. That he had lemed out of som decree ; No wonder is, he herd it all the day : And eke ye knowen wel how that a jay Can clepen ^catte as well as can the pope : But who so wolde in other thing him grope — Than hadde he spent all his philosophie ; Ay Questlo quid Juris? wolde he crie. He was a gentil harlot, and a kind ; A better felaw shulde a man not find. And if he found o where a good felawe. He wolde techen him, to have non awe, In swiche a cas, of the archedekenes curse : But if a mannes soule were in his purse, For in his purse he shulde ypunished be. Purse is the archedekenes hell, said he. But, wel I wote, he lied right in dede : Of cursing ought eche gilty man him drede ; For curse wol sle, right as assoiling saveth, And also ware him of a sif/nificavit. In danger hadde he, at his owen gise, The yonge girles of the diocise ; And knew hir conseil and was of hir rede. A girlond hadde he sette upon his hede. As gret as it were for an alestake ;•' A bokeler hadde he made him of a cake. With him there rode a gentil Pardonere Of Rouncevall, his frend and his compere. That streit was comen from the court of Rome, Ful loude he sang Come hither, lord to me : This Sompnour bare to him a stiff burdoun, Was never trompe of half so gret a soun. This Pardoner had here as yclwe as wax, Ful smothe it heng, as doth a strike of flax : By unces heng his lokkes that he hadde. And therwith he his shulders overspradde : Ful thinne it lay, by culpons on and on. But hode, for jolite, ne wered he non. For it was trussed up in his wallet. Him thought he rode al of the newe get ;* • Secret contrivances. The sign of an alehouse. * Give and lend * Fa&hion. Dishevelo, sauf his cappe, he rode all bare. Swiche glaring even hadde he as an hare. A vcrnicle' hadde he sewed upon his cajipe. His wallet lay beforne him, in his lappe, Bret-ful of pardon come from Rome al bote. A vois he hadde, as smale as hath a goto : No berd hadde he, ne never non shulde have ; As smothe it was as it were newe shave. But of his craft, fro Berwiko unto Ware, Ne was ther swiche an other Pardonere ; — For in his male- he hadde a pilwebere. Which, as he saide, was our Ladies veil : He saide he hadde a gobbet of the se3'l Thatte Seint Peter had, whan tliat he went LTpon the see till Jcsu Crist him hent : He had a crois of laton ful of stones ; And in a glas he hadde J)igges bones. But with these rclikes, whanne that he fond A poure persone dwelling upon lond. Upon a day he gat him more moneie Than that the persone gat in monethes tweie ; And tluis with fained flattering and japes. He made the persone, and the pcplc, his apes. But trewely to tellen atte last, He was in chirche a noble ecclesiast ; Wel coude he rede a lesson or a storie. But aldcrbest^ he sang an otfertorie ; For wel he wiste, whan that song was songe. He nmste preche and wel afile liis tonge. To winne silver, as he right wel coude ; Therfore he sang the merier and loude. ^Description of a Poor Country Widow.\ A poore %vidow, somedeal stoo])'n in age, Was whilom dwelling in a narw^ cottage Beside a grove standing in a dale. This widow, which I tell you of my Tale, Since thilke day that she was last a wife. In patience led a full simple life. For little was her cattle and her rent ; By husbandry* of such as God her sent, She found herself and eke her daughters two. Three large sowcs had she, and po mo. Three kine, and eke a sheep that hiirhte'' Mall : Full sooty was her bower and eke her hall, In which she ate many a slender meal ; Of poignant sauce ne knew she never a deal ;'> No dainty morsel passed through lier throat ; Her diet was accordant to her cote :' Repletion ne made her never sick ; Attemper" diet was all her physic. And exercise, and heartes suthsance : The goute let-' her nothing for to dance, Ne apoplexy shente"' not her head ; No wine ne drank she neither white nor red ; Her board was served most with white and Ijiuck, ?klilk and bro\Mi bread, in which she found ud lack, Scinde" bacon, and sometime an egg or tway. For she was as it were a manner dey.i^ \_TItc Death ofArcite.] Swclleth the breast of Arcite, and the sore Encreaseth at his hearte more and more. The clottered blood for any leche-craft'^ Corrupteth, and is in his bouk'^ ylaft, That neither veine-blood ne ventousing,J5 Ne drink of herbes may be his helping. ' A copy of the miraculous handkerchief. 2 Trunk. ^ Best of all. ■♦ Thrift, econonfy. * Called. * Not a bit. 7 Cot, cottage. 8 Teniiiorate. 9 Prevented. '"Injured. " Sin^;ed. '- Mr Tjrwhitt supposes the word 'dey' to refer to the management of a dairy ; and tliat it originally signified a liind. • Manner dey' may therefore be interpreted ' a species of hired, or day labourer.' '3 j[c,Ucal skill. '■• Hocty. '* Von- tousing (Fr.) — cupping; hence the term ' breathing a, xeia.' ENGLISH LITERATURE. The virtue expulsive or animal, From tbilke virtue cleped^ natural, Ne may the venom voidcn ne expell ; The pipes of his lunges 'gan to swell. And every laccrt- in his breast adown Is shent-* with venom and corruption. He gaineth neltlier,-^ for to get his life, Vomit upward ne downward laxative : All is to-bursten thilke region ; Nature hath now no domination : And certainly where nature will not werche,^ Farewell phj'sic ; go bear the man to church. This is all and some, that Arcite muste die ; For which he sendeth after Emily, And Palamon, that was his cousin dear ; Then said he thus, as ye shall after liear : ' Nought may the woful spirit in mine heart Declare one point of all my sorrows' smart To you my lady, that I love most. But I bequeath the service of my ghost To }'ou aboven every creature. Since that my life ne may no longer dure. ' Alas the woe ! alas the paines strong, That I for you have sufiered, and so long ! Alas the death ! alas mine Emily ! Alas departing of our company ! Alas mine hearte's queen ! alas my wife ! Mine hearte's lady, ender of my life ! "What is this world ? — wliat askcn men to have ? Now with his love, now in his colde gi-ave — Alone — withouten any company. Farewell my sweet — farewell mine Emily ! And softe take me in your armes tway For love of God, and hearkeneth what I say. ' I have here with my cousin Palamon Had strife and rancour many a day agone For love of you, and for my jealousy ; And Jupiter so wis'' my soule gie,7 To speaken of a servant properly, With alle circumstances truely ; That is to say, truth, honour, and knighthead, "Wisdom, humbless, estate, and high kindred. Freedom, and all that 'lougeth to that art, So Jupiter have of my soule part. As in this world right now ne know I none So worthy to be loved as Palamon, That serveth you, and will do all his life ; And if that ever ye sliall be a wife. Forget not Palamon, the gentle man.' And with that word his speeche fail began ; For from his feet up to his breast was come The cold of death that had him overnomc f And yet, moreover, in his armes two. The vital strength is lost and all ago f Only the intellect, withouten more, That dwelled in his hearte sick and sore, 'Gan faillen when the hearte felte death ; Dusked his eyen two, and fail'd his breath : But on his lady yet cast he his eye ; His laste word was, ' ^Mercy, Emily !' [Departure of Cusfanccl [Custance is banished from her husband, Alia, liinc; of Nor- thumberland, in consequence of the treachery of the king's mother. ITer behaviour in embarking at sea, in a rudderless Bhip, is thus described.] Weepen both young and old in all that place "When that the king this cursed letter sent : And Custance witli a deadly pale face The fourthe day toward the ship she went ; But uatheless^'J she tak'th in good intent I Called. 2 Muscle. ■* He is able for. * W(jrk. • Overtaken. " Agone. 3 Ruined, destroyed. '' Surely. 7 Guide. "' iN'everthelosa. The will of Christ, and kneeling on the stroua, She saide, ' Lord, aye welcome be thy sond.l ' He that me kepte from the false blame, While I was in the land amonges j-ou. He can me keep from harm and eke from shame In the salt sea, although I see not how : As strong as ever he was, he is yet now : In him trust I, and in his mother dear. That is to me my sail and eke my steer.'^ Her little child lay weeping in her arm ; And kneeling piteouslj^ to him she said — * Peace, little son, I will do thee no harm :' With that her kerchief off her head she braid, And over his little eyen she it laid. And in her arm she lulleth it full fast, And into th' heaven her eyen up she cast. ' Mother, quod she, and maiden bright, Mary ! Sotli is, that through womannes eggement,* Alankind was Ioiti,^ and damned aye to die, For which thy child was on a cross yreut '' Thy blissful eyen saw all his torment ; Then is there no comparison between Thy woe and any woe man may sustain. ' Thou saw'st thy child yslain before thine eyen. And yet now liveth my little child parfay :7 Now, lady bright ! to whom all woful crien, Thou glory of womanhood, thou faire Tilay ! Thou liaven of refute,** bright star of day I Rue^ on ray child, that of thy gentleness Rucst on every rueful in distress. ' little child, alas ! what is thy guilt, That never wToughtest sin as 3'et, pardt'e ? Why will thine harde father have thee spilt ? 1" mercy, deare Constable ! (quod she) As let my little child dwell here with thee ; And if thou dar'st not saven him from blame, So kiss him ones in his father's name.' Therewith she looketh backward to the land. And saide, ' Farewell, husband rutheless !' '' And up she rose, and walketh down the strand Toward the .ship ; her followeth all the press : '2 And ever she pra3'eth her child to hold his peace. And tak'th her leave, and with a holy' intent She blesseth her, and into the ship she went. Victailled was the ship, it is no drede,'3 Abundantly for her a full long space ; And other nccessaiies that should need She had enow, heried'-* be Goddes grace : For wind and weather. Almighty Cxod purchase,'^ And bring her home, I can no better say. But in the sea she driveth forth her way. [The Pardoner's Tale.'] In Flanders whilom was a company Of younge' folk that haunteden folly, As liazard, riot, stew^s, and taverns, Whereas with hai-pe's, lute's, and gittems,'^ They dance and play at dice both day and night. And eat also and drinken o'er their might, Through which they do the devil sacrifice. Within the devil's temple', in curse'd wise, By supei-fluity abominable. Their oathes been so great and so damnable That it is grisly'7 for to hear them swear. Our blissful Lord^s body they to-tear ; Them thought the Jewds rent him not enough ; And each of them at other's sinne' laugh. And right anon in comcn tombesteres 18 Fetis'^ and small, and younge fruitesteres,20 • Message. 2 Guide, helm. 3 Took. ■* Incitement. 5 Undone. « Torn. 9 Have pity, 'o Destroyed. 13 Houbt. "4 I'raised. "> Guitars. '" Dreadful. '* Well made, neat. 7 Hy my faith. * ]tefuj;& II I'itikss. >2 Crowd. '5 ri(]fure, provide. '" Female dancers. "" Female fruitsellera. 19 FROM EARLIEST CYCLOP^SEDIA OF TIMES TO 1400. Singers with harpes, baiules,! waferers,^ Which be the very devil's officers, To kindle and blow the fire of ' luxury,' That is annexe'd unto gluttony. The holy writ take I to my witness That luxury' is in wine and drunkenness. ! wist a man how many maladies FoUowen of excesse and of gluttonies, He woulde be the mord measurable Of his diete, sitting at his table. Alas ! the shorte' throat, the tender mouth, Maketh that east and west, and north and south, In earth, in air, in water, men to swink'' To get a glutton dainty meat and drink. A ' likerous' thing is wine, and drunkenness Is full of striving and of wretchedness. drunken man ! disfigur'd is thy face, Sour is thy breath, foul art thou to embrace ; And through thy drunken nose seemeth the soun As though thou saidest aye Sampsoun ! Sarapsoun ! And yet. Got wot, Sampsoun drunk ne'er no wine : Thou fallest as it were a sticke'd swine ; Thy tongue is lost, and all thine honest cure,* For drunkenness is very sepulture Of manues wit and his discretion. In whom that drink hath domination He can no counsel keep, it is no drede.''' Now keep you from the white and from the rede,^ And namely from the whitd wine of Lcpe,7 That is to sell in Fish Street and in Cheap. This wine of Spain creepeth subtlely In other winds growing faste' by. Of which there riseth such fumosity," That when a man hath drunken draught es three. And weeneth-' tliat he be at home in Cheap, He is in Spain, right at the town of Lepe, Not at the Rochelle, or at Bordeaux to^vn, And thenne will he say Sampsoun ! Sampsoun ! And now that I have spoke of gluttony, Now will I you defenden'" hazardry.H Hazard is very mother of le'asings. And of deceits and cursed forsweariiigs. Blaspheming of Christ, manslaughter', and waste also Of cattle, and of time ; and furthermo It is reproof, and contrary' of honour For to be held a common hazardour. And ever the higher he is of estate The more' he is holden desolate. If that a princd useth hazardry. In alle governance and policy He is, as by common opinion, Yhold the less in reputation. Now will I speak of oathes false and great A word or two, as oldd bookes treat. Great swearing is a thing abominable, And false swearing is yet more reprovable. The highd God forbade swearing at all. Witness on Mathew ; but in special Of swearing saith the holy .Icrcmio, Thou shalt swear soth^- thine oathe's and not lie. And swear in doom,'^ and eke in righteousness. But idle swearing is a cursedness. These riotoures three of which I tell, Long erst''* ere prime rung of any bell, Were set them in a tavern for to drink, And iis they sat they heard a l)ellc' clink Before a corpse was carried to his grave ; That one of them 'gan callen to his knave ;'3 * Go bet,'i6 quod he, ' and askd readily What corpse is this that passeth here forth by. • Mirthful, joyous. * Cure. 8 Fumes from drinking. >* Forbid. " Gnming. •* Before. " Servant lad. * Sellers of wafer-cakes. ^ jjabour. * Fear. ' Red. ^ A place in Spain. 8 Tliinketh, imagineth. '2 True. '3 Judgment. " Better go. And look that thou report his namd well.' ' Sir,' quod this boy, ' it needeth never a deal ;1 It was me told ere ye came here two hours ; He was parde' an old fellaw of yours. And suddenly he was yslain to-night, Fordrunk as he sat on his bench upright ; There came a privy thief men clepen Death, That in this country all the people slay'th, And with his spear he smote his heart atwo, And went his way withouten wordes mo. He hath a thousand slain this pestilence ; And, master, ere ye come in his presence, Me thinketh that it were full necessary For to beware of such an adversary : Be ready for to meet him evermore ; Thus taughtd me my dame ; I say no more.' ' By Sainte Mary,' said this tavernere, ' The child saith soth,- for he hath slain this year, Hence over a mile, within a great village. Both man and woman, child, and hind and page ; I trow his habitation be there : To be avise'd^ great wisdom it were Ere that he did a man a dishonour.' ' Yea, Goddes armds !' quod tliis rioter, ' Is it such peril ■with him for to meet \ I shall him seek by stile and eke by street, I make a vow by Godde's digne^ bones. Hearkeneth, fellaws, we three been alle ones ^ Let each of us hold up his hand to other, And each of us becomen other's brother. And we will slay this false' traitour Death : He shall be slain, he that so many slay'th. By Goddes dignity, ere it be night.' Together have these three their truthds plight To live and dien each of them for other, As though he were his owen boren'5 brother. And up they start all drunken in this rage. And forth they gone towardes that village Of which the taverner had spoke bcforeii. And many a grisly? oath then have they sworn, And Christe's blessed body they to-rent," ' Death shall be dead, if that we may him hent.'^ When they had gone not fully half a mile, Right as they would have trodden o'er a stile. An old man and a poore' with them met : This olde man full meekely them gret,'" And saidd thus : ' Now, Lorde's, God you see I'll The proudest of these riotoure's three Answe'r'd again : ' W^hat ? cluirl, with sorry grace, ^V'hy art thou all forwrappe'd save thy face ? Why livest thou so long in so great age ?' This olde' man 'gan look in his visage, And saide' thus : ' For I ne cannot find A man, though that I walked into Ind, Neither in city nor in no village. That wouldd change his youthe for mine age J vVnd therefore must I have mine age' still As longd time as it is Godde's will. Ne Death, alas ! ne will not have my life : Thus walk I, like a rcstdlcss caitifF,!- And on the ground, which is my mother's gate, I knocks with my staff early and late. And say to her, " Levd'^ mother, let me in. Lo, how I vanish, flesh, and blood, and skin, Alas ! when shall my bonds be at rest ? Mother, vnih you would I change my chest. That in my chamber longd time hath be. Yea, for an hairy clout to wrap in me." But yet to me she will not do that grace, For which full pale and vvelked''* is my face. ' Not a wliit. 2 Truth. » Watchful, prepare* ■• Worthy. * All one, or, in unity. 8 Born. 7 Fearful. 8 Defaced. » Catch. lo Greeted. " That is, • God preserve you in his sight.' 12 Wretch. '3 Dear. u Wrinkled. 20 ENGLISH LITERATURE. ' But, Sirs, to you it is no courtesy To speak unto an old man villainy, But hel trespass in ■\vord or else in deed. In holy writ ye may yourselven read ; " Against an old man, hoar upon his hede, Ye should arise :" therefore 1 give you rede^ Ke do'th unto an old man none harm now. No more than that ye would a man did you In age, if that ye may so long abide ; And God be with you whe'r* ye go or ride : I must go thither as I have to go.' ' Nay, olde churl, by God thou shalt not so,' Saide' this other hazardoui-* anon ; ' Thou partest not so lightly, by Saint John. Thou spake right now of thilke'^ traitour Death, That in this country all our friend^s slay'th ; Have here my truth, as thou art his espy. Tell where he is, or thou shalt it aby,6 By God and by the holy sacrament. For sothly thou art one of his assent To slay us younge' folk, thou false thief.' ' Now, Sirs,' quod he, ' if it be you so lief 7 To finden Death, turn up this crooked way ; For in that grove I left him, by my fay, Under a tree, and there he will abide. Nor for your boast he will him nothing hide. See ye that oak ? right there ye shall him find. God save' you that bought again mankind, And you amend !' Thus said this olde' man. And evereach of these riotoure's ran Till they came to the tree, and there they found Of florins fine of gold ycoine'd round Well nigh an eighte bushels, as them thought J No longer then after Death they sought, But each of them so glad was of the sight. For that the florins been so fair and bright. That down they set them by the precious hoard : The worst of them he spake the firste' word. ' Brethren,' quod he, ' take keep what I shall say ; My wit is great, though that I bourde'* and play. This treasure hath Fortune unto us given, In mirth and jollity our life to liven. And lightly as it com'th so will we spend, Ey ! Godde's precious dignity ! who ween'd^ To-day that we should have so fair a grace ? But might this gold be carried from this place Home to my house, or elles unto yours, (For well I wot that all this gold is ours) Thenne were we in high felicity ; But tnie'ly by day it may not be ; — Men woulden say ihat we were thieves strong, And for our owen treasure done us hong.^** This treasure must ycarried be by night As wisely and as slyly as it might ; "Wherefore I rede^l that cut^- among us all We draw, and let see where the cut will fall ; And he that hath the cut, with hearte blithe. Shall runnen to the town, and that full swith,i3 And bring us bread and wine full privily ; And two of us shall keepen subtlely This treasure well ; and if he will not tarrien, When it is night we will this treasure carrien By one assent where as us thinketh best.' That one of them the cut brought in his fist, And bade them draw, and look where it would fall. And it fell on the youngest of them all ; And forth toward the tovrn he went anon : And all so soon as that he was agone, That one of them spake thus imto that other ; * Thou wottest well thou art my sworen brother, 1 T'niess he, Sec. ^ Advice. ^ WTiether. * Gamester. » This same. " Siittei- for. ' Pleasant. 8 j„ijf. 9 Guessed. '" ll:ive us banged. ' I Advise. i« Lot. '3 dulekly. Thy profit will 1 tell thee right anon. Thou wott'st well that our fellow is agone ; And here is gold, and that full great plenty, That shall departed be among us three ; But nathe'less, if I can shape it so That it departed were among us two. Had I not done a friende's turn to thee V That other answer'd : ' I n'ot^ how that may be : He wot well that the gold is with us tway. What shall we do ? what shall we to him say V ' Shall it be counsel ?' said the firste shrew,2 ' And I shall tellen thee in worde's few What shall we do, and bring it well about.' ' I gi-antd,' quod that other, ' out of doubt, That by my truth I will thee not betraj'.' ' Now,' quod the first, ' thou wott'st well we be tvr&j ; And tway of us shall stronger be than one. Look, when that he is set, thou right anon Arise, as though thou wouldest with him play. And I shall rive him through the sid^s tway : While that thou strugglest with him as in game ; And with thy dagger look thou do the same ; And then shall all this gold departed be. My deare friend ! betwixen thee and me ; Then may we both our lustes all fulfil, And play at dice right at our owen will.' And thus accorded been these shrewe's tway To slay the third, as ye have heard me say. This youngest, which that wente to the town, Full oft in heart he roUeth up and do^vn The beauty of these florins new and bright. ' Lord !' quod he, ' if so were, that I might Have all this treasure to myself alone, There is no man that liv'th under the throne Of God that shoulde live so merry' as L' And at the last, the fiend, our enemy. Put in his thought that he should poison buy With which he mighte slay his fellows tway : For why ? the fiend found him in such living. That he had leve^ to son-ow him to bring ; For this was utterly his full intent. To slay them both and never to repent. And forth he go'th, no longer would he tarry. Into the to-(vn unto a 'pothecary, And prayed him that he him woulde sell Some poison, that he might his ratouns'* quell ; And eke there was a polecat in his haw5 That, as he said, his capons had yslaw ;'' And fain he would him wreaken/ if he might. Of vermin that destroyed them by night. The 'pothecarj' answered : ' Thou shalt have A thing, as wisly** God my soul^ save. In all this world there n'is no creature That eat or drunk hath of this cdnfecture Not but the mountance'^ of a com of wheat, That he ne shall his life anon forlet,lt> Yea, starve!' i^e shall, and that in lesse while Than thou wilt go a pace not but a mile ; This poison is so strong and violent.' This cursed man hath in his hand yhent^^ This poison in a box, and swith'3 he ran Into the nexte street unto a man. And borrowed of him large' bottles three. And in the two the poison poured he ; The third he kept^ cleane' for his drink. For all the night he shope him for to swink'* In carrying of the gold out of that place. And when this rioter with sorry grace'^ Hath filled with wine his greate' bottles three. To his fellows again repaireth he. ' Know not. * A cursed man. * Hats. « Fann-yard. 7 Uevonpc himself if he could. 8 Anmunting. '"Give over. "Die, 13 Iiiiusediiitely. '■• Labdur, work 3 InclinatioD. "" Slain. " Certainly. '2 T.aken. '* Evil, or misfortune. •21 FROM EARLIEST CYCLOPiEDIA OP TIMES TO 1403. ^^'hat needeth it thereof to semion more ? For right as they had cast his death befoiT, Right so they have him slain, and that anon. And when that this was done thus spake that one : * Now let us sit and drink, and make us merry, Ajid afterward we will his body bury.' And with that word it happen'd him par cics^ To take the bottle where the poison was, And drank, and gave his fellow drink also. For which anon they storven- bothe two. But cert^s 1 suppose that ATicenne Wrote never in no canon ne' in no fenne^ More wonder signe's of empoisoning Than had these" wretches two, or their ending. Thus ended been these homicide's two, And eke the false empoisoner also. * * [Tlie Good Parsmi.l A true good man there was there of religion. Pious and poor — the parson of a town. But rich he was in holy thought and work ; And thereto a right learned man ; a clerk That Christ's pure gospel would sincerely preach. And his parishioners devoutly teach. Benign he was, and wondrous diligent, And in adversity full patient, As proven oft ; to all who lack'd a friend. Loth for his tithes to ban or to contend. At every need much rather was he found Unto his poor parishioners around Of his own substance and his dues to give : Content on little, for himself, to live. Wide was his cure ; the houses far asunder, Yet never fail'd he, or for rain or thunder. Whenever sickness or mischance might call, The most remote to visit, great or small, And, staff in hand, on foot, the storm to brave. This noble ensample to his flock he gave, That first he wrought, and afterward he tasight. The word of life he from the gospel caught ; And well this comment added he thereto. If that gold rusteth what should iron do ? And if the priest be foul on whom we trust. What wonder if the unletter'd layman lust ? And shame it were in him the flock should keep. To see a sullied shepherd, and clean sheep. For sure a priest the sample ought to give By his ovn\ cleanness how his sheep should live. He never set his benefice to hire. Leaving his flock acomber'd in the mire, And ran to London cogging at St Foul's, To seek himself a chauntery for souls. Or Avith a brotherhood to be enroU'd ; But dwelt at home, and guarded well his fold. So that it should not by the wolf miscarry. He was a shepherd, and no mercenary. Tho holy in himself, and virtuous. He still to sinful men was mild and piteous : Not of reproach imjicrious or malign ; But in his teaching soothing and benign. To draw them on to heaven, by reason fair And good example, was his daily care. But were there one pci-verse and obstinate. Were he of lofty or of low estate. Him would he shaqdy with reproof astound. A better priest is no where to be found. He waited not on ]X)mp or reverence. Nor made himself a spiced conscience. The lore of Christ and his apostles twelve He taught : but, first, he followed it himselve. ' By accident. 2 Storven (perfect tense of starve) — died. 3 The title of one of the sections in Avicenne's great work, mtitled Canun. [An Ironical Ballad on the Duplicity of Woiaau'l This world is full of variance In everything, who taketh heed. That faith and trust, and all Constance, Exiled be, this is no drede,' And save only in womanhead, I can ysee no sikemess ;^ But for all that yet, as I read, Beware alway of doubleness. Also that the fresh summer flowers, The white and red, the blue and green, Be suddenly with winter showers. Made faint and fade, withouten ween,3 That trust is none, as ye may seen. In no thing, nor no steadfastness. Except in women, thus I mean ; Yet aye beware of doubleness. The crooked moon, (this is no tale), Some while isheen^ and bright of hue, And after that full dark and pale. And every moneth changeth new, That who the very s and dwell with sothfastness ;'f' Sutfice unto thy goodie though it be small ; For hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleness, Press'- hath enry, and weal is blent'^ o'er all ; SaTOur'^ no more than thee behoven shall ; Rede'^ well thyself, that otheifolk can'st rede. And tnith thee shall deliver 't is no drede."' Pain thee not each crooked to redress In ti-ust of her that tumeth as a ball ; Great rest standeth in little business ; Beware also to spurn against a nalle ;'" Strive not as doth a crocke'^ with a wall ; Deemeth'9 thyself that deemest other's deed. And truth thee shall deliver 't is no drede. That-0 thee is sent receive in buxomness ;2I The wi-estling of this world asketh a fall; Here is no home, here is but wilderness ; Forth, pilgrim, forth, beast out of thy stall ; Look up on high, and thank thy God of all ; ' Eitlier in whispering or musing. ^ To find a flaw in. 3 ' Though clerks, or scholars, represent women to be like lambs for their truth and sincerity, yet they are all fraught, or filled with doubleness, or falsehood.' — Urri/. * To round off, to cut round. ^ Impeach. ^ Ypesed, Fr. jKse — weighed. 7 JuMtice. " Security. » Crowd. 10 Truth. ^ Be satisfied with thy wealth. '2 Striving. '3 Prosperity has ceased. '^ Taste. '5 Counsel. IS Without fear. '7 Nail. '" Eartlien pitcher. <» Jud-e. -» That (which). 21 Humility, obedience. Waiveth thy lust and let thy ghost' thee lead, And truth thee shall deliver 't is no drede. However far the genius of Chaucer transcended that of all preceding writers, he was not the solitary- light of his age. The national mind and the national language appear, indeed, to have now arrived at a certain degree of ripeness, favourable for the pro- duction of able writers in both prose and verse.* Heretofore, Norman French had been the language of education, of the court, and of legal documents; and when the Normanised Anglo-Saxon was era- ployed by literary men, it was for the special pur- pose, as tliey were usually very careful to mention, of conveying instruction to the common pjeople. But now the distinction between the conquering Normans and subjected Anglo-Saxons was nearly lost in a new and fraternal national feeling, which recognised the country under the sole name of England, and the people and language under the single appellation of Emjlish. Edward IIL substituted the use of English for that of French in the public acts and judiciarpro- ceedings ; and the schoolmasters, for the first time, in the same reign, caused their pupils to construe tlie classical tongues into the vernacular.f The consequence of this ripening of the national mind and language was, that, while English heroism was gaining the victories of Cressy and I'oitiers, English genius was achieving milder and more beneficial tri- umphs, in the productions of Chaucer, ofGower, and of Wickliffe. JOHN GOWER. John Gower is supposed to have been born some time about the year 1325, and to have consequently been a few years older than Chaucer. He was "a gentleman, possessing a considerable amount of pro- perty in land, in the counties of Nottingham and Suflblk. In his latter years, he appears, like Chaucer, to have been a retainer of the Lancaster branch of the royal family, which subsequently ascended the throne ; and his dcatli took jilace in M08, before which period he had become blind. Gower wrote a poetical work in three parts, which were respectively entitled Speculum Mcditantis, Vox Clamantis, and Coiifessio Amantis ; the last, which is a grave dis- cussion of the morals and metaphysics of love, being the only part written in English. The solemn seu- tentiousness of this work caused Chaucer, and sub- ' Spirit. * It is always to be kept in mind that the language employed in literary composition is apt to be difi'erent from that used by the bulk of the people in ordinary discourse. The literary lan- cruage of these early times was probably- nmch more refined than the colloquial. During the fourteenth century, various dialects of English were spoken in dififerent parts of the country, and the mode of pronunciation also was very far from being uniform. Trevisa, a historian who wrote about 13«U, remarks that, ' Hit semeth a grete wonder that Englyssmen have so grete dyversyte in their owin langage in sowne and in spekyin of it, which is all in one ilonde." The prevalent harshness of pronunciation is thus described by the same writer : ' Some use straunge wlaffing, chytryng, barring, garrying, and grys- byting. The langage of the Northumbres, and specyally at Yorke, is so sharpe, slytting, frotyng, and unshape, that we sothern men maye unneth understande that langage." Even in the reign of Elizabeth, as we learn from Holinshed's Chro- nick, the dialects spoken in diiTerent parts of the country were exceedingly various. t .'Mr Hallam mentions, on the authority of Mr Stevenson, sub-commissioner of public records, that in England, all letters, even of a private nature, were written in Latin till the beginning of the reign of Edward I., .soon after 1270, when a sudden change brought in the use of French Hallam's Inlroduction to the Lite- rature o/ Europe in tlie n/tcent/i, sij:tccnt/t, and sfventeenlk cen- turics, i. U3. 2.3 FROM EARLIEST CYCLOPJEDIA OF TIMES TO 1400. sequently Lyndsay, to denominate its author '• the moral Gower ;" he is, however, considerably inferior to the autlior of tlie Canterbury Tales, in idniost all the qualifications of a true poet. IL Mr Warton has happily selected a few passages from Gower, wliich convey a lively expression of natural feeling, and give a favourable impression of the author. Speaking of the gratification which his passion receives from tlie sense of hearing, he says, that to hear his lady speak is more delicious than to feast on all the dainties that could be compounded by a cook of Lombardy. These are not so resto- rative As bin the wordes of hir mouth ; For as the wj'ndes of the south Ben most of all deboimaire, So when her list' to speak faire The vertue of her goodly spcche Is verily myne hartes leche.=^ He adds (reduced spelling) — Full oft time it falleth so My "ear with a good pittance^ Is fed, with reading of romance Of Isodj'ne and Amadas, That whilom were in my case ; And eke of other many a score, That loved long ere I was bore : For when I of their loves read, Mine ear with the tale 1 feed ; And with the lust of their histoire Sometime I draw into memoire, How sorrow may not ever last, And so hope cometh in at last. » « » That when her list on nights wake,* In chamber, as to carol and dance, Methink I may me more avance, If I may gone upon her hond, Than if I win a king's lond. For when I may her hand bcclip, With such gladness I dance and skip, Methinketh I touch not the Hoor ; The roe which runneth on the moor, Is then nought so light as I. » When she chooses. * Physician. » A dainty dish. When she chooses to have a merry-making at niglit. [Episode of Maiiphcle.] [Rosiphele, princess of Armenia, a hidy of surpassing heauty, but insensible to tlie power of love, is represented by the poet as reduced to an obedience to Cupid, by a vision which befell her on a Blay-day ramble. The opening of tliis episode is as fol- lows : — ] When come was the month of jNIay, She would walk upon a day, And that was ere tlie sun arist, Of women but a few it wist ;1 And forth she went privily, Unto a park was fast by. All soft walkand on the grass. Till she came there the land was. Through which ran a great river, It thought her fair ; and said, here I will abide under tlie shaw f And bade her women to withdraw : And there slie stood alone still. To think what was in her will, She saw the sweet flowers spring, She heard glad fowls sing, She saw beasts in their kind. The buck, the doe, the hart, the hind. The males go with the female ; And so began there a quarrel Between love and her own heart, Fro which she could not astart. And as she cast her eye about. She saw clad in one suit, a roufc Of ladies, where they comen ride Along under the woode side ; On fiiir ambuland horse they set, That were all white, fair, and great; And everich one ride on side. The saddles were of such a pride. So rich saw she never none ; With pearls and gold so well begone. In kirtles and in copes rich They were clothed all alich. Departed even of white and blue, With all lusts that she knew, They were embroidered over all : Their bodies weren long and small, The beauty of their fair face There may none earthly thing deface: Crowns on tlieir heads they bare. As each of them a queen were ; That all the gold of Crresus' hall The least coronal of all Might not have bought, after the worth : Thus comen they ridand forth. [In the rear of this splendid troop of ladies, the princess he- held one, mounted on a miserable steed, wretchedly adorned in everything excepting the bridle. On questioning this straggler why she was so imlike her companions, the visionary lady replied that the latter were receiving tlie bright reward of having loyed faithfully, and that slie herself was sufl'ering punishment for cruelty to her admirers. The reason that the bridle alone resembled those of her companions was, that for the last fortnight she had been sincerely in love, and a change for the better was in consequence beginning to show itself in her accoutrements. The parting words of the dame are — ] Now have ye heard mine answer ; To God, madam, I you betake, And warneth all fur my sake. Of love that they be not idle. And bid them think of my bridle. [Tt is scarcely necessary to remark, that the hard heart of the pi-incess of Armenia is duly impressed by this lesson.] Few of her women knew of it. * A grove. 24 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [The Enrioits Man and the Miner.] Of Jupiter thus 1 find y-writ, How whilom that lie would wit, Upou the plaints which he heard Among the men, how it tared, As of the wrong condition To do justification; And for that cause down he sent An angel, that about went, That he the sooth know may. So it befel upon a day. This angel which him should inform Was clothed in a man's form, And orertook, I understand. Two men that wenten over lend ; Through which he thought to aspy Ilis cause, and go'th in company. This angel with his words wise Opposeth them in sundry wise; Now loud words and now soft. That made them to disputen oft; And each his reason had. And thus with tales he them led, ^\'ith good examination, Till he knew the condition. What men they were both two; And saw well at last tho,l That one of them was covetous. And his fellow was envious. And thus when he hath knowledging. Anon he feigned departing, And said he mote algate wend; But hearken now what fell at end! For than he made them understond, That he was there of God's sond. And said them for the kindship. He would do them some grace again. And bade that one of them should sain, 2 What thing is him levest to crave,-' And he it shall of gift have. And over that ke forth with all He saith, that other have shall The double of that his fellow axeth ; And thus to them his grace he taxeth. The Covetous was wonder glad ; And to that other man he bade, And saith, that he first ax should; For he supposeth that he would !Make his axing of world's good; For then he knew well how it stood; If that himsell by double weight Shall after take, and thus by sleight Because that he would win, He bade his fellow first begin. This Envious, though it be late. When that he saw he mote, algate. Make his axing first, he thought, If he his worship and profit sought It shall be double to his fere, That he would chuse in no manner. But then he showeth what he was Toward en^y, and in this case. Unto this angel thus he said. And for his gift thus he prayed. To make him blind on his one ee, So that his fellow nothing see. This word was not so soon spoke. That his one ee anon was loke: And his fellow forthwith also Was blind on both his eyes two. I Ihon. s Say. ■ What thing ho was mo t dtipo^fd tii crave. Tho was that other glad enough : That one wept, and that other lough. He set his one ee at no cost. Whereof that other two hath lost. The lan^age at this time used in the lowland districts of Scotland was based, like that of England, in the Teutonic, and it had, like the contemporary English, a Norman admixture. To account for these circumstances, some have supposed that the language of England, in its various sliades of improvement, reached the north through the settlers who are known to have flocked thither from England dur- ing the eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth centuries. Others suggest that the great body of the Scottish people, apart from the Highlanders, must have hccn of Teutonic origin, and tliey point to the very jiri- bable theory as to the Ticts having been a German race. They further suggest, that a Norman admix- ture might readily come to the national tongiie, through the large intercourse between the two countries during the eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth centuries. Thus, it is presumed, ' our eonmion lan- guage was separately formed in the two countries, and owed its identity to its being constructed of similar materials, b}- similar gradations, and by nations in the same state of society.'* Whatever might be the cause, there can be no doubt that the language used by the first Scottish vernacular writers in the fourteenth century, greatly resembles that used contemporaneously in England. JOHN BARBOUR. Tlie first of these writers was Johk Barbour, archdeacon of Aberdeen. The date of his birth is unknown ; but he is found exercising the duties of Cathedral of Aberdeen. that office in 1357. Little is known of his persona^ history : we ma}' presume that he was a man of political talent, from his being chosen by the bishop of Aberdeen to act as his commissioner at Edinburgh •when the ransom of David II. was debated ; and of learning, from his having several times accompanied men of rank to study at Oxford. Barbour probably formed his taste upon the romance writers who flourished before him in England. A lost work of his, entitled The Brute, probably another in addition to the many versions of the story of Brutus of Troy, first made popular by GeofTrey of Monmouth, sug- gests the idea of an imitiition of the romances ; and *VMi». 25 FROM EARLIEST CYCLOPEDIA OF TIMES TO 1400. bis sole remaining work, The Bruce, is altogether of that eharactcr. It is not unlikely that, in The Brute, Barbour adopted all the fables he could find : in ■writing The Bruce, he would, in like manner, adopt every tradition respecting his hero, besides searching for more authoritative materials. We must not be surprised that, while the tirst would be valueless as a history, the second is a most important document. There would be the same Avish for truth, and the same inability to distinguish it, in both cases ; but, in the latter, it chanced that the events were of recent occurrence, and therefore came to our metrical historian comparatively undistorted. The Briice, in reality, is a complete history of the memorable transactions by which King Robert I. asserted the independency of Scotland, and obtained its crown for his family. At the same time, it is far from being destitute of poetical spirit or rhythmical sweetness and harmony. It contains many vividly descriptive passages, and abounds in dignified and even in pathe- tic sentiment. This poem, which was completed in 1375, is in octo-syllabic lines, forming rhymed coup- lets, of which tliere are seven thousand. Barbour died at an advanced age in 1396. [ApostropJie to Freedom.] [Barbour, contemplating the enslaved cnndition of his coun- trj', breaks out into tlie following animated lines on the bless- ings of liberty.— £Kw.] A ! fredome is a nobill thing ! Fredome mayse man to haiff liking ! Fredome all solace to man gitlis : He levj-s at ese that frely levys ! A noble hart may liaift' iiane ese, Na ellys nocht that may him plese, Gytf fredome fallythe : for fre liking Is yeamyt our all othir thing Na he, that ay base levyt fre, May nocht knaw weill the propyrte, The angyr, na the wrechyt dome, That is cowplyt to foule thyrldome. Bot gyfF he had assayit it, Than all perquer he suld it wyt ; And suld think fredome mar to pryse Than all the gold in warld that is. [Death of Sir Ilcnry De Bohuii.] [This incident took place on the eve of the Battle of Bannock- burn.] And when the king wist that they were * In hale battle, comand sae near, His battle gart' he wcel array. He rade upon a little palfrey, Lawcht and joly arrayand His battle, with an ax in hand. And on his bassinet he bare An hat of tyre aboon ay where ; And, thereupon, into takin, Aiie high crown, that he was king. And when Cilostcr and Hereford were With their battle approachand near. Before them all there came ridand, With helm on heid and spear in hand, Sir Henry the Boon, the worthy. That was a wicht knicht, and a hardy. And to the Earl of Hereford cousin ; Armed in arms gude and fine ; Came on a steed a bowshot near, Before all other that there were : And knew the king, for that he saw Him sae range his men on raw, ' Caused, ordered * In this an AVent. » Ere. » He was on his way from Ayr to Glxisgow. * Spriil taken in sport. * Neck. " Rest. 7 Ere they would stop. ^ Tarried. " Inquired. •• Laughed. " Nearly went mad. And said, ' Son, thir tidings sits me sore. And, be it known, thou may tak sea 1th therefore.' ' Uncle,' he said, ' I will no langer bide, Thir southland horse let see gif I can ride.' Then but a child, him service for to mak, His erne's sons he wald not with him tak. This gude knight said, ' Dear cousin, pray I thee, When thou wants gude, come fetch eneuch frae me.' Silver and gold he gart on him give, ^\'allace inclines, and gudely took his leave. [Escape of Wallace from Perth.] [Wallace, betrayed by a woman in Perth, escapes to EIclio P;irk, in the neighbourhood, killing two Englishmen by the way. The English garrison of the toKTi, under Sir John Butler, conunence a search and pursuit of the fugitive hero, by nieiing of a bloodhound. Wallace, with sixteen men, makes his way out of the park, and hastens to the banks of the Earn.] As they were best arrayand Butler's route, Betwixt parties than Wallace ischet out ; Sixteen with him they graithit them to gae. Of all his men he had leavit no mae. The Englishmen has missit him, in hyl The hound they took, and followed hastily. At the Gask Wood full fain he wald have been ; But this sloth-brach, whilk sicker was and keen, On Wallace foot followed so fellon fast. While in their sicht they 'proachit at the last. Their horse werewicht, had sojourned weel and lang ; To the next wood, twa mile they had to gang. Of upwith yird ;- they yede with all their micht, Gude hope they had, for it was near the nicht. Fawdon tirit, and said he micht not gang. Wallace was wae to leave him in that thrang. He bade him gae, and said the strength was near But he tharefore wald not faster him steir. Wallace, in ire, on the craig can him ta'. With his gude swerd, and strak the head him frae. Dreldless to groimd derfly he dushit deid. Frae him he lap, and left him in that stede. Some deemis it to ill ; and other some to gude ; And I say here, into thir termis rude, Better it was he did, as thinkis me ; First to the hound it micht great stoppin be ; Als', Fawdon was halden at suspicion, For he was of bruckil complexion^ — Richt stark he wa^, and had but little gane. Thus Wallace wist : had he been left alane. An he were false, to enemies he wald gae ; Gif he were true, the southron wald him slay. ]\Iicht he do oucht but tyne him as it was ? Frae this question now shortly will I pass. Deem as ye list, ye that best can and may, I but rehearse, as my autoiir will say. Stemis, by than, began for till appear. The Englishmen were comand wonder near ; Five hundred hail was in their chivalry. To the next strength than Wallace couth him hy. Stephen of Ireland, unwitting of Wallace, And gude Kerly, bade still near hand that place, At the muir-slde, intill a scroggy slaid. By east Dupplin, where they this tarry made. Fawdon was left beside them on the land ; The power came, and suddenly him fand ; For their sloth-hound the straight gait till him yede. Of other trade she took as than no heed. The sloth stoppit, at Fawdon still she stude. Nor further she wald, frae time she fand the blude. I'^nglishmen deemit, for als tliey could not tell. But that the Scots had fouchten amang themsjll. Richt wae they were that losit was their scent. Wallace twa men amang the host in went. ■ Ascending ground. 3 Broken reput«tios> 30 BLIND HARRY. ENGLISH LITERATURE. BLIND HARHY. Dissemblit weel, that no man sould them ken, Richt in effeir, as they were Englishmen. Kerly beheld on to the bauld Ileroun, Upon Fawdon as he was lookand do\^-n, A subtle straik upward him took that tide, Under the cheeks the grounden swerd gart glide, By the gude mail, baith halse and his craig bane In sunder strak ; thus endit that Chieftain. To ground he fell, fell folk about him thrang, Treason ! they cried, traitors was them amang ! Kerly, with that, fled out soon at a side. His fallow Stephen than thoucht no time to bide. The fray was great, and fast away they yede, Laighl toward Earn ; thus scapit thej' of dreid. Butler for woe of weeping micht not stint, Thus recklessly this gude knickt they tynt. They deemit all that it was Wallace men. Or else himself, though they could not him ken. ' He is richt near, we shall him have but^ fail, This feeble wood may him little avail.' Forty were passed again to Sanct-Johnstoun, 'With this dead corse, to burning made it bounc. Parted their men, syne diverse wayis raid ; A great power at Dupplin still there baid. Till Dareoch the Butler passed but let ; At sundrv' fuirds, the gait they unbeset ; To keep the wood till it was day they thoucht. As Wallace thus in the thick forest soucht. For his twa men in mind he had great pain, He wist not weel if they were ta'en or slain, Or scapit hail by ony jeopardy : Thretteen were left him ; no mae had he. In the Cask hall their lodging have they ta'en ; Fire gat they soon, but meat than had they iiaiie. Twa sheep they took beside them aff a fauld. Ordained to sup into that seemly hauld, Graithit in haste some food for them to dicht : So heard they blaw rude hornis upon heicht. Twa sent he forth to look what it micht be ; They baid richt lang, and no tidings heard he, But boustous noise so brimly blew and fast, So other twa into the wood furth passed. Kane come again, but boustously can blaw ; Into great ire he sent them furth on raw. When that alane Wallace was leavit there, The a'irful blast aboundit mickle mair. Than trowit he weel they had his lodging seen ; His swerd he drew, of noble metal keen ; Syne furth he went where that he heard the horn. ^Vithout the door Fawdon was him beforn, As till his sicht, his awn held in his hand : A cross he made when he saw him so stand. At Wallace in the held he svvakit there,^ And he in haste soon hynt-* it by the hair, Syne out at him again he couth it cast — Intill his heart he was greatly aghast. Richt weel he trowit that was nae spreit of man, It was seme devil, at sic malice began. He wist no weel there langer for to bide ; Up through the Hall thus wicht Wallace can glide Till a close stair, the buirdis rave in t\vyne. Fifteen foot large he lap out of that inn. Up the water, suddenly he couth fare. Again he blent what 'pearance he saw there, He thoucht he saw Fawdoun, that ugly sir, That hail hall he had set in a fire ; A great rafter he had intill his hand. Wallace as than no langer wald he stand, Of his gude men full great marvel had he, How they were tint through his fell fantasy. Traists richt weel all this was sooth indeed, Suppose that it no point be of the creed. Power they had with Lucifer that fell, The time when he parted frae heaven to hell. 1 Low. 2 Without. 3 Threw * Caught By sic mischief gif his men micht be lost, Dro\vnit or slain araang the English host ; Or what it was in likeness of Fawdoun, Whilk broucht his men to sudden confusion ; Or gif the nuui ended in evil intent. Some wicked spreit again for him present, I can not speak of sic divinity ; To clerks 1 will let all sic matters be. But of Wallace furth I will you tell, When he was went of that peril fell, Richt glad was he that he had scapit sae. But for his men great muming can he ma. Flayt by himsell to the Maker of love, Whj' he sufferit he sould sic painis prove. He wist not weel if it was Goddis will, Richt or wrang his fortune to fulfil. Had he pleased God, he trowit it micht not be, He sould him thole in sic perplexity.' I?ut great courage in his mind ever drave Of Englishmen tliirikand amends to have. As he was thus walkald bj- him alane, Upon Eam-side, makand a piteous mane, Sir John Butler, to watch the fuirdis right, Out frae his men of Wallace had a sight. The mist was went to the mountains again ; Till him he rade, where that he made his mane. On loud he spcirt, ' What art you walks this gait V ' A true man, sir, though my voyage be late ; Errands I pass frae Doune unto my lord ; Sir John Stewart, the richt for to record. In Doune is now, new comand frae the king.' Than Butler said, ' This is a selcouth thing, You lee'd all out, you have been with Wallace, I shall you knaw, or you come off this place.' Till him he stert the courser wonder wicht. Drew out a swerd, so made him for to licht. Aboon the knee gude Wallace has him ta'en Through thie and brawn, in sunder strak the bane, Derfly to deid the knicht foil on the land. Wallace the horse soon seizit in his hand ; Ane backward straik sync took him, in that steld. His craig in twa ; thus was the Buth'r deid. Ane Englishman saw their chieftain was slain A spear in rest he cast with all his main, On Wallace drave, frae the horse him to beir ; Warly he wroucht, as worthy man in weir ; The spear he wan, withouten mair abaid. On horse he lap, and through a gi-eat rout raid To Dareoch ; he knew the fords full weel ; Before him came foil 2 stuffit in fine steel ; He strak the first but baid in the blasoun,^ While horse and man baith flet the water doun. Ane other syne doun frae his horse he bare, Stampit to ground, and drounit withouten mair. The third he hit in his harness of steel Through out the cost, the spear it brak some deal. The great power than after him can ride. He saw na weel nae langer there to bide. His bumist brand bravely in hand he bare ; Wham he hit richt they followit him nae mair. To stuff the chase fell frekis followit fast. But Wallace made the gayest aye aghast. The muir he took, and through "their power yede. ITJie Death of Wallace.] On Wednesday the false Southron furth brocht To martyr him, as they before had wrocht.-* Of men in arms led him a full great rout. With a bauld sprite guid Wallace blent about : A priest he asked, for God that died on tree. King Edward then commanded his clergy. And said, ' I charge j'ou, upon loss of life, Nane be sae bauld yon tyrant for to shrive. ' That God should allow hnii to ho in bucli perplexity. 2 .Many 3 Without sword. ■• Contrived, 31 FROM EARLIEST CYCLOPiEDIA OF TIMES TO 1400. He has reigiied long in contrar my highness.' A blyth bishop soon, present in that place ; Of Canterbury he then was righteous lord ; Again' the king he made this richt record, And said, ' ^Myself shall hear his confession, If I have miciit in contrar of thy cro^vn. An thou tlirough force ^-ill stop me of this thing, I TOW to God, who is my righteous king, That all England I shall her interdite, And make it known thou art a heretic. The sacrament of kirk I shall him give : Syne take thy choice, to starve l or let him live. It were mair weil, in worship of thy crown, To keep sic ane in life in thy bandoun, Than all the land and good that thou hast reived. But cowardice thee ay fra honour dreived. Thou has thy life rougin ^ in vrrangeous deed ; That shall be seen on thee or on thy seed.' The king gart^ charge they should the bishop ta, But sad lords counsellit to let him ga. All Englishmen said that his desire was richt. To Wallace then he rakit in their sicht And sadly heard his confession till ane end : Humbly to God his sprite he there commend Lowly iiim served with hearty devotion Upon his knees and said ane orison. * * A psalter-book Wallace had on him ever Fra his childheid — fra it wald nocht dissever ; Better he trowit in wyage •* for to speed. But then he was dispalyed of his weed.* This grace he asked at Lord Clifford, that knicht. To let him have his psalter-book in sicht. He gart a priest it open before him hald, While they till him had done all that they wald. Stedfast he read for ought they did him there ; Fell " Southrons said that Wallace felt na sair. Guid devotion, sae, was his beginning, Conteined therewith, and lair was his ending. While speech and sprite at anis all can fare To lasting bliss, we trow, for evermair. PROSE WRITERS OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. In the general history of literature, poetry takes precedence of prose. At first, wlien the memory was the chief means of preserving literature, men seem to have found it necessary that composition should take a form different from ordinary discourse — a form involving certain measures, breaks, and pauses — not onl}' as appropriate to its being some- thing higher and finer than common speech, but in order that it might be the more easily remembered. Hence, while we cannot trace poetry to its origin, we know that the first prose dates from the sixth century before the Christian era, Avhen it was as- sumed, in Greece, as the form of certain narratives differing from poetry in scarcely any other respect. In England, as in all other countries, prose was a form of composition scarce!}' practised for several centuries, during which poetry was comparatively much cultivated. TliG first specimens of it, en- titled to any consideration, date from the reign of Edward IIL SIR JOHN MANDEVILLE. Sir John Mandeville is usually held as the first English prose writer. lie was born at St Albans in the year 13U0, and received the liberal education requisite for the profession of medicine. During the ' The nece3i)ose, But on to gae, wha micht the foremost win ; The burgess had a hole and in sho goes, Her sister had nae place to hide lier in ; To see that silly mouse it was great sin, Sae desolate and wild of all gude rede. For very fear sho fell in swoon, near dead. Then as God wald it fell in happy case, The Spenser had nae leisure for to bide, Nowther to force, to seek, nor scare, nor chase, But on he went and cast the door up-wide. This burgess mouse his passage weel has spied. Out of her hole sho cam and cried on hie, • How, fair sister, cry peep, where'er thou be.' The rural mouse lay flatlings on the ground, And for the deid sho was full dreadand,'* For till her heart strake mony waeful stound, As in a fever trembling foot and hand ; And when her sister in sic plight her fand, For very pity sho began to greet. Syne comfort gave, with words as honey sweet. ' Why lie ye thus 1 Rise up, my sister dear. Come to your meat, this peril is o'erpast.' The other answered with a heavy clicer, I may nought eat, sae sair I am aghast. Lever* I had this forty dayis fast, With water kail, and green beans and peas. Then all your feast with this dread and disease. With fair 'treaty, yet gart she her rise ; To board they went, and on together sat. But scantly had they drunken anes or twice. When in cam Gib Hunter, our jolly cat. And bade God speed. The burgess up then ,!:iit, And till her hole she fled as fire of flint ; Bawdrons the other by the back has hent. Frae foot to foot he cast her to and frae. While up, while down, as cant as only kid ; While wald he let her run under the strae While wald he wink and play with her buik-hid ; Thus to the silly mouse great harm he did ; While at the last, through fair fortune and haji, Betwixt the dresser and the wall she crap. Syne up in haste behind the paneling, Sae hie sho clam, that Gilbert might not get her, And by the cluiks craftily can hing. Till he was gane, her cheer was all the better : Sj-ne do^vn sho lap, when there was nane to let her ; Then on the burgess mouth loud couth sho C17, ' Fareweel sister, here I thy feast defy. Thy mangery is minget^ all with care. Thy guise is gude, thy gane-full sour as gall ; The fashion of thy feris is but fair, So shall thou find hereafterward may fall. I thank yon curtain, and yon parjianc wall, ' Suppose. 2 A set of twenty-four. » She was in fear of immediate death. * Kather. * Mixed Of my defence now frae yon cruel beast ; Almighty God, keep me fra sic a feast ! Were I into the place that I cam frae. For weel nor wae I should ne'er come again.' With that sho took her leave, and forth can gae, While through the corn, while through the ]ilain. When she was furth and free she was right fain, And merrily linkit unto the muir, I cannot tell how afterward sho fure. But I heard syne she passit to her den, As warm as woo', suppose it was not grit, Full beinly stuflnt was baith butt and ben, With peas and nuts, and beans, and rye and wheat ; Whene'er sho liked, sho had enough of meat. In quiet and ease, withouten [ony] dread. But till her sister's feast nae mair sho gaed. [Fro7n the 31 oral.] Blissed be simple life, withouten dreid ; Blissed be sober feast in quiets ; Wha has eneuch of no more has he neid, Though it be little into quantity. Grit abundance, and blind prosperity, Oft timis make ane evil conclusion ; The sweetest life, theirfor, in this country, Is of sickemess, with small possession. The Garment of vfood Ladies. Would my good lady love me best, And work after my will, I should a garment goodliest Gar make her body till.l Of high honour should be her hood. Upon her liead to wear, Garnish'd with governance, so good Na deeming should her deir.^ Her sark3 should be her body next, Of chastity so white : With shame and dread together mixt, The same should be perfyte.'' Her kirtle should be of clean constanfte, Lacit with lesum^ love ; The mailies'' of continuance, For never to remove. Her gown should be of goodliness, Well ribbon'd with renown ; PurfiU'd 7 with pleasure in ilk** place, Furrit with fine fashioiiu. Her belt should be of benignity, About her middle m.eet ; Her mantle of humility. To thole " both wind and weit. W Her hat should be of fair having, And her tippet of truth ; Her patelet of good pansing,' ' Her hals-ribbon of ruth.'- Her sleeves should be of esperano9. To keep her fra despair : Her glovis of good governance. To hide her fingers fair. Her shoen should be of sickemess, In sign that she not slide ; Her hose of honesty, I guess, I should for her provide. ' Cause to be made to her shape, injure her. '^ Shift. * Perfect. 8 Eyelet-hnles for lacing her Ijirtle. fring(Kl, or bordered. * Each. 2 No opinion shoula 5 Lawful. 7 Parfile (French), 9 Endure. "> Wet 11 Thinking. 12 Her neck-ribbon of pity. 39 FROM 1400, CYCLOPEDIA OF TO I55t \Vould she put on this garment gay, I durst swear by my seill,l That she wore never green nor gray That set'^ her half so weel. ■WILLIAM DUNBAR. William Duxbar, ' a poet,' says Sir "Walter Scott, ' unrivalled by any that Scotland lias ever produced,' flourished at the court of James IV., at the end of the fifteenth and beginning of the six- teenth centuries. Ilis works, with tlie exception of one or two pieces, were confined, lor above two cen- turies, to an obscure manuscript, from which they were only rescued when tlieir language had become so antiquated, as to render the world insensible in a great measure to their man}- excellencies. To no other circumstance can we attribute the little justice that is dune by popular fame to this highly-gifted poet, who was alike master of every kind of verse, the solemn, the descriptive, the sublime, the comic, and the satirical. Having received his education at the university of St Andrews, where, in 1479, he took the degree of master of arts, Dunbar became a friar of the Franciscan order (Grey Friars), in which ca- pacity he travelled for some years not only in Scot- land, but also in England and France, preaching, as was the custom of the order, and living by the alms of the pious, a mode of life which he himself acknow- ledges to have involved a constant exercise of false- hood, deceit, and flattery. In time, he had the grace, or was enabled by circumstances, to renounce this sordid profession. It is supposed, from various al- lusions in his writings, that, from about the year 1491 to 1500, he was occasionally employed by the king (James IV.) in some subordinate, but not un- important capacity, in connexion with various fo- reign embassies, and that he thus visited Germany, Italy, Spain, and France, besides England and Ire- land. He could not. in such a life, fail to acquire much of that knowledge of mankind which forms so important a part of the education of the poet. In 1.500, he received from the king a pension of ten pounds, afterwards increased to twenty, and finally to eighty. He is supposed to have been employed by James in some of the negotiations preparatory to his marriage with the Princess Margaret, daughter of Henry VII., which took place in 1503. For. some j-ears ensuing, he seems to have lived at court, re- galing his royal master with his poetical composi- tions, and probably also his conversation, the charms of which, judging from his writings, must have been very great. It is sad to relate of one who possessed so buoyant and mirthful a spirit, that his life was not, as far as we can judge, a happy one. He ap- pears to have repined greatly at the servile court- life which he was condemned to lead, and to have longed anxiously for some independent source of in- come. Amongst his poems, are many containing nothing but expressions of solicitude on this subject. He survived the j'ear 1517, and is supposed to have died about 1520, at the age of sixty; but whether he ultimately succeeded in obtaining preferment, is not known. His writings, with scarcely any excep- tion, remained in the obscurity of manuscript till tlie beginnmg of the last century ; but his fame has been gradually rising since then, and it was at length, in 1834, so great as to justify a complete edition of his works, by Mr David Laing. The poems of Dunbar may be said to be of three classes, the Allegorical, the Moral, and the Comic ; besides which there is a vast number of ])roductions composed on occasions affecting himself, and whicli may therefore be called personal poems. His chief ' Balvition. * Became. allegorical poems are the Thistle and the Rose (a triumphant nuptial song for the union of James and tlie Princess Margaret), the Dance, and the Golden Terge ; but allegory abounds in many others, which do not strictly fall within this class. Perhaps the most remarkable of all his poems is one of those here enumerated, the Dance. It describes a proces- sion of the seven deadly sins in the infernal regions, and for strength and vividness of painting, would stand a comparison with anj' poem in the language. The most solemn and impressive of the more ex- clusively moral poems of Dunbar, is one in which he represents a thrush and nightingale taking opposite sides in a debate on earthly and spiritual affections, the thrush ending every speech or stanza with a recommendation of ' a lusty life in Love's service,' and the nightingale with the more melodious decla- ration, ' AH Love is lost but upon God alone.' There is, however, something more touching to com- mon feelings in the less laboured verses in which he moralises on the brevity of existence, the shortness and uncertainty of all ordinary enjoyments, and the wickedness and woes of mankind. This wavering warld's wretchedness The failing and fruitless business, The misspent time, the service vain, For to consider is ane pain. The sliding joy, the gladness short, The feigned love, the false comfort. The sweir abade,' the slightful train,* For to consider is ane pain. The suggared mouths, with minds therefra, The tigured speech, with faces tway ; The pleasing tongues, with hearts unplain, For to consider is ane pain. Or, in another poem — Evermair unto this warld's joy. As nearest heir, succeeds annoy ; Therefore when joy may not remain, His very heir, succeede's Pain. He is, at the same time, by no means disposed habitu- ally to take gloomy or desponding views of life. He has one poem, of which each stanza ends with ' For to be blyth methink it best.' In another, he advises, since life is so uncertain, that the good things of this world should be rationally enjoj-ed while it is yet possible. ' Thine awn gude spend,' says he, ' while thou has space.' There is yet another, in which these Horatian maxims are still more pointedly enforced, and from this we shall select a few stanzas : — Be merry, man, and tak not sair in mind The wavering of this wretched world of sorrow • To God be humble, to thy friend be kind. And with thy neighbours gladly lend and borrow ; His chance to-night, it may be thine to-morrow; Be blyth in hearte for my aventure, For oft with wise men it has been said aforow, Without Gladness availes no Treasure. jMake thee gude cheer of it that God thee sends. For warld's wrak but welfare^ nought avails ; Nae gude is thine save only that thou spends, Reiiianant all thou bruikes but with bails j* Seek to solace when sadness thee assails ; In dolour lanr/ thy life may not endure, Wherefore of comfort set up all thy sails ; Without Gladness availes no Treasure. I Delay. » Snare. * Injuries. * ^^'o^ld■8 trash without health. 40 ENGLISH LITERATURE. Follow on pity, flee trouble and debate, With famous folkis Laid thy company ; Be charitable and hum'le in thine estate, For warldly honour lastes but a crv. For trouble in earth tak no melancholy ; Be rich in patience, if thou in gudcs be poor; Who lives merrily he lives mightily ; Without Gladness availes no Treasure. The philosophy of these lines is excellent. Dunbar was as great in the comic as in the solemn strain, but not so pure. His Tu-a Married Women and the Widow is a conversational piece, in ■which three gay ladies discuss, in no very delicate terms, the merits of their husbands, and the means by which wives may best advance their own interests. The Friars of Berwick (not certainly his) is a clever but licentious tale. There is one piece of peculiar humour, descriptive of an imaginary tournament between a tailor and a shoemaker, in the same low region where he places the dance of the seven deadly Bins. It is in a style of the broadest farce, and full of very offensive language, yet as droll as anything in Scarron or Smollett. The Merle and Niylitingale. In May, as that Aurora did upspring. With cr}stal een chasing the cluddes sable, I heard a ^lerle with merry notis sing A sang of love, with voice right comfortable, Again' the orient beamis, amiable. Upon a blissful branch of laurel green ; This was her sentence, sweet and delectable, A lusty life in Lovis service been. Under this branch ran down a river bright. Of balmy liquor, crystalline of hue. Again' the heavenh- azure skyis light. Where did upon the tother side pursue A. Nightingale, with sugared notis new. Whose angel feathers as the peacock shone ; This was her song, and of a sentence true, All love is lost but upon God alone. With notis glad, and glorious harmony. This joyful merle, so salust she the day. While rung the woodis of her melody, Saying, Awake, ye lovers of this jSIay ; Lo, fresh Flora has flourished every spray, As nature has her taught, the noble queen. The field been clothit in a new array ; A lusty life in Lovis service been. Ne'er sweeter noise was heard with living man, Na made this merry gentle nightingale ; Her sound went with the river as it ran. Out through the fresh and flourished lusty vale ; Merle ! quoth she, fool ! stint of thy tale. For in thy song good sentence is there none. For both is tint, the time and the travail Of every love but upon God alone. Cease, quoth the Merle, thy preaching. Nightingale : Shall folk their youth spend into holiness ? ()f young Sanctis, grows auld feindis, but fable ; Fye, hypocrite, in yeiris tenderness. Again' the law of kind thou goes express, That crookit age makes one with youth serene, Whom nature of conditions made diverse : A lusty life in Lovis sen'ice been. The Nightingale said, Fool, remember thee, That both in youth and eild,' and every hour. The love of God most dear to man suld be ; That him, of nought, wrought like his own figour, 1 Age. And died himself, fro' dead him to succour ; O, whether was kythit' there true love or none I He is most true and stedfast paramour. And love is lost but upon him alone. The Merle said. Why put God so great beauty In ladies, with sic womanly having. But gif he would that they suld lovit be ? To love eke nature gave them inclining. And He of nature that worker was and king, ^A'ould nothing frustir put, nor let be seen, Into his creature of his o^vn making ; A lusty life in Lovis service been. The Nightingale said. Not to that behoof Put God sic beauty in a lady's face. That she suld have the thank therefor or luve, But He, the worker, that put in her sic grace ; Of beauty, bounty, riches, time, or space. And every gudeness that been to come or gone The thank redounds to him in everj- place : All love is lost, but upon God alone. Nightingale ! it were a story nice. That love suld not depend on charity ; And, gif that virtue contrar be to vice. Then love maun be a virtue, as thinks me ; For, aye, to love envy maun contrar be : God bade eke love thy neighbour fro the spleen ;' And who than ladies sweeter neighbours be ? A lusty life in Lovis sen-ice been. The Nightingale said, Bird, why does thou rave \ '^Izm may take in his lady sic delight, Him to forget that her sic virtue gave, And for his heaven receive her colour white : Her golden tressit hairis redomite, ^ Like to Apollo's beamis tho' they shone, Suld not him blind fro' love that is perfite ; All love is lost but upon God alone. The Merle said, Love is cause of honour aye, Love makis cowards manhood to purch.tse. Love makis knichtis hardy at essay, Love makis ■oTctches full of large'ness. Love makis sweir-* folks full of business, Love makis sluggards fresh and well be seoi;, Love changes vice in virtuous nobleness ; A lusty life in Lovis senice been. The Nightingale said. True is the contrary , Sic frustis love it bliudis men so far. Into their minds it makis them to vary ; In false vain glory they so drunken are, Their wit is went, of woe they are not waui, While that all worship away be fro' them gone. Fame, goods, an.d strength ; wherefore well say I daui. All love is lost but upon God alone. Then said the I\Ierlc, Mine error I confess : This frustis love is all but vanity : Blind ignorance me gave sic hardiness. To argue so again' the verity ; Wherefore I counsel every man that he With love not in the feindis net be tone, 5 But love the love that did for his love die : All love is lost but upon God alone. Then sang they both with voices loud and clear. The Merle sang, Man, love God that has thee wrought. The Nightingale sang, Man, love the Lord most dear That thee and all this world made of nought. The Merle said. Love him that thy love has sought Fro' heaven to earth, and here took flesh and bone. The Nightingale sang, And with his dead thee bought: All love is lost, but upon him alone. I Shown. * Equivalent to the modem -phrase, from tht heart. » Bound, encircled. * Slothful. ' Ta'en ; taken. 41 FROM 1400 CYCLOPiEDIA OF TO 15fi8. Then flew thir birdis o'er the boughis sheen, Singing of love amang the leavis small ; Whose eidant plead vet made inv thoughtis grein,' Both sleeping, waking, in rest and iu travail : Me to recomfort most it does avail, Again for love, when love I can find none, To think how sung this ^lerle and Nightingale ; All love is lost but upon God alone. Tlie Dance* Of Febniar the fifteenth nicht. Full lang before the dayis licht, I lay intill a trance ; And then I saw baith heaven and hell : Methocht amangs the fiendis fell, jMahoun- gart cry ane Dance Of shrewis that were never shriven,^ Agains the fast of Eastern's Even,^ To mak their observance lie bade gallands gae graith a guise,^ And cast up gamondsti \^ tlie skies, As varlots does in France. Heillie" harlots, haughten-wise, 8 Came in with mony sundry guise. But yet leuch never I^Iahoun ; While preests came in with bare shaven necks, Then all the fiends leuch and made geeks. Black-belly and Bausv-broun.'^ Let see, quoth he, who now begins. With that the foul Seven Deadly Sins Begoud to leap at anes. And first in all the Dance was Pridk, With hair wiled back, and bonnet on side. Like to mak vaistie wanes ;'0 And round about him, as a wheel. Hang all in rumplesii to the heel His kethat'- for tlie nanes.'3 Mony proiid trumpour with him trippit ; Through scaldand fire aye as they skippit. They grinned with hideous granes. Then Ire came in with sturt and strife ; His hand was aye upon his knife. He brandished like a bear ; Boasters, braggarts, and bargainers. After him, passit in to paii-s. All boden in 'feir of weir,l* In jacks, and scrips, and bonnets of steel ; Their legs were chained do^vn to the heel ; Froward was their effeir : Some upon other with brands beft,!^ Some jaggit others, to the heft. With knives that sharp could shear. ' Whose close disputation yet moved my thoughts. 2 The Devil. ' Accursed men, who had never heen absolved in the other world. ■• The eve of Lent. 5 Prepare a miisque. ^ Gambols. " Proud. * Haughtily. ^ The names of popular spirits in Scotland, w Something touching pufled up manners appears to be hinted at in this obscure line. " Large folds. 12 Uobe. '3 For the occasion. '♦ Arrayed in the accoutrements of war. 'S Gave blows. * ' Dunbar is a poet of a high order. * * I lis Dance of the Seven Deadly Sins, though it would be absurd to compare it with the beauty and refinement of the celebrated Ode on the Passions, has yet an animated picturesqueness not unlike that of Collins. The effect of both pieces shows how much more potent allegorical figures become, by being made to fleet sud- denly before the imagination, than by being detained in its view by prolonged description. Dunbar conjures up the per- sonified sins, as Collins does the passions, to rise, to strike, to iisappear. " They como like shadows, so depart." ' — Camp- Nest in the Dance followed E.wy, Filled full of feid and felony, Hid malice and despite : For privy hatred that traitor trembled ; Him followed mony freik' dissembled. With feigned wordis white : And flatterers into men's faces ; And backbiters in secret places. To lee that had delight ; And rouners of fals lesings, Alas ! that courts of noble kings. Of them can never be quit. « • • Next him in Dance came Covetice, Root of all evil and grund of vice, That never could be content : CaitiflTs, wretches, and ockerars,^ Hood-pykes,3 hoarders, and gatherers, All with that warlock went : Out of their throats they shot on other Het molten gold, methought, a fother,* As fire-flaught maist fervent ; Ay as they toomit them of shot, Fiends filled them new up to the throat With gold of all kind prent.^ Syne Sweirxess,^ at the second bidding. Came like a sow out of a midden, Full sleepy was his grunyie ;7 Mony sweir bumbard belly-huddron,^ Mony slute daw, and sleepy duddron,!* Him servit ay with sunyie.'o He drew them furth intill a chenyie, And Belial with a bridle reinyie Ever lashed them on the lunyie :'* In dance they were sae slaw of feet, They gave them in the fire a heat. And made them quicker of counyie.** • * « Then the foul monster Gluttonj, Of wame insatiable and greedy. To dance he did him dress : Him followed mony foul drunkart, With can and collop, caup and quart, In surfeit and excess ; Full mony a waistful wally-drag. With wames unweildable, did forth wag. In creish that did incress. Drink ! ay they cried, ivith mony a gapo ; The Fiends gave them het lead to lap. Their levery'3 vras nae less. • • • Nae menstrals playit to them, but doubt, For gleemen there were balden out. By day and eke by nicht ;l^ Except a menstral that slew a man, Sae till his heritage he wan. And entered by brief of richt. Then cried Mahoun for a Hieland padian '^ S}Tie ran a fiend to fetch iMacfadyan, Far northward in a nook : By he the coronach had done shout, Erschemen so gathered him about. In hell great room they took : Thae termagants, with tag and tatter. Full loud in Ersche begond to clatter. And roop like raven and rook. ' Many contentious persons. * Usurers. • Misers. * Great quantity. ' Every coinage, ^ Laziness. 7 Visage. ^ Dirty, lazy tipplers. " Slow and sleepy drabs. •" gjcuse. "Loins. '2 Circulation, as of coin. '3 Reward. '^ A compliment, obviously, to the poetical profession. '* Pageant. In this stanza Dunbar satirises the outLondiak habits and language of the Uighlanders. 42 i ENGLISH LITERATURE. The Devil sae dcavit was with their yell, That in the deepest pot of liell, lie smoorit them with smook. Tidings fra ilie Scsmon. [A conversation between two rustics, designed to satiri>e tlie proceedings in the supreme civil law court ot Scotland.] Ane muirlaiid man, of upland inak, At haine thus to liis neighbour spak, What tidings, gossip, peace oi weir I The tether rounit' in his ear, I tell you under this confession, But lately lichtit off my meare, I come of Edinburgh fra the Session. AVhat tidings heard you there, I pra}' you 1 The tother answerit, I sail say you : Keep well this secret, gentle brother ; Is na man there that trusts another : Ane common doer of transgression, Of innocent folk preveens a futher :^ Sic tidings heard I at the Session. Some with his fallow rouns him to please, That wald for envy bite aft" his ntse ;■' His fa' some by the oxter* leads ; Some patters with his mouth on bead-". That has his mind all on oppression ; Some becks full law and shaws bare heads. Wad look full heigh were not the Session. Some, bydand the law, lays land in wed ;5 Some, super-expended, goes to bed'* Some speeds, for he in court has means ; Some of partiality' compleens, How feld'' and favour flemis? discretion ; Some speaks full fair, and falsely feigns : Sic tidings heard I at the Session. Some castis summons, and some excepts ; Some stand beside and skailed law kejips ; Some is continued ; some wins ; some tynes ; Some maks him merry at the wines ; Some is put out of his possession ; Some berried, and on credence dines : Sic tidings heard I at the Session. Some swears, and some forsakes God, Some in ane lamb-skin is ane tod ;^ Some in his tongue his kindness turses ;^ Some cuts throats, and some pykes purses ; Some goes to gallows with procession ; Some sains the seat, and some them curses : Sic tidings heard I at the Session. Religious men of diverse places Comes there to woo and see fair faces ; » « « * And are unmindful of their profession. The younger at the elder leers : Sic tidings heard I at the Session. Of Dincretton in Giving. To speak of gifts and almos deeds : Some gives for merit, and some for meeds ; Some, wardly honour to uphie ; Some gives to them that nothing needs ; In Giving sould Discretion be. Some gives for pride and glory vain ; Some gives with grudging and with pain ; Some gives on prattick for supplie ; Some gives for twice as gude again : In Giving sould Discretion be. ' Whispered. 2 ig advanced before a great number. • Nose. * Armpit. * Pledge. * Hostility. T Banishes. * Fox ^ Carries. Some gives for thank, and fonie for threat', Some gives money, and some gives meat ; Some givis wordis fair and slie ; And gifts fra some may na man treit : In Giving sould Discretion be. Some is for gift sae lang required, While that the craver be so tired. That ere the gift delivered be. The thank is frustrate and expired : In Givirig sould Discretion be. Some gives so little full \vretchedly, That all his gifts are not set by,l And for a hood-pick halden is he, That all the warld cries on him, Fye 1 In Giving sould Discretion be. Some in his giving is so large. That all o'er-laden is his barge ; Then vice and prodigalitie. There of his honour does discharge : In Giving sould Discretion be. Some to the rich gives his gear. That might his giftis weel forbear ; And, though the poor for fault^ sould die. His cry not enters in his ear: In Giving sould Discretion be. Some gives to strangers with faces new. That yesterday fra Flanders flew ; 3 And to auld sen-ants list not see. Were they never of sae great virtu e : In Giving sould Discretion be. Some gives to them can ask and pleinyie,'* Some gives to them can flatter and feignie ; Some gives to men of honestie. And balds all janglers at disdenyie : In Giving sould Discretion be. Some gettis gifts and rich arrays. To swear all that his master says. Though all the contrair weel knaws he ; Are mony sic now in thir days : In Giving sould Discretion be. Some gives to gude men for their thews ; Some gives to trumpouri. and to shrews ; Some gives to knaw his authoritie. But in their oflice gude fund in few is : In Giving sould Discretion be. Some givis parochines full wide. Kirks of St Bernard and St Bride, The people to teach and to o'ersee, Though he nae wit has thim to guide : In Giving sould Discrttion be. Of Discretion in Taicing. After Giving I speak of Taking, But little of ony gude forsaking ; Some takes o'er little authoritie. And some o'er mickle, and that is glaiking :* In Taking sould Discretion be. The clerks takes benefices with brawls. Some of St Peter and some of St Paul's ; Tak he the rents, no care has he. Suppose the devil tak all their sauls : In Taking sould Discretion be. Barons taks fra the tenants puir All fruit that growis on the fur. In mails and gersoms'^ raislt o'er hie , And gars them beg fra door to door : In Taking sould Discretion be. 1 Appreciated. * Starvation. 3 A large proportion of the strangers who visited Scotland at this early period were probably from Flanders. * Complain 5 Foolish. s Rents and fines of entry. 43 fROM 1400 CYCLOPEDIA OP ro 1558 Some merchands taks unleesome' wine, Whilk inaks their packs oft time full thin, By their succession, as ye may see, That ill-won gear 'riches not the kin : In Taking sould Discretion be. Some taks other niennis tacks,2 And on the puir oppression maks, And never remembers that ho maun die, Till that the gallows gars him rax :■'' In Taking sould Discretion be. Some taks by sea, and some by land. And never fra taking can hald their hand, Till he be tyit up to ane tree ; And syne they gar him understand, In Taking sould Discretion be. Some wald tak all his neighbour's gear ; Had he of man as little fear As he has dread that God him see ; To tak then sould he never forbear : In Taking sould Discretion be. Some wald tak all this warld on breid ;■* And yet not satisfied of their need, Through heart unsatiable and grecdie ; Some wald tak little, and can not speed : In Taking sould Discretion be. Great men for taking and oppression, Are set full famous at the Session,^ And puir takers are hangit hie, Shawit for ever, and their succession : In Taking sould Discretion be. GAVIN DOUGLAS. Gavin Douglas, born about the year 1474, a younger son of Archibald, fifth Earl of Angus, was DunkeW Cathedral. educated for the church, and rose through a variety of inferior offices to be bishop of Dunkeld. After occu- ' Unlawful. 2 Leases. ^ Till the gallows stretches him. * In its whole breadth. * Get high places in the supreme court of law. pying a prominent place in the history of his coim- tr3% he died of the plague in London in the year 1.522. Douglas shines as an allegorical and descrip- tive poet. He wants the vigorous sense, and also the graphic force, of Dunbar; while the latter is always close and nervous, Douglas is soft and ver- bose. The genius of Dunbar is so powerful, that manner sinks beneath it; that of Douglas is so much matter of culture, that manner is its most striking peculiarity. This manner is essentially scholarly. He employs an immense number of words derived from the Latin, as yet comparatively a novelty in English composition. And even his descriptions of nature involve many ideas, very beautiful in them- selves, and very beautifully expressed, but inappro- priate to the situation, and obviously introduced merely in accordance with literary fashion. The principal original composition of Douglas is a long poem, entitled The Palace of Honour. It was designed as an apologue for the conduct of a king, and therefore addressed to James IV. The poet represents himself as seeing, in a vision, a large company travelling towards the Palace of Honour. He joins them, and narrates the particulars of the pilgrimage. The well-known Pilyrim's Progress bears so strong a resemblance to tliis poem, that Bunyan could scarcely have been ignorant of it. King Hart, the only other long poem of Douglas, presents a metaphorical view of human life. But the most remarkable production of this author was a translation of Virgil's ^neid into Scottish verse, which he executed in the year 1513, being the first version of a Latin classic into any British tongue. It is generally allowed to be a masterly performance, though in too obsolete a language ever to regain its popularity. The original poems, styled prologues, which the translator affixes to each book, are esteemed amongst his happiest pieces. \_A2)ostro23he to Ilonour.] (Original Spelling.) hie honour, sweit heuinlie flour digest, Gem verteuous, niaist precious, gudliest, For hie honour thou art guerdoun conding,' ()f worschip kend the glorious end and rest, r>ut Avhoine in riclit na worthie wicht may lest, Thy greit puissance may maist auanee all thing. And pouerall to meikall auail sone bring, 1 the require sen thow but peir- art best, That eftir this in thy hie blis we ring. [Morning in May.*] As fresh Aurore, to mighty Tithon spouse, Ished of her saffron bed and ivor house, In cram'sy clad and grained violate, With sanguine cape, and selvage purpurate, Unshet'* the windows of her large hall. Spread all with roses, and full of balm royal, And eke the heavenly portis chrystalline Unwarps braid, the warld till illumine; The twinkling streamers of the orient Shed purpour spraiiigs, with gold and azure nK4it^ Eous, the steed, with ruby harness red, Above the seas liftis furtli his head, Of colour sore,'' and somedeal brown as berry, For to alichten and glad our emispery; The flame out-bursten at the neisthirls,7 So fast Phaeton with the whip him whirls. * * While .shortly, with the bleezand torch of day, Abulyit in his lemand" fresh array, ' Worthy reward. 2 Without equal. * Issued from. * Opened. * Purple streaks mingled with gold and azure. '' Yellowish brown. 7 Nostrils. 8 Glittering. * Part of the prologue to the lath book of the iliueicl, 44 ENGLISH LITERATURE. Furtli of his palace royal ishit Phoebus, With golden crown and visage gloriou.^, Crisp hairs, bricht as chrysolite or topaz; For vvhase hue micht nana bchald his face. * * The auriate vanes of his throne soverai.e With glitterand glance o'crspread the oceanc;' The large fludes, leniand all of licht, But with ane blink of liis su])ernal sicht. For to behald, it was ane glore to see The stabled windis, and the calmed sea, The solt season, the finnanient serene, The loune illuminate air and firth aniene. * * And lusty Flora did her bloomis spread Under the feet of Phrebus' sulyart- steed ; The swarded soil embrode with selcouth-' hues, Wood and forest, obnumbrate with bews.-* * * Towers, turrets, kirnals,^ and pinnacles hie, Of kirks, castles, and ilk fair citie, Stude painted, every fane, phiol," and stage,7 Upon the plain ground by their awn umbrage. Of Eolus' north blasts havand no drcid. The soil spread her braid bosom on-breid; The corn crops and the beir new-braird With gladsome garment revesting the yerd.*' * * The prai-' besprent with springand sprouts dispers For caller humours'" on the dewy nicht Rendering some place the gerse-pilcs their licht; As far as cattle the lang summer's day Had in their pasture eat and nip away; And blissful blossoms in the bloomed yerd. Submits their heids to the young sun's safeguard. Ivy leaves rank o'erspread the bamikin wall; The bloomed hawthorn clad his pikis all ; Furth of fresh bourgeons" the wine grapes ying''- Endland the trellis did on twistis lung ; The loukit buttons on the gemmed trees O'ersprcadand leaves of nature's tapestries ; Soft grassy verdure after Imlmy shouirs. On curland stalkis smiland to their flouirs. * * The daisy did on-breid her cro^vnal small. And every flouer unlappit in the dale. * * Sere do^^niis small on dentilion sprang, The young green bloomed strawberry leaves amang ; Jimp jeryilouirs thereon leaves unshet, JVesh primrose and the purpour violet ; * * Heavenly lillies, with lockerand toppis white, Opened and shew their crestis rcdemite. * * Ane paradise it seemed to draw near Thir galyard gardens and each green herbere Maist amiable wax the emeraut meads ; Swarmis souchis through out the respand reeds. Over the lochis and the fludis gi'ay, Searchand by kind ane place where they should lay. Phoebus' red fowl, '3 his cural crest can steer, Oft streikand furth his heckle, crawand cleer. Amid the wortisand the rutis gent Pickand his meat in alleys where he went. His wivis Toppa and Partolet him by — A bird all-time that hauntis bigamy. The painted povme''* pacand with plumes gym, Kest up his tail ane proud plesand whecl-rim, Ishrouded in his feathering bright and sheen, Shapand the prent of Argus' hundred een. Amang the bowis of the olive twists, Sere small fowls, workand crafty nests, Endlang the hedges thick, and on rank aika Ilk bird rejoicand with their mirthful makes. In comers and clear fenestres of glass. Full busily Arachne weavand was. To knit her nettis and her wobbis slie. Therewith to catch the little midge or file. ' Ocean. 2 gujtry. 8 TTncommon. * Bmishs. * Battlements. ^ Ciipnla. ? Storey. * Earth. 9 Meadow. i" t'ool vapours. ''Sprouts. n Young, IS The cock. '* The peacock. So dusty powder upstoursi in every street, While corby gaspit for the fervent heat. Under the bowis bene in lufely vales. Within fermance and parkis close of pale.**, The busteous buckis rakis furth on raw, Herdis of hertis through the thick wood-shaw. The young fawns followand the dun daes. Kids, skippand through, runnis after raes. In leisurs and on leyis, little lambs Full tait and trig socht bletand to their dams. On salt streams wolk- Dorida and Thetis, By rinnand strandis, Nymphis and Naiadis, Sic as we clepe wenches and damysels, ' In gersy graves^ wanderand by spring wells ; Of bloomed branches and flowers white and red, Plettand their lusty chaplets for their head. Some sang ring-songes, dances, leids,* and rounds. With voices shrill, while all the dale resounds. Whereso they walk into their caroling. For amorous lays does all the rockis ring. Ane sang, ' The ship sails over the salt faem. Will bring the merchants and my leman hame.'* Some other sings, ' I will be blythe and licht. My heart is lent upon so goodly wicht.'^ And thoughtful lovers rounis(> to and fro. To leis7 their pain, and plein their jolly woe. After their guise, now singand, now in sorrow, With heartis pensive the lang summer's morrow. Some ballads list indite of his lady ; Some livis in hope ; and some all utterly Despairit is, and sae quite out of grace. His purgatory he finds in every place. * * Dame Nature's menstrals, on that other part, Their blissful lay intoning every art, * * And all small fowl is singis on the spray. Welcome the lord of licht, and lampe of day, Welcome fosterer of tender herbis green. Welcome quickener of flourist flouirs sheen. Welcome support of every rute and vein. Welcome comfort of all kind fruit and grain, Welcome the birdis beild" upon the brier, Welcome master and ruler of the year. Welcome weelfare of husbands at the plows, Welcome repairer of woods, trees, and bews. Welcome depainter of the bloomit meads. Welcome the life of every thing that spreads Welcome storer of all kind bestial, Welcome be thy bricht beamis, gladdand all. * * JOHN SKELTON. John Skelton flourished as a poet in the earlier part of the reign of Henry VIII. He was rector of Dysse, in Norfolk, and chiefly wrote satires upon his own order, for which he was at one time compelled to fly from his charge. Tiie pasquils of Skelton are copious and careless effusions of coarse humour, dis- playing a certain share of imagination, and much rancour ; but he could also assume a more amiable and poetical manner, as in the following canzonet: — To Mistress Margaret Hiissey. Merry Margaret, As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon. Or hawk of the tower; With solace and gladness. Much mirth and no madness, All good and no badness ; So joyously, So maidenly, So womanly. Her demeaning, ' Rises 5n clouds. « Walked. « Grassy groves. « lA^ii 6 Songs then popular. « Whisper. 7 BeUeve. 8 Shelter 45 FBOU 1400 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1558. In everything, Far, far passing That I can indite, Or suffice to write, Of merry ilargaret. As midsimmer flower. Gentle as falcon Or hawk of the tower ; As patient and as still, And as full of goodwill, As fair Isiphil, Coliander, Sweet Pomander, Good Cassander ; Stedfast of thought, AVell made, well wrought Far may be sought, Ere you can find So courteous, so kind, As merry Margaret, This midsimmer flower. Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower. EARL OF SURREY. From Chaucer, or at least from James I., the •writers of verse in England had displayed little of the grace and elevation of true poetry. At length a worthy successor of those poets appeared in Thomas Howard, eldest son of the Duke of Norfolk, and usually denominated the Earl of Surrey. This nobleman was born in 1516. He was educated at Windsor, in company with a natural son of the lii^^W '*^"^ Iloward, Earl of Surrey. king, and in early life became accomplished, not only in the learning of the time, but in all kinds of courtlj' and chiviilrous exercises. Having travelled into Italy, he became a devoted student of the poets of that country — Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio, and Ari- osto — and formed his own poeticid stj'le upon theins. His poetry is chiefly amorous, and, notwithstanding his having been married in early life, much of it con- sists of tlie praises of a lady whom he names Geral- dine, supposed to have been a daughter of the Earl of Kildare. Surrey was a gallant soldier as well as a poet, and conducted an important expedition, in 1542, for the devastation of the Scottish borders. He finally fell under the displeasure of Henry VHI., and was beheaded on Tower Hill in 1547. The poetrji^ of Surrey is remarkable for a flowing melody, correctness of style, and purity of expression ; he w^as the first to introduce the sonnet and blank verse into English poetrv. The gentle and melancholy pathos of his style is well exemplified in the verse's which he wrote during his captivity in Windsor Castle, when about to yield his life a sacrifice to tyrannical caprice : — Prisoner in Windsor, he recounteth his Pleasure there passed. So cruel prison how could betide, alas ! As proud Windsor ? where I, in lust and joy. With a king's son, my childish years did pass. In greater feast than Priam's son of Troy : Where each sweet place returns a taste full sour ! The large green courts where we were wont to hove» With eyes cast up into the Maiden Tower, And easy sighs such as folk draw in love. The stately seats, the ladies bright of hue ; The dances short, long tales of great delight, With words and looks that tigers could but rue, Where each of us did plead the other's right. The palm-play, where, despoiled. for the game; With dazed eyes oft we by gleains of love, Have missed the ball and got sight of our dame, To bait her eyes, which kept the leads above. The gravel ground, with sleeves tied on the helm Of foaming horse,- with swords and friendly hearts! With cheer, as though one should another wlielm, Where we have fought, and chased oft with darts ; With silver drops the mead yet spread for ruth, In active games of nimbleness and strength, Where we did strain, trained with swarms of youth, Our tender limbs that yet shot up in length : The secret groves which oft we made resound. Of pleasant plaint, and of our ladies' praise. Recording oft what grace each one had found. What hope of speed what dread of long delays : The wild forest, the clothed holts with green, With reins availed^ and swift ybreathed horse; AMth cr>' of hounds and merry blasts between, Where we did chase the fearful hart of force. Tlie wide vales, eke, that harboured us each night. Wherewith, alas, reviveth in my breast, The sweet accord such sleeps as yet delight. The pleasant dreams, the quiet bed of rest : The secret thoughts imparted with such trust, The wanton talk, the divers change of play, Tlu- friendship sworn, each promise kept so just ; Wherewith we passed the winter night away. | And with this thought, the blood forsakes the fac9, j The tears berain my cheeks of deadly hue. The which, as soon as sobbing sighs, alas, Upsupped have, thus I my plaint renew: place of bliss ! renewer of my woes. Give me accounts, where is my noble fere;* Whom in thy walls thou dost each night enclosa ; To other leef,^ but unto me most dear : Echo, alas ! that doth my sorrow rue, Returns thereto a hollow sound of plaint. Thus I alone, where all my freedom grew, In prison pine with bondage and restraint, And with remembrance of the greater grief To banish the less, I find my chief relief. • Hover ; loiter. 2 A lover tied the sleeve of his mistress on the head of hk horse. ^ Reins dropped. * Companion. * Agreeable. 46 ENGLISH LITERATURE. SIR THOMAS WYA^T. Description and Praise of his Love Geraldine. . From Tuscan' came my lady's worthy race ; Fair P^lorence was some time their ancient seat ; The western isle, whose pleasant shore doth face Wild Camber's cliffs, did give her lively heat : Fostered she was with milk of Irish breast ; Her sire, an earl ; her dame of princes' blood : From tender years, in Britain she doth rest With king's child, where she tasteth costly food. Hunsdon did first present her to mine een : Bright is her hue, and Geraldine she hight : Hampton me taught to wish her first for mine : And Windsor, alas, doth chase me from her sight. Her beauty of kind, her virtues from above ; Happy is he that can obtain her love ! How no- age is content with his own estate, and how the age of children is the happiest, if they had skill to understand it. Laid in my quiet bed, In study as I were, I saw within my troubled head, A heap of thoughts appear. And every thought did show So lively in mine eyes. That now I sighed, and then I smiled, As cause of thoughts did rise. I saw the little boy, In thought how oft that he Did wish of God, to scape the rod, A tall young man to be. The young man eke that feels His bones with pains opprest. How he would be a rich old man, To live and lie at rest : The rich old man that sees His end draw on so sore, How he would be a boy again, To live so much the more. Whereat full oft I smiled, To see how all these three, Vrom boy to man, from man to boy, Would chop and change degree : And musing thus, I think, The case is very strange. That man from wealth, to live in woe. Doth ever seek to change. Thus thoughtful as I lay, I saw my withered skin, How it doth show my dented thws. The flesh was worn so thin ; And eke my toothless chaps. The gates of my right way. That opes and shuts as I do speak, Do thus unto me say : The white and hoarish hairs. The messengers of age. That show, like lines of true belief. That this life doth assuage ; Bids thee lay hand, and feel Them hanging on my chin. The which do write two ages past, The third now coming in. Hang up, therefore, the bit Of thy young wanton time; And thou that therein beaten axt^ The happiest life define : Whereat I sighed, and said. Farewell my wonted joy. Truss up thy pack, and trudge from me. To every little boy ; And tell them tlius from me. Their time most happy is. If to their time they reason had. To know the truth of this. T7ie Means to attain Happy lAft, Martial, the things that do attain The happy life, 1>e these, I find, The riches left, not got with pain ; The fruitful ground, the quiet mind. The equal frend ; no grudge, no strife ; No charge of rule, nor governance ; W^ithout disease, the healthful life ; The household of continuance : The mean diet, no delicate fare ; True wiscdom joined with simpleness ; The night discharged of all care ; Where wine the wit may not oppress. The faithful wife, without debate ; Such sleeps as maA beguile the night ; Contented with thint j-mi estate, Ne wish for death, ne fear his might. SIR THOMAS "WYATT. In amorous poetry, which maybe said to ha^e taken its rise in this age, Surrey had a fellow-la- bourer in Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1541), another distinguished figure in the court of Henry VIII. Wyatt was a man highly educated for his age, a great traveller, and generally accomplished. He died of a fever caught by riding too fast on a hot day from Falmouth, while engaged on a mission to conduct the ambassador of the emperor, Charles V., to court. The songs and sonnets of this autlior, in praise of his mistress, and expressive of the various feelings he experienced wliile under the influence of the tender passion, though conceited, are not with- out refinement, and some share of poetical feeling. TJie lover's lute cannot he llamed, though it sing of his kuhfs unkindness. Blame not my Lute ! for he must sjund Of this or that as liketh me ; For lack of wit the Lute is bound To give such tunes as pleaseth me ; Though my songs be somewhat strange. And speak such words as touch my change. Blame not my Lute ! My Lute, alas ! doth not offend. Though that per force he must agree To sound such tunes as I intend. To sing to them that heareth me ; Then though my songs be somewhat plain. And toucheth some that use to feign. Blame not my Lute ! My Lute and strings may not deny. But as I strike they must obey ; Break not them then so wrongfully, But wreak thyself some other way , And though the songs which I indite. Do quit thy change with rightful spite. Blame not my Lute ! Spite asketh spite, and changing change, And falsed faith, must needs be known ; The faults so great, the case so strange ; Of right it must abroad be blofl-n : Then since that by thine own desert My songs do tell how true thou art, Blame not my Lute ! 47 FBOM 1400 CYCLOPiEDIA OF TO 1568. Blame but thyself that hast niisdonc, And well deserved to have blame ; Change thou thy way, so evil begone, And then my Lute shall sound that same ; But if till then my fingers play, By thy desert their wonted way. Blame not my Lute ! Farewell ! unknown ; for though thou break My strings in spite with great disdain, Yet have I found out for thy sake, Strings for to string my Lute again : And if perchance this silly rhj-nie, Do make thee blush at any time, Blame not my Lute. STie re-cured Lover exultcth in Ms Freedom, and voweth to remain free tintil Death. I am as I am, and so will I be ; But how that I am none knoweth truly. Be it ill, be it well, be I bond, be I free, I am as 1 am, and so will I be. I lead ray life indifferently ; I mean nothing but honesty ; And though folks judge full diversely, I am as I am, and so vAW I die. I do not rejoice, nor yet complain, Both mirth and sadness I do refrain, And use the means since folks will feign ; Yet I am as I am, be it pleasant or puiii. Divers do judge as they do trow. Some of pleasure and some of woe. Yet for all that nothing they know ; But I am as I am, wheresoever I go. But since judgers do thus decay. Let every man his judgment say ; I will it take in sport and play. For I am as I am, whosoever say nay. ■\Mio judgeth well, well God them send ; Who judgeth evil, God them amend ; To judge the best therefore intend. For I am as I am, and so will I end. Yet some there be that take delight, To judge folk's thought for envy and spite ; But whether they judge me ^vrong or right, 1 am as I am, and so do I -write. Praying you all that this do read, To trust it as you do your creed ; And not to think I change my weed, For I am as I am, however I speed. But how that is I leave to you ; Judge as ye list, false or true. Ye know no more than afore ye knew, Yet I am as I am, whatever ensue. And from this mind I will not flee. But to you all that misjudge me, I do protest, as ye may see. That I am as 1 am, and so will be. That Pleasure is mixed with every Pain. Venomous thorns that are so sharp and keen Bear flowers, we see, full fresh and fair of hue. Poison is also put in medicine, And unto man his health doth oft renew. The fire that all things eke consumeth clean. May hurt and heal : then if that this be true, I trust some time my harm may be my health, Sin'^p nvery woe is joined with some wealth. L_, The Courtier^s Life. In court to serve decked with fresh array, Of sugared meats feeling the sweet repast. The life in banquets and sundry kinds of play ; Amid the press the worldly looks to waste ; Hath with it joined oft times such bitter taste, That whoso joys such kind of life to hold, In prison joys, fettered with chains of gold. Of the Mean and Sure Estate. Stand whoso lists upon the slipper' wheel, Of high estate, and let me here rejoice. And use my life in quietness each deal. Unknown in court that hath the wanton joys. In hidden place my time shall slowly pass, And when my years be passed without annoy, Let me die old after the common trace. For grips of death do he too hardly pass That kno\\'n is to all, but to himself, alas ! He dieth unknown, dased with dreadful face. THOMAS TUSSER. Amongst the poets dating towards the conclusion of the present period, may be ranked Thomas Tds- SER, author of the first didactic poem in the lan- guage. He was born about 1523, of an ancient family ; had a good education ; and commenced life at court, under the patronage of Lord Paget. After- wards he practised farming successively at Katwood in Sussex, Ipswich, Fairsted in Essex, Norwich, and othsr places ; but not succeeding in that walk, he betook liimsclf to other occupations, amongst which were those of a chorister, and, it is said, a fiddler. As might be expected of one so inconstant, he did not prosper in the world, but died poor in London, in 1530. Tusser's poem, entitled a Hondreth Good Points of Hushandrie, which was first published in 1557, is a series of practical directions for farming, expressed in simple and inelegant, but not always dull verse. It was afterwards expanded by other writers, and publislied under the title of Five Hundreth Points of Good Husbandrie : the last of a considerable number of editions appeared in 1710. \_Direct ions for Ctdtivating a B'op-Gardai.'] ^Miora fancy persuadeth, among other crops. To have for his spending sufficient of hops, Must willingly follow, of choices to choose. Such lessons approved, as skilful do use. Ground gravelly, sandy, and mixed with clay, Is naughty for hops, any manner of way. Or if it be mingled with rubbish and stone, For dryness and barrenness let it alone. Choose soil for the hop of the rottenest mould. Well dunged and wrought, as a garden-plot should ; Not far from the water, but not overflown. This lesson, well noted, is meet to be kno^\'n. The sun in the south, or else southly and west, Is joy to the hop, as a welcomed guest ; But wind in the north, or else northerly east. To the hop is as ill as a fay in a feast. Meet plot for a hop-yard once found as is told, Make thereof account, as of jewel of gold ; Now dig it, and leave it, the sun for to bum, And afterwards fence it, to serve for that turn. The hop for his profit I tlms do exalt, It strengtheneth drink, and it favoureth mdlt ; And being well brewed, long kept it will last. And drawing abide— if ye draw not too fast. 48 ENGLISH LITERATURE. sin DAVID LYNDSAY. [Housamfchj Physic] Good huswife prorides, ere a sickness do come, Of sundry good things in her house to have some. Good aqua composita, and vinegar tart, Uose-water, and treacle, to comfort thine heart. Cold herbs in her garden, for agues that burn. That over-strong heat to good temper may turn. White endive, and succory, with spinach enow ; All such with good pot-herbs, should follow the plough. Get water of fumitory, liver to cool, And others the like, or else lie like a fool. Conserves of barbary, quinces, and such, With sirops, that easeth the sickly so much. Ask Medini.s' counsel, ere medicine ye take, And honour that man for necessity's sake. Though thousands hate physic, because of the cost, Yet thousands it helpeth, that else should be lost. Ciood broth, and good keeping, do much now and than : Good diet, with wisdom, best comforteth man. In health, to be stirring shall profit thee best ; In sickness, liate trouble ; seek quiet and rest. Remember thy soul ; let no fancy prevail ; JIake ready to God-ward ; let faith never quail : The sooner thyself thou subniittest to God, The sooner he ceaseth to scourge with his rod. [Moral Reflections on the Wind.'] Though winds do rage, as winds were wood,l And cause spring-tides to raise great flood ; And lofty ships leave anchor in mud, Bereaving many of life and of blood ; Yet, true it is, as cow chews cud. And trees, at spring, doth yield forth bud. Except wind stands as never it stood, It is an ill wind turns none to good. SIR DAVID LYNDSAY. WHiile Surrey and Wyatt Avcre imparting fresh beauties to English poetry, Dunbar and his contem- Sir David Lj-ndsay. poraries were succeeded in Scotland by several poets of considerable talent, whose improvements, however, 1 Jla'ot-Browne Mayde' was exposed by her lover. What follows consists of a dialogue between the pair.] He. — It standeth so ; a deed is do', "VATiereof great harm shall grow : My destiny is for to die A shameful death, I trow; Or else to flee : the one must be. None other way I know, But to withdraw as an outlaw, And take me to my bow. 'V\'herefore adieu, my o^vn heart true ! None other rede I can : For I must to the green wood go. Alone, a banished man. She. — Lord, what is this world's bliss, That changeth as the moon ! My summer's day in lusty May Is darked before the noon. I hear you say. Farewell : Nay, nay, We depart not so soon. Why say ye so ? whither will ye go ? Alas ! what have ye done ? All my welfare to sorrow and care Should change if ye were gone ; For in my mind, of all mankind I love but you alone. He. — I can believe, it shall you grieve. And somewhat you distrain : But afterward, j'our paines hard Within a day or twain Shall soon aslake ; and ye shall take Comfort to you again. Why should ye ought, for to make thought ? Your labour were in vain. And thus I do, and pray to you, As heartily as I can ; For I must to the green wood go. Alone, a banished man. She. — Now sith that ye have showed to ma The secret of your mind, I shall be plain to you again, Like as yc shall me find. Sith it is so that ye Tvill go, I vrill not live behind ; Shall never be said, the Nut-Brown Maid Was to her love unkind : Make you ready, for so am I, Although it were anon ; For in my mind, of all mankind I love but you alone. He. — I counsel you, remember how It is no maiden's law Nothing to doubt, but to run out To wood with an outlaw ; For ye must there in your hand bear A bow, ready to draw ; And as a thief, thus must you live, Ever in dread and awe. 'N^'hereb}' to you great harm might grow : Yet had I lever than. That I had to the green wood go. Alone, a banished man. She. — I think not nay, but, as ye say, It is no maiden's lore : But love may juake me for your sake. As I have said before. To come on foot, to hunt and shoot To get us meat in store ; For so that I your company IMay have, I ask no more : From which to part it makes my heart As cold as any stone ; For, in my mind, of all mankind I love but you alone. He. — Yet take good heed, for ever I dread That ye could not sustain The thorny ways, the deep valleys. The snow, the frost, the rain, The cold, the heat ; for, diy or weet. We must lodge on the plain ; And us above, none other roof But a brake bush or twain : ^Miich soon should grieve you, I beliere. And ye would gladly than That I had to the greenwood go. Alone, a banished man. She. — Sith I have here been partinfer With you of joy and bliss, I must also part of your wo Endure, as reason is. Yet I am sure of one pleasure, And, shortly, it is this, That, wliere ye be, me seemelh, pardie, I could not fare amiss. Without more speech, I you beseech That ye were soon agone, For, in my mind, of all mankind I love but you alone. He. — If ye go thither, ye must consider, When ye have list to dine. There shall no meat be for you gete, Nor drink, beer, ale, nor wine, No sheetes clean, to lie between. Made of thread and twine ; None other house but leaves and boughs, To cover your head and mine. Oh mine heart sweet, this evil diet, Should make you pale and wan ; Wherefore I will to the green wood go» Alone, a banished man. ENGLISH LITERATURE. NUT-BROWN HAin. She. — Among the wild deer, such au archer, As men say that ye be, Ye may not fail of good vittall, Where is so great plentie. And water clear of the rive'r, Shall be full sweet to me. With which in heal, I shall right weel Endure, as ye shall see ; And, ere we go, a bed or two I can provide anone ; For, in my mind, of all mankind I love but you alone. He. — Lo yet before, ye must do more, If ye will go with me ; As cut your hair up by your ear, Your kirtle to the knee ; With bow in hand, for to withstand Your enemies, if need be ; And this same night, before day-light, To wood-ward will I flee. If that ye will all this fulfill, Do't shortly as ye can : Else will I to the green wood go, Alone, a banished man. She. — I shall, as now, do more for you, Than 'longeth to womanheed, To short my hair, a bow to bear, To shoot in time of need. Oh, my sweet mother, before all other For you I have most dread ; But now adieu ! I must ensue Where fortune doth me lead. All this make ye : Now let us flee ; The day comes fast upon : For, in my mind, of all mankind I love but you alone. He. — Nay, nay, not so ; ye shall not go. And I shall tell you why : Your appetite ' is to be light Of love, I weel espy : For like as ye have said to me, In like wise, hardily, Ye would answe'r whoever it were. In way of company. It is said of old, soon hot, soon cold ; And so is a woman. Wherefore I to the wood will go. Alone, a banished man. She. — If ye take heed, it is no need Such words to say by me ; For oft ye prayed and me assayed, Ere I loved you, pardie : And though that 1, of ancestry, A baron's daughter be. Yet have you proved how I you loTcd, A squire of low degree ; And ever shall, whatso befal ; To die therefore anon ; For, in my mind, of all mankind I love but you alone. He. — A baron's child to be beguiled, It were a cursed deed ! To be fellaw with an outlaw. Almighty God forbid ! It better were, the poor squier Alone to forest yede. Than I should say, another day, That, by my cursed deed. We were betrayed : wherefore, good maid, The best rede that I can. Is, that I to the greenwood go, Alone, £ banished man. I Disposition. She. — Whatever befall, I never shall. Of this thing you upbraid ; But, if ye go, and leave me so. Than have ye me betrayed. Remember weel, how that you deal ; For if ye, as ye said. Be so unkind to leave behind. Your love, the Nut-Bro'vvn ]\Iaid, Trust me truly, that 1 shall die Soon after ye be gone ; For, in my mind, of all mankind I love but you alone- He. — If that ye went, ye should repent ; For in the forest now I have purveyed me of a maid. Whom I love more than j'ou ; Aiother fairer than ever ye were, I dare it weel avow, And of you both each should be wi'oth With oihei-, as I trow : It were mine ease to live in peace ; So will I, if I can ; Wherefore I to the wood will go, Alone, a hanished. man. She. — ^Tliough in the wood I understooa Ye had a paramour. Aid this may not remove ray thought. But tliat I will be your. And she shall find me soft and kind And courteous everv hour ; Gla/J to fulfill all that she will Command me to my power. For had ye, lo, an hundi-ed mo. Of them I woiild be on€ ; For, in m}' mind, of all mankind I love but you alone. He. — ^line own dear love, I see thee prove That ye l^e kind and true ; Of maid and ^vife, in all my life. The best that ever I knew. Be meiTV and glad ; no more be sad ; The case is changed now ; For it were ruth, that, for your truth, Ye should have cause to rue. Be Tiot dismayed ; whatever I said To you, when I began ; I will not to the greenv.'ood go : I am no uanished man. She. — ^These tidings tie more glad to me, Than to be made a queen. If I were sure they would eadare : But it is often seen. When men will break promise, they speak The wordes on the spleen. Ye shape some wiie me to beguile. And steal from me, I ween : Than were the case worse than it was, And I more woo-begone : For, in my mind, of ail mankind I love but you alone. He. — Ye shall not neeil further to dread : I will not disparage, You (God defend !) sitli ye descend Of so great a lineage. Now understand ; to Westmoreland, ^Vhich is mine heritage, I will 3'ou bring ; and with a ring, By waj' of marriage, I will 3'oa take, and Lady make. As shortly as I can : Thus have you won an earl's son. And not a banished man. FROM 1400 CYCLOPEDIA OF 10 I tod. PROSE WRITERS. SIR JOHN FORTESCCE. Not long after the time of Lydgate, our attention is called to a prose writer of eminence, the first since the time of Chaucer and Wickliffe. This was Sir John Fortescce, Chief Justice of the King's Bench under Henry VI., and a constant adherent of the fortunes of that monarch. He flourished be- tween the years 1430 and 1470. Besides several Latin tracts. Chief Justice Fortescue wrote one in tlie common language, entitled. The Difference between an Absolute and Limited Monarchy, as it more particularly regards the English Constitution, in which he draws a striking, thougli perhaps exaggerated, contrast be- tween the condition of the French under an arbi- trary monarch, and that of his own countrymen, who even then possessed considerable privileges as subjects. The following extracts convey at once an idea of the literary style, and of the manner of thinking, of that age. [English, Courage.'] {^Original spelling. — ^It is cowardise and lack of hartes and corage, that kepith the Frenchmen from rj'sjTig, and not po- ^ertye ; which corage no Frenche man hath like to the English man. It hath ben often seen in Englond that iij or iv thefes, for povertie, hath sett upon vij or viij true men, and robbyd them al. But it hath not ben seen in Fraunce, that vij or viij thefe3 have ben hardy to robbe iij or iv true men. Wherfor it is right seld that French men be hangyd for robberye, for that thay have no hertys to do so terryble an acte. There be therfor mo men hangyd in Englond, in a yere, for robberye and manslaughter, than ther be hangid in Fraunce for such cause of crime in vij yers, &c.] It is cowardice and lack of hearts and courage, that keepeth the Frenchmen from rising, and not poverty ; which courage no French man hath like to the English man. It hath been often seen in England that three or four thieves, for poverty, hath set upon seven or eight true men, and robbed them all. I3ut it hath not been seen in France, that seven or eight thieves have been hardy to rob three or four true men. Wherefore it is right seld' that Frenchmen be hanged for robbery, for that they have no hearts to do so terrible an act. There be therefore mo men hanged in England, in a year, for robbery and manslaughter, than there be hanged in France for such cause of crime in seven years. There is no man hiinged in Scotland in seven years together for robbery, and yet they be often times hanged for larceny, and stealing of goods in the absence of the owner thereof ; but their hearts serve them not to take a man's goods while he is present and will defend it ; which manner of taking is called robbery. But the English man be of another courage ; for if he be poor, and see another man having riches which may be taken from him by might, he wol not spare to do so, but if- that poor man be right true. Wherefore it is not povertj', but it is lack of heart and cowardice, that keepeth the French men from rising. What harm Kould come to England if the Commons thereof tcere Poor, Some men have said that it were good for the king that the commons of England were made poor, as be the commons of France. For then they would not rebel, as now they done often times, which the com- mons of France do not, nor may do ; for they have no weapon, nor armour, nor good to buy it withall. To these manner of men may be said, with the philoso- pher, A d parva resp>j:iaUes, de facili enunciant j that • Sddom. 2 But if— unlaas. is to say, they that seen few things woU soon say their advice. Forsooth those folks consideren little the good of the realm, whereof the might most stondeth upon archers, which be no rich men. And if they were made poorer than they be, they should not have wherewith to buy them bows, arrows, jacks, or any other annour of defence, whereby they might be able to resist our enemies when they list to come upon us, which they may do on ever)' side, considering that we be an island ; and, as it is said before, we may not have soon succours of any other realm. Wherefore we should be a prey to all other enemies, but if we be mighty of ourself, which might stondeth most upon our poor archers ; and therefore they needen not only to have such habiliments as now is spoken of, but also they needen to be much exercised in shooting, which may not be done without right great expenses, as eveiy man expert therein knoweth right well. Where- fore the making poor of the commons, which is the making poor of our archers, should be the destructii'ii of the greatest might of our realm. Item, if poor iii-u may not lightly rise, as is the opinion of those mi>ii, which for that cause would have the commons poo^- ; how then, if a mighty man made a rising, should he be repressed, when all the commons be so poor, tJiat after such opinion they may not fight, and by tliat reason not help the king with fighting ? And why maketh the king the commons to be every year mus- tered, sithen it was good they had no harness, nor were able to fight ? Oh, how unwise is the opinion of these men ; for it may not be maintained by any reason ! Item, when any rising hath been made Lu this land, before these days by commons, the poorest men thereof hath been the greatest causers and doers therein. And thrifty men have been loth thereto, for dread of losing of their goods, yet often times they have gone with them through menaces, or else the same poor men would have taken their goods ; wherein it seemeth that poverty hath been the whole and chief cause of all such rising. The poor man hath been stirred thereto by occasion of his poverty for to get good ; and the rich men have gone with them because they wold not be poor by losing of their goods. What then would fall, if all the commons were poor ! ■WILLIAM CAXTON. The next writer of note was "William Caxton, tlie celebrated printer ; a man of plain tinderstand- ing, but great enthusiasm in the cause of literature. While acting as an agent for English merclumts in Holland, he made himself master of the art of print- ing, then recentl.v introduced on the Continent ; and, having translated a French book styled. The Recuycll of the Histories of Troye, he printed it at Ghent, in 1471, being the first book in the English language ever put to the press.'* Afterwards he established a printing-office at Westminster, and in 1474, pro- duced The Game of Chess, which was the first book printed in Britain. Caxton translated or wrote about sixty different books, all of which went through his own press before his death in 1491. As a specimen of his manner of writing, and of the literarj- langmge of this age, a passage is here extracted, in modem * In a note to this publication, Caxton says — 'Forasmuch as age creepeth on me daily, and fcebleth all the bodie, and also because I have promised divers gentlemen, and to my friends, to address to them, as hastily as I might, this said book, there- fore I have practised and learned, at my great charge and dis- I>enee, to ordain this said book in print, after the manner and form as ye may here see, and is not written with pen and ink, as other books ben, to the end that all men may have them at once, for iill the books of this story, named The Kecule of the Ilistoreys of Troyes, thus emprinted, as ye here see, were begiuj in one day, and also finished in one day.' 54 PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITER ATUKE. ROBERT FABIAN. spelling, from the conclusion of his translation of f'he Golden Legend. William Caxton. [Legend of St Francis.'] \ Francis, serrant and friend of Almighty God, was bom in the city of Assyse, and was made a merchant unto the 2,5th year of his age, and wasted his time by living xainly, whom our Lord coiTected by the scourge of sickness, and suddenly changed him into another man ; so that he began to shine by the spirit of pro- phecy. For on a time, he, with other men of Peruse, Was taken prisoner, and were put in a cruel prison, where all the other wailed and sorrowed, and he only was glad and enjoyed. And when they had repreved' him thereof, he answered, ' Know ye,' said he, ' that I am joyful : for I shall be worshipped as a saint throughout all the world.' * * * On a time as this holy man was in prayer, the devil called him thrice by his ovra. name. And when the holy man had answered him, he said, none in this world is so great a sinner, but if he convert him, our Lord would pardon him ; but who that sleeth himself with hard penance, shall never find mercy. And anon, this holy man knew by revelation the fallacy and deceit of the fiend, how he would have withdrawn him fro to do well. And when the devil saw that he might not prevail against him, he tempted him by grievous temptation of the flesh. And when this holy sen-ant of God felt that, he despoiled- his cloaths, and beat himself right hard with an hard cord, saying, 'Thus, brother ass, it behoveth thee to remain and to be beaten.' And when the temptation departed not, he went out and plunged himself in the snow, all liaked, and made seven great balls of snow, and pur- posed to have taken them into^ his body, and said. This greatest is thy wife ; and these four, two ben ihy daughters, and two thy sons ; and the other twain, that one thy chambrere, and that other thy varlet or yeman ; haste and clothe them : for they all die for cold. And if thy business that thou hast about them, grieve ye sore, then sene our I^ord perfectly.' And anon, the devil departed from him all confused ; and St Francis returned again unto his cell glorifying God. • * * He was enobled in his life by many miracles * * and the very death, which is to all men horrible and hateful, he admonished them to praise it. And also he warned and admonished death to come to him, and •aid ' Death, my sister, welcome be you.' And when ' Reproved. * Took off. 3 Unto he came at the last hour, he slept in our Lord ; of whom a friar saw the soul, in manner of a star, like to the moon in quantity, and the sun in clearness. Prose history may be said to have taken its rise in the reigns of Henry VIL and VIIL ; but its first examples are of a very homely character. Kobert Fabian and Edward Hall may be regarded as the first writers in this department of our national lite- rature. They aimed at no literary excellence, nor at any arrangement calculated to make their writings more useful. Their sole object was to narrate nimuteh-, and as far as their opportunities allowed, faithfully, the events of the history of their country. Written in a dull and tedious manner, without any exercise of taste or judgment, with an absolute want of discrimination as to tlie comparative importance of facts, and no attempt to penetrate the motives of the actors, or to describe more than the external features of even the greatest of transactions, the Chronicles, as the}' are called, form masses of matter which only a modern reader of a peculiar taste, curiosity, or a writer in quest of materials, woidd now willingly peruse. Yet it must be admitted, that to tlieir minuteness and indiscrimination we are indebted for the preservation of many curious facts and illustra- tions of manners, which would have otherwise been lost. Fabian, who was an alderman and sheriff of Lon- don, and died in 1512, wrote a general chronicle of English history, which he called The Co7icordu7ice of Stories, and which has been several times printed, the last time in 1811, under the care of Sir Henry Ellis. It is particularly minute with regard to what would probably appear the most important of all things to the worthy alderman, the succession of officers of all kinds serving in the city of London ; and amongst other events of the reign of Henry V., the author does not omit to note that a new weather- cock was placed on the top of St Paul's steeple. Fabian repeats all the fabulous stories of early Eng- lish history, which had first been circulated by Geoffrey of ilonmouth. [The Deposition of King Yortigern.'] [Vortigem had lost much of the afi'ections f his people by marriage with Queen Rowena.] Over that, an heresy, called Arian's heresy, began then to spring up in Britain. For the which, two holy bishops, named Gernianus and Lupus, as of Gaufryde is wit- nessed, came into Britain to reform the king, and all other that erred from the way of truth. Of this holy man, St Germain, Vincent Historial saith, that upon au evening when the weather was passing cold, and the snow fell very fast, he axed lodging of the king of Britain, for him and his com- peers, which was denied. Then he, after sitting under a bush in the field, the king's herdman passed by, and seeing this bishop with his company sitting in the weather, desired him to his house to take there such poor lodging as he had. Whereof the bishop being glad and fain, yode' unto the house of the said herdman, the which received him with glad cheer. And for him and his company, willed his wife to kill his only calf, and to dress it for his guest's supper ; the which was also done. When the holy man had supped, he called to him his hostess, willing and de- siring her, that she should diligently gather together all the bones of the dead calf ; and them so gathered, to wrap together within the skin of the said calf. And then it lay in the stall before the rack near unto the dame. Which done according to the commandment of the holy man, shortly after the calf was restored > Went. •'ROM 1400 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 155& to life ; ivnd forthwith ate hay with the dam at the rack. At which marvel all the house was greatly astonished, and yielded thanking unto Almighty God, and to that holy bishop. Upon the morrow, this holy bishop took with him the herdman, and yode unto the presence of the king, and axed of him in sharp wise, why that over-night he had denied to him lodging. Wherewith the king was so abashed, that he had no power to give unto the holy man answer. Then, St Germain said to him : * charire thee, in the name of the Lord God, that thou and thine depart from this palace, and resign it and the rule of thy land to him that is more worthy this room than thou art. The which all thing by power divine was observed and done ; and the said herdman, by the holv bishop's authority, was set into the same dignity ; of whom after descended all the kings of Britain. [Jaclc Cade's Inauircction.'] [Original Spelling. And in tho mnneth of Juny this yere, the comons of Kent assembly^ tbem in prete imiltytiide, and chase to them a capita\-ne, and named hym !M(irtymer, and cosyn to the Duke of Yorke; but of nioste he was named Jack Cade. This kepte tlie people wondrouslie togader, and made such ordenaunces anionge theyni, that he brought a grete nombreof people of theyni vnto the Blak Heth, where he deuyse, the Captain being in Southwark, caused a man to be beheaded, for cause of dis])lcasure to him done, as the fame went ; and so he kej)t him in Southwark all that day ; how be it he might have entered the city if he had wold. And when night was coming, the mayor and citizens, with ^latthew Gowth, like to their former apjioint- nient, kept the passage of the bridge, being Sunday, and defended the Kentishmen, which made great force to re-enter the city. Then the Captain, seeing this bickering begun, yode to harness, and called his people about him, and set so fiercely upon the citizens, that he drave them back from the stulpes in Southwark, or bridge foot, unto the drawVtridge. Then the Kentishmen set fire upon the drawbridge. In defending whereof many a man was drowned and slain, among the which, of men of name was .John Sutton, alderman, Matthew Gowth, gentleman, and Roger Heysand, citizen. And thus continued this skirmish all night, till 9 of the clock upon the morn ; so that sometime the citizens had the better, anil tlius soon the Kentishmen were upon the better sitic ; but ever they kejjt them upon the bridge, so tl.at the citizens passed never much the bulwark at the bridge foot, nor the Kentishmen much farther than the draw- bridge. Thus continuing this cruel fight, to the de- struction of much people on both sides ; lastly, after the Kentishmen were put to the worse, a trev,-' wiis agi-eed for certain hours ' during the which trew, the Archbishop of Canterbury, 'hen chancellor of F.ngland, sent a general pardon to the Captain for himself, and another for his people : by reason whereof he aiid his company departed the same night out of Southwark, and so returned every man to his own. But it was not long after that the Captain with his company was thus departed, that proclamations were made in divers places of Kent, of Sussex, and Sow- therey, that who might take the foresaid .Tack Cade, either alive or dead, should have a thousand mark for his travail. After which proclamation thus published, a gentleman of Kent, named Alexander Iden, awaited so his time, that he took him in a garden in Sussex, where in the taking of him the said Jack wa,? slain : and so being dead, was brought into Soulh^l•ark the day of the month of September, and then left in the King's Bench for that night. And upon the morrow the dead corpse was dra^vn through the high streets of the city unto Newgate, and there headed and (Hiar- tered, whose head was then sent to London Bridge, and his four quarters were sent to four sundry towns of Kent. And this done, the king sent his commissions into Kent, and rode after himself, and caused enquiry to be made of this riot in Canterbury ; wherefore the same eight m.en were judged and put to death ; and in other good tov\'ns of Kent and Susses, divers other were put in execution for the same riot. Hall, who was a la^vye^ and a judge in the sherifTs court of London, and died at an advanced age in 1547, compiled a copious chronicle of Englisli liis- tor_v during the reigns of the houses of Lancaster and York, and those of Henry VII. and Henry VIII, which was first printed by Grafton in 1548, under tlie title of The Union of the two Noble and Illiislre Families of Lancastre and Yorhc, with all the Actes done in both the ti/mes of the Princes both of the one linaye and the other, &c. Hall is very minute in his notices of the fashions of the time : altogether, his work is of a superior character to that of Fabian, as might per- haps be expected from his better education and condi- tion in life. Considered .as the oidy compilations of English liistory at the command of the wits of Eliza- betli's reign, and as furnisliing tlie foundations of many scenes and even whole plays by one of the 1 Truce. 57 FROM 1400 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1558 most illustrious , f these, the Chronicles have a value in our ej'es beyond that which properlj- belongs to tliem. in the following extract, the matter of a re- markable scene in Kichard 111. is found, and it is worthy of notice, how well the .prose narration reads beside the poetical one. {_Scen€ in the Council-Room of the Protector Gloucester.] The Lord Protector caused a council to be set at the Tower, on Friday the thirteen day of June, where there was much communing for the honourable solemnity of the coronation, of the which the time appointed approached so near, that the pageants were a making day and night at "\^'estminster, and victual killed, which afterward was cast away. These lords thus sitting, communing of this matter, i the Protector came in among them, about nine of the clock, saluting them courteously, excusing himself that he had been from them so long, saying men-ily that he had been a sleeper that day. And after a little talking with him, he said to the Bishop of Ely, ' My Lord, you have very good strawberries in your garden at Holborn ; I require you let us have a mess of them.' ' Gladly, my Lord,' quoth he ; ' I would I had some better thing, as ready to your pleasure as that ;' and with that in all haste he sent his servant for a dish of strawberries. The Protector set the lords fast in comnmning, and thereupon prayed them to spare him a little ; and so he departed, and came again between ten and eleven of the clock in to the chamber, all changed, with a sour angry countenance, knitting the brows, frowning and fretting, and gnawing on his lips ; and so set him down in his place. All the lords were dismayed, and sore marvelled of this manner and sudden change, and what thing should him ail. "When he had sitten a while, thus he began : ' What were they worthy to have, that compass and imagine the destruction of me, being so near of blood to the king, and protector of this his royal realm ?' At which question, all the lords sat sore astonished, musing much by whom the question should be meant, of which every man knew himself clear. Then the Lord Hastings, as he that, for the fami- liarity that was between them, thought he might be boldest with him, answered and said, that they were worthy to be punished as heinous traitors, whatsoever they were ; and all the other affirmed the same. ' That is,' quoth he, ' yonder sorceress, my brother's wife, and other with her ;' meaning the queen. jNIany of the lords were sore abashed which favoured her ; but the Lord Hastings was better content in his mind, that it was moved by her than by any other that he loved better ; albeit his heart grudged that he was not afore made of counsel of this matter, as well as he was of the taking of her kindred, and of their put- ting to death, which were by his assent before devised to be beheaded at Pomfret, this self same day ; in the •vhich he was not ware, that it was by other devised that he himself should the same day be beheaded at London. ' Then,' said the Protector, ' in what wise that sorceress and other of her counsel, as Shore's wife, with her affinity, have by their sorcery and witchcraft thus wa.sted my body !' and therewith plucked up his doublet sleeve to his elbow, on his left arm, where he showed a very withered arm, and small, as it was never other.' And thereupon every man's mind mis- gave them, well perceiving that this matter was but a quarrel ; for well they wist that the queen was both too wise to go about any such follj', and also, if she would, yet would she of all folk make Shore's wife least of her counsel, whom of all women she most hated, as that concubine whom the king, her husband, most loved. Also, there was no man there, but knew that his arm was ever such, eith the day of his birth. Never- theless, the Lord Hastings, which from the death of King Edward kept Shore's wife, his heart somewhat grudged to have her whom he loved so highly ac- cused, and that as he knew well untruly ; there- fore he answered and said, * Certainly, my Lord, if they have so done, they be worthy of heinous punishment.' ' What !' quoth the Protector, ' thou servest me, I ween, with if and -n-ith and ; I tell thee, they have done it, and that will I make good on thy body, traitor !' And therewith, as in a great anger, he clapped his fist on the board a great rap, at which token given, one cried treason without the chamber, and therewith a door clapped, and in came rushing men in harness, as many as the chamber could hold. And anon the Protector said to the Lord Hastings, ' 1 arrest thee, traitor !' ' What ! me ! my Lord,' quoth he. ' Yea, the traitor,' quoth the Pro- tector. And one let fly at the Lord Stanley, which shrunk at the stroke, and fell under the table, or else his head had been cleft to the teeth ; for as shortly as he shrunk, yet ran the blood about his ears. Then was the Archbishop of York, and Doctor ]Morton, Bishop of Ely, and the Lord Stanley taken, and divers others which were bestowed in divers chambers, save the Lord Hastings, whom the Protector commanded to speed and shrive him apace. ' For, by Saint Poule,' quoth he, ' I will not dine till I see thy head off.' It booted him not to ask why, but heavily he took it, priest at a venture, and made a short shrift, for a longer would not be suffered, the Protector made so much haste to his dinner, which might not go to it till this murder were done, for saving of his ungra- cious oath. So was he brought forth into the green, beside the chapel within the Tower, and his head laid down on a log of timber, that lay there for building of the chapel, and there tyrannously stricken off, and after his body and head were interred at Windsor, by his master, King Edward the Fourth ; whose souls Jesu pardon. Amen. SIR THOMAS MORE. Passing over Fortescue, the first prose-Avriter who mingled just and striking thought with his Language, and was entitled to the appellation of a man of genius, was unquestionably the celebrated chancellor of Henry VIII., Sir Thomas Mork (1480-1535). Born the son of a judge of the King's Bench, and educated at Oxford, iMore entered life with all ex- ternal advantages, and soon reached a distinguished situation in the law and in state employments. He was appointed Lord Chancellor m 1529, being the first layman who ever held the oflSce. At all periods of his life, he was a zealous professor of the Catholic faith, insomuch that he was at one time with difficulty restrained from becoming a monk. When Henry wished to divorce Catherine, he was opposed by the conscientious More, who accordingly incurred his displeasure, and perished on the scaffold The cheerful, or rather mirthful, disposition of the learned chancellor forsook him not at the last, and he jested even when about to lay his head upon the block. The character of More was most benignants as the letter to his wife, who was ill-tempered, written after the burning of some of his property, expressively shows, at the same time that it is a good specimen of his English prose. The domestic circle at his house in Chelsea, where the profoundly learned statesman at once paid reverence to his parents and sported with his children, has been made the subject of an interesting picture by the great artist of that age, Holbein. The literary productions of IMore are partly in Latin and partly in English : lie adopted the former language probably from taste, the latter for the pur- 38 PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. SIR THOMAS MOBE. pose of reaching the conrKnalty.* Besides some ecistles and other minor writings, he wrote, in Latin, ^iUjo.f^ v&. a curious philosophical work under the title of Utopia, which, describing an imaginary pattern country and people, has added a word to the Eng- lish language, every scheme of natioual improve- * The following is a specimen of Sir Thoraa* More's juvenile roetrj - He that hath lafte the hosier's crafte, And fallth to makyng shone ; The smyth that shall to painting fall. His thrift is well nigh done. A black draper with whyte paper. To goe to writing scole, An old butler become a cutler I wene shall prove a fole. And an old trot, that can God wot. Nothing but kyss the cup, With her physicke will kepe one sicke. Till she hath soused hym up. A man of law that never sawe Tlie wayes to buy and sell Wenyng to ryse by raerchandyse, I pray God spede him well ! A merchaunt eke, that will go seke By all the meanes he may, To fall in sute tiU he dispute His money cleane away ; Pletyng the lawe for every stray Shall prove a thrifty man, With bate and strife, but by my life I cannot tell you wlian. ■^INTian an hatter will smatter In philosophy. Or a pedlar waxe a medlar In theology, &c. nient founded on theoretical views being since then termed Utopian. The most of tlie Eiiglisli writings of ^More are pamphlets on the religious controversies of his day, and the only one which is now of value is A History of Edward V., and of his Brotlier, and of Richard III., which Mr Hallam considers as the first English prose work free of vulgarisms and pedantry. The intention of Sir Thomas More in his Utopia is to set forth his idea of those social arrangements whereby the happiness and improvement of the people may be secured to the utmost extent of which human nature is susceptible ; though, probably, he has pictured more than he really conceived it possible to effect. Experience proves that many of his sug- gestions are indeed Utopian. In his imaginary island, for instance, all are contented with the necessaries of life; all are employed in useful labour; no man de- sires, in clothing, any other quality besides durabi- lit}'; and since wants are few, and every individual engages in labour, there is no need for working more than six hours a-day. Neither laziness nor avarice finds a i)lace in tliis happy region ; for why should the people be indolent when they have so little toil, or greedj' when tlicy know that there is abundance for each ? All this, it is evident, is incompatible with qualities inherent in human nature : man requires the stimulus of self-interest to render him indus- trious and persevering ; he loves not utility merely, but ornament ; he possesses a spirit of emulation which makes him endeavour to outstrip his fellows, and a desire to accumulate property even for its own sake. With much tliat is Utopian, however, tlie work contains manj- sound suggestions. Thus, in- stead of severe punishment of theft, the autlior would improve the morals and condition of tlie people, so as to take away the temptation to crime ; for, says he, * if you suffer your people to be ill- educated, and their manners to be corrupted from their infancy, and then punish t)iem for those crimes to which their first education disposed them, what else is to be concluded from this, but that you first make thieves, and tlien punish them ?' In Utopia, we are told, Mar is never entered on but for some gross injury done to themselves, or, more especially, to their alhes ; and the glory of a general is in pro- portion, not to the number, but to the fewness of the enemies, whom he slays in gaining a victory. Criminals are generally punished with slavery, even for the greatest misdeeds, since servitude is no less terrible than death itself; and, by making slaves oi malefactors, not only does the public get the benefit of their labour, but the continual sight of their misery is more effectual than their de.ath to deter other men from crime. It is one of the oldest laws of the Utopians, that no man ought to be punished for his religion ; ' it being a fundamental opinion among them, that a man cannot make himself believe any- thing he pleases; nor do they drive any to dissemble their thoughts by threatenings, so that men are not tempted to lie or disguise their opinions among them ; which, being a sort of fraud, is abhorred by the Utopians.' Every man may endeavour to con- vert others to his views by the force of amicable and modest argument, , without bitterness against those of other opinions ; but whoever adds reproach and violence to persuasion, is to be condemned to banish- ment or slaver}'. Such tolerant views were ex- tremely rare in the days of Sir Tliomas More, and in later life were lamentably departed from by him- self in practice ; for in persecuting the Protestants, he displayed a degree of intolerance and severity which were strangely at variance both with the opinions of his youth and the general mildness of his disposition. 5S FROM 1400 CYCLOPEDIA OF ro l5hV [Letter to Lady Jfore.] [Returning from the negotiations at Cambray, Sir Thomas More heard that his bams and some of those of his neiRhboiirs had been burnt dowTi ; he consequently -WTote the following letter to his wife. Its gentleness to a sour-tempered woman, and the benevolent feelings expressed about the property of his neighbours, have been much admired.] Mistress Alice, in my most lieartvTvise I recommend me to you. And whereas I am informed by my son Heron of the loss of our barns and our neighbours' also, with all the corn that was therein ; albeit (sav- ing God's pleasure) it is great pity of so much good com lost ; yet since it has liked him to send us such a chance, we must and are bounden, not only to be content, but also to be glad of his visitation. He sent us all that we have lost ; and since he hath by such a chance taken it awa}' again, his pleasure be fulfilled ! Let us never grudge thereat, but take it in good worth, and heartily thank him, as well for adversity as for prosperity. And peradventure we have more cause to thank him for our loss than for our winning, for his wisdom better secth what is good for us than we do ourselves. Therefore, I pray you be of good cheer, and take all the household with you to church, and there thank God, both for that he has given us, and for that he has taken from us, and for that he hath left us ; which, if it please him, he can increase when he will, and if it please him to leave us yet less, at his pleasure be it ! I pray you to make some good onsearch what my poor neighbours have lost, and bid them take no thought therefore ; for, if I should not leave mj'self a spoon, there shall no poor neighbour of mine bear no loss by my chance, happened in my house. I pray you be, with my children and your household, merry in God ; and devise somewhat with your friends what way were best to take, for provision to be made for corn for our household, and for seed this year coming, if we think it good that we keep the ground still in our hands. And whether we think it good that we so shall do or not, j'et I think it were not best sud- denly thus to leave it all up, and to put away our folk from our farm, till we have somewhat advised us thereon. Ilowbeit, if we have more now than ye shall need, and which can get them other masters, ye may then discharge us of them. But I would not that any man were suddenly sent away, he wot not whither. At my coming hither, I perceived none other but that I should tarry still with the king's grace. But now I shall, I think, because of this chance, get leave this next week to come home and see you, and then shall we ftirther devise together upon all things, what order shall be best to take. And thus as heartily fare you well, with all our children, as ye can wish. At Woodstock, the third day of September, by the hand of Thomas ;More. [CJiaracter of Richard ILL.] [Sir Thomas's account of Richard III. has been followed by Shakspeare.] Richard, the third son, of whom we now entreat, was in wit and courage egal ' with either of them ; in body and prowess, far under them both ; little of Btature, ill-featured of limbs, crook-backed, his left shoulder much higher than his right, hard-favoured of visage. He was malicious, wrathful, envious, and from afore his birth ever froward. It is for truth reported, that the duchess his mother had so much ado in her travail, that she could not be delivered of tim uncut ; and that he came into the world with the feet forward, as men be borne outward ; and (as the fiime runneth) also not untoothed (whether men of J Equal. hatred report above the truth, or else that nature changed her course in his beginning, which, in the course of his life, many things unnaturally com- mitted.) None evil captain was he in the war, as to which his disposition was more meetly than for peace. Sundry victories had he, and sometime overthrows, but never in default for his own person, either of hardiness or politic order. Free was he called of dis- pense, and somewhat above his power liberal. With large gifts he get him unstcadfast friendship, for which he was fain to pil and spoil in other places, and get him stedfast hatred. He was close and secret ; a deep dissimuler, lowly of countenance, arrogant of heart ; outwardly coumpinable where he inwardly hated, not letting to kiss whom he thought to kill ; dispitious and cruel, not for evil will alway, but oftener for ambition, and either for the surety and increase of his estate. Friend and foe was indiffer- ent, where his advantage grew; he spared no man's death whose life withstood his purpose. He slew with his own hands king Henry VL, being prisoner in the Tower. [Tlie Utopian Ldea of Pleasure.'] (From Bishop Burnet's translation of the Utopia.) They think it is an evidence of true wisdom for a man to pursue his own advantages as far as the laws allow it. They account it piety to prefer the public good to one's private concerns. But they think it unjust for a man to seek for his own pleasure, by snatching another man's pleasures from him. And, on the contrary, they think it a sign of a gentle and good soul, for a man to dispense with his own advan- tage for the good of others ; and that, by so doing, a good man finds as much pleasure one way as he parts with another ; for, as he may expect the like from others when he may come to need it, so, if that should fail him, yd the sense of a good action, and the re- flections that one makes on the love and gratitude of those whom he has so obliged, gives the mind more pleasure than the body could have found in that from which it had restrained itself. They are also per- suaded that God will make up the loss of those small pleasures with a vast and endless joy, of which reli- gion does easily convince e support of Banquho and otheris his freindis, he slew King Duncane, the vii ycir of his regne. His body was burj'it in Elgin, and eftir tane up and brocht to Colmekill, quhare it remanis yit, amang the sepulturis of uthir kingis ; fra our redemption, mxlvi yeris. The New Manons ami the Avid, of Scottis. Our eldaris howbeit thay war richt virtewis baith in weir and peace, war maist exereit with temperance ; for it is the fontane of all virtew. Thay disjunitl airly in the morning with smal refectioun, and sustenit thair liffis tliairwith quhil- thetime of sowper ; throw quhilk thair stomok was nevir surfetly chargit, to cmpesche thaim of uthir besines. At the sow-par thay war mair large ; howbeit thay had bot ane cours. Thay eit, for common, flesche half raw ; for the saup is maist nuri- sand in that maner. All dronkatis, srlutonis, and con- sumers of vittalis, mair nor was neco^sar to the sus- tentation of men, war tane, and first commandit to ?welly thair fowth^ of qiihat drink thay plesit, and ^ Breakfasted. * Until. 3 FuU quantity, or fill. incontinent thairefter was drownit in ane fresche rever. * * Now I belief nane hes sic eloquence, nor fouth of langage, that can sufficientlie declare, how far we, in thir present dayis, ar different fra the virtew and temperance of our eldaris. For quhare our eldaris had sobriete, we have ebriete and dronkines ; quhare thay had j)lente with sutiicence, we have immoderat cursis [courses] with su])erfluite ; as lie war maist noble and honest, that culd devore and sHelly maist ; and, be extreme diligence, serchis sa mony deligat coursis, that thay provoke the stomok to ressave mair than it may sufficientlie degest. And nocht allenarlie' may surfet deniiur and sowper suffice us, above the temperance of oure eldaris, bot als to contincw our schamefuU and immoderit voracite with duble den- naris and sowparis. Na fishe in the se, nor foul in the aire, nor best in the wod, may have rest, but socht heir and thair, to satisfy the hungry ap- petit of glutonis. Nocht allenarly ar winis socht in France, bot in Spainye, Italy, and Grece ; and, sumtime, baith Aphiik and Asia socht, for new de- licius metis and winis, to the samin effect. Thus is the warld sa utterly socht, that all maner of drog- gis and electuaris, that may nuris the lust and inso- lence of pepill, ar brocht in Scotland, with maist sumptuus price, to na les dammage than perdition of the pepill thereof: for, throw the immoderat glut- ony, our wit and reason ar sa blindit within the pre- soun of the body, that it may have no knawledge of hevinly thingis ; for the body is involvit with sic clowdis of fatnes, that, howbeit it be of gud coin- plexioun be nature, it is sa ojjprcst with superfleu metis and drinkis, that it may nothir weild, nor yit ouir- the self; bot, confessand the self vincust, gevis place to all infirmiteis, quhill it be miserably de- stroyit. [^Extract fivm the Complaynt of Scotland.'\ There eftir I heard the rumour of rammaschc^ foulis and of bej'stis that made grite beir,-* quhilk past beside bumis and boggis on green bankis to seek their sustentation. Their brutal sound did rcdond tc the high skyis, quhil the deep hou^ eauernis of cleuchisfi and rotche craggis ansuert vitht ane high note of that saniyn sound as thay beystis hed blauen. It apeiit be jiresumyng and presuposing, that blaberand eccho had been hid in ane hou hole, cryand hyr half ansueir, quhen Narcissus rycht sorry socht for his saruandis, quhen he was in ane forrest, far fra ony folkis, and there cfter for love of eccho he drounit in ane drau vel. Nou to tel treutht of the beystis that maid sic beir, and of the d^ii that the foulis did, ther syndry soundis hed nothir temperance nor tune. For fyrst furtht on the fresche fieldis the nolt maid noyis vitht mony loud lou. Baytht horse and meyris did fast nee, and the folis neckyr. The bullis began to bullir, quhen the scheip began to blait, because the calfis began till mo, quhen the doggis berkit. Than the suyne began to quhryne quhen thai herd the asse rair, quhilk gart" the hennis kekkyl quhen the cokis creu. The chek}7is began to peu when the gled quhissillit. The fox follouit the fed geise and gart them cry claik. The gayslingis crj'it quhilk quhilk, and the dukis cryit quaik. The ropeen of the rauynis gart the eras crope. The huddit crauis cryit varrok varrok, quhen the suannis murnit, because the gray goul mau pro- nosticat ane storme. The turtil began for to gieit, quhen the cuschet zoulit. The titlene followit the goilk,** and gart hyr sing guk guk. The dou^ croutit hyr sad sang that soundit lyik sorrou. Robeen and ' Not only. » Oversee, rule. 3 Sinpinp, (Fr. ramage). * A shrill noise. * Hollow. ' Cloughs, deep vnlleye or ravines in the bills. 7 Forced, caused. 8 Cuckoo. * Dove. PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. WILLIAM TTNDALE. the litil oran var hamely in vyiitir. The jargoh'ne of the suallou gart the jay aiigil,' than tlie ineveis- maid myrtht, for to mok the merle. The hiverok maid melody up hie in the skyis. The nychtingal al the nycht sang sueit notis. The tuechitis^ cryit theuis nek, quhen the piettis clattrit. The garruliiig of the Etirlene gait the sparrou cheip. The lyiitquhit sang counterpoint quhen the oszil zelpit. The grene serene Bang sueit, quhen the gold spynk chantit. The rede schank"* cryit my fut my fut, and the oxee^ cryit tueit. The herrons gaif ane yyild skrech as the kyl bed bene in fyir, qubilk gart the quhapis for flevitnes fle far fra hame. Bale, Bishop of Ossory in Ireland (1495-1563), must be esteemed as one of the most notable prose writers of this era. He was the author of many severe and intemperate tracts against Popery, both in Latin and English ; but his most celebrated production is a Latin Accoimt of the Lives of Emi- nent Writers of Great Britain, extending, as the title expresses it, from Japhet, one of the sons of Xoah, to the year 1557. Bale left also many curious metrical productions in the English language, in- cluding several dramatic pieces on sacred subjects, which, to a modern taste, appear utterly burlesque. Among these are plaj-s on Jolm the Baptist's preach- ing ; on the childhood, temptation, passion, and resurrection of Christ ; on the Lord's Supper, and washing the disciples' feet, &c. All these pieces were doubtless performed in a grave and devout spirit; for Bale himself mentions that the first of them (which may be seen in the Ilarleian Miscel- lany), and his tragedy of GocTs Promises, were acted by 3'oung men at the market-cross of Kilkenny upon a Sunda}'. In 1544, he published ^4 Brefe Chroni/cle concernynge the Examinacyon and Death of the Blessed Martyr of Christ, Sir Johan Oldecastdl the Lorde Cob- ham, from which we extract the account of Cob- ham's death. He suffered in 1417, for supporting the doctrines of Wickliife, and was the first martyr among the English nobility. \^Death of Lord Colham.'] Upon the day appointed, he was brought out of the Tower with his arms bound behind him, hav- ing a very cheerful countenance. Then was he hud upon an hurdle, as though he had been a most heinous traitor to the cro^vn, and so drawn forth into Saint Giles' Field, where as they had set up a new pair of gallows. As he was coming to the place of execution, and was taken from the hurdle, he fell down devo.utly upon his knees, desiring Al- mighty God to forgive his enemies. Than stood he up and beheld the multitude, exhorting them in most godly manner to follow the laws of God wi'itten in the scriptures, and in any wise to beware of such teachers as they see contrary to Christ in their con- versation and living, with many other special counsels. Then he was hanged up there by the middle in chains of iron, and so consumed alive in the fire, praising the name of God, so long as his life lasted. In the end he commended his soul into the hand of God, and so departed hence most Christenly, his body resolved into tubes. WILLIAM TYNDALE. The Reformation caused the publication of several versions of tlie Bible, which were perluqts the most i important literary efforts of the reign of Henry VHI. ' Jangle. ^ Thrush. ^ Lapwing. * Fieldfare. * Small hedge sparrow. The first part of tlie Scriptures printed in an English form was the New Testament, of which a translation was published in 1325 by William Tyndale, born in William Tyndale. Gloucestershire, about the year 1477, a clergyman of great piety, learning, and gentleness of disposition. In the course of his labours he endured such persecu- tion, that, in 152.3, he found it necessary to quit Eng- land, and retire into Germany. He there visited Lu- ther, M-ho encouraged him in his laborious and hazar- dous undertaking. Wittemburg was the place where Tyndale's translation of tlie New Testament was first printed. It was speedily circulated, and eagerly pe- rused in England, notwithstanding the severe perse- cution to which its possessors were exposed. Sir Thomas IMore distinguished himself as a most viru- lent opponent of Tyndale, against whom he published seven volumes of controversy, where such violent lan- guage as the following is employed : — ' Our Saviour will say to Tyndale, Thou art accursed, Tyndale, the son of the devil ; for neither flesli nor blood hath taught thee these heresies, but thine own father, the devil, that is in hell.' — ' Tliere sliould have been more burned by a great many than there have been within this seven year last past. The lack whereof, I fear me, will make more [be] burned within this seven year next coming, than else sliould have needed to have been burned in seven score. Ah, blasphemous beast, to whose roaring and lowing no good Christian man can without heaviness of heart give ear !' Tyn- dale translated also the first five books of the Old Testament, the publication of which was completed iu 15.30. Efforts were made by King Henry, Wolsey, and More, to allure him back to England, where the}' hoped to destroy him ; but he was too cautious to trust himself there. His friend, John Frith, "ho had assisted him in translating, was more credulous of their promises of safety, and returning to London, was apprehended and burnt. Tyndale remained at Antwerp, till entrapped by an agent of Henry, who procured at Brussels a warrant to apprehend him for heresy. After some further proceedings, he was strangled and burnt for that crime at Vilvoord, near Antwerp, in September 1536, exclaiming at the stake, ' Lord, open the king of England's eyes !' Tyndale's translation of the Ne»' Testament is, on tlie whole, admirable both for style and accuracy and indeed our present authorised version ha^ 73 FBUM 1400 CYCLOPiEDIA OF TO ]55!>. throughout, very closely followed it. To use the words" of a profound modern scholar, ' It is astonish- ing how little obsolete the language of it is, even at this day ; and, in point of perspicuity and noble simplicity, propriety of idiom, and purity of style, no English version has yet surpassed it.'* A beautiful edition of it has lately been published.! The following are Tyndale's translations of the ]Mag- nificat arid Lord's Prayer, in the spelliug of the ori- ginal edition : — And jSIarj' sayde, My scale magnifieth the Lorde, and my sprete reioyseth in God ray Savioure. For he hath loked on the povre degre off his honde mayden. Beholde nowe from hens forthe shall all generacions call me blessed. For he that is myghty hath done to me greate thinges, and blessed ys his name : And hys mercy is always on them that feare him thorow oute all generacions. He hath shewed strengthe with his arme ; he hath scattered them that are proude in the ymaginacion of their hertes. He hath putt doune the myghty from their seates, and hath exalted them of lowe degrs. He hath filled the hongry with, goode thinges, and hath sent away the r_vche empty. He hath rememhred mercy, and hath holpen his Berraunt Israhel. Even as he promised to cure fathers, Abraham and to his seed for ever. Oure Father which arte in heven, halowed be thy name. Let thy kingdom come. Thy wyll be ful- filled, as well in erth, as hit ys in heven. Geve vs this daye oure dayly breade. And forgeve vs oure treaspases, even as we forgeve them which treaspas T8. Leede vs not into temptacion, but delyvre vs from yvell. Amen. SriLES COVERDALE. In translating the Pentateuch, Tyndale was assisted by SIiles Coverdai,e, who, in 1.5.35, pub- lished the first English translation of the whole Scrip- tures, with this title : Biblia, the Bible ; That is, the Hohj Scripture of the Olde and New Testament, fa ith- fidly and newly translated out of the Doutche and Latyn into English. Coverdale was made bishop of Exeter in 1,)51, but retired to the Continent during the reign of Mary. Wlien Elizabeth ascended the throne, he returned to England, and remained there till his death. His translation of the Bible has lateh' been reprinted in London. The extent of its variation from that of Tyndale will appear by contrasting the following verse, as rendered by each translator: [Tyndale's Version.'] ■NMien the Lorde sawe that Lea was despised, he made her fratefuU, but Rahel was baren. And Lea conceaved and bare a sonne and called his name Ruben, for she sayde : the Lorde hath lokeed upon my tribulation. And now my husbonde will love me. [Coverdale's Version.'] Bnt when the Lorde sawe that Lea was nothin<'e regarded, he made her fruteful and Rachel baiTen. And Lea conceaved and bare a sonne whom she called Ruben, and sayde : the Lorde hath loked upon mine adversitie. Now ^vyll my*husbande love me. — Gen. yxix. 32. * Dr Geddes's Prospectus to a New Translation of the Scrip- tires, p. 89. • Edited by Mr George Offer. London : 1836. These translations were speedih' followed by others, so that the desire of the people for scriptural knowledge was amply gratified. The dissemination of so many copies of the sacred volume, where neither the Bible nor any considerable number of other books had formerly been in use, produced very retuarkable effects. The versions first used, having been formed in some measure from the Latin translation, called the Vulgate, contained many words from that lan- guage, which had hardly before been considered as English ; such as perdition, consolation, reconcilia- tion, sanctification, immortality, frustrate, inexcus- able, transfigure, and many others requisite for the expression of compound and abstract ideas, which had never occurred to our Saxon ancestors, and therefore were not represented by any terms in that language. These words, in the course of time, be- came part of ordinary discourse, and thus the lan- guage was enriched. In tlie Book of Common Prayer, compiled in tlie subsequent reign of Edward VI., and which aS'ords many beautiful specimens of the English of that time, the efforts of the learned to make such words familiar, are perceptible in many places ; where a Latin term is often given with a Saxon word of the same or nearly tlie same mean- ing following it, as ' humble and lowly,' ' assemble and meet together.' Another effect proceeded from the freedom with which the people were allowed to judge of the doctrines, and canvass the texts, of the sacred writings. Tlie keen interest with which they now perused the Bible, hitherto a closed book to the most of them, is allowed to have given the first im- pulse to the practice of reading in both parts of the island, and to have been one of the causes of the flourishing literary era which followed. SIR JOHN CHEKE. Among the great men of this age. a high place is due to Sir John Cheke, (1514-1557), professor of Greek at Cambridge, and one of the preceptors of Sir John Cheke. the prince, afterwards Edward VI. He is chiefly distinguished for his exertions in introducing tiie study of the Greek language and literature into England. Having dictated to his pupils an iinj)n)vcil mode of pronouncing Greek words, lie was vioifctl, assailed on that account by Bishop Gardiner, tlun 74 PROSii WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. THOMAS WILSON. chancellor of the university ; but, notwithstanding the fiihninations of this severe prelate, the system of Cheke prevailed, and still prevails. At his death, •which was supposed to be occasioned by remorse for recanting Protestantism under the terror of the Marian persecution, he left several works in manu- script, amongst which was a translation of Matthew's Gospel, intended to exemplify a plan which he had conceived of reforming the English language by eradicating all words except those derived from Saxon roots. He also contemplated a reform in the spelling of English, an idea which has occurred to several learned men, but seems to be amongst the most hopeless ever entertained by the learned. The only original work of Cheke in English is a pamphlet, published in 1549, under the title of Tlie Hurt of Sedition, how grievous it is to a Commonirealth, being designed to admonisli the people who had risen under Ket the tanner. Of this, a specimen is subjoined. [Remonstrance with Zevcllers.'] Yi'. pretend to a commonwealth. How amend ye it by killing of gentlemen, by spoiling of gentlemen, by imprisoning of gentlemen ? A marvellous tanned^ eomraonwealth. "NVhy should ye hate them for their riches, or for their rule ? Rule, they never took so much in hand as ye do now. They never resisted the king, neier withstood his council, he faithful at this day, when ye be faithless, not only to the king, whose subjects ye be, but also to your lords, whose tenants ye be. Is this your true duty — in some of homage, in most of fealty, in all of allegiance — to leave your duties, go hack from your promises, fall from your faith, and contrary to law and truth, to make unlavs-ful assemblies, ungodly companies, wicked and detestable camps, to disobey your betters, and to obey your tanners, to change your obedience from a king to a Ket, to submit j-ourselves to traitors, and break your faith to your true king and lords ? * * If riches offend you, because ye would have the like, then think that to be no commonwealth, but envy to the commonwealth. Envy it is to appair- another man's estate, without the amendment of your own ; and to have no gentlemen, because ye be none- yourselves, is to bring down an estate, and to mend none. Would ye have all alike rich ? That is the overthrow of all labour, and utter decay of work in this realm. For, who will labour more, if, when he hath gotten more, the idle shall by lust, without right, take what him list from him, under pretence of equality with him 1 This is the bringing in of idle- ness, which destroyeth the commonwealth, and not the amendment of labour, which maintaineth the commonwealth. If there should be such equality, then ye take all hope away from j'ours, to come to any better estate than you now leave them. And as many mean men's children come honestly up, and are great succour to all their stock, so should none be hereafter holpen by you. But because you seek equality, whereby all cannot be rich, ye would that belike, whereby every man should be poor. And think beside, that riches and inheritance be God's providence, and given to whom of his wisdom he thinketh good. THOMAS WILSON. Thomas Wn-sov, originally a fellow of King's College, Cambridge, and who rose to be Dean of Durham, and to various high state employments under Elizabeth, may be considered as the first critical writer upon the English language.* He pub- ' Alluding to tlie profession of the ringleader. * Burnett. Specimens of English Proso Writers. ' Inipnir. lished, in 1553, a St/stem of lihetoric and uf Logic, in which the principles of eloquence and composition are laid down with considerable ability. He strongly advocates, in this treatise, simjtlicit}' of language, and condemns those writers who disturb the natural arrangement of their Avords, and reject familiar and appropriate phrases for the sake of others more refined and curious. So great and dangerous an innovation were his doctrines considered, that, happening to visit Rome, he was imprisoned as a heretic. Amongst other false styles censured by Wilson is that of alliteration, of which he gives the following caricatured example: — ■' Pitiful poverty prayeth for a penny, but puffed presumption passeth not a point, pampering his paunch with pestilent pleasure, procuring his passport to post it to hell-pit, there to be punished with pains perpetual.' Wilson died in 1581. There is mucli good sense in the following passages of his Art of Rhetoric : — [Simplicity of Style Recommended.'] Among other lessons, this should first be learned, that we never affect any strange inkhorn terms, but to speak as is commonly received ; neither seeking to be over fine, nor yet living over careless ; using our speech as most men do, and ordering our wits as the fewest have doen. Some seek so far for outlandish English, that they forget altogether their mother's language. And I dare swear this, if some of their mothers were alive, they were not able to tell what they say, and yet these fine English clerks will say they speak in their mother tongue, if a man should charge them with counterfeiting the king's English. Some far jouniied gentlemen, at their return home, like as they love to go in foreign apparel, so they will ponder their talk with over-sea language. He that Cometh lately out of France will talk French English, and never blush at the matter. Another chops in with English Italianated, and applieth the Italian phrase to our English speaking ; the which is, as if an ora- tion that professeth to utter his mind in plain Latin, would needs speak poetry, and far-fetched colours of strange antiquity. The lawyer will store his stomach with the prating of pedlars. The auditor in making his account and reckoning, cometh in with sise sould, et cater dencre, for 6s. and 4d. The fine courtier will talk nothing but Chaucer. The mystical wise men, and poetical clerks, will speak nothing but quaint pro- verbs and blind allegories ; delighting much in their own darkness, especially when none can tell what they do say. The unlearned or foolish fantastical, that smells but of learning (such fellows as have seen learned men in their days), will so Latin their tongues, that the simple cannot but wonder at thnr talk, and think surely they speak by some revelation. I know them, that think rhetoric to stand wholly upon dark words ; and he that can catch an inkhorn term by the tail, him they count to be a fine Englishman and a good rhetorician. [Moral Aim of Poetry. 1 The saying of poets, and all their fables, are not U be forgotten. For by them we may talk at large, and win men by persuasion, if we declare bL-forehand, that these tales were not feigned of such wise men without cause, neither yet continued until this time and kept in memory, without good consideration ; and there- upon declare the true meaning of all such writing. For undoubtedly, there is no one tale among all the poets, but under the same is comprehended soinething that pertaineth either to the amendment of manner.-, to the knowledge of truth, to the settingforth nature'.^ work, or else to the understanding of some notable FROM 1400 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1558. thing doen. For what other is the painful travail of Ulvsses, described so largely by Homer, but a lively picture of man's misery in this life I And as Plutarch saith, and likewise Basilius Magnus, in the Iliads are described strength and valiautness of body : in Odyssea is set forth a lively pattern of the mind. The poets are wise men, and wished in heart the redress of things ; the which when for fear they durst not openly rebuke, thev did in colours paint them out, and told men by shadows what they should do in good sothe : or else, because the wicked were unworthy to hear the truth, they spake so that none might understand but those unto whom they please to utter their meaning, and knew them to be of honest conversation. ROGER ASCHAM. A still more distinguished instructive writer of this age was Koger Ascham, university orator at Cambridge, at one time preceptor, and ultimately Latin secretary, to Queen Elizabeth. lie must be -^^v yjJChimirS'. considered as the first writer on education in our language, and it is remarkable that many of his views "on this subject accord with the most en- lightened of modern times. His writings themselves furnished an improved example of .style, and they abound in sound sense and excellent instructions. We are the more called on to admire them, when we reflect on the tendency of learned men in that age to waste their talents and acquirements on profitless controversy — which was so strong a passion, that, whenever Sir John Cheke was temporarily absent from Cambridge, his associates immediatc-U' forsook the elesrant studies to which he had tempted them, and fell into disputes about predestination, original sin, &c. Ascham died in 1568, and Elizabeth did him the honour to remark, that she would rather have given ten thousand pounds than lost him. His principal work. The !>rhodmastcr, printed by his widow, contains, besides the good general views of education aliove alluded to, what Johnson has ac- knowledged to be ' perhaps the best advice that ever was given for the study of languages.' It also pre- sents judicious characters of ancient authors. An- other work, eiititlv;! Tduophi'iis, pui'lislii'd in 1544, is a dialogue on the art of Archery, designed to promote an elfgant and useful mode of recreation among those M'ho, like himself, gave most of their time to study, and also to exemplifj' a style of composition more purely English, than what was generally prac- tised. Ascham also wrote a discourse on the aflairs of Germany, where he had spent three years in at- tendance on the English ambassador during the reign of Edward VI. The following extracts from Ascham's writings show generally an intellect much in advance of liis age : — \_Studi/ should he Relieved by Amusement. 1 [The following is from the opening of the Toxophilus. It m.iy be remarked, that what wag good sense and sound philosophy in Ascham's time is so still, and at the present time the lesson is not less required than it was then.] • * Pldhlogus. — How much in this matter is to be given to the authority of Aristotle or TuUy, 1 cannot tcU, seeing sad men may well enough speak merrily for a mere matter ; this I am sure, which thing this fair wheat (God save it) maketh me re- member, that those husbandmen which rise earliest, and come latest home, and are content to have their dinner and other drinkings brought into the field to them, for fear of losing of time, have fatter bani? in the harvest, than they which will either sleep at noontime of the day, or else make merry with their neighbours at the ale. And so a scholar, that pur- poseth to be a good husband, and desireth to reap and enjoy much fruit of learning, must till and sow thereafter. Our best seed time, which be scholars, as it is very timely, and when we be young ; so it en- dureth not over long, and therefore it may not be let slip one hour ; our ground is very hard and full of weeds, our horse wherewith we be drawn verj' wild, as Plato saith. And infinite other mo lets, which will make a thrifty scholar take heed how he spendeth his time in sport and play. Toj-oph ;7h,s.— That A ristotle and Tully spake earnestly, and as they thought, the earnest matter which they entreat upon, doth plainly prove. And as for 3"0ur hu.sbandry, it was more probably told with apt words, proper to the thing, than thoroughly proved with reasons belonging to our matter. For, contrarywise, I heard myself a good husband at his book once say, that to omit study for some time of the day, and some time of the year, made as much for the increase of learning, as to let the land lie some time fallow, maketh for the better increase of corn. This we see, if the land be ploughed everj' year, the com Cometh thin iip ; the ear is short, the grain is small, and when it is brought into the bam and threshed, giveth very evil faule. So those which never leave poring on their books, have oftentimes as thin inven- tion, as other poor men have, and as small wit and weight in it as in other men's. And thus your hus- bandr}', methink, is more like the life of a covetous snudge, that oft very evil proves, than the labour of a good husband, that knoweth well what he doth. And surely the best wits to learning must needs have much recreation, and ceasing from their book, or else they mar themselves ; when base and dumpish wits can never be hurt with continual studj' ; as ye see in lut- ing, that a treble minikin string must always be let down, but at such time as when a man must needs play, when the base and dull string needeth never to be moved out of his place. The same reason I find true in two bows that I have, whereof the one is quick of cast, trig and trim, both for pleasure and profit ; the other is a lugge slow of cast, following the string, more sure for to last than pleasant for to use. Now, Sir, it chanced this other night, one in my chamber would needs bend them to prove their strength, but (I cannot tell how) they were both left bent till the next day after dinner ; and when 1 came to them, purposing to have gone on shooting, I found my good bow clean cast on the one »>de, and as weak as water, that surely, if I were a rich man, I had rather have spent a crown ; and as for my lugge, it was not one whit the worse, but shot by and by as well and as far as ever it did. And even so, I am sure that good wits, except they be let do\vn like a treble string, and \m- bent like a good casting bow, they will never last and be able to continue in study. And I know where 1 speak this, Philologe, for I would not say thus much afore young men, for they will take soon occasion to .study little enough. But I say it, therefore, because I know, as little study getteth little learning, or none at all, so the most study getteth not the most learning of all. For a man's wit, fore-occupied in earnest stuily, must be as well recreated with some honest pastime, as the body, fore-laboured, must be refreshed with sleep and quietness, or else it caimot endure very long, as the noble poet saith : — ' WTiat thing wants quiet and merry rest, endures but a smjUl while." 76 PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. ROGER ASCHAM. [The Bloiving of the Wind.^ [In the Toxophilus, Ascham has occasion to treat very mi- nutely the difficulties which the archer experiences from the blowing of the wind. His own experience of these difficulties in the course of his sport, seems to have made him a natural philosopher to that extent, before tlie proper time.] To see the wind with a man's eyes, it is impossible, the nature of it is so fine and subtle ; yet this expe- rience of the wind had I once myself, and that was in the great snow which fell four years ago. I rode in the high way betwixt TopclifF upon Swale and Boroughbridge, the way being somewhat trodden afore by wayfaring men ; the fields on both sides were plrin, and lay almost yard deep with snow ; the night before had been a little frost, so that the snow was hard and crusted above ; that morning the sun shone bright and clear, the wind was whistling aloft, and sharp, according to the time of the year ; the snow in the highway lay loose and trodden with horse feet ; so as the wind blew, it took the loose snow with it, and made it so slide upon the snow in the field, which was hard and crusted by reason of the frost overnight, that thereby I might see very well the whole nature of the wind as it blew that day. And 1 had a great delight and pleasure to mark it, which maketh me now far better to remember it. Sometime the wind would be not past two yards broad, and so it would carry the snow as far as I could see. Another time the snow would blow over half the field at once. Some- time the snow would tumble softlj^ bye and bye it would fly wonderful fast. And this I perceived also, that the wind goeth by streams and not whole to- gether. For I should see one stream within a score on me, then the space of two score, no snow would stir, but, after so much quantity of ground, another stream of snow, at the same very time, should be carried likewise, but not equally; for the one would stand still, when the other flew apace, and so continue sometime swiftlier, sometime slowlier, sometime broader, some- time narrower, as far as I could see. Nor it flew not straight, but sometime it crooked this way, sometime that way, and sometime it ran round about in a com- pass. And sometime the snow would be lift clean from the ground up to the air, and bye and bye it ■would be all clapt to the ground, as though there had been no wind at all ; straightway it would rise and fly again. And that which was the most marvel of all, at one time two drifts of snow flew, the one out of the west into the east, the other out of the north into the east. And I saw two winds, by reason of the snow, the one cross over the other, as it had been two high- ways. And again, I should hear the wind blow in the air, when nothing was stirred at the ground. And when all was still vrhere I rode, not very far from me the snow should be lifted wonderfully. This experi- ence made me more marvel at the nature of the wind, than it made me cunning in the knowledge of the wind ; but yet thereby I learned perfectly that it is no marvel at all, though men in wind lose their length in shooting, seeing so many ways the wind is so va- iable in blowing. [Occupations should he chosen suitable to the Natural Faculties.'^ If men would go about matters which they should do, and be fit for, and not such things which wilfully they desire, and yet be unfit for, verily greater matters in the commonwealth than shooting should be in better case than they be. This ignorance in men which know not for what time, and to what thing they be fit, causeth some wish to be rich, for whom it were better a great deal to be poor ; other to be meddling in every man's matter, for whom it were more honesty to be quiet ani still; some to desire to be in the court, which be born and be fitter rather for the cart ; some to be masters and rule other, which never yet began to rule themselves ; some always to jangle and talk, which rather should hear and keep silence ; some to teach, which rather should learn ; some to be priests, which were fitter to be clerks. And this perverse judgment of the world, when men measure themselves amiss, bringeth much disorder and great unseemliness to the whole body of the commonwealth, as if a man should wear his hose upon his head, or a woman go with a sword and a buckler, every man would take it as a great uncomeliness, although it be but a trifle in respect of the other. This perverse judgement of men hindereth nothing so much as learning, because commonly those that be unfittest for learning, be chiefly .set to learning. As if a man now-a-days have two sons, the one impo- tent, weak, sickly, lisping, stuttering, and stammering, or having any mis-shape in his body ; what doth the father of such one commonly say ! This boy is fit for nothing else, but to set to learning and make a priest of, as who would say, the outcasts of the world, having neither countenance, tongue, nor wit (for of a perverse body cometh commonly a perverse mind), be good enough to make those men of, which shall be appointed to preach God's holy word, and ministei his blessed sacraments, besides other most weighty matters in the commonwealth ; put oft times, and worthily, to learned men's discretion and charge ; when rather such an office so high in dignity, so goodly in administration, should be committed to no man, which should not have a countenance full of comeliness, to allure good men, a body full of manly authority to fear ill men, a wit apt for all learning, with tongue and voice able to persuade all men. And although few such men as these can be found in a common- wealth, yet surely a goodly disposed man will both in his mind think fit, and with all his study labour to get such men as I speak of, or rather better, if better can be gotten, for such an high administration, which is most properly appointed to God's own mat- ters and businesses. This perverse judgment of fathers, as concerning the fitness and unfitness of their children, causeth the commonwealth have many unfit ministers : and seeing that ministers be, as a man would say, instruments wheremth the commonwealth doth work all her mat- ters withal, I marvel how it chaiiceth that a poor shoe- maker hath so much wit, that he will prepare no instrument for his science, neither knife nor awl, nor nothing else, which is not veiy fit for him. The com- monwealth can be content to take at a fond father's hand the riffraff" of the world, to make those instru- ments of wherewithal she should work the highest mattei-s under heaven. And surely an awl of lead is not so unprofitable in a shoemaker's shop, as an unfit minister made of gross metal is unseemly in the com- monwealth. Fathers in old time, among the noble Persians, might not do with their children as they thought good, but as the judgment of the common- wealth always thought best. This fault of fathers bringeth many a blot with it, to the great deformity of the commonwealth : and here surely I can praise gentlewomen, which have always at hand their glasses, to see if any thing be amiss, and so will amend it ; yet the commonwealth, having the glass of knowledge in every man's hand, doth see such uncomeliness in it, and yet winketh at it. This fault, and many such like, might be soon wiped away, if fathers would be- stow their children always on that thing, whereunto nature hath ordained them most apt and fit. For if youth be grafted straight and not awry, the whole commonwealth will flourish thereafter. When this is done, then must eveiy man begin to be more ready to amend himself, than to check another, measuring their matters with that wise proverb of Apollo, Know V FROM 1100 CYCLOPiEDIA OF TO 1558. thyself : that is to say, learn to know what thou art able, fit, and apt unto, and follow that. [^Detached Observations from the ScJwolmastcr.'] It is pity that commonly more care is had, and that among very wise men, to find out rather a cun- ning man for their horse, than a cunning man for their children. To the one they will gladly give a stipend of '200 crowns by the year, and loth to offer the other "200 shillings. God, that sitteth in heaven, laugheth their choice to scorn, and rewardeth their liberality as it should ; for he suffereth them to have tame and well ordered horse, but wild and unfor- tunate children. One example, whether love or fear doth work more in a child for virtue and learning, I will gladly report ; which may be heard with some pleasure, and followed with more profit. Before I went into Germany, I came to Broadgate, in Leicestershire, to take my leave of that noble Lady Jane Grey, to whom I was exceed- ing much beholden. Her parents, the duke and the duchess, with all the household, gentlemen and gentle- women, were hunting in the park. I found her in her chamber, reading Phcedon Platonis in Greek, and that with as much delight, as some gentlemen would read a merry tale in Bocace. After salutation and duty done, with some other talk, I asked her, why she would lose such pastime in the park ? Smiling, she answered me, ' I wiss, all their sport in the park is but a shadow to that pleasure that I find in Plato. Alas ! good folk, they never felt what true pleasure meant.' ' And how came you, jMadam,' quoth I, ' to this deep knowledge of pleasure 1 And what did chiefly allure you unto it, seeing not many women, but very few men, have attained thereunto?' 'I will tell you,' quoth she, ' and tell you a truth which, perchance, ye will marvel at. One of the greatest benefits that ever God gave me, is, that he sent me so shai-p and severe parents, and so gentle a schoolmaster. For when I am in presence either of father or mother, whether I speak, keep silence, sit, stand, or go, eat, drink, be merry or sad, be sewing, playing, dancing, or doing anything else, I must do it, as it were, in such weight, measure, and number, even so perfectly as God made the world, or else I cam so sharply taunted, so cruelly threatened, yea, presently, sometimes with pinches, nips, and bubs, and other ways, which 1 will not name for the honour I bear them, so witliout measure misordered, that I think myself in hell, till time come that I must go to Mr Elmer ; who teacheth me so gently, so pleasantly, with such fair allurements to learning, that 1 think all the time nothing, whiles I am with him. And when I am called from him, I fall on weeping, because, whatever I do else, but learn- ing, is full of grief, trouble, fear, and whole misliking unto me. And thus my book hath been so much my pleasure, and bringeth daily to me more pleasure and more, that, in respect of it, all other pleasures, in very deed, be but trifles and troubles unto me.' Learning teacheth more in one year than experience in twenty ; and learning teacheth safely when expe- rience maketh mo miserable than wise. lie hazardeth sore that waxeth wise by experience. An unhappy master he is, that is made cunning by many sliip- wrecks ; a miserable merchant, that is neither rich nor wise but after some bankrouts. It is costly wisdom that is bought by experience. "We know by experience itself, that it is a marvelous pain, to find out but a short way by long wandering. And surely, he that would prove wise by experience, he may be witty indeed, but even like a swift runner, that run- neth fast out of his way, and upon the night, he knoweth not whither. And verily they be fewest in number that be happy or wise by unlearned expe- lience And look well upon the former life of those few, whether your example be old or young, who with- out learning have gathered, by long experience a little wisdom, and some happiness ; and when you do con- sider what mischief they have committed, what dan- gers they have escaped (and yet twenty for one do perish in the adventure), then think well with your- self, whether ye would that your o^\ti son should come to wisdom and happiness by the way of such experience or no. It is a notable tale, that old Sir Roger Chamloo, sometime chief justice would tell of himself. When he was Ancient in inn of court certain young gentle- men were brought before him to be corrected for cer- tain niisorders ; and one of the lustiest said, ' Sir, we be young gentlemen ; and wise men before us have proved all fashions, and yet those have done full well.' This they said, because it was well known. Sir Roger had been a good fellow in his youth. But he answered them very wisely. ' Indeed,' saith he, ' in youth I was as you are now : and I had twelve fellows "like unto myself, but not one of them came to a good end. And therefore, follow not my example in youth, but follow my counsel in age, if ever ye think to come to this place, or to these years, that I am come unto ; less ye meet either with poverty or Tyburn in the way.' Thus, experience of all fashions in youth, being in proof always dangerous, in issue seldom lucky, is a way indeed to overmuch knowledge ; yet used com- monly of such men, which be either carried by some curious affection of mind, or driven by some hard necessity of life, to hazard the trial of overmany peri- lous adventures. [In favour of the learning of more languages than one] — I have been a looker on in the cockpit of learn- ing these many years ; and one cock only have I known, which, with one wing, even at this day, doth pass all other, in mine opinion, that ever I saw in any pit in England, though they had two wings. Yet nevertheless, to fly well with one w'ing, to run fast with one leg, be rather rare masteries, much to be marvelled at, than sure examples, safely to be fol- lowed. A bishop that now liveth a good man, whose judgment in religion I better like, than his opinion in perfectness in other learning, said once unto me ; ' We have no need now of the Greek tongue, when all things be translated into Latin.' But the good man understood not, that even the best translation, is for mere necessity but an evil imped wing to fly withal, or a heavy stump leg of wood to go withal. Such, the higher they fly, the sooner they falter and fail : the faster they run the ofter they stumble and sorer they fall. Such as will needs so fly, may fly at a pye and catch a daw : and such runners, as commonly the}', shove and shoulder, to stand foremost, yet in the" end they come behind others, and deserve but the hopshackleSj'if the masters of the game be right judgers. [With reference to what took place at the univer- sities on the accession of Mary] — And what good could chance then to the universities, when some of the greatest, though not of the wisest, nor best learned, nor best men neither of that side, did labour to per- suade, ' that ignorance was better than knowledge,' which they meant, not for the laity only, but also for the greatest rabble of their spirituality, what other pretence openly soever they made. And therefore did some of them at Cambridge (whom I will not name openly) cause hedge priests fettel out of the country, to be made fellows in the university ; saying in their talk privily, and declaring by their deeds openly, ' that he was fellow good enough for their time, if he could wear a gown and a tippet comely, and have his crown shorn fair and rouudly ; and could 1 Fetched. 7b ENGLISH LITERATURE. turn his porteus and pie' readily.' Which I speak not to reproye any order either of apparel, or other duty, that may be well and inditlerently used ; but to note the misery of that time, when the benefits provided for learning were so foully misused. And what was the fruit of this seed ? Verily, judg- ment in doctrine was wholly altered ; order in disci- pline very sore changed ; the love of good learning began suddenly to wax cold ; the knowledge of the tongues (in spite of some that therein had flourished) was manifestly contemned : and so, the way of right study purposely perverted ; the choice of good authors, of malice confounded ; old sophistry, I say not well, not old, but that new rotten sophistry, began to beard, and shoulder logic in her own tongue : yea, I know that heads were cast together, and counsel devised, that Duns, with all the rabble of barbarous ques- tionists, should have dispossessed of their place and room, Aristotle, Plato, Tully, and Demosthenes, whom good M. Redman, and those two worthy stars of that university, 1\I. Cheke and M. Smith, with their scho- lars, had brought to flourish as notably in Cambridge, as ever they did in Greece and in Italy ; and for the doctrine of those four, the four pillars of learning, Cam- bridge then giving no place to no university, neither in PVance, Spain, Ciermany, nor Italy. Also, in out- ward behaviour, then began simplicity in apparel to be laid aside, courtly gallantness to be taken up ; frugality in diet was privately misliked, town going to good cheer openly used ; honest pastimes, joined with labour, left off in the fields ; unthrifty and idle games haunted comers, and occupied the nights : contention In youth nowhere for learning ; factions in the elders everywhere for trifles. All which miseries at length, by God's providence, had their end 16th November 1558.* Since which time, the young spring hath shot up so fair as now there be in Cambridge again many good plants. [Qual'tficatioiis of an Historian.'] [From the Discourse on the Affairs of Germany. The MTiter is addressing Iiis friend John Astely.] When you and I read Livy together (if you do re- member), after some reasoning we concluded both what was in our opinion to be looked for at his hand, that would well and advisedly write an history. First point was, to write nothing false ; next, to be bold to say any truth : whereby is avoided two great faults — • flattery and hatred. For which two points, Cajsar is read to his great praise ; and Jovius the Italian to his just reproach. Then to mark diligently the causes, counsels, acts, and issues, in all great attempts : and in causes, what is just or unjust ; in counsels, what is purposed wisely or rashly ; in acts, what is done courageously or faintly ; and of every issue, to note some general lesson of wisdom and wariness for like matters in time to come, wherein Polybius in Greek, and Philip Comines in French, have done the duties of wise and worthy writers. Diligence also must be used in keeping truly the order of time, and describ- ing lively both the site of places and nature of per- sons, not only for the outward shape of the body, but also for the inward disposition of the mind, as Thucy- dides doth in many places very trimly ; and Homer everywhere, and that always most excellently ; which observation is chiefly to be marked in him. And our Chaucer doth the same, very praiseworthily : mark him well, and confer him with any other that ^n•iteth in our time in their proudest tongue, whosoever list. The style must be always plain and open ; yet some time higher and lower, as matters do rise and fall. For if proper and natural words, in well-joined sen- tences, do lively express the matter, be it troublesome, quiet, angry, or pleasant, a man shall think not to be reading, but present in doing of the same. And herein Livy of all other in any tongue, by mine opi- nion, carrieth away the praise. After the publication of Ascham's works, it became more usual for learned men to compose in English, more particularly when they aimed at influencing public opinion. But as religious controversy was wliat then chiefly agitated the minds of men, it follows that the great bulk of the English works of that age are now of little interest. CjarH Periioili* THE REIGNS OF ELIZABETH, JAMES I., AND CHARLES I. [1553 TO 1649.] POETS. N the preced- ing sections, the history of Eng- lish literature is brought to a pe- riod when its in- fancy may be said to cease, and its manhood to com- mence. In the earlier half of ' the sixteenth cen- tury, it was sen- sibly affected by a variety of in- fluences, which, for an age be- fore, had operated powerfully in ex- panding the intellect of European nations. The ' Breviary. * The date of the accession of Queen Elizabeth. study of classical literature, the invention oi prmt- ing, the freedom with which religion was dis- cussed, together with the general substitution of the philosophy of Plato for that of Aristotle, had everywhere given activity and strengtli to the minds of men. The immediate effects of these no- velties upon English literature, were the enrich- ment of the language, as already mentioned, by a great variety of words from tlie classic tongues, the establishment of better models of thought and style, and the allowance of greater freedom to the fancy and powers of observation in the exercise of the literary calling. Not only the Greek and Roman writers, but those of modern Italy and France, Avhere letters experienced an earlier revival, were now translated into English, .and being libe- mWy diffused by the i)ress, served to excite a taste for elegant reading in lower branches of .society than had ever before felt the genial influence of letters. The dissemination of the Scri[)tures in the vulgar tongue, while it greatly affected the language and ideas of the people, was also of no small avail in giving new direction to the thoughts FROM 1558 CYCLOPiEDIA OF TO 1645. of literary men, to -whom these antique Oriental com- positions presented numberless incidents, images, ,ind sentiments, unknown before, and of the ricliest and most interesting kind. Among other circumstances favourable to litera- ture at this period, must be reckoned the encourage- ment given to it by Queen Elizabeth, who was herself very learned and' addicted to poetical composition, and" had the art of filling her court with men qualified to sliine in almost every department of intellectual exertion. Her successors, James and Charles, re- sembled her in some of these respects, and during their reigns, the impulse which she had given to literature experienced rather an increase than a decline. There was, indeed, something in the polic)', as well as in the personal character of all these sove- reigns, which proved favourable to literature. The study of the belles lettres was in some measure identified with the courtly and arbitrary principles of the time, not perhaps so much from any enlight- ened spirit in those who supported such principles, as from a desire of opposing the puritans, and other malcontents, whose religious doctrines taught them to despise some departments of elegant literature, and utterly to condemn others. There can be no doubt that the drama, for instance, chiefly owed that en- couragement which it received under Elizabeth and her successors, to a spirit of hostility to the puritans, wlio, not unjustly, repudiated it for its immorality. "We must at tlie same time allow mucli to the in- fluence which such a court as that of England, during these three reigns, was calculated to have among men of literary tendencies. Almost all the poets, and many of the other writers, were either courtiers themselves, or under the immediate protection of courtiers, and were constantly experiencing the smiles, and occasionally the solid benefactions, of royalty. Whatever, then, was refined, or gay, or sentimental, in this country and at this time, came with its full influence upon literature. The works brought forth under these circum- stances have been very aptly compared to the pro- ductions of a soil for the first time broken up, when ' all indigenous plants spring up at once with a rank and irrepressible fertility, and display whatever is peculiar and excellent in their nature, on a scale the most conspicuous and magnificent.'* The ability to write having been, as it were, suddenly created, the whole world of character, imagery, and sentiment, as well as of information and pliilosophj', lay ready for the use of those who possessed the gift, and was appropriated accordingly. As might be ex- pected, where there was less ride of art than opu- lence of materials, the productions of these writers are often deficient in taste, and contain much that is totally aside from the purpose. To pursue the simile above quoted, the crops are not so clean as if they had been reared under systematic cultivation. On this account, the refined taste of the eighteenth century condemned most of the productions of the sixteenth and seventeenth to oblivion, and it is only of late that they have once more obtained their de- served reputation. After every proper deduction has been made, enough remains to fix this era as 'by far the mightiest in the history of English lite- rature, or indeed of human intellect and capacity. There never was anything,' says the writer above quoted, 'like the sixty or seventy years that elapsed from the middle of J^lizabcth's reign, to the period of the Kestoration. In point of real force and origi- nality of genius, neither the age of Tericles, nor the age of Augustus, nor the times of Leo X., nor of Louis XIV., can come at all into comparison j for in ♦ Edinburgh Review, xviii. 275. that short period, we shall find the names of almost all the very great men that this nation has ever pro- duced, the names of Sluiks]>care, and Bacon, and Spenser, and Sydne}', and Hooker, and Taylor, and Barrow, and Raleigh, and Napier, and Ilobbes, and many others ; men, all of them, not merely of great talents and accomplishments, but of vast compass and reach of understanding, and of minds truly creative and original ; not perfecting art by the delicacy of their taste, or digesting knowledge by the justness of their reasonings, but making vast and substantial additions to the materials upon which taste and reason must hereafter be emjjloyed, and enlarging to an incredible and unparalleled extent both the stores and the resources of the human faculties.' THOMAS SACKVILLE. In the reign of Elizabeth, some poetical names of importance precede that of Spenser. The first is Thomas Sackville (1536-1608), ultimately Earl Tuomas SackviUe. of Dorset and Lord High Treasurer of England, and who will again come before us in the character of a dramatic writer. In 1557, Sackville formed the de- sign of a poem, entitled The Mirrour for Magistrates, of which he wrote only the 'Induction,' and one legend on the life of Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham. In imitation of Dante and some other of his prede- cessors, he lays the scene of his poem in the infernal regions, to which lie descends under the guidance of an allegorical personage named Sorrow. It was his object to make all the great persons of English history, from the Conquest downwards, pass here in review, and each tell his own story, as a warning to existing statesmen ; but other duties compelled the poet, after he had written what has been stated, to break off, and commit the completion of the work to two poets of inferior note, Richard Baldwyne and George Ferrers. The whole poem is one of a very remarkable kind for the age, and the part exetnited by Sackville exhibits in some parts a strength of description and a power of drawing allegorical cha- racters, scarcely inferior to Spenser. [A llegorical characters from tJie Miiroivrfor Magistrates.^ And first, within the porch and jaws of hell. Sat deep Remorse of Conscience, all besprent With tears ; and to herself oft would she tell Her wn;tchcdness, and, cursing, never stent To sob and sigh, but ever thus lament 80 ENGLISH LITERATURE. THOMAS SACKVILLE. With thoughtful care ; as she that, all in vain, Would wear and waste continually in pain : Iler eyes unstedfast, rolling here and there, Whiri'd on each place, .as place that Tcngeance So was her mind continually in fear, [brought, Tost and tormented with the tedious thought Ofrthose detested crimes which she had wrought ; With dreadful cheer, and looks thrown to the sky, Wishing for death, and yet she could not die. Next, saw we Dread, all trembling how he shook. With foot uncertain, profer'd here and there ; Benumb'd with speech ; and, with a ghastly look, Searched every place, all pale and dead for fear. His cap born up with staring of his hair ; 'Stoin'd and amazed at his own shade for dread. And fearing greater dangers than was need. And, next, within the entry of this lake. Sat fell Revenge, gnashing her teeth for ire ; Devising means how she may vengeance take ; Never in rest, 'till she have her desire ; But frets within so far forth with the fire Of wreaking flames, that now determines she To die by death, or 'veng'd by death to be. When fell Revenge, with bloody foul pretence, Had show'd herself, as next in order set. With trembling limbs we softly parted thence, 'Till in our eyes another sight we met ; When fro my heart a sigh forthwith I fet, Ruing, alas, upon the woeful plight Of Misery, that next appear'd in sight : His face was lean, and some-deal pin'd away. And eke his hands consumed to the bone ; But, what his body was, I cannot say, For on his carcase raiment had he none, Save clouts and patches pieced one by one ; With staff in hand, and scrip on shoulders cast, His chief defence against the winter's blast : His food, for most, was wild fruits of the tree, Unless sometime some crumbs fell to his share. Which in his wallet long, God wot, kept he. As on the which full daint'ly would he fare ; His drink, the running stream, his cup, the bare Of his palm closed ; his bed, the hard cold ground : To this poor life was Misery ybound. Whose wretched state when we had well behold. With tender ruth on him, and on his feers. In thoughtful cares forth then our pace we held ; And, by and by, another shape appears Of greedy Care, still brushing up the briers ; His knuckles knob'd, his flesh deep dinted in, With tawed hands, and hard ytanued skin : The morrow grey no sooner hath begun To spread his light e'en peeping in our eyes. But he is up, and to his work yrun ; But let tlie night's black misty mantles rise. And with foul dark never so much disguise The fair bright day, yet ceaseth he no while. But hath his candles to prolong his toil. By him lay hea^-y Sleep, the cousin of Death, Flat on the ground, and still as any stone, A very corpse, save yielding forth a breath ; Small keep took he, whom fortune frowned on. Or whom she lifted up into the throne Of high renown, but, as a living death, So dead alive, of life he drew the breath : The body's rest, the quiet of the heart, The travel's ease, the still night's feer was he, And of our life in earth the better part ; Iliever of sight, and yet in whom we see Things oft that [tyde] and oft that never be; Without respect, esteem[ing] equally King Croesus' pomp and Irus' poverty. And next in order sad, Old-Age we foutid : His beard all hoar, his eyes liollow and blind ; With drooping cheer still poring on the ground. As on the place where nature him assign'd To rest, when that the sisters had untwin'd His vital thread, and ended with their knife The fleeting course of fast declining life : There heard we him with broke and hollow plaint Rue with himself liis end approaching f;ist. And all for nought his wretched mind torment With sweet remembrance of his pleasures jiast. And fresh delights of lusty youth forewaste ; Recounting which, how would he sob and shriek. And to be young again of Jove beseek ! But, an the cruel fates so fixed be That time forepast cannot return again. This one request of Jove yet i)rayed he, — That, in such wither'd plight, and wretclied pain, As eld, accompany'd with her loathsome train. Had brought on him, all were it woe and grief He might a while yet linger forth his life. And not so soon descend into the pit ; Where Death, when he the mortal corpse hath slain. With reckless hand in grave doth cover it : Thereafter never to enjoy again The gladsome light, but, in the ground ylain, In depth of darkness waste and wear to nought, As he had ne'er into the world been brought : But who had seen him sobbing how he stood Unto himself, and how he would bemoan His youth forepast — as though it wrought him good To talk of youth, all were his youth foregone — He would have mused, and marvel'd much whereon This wretched Age should life desire so fain. And knows full well life doth but length his pain : Crook -back'd he was, too';Ii-shaken, and blear-eyed ; Went on three feet, and sometime crept on four ; With old lame bones, thit rattled by his side ; His scalp all pil'd, and he with eld forelore. His wither'd fist still knocking at death's door ; Fumbling, and driveling, as he draws his breath ; For brief, the shape and messenger of Death. And fast by him pale Malady was placed : Sore sick in bed, her colour all foregone ; Bereft of stomach, savour, and of taste, Ne could she brook no meat but broths alone ; Her breath corrupt ; her keepers every one Abhorring her ; her sickness past rccure. Detesting physic, and all physic's cure. But, oh, the doleful sight that then we see ! We turn'd our look, and on the other side A grisly shape of Famine mought we see : With greedy looks, and gaping mouth, that cried And roar'd for meat, as she should there have died ; Her body thin and bare as any bone, Whereto was left nought but the case alone. And that, alas, was gnawen every where. All full of holes ; that I ne mought refrain From tears, to see how she her arms could tear, And with her teeth gnash on the bones in vain. When, all for nought, she fain would so sustain Her starven corpse, that rather seem'd a shiido Than any substance of a creature made : Great was her force, whom stone-wall could not stay Her tearing nails snatching at all she saw ; With gaping jaws, that by no means ymay Be satisfy'd from hunger of her maw. But cats herself as she that liath no law ; Gnawing, alas, her carcase all in vain. Where you may count each sinew, bone, and vein. 81 FROM 1558. CYCLOPJEDIA OF TO 1649. On her while ive thus firmly fix'd our eyes, That bled for ruth of such a dreary sight, Lo, suddenly she shrick'd in so huge wise As made hell gates to shiver with the might ; "Wherewith, a dart wp saw, how it did light Right on her breast, and, therewithal, pale Death Enlhirling it, to rieve her of her breal J : And, by and by, a dumb dead corpse we saw, Heavy, and cold, the shape of Death aright, That daunts all earthly creatures to his law, Against whose force in vain it is to fight ; Ne peers, ne princes, nor no mortal wight, No toAvns, ne realms, cities, ne strongest tower, But all, perforce, must yield unto his power : His dart, anon, out of the corpse he took. And in his hand (a dreadful sight to see) With great triumph eftsoons the same he shook. That most of all my fears afFrayed me ; His body dight with nought but bones, pardy ; The naked shape of man there saw I plain, All save the flesh, the sinew, and the vein. Lastly, stood ^Var, in glittering arms yclad. With visage grim, stem look, and blackly hued : In his right hand a naked sword he had. That to the hilts was .all with blood imbrued ; And in his left (that kings and kingdoms rued) Famine and fire he held, and therewithal He razed towns and threw do^vn towers and all : Cities he sack'd, and realms (that whilom flower'd In honour, glory, and rule, above the rest) He overwhelm'd, and all their fame devour'd, Consum'd, destroy'd, wasted, and never ceas'd, 'Till he their wealth, their name, and all oppress'd : His face forehew'd with wounds ; and by his side There hung his targe, with gashes deep and wide. \_Henry Dvke of JBiickingham in the Infernal Regions.'] [The description of the Duke of Buckingham — the Bucking- ham, it must be recollected, of Richard III.— has been mucli kdmired, as an impersonation of extreme wretchedness.] Then first came Henry Duke of Buckingham, His cloak of black all piled, and quite forlorn, Wringing his hands, and Fortune oft doth blame, Which of a duke had made him now her scorn ; With ghastly looks, as one in manner lorn, Oft spread his arms, stretched hands he joins as fast, With rueful cheer, and vapoured eyes upca-st. His cloak he rent, his manly breast he beat ; His hair all torn, about the place it lain : My heart so molt to see his grief so great. As feelingly, methought, it dropped away : His eyes they whirled about withouten stay : With stormy sighs the place did so complain, As if his heart at each had burst in twain. Thrice he began to tell his doleful tale. And thrice the sighs did swallow up his voice ; At each of which he shrieked so withal. As though the heavens ryved with the noise ; Till at the last, recovering of his voice. Supping the tears that all his breast berained. On cruel Fortune weeping thus he plained. JOHN HARRINGTON, Some pleasing amatory verses (exhibiting a re- markable polish for the time in which they were written) by John Harrington (1534 — 1.')82) have been published in the Nugee Antiqua. This jjoet was imprisoned in the Tower by Queen Mary for holding correspondence with Elizabeth, aad the hitter, on her accession to the throne, rewarded him | with many favours. He must have been a man of ! taste and refined feelings, as the following specimen of his poetry will suffice tO'Show : — So7in€t made on Isabella MarkJiam, wlien I first \ thought her fair, as she stood at the priiircss^s window, j in goodly attire, and talked to divers in the court-yard. \ I5t)4. Whence comes my love ? Oh heart, disclose ; It was from cheeks that shamed the rose, From lips that spoil the ruby's praise, From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze : Whence comes my woe 1 as freely owa ; Ah me ! 'twas from a heart like stone. The blushing cheek speaks modest mind, The lips befitting words most kind, The eye does tempt to love's desire, And seems to say 'tis Cupid's fire ; Yet all so fair but speak my moan, Sith nought doth say the heart of stone. Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek- Yet not a heart to save my pain ; Oh Venus, take thy gifts again ! Make not so fair to cause our moan, Or make a heart that's like our ovvn. SIR PHILIP SIDNET. Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586) takes his rank in English literary history rather as a prose writer than as a poet. His poetry, indeed, has long been laid aside on account of the cold and afiei'tud style in which he wrote. It has been justly reuiarked, th:it, ' if he had looked into his own noble heart, aad written directly from that, instead of from his soine- wliat too metaphysico-philosopliical head, his jioe'ry would have been excellent.' Yet in some pieces he has fortunately failed in extinguishing the natural sentiment which inspired him. The following are admired specimens of his sonnets : — [Sonnets of Sir Philip Sidney.] Because I oft in dark abstracted guise Seem most alone in greatest company, With dearth of words, or answers quite awry To them that would make speech of speech arise. They deem, and of their doom the ramour tiies. That poison foul of bubbling Pride doth lie So in my swelling breast, that only I F'awn on myself, and others do despise. Yet Pride, I think, doth not my soul possess. Which looks too oft in his unflattering glass : But one worse fault Ambition I confess. That makes me oft my best friends overpass. Unseen, unheard, while thought to highest place Bends all his powers, even unto Stella's grace. With how sad steps, Moon ! thou climb'st the skies, How silently, and with how wan a face ! What may it be, that even in heavenly place That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries ? Sure, if that long with love acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case ; I read it in thy looks, thy languish'd grace To me that feel the like thy state descries. Then, even of fellowship, Moon, tell me. Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit! Are beauties there as proud as here they be ? Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess! Do they call virtue there ungratefulness? „,, ENGLISH LITERATURE. SIR WALTER RALEIGH. Come, Sleep, Sleep, the certain knot of peace, The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe. The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release. The indifferent judge between the high and low. With shield of proof shield me from out the prease* Of those fierce darts, Despair at me doth throw ; make in me those civil wars to cease : 1 will good tribute pay, if thou do so. Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed ; A chamber, deaf to noise, and blind to light ; A rosy garland, and & weary head. And if these things, as being thine by right. Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see. Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance Guided so well, that I obtain'd the prize. Both by the judgment of the English eyes, And of some sent from that sweet enemy France ; Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance ; Townfolks my strength ; a daintier judge applies His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise ; Some lucky wits impute it but to chance ; Others, because of both sides I do take My blood from them who did excel in this, Think nature me a man of arms did make. How far they shot awry ! the true cause is, Stella look'd on, and from her heavenly face Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race. In martial sports I had my cunning tried. And yet to break more staves did me address ; While with the people's shouts, I must confess. Youth, luck, and praise, even fill'd my veins with pride. When Cupid, having me (his slave) descried In Mars's livery, prancing in the press, ' What now. Sir Fool,' said he, ' I would no less. Look here, I saj-.' I look'd, and Stella spied, Who hard by made a window send forth light. My heart then quaked, then dazzled were mine eyes ; One hand forgot to rule, th' other to light ; Nor trumpet's sound I heard, nor friendly cries ; My foe came on, and beat the air for me, Till that her blush taught me my shame to see. Of all the kings that ever here did reign, Edward named Fourth as first in praise I name ; Not for his fair outside, nor well-lined brain. Although less gifts imp feathers oft on Fame : Nor that he could, young-wise, wise-valiant, frame His sire's revenge, join'd with a kingdom's gain. And, gain'd by Mars, could yet mad JNIars so tame. That Balance weigh'd what Sword did late obtain : Nor that he made the Flower-de-luce so fraid, Though strongly hedg'd of bloody Lion's paws. That witty Lewis to him a tribute paid. Nor this, nor that, nor any such small cause — But only for this worthy knight durst prove To lose his cro^vn, rather than fail his love. happy Thames, that didst my Stella bear! 1 saw thee with full many a smiling line I^pon thy cheerful face joy's livery wear. While those fair planets on thy streams did shine. The boat for joy could not to dance forbear ; While wanton winds, with beauties so divine Eavish'd, staid not, till in her golden hair They did themselves (0 sweetest prison) twine: And fain those OSol's youth there would their stay Have made ; but, forced by Nature still to fly. First did with puffing kiss those locks display. She, so dishevell'd, blush'd. From window I, Wir,h sight thereof, cried out, ' fair disgrace ; Let Honour's self to thee grant highest place.' ' Press, throng. SIR WALTER RALEIGH — TIMOTHY KENDAL — NICSOLAS BRETON — HENRY CONSTABLE. Sir Walter Raleigh, to whose merits as a prose writer justice is done in the sequel, deserves to be ranked amongst the minor poets of Elizabeth's reign. Timothy Kendal is only known for having pub- lished, in 1577, a ycAnme entitled Hours of Epigrams. Nicholas Breton (1555-1624) wrote some pastoral poems, and a volume called the Works of a Young Wit. Henry Constable was a popular writer of sonnets, though strangely conceited and unnatural in his style. In most of the works of these inferior poets, happy thoughts and imagery may be found, mixed up with affectations, forced analogies, and conceits. It is worthy of remark, that this was the age when collections of fugitive and miscellaneous poems first became common. Several volumes of this kind, published in the reign of Elizivbeth, con- tain poetry of high merit, without any author's name. The Country^s Recreatiom. [From a poem by Raleigh, bearing the above title, the following verses are extracted.] Heart-tearing cares and quiv'ring fears, Anxious sighs, untimely tears, Fly, fly to courts. Fly to fond worldling's sports ; Where strained sardonic smiles are glozing still. And Grief is forced to laugh against her will ; Where mirth's but mummery, And sorrows only real be. Fly from our country pastimes, fly, Sad troop of human misery ! Come, serene looks. Clear as the crj'stal brooks, Or the pure azur'd heaven that smiles to see The rich attendance of our poverty. Peace and a secure mind. Which all men seek, we only find. Abused mortals, did you know Where joy, heart's ease, and comforts grow, You'd scorn proud towers. And seek them in these bowers ; Where winds perhaps our woods may sometimes sLakw^ But blustering care could never tempest make, Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us, Savtng of fountains that glide by us. * ♦ * Blest silent groves ! may ye be For ever mirth's best nursery ! May pure contents For ever pitch their tents Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these mountains, And peace still slumber by these purling fountains, Which we may every year Find when we come a-fishing here. [Farncdl to Town, hy Breton.'] * * * Thou gallant court, to thee farewell ! For froward fortune me denies Now longer near to thee to dwell. I must go live, I wot not where. Nor how to live when I come there. And next, adieu you gallant dames. The chief of noble youth's delight ! Untoward Fortune now so frames. That I am banish'd from your sight. And, in your stead, against my will, I must go live with country Jill. PROM 1558 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1646 Now next, my gullant youths, farewell ; My lads that oft have cheered my heart ! My grief of mind no tongue can tell. To think that I must from you part. I now must leave you all, alas. And live with some old lobcock ass ! And now farewell thou gallant lute, With instruments of music's sounds ! Recorder, citem, harp, and flute, And heavenly descants on sweet grounds. I now must Iccave you all, indeed, And make some music on a reed ! And now, you stately stamping steeds. And gallant geldings fair, adieu ! My heavy heart for sorrow bleeds. To think that I must part with you : And on a strawen pannel sit. And ride some country carting tit ! And now farewell both spear and shield, Caliver pistol, arquebuss. See, see, what sighs my heart doth yield To think that I must leave you thus ; And lay aside my rapier blade. And take in hand a ditching spade ! And you farewell, all gallant games, Primero, and Imperial, Wherewith I us'd, with courtly dames, To pass away the time withal : I now must learn some country plays For ale and cakes on holidays ! And now farewell each dainty dish, With sundry sorts of sugar'd wine ! Farewell, I say, fine flesh and fish. To please this dainty mouth of mine I I now, alas, must leave all these. And make good cheer with bread and cheese ! And now, all orders due, farewell ! My table laid when it was noon ; My heavy heart it irks to tell My dainty dinners all are done : With leeks and onions, whig and whey, I must content me as I may. And farewell all gay garments now. With jewels rich, of rare device ! Like Robin Hood, I wot not how, I must go range in woodman's wise J Clad in a coat of green, or grey, And glad to get it if I may. What shall I say, but bid adieu To every dream of sweet delight. In place where pleasure never grew, In dungeon deep of foul despite, I must, ah me ! wretch as I may. Go sing the song of welaway ! [Sonnet ly Constahle.'] [From his ' Diana :' 1594.] To live in hell, and heaven to behold. To welcome life, and die a living death. To sweat with heat, and yet be freezing cold. To grasp at stars, and lie the earth beneath. To tread a maze that never shall have end, To bum in sighs, and starve in daily tears. To climb a hill, and never to descend. Giants to kill, and quake at childish fears. To pine for food, and watch th' Hesperian tree, To thirst for drink, and nectar still to draw. To live accurs'd, whom men hold blest to be. And weep those vtrongs, which never creature saw J ^f this be love, if love in these be founded, M7 heart is lore, for these in it are grounded. CHRISTOPHER MARLOW JOSHCA SYLVESTER — RICHARD BARNFIELD. Christopher Marlow, so highly eminent as a dramatic writer, would probably have been over- looked in the department of miscellaneous poetry, but for his beautiful piece, rendered familiar by its being transferred into Walton's 'Angler' — The Passionatt Shepherd to his Love. Joshua Sylvester, who died in 1618, at the age of 55, and who was the author of a large volume of poems of very unequal merit, claims notice as the now generally received author of an im- pressive piece, long ascribed to Raleigh — The SouVs Errand. Another fugitive poem of great beauty, but in a diiferent style, and Avhich has often been attri- buted to Shakspeare, is now given to Richard Barn- field, author of several poetical volumes published between 1594 and 1598. These three remarkable poems are here subjoined : — The Passionate Shepherd to his Love. Come live with me, and be my love. And we will all the pleasures prove That vallies, groves, and hills and fields, Woods or steepy mountains yields. And we will sit upon the rocks. Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks. By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. And I will make thee beds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies ; A cap of flowers and a kirtle, Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle : A gown made of the finest wool, ^^^hich from our pretty lambs we pull ; Fair lined slippers for the cold. With buckles of the purest gold : A belt of straw and ivy buds. With coral clasps and amber studs ; And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me, and be my love. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing, For thy delight, each May-morning : If these delights thy mind may move Then live with me, and be my love. [Tlie NympK's Reply to the Passionate Shepherdm By Ralci(jh.'\ If all the world and love were young. And truth in every shepherd's tongue. These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee, and be thy love. Time drives the flocks from field to fold. When rivers rage and rocks grow cold ; And Philomel becometh dumb, The rest complain of cares to come. The flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward winter reckoning yields ; A honey tongue — a heart of gall. Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses. Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies. Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten. In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and ivy buds. Thy coral clasps and amber studs ; All these in me no means can move To come to thee and be thy love. 84 ENGLISH LITERATURE. EDMUND SPENSim. But could youth last, and love still breed, Had joys no date, nor age no need, Then these delights my mind might move To live with thee and be thy love. TJie SouVs EiTuivd. Go, soul, the body's guest. Upon a thankless errand ! Fear not to touch the best. The truth shall be thy warrant ; Go, since I needs must die, And give the world the lie. Go, tell the court it glows, And shines like rotten wood ; Go, tell the church it shows What's good, and doth no good i If church and court reply. Then give them both the lie. Tell potentates, they live Acting by others actions, Not lov'd unless they give, Not strong but by their factioM. If potentates reply, Give potentates the lie. Tell men of high condition That rule affairs of state. Their purpose is ambition, Their practice only hate. And if they once reply. Then give them all the lie. Tell them that brave it most. They beg for more by spending, Who in their greatest cost, Seek nothing but commending. And if they make reply, Then give them all the lie. Tell zeal it lacks devotion. Tell love it is but lust. Tell time it is but motion. Tell flesh it is but dust ; And wish them not reply. For thou must give the lie. Tell age it daily wasteth, Tell honour how it alters. Tell beauty how she blasteth. Tell favour how she falters. And as they shall reply. Give every one the lie. Tell wit how much it wrangles In tickle points of niceness : Tell wisdom she entangles Herself in over-wiseness. And when they do reply. Straight give them both the li*. Tell physic of her boldness. Tell skill it is pretension, Tell charity of coldness. Tell law it is contention. And as they do reply. So give them still the lie. Tell fortune of her blindness, Tell nature of decay, Tell friendship of unkindness, Tell justice of delay. And if they will reply, Then give them all the lie. Tell arts they have no soundness. But vary by esteeming. Tell schools they want profoundness, And stand too much on seeming. If arts and schools reply. Give arts and schools the lie. Tell faith it'a lied the city. Tell how the country erreth. Tell, manhood shakes off pity. Tell, virtue least preferreth. And if they do reply. Spare not to give the lie. So when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing : Although to give the lie Deserves no less than stabbing; Yet stab at thee who will. No stab the soul can kill. [Address to the Nightingak.'] As it fell upon a day. In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made ; Beasts did leap, and birds did sing, Trees did grow, and plants did spring ; Everything did banish moan. Save the nightiugale alone. She, poor bird, as all forlorn, Lean'd her breast up-tlU a thorn ; And there sung the dolefuU'st ditty, That to hear it was great pity. Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry ; Teru, teru, by and by ; That, to hear her so complain. Scarce I could from tears refrain ; For her griefs, so lively shown. Made me think upon mine own. Ah ! (thought I) thou mourn'st in vain , None takes pity on thy pain : Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee, Ruthless bears they will not cheer thee • King Pandion he is dead ; All thy friends are lapp'd in lead ; All thy fellow-birds do sing. Careless of thy sorrowing ! Whilst as fickle Fortune smil'd, Thou and I were both beguil'd. Every one that flatters thee Is no friend in misery. Words are easy, like the wind ; Faithful friends are hard to find. Every man will be th}' friend Whilst thou hast wherewith to spand f But, if store of crowns be scant, No man will supply thy want. If that one be prodigal. Bountiful they will him call ; And with such-like flattering, ' Pity but he were a king.' If he be addict to vice. Quickly him they will entice ; But if fortune once do frown, Then farewell his great renown : They that fawn'd on him before Use his company no more. He that is thy friend indeed. He will help thee in thy need ; If thou sorrow, he will weep. If thou wake he cannot sleep : Thus, of every grief in heart He with thee doth bear a part. These are certain signs to know Faithful friend from flattering foe. EDMUND SPENSER. These writers brinjr us to Edmund Spenser, whose genius is one of tlie peculiar glories of the romantic reign of Elizabeth. 'It is easy,' says 85 FROM 1558 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 164». Pope, ' to mark out tlie general course of our poetry ; Chaucer, Spenser, Milton, and Dryden, are the great landmarks for it.' We can now add Cowper and Wordsworth ; but, in Pope's generation, the list he has given was accurate and complete. Spenser was, like Chaucer, a native of London, and like him, also, he has recorded the circumstance in his poetry :— Merry London, my most kindly nurse, That to me gave this life's first native source, Though from another place I take my name, An house of ancient fame. Prolhaltimhn. He was born at East Smithfield, near the Tower, about the year 1553. The rank of his parents, or the degree of his affinity with the ancient house of Spenser, is not known. Gibbon says truly, that the noble family of Spenser should consider the Faer^ Queen as the most precious jewel in their coronet.* The poet was entered a sizer (one of the humblest class of students) of Pembroke College, Cambridge, in May 1569, and continued to attend college for seven years, taking his degree of M.A. in June 1576. While Spenser was at Pembroke, Gabriel Harvey, the future astrologer, was at Christ's Col- lege, and an intimacy was formed between them, which lasted during the poet's life. Harvey was learned and pedantic, full of assumption and con- ceit, and in his ' Venetian velvet and pantofles of pride,' formed a peculiarly happy subject for the satire of Nash, who assailed him with every species of coarse and contemptuous ridicule. Harvey, how- •Ter, was of service to Spenser. The latter, on re- tiring from the University, lived with some friends in the north of England ; probably those Spensers of Hurstwood, to whose family he is said to have belonged. Harvey induced the poet to repair to London, and there he introduced him to Sir Philip Sidney, ' one of the very diamonds of lier majesty's court.' In 1579, the poet publislicd his Shepherd's Calendar, dedicated to Sidney, who afterwards pa- tronised him, and recommended him to his uncle, the powerful Earl of Leicester. Tlie Shepherd's Calendar is a pastoral poem, in twelve eclogues, one for each month, but without strict keeping as to natural description or rustic character, and * It was lately announced, that the family to which the poet's father belonged h;i9 been ascertained as one settled at llurst- wor.d, near Burnley, in Lancashire, where it flourished till 690 deformed by a number of obsolete uncouth phrases (the Chaucerisms of Spenser, as Dryden designated them), yet containing traces of a superior original genius. The fable of the Oak and Briar is finely told; and in verses like the following, we see the germs of that tuneful harmony and pensive reflection in which Spenser excelled : — You naked buds, whose shady leaves are lost, Wherein the birds were wont to build their bower, And now are clothed with moss and hoary frost, Instead of blossoms wherewith your buds did flower : 1 see your tears that from your boughs do rain, Whose drops in dreary icicles remain. All so my lustful life is dry and sere, My timely buds with wailing all are wasted ; The blossom which my branch of youth did hear, With breathed sighs is blown away and blasted. And from mine eyes the drizzling tears descend, As on your boughs the icicles depend. These lines form part of the first eclogue, in which the shepherd boy (Colin Clout) laments the issue of his love for a 'country lass,' named Rosalind — a happy female name, which Thomas Lodge, and, fol- lowing him, Shakspeare, subsequently connected with love and poetry. Spenser is here supposed to have depicted a real passion of his own for a lady in tlie north, who at last preferred a rival, thougit, as Gabriel Harvey says, ' the gentle Mistress Rosalind' once reported the rejected suitor ' to have all the intelligences at command, and another time chris- tened him Signior Pegaso.' Spenser makes his shepherds discourse of polemics as well as love, and they draw characters of good and bad pastors, and institute comparisons between Popery and Protes- tantism. Sonie allusions to Archbishop Grindal (' Algrind' in the poem) and Bishop Aylmer are said to have given offence to Lord Burleigh ; but the patronage of Leicester and Essex nmst have made Burleigh look with distaste on the new poet. For ten years we hear little of Spenser. He is found corresponding with Harvey on a literary innovation contemplated by that learned person, and even by Sir Philip Sidney. This was no less than banishing rhymes and introducing the Latin prosody into English verse. Spenser seems to have assented to it, ' fondly overcome with Sidnei/s charm ;' he sus- pended the Faery Queen, which he had then begun, and tried English hexameters, forgetting, to use the witty words of Nash, that ' the hexameter, though a gentleman of an ancient house, was not likely to thrive in this clime of ours, the soil being too craggy for him to set his plough in.' Fortunately, he did not persevere in the conceit ; he could not hav6 gained over his contemporaries to it (for there wert then too many poets, and too much real poetry in the land), and if he had made the attempt, Shak speare would soon have blown the whole away. As a dependent on Leicester, and a suitor for court favour, Spenser is supposed to have experienced many reverses. The following lines in Mother Hub bard's Talc, though not printed till 1581, seem tO' belong to this period of his life: — Full little knowest thou that hast not tried. What hell it is in suing long to bide ; To lose good days that might be better spent ; To waste long nights in pensive discontent ; To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow; To feed on hope, to pine with fear and sorrow ; To have thy prince's grace, yet want her peers' ; To have thy asking, yet wait many years ; To fret tlry soul with crosses and with cares ; To eat tliy heart through comfortless despairs ; To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run. To spend, to give, to wuit, to be undone ! gg ENGLISH LITERATURE. EDMr:*!) Sl-ENSER. Strong feeling has here banished all antique and affected expression : there is no fancy in tliis gloomy painting. It appears, from recently-discovered do- cuments, that Spenser -was sometimes emjiloyed in inferior state missions, a task tlicn often devolved on poets and dramatists. At length an important appointment came. Lord Grey of Wilton was sent to Ireland as lord-deputy, and Spenser accompanied him in the capacity of secretary. They remained there two years, wlien the deputy was recalled, and the poet also returned to England. In June 1 586, Spenser obtained from the crown a grant of .30-28 acres in the county of Corlv, out of the forfeited lands of the Earl of Desmond, of which Sir Walter Raleigli had previous!}-, for his military services in Ireland, obtained 12,000 acres. The poet was obliged to reside on his estate, as tliis was one of tliQ c:oin hath allow'd The magistrate, to call forth private men ; And to appoint their daj' : which privilege We may not in the consul see infring'd, R_V whose deep watches, and industrious care, It is so labour'd as the commonwealth Receive no loss, by any oblique course. Sil. Caesar, thy fraud is worse than violence. Tib. Silius, mistake us not, we dare not use The credit of the consul to thy wrong ; But only do preserve his place and power, So far as it concerns the dignity And honour of the state. Arr. Believe him, Silius. Cot. Why, so he may, Arruntius. Arr. I say so. And he may choose too. Tib. By the Capitol, And all our gods, hut that the dear republic, Our sacred laws, an8 just authority Are interess'd therein, I should be silent. Afer. 'Please Ctesar to give way unto his trial ; lie shall have justice. Sil. Nay, I shall have law ; Shall I not, Afer? speak. Afer. \^'ould you have more \ Sil. No, my well-spoken man, I would no more ; Nor less : might I enjoy it natural. Not taught to speak unto your present ends. Free from thine, his, and all your unkind handling, Furious enforcing, most unjust presuming. Malicious, and manifold applying. Foul wresting, and impossible construction. Afer. He raves, he raves. ve ! And now I can out-wake the nightingale. Out-watch an usurer, and out-walk him too. Stalk like a ghost that haunted 'bout a treasure ; And all that fancied treasure, it is love ! Host. But is your name Love-ill, sir, or Love-well ! I would know that. Lov. I do noc know 't myself. Whether it is. But it is love liath been Tlie hereditary passion of our house. My gentle host, and, as I guess, my friend ^ The truth is, I have lov'd this lady long. And impotentl}', with desire enough, But no success^: for I have still forborne To express it in my person to her. Host. How then ? Lov. I have sent her toys, verses, and ai-igrama, Trials of wit, mere trifles, she has commended. But knew not whence they came, nor could she guess. Host. This was a pretty riddling way of wooiu^ ! Lov. I oft have been, too, in her company. And look'd upon her a whole day, admir'd her, Lov'd her, and did not tell her so ; lov'd still, Look'd still, and lov'd ; and lov'd, and look'd, an 1 sigh'd ; But, as a man neglected, I came off, And unregarded. Host. Could you blame her, sir. When you were silent and not said a word ? Lov. 0, but I lov'd the more ; and she might read it Best in my silence, had she been Host. As melancholic As you are. Pray you, why would you stand mute, sir 1 Lov. thereon hangs a history, mine host. Did you e'er know or hear of the Lord Beaufort, Who serv'd so bravely in France ? I was his page, And, ere he died, his friend : I foUow'd him First in the wars, and in the times of peace I waited on his studies ; whicli were right. He had no Arthurs, nor no Kosicleers, No Knights of the Sun, nor Amadis de Gauia, I'rimalions, and Pantagruels, public nothings ; Abortives of the fabulous dark cloister. Sent out to poison courts, and infest manners : But great Achilles', Agamemnon's acts, Sage Nestor's counsels, and Ulysses' sleights, Tydides' fortitude, as Homer wrouirht them In liis immortal fancy, for examples Of the henjic virtue. Or, as Virgil, That master of the Epic poeui, limn'd Pious ^neas, his religious prince, 19« rKOM 1558 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1C4S Bearing his aged parent on his shoulders, Rapt, from the flames of Troy, with his young son. And these he brought to practice and to use. He gave nie first my breeding, I acknowledge. Then shower'd his bounties on me, like the Hours, That open-handed sit upon the clouds, And press the liberality of hearen Domi to the laps of thankful men ! But then. The trust committed to me at his death \Va3 above all, and left so strong a tie On all my powers, as time shall not dissolve, Till it dissolve itself, and bury all : The care of his brave heir and only son ! Who being a virtuous, sweet, young, hopeful lord. Hath cast his first affections on this lady. And though I know, and may presume her such, As out of humour, will return no love. And therefore might indifferently be made The courting-stock for all to practise on, As she doth practise on us all to scorn : Yet out of a religion to my charge, And debt profess'd, 1 have made a self-decree, Ne'er to express my person, though my passion Bum me to cinders. [A Simpleton and a Braggadocio.'] [Bnbadil, the braggadocio, in his mean and obscure lodging, Is v»6ited by Matthew, the simpleton.] Mat. Save you, sir ; save you, captain. Bob. Gentle master ^latthew ! Is it you, sir ? Please you to sit do\TO. Mat. Thank you, good captain, you may see I am somewhat audacious. Bob. Not so, sir. I was requested to supper last night by a sort of gallants, where you were msh'd for, and drunk to, I assure you. Mat. Vouchsafe me, by whom, good captain ? Bob. Marry, by j'oung Well-bred, and others. Why, hostess, a stool here for this gentleman. Mat. No haste, sir ; 'tis very well. Bob. Body o' me ! — it was so late ere we parted last night, I can scarce open my eyes yet ; I was but new risen, as you came : how passes the day abroad, sir ? — you can tell. Mat. Faith, some half hour to seven : now, trust me, you have an exceeding fine lodging here, very neat and private ! Bob. Ay, sir ; sit down, I pray you. Mr Matthew (in any case) possess no gentlemen of our acquaint- ance with notice of my lodging. Mat. Who ! 1, sir ?— no. Bob. Not that T need to care who know it, for the cabin is convenient, but in regard I would not be too popular, and generally visited as some are. Mat. True, captain, I conceive you. Bob. For, do you see, sir, by tlie heart of valour in me (except it be to some i)eculiar and choice spirits, to whom I am extraordinarily engaged, as yourself, or so), I could not extend thus far. Mat. Lord, sir, I resolve so. Bob. I confess I love a cleanly and quiet privacy, above all the tumult and roar of fortune. What new book ha' you there ! What ! Go by, llieronymo !' Mat. Ay, did you ever see it acted 1 Ls't not well penn'd ? Bob. \V'cll-peun'd ! I would fain see all the poets of tliese times pen such another play as that was ! — they'll prate and swagger, and keep a stir of art and devices, when (as I am a gentleman), read 'em, they are the most .shallow, pitiful, barren fellows, that live upon the face of the earth again. Mat. Indeed ; here are a number of fine speeches in ' A cant pb'vse of the day. this book. ' eyes, no eyes, but fo uitains fraught with tears !' There's a conceit ! — fountains fraught with tears ! ' life, no life, but lively form of death!' Another! '0 world, no world, but mass of public wrongs !' A third ! ' Confused and fiU'd with murder and misdeeds!' A fourth ! 0, the muses! ls't not excellent ? ls't not simply the best that ever ycu heard, captain ? Ha ! how do you like it ? Bob, 'Tis good. Mat. ' To thee, the purest object to my sense, The most refined essence heaven covers. Send I these lines, wherein I do commence The happy state of turtle-billing lovers. If they prove rough, unpolish'd, harsh, and rude, Haste made the waste. Thus mildh' I conclude.* Bob. Naj', proceed, proceed. Wlicre's this ? [Bobadil is making him ready all this ichl^e. Mat. This, sir? a toy o' mine own, in my nonage ; the infancy of my muses ! But when will you coine and see my study ? Good faith, 1 can show you some very good things I have done of late. That boot be- comes your leg passing well, captain, methinks. Bob. So, so ; it's the fashion gentlemen now use. Mat. Troth, captain, and now you speak o' the fashion, ^Master Well-bred 's elder brother and I are fiiUen out exceedingly. This other day, I happened to enter into some discourse of a hanger, which, 1 assure you, both for fashion and workmanship, was most peremptory-beautiful and gentleman-like ; yet he condemned and cried it do'SMi for the most pyed and ridiculous that ever he saw. Bob. Squire Downright, the half-brother, was't not! Mat. Aj', sir, he. Bob. Hang him, rook, he ! why, he has no more judgment than a malt-horse. By St George, I won- der you'd lose a thought upon such an animal ; the most peremptory absurd clo\vn of Christendom, this day, he is holden. I protest to you, as I am a gentle- man and a soldier, I ne'er changed words with his like. By his discourse, he should eat nothing but haj' : he was bom for the manger, pannier, or pack- saddle ! He has not so much as a good phrase in his belly, but all old iron and rusty proverbs !— a good commodity for some smith to make hob-nails of. 3Iat. Ay, and he thinks to carry it away with his manhood still, where he comes : he brags he will gi' me the bastinado, as I hear. Bob. How I he the bastinado ? How came he by that word, trow ? Mat. Nay, indeed, he said cudgel me ; I terni'd it so for my more grace. Bob. That ma}' be, for I was sure it was none of his word : but when ? when said he so ? J/rt/. Faith, yesterday, they say ; a young gallant, a friend of mine, told me so. Bob. By the foot of Pharaoh, an 'twere my case now, I should. send him a chartcl presently. The bas- tinado ! A most proper and sufficient depeudance, warranted by the great Caranza. Come hither ; ^-ou shall chartel him ; I'll show you a trick or two, you shall kill him with at pleasure ; the first stoccata, if you will, by this air. j][at. Indeed ; you have absolute knowledge i' the mystery, I have heard, sir Bob. Of whom 1 — of whom ha' you heard it, I be- seech you ? Mot. Troth I have heard it spoken of divers, tliat you have very rare, and un-in-one-breath-utter-able skill, sir. Bob. By heav'n, no not I ; no skill i' the earth ; some small rudiments i' the science, as to know my time, distance, or so: I have profest it more for noble- men and gentlemen's use than mine own ])ractice, 1 assure you. Ho-^tess, accommodate us with another bcd-stiitf lien; quickly: lend us another bed-staff": the woman does not understand the words of action. IiOok 196 DRAMATISTS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. BEN JONSON. you, sir, exalt not your point above this state, at any hand, and let your poniard maintain your defence, thus ; (give it the gentleman, and leave us ;) so, sir. Come on. twine your body more about, that you may fall to a more sweet, comel}', gentleman-like guard ; so, indifferent : hollow your body more, sir, thus ; now, stand fast o' your left leg, note your distance, keep your due proportion of time. 0, you disorder your point most irregularly ! 3Iat. How is the bearing of it now, sir 1 Bob. 0, out of measure ill ! — a well-experienced hand would pass upon you at pleasure. Mat. How mean you, sir, pass upon me ? Bob. Why, thus, sir, (make a thrust at me) ; come in upon the answer, control your point, and make a full career at the body ; the best practis'd gallants of the time name it the passado ; a most desperate thrust, believe it ! Mat. Well, come, sir. Bob. Why, you do not manage your weapon with any facility or grace to invite me ! I have no spirit to play with you ; j'our dearth of judgment renders you tedious. Mat. But one venue, sir. Bob. Venue ! fie ; most gross denomination as ever I heard. 0, the stoccata, while you live, sir, note that ; come, put on j-our cloak, and we'll go to some private place where you are acquainted — some tavern or so — and have a bit ; I'll send for one of these fencers, and he shall breatlie you, by my direction, and then I will teach you your trick ; you shall kill him with it at the first, if you please. Why, I will learn you by the true judgment of the eye, hand, and foot, to control any enemy's point 1' the world. Should your adversary confront you with a pistol, 'twere nothing, by this hand ; you should, by the same rule, control his bullet, in a line, except it were hall shot, and spread. What money ha' you about you. Master Matthew? Mat. Faith, I ha' not past a two shillings, or so. Boo. 'Tis somewhat with the least ; but come ; we will have a bunch of radish, and salt to taste our wine, and a pipe of tobacco, to close the orifice of the sto- mach ; and then we'll call upon young Well-bred : perhaps we shall meet the Coridon his brother there, and put him to the quesi'on. Every Man in his Humour. IBobadil's Plan for Saving the Expense of an Army.] Bob. I will tell you, sir, by the way of private, and under seal, I am a gentleman, and live here obscure, and to myself ; but were I known to her majesty and the lords (observe me), I would undertake, upon this poor head and life, for the public benefit of the state, not only to spare the entire lives of her subjects in general, but to save the one half, nay, three parts of her yearly charge in holding war, and against what enemy soever. And how would I do it, think you 2 E. Kno. Nay, I know not, nor can I conceive. Bob. Why thus, sir. I would select nineteen more, to myself, throughout the land ; gentlemen they should be of good spirit, strong and able constitution ; I would choose them by an instinct, a character that I have : and I would teach these nineteen the special rules, as your punto, your reverso, your stoccata, your irabroc- cato, your passado, your montanto, till they could all play very near, or altogether as well as myself. This done, say the enemy were forty thousand strong, we twenty would come into the field the tenth of March, or thereabouts ; and we woubl challenge twenty of the enemy ; they could not in their honour refuse us ; well, we would kill them : challenge twenty more, kill them ; twenty more, kill them ; twenty more, kill them too; and thus would we kill every man his twenty a-day, that's twenty score; tw^ntv smre. tha.f'e two hundred ; two hundred a-day, five days a thousand ; forty thousand ; forty times five, five times forty, two hundred days kills them all up by computation. And this will I venture my poor gentleman-like carcass to perform, provided there be no treason practised upon us, by lair and discreet manhood ; that is, civilly by the sword. Ibid. [Advice to a RecTcless Youth.] Knowdl. What would I have you do ? I'll tell you, kinsman ; Learn to be wise, and practise how to thrive. That would I have you do : and not to spend Your coin on every bauble that you fancy, Or every foolish brain that humours you. I would not have you to Invade each place, Nor tluHist yourself on all societies, Till men's affections, or your own desert, Should worthily invite you to your rank. He that is so respectless In his courses, Oft sells his reputation at cheap market. Nor would I you should melt away 3'ourself In flashing bravery, lest, while you affect To make a blaze of gentry to the world, A little puff of scorn extinguish it. And 3'ou be left like an unsavourj' snuff, Whose property is only to ofl'end. I'd ha' you sober, and contain yourself; Not that your sail be bigger than your boat , But moderate your expenses now (at first) As you may keep the same proportion still. Nor stand so much on your gentility. Which is an airy, and mere borrow'd thing. From dead men's dust, and bones; and none of yours, Except you make, or hold it. loid. [The Alchemist.] Mammon. Surly, his Friend. The scene, Subtle's Ho iso. Mam. Come on, sir. Now you set your foot ou shore In novo orbe. Here's the rich Peru : And there within, sir, are the golden mines. Great Solomon's Opliir ! He was sailing to't Three years, but we have reach'd it in ten months This is the day wherein to all my friends I will pronounce the happy word, Be rich. This dav you shall be spcctatissiini. You sliall no more deal with the hollow dye. Or tlie frail card. No more be at charge of keeping The livery punk for the j'oung heir, that must Seal at all hours in his shirt. No more. If he deny, ha' him beaten to't, as he is That brings him the commodity. No more Shall thirst of satin, or the covetous hunger Of velvet entrails for a rude-spun cloak To be display'd at Madam Augusta's, make The sons of Sword and Hazard fall before The golden calf, and on their knees whole nights Commit Idolatry with wine and truiupets ; Or go a-feasting after drum and ensign. No more of this. You shall start up young viceroys, And have your punques and punquetees, my Surly : And unto thee I speak it first. Be rich. Where is my Subtle there '\ within, ho — [Face ansivcrs from teithin. Sir, he'll come to you by aiid by. Mam. That's his fire-drake. His Lungs, his Zephyrus, he that puffs his coals Till he firk nature up in her own centre. You are not faithful, sir. This night I'll change All that is metal in thy house to gold: And early in the morning will I send 197 moM 1558 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1648 To all the plumbers and the pewterers, And buy their tin and lead up ; and to Lothbury, For all the copper. Sur. What, and turn that too 1 Mam. Yes, and I'll purchase Deronshire and Corn- wall, And make them perfect Indies ! You admire now ? Sur. No, faith. Mam. But when you see the effects of the great medicine ! Of which one part projected on a hundred Of Mercury, or Venus, or the ISIoon, Shall turn it to as many of the Sun ; Nay, to a thousand, so ad infinitum: You will believe me. Sur. Yes, when I see't, I will. Mam. Ila ! why, Do you think 1 fable with you ? I assure you. He that has once the flower of the Sun, The perfect Ruby, which we call Elixir, Not only can do that, but by its virtue Can confer honour, love, respect, long life, Give safety, valour, yea, and victory, To whom he will. In eight-and-twenty days I'll make an old man of fourscore a child. Sur. No doubt ; he's that already. Mam, Nay, I mean, Restore his years, renew him like an eagle. To the fifth age ; make him get sons and daughters, Young giants, as our philosophers have done (The ancient patriarchs afore the flood). By taking, once a-week, on a knife's point, The quantity of a grain of mustard of it, Become stout Marses, and beget young Cupids. Sur. The decay 'd vestals of Pickt-hatch would thank you, That keep the fire alive there. Mam. 'Tis the secret Of nature naturised 'gainst all infections, Cures all diseases, coming of all auses ; A month's grief in a day ; a year's in twelve ; And of what age soever, in a month : Past all the doses of your drugging doctors. I'll undertake withal to fright the plague Out o' the kingdom in three months. Sur. And I'll Be bound the players shall sing your praises, then. Without their poets. Mam. Sir, I'll do't. Meantime, I'll give away so much unto my man, Shall serve the whole city with preservative Weekly ; each house his dose, and at the rate — Sur. As he that built the water-work does with water ! Mam. You are incredulous. Sur. Faith, I have a humour, I would not willingly be guU'd. Your Stone Cannot transmute me. Mam. Pertinax Surly, Will you believe antiquity t Records ? I'll show you a book, where Moses, and his sister, And Solomon, have written of the Art ! Ay, and a treatise penn'd by Adam. Sur. How ? Mam. Of the Philosopher's Stone, and in High Dutch. Sur. Did Adam write, sir, in High Dutch I Mam. He did. Which proves it was the primitive tongue. Sur. What paper ? Mam. On cedar-board. Sur. that, indeed, they say, Will last 'gainst wonns. Mam. 'Tis like your Irish wood ''Jainst cobwebs. I liave a piece of Jason's fleece too, Which was no other than a book of Alchemy, Writ in large sheep-skin, a good fat ram-vellum. Such wa^s Pythagoras' Thigh, Pandora's Tub, And all that fable of Medea's charms, The manner of our work : the bulls, our furnace, Still breathing fire : our Arfjent-rive, the Dragon : The Dragon's teeth, Mercury sublimate. That keeps the whiteness, hardness, and the biting ; And they are gather'd into Jason's helm (Th' Alembick), and then sow'd in Mars his field, And thence subllmM so often, till they are fix'd. Both this, the Hesperian Garden, Cadmus' Story, Jove's Shower, the Boon of Midas, Argus' Eyes, Boccace his Demogorgon, thousands more. All abstract riddles of our Stone. THE COURT MASQUES OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTUR? The courts of James I. and Charles I., while as yet danger neither existed nor was anticipated, were enlivened by the peculiar theatrical entertainment called the IVIasque — a trifle, or little better, in itself, but which has derived particular interest from the genius of Jonson and Milton. The origin of the masque is to be looked for in the 'revels' and 'shows' which, during the fourteenth, fifteenth, and six- teenth centuries, were presented on high festive occasions at court, in the inns of the lawyers, and at the universities, and in those mysteries and morali- ties which were the earliest forms of tlie spoken drama. Henry VIII., in his earlier and better days, had frequent entertainments, consisting of a set of masked and gaily-dressed characters, or of such representations as the following: In the hall of the palace at Greenwich, a castle was reared, with numerous towers and gates, and every appearance of preparation for a long siege, and inscribed, Le for- tresse dangereux ; it was defended by six richly-dressed ladies ; the king and five of his courtiers then en- tered in the disguise of knights, and attacked the castle, which tlie ladies, after a gallant resistance, surrendered, the ali'air concluding with a dance of the ladies and knights. Here there was nothing but scenery and jiantomime ; by and bj-, poetical dia- logue, song, and music, were added; and when the masque had reached its height in the reigns of James and the first Charles, it employed the first talent of the country- in its composition, and, as Bacon re- marks, being designed for princes, was by princes plaj'ed. Masques were generally prepared for some remark- able occasion, as a coronation, the birth of a young prince or noble, a peer's marriage, or the visit of some royal personage of foreign countries ; and they usually took place in the ball of the palace. Many of them were enacted in that banqueting room at Whitehall, through which a prince, who often took part in them, afterwards walked to the scaffold Allegory and mythology were the taste of that age : we wonder at the fact, but we do not perhaps suffi- ciently allow for the novelty of classical imagery and characters in those daj's, and it may be only a kind of prejudice, or the effect of fashion, which makes us so rigorously banish from our literature allusions to the jioetic beings of Grecian antiquity-; while we con- tentedly solace ourselves in contemplating, tlirough what are called historical novels, the much ruder, and perhaps not more truly represented, personages of the jniddle ages. The action of a masque was always some- thing short and simple ; and it is easy to see that, ex- cepting where very high poetical and musical talent was engaged, the principal charm must have lain in the elegance of the dresses and decorations, and the piquancy of a constant reference from the actors in their assumed, to the actors in their real cha.-actera 198 DRAMATISTS. ENGLISH LITER ATURF BEN JONhON. Usually, besides gods, goddesses, and nymphs from classical antiquity, there were such personages as Night, Day, Beauty, Fortitude, and so forth ; but though the persons of the drama were thus removed from common hfe, the reference of the whole busi- ness of the scene to the occasion which had called it forth, was as direct as it could well be, and even ludicrously so, particularly when the object was to pay a compliment to any of the courtly audience. This, however, was partly justified by the private cliaracter of the entertainment ; and it is easy to conceive that, when a gipsy stepped from the scene, and, taking the king's hand, assigned him all the good fortune which a loyal subject should wish to a sovereign, there Avonld be such a marked increase of sensation in the audience, as to convince the poet that there lay the happiest stroke of his play. Mr Collier, in his Annals of the Stage, has printed a document which gives a very distinct account of the court masque, as it was about the time when the drama arose in England ; namely, in the early years of Elizabeth. That princess, as is well-known, de- signed an amicable meeting with Mary Queen of Scots, which was to have taken place at Nottingham castle, in May 1.562, but was given up in conse- quence, as is believed, of the jealousy of Elizabeth regarding the superior beauty of Mary. A masque was devised to celebrate the meeting and entertain the united courts, and it is the poet's scheme of tliis entertainment, docketed by Lord Eurleigh, to which reference is now made. The masque seems to have been simply an acted allegory, relating to the circum- stances of the two queens; and it throws a curious light not only upon the taste, but upon the political his- tory of the period. We give the procedure of the first night. * First, a prison to be made in the hall, the name whereof is Extreme Oblivion, and the keeper's name thereof Argus, otherwise called Circumspection : then a masque of ladies to come in after this sort : First Pallas, riding upon an unicorn, having in her hand a standard, in which is to be painted two ladies' hands, knit in one fast within the other, and over the hands, written in letters of gold. Fides. Then two ladies riding together, the one upon a golden lion with a crown of gold on his head, the other upon a red lion, with the like crown of gold ; signifying two virtues ; that is to say, the lady on the gc'den lion is to be called Prudentia, and the lady on the red lion Temperantia. After this, to follow six or eight ladies masquers, bringing in captive Discord and False Report, with ropes of gold about their necks. When these have marched about the hall, then Pallas to declare be- fore the queen's majesty, in verse, that the goddess, understanding the noble meeting of these two queens, hath willed her to declare unto them that those two virtues, Prudentia and Temperantia, have made great and long suit unto Jupiter, that it would please him to give unto tliem False Report and Discord, to be punished as they think good ; and that those ladies have now in their presence deter- mined to commit tliem fast bound unto the aforesaid prison of Extreme Oblivion, there to be kept by the aforesaid jailor Argus, otherwise Circumspection, for ever, unto whom Prudentia shall deliver a lock, whereuxjon shall be written In Eternum. Then Tem- perantia shall likewise deliver unto Argus a key, whose name shall be Nunquam, signifying that, when False Report and Discord are conmiitted to the prison of Extreme Oblivion, and locked there ever- lastingly, he should put in the key to let them out nunquam [never] ; and when he hath so done, tlien the trumpets to blow, and the English ladies to take the nobility of the strangers, and dance.' On the second night, a castle is presented in the hall, and Peace comes in riding in a chariot drawn by an elephant, on whidi sits Friendship. The latter pronounces a speech on the event of the pre- ceding evening, and Peace is left to dwell with Prudence and Temperance. The third night showed Disdain on a wild boar, accompanied by Prepensed ]\Ialice, as a serpent, striving to procure the libera- tion of Discord and False Report, but opposed suc- cessfully by Courage and Discretion. At the end of the fight, ' Disdain shall run his ways, and escape with life, but Prepensed ISIalice shall be slain ; sig- nifying that some imgodly men may still disdain the perpetual peace made between these two virtues ; but as for their prepensed malice, it is easy trodden imder these ladies' feet.' The second night ends with a flowing of wine from conduits, ' during which time the English lords shall mask with the Scottish ladies :' the third night terminates by the six or eight ladies masquers singing a song ' as full of harmony as may be devised.' The whole entertain- ment indicates a sincere desire of reconciliation on the ])art of Elizabeth ; but the first scene — a prison — seems strangely ominous of the events which fol- lowed six years after. The masque, as has been stated, attained the zenith of its glory in the reign of James I., the most festive known in England between those of Henry VIII. and Charles II. The queen, tlie ])rinces, and nobles and ladies of the highest rank, took parts in them, and they engaged the genius of .Jonson, Inigo Jones, and Henry Lawes, each in his various department of poet, machinist, and nmsician ; while no expense was sjjared to render them worthy of the place, the occasion, and the audience. It appears from the accounts of the Master of Revels, that no less than £4215 was lavished on these entertainments in the first six years of the king's reign. Jonson himself composed twenty-three masques ; and Dekker, Middleton, and others of the leading dramatic authors, Shakspeare alone excepted, were glad to contribute in this man- ner to the pleasures of a court whose patronage was so essential to them. The marriage of Lord James Hay to Anne, daughter and heir of Lord Denny, January 6th, 1607, was distinguished at court (Whitehall) by wliat was called the Memorable Masque, tlie pro- duction of Dr Thomas Campion, an admired musi- cian as well as poet of that da}', now forgotten. On this occasion, the great hall of the palace was fitted up in a way that shows the mysteries of theatrical scenery and decoration to have been better under- stood, and carried to a greater height, in that age, than is generally sujiposed. One end of the hall was set apart for tlie audience, having the king's seat in tlie centre ; next to it was a space for ten concerted musicians — base and mean lutes, a bandora, a double sackbut, a harpsichord, and two treble violins — be- •sides wlioin there were nine violins, thnee lutes, six cornets, and six chapel singers. The stage was con- cealed by a curtain resembling dark clouds, which being withdrawn, disclosed a green valley with green round at)out it, and in the midst of them nine golden ones of fifteen feet high. Tlie bower of Flora was on their right, the house of Night on the left ; be- tween tliem a hill hanging like a cliff over the grove. The bower of Flora was spacious, garnished with flowers and flowery branches, with lights among them ; the house of Niglit ample and stately, with black columns studded with golden stars ; while a!)out it were placed, on wires, artificial bats and owls continually moving. As soon as the king entered the great hull, tlie hautboys were heard from tlie top of the hill a,nd from the wood, till 1!)!> FROM 1558 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1649. Flora and Zephynis were seen busily gathering flowers from the bower, throwing them into baskets which two sylvans held, attired in changeable taffetj'. Besides two other allegorical characters, Night and Hesperus, there were nine masquers, re- presenting Apollo's knights, and personated by young men of rank. After songs and recitative, the whole vale was suddenly withdrawn, and a hill with Diana's tree discovered. Night appeared in her house with Nine Hours, apparelled in large robes of black tafTety, painted thick with stars ; their hair long, black, and spangled with gold ; on their heads coronets of stars, and their faces black. Every Hour bore in his hand a black torch painted with stars, and lighted. Night. Vanish, dark vales, let night in glory shine. As she doth bum in rage ; come, leave our shrine, You black-haired hours, and guide us with your lights, Flora hath wakened wide our drowsy sprites. See where she triumphs, see her flowers are thrown. And all about the seeds of malice sown ; Despiteful Flora, is't not enough of grief, That Cynthia's robbed, but thou must grace the thief? Or didst not hear Night's sovereign queen i complain Hymen had stolen a nymph out of her train. And matched her here, plighted henceforth to be Lore's friend and stranger to virginity ? And mak'st thou sport for this ? Florra. Be mild, stem Night ; Flora doth honour Cynthia and her right ; * * The nymph was Cynthia's while she was her o^vn, But now another claims in her a right. By fate reserved thereto, and wise foresight. Zephynts. Can C^Tithia one kind virgin's loss be- moan 1 How, if perhaps she brings her ten for one ? * * After some more such dialogue, in which Hesperus takes part, Cynthia is reconciled to the loss of her n^-raph ; the trees sink, by means of enginery, under the stage, and the masquers come out of their tops to fine music. Dances, processions, speeches, and songs follow, the last being a duet between a Sylvan and an Hour, by the way of tenor and bass. Syl. Tell me, gentle Hour of Night, Wherein dost thou most delight ? Hour. Not in Bleep. Syl. Whei-ein, then ? Hour. In the frolic view of me).. Syl. Lov'st thou music ? Hoxtr. Oh, 'tis sweet. Syl. What's dancing ? Hour. Even the mirth of feet. Syl. Joy you in fairies and in elves ? Hour. W'e are of that sort ourselves : But, Sylvan, say, why do you love Only to frequent the grove ? Syl. Life is fullest of content, Where delight is innocent. Hour. Pleasure must vary, not be long ; Come, then, let's close and end our sonc. Then the masquers made an obeisance to the king, and attended him to the banqueting room. The masques of Jonson contain a great deal of fine poetry, and even the prose descriptive parts are remarkable for grace and delicacy of language — as, for instance, M-here he speaks of a sea at the back of a scene, catching 'the eye afar off Avith a wander ing beauty.' In that which was produced at the marriage of Kainsay, Lord Haddington, to Lady Elizabeth Katcliff, tiie scene presented a steep red cliff, topped by clouds, allusive to the red cliff from which the lady's name was said to be derived ; before vhich were two pillars charged with spoils of love, umongst which were old and young persons bound > Diana. with roses, ^redding garments, rocks, and spindles, hearts transfixed with arrows, others flaming, vir- gins' girdles, garlands, and worlds of such like.' Enter Venus in her chariot, attended by the Graces, and delivers a speech expressive of her anxiety to recover her son Cupid, Avho has run away from her. The Graces then make proclamation as follows: — \st Grace. Beauties, have you seen this toy, Called love, a little boy. Almost naked, wanton, blind ; Cruel now, and then as kind ! If he be amongst j^e, say ; He is Venus' runaway. Id Grace. She that mil but now discover Where the winged wag doth hover. Shall to-night receive a kiss. How or where herself would wish ; But who brings him to his mother, Shall have that kiss, and another. ?A Grace. He hath marks .about him plenty ; You shall know him among twenty. All his body is a fire. And his breath a flame entire. That, being shot like lightning in, Wounds the heart but not the skin. \i't Grace. At his sight the sun hath turn'd, Neptune in the waters buni'd ; Hell hath felt a greater heat ; Jove himself forsook his seat ; From the centre to the sky Are his trophies reared high. Id Grace. Wings he hath, which though ye clip. He will leap from lip to lip. Over liver, lights, and heart, But not stay in any part ; And if chance his arrow misses, He Mrill shoot himself in kisses. Zd Grace. He doth bear a golden bow, And a quiver hanging low, Full of arrows, that outbrave Dian's shafts ; where, if he have Any head more sharp than other. With that first he strikes his mother. l.'^ Grace. Still the fairest are his fuel. When his days are to be cruel. Lovers' hearts are all his food. And his baths their warmest blood ; Nought but wounds his hand doth season, And he hates none like to Reason. Id Ghxice. Trust him not ; his words, though sweet. Seldom with his heart do meet. All his practice is deceit ; Every gift it is a bait ; Not a kiss but poison bears ; And most treason in his tears. 3ti Grace. Idle minutes are his reign •, Then the straggler makes his gain. By presenting maids with toys. And would have ye think them joys ; 'Tis the ambition of tlie elf To have all childish as himself. \$t Grace. If by these ye please to know him, Beauties, be not nice, but show him. 2d Grace, Though ye had a will to hide him. Now, we hope, ye'U not abide him. 3d Grace. Since you hear his falser play, And that he 's Venus' runart-ay. Cupid enters, attended by twelve boys, representing ' the Sports and pretty Lightnesses that accompany 200 DRAMATI 4TS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. BEM JOli''SOI(. Love,' who dance, and then Venus apprehends her son, and a pretty dialogue ensues between them and Hymen. Vulcan afterwards appears, and, claiming the pillars as his workmanship, strikes tlie red clitf, which opens, and shows a large luminous sphere containing the astronomical lines and signs of the zodiac. He makes a quaint speech, and presents the sphere as his gift to Venus on the triumph of her son. The Lesbian god and his consort retire ami- cably to their chariot, and the piece ends by the •inging of an epithalamium, interspersed with dances of masquers : — Up, youths and A'irgius, up, and praise The god, whose nights outshine his days ; Hymen, whose hallow'd rites Could never boast of brighter lights ; Whose bauds pass liberty. Two of your troop, that with the morn were free, Are now waged to his war. And what they are, If you'll perfection see, Yourselves must be. Shine, Hesperus, shine forth, thou wished star ! What joy, what honours can compare With holy nuptials, when they are Made out of equal parts Of years, of states, of hands, of hearts ! When in the happy choice The spouse and spoused have foremost voice ! Such, glad of Hymen's war, Live what they are, And long perfection see ; And such ours be. Shine, Hesperus, shine forth, thou wished star ! * * * Still further to illustrate this curious subject, and to revive a department of our literature almost totally unknown, we present one entire masque of Jonson, a short but beautiful one, which was repre- sent at court in 1615, 'by the lords and gentlemen, the king's servants,' and seems to have been designed as a compliment to the king on the point of his love of justice. The Golden Age Bestored. The court being seated and in expectation, Loud Music : Pallas in her chariot descending to a softer music. Look, look ! rejoice and wonder That you, offending mortals, are (For all your crimes) so much the care Of him that bears the thunder. Jove can endure no longer, Your great ones should your less invade ; Or that your weak, though bad, be made A prey unto the stronger. And therefore means to settle Astnea in her seat again ; And let down in his golden chain An age of better metal. Which deed he doth the rather, That even En^-y may behold Time not enjoy 'd his head of gold Alone beneath his father, But that his care conserveth, As time, so all time's honours too. Regarding still what heav'n should do, And ri,jt what earth deservcth. \^A tumult, aid clcushino of arms heard within. But hark ! what tumult from yond' cave is heard ? What noise, what strife, what earthquake and alarms, As troubled Nature for her maker fear'd, And all the Iron Age were up in arms ! Hide me, soft cloud, from their profaiier eyes, Till insolent Rebellion take the field ; And as their spirits with their counsels rise, I frustrate all with showing but my shield. [^'Ae retires behind a dcntd. The Irok Age presents itself, calling forth the Evils. 7. Ar/e. Come forth, come forth, do we not hear What purpose, and how worth our fear, The king of gods hath on us 1 lie is not of the Iron breed, That would, though Fate did help the deed. Let Shame In so upon us. Rise, rise then up, thou grandame Vice Of all my issue. Avarice, Bring with thee Fraud and Slander, Corruption with the golden hands. Or any subtler 111, that stands To be a more commander. Thy boys. Ambition, Pride, and Scorn, Force, Rapine, and thy babe last bom. Smooth Treachery, call hither. Arm Folly forth, and Ignorance, And teach them all our Pyrrhic dance : We may triumph together. Upon this enemy so great. Whom, if our forces can defeat, And but this once bring under, V^'q are the masters of the skies. Where all the wealth, height, power liss. The sceptre, and the thunder. Wiich of you would not in a war Attempt the price of any scar, To keep your onto states even ? But liere, which of you is that he. Would not himself the weapon be, To ruin Jove and heaven ? About it, then, and let him feel The Iron Age is turn'd to steel. Since he begins to threat her : And though the bodies here are lesg Than were the giants ; he'll confess Our malice is far greater. The Evils enter for the Antimasque, and dance to two ilniro», trumpets, and a confusion of niartiul music. At tlie end of which Pallas reappears, showing her shield. The Gvii4 are turned to statues. Pal. So change, and perish, scarcely knowing how, That 'gainst the gods do take so vain a vow. And think to equal with your mortal dates, Their lives that are obnoxious to no fates. 'Twas time t' appear, and let their folly see 'Gainst whom they fought, and with what destinj'. Die all that can remain of you, but stone, And that be seen a while, and then be imne ! Now, now descend, you both belov'd of Jove, And of the good on earth no less the love. [TVtc sceiv: changes, and she calU AsTn^A and the Golden Ahs. Descend, you long, long wish'd and wanted pair, And as your softer times divide the air. So shake all clouds off with your golden hair; For Spite is spent : the Iron Age is fled. And, with her power on earth, her name is dead. 201 PROM 1558 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1649. AsTR^EA and the Golden Aoe descending with a song. Ast. G. A(je. And are we then To live agen, With men ? Ast. Will Jove such pledges to the earth restore As justice 1 O. Age. Or the purer ore ] Pal. Once more. G. Age. But do they know, How much they owe I Below ? Ast. And will of grace receive it, not as due ! Pal. If not, they harm themselves, not you. Ast. True. G. Age. True. Cho. Let narrow natures, how they will, mistake, The great should still be good for their own sake. [They conie forward. Pal. Welcome to earth, and reign. Ast. G. Age. But how, without a train. Shall we our state sustain ? Pal. Leave that to Jove : therein you are No little part of his Minerva's care. Expect awhile. You far-famed spirits of this happy isle. That, for your sacred songs have gain'd the style Of Phoebus' sons, whose notes the air aspire Of th' old Egyptian, or the Thracian lyre, That Chaucer, Gower, Lydgate, Spenser, hight, Put on your better flames, and larger light. To wait upon the Age that shall your names new nourish. Since A'irtue press'd shall grow, and buried Arts shall flourish. Cliau. Gow. We come. Lyd. Spen. We come. Omnes. Our best of fire. Is that which Pallas doth inspire. [They descend. Pal. Then see you yonder souls, set far within the shade. That in Elysian bowers the blessed seats do keep. That for their living good, now semi-gods are made, And went away from earth, as if but tam'd with sleep ? These we must join to wake ; for these are of the strain That justice dare defend, and will the age sustain. Clio. AwaVa, awake, for whom these times were kept. wake, wake, wake, as you had never slept ! Make haste and put on air, to be their guard. Whom once but to defend, is still reward. Pal. Thus Pallas throws a lightning from her shield. [The scene of light discovered. Cho. To which let all that doubtful darkness yield. Ast. Now Peace. G. Age. And Love. Ast. Faith, G. Age. Joys. Alt. G. Age. All, all increase. [A pause. Chau. And Strife, Gow. And Hate, Lyd. And Fear, Spen. And Pain, Omnes. All cease. Pal. No tumour of an iron vein. The causes shall not come again. Cho. But, as of old, all now be gold. Move, move then to the sounds ; And do not only walk your solemn rounds. But give those light and airy bounds. That fit the Genii of these gladder grounds. The first Dance. Pal. Already do not all things smile ? Ast. But when they have enjoy'd a while The Age's quickening power : Age. That every thought a seed doth bring. And every look a plant doth spring, And every breath a flower : Pal, The earth unplough'd shall yield her crop, Pure honey from the oak shall drop, The fountain shall run milk : The thistle shall the lily bear. And every bramble roses wear, And every worm make silk. Cho. The very shrub shall balsam sweat. And nectar melt the rock with heat, Till earth have drank her fill : That she no harmful weed may know, Nor barren fern, nor mandrake low, Nor mineral to kill. Here the main Dance. After which, Pal. But here's not all : you must do more. Or else you do but half restore The Age's liberty. Poe. The male and female us'd to join, And into all delight did coin That pure simplicity. Then Feature did to Form advance, And Youth call'd Beauty forth to dance. And every Grace was by : It was a time of no distrust. So much of love had nought of lust ; None fear'd a jealous eye. The language melted in the ear, Yet all without a blush might hear; They liv'd with open vow. Cho. Each touch and kiss was so well plac'd, They were as sweet as they were chaste, And such must yours be now. Here they dance with the Ladies. Ast. What change is here 1 I had not more Desire to leave the earth before. Than I have now to stay ; My silver feet, like roots, are wreath'd Into the ground, my wings are slieath'd, And I cannot away. Of all there seems a second birth ; It is become a heaven on earth, And Jove is present here. I feel the godhead ; nor will doubt But he can fill the place throughout, Whose power is everywhere. This, this, and only such as this. The bright Astroea's region is. Where she would pray to live ; And in the midst of so much gold, Unbought with grace, or fear unsold, The law to mortals give. Here they dance the Galliards and Corantoa. Pallas [ascending, and calling the Poets.] 'Tis now enough ; behold you here, What Jove hath built to be your -phere, You hither must retire. And as his bounty gives you cause, Be ready still without your pause, To show the world your fire. 20S DRAMATISTS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. Like lights about Astrsea's throne, You here must shine, and all be one, In fervour and in flame ; That by your union she may grow, And, you sustaining her, may know The Age still by her name. Who vows, against or heat or cold, To spin your garments of her gold, That want, may touch you never ; And making garlands ev'ry hour, To >vrite your names in some new flower, That you may live for ever. Cho. To Jove, to Jove, be all the honour given, That thankful hearts can raise from earth to heaven. FRANCIS BEAUMONT — JOHN FLETCHER. The literary partnerships of the drama which we have had occasion to notice were generally brief and incidental, confined to a few scenes or a single play. In Beaumont and Fletcher, we have the inte- resting spectacle of two young men of liigli genius, of good birth and connexions, living together for ten years, and writing in union a series of dramas, pas- sionate, romantic, and comic, thus blending together their genius and tlieir fame in indissoluble con- nexion. Shakspeare was undoubtedly the inspirer of these kindred spirits. They appeared when his genius was in its meridian splendour, and they were completely subdued by its overpowering influence. They reflected its leading characteristics, not as shivisli copyists, but as men of high powers and attainments, proud of borrowing inspiration from a source which they could so well appreciate, and which was at once ennobling and inexhaustible. Francis Beaumont was the son of Judge Beaumont, a member of an ancient family settled at Grace Dieu, in Leicestershire. He was born in 1586, and educated at Cambridge. He became a student of the Inner Temple, probably to gratify his father, but does not seem to have prosecuted the study of tlie law. He was married to the daugliter and co-heiress of Sir Henry Isley of Kent, by whom lie liad two daugliters. He died before he had completed liis tliirtieth year, • nd was buried, March 9, 161,5-6, at the entrance to : t Benedict's chapel, Westminster Abbey. Jolin lletcher was the son of Hr Richard Fletelier, bisliop of Bristol, and afterwards of Worcester. He waa born ten years before his friend, in 1576, and lie sur- vived him ten years, dying of tlie great plague in 1625, and was buried in St Mary Overy's church, Southwark, on the 19th of August. The dramas of Beaumont and Fletcher are fifty- two in number. The greater part of them were nok printed till 1647, and hence it is impossible to assign the respective dates to each. Dryden mentions, tliat Philaster was the first play that brought tliem into esteem with the public, though tliey had written two or tliree before. It is improbable in plot, but interesting in character and situations. Tlie jealousy of Philaster is forced and unnatural ; tlie character of Euphrasia, disguised as Bellario, the page, is a copy from Viola, yet there is something peculiarly delicate in the following account of her hopeless attachment to Philaster : — My father oft would speak Your worth and virtue ; and, as I did grow More and more apprehensive, 1 did thirst To see the man so prais'd ; but yet all this Was but a maiden longing, to be lost As soon as found ; till, sitting in my window, Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a god, I thought (but it was you), enter our gates. My blood flew out, and back again as fast As I had puft'd it forth and suck'd it in Like breath. Then was I called away in haste To entertain you. Never was a man Ileav'd from a sheep-cote to a scejitre raised So high in thoughts as 1 : you loft a kiss Upon these lips then, which I mean to keep From you for ever. I did hear you talk, F'ar above singing ! After you were gone, I grew acquainted with my lioart, and search'd What stirr'd it so. Alas ! I found it love ; Yet far from lust ; for could I but have li\ed In presence of you, I had had my end. For this I did delude my noble father AVitli a feign'd pilgrimage, and dress'd myself In habit of a boy ; and for I knew ISIy birtli no matcli for you, 1 was past hoj* f )f having you. And, understanding well Tiiat wlieu I made discovery of my sex, I could not stay with you, I made a vow, By all the most religious things a maid Could call together, never to be known, A\'hilst there was hope to hide me from men's eyes, For other than I seem'd, that I iiiiglit ever Abide witli you : then sat I by the fount Where first you took me up. Philaster had previously described his finding the disguised maiden by tlie fount, and the descrii)lion is higlily poetical and picturesque : — Hunting the buck, I found him sitting by a fountain-side. Of which he borrow'd some to quench his thirst. And paid the nymph again as much in tears. A garland lay him by, made by liimself. Of many several flowers, bred in the bav, Stuck in that mystic order, that the rareness Dcliglitcd me : But ever when lie turii'd His tender eyes upon them he would weep, As if he meant to make them grow again. Seeing such pretty helpless innocence Dwell in his face, 1 ask'd him all his stor}'. He told me that his ])arents gentle died. Leaving him to the mercy of the fields. Which gave him roots ; and of the crystal sj)ring», Wliich did not stop their coui-ses ; and the sun. Which still, he tliank'd him, yielded him his light. Then took he up his garland, and did show What every flower, as country people hold, 20 ."i FKOM 1558 CYCLOPiEDIA OF TO 164fl. Did signify ; and how all, ordcr'd thus, Express'dhis grief: and to my thoughts did read The prettiest lecture of his country art That could be wish'd ; so that methought I could Have studied it. I gladly entertain'd him Who was as glad to follow. The Maid's Tragedy, supposed to be written about the same time, is a drama of a powerful but un- pleasing character. The purity of female virtue in Amintor and Aspatia, is well contrasted with the guilty boldness of Evadne ; and the rougli soldier- like bearing and manly feeling of Melantius, render the selfish sensuality of the king more hateful and disgusting. Unfortvmately, there is much licentious- ness in tliis fine play — wiiole scenes and dialogues are disfigured bj- this master vice of the tlieatre of Beaumont and Fletcher. Their dramas are ' a rank unweeded garden,' which grew only the more disor- derh- and vicious as it advanced to maturity. Flet- cher must bear the chief blame of tliis defect, for lie vrxoie longer than his associate, and is generally understood to have been the most copious and fertile composer. Before Beaumont's death, tliey liad, in addition to ' Pliilaster,' and tlie ' Maid's Tragedy,' produced King and no King, Bonduca, The Laws of Candy (tragedies) ; and The Woman Hater, The Knight of tJie Burning Pestle, The Honest Mans For- tune, The Coxcomb, and The Captain(cotned\es). Flet- cher afterwards produced three tragic dramas, and nine comedies, the best of Avhich are, The Chances, The Spanish Curate, The Beggar's Bush, and Bule a Wife and Have a Wife. He also wrote an exquisite pastoral drama. The Faithful Shepherdess, wliich Mil- ton followed pretty closely in the design, and partly in the language and imagery, of Comus. A higher though more doubtful honour has been assigned to the twin authors ; for Shakspeare is said to have assisted them in the composition of one of their works, The Two Noble Kinsmen, and his name is joined with Fletcher's on the title page of the first edition. The bookseller's authority in such matters is of no weight; and it seems unlikely that our great poet, after the production of some of his best dramas, should enter into a partnership of this description. The ' Two Noble Kinsmen' is certainly not superior to some of the other plays of Beaumont and Fletcher. The genius of Beaumont is said to have been more correct, and more strongly inclined to tragedy, than that of his friend. The later works of Fletcher are chiefly of a comic character. His plots are some- times inartificial and loosely connected, but he is always lively and entertaining. There is a rapid succession of incidents, and the dialogue is wittj', elegant, and amusing. Dr3-den considered tliat they understood and imitated the conversation of gentle- »nen nmch better than Shakspeare ; and he states that their plays were, in his day, the most pleasant and frequent entertainments of the stage ; ' two of theirs being acted through the year, for one of Shakspeare's or Jonson's.' It was different some fortj' years previous to this. In 1627, the King's Company bribed the Master of the Revels with £5, to interfere in preventing the plaj-ers of the theatre called the Ked Bull, from performing the dramas of Shakspeare. One cause of the preference of Beau- mont and Fletcher, may liave been the license of their dramas, suited to the perverted taste of the court of Charles II., and the spirit of intrigue wliich they adopted from the Spanish stage, and naturalised on the English. 'We cannot deny,* remarks Ilallam, 'that the depths of Shakspeare's mind were often unfathomable by an audience ; the bow was drawn by a matchless hand, but the shaft went out of sight. All might listen to Fletcher's pleasing, though not profound or vigorous, language; his thoughts are noble, and tinged with the idealitj' of romance ; his metaphors vivid, though sometimes too forced ; he possesses the idiom of English without much pe- dantry, though in many passages he strains it beyond common use ; his versification, though studiously irregular, is often rhythmical and sweet ; yet we are seldom arrested by striking beauties. Good lines occur in every page, fine ones but rarely. We lay down the volume with a sense of admiration of what we have read, but little of it remains distinctly in the memory. Fletcher is not much quoted, and" has not even afibrded cojiious materials to those who cull the beauties of ancient lore.' His comic powers are certainly far superior to his tragic. Massinger im- presses the reader more deeply, and has a moral beauty not possessed by Beaumont and Fletcher, but in comedy he falls infinitely below them. Though their characters are deficient in variety, their know- ledge of stage-effect and contrivance, their fertility of invention, and the airy liveliness of their dialogue, give the charm of novelty and interest to their scenes, ilr Macaulay considers that the models wliich Fletcher had principally in his eye, even for his most serious and elevated compositions, were not Shakspeare's tragedies, but his comedies. 'It was these, with their idealised truth of character, their poetic beauty- of imagery, their mixture of the grave with the playful in thought, their rapid j-et skilful transitions from the tragic to the comic in feeling; it was these, the pictures in which Shakspeare had made his nearest approach to portraying actual life, and not those pieces in which he transports the ima- gination into his own vast and awful world of tragic action, and suffering, and emotion — that attracted Fletcher's fancy, and proved congenial to his cast of feeling.' This observation is strikinglyjust, applied to Shakspeare's mixed comedies or plavs, like the 'Twelfth Night,' the 'Winter's Tale,' 'As You Like It,' &c. The rich and genial comedy of Falstaff, Shal- low, and Slender, was not imitated by Fletcher. His ' Knight of the Burning Pestle' is an admirable bur- lesque of the false taste of the citizens of London for chivalrous and romantic adventures, without regard to situation or probability. On the whole, the dramas of Beaumont and Fletcher impress us with a liigh idea of their powers as poets and dramatists. The vast variety and luxuriance of their genius seem t3 elevate them above Jonson, though they were des- titute of his regularity and solidity, and to place them on the borders of the ' magic circle' of Shak- speare. The confidence and buoyancy of youth are visible in their productions. They haid not tasted of adversity, like Jonson or Massinger; and they had not the profoundly-meditative spirit of their great master, cognisant of all human feelings and sym- pathies; life was to tliem a scene of enjoyment and pleasure, and the exercise of their genius a source of refined delight and ambition. They were gentlemen who wrote for the stage, as gentlemen have rarely done before or since. {Generosity of C(Esar.'\ [Ptolemy, king of Egj-pt, having secured the head of Pompey, comes with his friends Achoreus and Photinus to present it to Caesar, as a means of gaining his favour. To them enter Caesar, Antony, Dolabclla, and Sceva.] Pho. Do not shun me, Csesar. From kingly Ptolemy 1 bring this present. The crown and sweat of thy Pharsalian labour, The goal and mark of high ambitious honour. Before, thy victory had no name, Coesar, Thy travel and thy loss of blood, no recompense ; Thou dreaiu'dst of being worthy, and of war, 20* ENGLISH LITERATURE. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. And all thv furious conflicts were but slumbers : Here they take life ; here they inherit honour, Grow fix'd, and shoot up everlasting triumphs. Tiike it, and look upon thy humble servant, With noble eyes look on the princely Ptolemy, That olfers with this head, most mighty Csesar, What thou wouldst once have given for't, all Egypt. Ack. Nor do not question it, most royal conqueror, Nor disesteem the benefit that meets thee. Because 'tis easily got, it comes the safer : Yet, let me tell thee, most imperious Cresar, Though he oppos'd no strength of swordis to win this, Nor labour'd through no showers of darts and lances, Yet here he found a fort, that faced him strongly, An inward war : He was his grandsire's guest. Friend to his father, and when he was expell'd And beaten from this kingdom by strong hand, And had none left him to restore his honour, No hope to find a friend in such a misery, Then in stept Pompey, took his feeble fortune, Strengthen'd, and cherish'd it, and set it right again : This was a love to Caasar. See. Give me hate, gods ! Pho. This Cffisar may account a little ^vicked ; But yet remember, if thine own hands, conqueror, Had fall'n upon him, what it had been then ; If thine own sword had touch'd his throat, what that way ! He was thy son-in-law ; there to be tainted Had been most terrible ! Let the worst be render'd, We have deserv'd for keeping thy hands innocent. Cwsar. Oh, Scera, Sceva, see that head ! See, cap- tains. The head of godlike Pompey ! See. He was basely ruiu'd ; But let the gods be grier'd that sufier'd it. And be you Csesar. Ccesar. Oh thou conqueror. Thou glory of the world once, now the pity ; Thou awe of nations, wherefore didst thou fall thus ^ What poor fate follow'd thee and pluck'd thee on To trust thy sacred life to an Egyptian ? The life and light of Rome to a blind stranger, That honourable war ne'er taught a nobleness, Nor 'yorthy circumstance show'd what a man was? That never heard thy name sung but in banquets, And loose lascivious pleasures I to a boy, That had no faith to comprehend thy greatness, No study of thy life to know thy goodness 1 And leave thy nation, nay, thy noble friend, Leave him distrusted, that in tears falls with thee. In soft relenting tears I Hear me, great Pompey ; If thy great spirit can hear, I must task thee ! Th' hast most unnobly robb'd me of my victory, My love and mercy. Ayit. Oh, how brave these tears show! How excellent is sorrow in an enemy ! Dol. Glory appears not greater than this goodness. Ccesar. Egyptians, dare ye think your highest pyra- mids. Built to outdare the sun, as you suppose. Where your unworthy kings lie rak'd in ashes, Are monuments fit for him ? No ; brood of Nilus, Nothing can cover his high fame but heaven. No pjTamids set off his memories. But the eternal substance of his greatness. To which I leave him. Take the head away, And, with the body, give it noble burial : Your earth shall now be bless'd to hold a Roman, Whose braveries all the world's earth cannot balance. See. If thou be'st thus loving, I shall honour thee : But great men may dissemble, 'tis held possible. And be right glad of what they seem to weep for ; There are such kind of philosophers. Now do I wonder How he would lock if Pompey were alive again ; But how he'd set his face. Ccesar. You look now, king. And you that have been agents in this glory, For our especial favour ? Ptol. ^Ve desire it. Ccesar. And doubtless you expect rewards ! See. Let me give 'em : I'll give 'em such as Nature never dream'd of; I'll beat him and his agents in a mortar. Into one man, and that one man I'll bake then. Ca;mr. Peace !— I forgive you all ; that's recom- pense. You're young and ignorant ; that pleads your pardon ; And fear, it may be, more than hate, provok'd you. Your ministers, I must think, wanted judgment, And so they err'd : I'm bountiful to think this. Believe me, most bountiful. Be you most thankful ; That bounty share amongst ye. If I knew what To send you for a present, king of Egypt, I mean a head of equal reputation, And that you lov'd, tho' 'twere your brightest sister's (But her you hate), I would not be behind you. Plol. Hear me, great Cresar ! Ccesar. I have heard too much ; And study not with smooth shows to invade My noble mind, as you have done my conquest : You're poor and open. I must tell you roundly, That man that could not recompense the benefits, The great and bounteous services of Pompey, Can never dote upon the name of Ca?sar. Though I had hated Pompey, and allow'd his ruin, I gave you no commission to perform it. Hasty to please in blood are seldom trusty ; And, but I stand envirou'd mth my victories, My fortune never failing to befriend me. My noble strengths, and friends about my person, I durst not try you, nor expect a courtesv. Above the pious love you sbo^^'d to Pompey. You've found me merciful in arguing with ye ; Swords, hangmen, fires, destructions of all natures, Demolishments of kingdoms, and whole ruins, Are wont to be my orators. Turn to tears. You -OTetched and poor reeds of sun-burnt Egj-pt, And now you've found the nature of a conqueror. That you cannot decline, with all your flatteries. That where the day gives light, will be himself still ; Know how to meet his worth with humane courtesies ! Go, and embalm those bones of that great soldier Howl round about his pile, fling on your spices. Make a Sabean bed, and place this phenix Where the hot sun may emulate his virtues, And draw another Pompey from his ashes Divinely great, and fix him 'mongst the worthies' Ptol. We will do all. Ccemr. You've robb'd him of those tears His kindred and his friends kept sacred for him. The virgins of their funeral lamentations ; And that kind earth that thought to cover him (His country's earth) will cry out 'gainst your crutlty, And weep unto the ocean for revenge. Till Nilus raise his seven heads and devour ve ! My grief has stopt the rest ! When Pompey liV'd, He us'd you nobly ; now he's dead, use him so. [Ej-ii. The False One. [Grief of Aspatia for theManiarje of Amintor and Evadne.l EvADNB, AsPATiA, DuLA, and other Ladies. Evad. Would thou could'st instil [To BvXa. Some of thy mirth into Aspatia. Asp. It were a timeless smile should prove my cheek ; It were a fitter hour for me to laugh, When at the altar the religious priest Were pacifying the ofi'ended powers With sacrifice, than now. This should have been 203 FROM 1558 CYCLOPiEDIA OF TO 1649. My night, and all j-our hands have beea employ'd In giving me a spotless offering To young Amintor's bed, as we are now For you : pardon, Evadne ; would my worth Were great as yours, or that the king, or he, Or both thought so ; perhaps he found me worthless ; But till he did so, in these ears of mine (These credulous ears) he pour'd the sweetest words That art or lore could frame. Evad. Nay, leave this sad talk, madam. Asp. Would I could, then should I leave the cause. Lay a garland on my hearse of the dismal yew. Erad. That's one of your sad songs, madam. A.'fp. Believe me, 'tis a very pretty one. Evad. How is it, madam 1 Asp. Lay a garland on my hears* Of the dismal yew ; Maidens, willow branches bear, Say I died true. My love was false, but I was firm, From my hour of birth ; Upon my buried body lie Lightlj', gentle earth ! Madam, good night ; may no discontent Grow 'twixt your love and you ; but if there do, Inquire of me, and I will guide your moan, Teach you an artificial way to grieve, To keep your sorrow waking. Love your lord No worse than I ; but if you love so well, Alas ! you may displease him ; so did I. This is the last time you shall look on me : Ladies, farewell ; as soon as I am dead. Come all and watch one night about my hearse ; Bring each a mournful story and a t§ar To offer at it when I go to earth ; With flattering ivy clasp my coffin round, Write on my brow my fortune, let ray bier Be borne by virgins that shall sing by course The truth of maids and perjuries of men. Evad. Alas ! I pity thee. [Amintor enters. Asp. Go and be happy in your lady's love ; [To Amintor. May all the wrongs that you have done to me Be utterly forgotten in my death. I'll trouble you no more, yet I will take A parting kiss, and will not be denied. You'll come, my lord, and see the virgins weep When I am laid in earth, though you yourself Can know no pity : thus I wind myself Into this willow garland, and am prouder That I was once your love (though now refus'd) Than to have had another true to me. The Maid's Tragedy. [Palamon and Arcitc, Captives in Greece."] Pal. How do you, noble cousin ? Arc. How do you, sir. Pcd. Why, strong enough to laugh at misery. And bear the chance of war yet ; we are prisoners, I fear, for ever, cousin. Arc. I believe it. And to that destiny have patiently Laid up my hour to come. Pal. Oh, cousin Arcite, Where is Thebes now ? where is our noble country ? Where are our friends and kindreds ? never more Must we behold those comforts, never see The hardy youths strive for the games of honour. Hung with the painted favours of their ladies, Like tall ships under sail ; then start amongst them. And as an east wind leave them all behind us Like lazy clouds, whilst Palamon and Arcite, Even in the wagging of a wanton leg, Outstript the people's praises, won the garlands Ere they have time to wish them ours. Oh, never Shall we two exercise, like twins of honour, Our arms again, iind feel our fiery horses Like proud seas under us, our good swords now (Better the red-eyed god of war ne'er wore) Ravish'd our sides, like age, must run to rust, And deck the temples of those gods that hate us ; These hands shall never draw them out like lightning To blast whole armies more ! Arc. No, Palamon, Those hopes are prisoners with us ; here we are. And here the graces of our youths must wither Like a too timely spring ; here age must find us, And (which is heaviest) Palamon, unmarried ; The sweet embraces of a loving wife Loalen with kisses, arm'd with thousand Cupids, Shall never clasp our necks, no issue know us, No figures of ourselves shall we e'er see. To glad our age, and like young eagles teach them Boldly to gaze against bright arms, and say, ' Remember what your fathers were, and conquer.' The fair-eyed maids shall weep our banishments. And in their songs curse ever-blinded Fortune, Till she for shame see what a wrong she has done To youth and nature. This is all our world : We shall know nothing here but one another ; Hear nothing but the clock that tells our woes. The vine shall grow, but we shall never see it : Summer shall come, and with her all delights, But dead-cold winter must inhabit here still. Pal. 'Tis too true, Arcite. To our Tlieban hounds That shook the aged forest with their echoes. No more now must we halloo, no more shake Our pointed javelins, whilst the angry swine Flies like a Parthian quiver from our rages. Struck with our well-steel'd darts. All valiant uses (The food and nourishment of noble minds) In us two here shall perish : we shall die (Which is the curse of honour) lastly Children of grief and ignorance. Arc. Yet, cousin. Even from the bottom of these miseries, From all that fortune can inflict upon us, I see two comforts rising, two mere blessings, If the gods please to hold here ; a brave patience, And the enjoying of our griefs together. Whilst Palamon is with me, let me perish If I think this our prison ! Pal. Certainly 'Tis a main goodness, cousin, that our fortunes Were twinn'd together ; 'tis most true, two souls Put in two noble bodies, let them suffer Tlic gall of hazard, so they grow together, Will never sink ; they must not ; say they could, A willing man dies sleeping, and all's done. A re. Shall we make worthy uses of this place That all men hate so much ? Pal. How, gentle cousin ? Arc. Let's think this prison holy sanctuary. To keep us from corruption of worse men ! We are young, and j'et desire the ways of honour, That liberty .and common conversation. The poison of pure spirits, might (like women) \\'oo us to wander from. What worthy blessing Can be, but our imaginations May make it ours ? And here being thus together. We are an endless mine to one another ; "We are one another's wife, ever begetting New births of love ; we are father, friends, acquaint- ance ; We are, in one another, families ; I am your heir, and you are mine. This place Is our inheritance ; no hard oppressor Dare take this from us ; here, with a little patience. We shall live long, and loving ; no surfeits seek us ; The hand of war hurts none here, nor the seas Swallow their youth. Were we at liberty, S06 DRAMATISTS. ENGLISH LITERATUHE. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHEB. A vrife might part us la\N'fully, or business ; Quarrels consume us ; envy of ill men Crave our acquaintance ; I might sicken, cousin, Where you should never know it, and so perish Without your noble hand to close mine ej'es, Or prayers to the gods : a thousand chances, Were we from hence, would sever us. Pal. You have made me (I thank you, cousin Arcite) almost wanton With my captivit}' : what a misery It is to live abroad, and everywhere ! 'Tis like a beast, methinks ! I find the court here, I'm sure, a more content ; and all those pleasures, That woo the wills of men to vanity, I see through now ; and am sufficient To tell the -world, 'tis but a gaudy shadow. That old Time, as he passes by, takes with him. ^\'hat had we been, old in the court of Creon, Where sin is justice, lust and ignorance The virtues of the great ones ? Cousin Arcite, Had not the loving gods found this place for us, We had died, as they do, ill old men, unwept. And had their epitaphs, the people's curses. The Two NoUe Kimmen. {Disinterestedness of Biancka.l [From the ' Fair JIaid of the Inn.'] Enter Cesario and a Servant. Cesa, Let any friend have entrance. Sere. Sir, a' shall. Cesa. Any ; I except none. Serv. We know your mind, sir. [E.nt. Cesa. Pleasures admit nobounds. I'mpitch'dsohigh, To such a growth of full prosperities, That to conceal my fortunes were an injury To gratefulness, and those more liberal favours By whom my glories prosper. He that flows In gracious and swoln tides of blest abundance, Yet will be ignorant of his o^wn fortunes. Deserves to live contemn'd, and die forgotten : The harvest of my hopes is now already Ripen'd and gather'd ; I can fatten youth With choice of plenty, and supplies of comforts ; My fate springs in my own hand, and I'll use it. Enter two Servants, and Biancha. \st. Sen: 'Tis my place. 2d. Sen: Yours ? Here, fair one ; I'll acquaint My lord. 1st. Sen: He's here •, o;o to him boldly. 2d. Sen: Please you To let him understand h.^w readily I waited on your errand ! 1st. iSW'f . Saucy fellow ! You must excuse his breeding. Cesa. What's the matter ? Biancha ? my Biancha 1 — To your offices ! lExe^int Sen: This visit, sweet, from thee, my pretty dear. By how much more 'twas unexpected, comes So much the more timelj- : witness this free welcome, Whate'er occasion led thee ! Bian. You may guess, sir ; Yet, indeed, 'tis a rare one. Cesa. Prithee, speak it. My honest virtuous maid. Bian. Sir, I have heard Of your misfortunes ; and I cannot tell you Whether I have more cause of joy or sadness, To know they are a truth. Cesa. What truth, Biancha? Misfortunes ? — how ? — wherein ? Bian. You are dlsclaim'd For being the lord Alberto's son, and publicly Acknowledg'd of as mean a birth as mine is : It cannot choose but grieve you. Cesa. Grieve me ? Ha, ha, ha, ha I Is this all ? Bia)i. This all ? Cesa. Thou art sorry for't, I warrant thee ; alas, good soul, Biancha ! That which thou call'st misfortune is my happiness ; My happiness, Biancha ! Bian. If you love me, It may prove mine too. Cesa. Jlay it ? I will love thee, ]My good, good maid, if that can make thee happy, Better and better love tliee. Bian. Without breach, then. Of modesty, I come to claim the interest Your protestations, both by vows and letters, Have made me owner of : from tlie first hour I saw you, I confess I wish'd I had been. Or not' so much below your rank and greatness, Or not so much above those humble flames That should have warm'd my bosom with a temperate Kqiialitv of desires in equal fortunes. Still, as" you utter'd language of att'ection, I courted time to pass more slowly on, 'I'hat I might turn more fool to lend attention To what I durst not credit, nor yet hope for ; Yet still as more I heard, I wislrd to hear more. Cesa. Didst thou in troth, wench 1 Bian. Willingly betray'd ilyself to hopeless bondage. Cesa. A good girl ! I thought i should not miss, whate'er thy answer waa, Bian. But as I am a maid, sir, (and i' faith You may believe me, for I am a maid), So dearfy I respected both your fame And quality, that I would first have perish'd In my sick thoughts, than ere have given consult To have undone your fortunes, by inviting A marriage with so mean a one as I am : I should have died sure, and no creature known The sickness that had kill'd me. Cesa. Pretty heart ! Good soul, alas, alas ! Bian. Now since I know There is no difference 'twixt your birth and mine, Not much 'twixt our estates (if any be, The advantage is on my side), I come willingly To tender you the first-fruits of my heart, And am content t' accept you for my husband, Now when you are at lowest. Ctsa. For a husband ? Speak sadly ; dost thou mean so ? Bian. In good deed, sir, 'Tis pure love makes this proflfer. Cesa. I believe thee. What counsel urg'd thee on? tell me ; thy father* ^U worshipful smug host ? Was't not he, wench ! Or mother hostess ? ha 1 Bian. D' you mock my parentage ? I do not scorn yours : mean folks arc as worthy To be well spoken of, if they deserve well. As some whose only fame lies in their blood. Oh, you're a proud poor man ! all your oaths falsehooa, Your vows deceit, your letters forged and wicked ! Cesa. Thoud'st be my wife, I dare swear. Bian. Had your heart. Your hand, arid tongue, been twins, vou had reputed This courtesy a benefit. Cesa. Simplicity, How prettily thoii mov'st me ! Why, Bianchx, Report has cozen'd thee ; I am not fallen From my expected honours or possessions. Though "from tlie hope of birthright. Bian. Are you not? Then I am lost again ! I have a suit too ; You'll grant it, if you be a good man. Cesa. Anything. ^ 207 PROM 1558 CYCLOPEDIA 01 TO lb4t' Bian. Pray do not talk of aught what I have said t'ye. Cesa. As 1 wish health, I will not I Bian. Pity me ; But never love me more ! Cisa. Nay, now you're cruel : Why all these tears ? — Thou shalt not go. Bian. I'll pray for you, That you may have a virtuous wife, a fair one ; And when I'm dead Cesa. Fie, fie ! Bian. Think on me sometimes, With mercy for this trespass ! Cesa. Let us kiss At partinfr, as at coming ! Bian. This I have As a free dower to a virgin's grave ; All goodness dwell with you ! lEocit. Cesa. Harmless Bi.ancha ! Unskill'd ! what handsome toys are maids to play with ! [Pastoral Love."] [Prom the ' Faithful Shepherdess.'] To Clorinda a Satyr enters. Satyr. Through yon same bending plain That flings his arms doAvn to the main. And through these thick woods have I run, Whose bottom never kiss'd the sun. Since the lusty spring began. All to please my master Pan, Have I trotted without rest, To get him fruit ; for at a feast He entertains, this coming night, His paramour the Syrinx bright : But behold a fairer sight ! By that heavenly form of thine. Brightest fair, thou art divine. Sprung from great immortal race Of the gods, for in thy face Shines more awful majesty Than dull weak mortality Dare with misty eyes behold. And live : therefore on this mould Lowly do I bend my knee In worship of thy deity. Deign it, goddess, from my hand To receive whate'er this land From her fertile womb doth send Of her choice fruits ; and but lend Belief to that the Satyr tells. Fairer by the famous wells To this present day ne'er grew, Nevi;r better, nor more true. Here be grapes whose lusty blood Is the learned poet's good. Sweeter yet did never crown The head of Bacchus ; nuts more brown Than the squirrel whose teeth crack them ; Deign, fairest fair, to take them : For these, black-eyed Driope Hath oftentimes commanded me With my clasped knee to climb. See how well the lusty time Hath deck'd their rising cheeks in red, Such as on your lips is spread. Here be berries for a queen. Some be red, some be green ; These are of that luscious meat The great god Pan himself doth eat : All these, and what the woods can yield. The harming mountain or the field, I freely jffer, and ere long Will bring you more, more sweet and strong ; Till when, humbly leave I take. Lest the great Pan do awake. That sleeping lies in a deep glade, Under a broad beech's shade. I must go, I must run. Swifter than the fiery sun. l^Ejit. Clor. And all my fears go with thee. What greatness, or what private hidden power, Is there in me to draw submission From this rude man and beast ? — sure I am mortal ; The daughter of a shepherd ; he was mortal. And she that bore me mortal ; prick my hand And it will bleed ; a fever shakes me, and The self-same wind that makes the young lambs shrink. Makes me a-cold : my fear says I am mortal : Yet I have heard (my mother told it me). And now I do believe it, if I keep My virgin flower uncropt, pure, chaste, and fair, No goblin, wood-god, fairy, elf, or fiend. Satyr, or other power that haunts the groves, Sliall hurt my body, or by vain illusion Draw me to wander after idle fires. Or voices calling me in dead of night To make me follow, and so tole me on Through mire and standing pools, to find my ruin. Else why should this rough tiling, who never knew Manners nor smooth humanity, whose heats Are rougher than himself, and more misshaiien. Thus mildly kneel to me ? Sure there's a power In that gi'cat name of Virgin, that binds fast All rude uncivil bloods, all appetites That break their confines. Then, strong Chastity, Be thou my strongest guard ; for here I'll dwell In opposition against fate and hell. Pebioot and Amoret appoint to meet at the Virtuous Well. Perl. Stay, gentle Amoret, thou fair-brow'd maid, Thy shepherd prays thee stay, that holds thee dear. Equal with his soul's good. Amo. Speak, I give Thee freedom, shepherd, and thy tongue be still The same it ever was, as free from ill. As he whose conversation never knew The court or city, be thou ever true. Peri. When I fall off from my affection. Or mingle my clean thoughts with ill desires, First let our great God cease to keep my flocks. That being left alone without a guard, The wolf, or winter's rage, summer's great heat. And want of water, rots, or what to us Of ill is yet unkno^^'n, fall speedily. And in their general ruin let me go. Amo. I pray thee, gentle shepherd, wish not so : I do believe thee, 'tis as hard for me To think thee false, and harder than for thee To hold me foul. Peri. you are fairer far Than the chaste blushing mom, or that fair star That guides the wand'riiig seamen through the deep, Straiter than straitest pine upon the steep Head of an aged mountain, and more white Than the new milk we strip before daylight From the full-freighted b.ags of our fair flocks. Your hair more beauteous than those hanging locks Of young Apollo. Amo. Shepherd, be not lost, Y' are sail'd too far already from the coast Of our discourse. Peri. Did you not tell me once I should not love alone, I should not lose Those many passions, vows, and holy oaths, I've sent to heaven ? Did you not give your hand. Even that fair hand, in hostage ? Do not then Give back again those sweets to other meu You yourself vow'd were mine. Amo. Shepherd, so far as maiden's modesty May give assurance, I am once more thine, 208 DRAMATISTS. ENGLISH litp:rati/re. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHEB. Once more I give my hand ; be ever free From that great foe to faith, foul jealousy. Peri. I take it as my best good ; and desire, For stronger confirmation of our love, To meet this happy night in that fair grove, Where all true shepherds have rewarded been For their long service. * * to that holy wood is consecrate A Virtuous Well, about whose flowerv barlf" The nimble-footed fairies dance their roui'ils By the pale moonshine, dipping oftenti^ncs Their stolen children, so to make thi-m free From dving flesh and dull mortaliiy. Bv this'fair fount hath many a shepherd sworn And !;iven awav his freedom, many a troth Been plight, which neither envy ncc old time Could ever break, with many a cAa^te kiss given In hope of coming happiness • by this Fresh fountain m.-my a blusfii"g maid Hath crown'd t.'ie head c/ her long loved shcplierd With gaudv dowers, vhil^t he happy sung Lays of hi^love avd dear captivity. Tlid God of *ne!RiVER rises with Amoret in his arms. Jliit7- Gvd. What pow'rful charms my streams Ba-'k again unto their spring, [do bring ■?\'ith such force, that I their god. Three times striking with my rod, Could not keep them in their ranks ! My fishes shoot into the banks ; There's not one that stays and feeds, All have hid them in the weeds. Here's a mortal almost dead, Fall'n into my river-head, Hallow'd so with many a spell, That till now none ever fell. 'Tis a female, young and clear. Cast m by some ravisher. See upon her breast a wound, On which there is no plaster bound ; Yet she's warm, her pulses beat, 'Tis a sign of life and heat. If thou be'st a virgin pur-^. I can give a present cure. Take a drop into thy wounu From my watery locks, more round Than orient pearl, and far more pure Than unchaste flesh may endure. See, she pants, and from her flesh The warm blood gusheth out afresh. She is an unpolluted maid ; I must have this bleeding staid. From my banks I pluck this flow'r With holy hand, whose virtuous pow'r Is at once to heal and draw. The blood returns. I never saw A fairer mortal. Now doth break Her deadly slumber : Virgin, speak. Amo. Who hath restor'd my sense, given me new breath, And brought me back out of the arms of death ? God. I have heal'd thy wounds. Amo. Ah me ! God. Fear not him that succour'd thee : I am this fountain's god ! Below, My waters to a river grow. And 'twixt two banks with osiers get, That only prosper in the wet. Through the meadows do they glide, Wheeling still on ev'ry side, Sometimes winding round about, To find the even'st channel out. And if thou wilt go with me. Leaving mortal company. In the cool stream shalt thou lie. Free from harm as well as I : I will gi'e thee for thy food No fi-!'! that useth in the mud ! But trout and pike, that love to swim Where the gravel from the brim Througli tlie pure streams may be seen : Orient pearl fit for a queen. Will I give, thy love to win, And a sliell to keep them in : Not a fish in all my brook That shall disobey thy look. But, when thou wilt, come sliding by. And from thy white hand take a fly. And to make thee understand How I can my waves command, They shall bubble whilst I sing. Sweeter than the silver string. The Song. Do not fear to put thy feet Naked in the river, sweet ; Think not leech, or newt, or toad, Will bite thy foot, when thou hast trod ; Nor let the water rising high. As thou wad'st in, make thee cry And sob ; but ever live with me. And not a wave shall trouble thee ! The lyrical pieces scattered throughout Beaumont and Fletcher's plays are generally in the same grace- ful and fanciful style as the poetry of the ' Faithful Shepherdess :' some are here subjoined : — \_Melanclioly.'\ [Prom • Nice Valour.'] Hence, all you vain deliglits, As short as are the nights ^yherein you spend your folly ! There's nought in this life sweet. If man were wise to see't. But only melancholy ! Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes, A sigh that piercing mortifies, A look that's fasten'd to the ground, A tongue chain'd up, without a sound ! Fountain heads, and pathless groves. Places which pale passion loves ! Moonlight walks, when all the fowls Are warmly hous'd, stive bats and owls ! A midnight bell, a parting groan ! These are the sounds we feed upon ; Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley: Nothing's so dainty-sweet as lovely melancholy. {Sony.] [From the ' False One.'] Look out, bright eyes, and bless the air ! Even in shadows you are fair. Shut-up beauty is like fire. That breaks out clearer still and higher. Though your beauty be confin'd, And soft Love a prisoner bound, Yet the beauty of your mind. Neither check nor chain hath found. Look out nobly, then, and dare Ev'n the fetters that you wear ! [The Power of Love.'\ [From ' Valentinian.'] Hear ye, ladies that despise What the mighty Love has done ; Fear examples and be wise : Fair Calisto was a nun : 200 15 FROM 1.553 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO I6-I; Leda, sailing on the stream, To deceive the hopes of man, Love accountinjr but a dream, Doted on a silver swan ; Danae in a brazen tower, Where no love was, lov'd a shower. Hear ye, ladies that are coy, What the mighty Love can do ; Fear t*t's Conspiracy, All Fools, and the Gentleman Usher. In a soiinct prefixed to 'All Fools,' and addressed to Walsinghani, Chapman states that he w-as ' mark'd by age for aims of greater weight.' This play was written ia 1599. It contains the following fanciful lines: — I tell thee love is Nature's second sun. Causing a spring of virtues where he sliiiies ; And as without the sun, the world's great eye, All colours, beauties both of art and nature. Are given in vain to men ; so, without love, All beauties bred in women are in vain, All virtues bred in men lie buried ; For love informs them as the sun doth colours. In 'Bussy D'Ambois' is tlie following invocation for a Spirit of Intelligence, wliich has been higlily lauded by Charles Lamb : — I long to know How my dear mistress fares, and be inform'd What hand she now holds on the troubled blood Of her incensed lord. Methought the spirit, When he had utter'd his pcrplex'd presage, Threw his chang'd count'nance headlong into clouds : His forehead bent, as he would hide his face : He knock'd his chin against his darken'd breast, And struck a churlish silence through his powers. Terror of darkness ! thou king of flames ! That with thy music-footed horse dost strike The clear light out of crystal on dark earth ; And hurl'st instinctive fire about the world : Wake, wake the drowsy and enchanted night That sleeps with dead eyes in this heavy riddle. Or thou, great prince of shades, where never sun Sticks his far-darted beams ; whose eyes are made To see in darkness, and see ever best Where sense is blindest : open now the heart Of thy abashed oracle, that, for fear Of some ill it includes, would fain lie hid : And rise thou with it in thy greater light. 210 ORAMATISTS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. THOMAS DEKICER. The life of Chapman was a scene of content and prosperity. lie was born at Hitching Hill, in Hert- fordshire, in 1557 ; was educated both at Oxford and Cambridge ; enjoyed the royal patronage of King James and Prince Henry, and the friendship of Spenser, Jonson, and Shakspeare. He was tempe- rate and pious, and, according to Oldys, ' preserved, in his conduct, the true dignity of poetry, which he compared to the tlower of the sun, that disdains to open its leaves to the ej^e of a smoking taper.' The life of this venerable scholar and poet closed in 1634. at the ripe age of sevent3'-seven. Chapman's Homer is a wonderful work, consider- ing the time when it was produced, and the continued spirit which is kept up. Marlow had succeeded in the fourteen-syllable verse, but only in select pas- sages of Ovid and Jlusa^us. Chapman had a vast field to traverse, and thougli he trod it hurriedly and negligently, he preserved tlie tire and freedom of his great original. Pope and WaJJer both praised his translation, and perhaps it is now more fre- quently in the hands of scholflrs and poetical stu- dents than the more polisheJ and musical version of Pope. Chapman's translations consist of the ' Iliad' (which he dedicated to Prince Henry), the ' Odyssey' (dedicated to the n)yal favourite Carr, Earl of Somerset), .and the ' Georgics of Ilesiod,' winch he inscribed to Lord Bacon. A version of ' Hero and Leander,' left unfinished by Marlow, was completed by Cliax>ra-iu> ^'i*l published in 1606. TH03IAS DEKKER. Thomas Dekker appears to have been an indus- trious author, and Collier gives the names of above twenty plays which he produced, either wholly or in part. He was connected with Jonson in writing for the Lord Admiral's theatre, conducted by Hens- lowe ; but Ben and he became bitter enemies, and the former, in his 'Poetaster,' performed in 1601, has satirised Dekker under the character of Crispinus, representing himself as Horace ! Jonson's charges against his adversary are ' his arrogancy and impu- dence in commending his own thing* and for his translating.' The origin of the quarrel does not appear, but in an apologetic dialogue added to the ' Poetaster,' Jonson says — Whether of malice, or of ignorance, Or itch to have me their adversary, I know not, Or all these mlx'd ; but sure 1 am, three years They did provoke me with their petulant styles On every stage. Dekker replied by another drama, Satiromasfix, or the Untrussing the Humorous Poet, in which .Jonson appears as Horace junior. Tliere is more raillery and abuse in Dekker's answer than wit or poetry, but it was well received by the play-going public. Dekker's Fortunatus, or the Wishing Cap, and the Hop^M Whore, are Ids best. The latter was a great favcTxirite with Ilazlitt, who says it unites ' the sim- plicity of prose witli the graces of poetry.' The poetic diction of Dekker is choice and elegant, but he often wanders into absurdity. Passages like the following would do honour to any dramatist. Of Patience : — Patience ! why, 'tis the soul of peace : Of all the virtues, 'tis nearest kin to heaven : It makes men look like gods. The best of men That e'er wore earth about him was a sufferer, A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit : The first true gentleman that ever breath'd. The contrast between female honour and shame — Nothing did make me, when I loved thein best, To loathe them more tlian this : when in the street A fair, young, modest damsel I did meet ; She sccm'd to all a dove when I pass'd by. And I to all a raven : every eye That follow'd her, went with a bashful glance: At me each bold and jeering countenance Darted forth scorn : to her, as if she had been Some tower unvanquished, would they all vail : 'Gainst me swoln rumour hoisted every sail ; She, crown'd with reverend praises, pass'd by them ; I, though with face niask'd, could not 'scape the hem ; For, as if heaven had set strange marks on such, Because they should be pointing-stocks to man, Drest up in civilest shape, a courtesan. Let her walk saint-like, notele-;s, and unknown, Yet she's betray'd by some trick of her own. The picture of a lady seen by her lover — JNIy Infelice's face, her brow, her eye. The dimple on her cheek : and such sweet skill Hath from the cunning workman's pencil flown. These lips look fresh and lively as her own ; Seeming to move and speak. Alas ! now I seo The reason why fond women love to buy Adulterate complexion : here 'tis read ; False colours last after the true be dead. Of all the roses grafted on her cheeks, Of all the graces dancing in her eyes, Of all tlie music set upon her tongue. Of all that was past woman's excellence, In her white bosom : look, a painted board Circumscribes all ! Earth can no bliss afford; Nothing of her but this ! This cannot speak ; It has no lap for me to rest upon ; No lip worth tasting. Here the worms will feed, As in her cofhn. Hence, then, idle art. True love 's best pictured in a true love's heart. Here art thou drawn, sweet maid, till this be dead. So that thou livest twice, twice art buried. Thou figure of my friend, lie there ! Dekker is supposed to have died about the year 1638. His life seems to have been spent in irre- gularity and poverty. According to Oldys, he was three years in the King's Bench prison. In one of his own beautiful lines, he says — We ne'er are angels till our passions die. But the old dramatists lived in a world of passion, of revelry, want, and despair. JOHN WEBSTER. JoHV Werster, the ' noble-minded,' as Ilazlitt designates him, lived and died about the same time as Dekker, with whom he wrote in the conjunct authorsliip then so common. His original dramas are the Duchess of Malfy, Guise, or the Massacre of France, the Devil's Law Case, Appius and Virginia, and the Mitite Devil, or Vitloria Coromhona. Web- ster, it has been said, was clerk of St Andrew's cliurch, Holborn ; but Mr Dyce, his editor and bio- grajiher, searched the registers of the parish for his name without success. The ' White Devil' and the ' Duchess of Malfy' have divided the opinion of critics as to their relative merits. They are both powerful dramas, thougli filled with 'supernumerary horrors.' The former was not successful on the stage, and the author published it with a dedication, in which ho states, that ' most of the people that come to the pla3'-house resemble those ignorant asses who, visit- ing stationers' shops, their use is not to inquire for good books, but new books. He was accused, like 211 FROM 1558 CYCLOPAEDIA OF TO ]b4n. Jonson, of being a slow writer, but he consoles himself with the example of Euripides, and confusses that he did not write with a goose quill winged with two feathers. In this slighted play there are some exqi'isite touches of pathos and natural feeling. The griei of a group of mourners over a dead body is thus described : — I found them winding of Marcello's cor.se, And there is such a solemn melody, 'Tween doleful songs, tears, and sad elegies, Such as old grandames watching by the dead Were wont to outwear the nights with ; that, be- lieve me, I had no eyes to guide me forth the room, They were so o'ercharged with water. The funeral dirge for Marcello, sung by his mother, possesses, says Charles Lamb, ' that intenseness of feehng which seems to resolve itself into the elements which it contemplates :' — Call for the robin red-breast and the wren. Since o'er shady groves they hover, And with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unburied men. Call unto his funeral dole, The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole. To raise him hillocks that shall keep him warm, And, when gay tombs are robb'd, su.stain no harm ; But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men. For with his nails he'll dig them up again. The following couplet lias been admired : — Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright ; But, look'd to near, have neither heat nor light. The ' Duchess of iSIalfy' abounds more in the terrible graces. It turns on the mortal offence which the lady gives to her two proud brothers, Ferdinand, Duke of Calabria, and a cardinal, by indulging in a generous though infatuated passion for Antonio, her steward. ' This passion,' Mr Dyce 'justly remarks, ' a sub- ject most difficult to treat, is managed with infinite delicacy ; and, in a situation of great jHiril for the author, she condescends -without being degraded, and declares the affection with which her dependant had inspired her without losing anything of dignity and respect.' The last scenes of the play are con- ceived in a spirit which every intimate student of our elder dramatic literature must feel to be pecu- liar to Webster. The duchess, captured by Bosola, is brought into the presence of her brother in an imperfect light, and is taught to believe that he wishes to be reconciled to her. [Scene from the Duchess of Maljy.^ Ferd. Where are you ? I}uch. Here, sir. Ferd. This darkness suits you well. Diich. I would ask you pardon. Ferd. You have it ; For I account it the honourablest revenge. Where I may kill, to pardon. Where are your cubs ' Duck. Whom ? Ferd. Call them your children. For, though our national law distinguish bastards From true legitimate issue, compassiouate nature Makes them all equal. Duch. Do you visit me for this ? You violate a sacrament o' th' church, Will make you howl in hell for't. Ferd. It had been well Could you have liv'd thus always : fcr, indeed. You were too much i' th' light — but no more ; ' come to seal my peace with you. Here's a hand [Gives her a dead man's hand. To which you have vow'd much love : the ring upon : You gave. Duch. I affectionately kiss it. Ferd. Pray do, and bury the print of it in yoiv. heart. I will leave this ring with you for a love token ; And the hand, as sure as the ring ; and do not doubt But you shall have the heart too ; when you need a friend, Send to him that ow'd it, and you shall see Whether he can aid you. Duch. You are very cold : I fear you are not well after your travel. Ha ! lights ! horrible ! Ferd. Let her have lights enough. [Ejyit. Duch. What witchcraft doth he practise, that he hath left A dead man's hand here ? [Here is discovered, behind a traverse, the .irtificiul figures of Antonio and his children, appe.iring as if they were dead.] Bos. Look you, here's the piece from which 'twas ta'en. He doth present you this sad spectacle That, now you know directly tiiey are dead Hereafter you may wisely cease to grieve For that which cannot be recovered. Duch. There is not between heaven and en,rth one wish I stay for after this. Afterwards, by a refinement of cruelty, thf bro- ther sends a troop of madmen from the hospital to make a concert round the duchess in prison. After they have danced and sung, Bosola enters disguised as an old man. [Death of the Duchess.'] Duch. Is he mad too ? Bos. I am come to make thy tomb. Duch. Ha ! my tomb ? Thou speak'st as if I lay upon my deathbed, Gasping for breath : Dost thou perceive me sick ? Bos. Yes, and the more dangerously, since thy sick- ness is insensible. Duch. Thou art not mad sure : dost know me I Bos. Yes. Duch. Who am I 1 Bos. Thou art a box of wormseed ; at best but a salvatory of green mummy. What's this flesh ? a little crudded milk, fantastical puff-pa«te. Oui bodies are weaker than those paper-prisons boys use to keep flies in, more contemptible ; since ours is tc preserve earthworms. Didst thou ever see a lark in a cage ? Such is the soul in the body : this world is like her little turf of grass ; and the heaven o'er our heads like her looking glass, only gives us a miserable knowledge of the small compass of our prLson. Duch. Am not I thy duchess ? Bos. Thou art some great woman, sure, for riot begins to sit on thy forehead (clad in grey hairs) twenty years' sooner than on a merry milkmaid's. Thou sleepest worse, than if a mouse should be forced to take up her lodging in a cat's ear : a little infant that breeds its teeth, should it lie with thee, would cry out, as if thou wert the more unquiet bedfellow, Duch. I am Duchess of Malfy still. Bos. That makes thy sleeps so broken. Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright ; But, look'd to near, have neither heat nor light. Duch. Thou art very plain. Bos. My trade is to flatter the dead, not the living. I am a tomb-maker. Duch. And thou comest to make my tomb ? Bos. Yes. 212 DRAMATISTS. ENCxLISH LITERATURE. THOMAS MIDDLETON. Jjxuli. Let ine be a little incrry. Of what stuff wilt thou make it ? Bos. Nay, resolve me first ; of what fashion ? Dwh. Why, do we grow fantastical in our death- bed ? Do we affect fashion in the grave 2 Bos. IMost ambitiously. Princes' images on their tombs do not lie as they were wont, seeming to pray up to heaven : but with their hands under their cheeks (as if they died of the toothache) : they are not carved with theb eyes fixed upon the stars ; but, as their minds were wholly bent upon the world, the self-same way they seem <-:> turn their faces. Duch. Let me know fully, therefore, the effect Of this thy dismal preparation, This talk, fit for a charnel. Bos. Now I shall. \_A coffin, cords, and a hell produced. Here is a present from j-our princely brothers ; And may it arrive welcome, for it brings Last benefit, last sorrow. » Duch. Let me see it. I have so much obedience in my blood, I wish it in their veins to do them gooil. Bos. This is your last presence chamber. Cur. 0, my sweet lady. Ducli. Peace, it affrights not me. Bos. I am the common bellman, That usually is sent to condemn'd persons The night before they suffer. Duch. Even now thou saidst Thou wast a tomb-maker. Bos. 'Twas to bring you Bv den-ees to mortification : Listen. Hark, now every thing is still ; This screech-owl, and the whistler shrill, Call upon our dame aloud, And bid her quickly don her shroud. Much you had of land and rent ; Your length in clay 's now competent. A long war disturb'd j'our mind ; Here your perfect peace is sign'd. Of what is 't fools make such vain keejiin,^ ? Sin, their conception ; their birth, weeping : Their life, a general mist of error. Their death, a hideous storm of terror. Strew your hair with powders sweet, Don clean linen, bathe your feet : And (the foul fiend more to check) A crucifix let bless your neck. 'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day : End your groan, and come away. Car. Hence, villains, tyrants, murderers : alas ! What will you do with my lady 1 Call for help. Duck. To whom ; to our next neighbours I Thej' are mad folks. Farewell, Cariola. 1 pray thee look thou giv'st my little boy Some syrup for his cold ; and let the girl Say her prayers ere she sleep. — Kow what you please ; ^\■hat death ? Bos. Strangling. Here are your executioners. Duch. I forgive them. The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o' the lungs, Would do as much as they do. Bos. Doth not death fright you ? Duch. Who would be afraid on't. Knowing to meet such excellent company In th' rt'ier world. Bos. Yet, methinks, The manner of your death should much afflict you : This cord should terrify you. Duch. Not a whit. What would it pleasure me to have my throat cut With diamonds ? or to be smothered With cassia ? or to be shot to death with pearls ! I know death hath ten thousand scvera;! doors For men to take their exits : and 'tis found They go on such strange geometrical hinges, You may open them both ways : any way (for heav'n sake) So I were out of your whispering : tell my brothers That I perceive death (now I'm well awake) Best gift is they can give or I can take. I would fain put off my last woman's fault ; I'd not be tedious to you. Pull, and pull strongly, for your able strength Must pull do«-n heaven upon me. Yet stay, heaven gates are not so highly ardi^d As princes' palaces ; they that enter there Must go upon their knees. Come, violent death, Serve for ]\Iandragora to make me sleep. Go tell my brothers, when I am laid out, They then may feed in quiet. [TIici/ strangle her, hieeling. Ferdinand enters. Ferd. Is she dead ? Bos. She is what you would have her. Fix your eye here. Fcrd. Constantly. Bos. Do you not weep ! Other sins only speak ; murder shrieks out. The element of water moistens the earth, But blood flies upwards, and bedews the heavens. Ferd. Cover her face : mine eyes dazzle : she died young. Bos. I think not so : her infelicity Seem'd to have years too many. Fcrel. She and I were twins : And should I die this instant, I had lived Her time to a minute. THOMAS MroDLETON. A conjecture that an old neglected drama by Tho- JIAS MiDDLETON Supplied the witchcraft scenery, and part of the lyrical incantations, of ' Macbeth,' lias kept alive the name of tli'S poet. So late a^* 1778, ]\[iddleton's play, the Wuch, was first published by Keed from the author's manuscript. It is possible that the 'Witch' may have preceded ' Macbeth ;' but as the latter was written in the fulness of Shak- speare's fame and genius, we think it is more pro- bable that the inferior author was the Irorrower. He may have seen the play performed, and thus caught the spirit and words of the scenes in question; or, for aught we know, the ' Witch' may not have been written till after 1623, when Shakspeare's first folio appeared. We know that after tliis date ^liddleton was writing for the stage, as, in 1624, his play, A Game at Chess, was brought out, and gave great offence at court, by bringing on the stage the king of Spain, and his ambassador, Gondomar. The latter complained to King James of the insult, and Mid- dleton (who at first 'shifted out of the way') and the poor players were brought before the privy- council. They were only reprimanded for their audacity in ' bringing modern Christian kings upon the stage.' If the dramatic sovereign had been James himself, nothing less than the loss of ears and noses would have appeased offended royalty ! Middleton wrote about twenty plays: in 1603, we find him assisting Dekker at a court-pageant, and he was afterwards concerned in different pieces with Rowley, Webster, and other authors. He would seem to have been well-known as a dramatic writer. On Shrove Tuesday, 1617, the I-ondon apprentices, in an idle riot, demolished the Cockpit Theatre, and an old ballad describing the circumstance, states — 213 FROM 1558 CYCLOPAEDIA OF TO 1()49. Books old and young on Leap they flung, And burnt them in the blazes, Tom Dekker, Heywood, JMiddleton, And other wandering crazys. In 1620, Middleton was made chronologer, or city poet, of London, an office afterwards held by Ben Jonson, and which expired with Settle in 1724.* He died in July 1627. Tiie dramas of Middleton have no strongly- marked character ; his best is Women Beware of Women, a tale of love and jealousy, from the Italian. The following sketch of married hap- piness is delicate, and finely expressed : — l^ffappiness of Married Life.'] How near am I now to a happiness That earth exceeds not ! not another like it : The treasures of the deep are not so precious, As are the conceal'd comforts of a man Lock'd up in woman's love. I scent the air Of blessings when I come but near the house. What a delicious breath marriage sends forth ! The violet bed's not sweeter. Honest wedlock Is like a banqueting house built in a garden, On which the spring's chaste flowers take delight To cast their modest odours ; when base lust,. "With all her powders, paintings, and best pride. Is but a fair house built by a ditch side. Now for a welcome. Able to draw men's envies upon man ; A kiss now that will hang ui)on my lip As sweet as morning dew upon a rose. And full as long ! The 'Witch' is also an Italian plot, but the superna- tural agents of Middleton are the old witches of legendary story, not the dim mysterious uneartldy beings that accost INIacbeth on the blasted heaUi. The ' Charm Song' is much the same in both : — The Witches going about the Cauldron. Black spirits and white ; red spirits and crey ; Mingle, mingle, mingle, you that mingle may. Titty, Tiffin, keep It stiff" in ; Firedrake, Puckey, make it lucky ; Liard, Robin, j-ou must bob in ; Round, around, around, about, about ; All ill come running in ; all good keep oil*; ! \st Witch. Here's the blood of a bat. Hecate. Put in that ; oh put in that. 2d Witch. Here's libbard's bane. Hecate. Put in again, \st Witch. The juice of toad, the oil of adder. 2d Witch. Those will make the younker madder. AU. Round, around, around, &c. The flight of the witches by moonlight is described with a wildgr?/.«toand delight; if the scene was written before ' Macbeth,' Middleton deserves the credit of true poetical imagination : — Enter Hecate, STADLirr, IIoppo, and other Witches. IIcc. The moon's a gallant ; see how brisk she rides ! Stad. Here's a rich evening, Hecate. Ilec. Ay, is't not, wenches. To take a journey of five thousand miles ? Hop. Ours will be more to night. Hec. Oh, it will be precious. Heard you the owl yet ? Stad. Briefly in the copse, As we came through now. * The Bal.ary given to the city poot is incidentally mentioned by Jonsi>n in an indignant letter to the ivirl of Newcastle in 1631. ' Yesterday the barbarous Court of Aldermen have with- drawn tlieir chandlery pension for verjuice and mustard — L.a3, 68. W.' Hec. 'Tis high time for us then. Stad. There was a bat hung at my lips three times As we came thro' the woods, and drank her fill : Old Puckle saw her. Hec. You are fortunate still. The very screech-owl lights upon your shoulder, And woos you like a pigeon. Are you furnished 1 Have you your ointments ? Stad. All. Hec. Prepare to flight then : I'll overtake you swiftly. Stad. Hie, then, Hecate : We shall be up betimes. Hec. I'll reach you quickly. [They ascend. Enter FiRESTONB. Fire. They are all going a-birding to night. They talk of fowls i' th' air that fly by day ; I'm sure they'll be a company of foul sluts there to-night. If we have not mortality affeared, I'll be hang'd, for they are able to putrefy it to infect a whole region. She spies me now. Hec. What ! Firestone, our sweet son ? Fire. A little sweeter than some of you; or a dung- hill were too good for one. Hec. How nuich hast there ? Fire. Nineteen, and all brave plump ones ; besides six lizzards, and three serpentine eggs. Hec. Dear and sweet boy ! What herbs hast thou ? Fire. I have some mar-martin and mandragon. Hec. Mar-maritin and mandragora thou would'st say. Fire. Here's pannax too. I thank thee ; my pan akes, I am sure, with kneeling down to cut 'em. Hec. And selago. Hedge Hissop too ! How near he goes my cuttings ! Were they all cropt by moonlight ? Fire. Eveiy blade of 'em, or I'm a mooncalf, mother. Hec. Hie thee home with 'em. Look well to th' house to-night ; I am for aloft. Fire. Aloft, quoth you ? I would you would break your neck once, that I might have all quickly. [Aside.] — Hark, hark, mother ! they are above the steeple already, flying over your head with a noise of musicians. Hec. They are, indeed ; help me ! help me ! I'm too late else. Song. [In the air above.] Come away, come away, Hecate, Hecate, come away, Hec. I come, I come, I come, I come ; With all the speed I may ; With all the speed I may. Where's Stadlin ? [Ahore."] Here. Hec. Where's Puckle ? [Above.] Here. And IIoppo too, and Hellwain too : We lack but you, we lack but you. Come away, make up the count. Hec. I will but 'noint and then I mount. [A Spirit descends in the shape of a cat. [Above.] There's one come down to fetch his dues ; A kiss, a coll, a sij) of blood ; And why thou stay'st so long, I muse, I muse, Since th' air's so sweet and good. Hec. Oh, art thou come ; What news, what news ? Spirit. All goes still to our delight. Either come, or else Refuse, refuse. Hec. Now, I am furnlsh'd for the flight. Fire. Hark, hark ! The cat sings a brave treble in her own language. 214 DRAMATISTS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. ROBERT TAVI.OR. Hec. [Ascending with the Sjnrit.] Now I go, now 1 fly, Malkin, my sweet spirit, and I. Oh, what daiuty pleasure 'tis To ride in the air, "When the moon .shines fair, And sing, and dance, and toy and kiss ! Over woods, high rocks, and mountains, Over seas, our mistress' fountains, Over steep towers and turrets, We fly by night, 'mongst troops of spirits. No ring of bells to our ears sounds ; No howls of wolves, no yelp of hounds ; No, not the noise of waters' breach, Or cannon's roar our height can reach. [^Alove.'] No ring of bells, &c. JOHX JIARSTON. John Marston, a rough and vigorous satirist and dramatic writer, produced his Malcontent, a comedy, prior to 1600; his Antonio and Mellida. a tragedy, in 1602 ; the Insatiate Countess, What You Will, and other plays, written between the latter date and 1634, when he died. He was also connected with Jonson and Chapman in the composition of the un- fortunate comedy, Eastu-ard Hoe. In his subsequent quarrel with Jonson, Marston was satirised by Ben in his ' Poetaster,' under the name of Demetrius. Marston was author of two volumes of miscellaneous poetry, translations, and satires, one of which (Pig- malion's Image) was ordered to be burned for its 'icentiousness. Islr Collier, who states that Marston seems to have attracted a good deal of attention in his' own day, quotes from a contemporarj' diary the following anecdote: — 'Nov. 21, 1602. — Jo. Marston, the last Christmas, when he danced with Alderman More's wife's daughter, a Spaniard born, fell into a strange commendation of her wit and beauty. "When he had done, she thought to pay him home, and told him she thought he was a poet. 'Tis true, said he, for poets feign and lie ; and so did I when I com- mended your beauty, for you are exceeding foul.' This coarseness seems to have been characteristic of Marston: his comedies contain strong biting satires, but he is far from being a moral writer. Ilazlitt says, his forte was not sympathy either with the stronger or softer emotions, but an impatient scorn and bitter indignation against the vices and follies of men, which vented itself either in comic irony or in lofty invective. The following humorous sketch of a scholar and his dog is worthy of Shakspeare : — I was a scholar : seven useful springs Did I deflower in quotations Of cross'd opinions 'bout the soul of man ; The more I learnt, the more I learnt to doubt. Delight, my spaniel, slept, whilst I baus'd leaves, Toss'd o'er the dunces, pored on the old print Of titled words : and still my spaniel slept. Whilst I wasted lamp-oil, baited my flesh. Shrunk up my veins : and still my spaniel slept. And still I held converse with Zabarell, Aquinas, Scotus, and the musty saw Of Antick Donate : still my spaniel slept. Still on went I ; first, an sit anima; Then, an it were mortal. hold, hold ; at that They're at brain bufiets, fell by the ears amain Pell-mell together ; still my spaniel slept. Then, whether 'twere corporeal, local, fixt, Ex traduce, but whether 't had free will Or no, hot philosophers Stood banding factions, all so strongly propt ; I stagger'd, knew not which was firmer part, But thought, quoted, read, observ'd, and pried, Stufft noting-books : and still m/ spaniel slept. At length he wak'd, and yawn'd ; and by yon sky, For aught I know, he knew as much as I. ROBERT TAYLOR — WII.LIAJI ROWLEY — CYRIL TOURNEUR. Among the otlier dramatists at this time may be mentioned Robert Taylor, ;\uthor of the Hog hath Lost his Pearl : William Rowley, an actor and joint writer witli IMiddlctoii and Dekker, who produced several plays ; Cyril Toukneijr, author of two good dramas, the Atheist's Tragedy and the Revenger s Tragedij. A tragi-comedy, the Witch of Edmonton, is remarkable as having been the work of at least three authors — Rowley, Dekker. and Ford. It embodies, in a striking form, the vulgar superstitions respect- ing witchcraft, which so long debased the popular mind in England : — [Seme from the Witch of Edmonton.'] MoTHKR Sawyer alone. Scnc. And why on nie ? why should the envious world Throw all their scandalous malice upon me ? 'Cause I am poor, deform'd, and ignorant. And like a bow buckled and bent together By some more strong in mischiefs than myself; !NIust I for that be made a common sink For all the filth and rubbish of men's tongues To fall and run into ? Some call me witch, And being ignorant of myself, they go About to teach me how to be one : urging That my bad tongue (by their bad usage made so) Forespeaks their cattle, doth bewitch their corn, Themselves, their servants, and tlioir babes at nurse : This they enforce upon me ; and in part Make me to credit it. Banks, a F.-irmer, enters. Ba/iTcs. Out, out upon thee, witch ! Saic. Dost call me v>-itch ? Banls. I do, witch ; I do : And worse I would, knew I a name more hateful. "What inakest thou upon my ground ? Saw. Gather a few rotten sticks to wami mc. Banls. Down with them when I bid thee, quickly ; I'll make thy bones rattle in thy skin else. Saw. You won't ! churl, cut-throat, miser I th.ere they be. Would they stuck 'cross thy throat, tliy bowels, thy maw, thy midriff Banks. Say'st thou me so ? Hag, out of my grotmd. , That may take from your innocence and ck idour. All my ambition is to have my daughter Right honourable ; which mj' lord can make her : And might I live to dance upon my knee A young Lord Lovell, bom by her unto you, I write nil ultra to my proudest hopes. As for possessions and annual rents. Equivalent to maintain you in the port Your noble birth and present state require, I do remove that burden from your shoulders, And take it on mine own ; for though I ruin The country to supply your riotous waste. The scourge of prodigals (want) shall never find you. Lov. Are you not frighted with the imprecations And curses of whole families, n.ade wretched By your sinister practices \ Onr. Yes, as rocks are When foamy billows split themselves against Their flinty ribs ; or as the moon is moved When wolves, with hunger pined, howl at her bright- ness. I am of a solid temper, and, like these, Steer on a constant course : with mine own sword, If call'd into the field, I can make that right Which fearful enemies murmur'd at as wron". Now, for those other piddling complaints, IJreath'd out in bitterness ; as, when they call me Extortioner, tjxant, cormorant, or intruder On my poor neighbour's right, or grand encloser Of what was common to my private use ; Nay, when my ears are pierced with widows' cries. And undone orphans wash with tears my threshold, I only think what 'tis to have my daughter Right honourable ; and 'tis a powerful charm, Makes me insensible of remorse or pity, Or the least sting of conscience. Lov. I admire The toughness of your nature. Ortr. 'Tis for you. My lord, and for my daughter, I am marble. ' Tlie Laily AlUvorth. [Compassion for Mi.ffortune.'] [From the ' City Madam.'] Lul:e. No word, sir, I hope, shall give oft'ence : nor let it relish Of flattery, though I proclaim aloud, I glory in the bravery of your mind. To which your wealth 's a servant. Not that riches Is, or should be, contemn'd, it being a blessing Deriv'd from heaven, and by your industry PuU'd down upon you ; but in this, dear sir, You have many equals : such a man's possessions' Extend as far as yours ; a second hath His bags as full ; a third in credit flies As high in the popular voice : but the distinction And noble difference by which you are Divided from them, is, that you are styled Gentle in your abundance, good in plenty ; And that you feel compassion in j'our bowels Of others' miseries (I have found it, sir ; Heaven keep me thankful for't !), while they are ciirs'<' As rigid and inexorable. * * Your affability and mildness, clothed In the garments of your thankful debtors' breath. Shall everywhere, though you strive to conceal it. Be seen and wonder'd at, and in the act With a prodigal hand rewarded. Whereas, si ch As are born only for themselves, and live so, Though prosperous in worldly understandings. Are but like beasts of rapine, that, by odds Of strength, usurp and tyrannise o'er others Brought under their subjection. * * Can you think, sir. In your unquestion'd wisdom, I beseech you, The goods of this poor man sold at an outcry. His wife turn'd out of doors, his children forc'd To beg their bread ; this gentleman's estate By wrong extorted, can advantage you ? Or that the ruin of this once brave merchant, For such he was esteem'd, though now decay'd, Will raise your reputation with good men ? But you may urge (pray you, pardon me, my zea. Makes me thus bold and vehement), in this You satisfy your anger, and revenge For being defeated. Suppose this, it will not Repair your loss, and there was never yet But shame and scandal in a victory. When the rebels unto reason, passions, fought it. Then for revenge, by great souls it was ever Contemn'd, though ofi'er'd ; entertain'd by none But cowards, base and abject spirits, strangers To moral honesty, and never yet Acquainted with religion. * * in perfect health ? -Oift. Not perfect, madam, Until you bless him with the knowledge of •four constau cy. ^\ ^ gs'' ^^^ wings and fly then ; Tell_h-jn my love -loth burn like vestal fire, UTiich, vrith his meiBorv richer than all spices, Disperses o.V,urs rouna about mv soul, And did refre^J. it when a-ras dull and sad. With thinking ol his absence. f et stav, Thou goest away too s»on ; where Is lie ? speak. JJul. He gave me no curnmission Jor that, lady ; He will soon save that question by his ^presence. C/e. Time has no feathei^ ; he wa^ks now on crutches. Relate his gestures when he gave ti^e this. What other words 1 Did mirth smile on his bror t I would not for the wealth of this great norld He should suspect my faith. What said he, prithee i Did. He said what a warm lover, when desire Makes eloquent, could speak ; he said you were Both star and pilot. C'/e. The sun's lov'd flower, that shuts his yellow curtain When lie declineth, opens it again At his fair rising : ^vith my parting lord I clos'd all my delight ; till his approach It shall not spread itself. Tlie Prodigal Lady. [From the ' Lady of Pleasure.*] Aretina and the Steward. Stew. Be patient, madam, you may have your plea- sure. Aret. 'Tis that I came to town for ; I would not Endure again the country conversation To be the lad}' of six shires ! The men. So near the primitive making, they retain A sense of nothing but the earth ; their brains And barren heads standing as much in wa::t Of ploughing as their ground : to hear a fellow ]\Iake himself merry and his horse with whistling Sellinger's round ;' t' observe with what solemnity They keep their wakes, and throw for pewter candle- sticks ; How they become the morris, with whose bells They ring all into Whitsuii ales, and swear Through twenty scarfs and napkins, till the hobbyhorse Tire, and the ilaid-^Iarian, dissolved to a jelly. Be kept for spoon meat. Stew. These, with your pardon, are no argument To make the country life appear so hateful ; At least to your particular, who eiijoy'd A blessing in that calm, would you be puas'd To think so, and the pleasure of a kingdom : While your own will commanded what should move Delights, 3'our husband's love and power joined To give your life more harmony. You liv'd there Secure and innocent, belov'd of all : Prais'd for your hospitality, and pray'd for: You might be envied, but malice knew Not where you dwelt. — I would not prophesy, But leave to your own apprehension \\'hat may succeed your change. A ret. You do imagine. No doubt, you have talk'd wisely, and confuted London past all defence. Your master should Do well to send you back into the country. With title of superintendent bailie. Enter Sib Thomas Bornwjei.l. Bom. How now, what's the matter ? Angry, sweetheart ? Aret. I am angry with myself, To be so miserably restrain'd in things Wherein it doth concern your love and honour To see me satisfied. Born. In what, Aretina, Dost thou accuse me ? Have I not obeyed All thy desires against mine own opinion ? Quitted the country, and remov'd the hope Of our return by sale of that fair lordship We liv'd in ; chang'd a calm and retir'd life For this wild town, compos'd of noise and charge ! Aret. What charge more than is necessary For a lady of my birth and education ? Born. I am not ignorant how nmch i.obility Flows in j'our blood ; your kinsmen, great and powei 'ul r th' state, but with this lose not your memory Of being my wife. I shall be studious, Madam, to give the dignity of your birth All the best ornaments which become my fortur«, But would not flatter it to ruin both, AiiJ be the fable of the town, to teach Other men loss of wit by mine, employeii To serve your vast expenses. A rd. Am I then Brought in the balance so, sir ? Born. Though you wci^h Me in a partial scale, niy^heart is honest, And must take liberty to think you have Obeyed no modest counsel to affect, Nay study, ways of pride and costly ceremony. Your change of gaudy furniture, and pictures Of this Italian master and that Dutchman's ; Your mighty looking-glasses, like artillery, BroiujJit home on engines ; the superfluous plate. Antique and novel ; vanities of tires ; Fourscore pound suppers for my lord, your kinamau , Banquets for t'other lady, aunt and cousins ; ' A favourite though homely dance of those days, taking ht title from an actor named St Lecer. 223 FROM 1558 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO lb' ! And perfumes that exceed all : train of serrants, To stifle us at home and show abroad, ; More motley than the French or the Venetian, About your coach, whose rude postilion Must jiester every narrow lane, till passengers And tradesmen curse your chokin>' up their stalls, And common cries pursue your ladyship For hind'ring o' the market. Aret. Have you done, sir ? Bom. 1 could accuse the gaiety of your wardrobe And prodigal embroideries, under which Rich satins, plushes, cloth of silver, dare Not show their own complexions. Your jewels, Able to bum out the spectator's eyes. And show like bonfires on you by the tapers. Something might here be spared, with safety of ; Your birth and honour, since the truest wealth I Shines from the soul, and draws up just admirers. i I could urge something more. ! Artt. Pray do ; I like ' Your homily of thrift. Born. I could wish, madam, You would not game so much. Aret. A gamester too ? Born. But are not come to that repentance yet Should teach you skill enough to raise your prolit ; You look not through the subtlety of cards And mysteries of dice, nor can you save Charge with the box, buy petticoats and pearls ; ; Kor do I wish you should. My poorest servant j Shall not upbraid my tables, nor his hire, ; Purchas'd beneath my honour. You may play, ; Not a pastime, but a tyranny, and vex , Yourself and my estate by 't. I Aret. Good — proceed. Born. Another game you have, which consumes more I Your fame than purse ; your revels in the night, I Your meetings called the ball, to which appear, j As to the court of pleasure, all your gallants I And ladies, thither bound by a subpoena I Of Venus and small Cupid's high displeasure ; I 'Tis but the family of love translated ', Into more costly sin. There was a play on 't, j And had the poet not been brib'd to a modest Expression of your antic gambols in 't. Some darks had been discover'd, and the deeds too ; In time he may repent, and make some blush To see the second part danc'd on the stage. My thoughts acquit you for dishonouring me By any foul act, but the virtuous know 'Tis not enough to clear ourselves, but the Suspicions of our shame. Aret. Have you concluded Your lecture ? Bom. I have done ; and howsoever My language may appear to you, it carries No other than my fair and just intent To your delights, without curb to their modest I And noble freedom. ! In the ' Ball,' a comedy partly by Chapman, but chiefly by Shirley, a coxcomb (Bostoek), craved on the point of family, is showh ui> in the most admir- I able manner. Sir Marmaduke Travers, by way of I fooling him, tells him that he is rivalled in his suit I of a particular ludy by Sir Ambrose Lamount. [Scene from the Ball.} BosTOCK and Sir Marmadukk. Bot. Does she lore any body eUe ! Mar. I know not. But she has half a score upon my knowledge, Are suitors for her favour. Bos. Name but one, Knd if he cannot show as many coats Mar. He thinks he has good cards for her, and likea His game well. Boi. Be an understanding knight, And take my meaning ; if he cannot show As much in heraldry 3far. I do not know how rich he is in fields, But he is a gentleman. Bos. Is he a branch of the nobility ? How many lords can he call cousin ? — else He must be taught to know he has presumed To stand in competition with me. Mai: You will not kill him 1 Bos. You shall pardon me ; I have that within me must not be provok'd ; There be some living now that have been kill'd For lesser matters. 3far, Some living that have been kill'd ? Bos. I mean some living that have seen examples, Not to confront nobility ; and I Am sensible of my honour. 3far. His name is Sir Ambrose. Bos. Lamount ; a knight of yesterdav'. And he shall die to-morrow; name another. Mar. Not so fast, sir ; you must take some breath. Bos. I care no more for killing half a dozen Knights of the lower house — I mean that are not Descended from nobility — than I do To kick any footman ; an Sir Ambrose were Knight of the Sun, king Oberon should not save him, Nor his queen Mab. Enter Sir Ambrose Lamount. 3far. Unluckily he's here, sir. Bos. Sir Ambrose, How does thy knighthood 1 ha ' Amb. My nymph of honour, well ; I joy to see thee. Bos. Sir IMarmaduke tells me thou art suitor to Lady Lncina. Amh. 1 have ambition To be her servant. Bos. Hast ? thou'rt a brave knight, and I i^jinmend Thy judgment. Ami. Sir jMarmaduke himself leans ^-^at way to"- Bos. Why didst conceal it ? Coi-^e, the moi^ tlie merrier. But I could never see you ther<'« Mar. I hope. Sir, we may live. Bos. I'll tell you, gentlemen, Cupid has given us »'l one Vivev 5 I serve that lady ^o ; you ui^Jerstand mc ! But who shall carry her, t^e fates detenu me ; I could be kr'ghted too Amb. That would Ve no addition to Your blcod. , , , , , , , Bos. I think ii would not ; so my lord told me ; Tbou know'st jny lord, not the earl, my other Cousin ? there's a spark his predecessors Have match'd into the blood ; you understand He put me upon this lady ; I proclaim No hopes ; pray let's together, gentlemen ; If she be wise — I say no more ; she shall not Cost me a sigh, nor shall her love engage me To draw a sword ; I have vow'd that. Mar. You did but jest before. Avib. 'Twere pity that one drop Of your heroic blood should fall to th' ground : Who knows but all your cousin lords may die. Mar. As I believe them not immortal, sir. Amb. Then you are gulf of honour, swallow all, May marry some queen yourself, and get princes To furnish the barren parts of Christendom. There was a long cessation of the regular drama. In 1642, the nation was convulsed with the elementa of discord, and in the same month that the sword 224 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. ENGLISH LITKRAlUUi:. BYIID AND llt'NNia, was drawn, the theatres were closed. On the 2d of September, the Long Parliament issued an ordinance, ' suppressins; public stage plays throiv^hout tlie king- dom during tliese calamitous times.' An infraction of this ordinance took place in 1644, when some players were apprehended for jjcrforining Beaumont and Fletcher's • King and no King' — au ominous title for a drama at that period. Anotlier ordinance was issued in 1G47, and a third in tlie following 3'ear, when tlie House of Commons appointed a provost marsliall, for the purpose of suppressing plays and seizing ballad singers. Parties of strolling actors occasionally performed in tlie country ; but there was no regular theatrical performances in London, till Davenant brought out his opera, the Siege of Rhodes, in the year 1656. Two years afterwards, he removed to the Cockpit Theatre. Drury Lane, where he per- formed until tlie eve of the llestoration. A strong partiality for the drama existed in the nation, which all the storms of the civil war, and the zeal of tlie Puritans, had not been able to crush or subdue. MISCELLANEOUS PIECES OF THE PERIOD 1558-1649. [Convivial Song, by Bifhop Still.l 'From tlie play of ' Gammer Gurton's Needle,' about 156.^.] I caimot eat but little meat, My stomach is not good ; But sure I think that I can drink With him that wears a hood. Though I go bare, take ye no care, I nothing am a-cold ; I stuff my skin so full within Of jolly good ale and old. Back and side go bare, go bare ; Both foot and hand go cold ; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old. I love no roast but a nut-brown toast, And a crab laid in the fire ; And little bread shall do me stead ; Much bread I nought desire. No frost, no snow, no wind, I trow. Can hurt me if I wold, I am so ■RTapp'd, and thoroughly lapp'd, Of jolly good ale and old. Back and side, &c. Vnd Tib, my wife, that as her life Loveth well good ale to seek. Full oft drinks she, till ye may see The tears run down her cheek : Then doth she troul to me the bowl. Even as a maltworm should, And saith, ' Sweetheart, 1 took my part Of this jolly good ale and old.' Back and side, &c. Now let them drink till they nod and wink, Even as good fellows should do ; They shall not miss to have the bliss Good ale doth bring men to. And all poor souls that have scour'd bowls, Or have them lustily troul'd, God save the lives of them and their wives. Whether they be young or old. Back and side, kc. My Mind to me a Kingdom is. [From RjTd's ' Psalms, Sonnets,' ice. VMR.'} My mind to me a kingdom is, Such perfect joy therein I find, That it excels all other bliss That God or nature hath asslgn'd : Though much I want that most would have, Yet still my mind forbids to crave. No princely port, nor wealthy store. Nor force to win a victory ; No wily wit to salve a sore, No shape to win a loving eye ; To none of these I yield as thrall, For why, my mind despise them all. I see that plenty surfeits oft. And hasty climbers soonest fall ; I see that such as are aloft, Mishap doth threaten most of all; These get with toil, and keep with fear: Such cares niy mind can never bear. I press to bear no haughty sway ; I wish no more than may suffice ; I do no more than well I may, Look what I want, my mind supplies ; Lo, thus I triumph like a king. My mind's content with anythiu"'. I laugh not at another's loss. Nor grudge not at another's gain ; No worldly waves my mind can toss ; I brook that is another's bane ; I fear no foo, nor fawn on friend ; I loathe not life, nor dread mine end. My wealth is health and perfect ease. And conscience clear my chief defence j I never seek by bribes to please, Nor by desert to give offence ; Thus do 1 live, thus will I die; Would all do so as well as I ! [From the s cme.] What jjleasure have great princea More dainty to their choice. Than herdsmen wild, who careless In quiet life rejoice: And Fortune's fate not fearing, Sing sweet in summer morning. Their dealings plain and rightful, Are void of all deceit ; They never know how s])iteful It is to feel and wait On favourite presumptuous. Whose pride is vain and sumptuous. All day their flocks each tendcth. All night they take their rest, More quiet tlian wlio scndeth His ship into the East, Where gold and pearl are plenty, But getting very dainty. For lawyers and their pleading They esteem it not a straw ; They think tliat honest meaning Is of itsplf a law ; Where Conscience judgeth pla'i (y, They spend no money vainly. happy who thus liveth. Not caring nuich for gold, With clothing wliich sutliceth To keep him from the cold : Though poor and plain his diet, Yet merry it is and quiet. Mrdltutlon n-Jien ive go to Bed. [From the ' Ilamifii! of Ifonpy?unl. Offended sore thy Majesty, In heaping sin to sin, Aiid yet thy mercy liath ine spar'd, So gracious liast thou been ! Lord, my faults 1 now confess, And sorry am therefor ; But not so much as fain I would : Lord, what wilt thou more ? It is tliy grace must bring that spirit For which I humbly pray. And that this night thou me defend, As thou hast done this day. And grant, when these mine eyes and tongue Shall fail through Nature's might, That then the powers of my poor soul May praise thee day and night. Meditation. 'From tlie ' Poor Widow's Jlite.' By AVillian^ Ilunnis ; 151)5.] Thou, (Jod, that rul'st and reign'st in light, That flesh cannot attain ; Thou, God, that know'st the thoughts of men Are altogether vain ; Thou, God, whom neither tongue of man Nor angel can express ; Thou, God, it is that I do seek. Thou pity my distress ! Thy seat, Goil, is everywhere. Thy power all powers transcend ; Thy wisdom cannot measured be. For that it hath no end ! Thou art the jiower and wisdom too, And sole felicity ; But I a lump of sinful flesh. Nurse of iniquity. Thou art by nature merciful. And Mercy is thy name ; And I by nature miserable, The thrall of sin and shame : Then let thy nature, O good God ! Now work this force in me ; And cleanse the nature of my sin. And heal my misery. One depth, good Lord, another craves ; !My depth of sinful crime Requires the depth of mercy great. For saving health in tune. Sweet Christ, grant that thy depth of grace May swallow up my sin ; That I thereby may whiter be. Than even snow hath been. Tale of Argentik caul Curan. [From a poetical epitome of English history, entitled Albion's Englanil, published in I5il(>, the composition of William AVanier, an attorney of the Comnura Ples.s, who died at a ripe age in 1609.] The Brutons thus departed hence, seven kingdoms here begone, Where diversely in diverse broils the Saxons lost and won. King Knd, he left it at the fold ; Sweet growt or whig, his bottle had as much as it would hold ; A sheave of bread as brown as nut, and cheese as white as snow. And wildings, or the season's fruit, he did in scrip bestow • 220 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. ENGLISH LITERATURE. WARNER. And whilst liis pieba. 1 cut did sleep, and sheep-hook lay him by, On hollow quills of :>aten straw he piped melody. But when he spied her, his saint, he wip'd his greasy shoes, And clear'd the drivel from his beard, and thus the shepherd woos : I have, sweet wench, a piece of cheese, as good as tooth may chaw. And bread, and wildings, souling well ;' and there- withal did draw His lardry ; and, in eating, * See yon crumpled ewe,' quoth he, ' Did twin this fall ; faith thou art too elvish, and too coy; Am I, I pray thee, beggarly, that such a flock enjoy ? [wis I am not ; yet that thou dost hold me in disdain .'s brim abroad, and made a gibe to all that keep this plain. There be as quaint, at least that think themselves as quaint, that crave The match which thou (I wot not why) may'st, but mislik'st to have. How would'st thou match ? (for well I wot, thou art a female) ; I, I know not her, tha*' willingly, in maidenhood would die. The ploughman's labcir hath no end, and he a churl will prove ; The craftsman hath more work in hand than fitteth on to love ; The merchant, trafficking abroad, suspects his wife at home ; A youth will play the wanton, and an old man prove a mome ; Then choose a shepherd ; with the sun he doth his flock unfold, And all the day on hill or plain he merry chat can hold : And with the sun doth fold again : then jogging home betime, He turns a crab, or tunes a roynd, or sings some merry rhyme ; Nor lacks he gleeful tales to tell, whilst that the bowl doth trot : And sitteth singing care away, till he to bed hath got. There sleeps he soundly all the night, forgetting mor- row cares. Nor fears he blasting of his ct ti, or uttring of his wares. Or storms by sea, or stirs on land, or crack of credit lost. Nor spending franklier than his flock shall still defray the cost. Well wot I, sooth they say, that say, more quiet niglits and days The shepherd sleeps and wakes than he whose cattle he doth graze. JJclieve me, lass, a king is but a man, and so am I ; Content is worth a monarchy, and mischiefs hit the high. As late it did a king and his, not dying far from hence, AVho left a daughter (save thyself) for fair, a matcli- less wench.' Here did he pause, as if his tongue had made his heart offence. The neatress, longing for the rest, did egg him on to tell How fair she was, and who she was. 'She bore,' quoth he, ' the bell For beauty: though I clownish am, I know what beauty is. Or did I not, yet, seeing thee, I senseless were to miss. Suppose hc»- beauty Helen's like, or Helen's somewhat less, And every star consorting to a pure complexion guess. Her stature comely tall, her gait well graced, and her wit To marvel at, not meddle with, as matchless, I omit. A globe-like head, a gold-like hair, a forehead smooth and high. An even nose, on either side stood out a grayish eye: Two ros}' cheeks, round ruddy lips, with just set teeth within, A mouth in mean, and underneath a round and dimpled chin. Her snowy neck, with bluish veins, stood bolt upright upon Her portly shoulders ; beating balls, her veined breasts, anon. Add more to beauty ; wand-like was her middle, falling still * * And more, her long and limber arras had white and azure wrists. And slender fingers answer to her smooth and lily fists ! A leg in print, and pretty foot ; her tongue of speech was spare ; But speaking, Venus seem'd to speak, the ball from Ide to bear ! With Pallas, Juno, and with both, herself contends in face ; Where equal mixture did not want of mild and stately grace : Her smiles were sober, and her looks were cheerful unto all. And such as neither wanton seem, nor wayward ; mell, nor gall. A quiet mind, a patient mood, and not disdaining any ; Not gibing, gadding, gawdy ; and her faculties were many. A nymph, no tongue, no heart, no eye, might praise, might wish, might see. For life, for love, for form, more good, more worth, more fair than she ! Yet such an one, as such was none, save only she was such : Of Argentile, to say the most, were to be silent much.' ' I knew the lady very well, but worthless of such praise,' The neatress said ; ' and muse I do, a shepheiJ thus should blaze The coat of beauty. Credit me, thy latter speech bewrays Thy cIo\vnish shape, a coined show. But wherefore dost thou weep ?' (The shepherd wept, and she was woe, and both did silence keep.) ' In troth,' quoth he, ' I am not such as seemiu;,- I profess ; But then for her, and now for thee, I from myself digress. Her loved I, ■(vretch that I am, a recreant to be ; I loved her, that hated love ; but now I die for thee At Kirklaiid is my father's court, and Curan is mj name ; In Edell's court sometimes in pomp, till love controll'd the same : But now ; what now ? dear heart ! how now ? what ailest thou to weep V (The damsel wept, and he Avas woe, and both did silence keep.) ' I grant,' quoth she, ' it was too much, that you did love so nmch ; But whom your former could not move, your second love doth touch. Thy twice beloved Agentile submitteth her to thee : And for thy double love presents herself a single fee , In passion, not in person thaiig'd, and 1, my lord, am she.' They sweetly surfeiting in joy, and silent for a space, Whereas the ecstacy had end, did tenderly embrace ; And for their wedding, and their wish, got fitting time and place. 227 moM 1558 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1649. Sonnet. [By George Chapman, the Translator of Homer : 1595.] Muses, that sing Love's sensual einpirie, And lovers kindling your enraged iires At Cupid's bonfires burning in the eye, Blo^vn with the empty breath of vain desires ; You, that prefer the painted cabinet Before the wealthy jewels it doth store ye, That all your joys in dying figures set, And stain the living substance of your glory ; Abjure those joys, abhor their memory ; And let my love the honour'd subject be Of love and honour's complete history ! Your eyes were never yet let in to see The majesty and riches of the mind, That dwell in darkness ; for your god is blind. 77(6 Woodman^s Walk. (TTom ' England's Helicon," 1600, where it is signed, ' Shep. Tonie.'] Through a fair forest as I went, Upon a summer's day, I met a woodman, quaint and gent, Yet in a strange array. I marvell'd much at his disguise, Whom I did know so well : But thus, in terms both grave and wise. His mind he 'gan to tell ; Friend ! muse not at this fond array. But list a while to me : For it hath holpe me to survey What I shall show to thee. Long liv'd I in this forest fair. Till, weary of my weal. Abroad in walks I would repair, As now I will reveal. My first day's walk was to the court, Where beauty fed mine eyes ; Yet found I that the courtly sport Did mask in sly disguise : For falsehood sat in fairest looks. And friend to friend was coy : Court favour fiU'd but empty rooks, And then 1 found no joy. Desert went naked in the cold, When crouching craft was fed : Sweet words were cheaply bought and sold. But none that stood in stead. Wit was employed for each man's own ; Plain meaning came too short ; All these devices, seen and known, Made me forsake the court. Unto the city next I went. In hope of better hap ; Where liberally I launcht and spent. As set on Fortune's lap. The little stock I had in store, Methought would ne'er be done ; Friends flock'd about me more and more, As quickly lost as won. For, when I spent, then they were kind ; But when my purse did fail. The foremost man came lust behind : Thus love with wealth dath quail. Once more for footing yet I strove, Although the world did frown : But they, before that held me up. Together trod me do^vn. And, lest once more I should arise. They sought my quite decay : Then got I into this disguise, And thence I stole away. And in my mind (methought), I said, Lord bless me from the city : Where simpleness is thus betray'd Without remorse or pity. Yet would I not give over so, But once more try my fate ; And to the country then I go. To live in quiet state. There did appear no subtle shows, But yea and nay went smoothly ; But, lord ! how country folks can gloia, When they speak most untruly ! More craft was in a buttoned cap. And in an old wife's rail. Than in my life it was my hap To see on down or dale. There was no open forgery But underhanded gleaning. Which they call country policy. But hath a worser meaning. Some good bold face bears out the wrong, Because he gains thereby ; The poor man's back is crack'd ere long, Yet there he lets him lie. And no degree, among them all. But had such close intending. That I upon my knees did fall, And pray'd for their amending. Back to the woods I got again, In mind perplexed sore ; Where I found ease of all my pain, And mean to stray no more. There city, court, nor country too, Can any way annoy me ; But as a woodman ought to do, I freely may employ me ; There live I quietly alone. And none to trip my talk : Wherefore, when I am dead and gone. Think on the woodman's walk ! There is a Garden in her Face. [From'Anllour'sUecreationin JIusic,'by Rich. Alison: 1 506.] There is ii garden in her face, Where roses and white lilies grow ; A heavenly paradise is that [)lace, Wherein all jjloasant fruits do grow; There cherries grow that none may buy, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. Those cherries fairly do inclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows. They look like rose-buds till'd with snow : Yet them no peer nor prince may buy. Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 228 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. ENGLISH LITERATURE. MISCELLANEOUS PIECI Her eyes like angels watch them still ; Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threiit'niiig with piercing frowns to kill All that approach with eye or hand These sacred cherries to come nigh, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. Robin Goodfellow. [Attributed, upon supposition only, to Bea #wnson.] From Oberon, in fairy land, Tlie king of ghosts and shadows there, Mad Robin I, at his command, Am sent to view the night-sports here. What revel rout Is kept about. In every corner where I go, I will o'ersee. And merry be. And make good sport, with ho, ho, ho ! Jlore swift than lightning can I fly About this airy welkin soon. And, in a minute's space, descry Each thing that's done below the moon. There's not a hag Or ghost shall wag. Or cry, 'ware goblins ! where I go ; But Robin I Their feats will spy, And send them home with ho, ho, ho ! Whene'er such wanderers I meet. As from their night-sports they trudge home. With counterfeiting voice I greet, And call them on with me to roam : Through woods, through lakes ; Through bogs, through brakes ; Or else, unseen, with them I go. All in the nick, To play some trick. And frolic it, with ho, ho, ho 1 Sometimes I meet them like a man. Sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound ; And to a horse I turn me can, To trip and trot about them round. Rut if to ride My back they stride, More swift than wind away I go. O'er hedge and lands. Through poi 's and ponds, I hurry, laughing, ho, ho, ho ! When lads and lasses merry be. With possets and with 'unkets fine ; Unseen of all the company, I eat their cakes and sip their wine ! And, to make sport, I pufF and snort : And out the candles I do blow : The maids I kiss. They shriek— Who's this ? I answer nought but ho, ho, ho ! Yet now and then, the maids to please, At midnight I card up their wool ; And, while they sleep and take their ease. With wheel to threads their flax I pull. I grind at mill Their malt up still ; I dress their hemp ; I spin their tow ; If any wake, And would me take, 1 wend me, laughing, ho, ho, ho ! When any need to borrow auglit. We lend them what they do require : And, for the use demand we nought ; Our own is all we do desire. If to repay They do delay. Abroad amongst them then I go, And night by night, I them aftright, With pinchings, dreams, and ho, ho, ho ! When lazy queans have nought to do. But study how to cog and lie : To make debate and mischief too, 'Twixt one another secretly : I mark their gloze. And it disclose To them whom they have WTonged so : ^^'hen I have done, I get me gone, Arid leave them scolding, ho, ho, ho ! When men do traps and engines set In loop holes, where the vermin creep, Who from their folds and houses get Their ducks and geese, and lambs and I spy the gin. And enter in, And seem a vermin taken so ; But when they there Approach me near, I leap out laughing, ho, ho, ho ! By wells and rills, in meadows green, We nightly dance oui heyday guiae J And to our fairy king and .lueen. We chant our moonlight minstrelsies. When larks 'gin sing. Away we fling ; And babes new born steal as we go J And elf in bed We leave in stead. And wend us laughing, ho, ho, ho ! From hag-bred Merlin's time, have I Thus nightly revelled to and fro ; And for my pranks men call me by The name of Robin Good-fellow. Fiends, ghosts, and sprites. Who haunt the nights. The hags and goblins do me know; And beldames old My feats have told. So vale, vale ; ho, ho, ho ! The Old and Youwj Courtier. An old song made by an aged old pate. Of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a greiw estate. That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rati^, And an oKl porter to relieve the poor at his gate ; Like an old courtier of the queen's, And the queen's old courtier. With an old lady, whose anger one word assuages ; They every quarter paid their old servants their wages, And never knew what belong'd to coachmen, footmen, nor pages. But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats i»,nd badges ; Like an old courtier, &c. With an old study fiU'd full of learned old books. With an old reverend cliaplain, you might know him by his looks, '•29 #ROH 1558 CYCLOPiEDIA OF TO 1649 With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, Aud an old kitchen, that lualntaiu'd half a dozen old cooks ; Like an old courtier, &c. With an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns, and bows, With old swords and bucklers, that had borne many shrewd blows, And an old frieze coat, to cover his worship's trunk hose. And a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper nose ; Like an old courtier, &c. With a good old fashion, when Christmas was come, To call in all his old neighbours with bjvgpipe and drum, With good cheer enough to furnish every old room, And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb ; Like an old courtier, &c. With an old falconer, huntsmen, and a kennel of hounds, That never hawk'd, nor hunted, but in his own grounds ; Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds. And when he died, gave every child a thousand good pounds ; Like an old courtier, &c. But to his eldest son his house and lands he assign'd, Charging him in his will to keep the old bountiful mind. To be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbours be kind : But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclined ; Like a young courtier of the king's. And the king's young courtier. Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land. Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his com- mand. And takes up a thousand pounds upon his father's land. And gets drunk in a tavern till he can neither go nor stand : Like a j'oung courtier, &c. With a newfangled lady, that is dainty, nice, aud spare. Who never knew what belong'd to good housekeeping or care. Who buys gaudy-colour'd fans to play with wanton air. And seven or eight different dressings of other women's hair : Like a young courtier, &c. With a new-fashion'd hall, built where the old one stood. Hung round with new pictures that do the poor no good, With a fine marble chimney, wherein bums neither coal nor wood, And a new smooth shovel board, whereon no victuals ne'er stood : Like a young courtier, &c. With a new study, stuff'd full of pamphlets and plays. And a new chaplain, tliat swears faster than he prays, W'illi a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four or live days. And a new Fiench cook, to devise fine kickshaws and toys : Like a yomg courtier, &c. With a new fashion, when Christmas is drawing on. On a new journey to London straight we all must be gone. And leave none to keep house, but our new portei John, Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone ; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new gentleman usher, whose carriage is com- plete, With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat. With a waiting gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat, Who, when her lady has dined, lets the servants not eat ; Like a young courtier, &c. With new titles of honour, bought with his father's old gold. For which sundry of his ancestors' old manors are sold ; And this is the course most of our new gallants hold, Which makes that good housekeeping is now grown so cold Among the young courtiers of the king, Or the king's young courtiers. Time's Alteration. When this old cap was new, 'Tis since two hundred year ; No malice then we knew. But all things plenty were : All friendship now decays (Believe me this is true) ; Which was not in those days, When this old cap was new. The nobles of our land, AV'ere much delighted then. To have at their command A crew of lusty men, Which by their coats were kno^vn, Of tawny, red, or blue. With crests on their sleeves shown, When this old cap was new. Now pride hath banish'd all. Unto our land's reproach, When he whose means is small. Maintains both horse and coach. : Instead of a hundred men, The coach allows but two ; This was not thought on then. When this old cap was new. Good hospitality Was cherish'd then of many J Now poor men starve and die. And are not hclp'd by any : For charity waxetli cold. And love is found in few ; This was not in time of old, When this old cap was new. Where'er j'ou travelled then, You might meet on the way Brave kniglits and gentlemen, Clad in their country grey ; That courteous would appear, And kindly welcome you ; No puritans then were. When this old cap was new. Our ladies in those days In civil habit went ; Broad cloth was then worth praise. And gave the best content : 230 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. ENGLISH LITERATURE. MTSCELLANEOl'S PIFCES. French fashions then were scom'd ; Fond fauiiles then none knew ; Then modesty women adom'd, When this old cap was new. A man might then behold, At Christmas, in each hall, Good fires to curb the cold, And meat for great and small ; The neighbours were friendly bidden, And all had welcome true ; The poor from the gates were not cliiJden, When this old cap was new. Black jacks to every man Were fill'd with wine and beer ; No pewter pot nor can In those days did appear : Good cheer in a nobleman's house Was counted a seemly show ; We wanted no brawn nor souse, When this old cap was new. We took not such delight In cups of silver fine ; None under the degree of a knight In plate drank beer or wine : Now each mechanical man Hath a cupboard of plate for a show ; Which was a rare thing then. When this old cap was new. Then bribery was unborn, No simony men did use ; Christians did usury scorn, Devis'd among the Jews. Tlie lawyers to be fee'd At that time hardly knew ; For man with man agreed, When this old cap was new. No captain then caroused. Nor spent poor soldier's pay ; They were not so abused As they are at this day : Of seven days they make eight, To keep from them their due ; Poor soldiers had their right, When this old cap was new : Which made them fonvard still To go, although not prest ; And going with good will. Their fortunes were the best. Our English then in fight Did foreign foes subdue, And forced them all to flight, When this old cap was new. God save our gracious king. And send him long to live : Lord, mischief on them bring That will not their alms give, But seek to rob the poor Of that which is their due : This was not in time of yore. When this old cap was new. Loyalty Confined. [Supposed to have been written by Sir Roger L'F.^tranpe, while in confinement on account of his adherence to Charles I.] Beat on, proud billows ; Boreas, blow ; Swell, curl'd waves, high as Jove's roof; Your incivility doth show That innocence is tempest-proof; Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm ; Then strikt , affliction, for thy wounds are balm. That which tlie world miscalls a jail, A private closet is to me : Whilst a good conscience is my bail. And innocence my liberty : Locks, bars, and solitude, together met. Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret. I, wlnlst I wish'd to be retired. Into this private room was turned ; As if their wisdoms had conspir'd The salamander should be burned ; Or like those sophists, that would drown a fish, I am constrain d to suffer what 1 wish. The cj'nic loves his poverty. The pelican her wilderness, And 'tis the Indian's pride to be Naked on frozen Caucasus : Contentment cannot smart, stoics we see Make torments easy to their apathy. These manacles upon my arm I, as my mistress' favours, wear ; And for to keep my ankles warm, I have some iron shackles there : These walls are but my garrison ; this cell, Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel. I'm in the cabinet lock'd up Like some high-prized margarite ; Or like the great Mogul or Pojie, Am cloister'd up from jmblic sight : Retiredness is a piece of majesty. And thus, proud sultan, I'm as great as thee. Here sin for want of food nmst starve. Where tempting objects are not seen ; And these strong walls do only sen'e To keep vice out, and keep me in : Malice of late 's grown charitiiiile sure ; I'm not committed, but am kejit secure. So he that struck at Jason's life, Thinking t' have made his pur[)ose sure, B}' a malicious friendly knife Did only wound him to a cure : Malice, I see, wants wit ; for what is meant Mischief, ofttimes proves favour by th' event. When once my prince afiliction hath. Prosperity doth treason seem ; And to nuike smooth so rough a path, I can learn patience from him : Now not to sufi'er sliows no loyal heart — When kings want ease, subjects must bear a part What though I cannot see my king. Neither in jierson, or in coin ; Yet contemplation is a thing That renders what I have not, mine . My king from me what adamant can part, Whom I do wear engraven on my heart. Have you not seen the nightingale A prisoner like, coop'd in a cage. How doth she chant lier wonted tale, In that her narrow hermitage ! F.ven then her cliarming melody doth prove That all her bars are trees, her cage a grove. I am that bird whom they combine Thus to deprive of llUerty ; But though they do my corj)se confine, Yet, nuiugre hate, my soul is free : And, though immur'd, yet can I chirp and sing Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king. My soul is free as ambient air. Although my baser part's immew'd ; Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair T' accompany niy solitude ; Although rebellion do my body bind, My king alone can captivate my iuiiitl. 231 FROM 1558 CYCL0P^15DIA OF TO llji'j. PROSE AVRITERS. HE prose Arriters of tliis aue rank chiefly in the (iejiartmeiits of thcolotry, pliilosojihy, and historical and antiquarian informa- tion. There was, as yet, lardly any vestige of ] irt)SL' employed vitli taste in fiction, or even in ob- servations upon manners; thougli it must be ob- j served, that in Elizabeth's ' reign appeared the once [ popular romance of Ar- cadia, by Sir Philip Sid- ney; and there lived un- der the tvro succeeding monarchs several acute and humorous describers of human cliaracter. SIR PHELIP SIDNEY. Sir Philip Sidney was born, in l.')r)4.at Penshurst, I Keut; and during his studies at Shrewsbury, Ox- f ]rii, and Cambridge, displayed remarkable acuteness of intellect and cravingforknowledgc. After spending three years on the continent, he returned to Erighuul in isrf), and became one of the brightest ornaments of the court of Elizabctli, in wliose favour he stood very high. In the year 1580, his mind having been ruffled in a quarrel with the Earl of Oxford, he retired insearcliof tranquillity to the seat of his brother- in-law, the Earl of Pembroke, at Wilton, and there occasionally employed himself in composing tlie work above-mentioned, a heroic romance, to wliich, as it was written chiefly for his sister's amusement, lie ^iive the title of Ihe Counteasof Pcmbrnhc's Arrtidin. This production was never finished, and, not having been intended for the press, appeared only after tlie author's death. His next work was a tract, entitled The Defence of Poesy, where he has repelled the ob- jections brought by the Puritans of his age against the poetic art, the professors of which they contemp- tuously denominated 'caterpillars of the common- wealtli.' This production, though written with the partiality of a poet, has been deservedly admired for the beauty of its style and general soundness of ita reasoning. In 1584, the character of his uncle, the celebrated Earl of Leicester, having been attacked in a publication called Leicester's CommomveciUh, Sidney wrote a reply, in which, although the heaviest accusations were passed over in silence, he did not scruple to address his opponent in such terms as the following: — 'But to thee I say, thou therein liest in thy throat, which I will be ready to justify upon thee in any place of Europe, where thou wilt assign me a free place of coming, as within three months after the publishing hereof I may understand thy mind.' This performance seems to have proved un- satisfactory to Leicester and his friends, as it was not printed till near the middle of the eighteenth cen- tury. Desirous of active employment, Sidney next contemplated an expedition, with Sir Francis Drake, against the Spanish settlements in America; but this intention was frustrated by a peremptory man- date from the queen. In 1585, it is said, he was named one of the candidates for the crown of Poland, at that time vacant ; on which occasion Elizabeth again threw obstacles in the way, being afraid ' to lose the jewel of her times.' He was not, however, long permitted to remain unemployed ; for, in the same year, Elizabeth having determined to send military assistance to the Protestant inhabitants of the Netherlands, then groaning beneath the oppres- sive measures of tlie Spaniards, he was appointed governor of Flushing, one of the towns ceded to the English in return for this aid. Soon afterwards, the Earl of Leicester, witli an army of six thousand men, went over to the Netherlands, wliere he was joined b}' Sir Philip, as general of the horse. The conduct of the earl in this war -was highly imprudent, and such as to call forth repeated expressions of dissatis- fiiction from his nephew Piiilip. The military ex- ploits of tlie latter were higlily honourable to liim ; in jiarticular, he succeeded in taking tlie town of Axel in 1586. His career, however, was destined to be short ; for having, in September of the same year, accidentally encountered a detachment of the Spanish army at Zutphen. he received a wound, which in a few weeks proved mortal. As he was carried from the field, a well-known incident occurred, by which the generosity of his nature was strongly displayed. Being overcome with thirst from excessive bleeding and fatigue, he called for water, which was accord- ingly brought to him. At the moment he was lifting it to his mouth, a poor soldier was carried by, des- perately wounded, who fixed his e3'es eagerly on the cup. Sidney, observing this, instantly delivered the beverage to him, saying, ' Th}- necessity is yet greater than mine.' His death, which took place on the 19th of October 1586, at the early age of thirty-two, was deeply and extensively lamented, both at home and abroad. His bravery and chivalrous magna- nimity — his grace and polish of manner — the jnirity of his morals — his learning and refinement of taste — had procured for him love and esteem wherever he was known. By the direction of Elizabeth, his remains were conveyed to London, and honoured with a public funeral in the cathedral of St Paul's. Of tiie pcK'try of Sir Philip Sidney we have spoken in a former jiage. It is almost exclusively as a prose writer that he deserves to be prominently men- 232 PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. SIR PHILIP SIDNEV. tioned in a history of Eiiijlish Literature ; and in judging of liis merits, we ouglit to bear in mind the early age at wliich he was cut off. Ilis 'Arcadia,' on which tlie chief portion of liis fame undoubtedly rests, was so universallj'^ read and admired in tlie reigns of Elizabeth and her successor, that, in 1633, it had reached an eiglith edition. Subsequently', however, it fell into comparative neglect, in which, during the last century, the contemptuous terms in which it was spoken of by Horace Walpole contri- buted not a little to keep it. By that writer it is clia- racterised as 'a tedious, lamentable, pedantic, pastoral romance, which the patience of a young virgin in love cannot now wade through.' And the judgment more recently pronounced by Dr Drake,* and Mr Hazlitt,f is almost equally unfavourable. On the other hand, Sidney has found a fervent admirer in another modern writer, wlio highly extols the 'Arcadia' in the second volume of the Retrospective Review. A middle course is steered by Dr Zouch, who, in his memoirs of Sidney, published in 1808, while he admits that changes in taste, manners, and opinions, have rendered the ' Arcadia' unsuitable to modern readers, maintains that ' tliere are passages in this work exquisitely beautiful — useful observations on life and manners — a variety and accurate discri- mination of characters — fine sentiments, expressed in strong and adequate terms — animated descriptions, equal to any that occur in the ancient or modern poets — sage lessons of morality, and judicious reflec- tions on government and policy. A reader,' he con- tinues, ' who takes up the volume, may be compared to a traveller who has a long and dreary road to pass. The objects that successively meet his eye may not in general be very pleasing, but occa- sionally he is charmed with a more beautiful pro- spect — with the verdure of a rich valley — with a meadow enamelled with flowers — with a nuirmur of a rivulet — the swelling grove — the hanging rock — the splendid villa. These charming objects abun- dantly compensate for the joyless regions he has traversed. They fill him with delight, exhilarate his drooping spirits — and at the decline of day, he reposes with complacency and satisfaction.' This represen- tation we are inclined to regard as doing at least ample justice to the ' Arcadia,' the former higli popu- larity of which is, doubtless, in some degree attri- butable to the personal fame of its autlior, and to the scarcity of works of fiction in the daj's of Elizabeth. But to whatever causes the admiration with which it was received may be ascribed, there can hardly, we think, be a question, that a work so extensively perused must have contributed not a little to fix tlie English tongue, and to form that vigorous and ima- ginative style which characterises the literature of the beginning and middle of the seventeenth centurj-. Notwithstanding the occasional over-inflation and pedantry of his style, Sidney may justly be regarded as the best prose writer of his time. He was, in truth, what Cowper felicitously calls him, a ' warbler of poetic prose.' In his personal character, Sidney, like most men of high sensibility and poetical feeling, showed a disposition to melancholy and solitude. His chief fault seems to have been impetuosity of temper, an illustration of which has already been quoted from his reply to 'Leicester's Commonwealth.' The same trait appears in the following letter (containing what proved to be a groundless accusation), which he wrote in 1578 to the secretary of his father, then lord deputy of Ireland. * Essays Illustrative of the Tatler, Spectator, Sco., 11. 9. t Lectures on the Dramatic Literature of the AgB of Eliza- beth, p. 2t>3. ' ilr Molyueux — Few words are best. My letters to my father have come to the eyes of some. Neither can 1 condemn any but you for it. If it be so, y-,\i have played the very knave with me ; and so 1 Hill make you know, if 1 have good proof of it. But that for so much as is past. For that is to come, I assure you before God, that if ever I know you do so much as read any letter I write to my fatlier, without his commaiidmeiit, or ray consent, I will thrust my dag- ger into you. And trust to it, for I speak it in earnest. In the mean time, farewell.' Of the following extracts, three are from Sidney's 'Arcadia,' and the fourth from his 'Defence of Poesy.' [A Tempest.'] There arose even with the sun a veil of dark clouds before his face, which shortly, like ink poured into water, had blacked over all the face cf heaven, pre- paring, as it were, a mournful stage for a tragedy to be played on. For, forthwith the winds began to speak louder, and, as in a tumultuous kingdom, to think themselves fittest instruments Oi c'..:r.m;ind- ment ; and blowing whole storms of hail and rain upon them, they were sooner in danger than they could almost bethink themselves of change. For then the traitorous sea began to swell in pride against the afflicted navy, under wliich, while the heaven favoured them, it had lain so calmly; making mountains of itself, over which the tossed and tottering slsip sliould climb, to be straight carried down again to a pit of hellish darkness, with such cruel blows against the sides of the ship, that, which way soever it went, was still in his malice, that there was left neither i)owcr to stay nor way to escape. And shortly had it so dis- severed the loving company, which the u^y before had tarried together, that most of them neve.- met again, but were swallowed up in his never-satisfied mouth. l^Descript'ioii of Arcadia.] There were hills which garnished their proud heights with stately trees ; humble vallev."!, whose base estate seemed comforted with the refreshing of silver rivers ; meadows, enamelled with all sorts of eye- pleasing flowers ; thickets, which being lined with most ])leasaut shade, were witnessed so to, by the cheerful disposition of many well-tuned birds ; each pasture stored with sheep, feeding with soUr security ; while the pretty lambs, with bleiiting oratory, craved the dam's comfort ; here a sheplierd's hoy piping, as though he should never be old ; there a young shep- herdess knitting, and withal singing; and il seemed that her voice comforted her hands to work, and her hands kept time to her voice-music. [A Stag Hunt.] Then went they together abroad, the good Kahuuler entertaining them with pleasant discoursing — how well he loved the sport of hunting when he was a young man, how nmch in the comparison thereof he disdained all chamber-delights, that the sun (how groat a journey soever he had to make) could never prevent hira with earlincss, nor the moon, with her sober countenance, dissuade him from watching till midnight for the deers feeding. 0, said he, you will never live to my age, without you keep yourself in breath with exercise, and in heart w-ith joyfulness ; too much thinking doth consume the spirits ; and oft it falls out, that, while one thinks too much of his doing, he leaves to do the effect of his thinking. Then spared he not to romendjer, how much .Vrcadia was changed since his youth ; activity and good fellow- ship being nothing in the price it was then hold in; but, according to tlie nature of the old-growing world, 233 FROM 1558 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1649 Btill worse and worse. Then ■noiild he tell them stories of such gallants as he had known ; ana »-, with pleasant company, beguiled the time's haste, and shortened the way's length, till they came to the side of the wood, where 'the hounds were in couples, stay- inf their coming, but with a whining accent craving liberty ; many of them in colour and marks so re- sembling, that it showed they were of one kind. The huntsmen handsomely attired in their green liveries, as though they were children of summer, with staves in their hands to beat the guiltless earth, when the hounds were at a fault ; and with horns about their necks, to sound an alarm upon a silly fugitive ; the hounds were straight uncoupled, and ere long the stag thought it better to trust to the nimbleness of his feet than to the slender fortification of his lodg- ing ; but even his feet betrayed him ; for, howsoever they went, they themselves uttered themselves to the scent of their enemies, who, one taking it of another, and sometimes believing the wind's advertisements, sometimes the view of (their faithful counsellors) the huntsmen, with open mouths, then denounced war, when the war was already begun. Their cry being composed of so well-sorted mouths, that any man would perceive therein some kind of propor- tion, but the skilful woodmen did find a music. Then delight and variety of opinion drew the horse- men sundry ways, yet cheering their hounds with voice and horn, kept still, as it were, together. The wood seemed to conspire with them against his own citizens, dispei-sing their noise through all his quarters ; and even the nymph Echo left to bewail the loss of Narcissus, and became a hunter. But the stag was in the end so hotly pursued, that, leaving his flight, he was driven to make courage of despair ; and so turning his head, made the hounds, with change of speech, to testify that he was at a bay : as if from hot pursuit of their enemy, they were suddenly come to a parley. l^Praue of Poetry.'] The philosopher showeth you the way, he informeth you of the particularities, as well of the tediousness of the way, as of the pleasant lodging you shall have when your journey is ended, as of the many bye-turn- ings that may divert you from your way ; but this is to no man, but to him that will read him, and read him with attentive studious painfulness ; which con- stant desire whosoever hath in him, hath already passed half the hardness of the way, and therefore is beholden to the philosopher but for the other half. Nay, truly, learned men have learnedly thought, that where once reason hath so much overmastered passion, as that the mind hath a free desire to do well, the inward light each man hath in itself is as good as a philosopher's book ; since in nature we know it is well to do well, and what is well and what is evil, although not in the words of art which philosophers bestow upon us ; for out of natural conceit the philosophers drew it. But to be moved to do that which we know, or to be moved \ with desire to know, ' hoc opus hie labor est'^ — [' this is the grand difficulty.'] Now, therein, of all sciences (I speak still of human, and according to the human conceit) is our poet the monarch. For he doth not only show the waj-, but giveth so sweet a prospect into the way, as will entice anj' rnan to enter into it. Nay, he doth, as if 3'our jour- ney should lie through a fair vineyard, at the very first, give you a cluster of grapes ; that, full of that taste, you may long to pass farther. He begiimeth not with obscure definitions ; which must blur the margin with interpretations, and load the memory with doubtful- ness ; but he cometh to you with words set in delight- ful proportion, either accompanied with, or prepared for, the well enchantxg skill of music ; and with a tale, forsooth, he cometh unto you, with a tale which holdeth children from play, and old men from the chimney comer ; and pretending no more, doth intend the winning of the mind from wickedness to virtue ; even as the child is often brought to take most whole- some things, by hiding them in sucli other as have a pleasant taste ; which, if one should begin to tell them the nature of the aloes or rhubarbarum they should receive, would sooner take their physic at their ears than their mouth. So is it in men (most of whom are childish in the best things, till they be cradled in their graves). Glad they will be to hear the tales of Hercules, Achilles, Cyrus, jEneas ; .and hearing them, must needs hear the right description of wisdom, valour, and justice ; which, if they had been barely (that is to say, philosophical!}') set out, the^ would swear they be brought to school again. LORD BURLEIGH. Another of the ftivourites of Queen Elizabeth was ■William Cecil, Lord Burleigh, wbj, for forty years, ably and faithfully served lier in the capa- city of secretary of state. He died in 1598, at the age of seventy-six. As a minister, this celebrated individual was distinguished for wariness, appli- cation, sagacity, calmness, and a degree of close- ness which sometimes degenerated into hypocrisy. Most of these qualities character'sed also what is, properly speaking, his sole literary production; namely, Precepts or Directions for the Well Ordering and Carriage of a Man's Life. These precepts were addressed to his son, Eobert Cecil, afterwards Earl of Salisbury. Some of them are here subjoined. [Choice of a Wife.] WTien it shall please God to bring thee to man's estate, use great providence and circumspection in choosing thy wife. For from thence will spring all thy future good or evil. And it is an action of life, like unto a stratagem of war ; wherein a man can err but once. If thy estate be good, match near home and at leisure ; if weak, far off and quickly. Inquire diligently of her disposition, and how her parents have been inclinedl in their youth. Let her not be poor, how generous soever. For a man can bu}' notliing in the market with gentility. Nor choose a base and uncomely creature altogether for wealth ; for it will cause contempt in others, and loathing in thee. Neither make choice of a dwarf, or a fool ; for, by the one thou shalt beget a race of pigmies ; the other will be thy continual disgrace, and it will yirke thee to hear her talk. For thou shalt fiiid it, to thj' great grief, that there is nothing more fulsome than a she-fool. . [Domestic Economy.'] And touching the guiding of thy house, let thy hospitality be moderate, and, according to the means of thy estate, rather plentiful than sparing, but not costly. For I never knew any man grow poor bv keep- ing an orderly table. But some consume themselves through secret vices, and their hospitality bears the blame. But banish swinish drunkards out of thine house, which is a vice impairing health, consuming much, and makes no show. I never heard praise ascribed to the drunkard, but for the well-bearing oi his drink ; which is a better commendation for a brewer's horse or a drayman, than for either a gentle- man or a serving-man. Beware thou spend not above three of four parts of thy revenues ; nor above a third part of tliat in thy house. For the other two parts will do no more than defray thy extraordinaries, which 2.3 1 PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. KICIlAUn IIOOKEK. always surmount the ordinary by much ; othenrise thou shalt live like a rich beggar, in continual want. And the needy man can never live happily nor con- Vctedly. For every disaster makes him ready to mortgage or sell. AJid that gentleman, who sells an acre of land, sells an ounce of credit. For gentility is nothing else but ancient riches. So that if the foundation shall at any time sink, the building must needs follow. [Education of Cldldrcn.'] Bring thy children up in learning and obedience, yet without outward austerity. Praise them openly, leprehend them secretly. Give them good countenance and convenient maintenance according to thy ability, otherwise thy life will seem their bondage, and what portion thou shalt leave tliem at thy death, they will thank death for it, and not thee. .\nd I am per- suaded that the foolish cockering of some parents, and the over-stem carriage of others, causeth more men and women to take ill courses, than their o^m vicious inclinations. !Marry thy daughters in time, lest they marry themselves. And suffer not thy sons to pass the Alps ; for they shall leani nothing there but pride, blasphemy, and atheism. And if by travel they get a few broken languages, that shall profit them nothing more than to have one meat seiwed in divers dishes. Neither, by my consent, shalt thou train them up in wars ; for he that sets up his rest to live by that profession, can hardly be an honest man or a good Christian. Besides, it is a science no lona^er in request than use ; ^or soldiers in peace are like chimneys in summer [Suretyship and Borroicing.'] Beware of suretyship for thy best friends. He that payeth another man's debts, seeketh his own decay. But, if thou canst not otherwise choose, rather lend thy money thyself upon good bonds, although thou borrow it. So shalt thou secure thyself, and pleasure thy friend. Neither borrow money of a neighbour, or a friend, but of a stranger, where, paying for it, thou shalt hear no more of it. Otherwise thou shalt eclipse thy credit, lose thy freedom, and yet pay as dear as to another. But in borrowing of money, be precious of thy word ; for he that hath care of keeping days of payment, is lord of another man's purse. RICHARD HOOKER. One of the earliest, and also one of the most distinguished prose writers of this period, was Rich- ard Hooker, a learned and gifted theologian, born of poor but respectable parents near Exeter, about the year 1553. At school he displayed so much aptitude for learning, and gentleness of disposition, that, having been recommended to Jewel, bishop of Salisbury, he was taken under the care of that prelate, who, after a satisfactory examination into his merits, sent him to Oxford, and contributed to his support. At the university. Hooker studied ■with great ardour and success, and became much respected for modesty, prudence, and piety. After Jewel's death, he was patronised by Sandys, bishop of London, who sent his son to Oxford to enjoy the benefit of Hooker's instructions. Another of his pupils at this time was George Cranmer, a grand-nephew of the famous archbishop of that name ; and with both these yoiuig men he formed a close and enduring friendship. In 1579, his skill in the oriental languages led to his temporary appoint- ment as deputy-professor of Hebrew ; and two years later, he entered into holy orders. Not long after this he bad the misfortune to be entrapped into a marriage, which proved a constant source of aimo)-- ance to him during life. The ("irt'unistances of this union, wliich place in a strong light tlie simple and unsuspecting nature of the niiui, v.ere tliesc. I laving been appointed to preach at r'aul's Cross in London, he put up at a house set apart for tlie reception of the jireachers. On his arrival there from Oxford, he was wet and weary, but received so much kind- 1^ tr/|..^,^;y'^v^^* Richard Hooker. ness and attention from the hostess, that, according to his biographer( Walton), in his excess of gratitude, ' lie thought himself bound in conscience to believe all that she said. So tlie good man came to be per- suaded by her tliat lie was a man of a tender consti- tution ; and that it was best for him to have a wife, that might prove a nurse to him — sucli an one as might both prolong his life, and make it more com- fortable ; and such an one she could and would pro- vide for him, if he thought fit to marry.' Hooker, little apt to suspect in others that guile of wliich he himself was so entirely free, became the dupe of this woman, authorising her to select a wife for him, and promising to marry whomsoever she sliould chix)se. The wife she provided was her own daughter, describeermitted to live in peace, and have leisure to finish his treatise Of the Laics of Ecclesiastical Polity, already begun. A letter which he wrote to the archbishop on this ' occasion deserves to be quoted, as showing not only that peacefulness of temper which adhered to him through life, but likewise the object that his great ■work was intended to accomplish. It is as follows : — ' My lord — When I lost the freedom of my cell, which was my college, yet I fouud some degree of it in my quiet country parsonage. But I am weary of the noise and oppositions of this place ; and, indeed, God and nature did not intend me for contentions, but for study and quietness. And, my lord, my par- ticular contests here with Mr Travers have proved the liiore unpleasant to me, because I believe him to be a good man ; and that belief hath occasioned me to examine mine own conscience concerning his opinions. And to satisfy that, I have consulted the holy Scrip- ture, and other laws, both human and divine, whether the conscience of him and others of his judgment j)Ught to be so far complied with by us as to alter our frame of church government, our manner of God's worship, our praising and praying to him, and our established ceremonies, as often as their tender con- sciences shall require us. And in this examination I have not only satisfied myself, but have begun a treatise in which I intend the satisfaction of others, by a demonstration of the reasonableness of our laws of ecclesiastical polity. But, my lord, I shall never be able to finish what I have begun, unless I be re- moved into some quiet parsonage, where I may see God's blessings spring out of my mother earth, and eat my own bread in peace and privacy : a place where I may, without disturbance, meditate my ap- proaching mortality, and that great account which all flesh must give at the last day to the God of all spirits.' In consequence of this appeal, Hooker was pre- sented, in 1591, to the rectory of Boscomb, in Wilt- shire, wliere he finished four books of his treatise, which were printed in 1594. Queen Elizabeth hav- ing in the following year presented him to the rec- tory of Bishop's-Bourne, in Kent, he removed to tliat place, where the remainder of liis life was spent in tlie faithful discliarge of the duties of his office. Here he wrote the fifth book, published in 1597; and finislied other three, which did not appear till after his death. This event took jdace in Novem- ber 1600. A few days previously, his house was robbed, and when the fact was mentioned to him, he anxiouslj' inquired whether his books and ]iapers were safe. The answer being in the affirmative, he exclaimed, ' Then it matters not, for no other Itjss can trouble me.' Hooker's treatise on ' Ecclesiastical Polity' displays an astonishing amount of learning, sagacity, and industry ; and is so excellently written, that, accord- ing to the judgment of Lowth, the author has, in correctness, propriety, and purity of English style, hardly been surpassed, or even equalled, by anj- of liis successors. This praise is unquestionably too high ; for, as Dr Drake has observed, ' though tlie words, for the most part, are well chosen and pure, the arrangement of them into sentences is intricate and harsh, and formed almost exclusively on the idiom and construction of the Latin. Much strengtii and vigour are derived from this adoption, but per- spicuity, sweetness, and ease, are too generally sac- rificed. There is, notwithstanding these usual fea- tures of his composition, an occasional simjilicity in his pages, both of style and sentiment, which truly charms.'* Dr Drake refers to the following sentence, with which the preface to the 'Ecclesiastical Polity' is opened, as a striking instance of that elaborate collocation which, founded on the structure of a language widely different from our own, was the fashion of the age of Elizabeth. ' Though for no other cause, yet for this, that posterity may know we have not loosely, through silence, permitted things to pass away as in a dream, there shall be, for men's information, extant this much concerning the pre- sent state of the church of God established amongst us, and their careful endeavours which would have upheld the same.' The argument against the Puritans is conducted by Hooker with rare moderation and candour, and certainly the cliurch of England has never had a more powerful defender. Tlie work is not to be regarded simply as a theological treatise ; it is still referred to as a great authority upon the whole range of moral and political principles. It also bears a value as the first publication in the English lan- guage which observed a strict methodical arrange- ment, and presented a train of clear logical reasoning. As specimens of the body of the work, several extracts are here subjoined : — [Scripture and the Law of Natii.re.'] What the Scripture purjioseth, the same in all points it doth perforin. Howheit, that here we swerve not in judgment, one thing especially we must ob- serve; namely, that the absolute perfection of Scripture is seen by relation unto that end whereto it tendeth. And even hereby it conieth to pass, that, first, such as imagine the general and main drift of the body of sacred Scripture not to be so large as it is, nor that God did thereby intend to deliver, as in truth he doth, a full instruction in all things unto salvation neces- sary, the knowledge whereof man by nature could not otherwise in this life attain unto ; they are by this very mean induced, either still to look for new reve- lations from heaven, or else dangerously to add to the Avord of God uncertain tradition, that so the doctrine of man's salvation may be complete ; which doctrine we constantly hold in all respects, without any such things added, to be so complete, that we utterly refuse as much as once to acquaint ourselves with anything further. Whatsoever, to make up the doctrine of man's salvation, is added as in supply of the Scrip- ture's insufficiency, we reject it ; Scripture, purj)osing this, hath perfectly and fully done it. Again, the * Essays Illustrative of the Tatler, &c., i. 10. 236 PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. RICHARD HOOKER. scope and purpose of God in delivering the lioly Scrip- ture, such as do take more largely than behoveth, thev, on the contrary, side-racking and stretching it further than by him was meant, are drawTi into sun- dry as great inconveuiences. They, pretending the Scripture's perfection, infer thereupon, that in Scrip- ture all things lawful to be done must needs be con- tained. We count those things perfect which want nothing requisite for the end whereto they were in- stituted. As, therefore, God created every part and particle of man exactly perfect — that is to say, in all points sutncient unto that use for which he appointed it — so the Scripture, yea, every sentence thereof, is perfect, and wanteth nothing requisite unto that pur- pose for which God delivered the same. So that, if here- upon we conclude, that because the Scripture is per- fect, therefore all things lawful to be done are com- prehended in the Scripture ; we may even as well conclude so of every sentence, as of the whole sum and body thereof, unless we first of all prove that it was the drift, scope, and purpose of Almighty God in holy Scripture to comprise all things which man may practise. But admit this, and mark, I beseech you, what would follow. God, in delivering Scripture to his church, should clean have abrogated among them the Law of Nature, which is an infallible knowledge imprinted in the minds of all the children of men, whereby bcth general principles for directing of human actions are comprehended, and conclusions derived from them ; upon which conclusions groweth in parti- Ci;larity the choice of good and evil in the daily aflairs of this life. Admit this, and what shall the Scripture be but a snare and a torment to weak consciences, filling them with infinite perplexities, scrupulosities, doubts insoluble, and extreme despairs? Not that the Scripture itself doth cause any such thing (for it tendeth to the clean contrary, and the fruit thereof is resolute assurance and certainty in that it teacheth) ; but the necessities of this life urging men to do that which the light of nature, common discretion, and judgment of itself directeth them unto ; on the other side, this doctrine teaching them that so to do were to sin against their own souls, and that they put forth their hands to iniquity, whatsoever they go about, and have not first the sacred Scripture of God for direc- tion ; how can it choose but bring the simple a thou- sand times to their wits' end ; how can it choose but vex and amaze them ? For in every action of common life, to find out some sentence clearly and infallibly setting before our eyes what we ought to do (seem we in Scripture never so expert), would trouble us more than we are aware. In weak and tender minds, we little know what misery this strict opinion would breed, besides the stops it would make in the whole course of all men's lives and actions. jNIake all things sin which we do by direction of nature's light, and by the rule of common discretion, without thinking at all upon Scripture ; admit this position, and parents shall cause their children to sin, as oft as they cause them to do anything, before they come to years of capacity, and be ripe for knowledge in the Scripture. Admit this, and it shall not be with masters as it was with him in the gospel ; but sen-ants being com- manded to go, shall stand still till they have their errand warranted unto them by Scripture. Which, as it standeth with Christian duty in some cases, so in common affairs to require it were most unfit. [Zeal and Fear in JieliffionJ] Two affections there are, the forces whereof, as they bear the greater or lesser sway in man's heart, frame accordingly to the stamp and character of his religion — the one zeal, the other fear. Zeal, unless it be rightly guided, when it endeavoureth most busily to please God, forceth upon him those unseasonable offices which please him not. For which cause, if they who this way swerve be compared with such sincere, sound, and discreet as Abraham was in matter of religion, the service of the one is like unto flattery, the other like the faithful sedulity of friendship. Zeal, except it be ordered aright, when it bendeth itself unto conflict with all things either indeed, or but imagined to be, opposite unto religion, useth the razor many times with such eagerness, that the very life of religion itself is thereby hazarded ; through hatred of tares the com in the field of God is plucked up. So that zeal needeth both ways a sober guide. Fear, on the other side, if it have not the light of true understanding concerning God, wherewith to be moderated, breeduth likewise super- stition. It is therefore dangerous that, in things divine, we should work too much upon the spur either of zeal or fear. Fear is a good solicitor to devotion. Ilowbeit, sith fear in this kind doth grow from an apprehension of Deity endued with irresistible power to hurt, and is, of all affections (anger excepted), the unaptest to admit any conference with reason, for which cause the wise man doth say of fear, that it is a betrayer of the forces of reasonable understanding ; therefore, except men know beforehand what manner of service pleaseth God, while they are fearful they try all things which fancy offereth. ^lany there are who never think on God but when they are in extremity of fear ; and then, because what to think, or what to do, they are uncer- tain ; perplexity not suffering them to be idle, they think and do, as it were in a phrensy, they know not what. Superstition neither knoweth the right kind, nor observeth the due measure, of actions belonging to the service of God, but is always joined with a wrong opinion touching things divine. Superstition is, when things are either abhorred or observed, with a zealous or fearful, but erroneous relation to God. By means whereof, the superstitious do sometimes serve, though the true God, yet with needless offices, and defraud him of duties necessary, sometimes load others than him with such honours as properly are his. [^Defence of Reason.l But so it is, the name of the light of nature 1.5 made hateful with men ; the star of reason and learning, and all other such like helps, beginneth no otherwise to be thought of, than if it were an unlucky comet ; or as if God had so accursed it, that it should never shine or give light in things concerning our duty any way towards him, but be esteemed as that star in the revelation, called Wormwood, which, being fallen from heaven, maketh rivers and waters in which it falleth so bitter, that men tasting them die thereof. A number there are who think they cannot admire as they ought the power and authority of the word of God, if in things divine they should attribute any force to man's reason ; for which cause they never use reason so willingly as to disgrace reason. Their usual and common discourses are unto this effect. First, ' the natural man perceiveth not the things of the spirit of God, for they are foolishness unto him ; neither can he know them, because they are spiritually discerned,' kc. kc. By these and the like disputes, an opinion hath spread itself very far in the world ; as if the way to be ripe in faith, were to be raw in wit and judgment ; as if reason were an enemy unto religion, childish simplicity the mother of ghostly and divine wisdom. « « « To our purpose, it is sufficient that whosoever doth sen'e, honour, and obey God, whosoever believeth in him, that man would no more do this than innocents and infants do but for the light of natural reason that shineth in him, and maketh him apt to apprehend those things of God, which being by grace discovered, are effectual to persuade reasonable minds, and none other, that honour, obedience, and credit, belong 237 FROM 1558 CYCLOPJEDIA OF TO 1649. aright unto God. No man cometh unto God to offer him sacrifice, to pour out supplications and prayers before him, or to do him any service, which doth not first believe him both to be, and to be a rewarder of them who in such sort seek unto him. Let men be tau"-ht this, either by revelation from heaven, or by instruction upon earth ; by labour, study, and medi- tation, or by the only secret inspiration of the Holy Ghost ; whatsoever the mean be they know it by, if the knowledge "thereof were possible without discourse of natural reason, why should none be found capable thereof but only men ; nor men till such time as they come unto ripe and full ability to work by reasonable understanding ? The whole drift of the Scripture of God, what is it, but only to teach theology 1 Theology, what is it, but the science of things divine? What science can be attained unto, without the help of natural discourse and reason ? Judge you of that which I speak, saith the apostle. In vain it were to speak anything of God, but that by reason men are able somewhat to judge of that they hear, and by dis- course to discern how consonant it is to truth. Scrip- ture, indeed, teacheth things above nature, things which our reason by itself could not reach unto. Yet those also we believe, knowing by reason that the Scripture is the word of God. * * The thing we have handled according to the question moved about it, which question is, whether the light of rea- son be so pernicious, that, in devising laws for the church, men ought not by it to search what may be fit and convenient 1 For this cause, therefore, we have endeavoured to make it appear, how, in the na- ture of reason itself, there is no impediment, but that ihe self-same spirit which revealcth the things that Vjod hath set down in his law, may also be thought to aid and direct men in finding out, by the light of rea- son, what laws are expedient to be made for the guid- ing of his church, over and besides them that are in Scripture. {^Cliurck Music.'] Touching musical harmony, whether by instrument or by voice, it being but of high and low in sounds a due proportionable disposition, such notwithstanding is the force thereof, and so pleasing effects it hath in that very part of man which is most divine, that some have been thereby' induced to think that the soul itself by nature is, or hath in it, harmony ; a thing which delighteth all ages, and beseemeth all states ; a thing as seasonable in grief as in joy ; as decent, being added unto actions of greatest weight and solemnity, as ieing used when men most sequester themselves from action. The reason hereof is an admirable facility which music hath to express and represent to the mind, more inwardly than any other sensible mean, the very standing, rising, and falling, the very steps and inflections every way, the turns and varieties of all passions whereunto the mind is subject ; yea, so to imitate them, that, whether it resemble unto us the same state wherein our minds already are, or a clean contrary, we are not more contentedly by the one con- firmed, than changed and led away by the other. In harmony, the very image and character even of vir- tue and vice is perceived, the mind delighted with their resemblances, and brought by having them often iterated into a love of the things themselves. For which cause there is nothing more contagious and pestilent than some kinds of harmony ; than some, nothing more strong and potent unto good. And that there is such a difference of one kind from another, we need no proof but our own experience, inasmuch as we are at the hearing of some more inclined unto sorrow and heaviness, of some more mollified and softened in mind ; one kind apter to stay and settle us, another to move and stir our affections ; there is that draweth V) a marvellous grave aud sober mediocrity ; there ia I also that carrieth, as it were, into ecstacies, filling the mind with a heavenly joy, and for the time in a manner severing it from the body ; so that, although we lay altogether aside the consideration of ditty or matter, the very harmony of sounds being framed in due sort, and carried from the car to the spiritual faculties of our souls, is, by a native puissance and etficacy, greatly available to bring to a perfect temper whatsoever is there troubled ; apt as well to quicken the spirits as to allay that which is too eager ; sove- reign against melancholy and despair; forcible to draw forth tears of devotion, if the mind be such as can yield them ; able both to move and to moderate all affections. The prophet David having, therefore, singular knowledge, not in poetry alone, but in music also, judged them both to be things most necessary for the house of God, left behind him to that puq)ose a number of divinely-indited poems, and was further the author of adding unto poetry melody in public prayer ; melody, both vocal and instrumental, for the raising up of men's hearts, and the sweetening of their affections towards God. In which considerations the church of Christ doth likewise at this present day retain it as an ornament to God's service, and an help to our o^vn devotion. They which, under pretence of the law ceremonial abrogated, require the abrogation of instrumental music, approving, nevertheless, the use of vocal melody to remain, must show some rea- son wherefore the one should be thought a legal cere- mony, and not the other. In church music, curiosity or ostentation of art, wanton, or light, or unsuitable harmony, such as only pleaseth the ear, and doth not naturally serve to the verj* kind and degree of those impressions which the matter that goeth with it leaveth, or is apt to leave, in men's minds, doth rather blemish and disgrace that we do, than add either beauty or furtherance unto it. On the other side, the faults prevented, the force and efficacy of the thing itself, when it drowneth not utterly, but fitly suiteth with matter altogether sounding to the praise of God, is in truth most admirable, and doth much edify, if not the understanding, because it teacheth not, yet surely the affection, because therein it worketh much. They must have hearts very Ary and tough, from whom the melody of the psalms doth not sometime draw that wherein a mind religiously affected delighteth. LORD BACON. But the fame of Hooker, as indeed of all his con- temporaries, is outshone by that of the illustrious Lord Bacox. Francis Bacon, son of Sir Nicholas Bacon, lord-keeper of the great seal, was born in Lon- don on the 22d of January 1561, and in childhood displayed such vivacity of intellect and sedateness of behaviour, that Queen Elizabeth used to call him her young lord-keeper. At the age of thirteen, he was sent to Cambridge, where, so early as his sixteenth year, he became disgusted with the Aristotelian phi- losophy, which then held unquestioned swaj' in the great English schools of learning. This dislike of the philosophy of Aristotle, as Bacon himself declared to his secretary Dr Kawlc}', he fell into ' not for the worthlessness of the autlior, to whom he would ever ascribe all high attributes, but for the unfruitfulness of the way ; being a philosophy, as his lordship used to say, only strong for disputations and contentions, but barren of the production of works for the benefit of the life of man.'* After spending about four years at Cambridge, he travelled in France, his acute observations in wliich country were afterwards pub- lished in a work entitled Of the State of Europe. By the sudden death of his father in 1579, he was compelled to return hastily to England, and engage * Rawley's Life of Racon. 238 PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. LORD BACON. in some profitable occupation. After in vain soli- citing his uncle, Lord Burleigli, to procure for him such a provision from jrovcrimient as niight allow him to devote his time to literature and jihilosophy, he spent several years in the study of the law. While engaged in practice as a barrister, however, he did not forget philosophy, as it appears that he sketched at an early period of life his great work called The Instauiation of the Sciences. In 1590, he obtained the post of Counsel Extraordinary to the queen ; and three j-ears afterwards, sat in parliament for the county of Middlesex. As an orator, lie is highly extolled by Ben Jonson. In one of his speeches, he distinguished himself by taking the popular side in a question respecting some large sub- sidies demanded by the court ; but finding that he had given great ofience to her majesty, he at once altered his tone, and condescended to apologise witli that servility which unhappily appeareil in too many of his subsequent actions. To Lord Burleigh and his son Robert Cecil, Bacon continued to crouch in the hope of advancement, till at length, finding himself disappointed in that quarter, he attached himself to Burleigh's rival, Essex, who, with the utmost ardour of a generous friendship, endeavoured to procure for him, in 1594, the vacant office of attorney-general. In this attempt he was defeated, through the influence of the Cecils, who were jealous of both him and his friend ; but he in some de- gree soothed Bacon's disappointment by presenting to him an estate at Twickenliani, worth two thousand pounds. It is painful to relate in what manner Bacon repaid such benefits. "When Essex was brought to trial for a conspiracy against the queen, the friend whom he had so largely obliged and confided in, not only deserted him in the hour of need, but unneces- sarily appeared as counsel against him, and by every art and distorting ingenuity of a pleader, endeavoured to magnify his crimes. He complied, moreover, after tlie earl's execution, with the queen's request that he would write A Dcchiratiim of the I'nictices and Treasons Attempted and Committed hij Robert, Earl of Essex, which was printed by autliDrity. Into this conduct, which indicates a lamentable want of high moral principle, courage, and self-respect, Bacon was in some measure led by pecuniary difQ- culties, into which his improvident and ostentatious habits, coupled with the relative inadequacy of his revenues, had plunged him. By maintaining himself in the good gracts of the court, he hoped to secure that professional advancement which would not only fill his empty coflt-rs, but gratify those ambitious longings which had arisen in his mind. But tempta- tions of this sort, though they may palliate, can never excuse siich iiiunoralities as those whii-li Bacon on this and future occasions showed himself capable of. After the accession of .Tames, the fortunes of Bacon began to improve. He was knighted in 1603, and, in subsequent years, oV'tained successively the otfices of king's counsel, solicitor-general, judge of the ]\rarshalsea court, and attorney-general. This last ajipointment he received in 1613. In the execu- tion of his duties, he did not scruple to lend himself to the most arbitrary measures of the court, and even assisted in an attemiit to extort from an old clerg3mian, of tlie name of I'eacham, a confession of treason, by torturing him on the rack. Although his income had now been greatly en- larged by the emoluments of office and a marriage with the daughter of a wealthy alderman, liis extra- vagance, and that of his servants, which he seems to have been too good-natured to check, eontim:ed to keep him in difficulties. lie cringed before tlie king and his favourite Villiers; and at length, in 1619, reached the sunnnit of his ambition, by being created Lord High Chancellor of England, and Baron Verulam. This latter title gave place in the following year to that of Viscount St Albans. As chancellor, it cannot be concealed that, both in his political and judicial capacities, he grossly deserted his duty. Not only did he suffer Villiers to inter- fere with his decisions as a judge, but, by accepting numerous presents or bribes from suitors, gave occasion, in 1621, to a parliamentary inquir_v, which ended in his condenmatii n and disgrace. He fully confessed the twenty-three articles of cor- ruption which were laid to his charge ; and when waited on by a committee of the House of Lords, appointed to inquire whether the confession was subscribed by himself, he answered, ' It is my act, my hand, my heart : I beseech your lordships to be merciful to a broken reed.' Banished from public life, he had now ample leisure to attend to his i)hilo,- sophical and literary pursuits. Yet, even while he was engaged in business, these had not been neglected. In 1597, he published the first edition of his Essays, which were afterwards greatly eidarged. These, as he himself says of them, ' come home to men's business and bosoms ; and, like the late new halfpence, tlie pieces are small, and the silver is good.' From the generally interesting nature of the subjects of the 'Essays,' and the excellence of their style, this work immediately acquired great popu- larity, and to the present day continues the most generally read of all the author's productions. • iL is also,' to use the words of I\Ir Dugald Ste\''art, 'one of those where the superiority of his geniu.s appears to the greatest advantage, the novelty sind depth of his reflections often receiving a strong relief from the triteness of his subject. It may be read from beginning to end in a few hours, and jx't. after the twentieth perusal, one seldom fails to remark in it something overlooked before. This, indeed, is a cliaracteristie of all Bacon's writings, and is only to be accounted for by the inexhaustible aliment they furnish to our own thoughts, and the sympathetic activity they impart to our torpid faculties."* In * First Preliminary Dissertatiim to ' Encyclnpacdia Uritan nica,' p. 3G, seventh edition, 239 FROM 1558 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1G49. 1605, he published another work, which still con- tinues to be extensively perused; it is entitled Of the Proficience and Advancement of Learning, Divine and Human. This vohime, which was afterwards enlarged and published in the Latin language, with the title De Augmentis Scientiarum, constitutes the first part of liis great work called Instaiiratio Scien- tiamm, or the Instauration of the Sciences. The second part, entitled Is'ovum Organum, is that on which, chief!}', his high reputation as a j^liilosopher is grounded, and on the composition of which he be- stowed most labour. It is written in Latin, and appeared in 1620. In the first part of the ' Advance- ment of Learning, after considering the excellence of knowledge and the means of disseminating it, togetlier with w'.at had already been done for its advancement, and what omitted, he proceeds to divide it into tlie tliree brandies of history, poetrj', and philosophy ; these having reference to what he considers ' tlie three parts of man's understanding' — memory, imagination, and reason. The concluding portion of tlie volume relates to revealed religion. The ' Novum Organum,' which, as already mentioned, is the second and most important part of the ' In- stauration of the Sciences,' consists of aphorisms, the first of M'hich furnislies a key to the author's leading doctrines : ' Man, who is the servant and interpreter of nature, can act and understand no further than he has, either in operation or in contemplation, ob- served of the method and order of nature.' His new method — novum organum — of employing the un- derstanding in adding to liuman knowledge, is fully expounded in this work, the following translated extracts from which will make manifest what tlie reformation was wliich he sought to accomplish. After alluding to the little aid which the useful arts had derived from science, and the small improve- ment which science had received from practical men, he proceeds — ' But whence can arise such vagueness and sterility in all the ph3-sical systems which have hitherto existed in the world ? It is not certainly from anything in nature itself; for the steadiness and regularity of the laws by which it is governed, clearly mark them out as objects of certain and precise knowledge. Neither can it arise from any want of ability in those who have pursued such inquiries, many of whom have been men of the highest talent and genius of the ages in which they lived ; and it can therefore arise from nothing else but the per- verseness and insufficiency of the methods that have been pursued. Men have sought to make a world from their own conceptions, and to draw from their own minds all the materials which they employed ; but if, instead of doing so, they had consulted expe- rience and observation, they would have had facts, and not opinions, to reason about, and might have ultimately arrived at the knowledge of the laws which govern the material world.' ' As things are at present conducted, a sudden transition is niaile from sensible objects and particular facts to gener.al i)ropositions, wliich are accounted principles, anvith an olive leaf in her mouth, which she had plucked, and which (until the trees were discovered) she found not ; for otherwise, she might have found them floating on the water ; a mani- fest proof, that the trees were not torn up by the roots, nor swam upon the waters ; for it is written, ' folium olivse raptum,' or ' decerptum' — ['a leaf plucked']; which is, to take from a tree, or to tear off". By this it is apparent (there being nothing written to the contrary), thai the flood made no such alteration as was sup- posed, but that the place of Paradise might be seen to succeeding ages, especially unto Moses, by whom it pleased God to teach the truth of the world's crea- tion, and unto the prophets which succeeded him ; both which I take for my warrant, and to guide me in this discover}'. [The Battle of Thermopyke.'] After such time as Xerxes had transported the army over the Hellespont, and landed in Thrace (leaving the description of his passage alongst that coast, and how the river of Lissus was drunk dry by his multi- tudes, and the lake near to Pissyrus by his cattle, with other accidents in his marches towards Greece), I will speak of the encounters he had, and the shame- ful and incredible overthrows which he received. As first at ThermopylfB, a narrow passage of half an acre of ground, lying between the mountains which divide Thessaly from Greece, where sometime the Phocians had raised a wall with gates, which was then for the most part ruined. At this entrance, Leonidas, one of the kings of Sparta, with 300 Lacedajmonians, assisted with 1000 Tegeataj and Mantineans, and 1000 Arca- dians, and other Peloponnesians, to the number of 3100 in the whole ; besides 100 Phocians, 400 Thebans, 700 Ttespians, and all the forces (such as they were) of the bordering Locrians, defended the passage two whole days together against that huge army of the Persians. The valour of the Greeks appeared so ex- cellent in this defence, that, in the first day's fight, Xerxes is said to have three times leaped out of his throne, fearing the destruction of his army by one handful of those men whom not long before he had utterly despised : and when the second day's attempt upon the Greeks had proved vain, he was altogether ignorant how to proceed further, and so might have continued, had not a runagate Grecian taught him a secret way, by which part of his army might ascend the ledge of mountains, and set upon the backs of those who kept the straits. But when the most valiant of the Persian army had almost inclosed the small forces of the Greeks, then did Leonidas, king of the Lace- demonians, with his 300, and 700 Thespians, which were all that abode by him, refuse to quit the place which they had undertaken to make good, and with admirable courage, not only resist that world of men which charged them on all sides, but, issuing out of their strength, made so great a slaughter of their enemies, that they might well be called vanquishers, though all of them were slain upon the place. Xerxes having lost in this last fight, together with 20,000 other soldiers and captains, two of his own brethren, began to doubt what inconvenience might befall him by the vir- tue of such as had not been present at these battles, with whom he knew that he shortly was to deal. Especially of the Spartans he stood in great fear, whose manhood had appeared singular in this trial, which caused him ver}- carefully to inquirewhat numbers they could brine into the field. It is reported of Dieneces, the Spartan, that when one thought to have terrified him by savins that the flight of the Persian arrows was so thick as would hide the sun, he answered thus — ' It is very good news, for then shall we fight in the cool shade.' In another of his works Raleigh tells, in the fol- lowing vigorous language, wherein lies Tlie Strength of Kings. They say the goodliest cedars which grow on the high mountains of Libanus thrust their roots between the clefts of hard rocks, the better to bear themselves against the strong storms that blow there. As nature has instructed those kings of trees, so has reason taught the kings of men to root themselves in the hardv heart* of their faithful subjects ; and as those kings of trees have large tops, so have the kings of men large crowns, whereof, as the first would soon be broken from theii bodies, were they not underbome by many branche?, so would the other easily totter, were they not fastened on their heads with the strong chains of civil justice and of martial discipline. In the year 1615, Raleigh was liberated from tht Tower, in consequence of having projected a second expedition to Guiana, from Avhich the king hoped to derive some profit. His purpose was to colonise the country, and work gold mines; and in 1617 a fleet of twelve armed vessels sailed under his com- mand. The whole details of his intended proceed- ings, however, were weakly or treacherously com- municated by the king to the Spanish goveniment, by whom the scheme was miserably thwarted. Re- turning to England, he landed at Plymouth, and on his way to London was arrested in the king's name. At this time the projected match between Prince Charles and the Infanta of Spain occupied James's attention, and, to propitiate the Spanish government, he determined that Raleigh nuist be sacrificed. After many vain attempts to discover valid grounds of accu- sation against him, it was found necessarj- to proceed upon the old sentence, and Raleigh was accordingly 247 FROM 1558 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 161J*. bc'lipuded on the 29th of October 1618. On the scaf- fold his behaviour was firm and calm ; after address- ing the people in justification of his character and conduct, he took up the axe, and observed to the sheriff, ' This is a sharp medicine, but a sound cure for all diseases.' Having tried how the block fitted his head, he told tlie executioner tliat he would give the signal by Ufting up his hand; 'and then,' added he, 'fear not, but strike home!' He then laid himself down, but was requested by the executioner to alter the position of his head : ' So the heart be right,' was his reply, ' it is no matter which way the head lies.' On tlie signal being given, the executioner failed to act with promptitude, which caused Kaleigh to ex- claim, 'Why dost thou not strike? Strike, man!' By two strokes, which he received without shrink- ing, the head of this intrepid man was severed from his body. The night before liis execution, he composed the following verses in prospect of death : — Even such is Time, that takes on trust Our youth, our joys, our all we have, And pays us but with age and dust ; Who in the dark and silent grave, When we have wandered all our ways, JJiuts up the story of our days ! While in prison in expectation of death, either on this or the former occasion, he wrote also a tender and affectionate valedictory letter to his wife, of which the following is a portion : — You shall receive, my dear wife, my last words in these my last lines ; my love I send you, that you may keep when I am dead, and my counsel, that vou may remember it when I am no more. I would act with my will present you sorrows, dear Bess ; let them go to the grave with me, and be buried in the dust. And seeing that it is not the mil of God that I shall see you any more, bear my destruction pa- tiently, and with a heart like yourself. First, I send you all the thanks which my heart can conceive, or my words express, for your many travails and cares for me, which, though they have not taken effect as you wished, yet my debt to you is not the less ; but pay it I never shall in this world. Secondly, I beseech you, for the love you hear me living, that you do not hide j'ourself many days, but by your travails seek to help my miserable fortunes, and the right of your poor child ; your mourning can- not avail me, that am but dust. * * * Paylie oweth me a thousand pounds, and Aryan six hundred ; in Jersey, also, I have much owing me. Dear wife, I beseech you, for my soul's sake, pay all poor men. When I am dead, no doubt you shall be much Bought unto ; for the world thinks I was very rich ; have a care to the fair pretences of men, for no gicater misery can befall you in this life than to become a prey unto the world, and after to be despised. I speak, God knows, not to dissuade you from marriage, for it will be best for you, both in respect of God and the world. As for me, I am no more yours, nor you mine ; death hath cut us asunder, and God hath divided me from the world, and you from me. Re- member your poor child for his father's sake, who loved you in his happiest estate. I sued for my life, but, God knows, it was for you and yours that I de- sired it : for know it, my dear wife, your child is the child of a true man, who, in his own respect, despiseth death, and his mis-shapen and ugly forms. I cannot write much (God knows how hardly I steal this time when all sleep), and it is also time for me to separate my thoughts from the world. Beg my dead body, which living was denied you, and either lay it in iSherburn or Exeter church, by my father and mother. I can say no more, time and death calleth me away. The everlasting God, powerful, infinite, and inscrut- able God Almighty, who is goodness itself, the true light and life, keep you and yours, and have mercy upon me, and forgive my persecutors and false ac- cusers, and send us to meet in his glorious kingdom. ]My dear wife, farewell ; bless my boy, pray for me, and let my true God hold you both in his arms. Besides the works already mentioned, Raleigh composed a number of political and other pieces, some of which have never been published. Among those best known are his Maxims of State, tlie Cabinet Council, the Sceptic, and Advice to his Son. The last contains much admirable counsel, some- times tinctured, indeed, with that worldliness and caution which the writer's hard experience had strengthened in a mind naturally disposed to be mindful of self-interest. The subjects on which he advises his son are — the choice of friends and of a wife, deafness to flattery, the avoidance of quarrels, the preservation of estate, the choice of servants, the avoidance of evil means of seeking riches, the bad effects of drunkenness, and the service of God. W^e extract his Three Bulcs to he observed for the Preservation of a Man's Estate. Amongst all other things of the world, take care of thy estate, which thou shalt ever preserve if thou ob- serve three things : first, that thou know what thou hast, what every thing is worth that thou hast, and to see that thou art not wasted by thy servants and officers. The second is, that thou never spend any- thing before thou have it ; for borrowing is the canker and death of every man's estate. The third is, that thou suffer not thyself to be wounded for other men's faults, and scourged for other men's offences ; which is, the surety for another, for thereby millions of men have been beggared and destroyed, paying the reckon- ing of other men's riot, and the charge of other men's folly and prodigality ; if thou smart, smart for thine own sins ; and, above all things, be not made an ass to carry the burdens of other men : if any friend desire thee to be his surety, give him a part of what thou hast to spare ; if he press thee farther, he is not thy friend at all, for friendship rather chooseth harm to itself than offereth it. If thou be bound for a stranger, thou art a fool ; if for a mer- chant, thou puttest thy estate to learn to swim ; if for a churchman, he hath no inheritance ; if for a lawj'er, he will find an invasion by a syllable or word to abuse thee ; if for a poor man, thou must pay it thj-self ; if for a rich man, he needs not : therefore from suretyship, as from a man-slaj'er or enchanter, bless thyself ; for the best profit and return will be this, that if thou force him for whom thou art bound, to pay it himself, he will become thy enemy ; if thou use to pay it thyself, thou wilt be a beggar ; and be- lieve thy father in this, and print it in thy thought, that what virtue soever thou hast, be it never so ma- nifold, if thou be poor withal, thou and thy qualities shall be despised. Besides, poverty is ofttiraes sent as a curse of God ; it is a shame amongst men, an imprisonment of the mind, a vexation of every worthy spirit : thou shalt neither help thyself nor others ; thou shalt drown thee in all thy virtues, having no means to show them ; thou shalt be a burden and an eyesore to thy friends, every man will fear thy com- pany ; thou shalt be driven basely to beg and depend on others, to flatter unworthy men, to make dishonest shifts : and, to conclude, poverty provokes a man to do infamous and detested deeds ; let no vanity, there- fore, or persuasion, dra^v thee to that worst of worldly miseries. If thou be rich, it will give thee pleasure in health, 248 PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. joii.y STOW. comfort in sickness, keep thy mind and body free, save thee from many perils, relieve thee in thy elder years, relieve the poor and thy honest friends, and give means to thy posterity to live, and defend them- selves and thine own fame. Where it is said in the Proverbs, ' That he shall be sore vexed that is surety for a stranger, and ho that hateth surttyship is sure ;' it is further said, ' TL. poor is hated even of his own neighbour, but the rich have many friends.' Lend not to him that is mightier than thyself, for if thou lendest him, count it but lost ; be not surety above thy power, for if thou be surety, think to pay it. RICHARD GRAFTON. We now revert to a useful, though less brilliant, class of writers, the English chroniclers ; a continu- ous succession of whom was kept up during the period of which we are now treating. The first who attracts our attention is Richard Grafton, an individual who, in addition to the craft of author- ship, practised the typographic;d art in London in tlie reigns of Henry VIH. and three succeeding monarchs. Being printer to Edward VI., he was employed, after the death of that king, to prepare the proclamation which declared the succession of Lady Jane Grey to the crown. For this simply profes- sional act he was deprived of his patent, and osten- sibly for the same reason committed to prison. WhUe there, or at least while unemployed after the loss of his business, he compiled An Abridgment of the Chronicles of England, published in 1562, and of which a new edition, in two volumes, was published in 1809. IMuch of this work was borrowed from Hall ; and the author, though sometimes referred to as an authority by modern compilers, holds but a low rank among English historians. JOHN STOW. His contemporary, John Stow, enjoys a much higher reputation as an accurate and impartial recorder of public events. This industrious writer was born in London about tlie year 1525. Being the son of a tailor, he was brought up to that business, but early exhibited a decided turn for an- tiquarian research. About the year 1560, he formed the design of composing annals of English history, in consequence of which, he for a time abandoned his trade, and travelled on foot through a consider- able part of England, for the purpose of examining the historical manuscripts preserved in cathedrals and other public establishments. He also enlarged, as far as his pecuniary resources allowed, his collec- tion of old books and manuscripts, of which there were many scattered through the country, in conse- quence of the suppression of monasteries by Henry VIH.* Necessity, however, compelled him to resume * Vast numbers of books were at this period wantonlj' de- stroyed. ' A number of tliem which purchased these supersti- tious mansions,' says Bishop Bale, ' reserved of those library books some to serve their jakes, some to scour their candle- sticks, and some to rub their boots, and some they sold to the grocers and soap-sellers, and some they sent over sea to book- binders, not in small numbers, but at times whole ships full. Yea, the universities are not all clear in this detestable fact ; but cursed is the belly which seeketh to be fed with so >mgodly gains, and so deeply sliameth his native country. I know a merchantman (which shall at this time be nameless) that bought the contents of two noble libraries for forty shillings price : a shame it is to be spoken. This stuff hath he occupied instead of grey paper, by the space of more than these ten years, and yet hath he store enough for as many years to come.' — Bale's Declaration, &c., quoted in ' Collier's Eccles. Hist.' ii. 16b". Another illustration isgivenby the editor of ' Letters written by Eminent Persons, in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centu- his trade, and his studies were suspended till tuv bounty of Dr I'arker, archbishop of Canterbury, enabled him again to prosecute them. In 1565 he published his Summiiry of English Chronicles, dedi- cated to the Earl of Leicester, at whose request the work was undertaken. Parker's death, in 1575, ma- terially reduced his income, but he still managed to continue his researches, to which his whole time and energies were now devoted. At length, in 1598, appeared his Survey of London, the best known of his writings, and which has served as the ground- work of all subsequent histories of the metropolis. There was another work, his large Chronicle, or History of England, on which forty vears' labour had been bestowed, which he was very desirous to pub- lish ; but of this he succeeded in printing only an abstract, entitled Flores llistariarum, or Annuls of England ( 1 600). A volume published from his papers after his death, entitled Stow's Chronicle, does imt contain the large work now mentioned, wliicli, thouuii left by him fit for the press, seems to have somehow gone astra_v. In his old age he fell into such poverty, as to be driven to solicit charity from the public. Having made application to James I., he received the royal license ' to repair to churches, or other places, to receive the gratuities and charitable bene- volence of well-disposed people.' It is little to the honour of the contemporaries of this worthy andin- Stow's Monument in the church of St Andrew undei Shaft, London. dustrious man, that he should have been thus lit« rally reduced to beggary. Under the pressure ol want and disease. Stow died in 1605, at the advanced ries' (London, 1813). ' The splendid and magnificent abbey of JIalmesbury,' says ho, ' which possessed some of the finest manuscripts in the kingdom, was ransacked, and its treasures either sold or burnt to serve the commonest purposes of life. An antiquary who travelled through tliat town many years after tlie dissolution, relates that he saw broken windows patched up with remnants of the most valuable manuscrlptg on vellum, and that the bakers had not even then consunu'd the stores they had accimiukited, in heating their ovens !' (Vol. 1., p. 278.) 249 FROM 1558 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 164;. age of eighty years. His -works, thougli possessing few graces of stj'le, have always been esteemed for accurac}' and research. He often declared that, in composing them, he had never allowed himself to be swayed either by fear, favour, or malice ; but that he had impartially, and to the best of his knowledge, delivered the truth. So highly was his accuracy esteemed by contemporary authors, that Bacon and Camden took statements upon his sole credit. The following extract is taken from the ' Survey of Lon- don :' — \_S2y<»'ts upon the Ice in Elizahelli's Reign.'] When that great moor which washeth Moorfields, at the north wall of the city, is frozen over, great com- panies of young men go to sport upon the ice ; then fetching a run, and setting their feet at a distance, and placing their bodies sidewise, they slide a gi-eat way. Others take heaps of ice, as if it were great mill-stones, and make seats ; many going before, draw him that sits thereon, holding one another by the hand in going so fast ; some slipping with their feet, all fall down together : some are better practised to the ice, and bind to their shoes bones, as the legs of some beasts, and hold stakes in their hands headed with sharp iron, which sometimes they strike against the ice ; and these men go on with speed as doth a bird in the air, or darts shot from some warlike en- gine : sometimes two men set themselves at a distance, and run one against another, as it were at tilt, with these stakes, wherewith one or both parties are thro\vn down, not without some hui-t to their bodies ; and after their ftill, by reason of the violent motion, are carried a good distance from one another ; and wheresoever the ice doth touch their head, it rubs off tall the skin, and lays it bare ; and if one fall upon his leg or arm, it is usually broken ; but young men greedy of honour, and desirous of victory, do thus exercise themselves in counterfeit battles, that they may bear the brunt more strongly wlien they come to it in good earnest. RAPHAEL HOLINSHED — WILLIAM HAKRISON — JOHN HOOKER — FRANCIS BOTEVILLE. Among all the old chroniclers, none is more fre- quently referred to than Kaphael Holinshed, of whom, however, almost nothing is known, except that he was a principal writer of the chronicles •which bear his name, and that he died about the year 1580. Among his coadjutors were Willi a bi Harrison, a clergyman, John Hooker, an uncle of the author of the ' Ecclesiastical Polity,' and Francis Boteville, an individual of whom no- thing has been recorded, but that he was ' a man of great learning and judgment, and a wonderful lover of antiquities.' John Stow, also, was among the contributors. Prefixed to tlie historical portion of the work is a description of Britain and its inhabi- tants, by William Harrison, which continues to be highly valued, as aftbrding an interesting picture of the state of tlie counti'y, and manners of the people, in the sixteenth century. This is followed by a his- tory of England to the Norman Conquest, by Holin- shed ; a history and description of Ireland, by Richard Stanihurst; additional chronicles of Ireland, translated or written by Hooker, Holinshed, and Stanihurst; a description and history of Scotland, mostly translated from Hector Boece, by Holinshed or Harrison ; and, lastly, a history of England, by Holinshed, from the Norman Conquest to 1577, when the first edition of the ' Chronicles' was published. In the second edition, which appeared in 1587, several sheets containing matter olTensive to the queen and her ministers were omitted ; but these have been ip«tfred ill the excellent edition in six volumes quarto, published in London in 1807-8. It Avas from the translation of Boece that Shakspeare derived the ground-work of his tragedy of ' Macbeth.' As a spe- cimen of these chronicles, we are tempted to quote some of Harrison's sarcastic remarks on the dege- neracy of his contemporaries, their extravagance in dress, and the growth of luxury among them. His account of the languages of Britain, however, being peculiarly suited to the object of tlie present work, and at the same time highly amusing from the quaintness and simplicity of the style, it is here given in preference to any other extract. [The Languages of Britain.'] The British tongue called Cymric doth yet re- main in that part of the island which is now called Whales, whither the Britons were driven after the Saxons had made a full conquest of the other, which we now call England, although the pristine inte- grity thereof be not a little diminished by mixture of the Latin and Saxon speeches withal, llowbeit, many poesies and writings (in making whereof that nation hath evermore delighted) are yfet extant in my time, whereby some difference between the ancient and present language may easily be discerned, notwith- standing that among all these there is nothing to be found which can set do-(vn any sound and full testi- mony of their own original, in remembrance whereof their bards and cunning men have been most slack and negligent. * * Next unto the British speech, the Latin tongue was brought in by the Romans, and in manner generally planted through the whole region, as the French was after by the Normans. Of this tongue I will not say much, because there are few which be not skilful in the same. Howbeit, as the speech itself is easy and delectable, so hath it perverted the names of the ancient rivers, regions, and cities of Britain, in such wise, that in these our days their old British denomi- nations are quite grown out of memory, and yet those of the new Latin left as most uncertain. This re- maineth, also, unto my time, borrowed from the Romans, that all our deeds, evidences, charters, and writings of record, are set down in the Latin tongue, though now very barbarous, and thereunto the copies and court-rolls, and processes of courts and leets registered in the same. The third language apparently known is the Scy- thian,* or High Dutch, induced at the first by the Saxons (which the Britons call Saysonaoc,t as they do the speakers Sayson), a hard and rough kind of speech, God wot, when our nation was brought first into ac- quaintance withal, but now changed with us into a far more fine and easy kind of utterance, and so polished and helped with new and milder words, that it is to be avouched how there is no one speech under the sun spoken in our time that hath or can have more variety of words, copiousness of jihrases, or figures and flowers of eloquence, than hath our Eng- lish tongue, although some have affirmed us rather to bark as dogs than talk like men, because the most of our words (as they do indeed) incline unto one syllable. This, also, is to be noted as a testimony remaining still of our language, derived from the Saxons, that the general name, for the most part, of every skilful artificer in his trade endeth in here with us, albeit the h be left out, and er only inserted, as, scrivenhere, writehere, shiphere, &c. — for scrivener, writer, and shipper, &c. ; beside many other relics of that speech, never to be abolished. After the Saxon tongue came the Norman or French * It ia scarcely necessary lo remark, that tliU tonii is here misapplied. t The Highlanders of Scotland still speak of the Englwh iis Satseimcli (moaning Saxons). 250 PROSE WRITEHJS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. RICHARD IIAKLUYT. language over into our country, and therein were our laws written for a long time. Our children, also, were, by an especial decree, taught first to speak the same, and thereunto enforced to learn their construc- tions in the French, whensoever they were set to the grammar-school. In like sort, few bishops, abbots, or other clergymen, were admitted unto any ecclesiastical function here among us, but such as came out of religious houses from beyond the seas, to the end they should not use the English tongue in their sermons to the people. In the court, also, it grew into such con- tempt, that most men thought it no small dishonour to speak any English there ; which bravery took his hold at the last likewise in the country with every ploughman, that even the very carters began to wax weary of their mother-tongue, and laboured to speak French, which as then was counted no small token of gentility. And no marvel ; for every French rascal, when he came once hither, was taken for a gentleman, only because he was proud, and could use his own language. And all this (I say) to exile the English and British speeches quite out of the country. But in vain ; for in the time of king Edward 1., to wit, toward the latter end of his reign, the French itself ceased to be spoken generally, but most of all and by law in the midst of Edward III., and then began the English to recover and grow in more estimation than before ; notwithstanding that, among our artificers, the most part of their implements, tools, and words of art, retain still their French denominations even to these our days, as the language itself is used like- wise in sundry courts, books of record, and matters of law ; whereof here is no place to make any particular rehearsal. Afterward, also, by diligent travail of Geotfrey Chaucer and John Gower, in the time of Richard II., and after them of John Scogan and John Lydgate, monk of Bury, our said tongue was brought to an exce^ent pass, notwithstanding that it never came unto the type of perfection until the time of Queen Elizabeth, wherein John Jewel, bishop of Sarum, John Fox, and sundry learned and excellent writers, have fully accomplished the ornature of the same, to their great praise and immortal commendation ; al- though not a few other do greatly seek to stain the same, by fond affectation of foreign and strange words, presuming that to be the best English which is most corrupted with external terms of eloquence and sound of many syllables. But as this excellency of the English tongue is found in one, and the south part of this island, so in Wales the greatest number (as I said) retain still their own ancient language, that of the north part of the said country being less cor- rupted than the other, and therefore reputed for the better in their own estimation and judgment. This, also, is proper to us Englishmen, that since ours is a middle or intermediate language, and neither too rough nor too smooth in utterance, we may mth much facility learn any other language, beside Hebrew, Greek, and Latin, and speak it naturally, as if we were home-bom in those countries ; and yet on the other side it falleth out, I wot not by what other means, that few foreign nations can rightly pronounce ours, without some and that great note of imj)erfection, especially the Frenchmen, who also seldom write any- thing that savoureth of English truly. But this of all the rest doth breed most admiration with me, that if any stranger do hit upon some likely pronunciation of our tongue, yet in age he swerveth so much from the same, that he is worse therein than ever he was, and thereto, peradventure, halteth not a little also in his own, as I have seen by experience in Reginald Wolfe, and others, whereof I have justly marvelled. The Cornish and Devonshire men, whose country the Britons call Cerriiw, have a speech in like sort of their own, and such as hath indeed more affinity with the Armorican toujjue than I can well discuss of. Yet in mine opinion, they are both but a con-upted kind of British, albeit so far degenerating in these daya from the old, that if either of them do meet witli a Welshman, they are not able at the first to understand one anotlier, except here and there in some odd words, without the help of intci-preters. And no marvel, in mine opinion, that the British of Cornwall is thus corrupted, since the Welsh tongue that is spoken in the north and south part of Wales doth differ so much in itself, as the English used in Scotland doth from tliat which is spoken among us here in this side ol the island, as I have said already. The Scottish-English hath been much broader and less pleasant in utterance than ours, because that nation hath not, till of late, endeavoured to bring the same to any perfect order, and yet it was such in manner as Englishmen themselves did speak for the most part beyond the Trent, whither any great amend- ment of our language had not, as then, extended itself. Howbeit, in our time the Scottish language endeavoureth to come near, if not altogether to niatch, our tongue in fineness of phrase and copiousness oi words, and this may in part appear by a history ol the Apocrypha translated into Scottish verse by Hud- son, dedicated to the king of that country, and con- taining six books, except my memory do fail me. RICHARD HAKLUYT. Richard Hakluyt is another of the laborious com- pilers of this period, to whom the world is indebted for the preservation, in an accessible form, of narra- tives which would otherwise, in all probability, have fallen into oblivion. The department of history which he chose was that descriptive of the naval adven- tures and discoveries of his countrymen. Hakluyt was born in London about the year ] 553, and received his elementary education at Westminster school, lie afterwards studied at Oxford, wliere he engaged in an extensive course of reading in various languages, on geographical and maritime subjects, for wliich he had early displayed a strong liking. So much reputation did his knowledge in those departments acquire for him, that he was appointed to lecture at Oxford on cosmography and the collateral sciences, and curried on a correspondence witli those cele- brated continental geograpliers, Ortelius and Mer- cator. At a subsequent period, he resided for five years in Paris as chaplain to the English ambas- sador, during which time he cultivated tlie acquaint- ance of persons eminent for their knowledge ol geography and maritime history. On his return from France in 1588, Sir Walter Raleigh appointed him one of the society of counsellors, assistants, and adventurers, to whom he assigned his patent for the prosecution of discoveries in America. Pre- viously to tliis, he had published, in 1582 and 1587, two small collections of voyages to Americji ; but these are included in a much larger work in three volumes, whicli he published in 1598, 1599, and 1600, entitled The Principal Navigations, Voyages, Traf- fiques, and Discoveries of t lie jEnglish Natio7i, viade by Sea or Over Land, to the Remote and Farthest Distant Quarters of the Earth, within the Compass of these 1 500 years. In the first volume are contained voyages to the north and north-east ; tlie true state of Ice- land; the defeat of the Spanish Armada; tlie expe- dition under the Earl of Essex to Cadiz, &c. In the second, he relates voyages to the south and south- east; and in the tliird, expeditions to North Ame- rica, the West Indies, and round tlie worM. Nar- ratives are given of nearly two hundred ainl twenty voyages, besides many relative documents, snch aa patents, instructions, and letters. To this collectKm all the subsequent compilers in this dejtartment have 951 FROM 1558 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1649. been largely indebted. In the explanatory catalogue prefixed to ' Churchill's Collection of Voyages,' and of which Locke has been said to be the author, Haklnyt's collection is spoken of as ' valuable for the good tlicre to be picked out : but it might be wished the author had been less voluminous, deli- vering wliat was really authentic and useful, and not stuffing his work with so many stories taken upon trust, so many trading voyages that have nothing new in them, so many warlike exploits not at all pertinent to his undertaking, and such a multitude of articles, charters, privileges, letters, relations, and other things little to the purpose of travels and discoveries.'* The work having become very scarce, a new edition, in five volumes quarto, was published in 1809. Ilakluyt was the author, also, of translations of two foreign works on Florida; and, when at Paris, published an enlarged edition of a history in the Latin language, entitled De Rebus Oceanicis et Orbe Novo, by Martyr, an Italian author ; this was afterwards translated into English by a person of the name of Lok, under the title of The History of the West Indies, containing the Acts and Adventures of the Spaniards, which have Conquered and Peopled those Countries; enriched with Variety of Plea- sant Relation of Manners, Ceremonies, Laws, Govern- ments, and Wars, of the Indians. In 1601 Ilakluyt published the Discoveries of the World, from the First Original to the Year of our Lord 1555, translated, with additions, from the Portuguese of Antonio Galvano, governor of Ternatc, in the East Indies. At his death, in 1616, his papers, which were nume- rous, came into the hands of SAMUEL PURCHAS, another English clergyman, who made use of them in compiling a history of voj'ages, in four volumes, entitled Purchas his Pilgrims. This appeared in 1625; but the author had already published, in 1613, before Hakluyt's death, a volume called Purchas his Pilgrimage ; or, Relations of the World, and the Reli- gions Ob^erted in all Ages and Places Discovered from the Creation unto this Present. These two works (a new edition of the latter of which was published in 1626) form a continuation of Hakluyt's collection, but on a more extended plan.f The publication of this voluminous work involved the autlior in debt : it was, however, well received, and has been of much utility to later compilers. The writer of the catalogue in Churchill's collection says of Purchas, that ' he has imitated Ilakluyt too much, swelling his work into five volumes in folio ;' yet, he adds, ' the whole collection is very valuable, as having preserved many considerable voyages that miglit otherwise have perished. But, like Ilakluyt, he has thrown in all that came to hand, to fill up so many volumes, and is excessive full of his own notions, and of mean quibbling and playing upon M-ords ; yet for such as can make choice of the best, the collec- tion is very valuable.'J Among his peculiarities is ♦ Churchill's Collection, vol. i., p. xvii. t The contents of tho different volumes are as follow : Vol. I. of the ' Pilgrims' contains Voyages and Travels of Ancient Kings, Patriarchs, Apostles, and Philosophers; Voyages of Cir- cumnavigators of the Globe ; and Voyages along the coasts of Africa to tho East Indies, Japan, China, the Philippine Islands and the I'ersian and Arabian Gulfs. Vol. II. contains Voyages and Relations of Afiica, Kthiopia, Palestine, Arabia, Persia, and other parts of Asia. Vol. III. contains Tartary, China, Russia, North-Wcst America, and the Polar Regions. Vol. IV. contains America and the West Indies. Vol. V. contains the Pilgrimage, a Theological and Geographical History of Asia, i^frica, and America. i Vol i., p. xvii. that of interlarding theological reflections and dis- cussions with his narratives. Purclias died about 1628, at the age of fiftj'-one. His other works are, Mlcrocofmris, or the History of 3Ian (\619); the King's Tower and Triumpluint Arch of London (1623); and a Funeral isermon (1619). Ilis quaint eulogy of the sea is here extracted from the ' Pilgrimage :' — [The Sea.] As God hath combined the sea and land into one globe, so their joint combination and mutual assist- ance is necessary to secular happiness and glorj'. The sea covcreth one-half of this patrimony of man, whereof God set him in possession when he said, ' Replenish the earth, and subdue it, and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that nioveth upon the earth.' * * Thus should man at once lose half his inheritance, if the art of navigation did not enable him to manage this untamed beast, and with the bridle of the winds and saddle of his shipping to make him serviceable. Now for the services of the sea, they are inimmerable : it is the great purveyor of the world's commodities to our use ; conveyer of the excess of rivers ; uniter, by traffick, of all nations : it presents the eye with diver- sified colours and motions, and is, as it were, with rich brooches, adorned with various islands. It is an open field for merchandise in peace ; a pitched field for the most dreadful fights of war ; j'ields diversity of fish and fowl for diet ; materials for wealth, medi- cine for health, simples for medicines, pearls, and other jewels for ornament ; amber and ambergrise for delight ; ' the wonders of the Lord in the deep' for instruction, variety of creatures for use, multiplicity of natures for contemplation, diversity of accidents for admiration, compendiousness to the way, to full bodies healthful evacuation, to the thirsty earth fertile moisture, to distant friends pleasant meeting, to weary persons delightful refreshing, to studious and religious minds a map of knowledge, mystery of temperance, exercise of continence ; school of prayer, meditation, devotion, and sobriety ; refuge to the distressed, por- tage to the merchant, passage to the traveller, customs to the prince, springs, lakes, rivers, to the earth ; it hath on it tempests and calms to chastise tlie sins, to exercise the faith, of seamen ; manifold affections in itself, to affect and stupify the subtlest philosopher ; sustaineth moveable fortresses for the soldier ; main- taineth (as in our island) a wall of defence and watery garrison to guard the state ; entertains the sun with vapours, the moon with obsequiousness, the stars also with a natural looking-glass, the sky with clouds, the air with temperateness, the soil with suppleness, the rivers with tides, the hills with moisture, the valleys with fertility ; containeth most diversified matter for meteors, most multiform shapes, most various, nume- rous kinds, most immense, difFormed, deformed, un- formed monsters ; once (for why should I longer detain you ?) the sea yields action to the body, meditation to the mind, the world to the world, all parts thereof to each part, by this art of arts, navigation. JOHN DAVIS. Among the intrepid navigators of Queen Eliza- beth's reign, whose adventures are recorded by Ilak- luyt, one of the most distinguished is John Davis, a native of Devonshire, who, in 1585, and the two following years', made three voyages in search of a north-west pas.sage to China, and discovered the well-known straits to which his name has ever since been applied. In 1595 he himself published a small and now exceedingly rare volume, entitled The World's Ilydrographical Description, ' wherein,' as we are told in "the title-page, ' is proued not onely 252 PROSK WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. Jon:( DAVIS. by aucthoritie of writers, but also by late experience of trauellers, and reasons of substantial! probabilitie, that the worlde in all his zones, clyniats, and places, is habitable and inhabited, &nd tlie seas likewise universally nauigable, without any naturall anoy- ance to hinder the same ; Avhereby appeares that from England there is a short and speedie passage into the South Seas to China, Malucca, Phillipina, and India, by northerly navigation, to the renowne, honour, and benefit of her maiesties state and com- munalty.' In corroboration of these positions, he gives a short narrative of his voyages, Avhich, not- withstanding the unsuccessful termination of them all, he considers to afford arguments in favour of the nortli-west passage. This narrative, with its original spelling, is here inserted as an interesting specimen of the style of such relations in the age of Elizabeth. IDavis's Voyages in Search of the NoHh- West Passage.] In my first voyage, not experienced of the nature of those clymattes, and having no direction either by Chart, Globe, or other certayne relation in what alti- tude that passage was to bee searched, I shaped a Northerly course and so sought the same towards the South, and in that my Northerly course I fell upon the shore which in ancient time was called Groynland, fine hundred leagues distant from the durseys West Nor West Northerly, the land being very high and full of mightie mountaines all couered witli snow, no viewe of wood, grasse, or earth to be scene, and the shore two leagea of into the sea so full of yse as that no shipping cold by any nieanes come neere the same. The lothsome rewe of the shore, and irksome noyse of theysewas such, as that it bred strange conceipts among us, so that we supposed the place to be wast and voyd of any sencible or vegitable creatures, wherupon I called the same Desolation ; so coasting this shore towardes the South in the latitude of sixtie degrees, I found it to trend towardes the west. I still followed the leading thereof in the same height, and after fiftie or sixtie leages, it fayled and lay directly north, which I still followed, and in thirtie leages sayllng upon the West side of this coast by me named Desolation, we were past all the yse and found many greene and plesant Ills bordering upon the shore, but the moun- tains of the maine were still covered with great quan- tities of snowe. I brought my shippe among those ylls and there mored to refreshe our selves in our wearie travell, in the latitude of sixtie foure degrees or there about. The people of the country, having espyed our shipps, came down unto us in their canoes, holding up their right hand to the Sunne and crying Yliaout, would stricke their brestes ; we doing the like the people came aborde our shippes, men of good stature, unbearded, small eyed and of tractable conditions ; by whom, as signes would permit, we understoode that towardes the North and West there was a great sea, and using the people with kindnesse in geuing them nayles and knifes which of all things they most de- sired, we departed, and finding the sea free from yse, supposing ourselves to be past all daunger, we shaped our course West Nor West, thinking thereby to passe for China, but in the latitude of sixtie sixe degrees, wee fell with an other shore, and there founde an other passage of 20 leages broade directly West into the same, wliich we supposed to bee our hoped strayght. We intered into the same thirty or fortie leages, finding it neither to wyden nor straighten ; then, considering that theyeere was spent, for tliis was in the fyne of August, and not knowing the length of this straight and dan- gers thereof, we tooke it our best course to retourne wirh notice of our good successe for this small time of search. And so retouming in a sharpKj fret of Westerly windes, the 29 of September we arrived at Dartmouth. And acquainting master Secretory with the rest of the honoral&le and worshipfuU adventurers of all our procedinges, I was appointed againe the seconde yeere to search the bottome of this straight, because by all likelihood it was the place and passage by us laboured for. In this second attempt the mer- chants of Exeter and other places of the West be- came adventurers in the action, so that, being suffi- ciently furnished for sixe monthes, and havingdirection to search this straighte, untill we found the same to fall into an other sea upon the West side of this part of America, we should agayne retourne, for then it was not to be doubted but shiping with trade might safely bee conueied to China and the parts of Asia. We departcsd from Dartmouth, and ariving unto the south part of the cost of Desolation costed the same upon his west shore to the lat. of 66. degres, and there ancored among the ylls bordering upon the same, where wee refreshed our selues. The people of this place came likewise vnto vs, by whome I vnderstood through their signes that towardes the North the sea was large. At this place the chiefe shipe wliereupon I trusted, called the Mermayd of Dartmouth, found many occa- sions of discontentment, and being unwilling to pro- ceede she there forsooke me. Then considering howe I had giuen my fayth and most constant promise to my worshipfuU good friend master ^^'illiaul Sander- son, who of all men was the greatest aduenturer in that action, and tooke such care for the perfounnance theerof that hee hath to my knowledge at one time disbursed as much money as any fine others whatso- euver out of his o^^^ae purse, when some of the com- pany haue bin slacke in giulng in their adaenture. And also knowing that I should lose the fauour of master Secretory, if I should shrinke from his direction, in one small barke of thirty tonnes, whereof master Sanderson was owner, alone without farther comfort or company I proceeded on my voyage, and ariuing unto this straights followed the same eightie leages, vntill I came among many ylandes, where the water did eb and flowe sixe fadome vpright, and where there had beene great trade of people to make trayne. But by such thinges as there we found, wee knewe that they were not Xtians of Europe that vsed that trade ; in fine, by seaching with our boate, wee founde small hope to passe any farther that way, and therefore retourning againe recouered the sea and so coasted the shore towardes the South, and in so doing (for it was to late to search towardes the North) wee founde an other great inlett neere fortie leages broade where the water entred in with violent swiftnes. This we likewise thought might be a passage, for no doubt but tlie North partes of America are all ylands, by ought ' that I could percelue therein ; but because I was alone in a small barke of thirtie tonnes, and the yeere spent I entered not into the same, for it was now the seuenth of September, but coasting the shore towardes tlie South we saw an incredible number of blrdes. Ilauing diners fishermen aborde our barke, they all concluded that there was a great scull of fish. Wee beeing vnprouided of fishing furniture, with a long spike nayle mayde a hoke, and fastening the same to one of our sounding lynes. Before the bayte was changed wee tooke more than fortie great cods, the fishe swimming so aboundantly thicke about oui barke as is incredible to be reported of, which with a small portion of salte that we had, wee preserued some thirtie couple, or there aboutes, and so returned for England. And hauing reported to nuister Secre- toi-y the whole successe of this attempt, hee com- manded inee to present unto the most honorable Lorde high tliresurer of England some parte of that fisli, which when his Lordship saw and hearde at large tlie relation of this seconde atteni])t, 1 recelued fautr- able countenance from his honour, aduisiiig mee io prosecute the action, of which his Lordship conceiue^ 253 FROM 1558 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1649. a very good opinion. The next yeere, although diaers of the aduenturers fel from the action, as al the wes- tern nierchantes and most of those in London, yet some of the aduenturers both honorable and worshipfuU continued their willing fauour and charge, so that by this ineanes the next yeere 2. shippes were appointed for the fi.-ihing and one pniace for the discouery. Departing from Dartmouth, through God's merciful fauour I ariuedto the place of fishing and there accord- ing to my direction I left the 2 shipps to follow that busines, taking their faithful promise not to depart vntill my returne vnto them, which shoulde bee in the fine of August, and so in the barke I proceeded for the discouery, but after my departure in sixteene dayes the shippes had finished their royage, and so presently departed for England, without regard of their promise. My selfe, not distrusting any such hard measure, proceeded in the discouerie and followed my course in the free and open sea, betweene North and Nor west, to the latitude of sixtie seuen degrees, and there I might see America west from me, and Desola- tion east ; then when I saw the land of both sides, I began to distrust that it would prooue but a gulfe. Notwithstanding, desirous to knowethe full certaintye, I proceeded, and in sixtie eight degrees the passage enlarged, so that I could not see the westeme shore ; thus I continued to the latitude of seuentie fiue de- grees, in a great sea, free from yse, coasting the westeme shore of Desolation. The people came conti- nually rowing out vnto me in their Canoas, twenty, forty, and one hundred at a time, and would giue me fishe dried, Samon, Samon peale, cod, Caplin, Lumpe, stone base, and such like, besides diuers kindes of birdes, as Partrig, Fesant, Gulls, sea birdes, and other kindes of fleshe. I still laboured by signes to knowe from them what they knew of any sea towards the North. They still made signes of a great sea as we m- derstood them ; then I departed from that coast, think- ing to discouer the North parts of America, and after I had sayled towardes the west neere fortie leages I fell upon a great bancke of yse ; the wind being North and blewe much, I was constrained to coast the same towardes the South, not seeing any shore West from me, neither was there any yse towards the North, but a great sea, free, large, very salt and blue and of an unsearcheable depth. So coasting towardes the South I came to the place wher I left the shippes to fishe, but found them not. Then being forsaken and left in this distresse referring my selfe to the mercifull proui- dence of God, shaped my course for England and vn- hoped for of any, God alone releuing me, I ariued at Dartmouth. By this last discouerie it seemed most manifest that the passage was free and without impe- diment towards the North, but by reason of the Spanish fleete and unfortunate time of master Secretoryes death, the voyage was omitted and neuer sithens at- tempted. Davis made five voyages as a pilot to the East Indies, where he was killed in 1605 in a contention •with some Japanese off the coast of Malacca. GEORGE SAKDYS. Five years after that event, George Sandys, a son of the Archbishop of York, and author of a well- known metric.'d translation of 'Ovid's Metamor- phoses,' set out upon a journey, of which he pub- lished an account in 1615, entitled A lielatiun of a Journeii begun Anno TJomlni 1610. Four Bouks, con- tainiiHj a JJescription of the Turkish Empire of Egypt, of the Holy I^nd, of the Remote Parts of Italy, and Islands adjoining. This work was so popular as to reach a seventh edition in 1673 — a distinction not undeserved, since, as Mr Kerr has remarked, in his (""fitalogue of Voyages and Travels, ' Sandys was an accoiiiplislieJ gcntlcnnin. well prepared, by ]>revious study, for liis travels, whicli are distinsuisliod by erudition, sagacity, and a love of truth, and are written in a pleasant style.'* He devoted particular attention to the allusions of the ancient poets to the various localities through which he passed. In bis dedication to Prince Charles, be thus refers to the [Jlodcm State of Ancient Countries.'] The parts I speak of are the most renowned coun- tries and kingdoms : once the seats of most glorious and triumphant empires ; the theatres of valour and heroical actions ; the soils enriched with all earthly felicities ; the places where Nature hath produced her wonderful works ; where arts and sciences have been invented and perfected ; where wisdom, virtue, policy, and civility, have been planted, have flourished ; and, lastly, where God himself did place his own common- wealth, gave laws and oracles, inspired his prophets, sent angels to converse with men ; above all, where the Son of God descended to become man ; where he honoured the earth with his beautiful steps, wrought the works of our redemption, triumphed over death, and ascended into glory : which countries, once so glorious and famous for their happy estate, are now, through vice and ingratitude, become the most de- plored spectacles of extreme misery ; the wild beasts of mankind having broken in upon them, and rooted out all civility, and the pride of a stem and barbarous tyrant possessing the thrones of ancient and just do- minion. Who, aiming only at the height of great- ness and sensuality, hath in tract of time reduced so great and goodly a part of the world to that lament- able distress and servitude, under which (to the asto- nishment of the understanding beholders) it now faints and groaneth. Those rich lands at this present remain waste and overgro^vn with bushes, receptacles of wild beasts, of thieves and murderers ; large terri- tories dispeopled, or thinly inhabited ; goodly cities made desolate ; sumptuous buildings become ruins ; glorious temples either subverted, or prostituted to impiety ; true religion discountenanced and oppressed; all nobility extinguished ; no light of learning per- mitted, nor virtue cherished : violence and rapine in- sulting over all, and leaving no security except to an abject mind, and unlooked-on poverty ; which cala- mities of theirs, so great and deserved, are to the rest of the world as threatening instructions. For assistance wherein, I have not only related what I saw of their present condition, but, so far as convenience might permit, presented a brief view of the former estates and first antiquities of those peoples and countries : thence to draw a right image of the frailty of man, the mutability of whatsoever is worldly, and assur- ance that, as there is nothing unchangeable saving God, so nothing stable but by his grace and protection. The death of Sandys, which took place in 1643, was somewhat preceded by that of a contemporary traveller, VOLUAM LITHGOW, a Scotsman, who traversed on foot many Euro- pean, Asiatic, and African countries. This indivi- dual was one of those tourists, now so abundant, who travel from a love of adventure and locomotion, with- out having anj' scientific or literary object in view According to his own statement, he walked more than thirty-si.x thousand miles ; and so decidedly did he give the preference to that mode of travelling, that, even when the use of a carriage was oflTercd to him, he steadfiistly declined to avail himself of the accommodation. His narrative was published in » Kerr's Collection of Voyages, vol. xviii. p. 558. 254 PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. JAMES HOW KM. London in 1 640, with a long title, commencing thus — The Total Discourse of (he Bare Adventures and Pair- fal Peregrinations of Long Nineteen Years' Travels from Scotland to the most famous Kingdoms in Europe, Asia, and Africa. Pcrfited b;/ Three Dear-bought Voy- ages in Surveying Forty-Eight Kingdoms, Ancient and Modern; Twenty-One Peipublics, Ten Absolute Prin- cipalities, with Two Hundred Islands. One of his prin- cipal and least agreeable adventures occurred at JIalaga in Spain, where he was arrested as an Eng- lish spy. and conmiitted to jirison. The details which he gives of his sufferings while in confinement, and the tortures applied to him with the view of extract- ing a confession, are such as to make humanity sicken. Having been at length relieved by some English residents in Jlalaga, to whom his situation accidental!}- became known, he was sent to London ■bj'' sea, and afterwards forwarded, at tlie expense of King James, to Batli, where he remained upwards of six months, recruiting his sliattered frame. He died in 1640, after having attempted, apparently without success, to obtain redress by bringing his case before the Upper House. JA^rES HOWELL. James Howell was one of the most intelligent travellers and pleasing miscellaneous writers in the early part of the seventeenth century. Born in Car- marthenshire about 1596, he received his education at Hereford and Oxford, and repaired to London in quest of employment. He was there appointed steward to a patent-glass manufactory, in which James HoweU. capacity he went abroad in 1619, to procure mate- rials and engage workmen. In the course of his travels, which lasted till 1621, he visited many com- mercial towns in Holland, Flanders, France, Spain, and Italy ; and, being possessed of an acute and in- quiring mind, laid up a great store of useful observa- tions on men and manners, besides acquiring an extensive knowledge of modern languages. His con- nexif>n with the glass company soon after ceased, and he again visited France as the travelling com- panion of a young gentleman. After this lie was sent to Spain, as agent for the recovery of an Eng- lish vessel which had been seized in Sardinia on a charge of snuiggling ; but all hopes of obtaining re- dress being destroyed by the breaking off of Prince Charles's proposed marriage with the infanta, he returned to England in 1624. His next office was that of secretary to Lord Scrope, as president of the north; and in 1627 he was chosen by the corpora- tion of Richmond to be one of their representatives in parliament. Three years afterwards he visited Copenhagen as secretary to the Englis?" ''mbassador. Having complimented Charles T. in two ffn all poems, he obtahied, in 1640, tlie clerkship of the council, an appointment which lasted but a short time, as, three years afterwards, he was imprisoned in the Fleet by order of a committee of parliament. Here he re- mained till after the king's death, supporting him- self by translating and composing a variety of works. At tlie Restoration he became historiogra- pher-royal, being the first who ever enjoyed that title ; and continued his literary avocations till his death, in 1666. ()f upwards of forty publications of tliis lively and sensible writer, none is now gene- rally read except his Epistohe Ho-Eliano', or Familiar Letter/, first printed in 1645, and considered to be the earliest specimen of epistolary literature in the language. The letters are dated from various places at home and abroad ; and though some of them are supposed to have been compiled from memory while the author was in the Fleet prison, the greater num- ber seem to bear suffieient internal evidence of hav- ing been written at the times and places indicated. His remarks on the leading events and characters of the time, as well as the animated accounts given of what he saw in foreign countries, and the sound reflections witli wliich his letters abound, contri- bute to render the work one of permanent interest and value. To Dr Francis MaiiseU, * * These wishes come to you from \'enice, a place where there is nothing wanting that heart can wish ; re- nowned Venice, the admired'st city in the world, a city that all Europe is bound unto, for she is her greatest rampart against that huge eastern tyrant, the Turk, by sea ; else, I believe, he had overrun all Christen iom by this time. Against him this city hath perfon led notable exploits, and not only against him, but di\ers others ; she hath restored emperors to their thrones, and popes to their chairs, and with her galleys often preserved St Peter's bark from sinking : for which, by way of reward, one of his successors espoused her to the sea, which marriage is solemnly renewed every year in solemn procession by the Doge and all the Clarissiraos, and a gold ring cast into the sea out of the great Galeasse, called the Bucentoro, wherein the first ceremon}- was performed by the pope himself, above three hundred years since, and they say it is the self-same vessel still, though often put upon careen, and trimmed. This made me think, nay, I fell upon an abstracted notion in phiksophy, and a s])eculation touching the bod}- of man, which, being in perpetual flux, and a kind of succession of decays, and conse quently requiring, ever and anon, a restoration of what it loseth of the virtue of the former aliment, and what was converted after the third concoction into a blood and fleshly substance, which, as in all other sul)luiiary bodies that have internal principles of heat, useth to transpire, breathe out, and waste away through invi- sible pores, by exercise, motion, and sleeji, to niako room still for a supply of new nurriture : 1 fell, I say, to consider whether our bodies may be said to be of like condition with this Bucentoro, which, though it be reputed still the same vessel, yet, I believe there's not a foot of that timber remaining wliich it had upon the first dock, having been, as they tell me, 255 FROM 1558 CYCLOPEDIA OP TO 1649, so often planked and ribbed, calked and pieced. In like manner, our bodies may be said to be daily re- paired by new sustenance, which begets new blood, and consequently new sj)irit9, new humours, and, 1 may say, new flesh ; the old, by continual deperdition and insensible perspirations, evaporating still out of us, and giving way to fresh ; so that I make a question whether, by reason of these perpetual reparations and accretions, the body of man may be said to be the same numerical body in his old age that he had in his manhood, or the same in his manhood that he had in his youth, the same in his youth that he carried about with him in his childhood, or the same in his childhood which he wore first in the womb. I make a doubt whether I had the same identical, individually numerical body, when I carried a calf-leather satchel to school in Hereford, as when I wore a lamb-skin hood in Oxford ; or whether I have the same mass of blood in my veins, and the same flesh, now in Venice, which I carried about me three years since, up and do>vn London streets, having, in lieu of beer and ale, drunk wine all the while, and fed upon different riands. Now, the stomach is like a crucible, for it hath a chemical kind of virtue to transmute one body into another, to transubstantiate fish and fruits into flesh within and about us ; but though it be questionable whether I wear the same flesh which is flusible, I am sure my hair is not the same, for you may remember I went flaxen-haired out of England, but you shall find me returned with a very dark brown, which I impute not only to the heat and air of those hot countries I have eat my bread in, but to the quality and diflijrence of food : you will say that hair is b'jt an excrementitious thing, and makes not io this purpose ; moreover, methinks I hear thee say that this may be true only in the blood and spirits, or such fluid parts, not in the solid and heterogeneal parts. But I will press no farther at this time this philosophical notion, which the sight of Bucentoro infused into me, for it hath already made me exceed the bounds of a letter, and, I fear me, to tres- pass too much upon your patience ; I leave the farther disquisition of this point to your own contemplations, who are a far riper philosopher than I, and have waded deeper into and drunk more of Aristotle's well. But, to conclude, though it be doubtful whether I carry about me the same body or no in .all points, that I had in England, I am well assured 1 bear still the same mind, and therein I verify the old verse — Ccelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt, ' The air, but not tlie mind, they change, AVho in outlandisli countries range.' For, what alterations soever happen in this micro- cosm, in this little world, this small bulk and body of mine, you may be confident that nothing shall alter my afiections, specially towards you, but that I will persevere still the same — the very same Vbnice, July 1, IG21. To Sir William St John, Knight. Sir — Having seen Antcnor's tomb in Padua, and the amphitheatre of Flaminius in Verona, with other brave towns in Lombardy, I am now come to Rome, %nd Rome, they say, is every man's country ; she is called Communis Patria, for every one that is within the compass of the Latin church finds himself here, as it were, at home, and in his mother's house, in regard of interest in religion, which is the cause that for one native there be five strangers that sojourn in this city ; and without any distinction or mark of strange- ness, they come to preferments and offices, both in church and state, according to merit, which is more valued and sought after here than an3'where. But whereas I expected to have found Rome ele- vated upon seven hills, I met her rather spreading upon a fl.at, having humbled herself, since she was made a Christian, and descended from those hills to Campus Martius ; with Trasieren, and the suburbs of Saint Peter, she hath yet in compass about fourteen miles, which is far short of that vast circuit she had in Claudius his time ; for Vopiscus writes she was then of fifty miles in circumference, and she had five hun- dred thousand free citizens in a fiimous cense that was made, which, allowing but six to every family in women, children, and servants, came to three millions of souls ; but she is now a wilderness in comparison of that number. The pope is grown to be a great tem- poral prince of late years, for the state of the church extends above three hundred miles in length, and two hundred miles in breadth ; it contains Ferrara, Bo- logna, Romagnia, the Marquisate of Ancona, Umbria, Sabina, Perugia, with a part of Tuscany, the patri- mony, Rome herself, and Latium. In these there are above fifty bishopricks ; the pope hath also the duchy of Spoleto, and the exarchate of Ravenna ; he hath the toAvn of Benevento in the kingdom of Naples, and the country of Venissa, called Avignon, in France. He hath title also good enough to Naples itself ; but, rather than offend his champion, the king of Spain, he is contented with a white mule, and purse of pistoles about the neck, which he receives every year for a heriot or homage, or what you will call it ; he pre- tends also to be lord paramount of Sicily, Urbin, Parma, and Masseran ; of Norway, Ireland, and Eng- land, since King John did prostrate our crown at Pandelfo his legate's feet. The state of the apostolic see here in Italy lieth 'twixt two seas, the Adriatic and the Tyrrhene, and it runs through the midst of Italy, which makes the pope powerful to do good or harm, and more capable than any other to be an umpire or an enemy. His authority being mixed 'twixt temporal and spiritual, disperseth itself into so many members, that a young man may grow old here before he can well understand the form of government. The consistory of cardinals meet but once a-week, and once a-week they solemnly wait all upon the pope. I am told there are now in Christendom but sixty- eight cardinals, whereof there are six cardinal bishops, fifty one cardinal priests, and eleven cardinal deacons. The cardinal bishops attend and sit near the pope, when he celebrates any festival ; the cardinal priests assist him at mass, and the cardinal deacons attire him. A cardinal is made by a short breve or writ from the pope in these words, ' Creamus te sociura rcgibus, superiorem ducibus, et fratrem nostrum :' — [' We create thee a companion to kings, superior to dukes, and our brother.'] If a cardinal bishop should be questioned for any olfcnce, there must be twenty- four witnesses produced against him. The bishop of Ostia hath most privilege of any other, for he conse- crates and installs the i)<)pe, and goes always next to him. All these cardinals have the repute of princes, and besides other incomes, they have the annat of benefices to supjjort their greatness. For point of power, the pope is able to put 50,000 men in the field, in case of necessity, besides his naval strength in galleys. We read how Paul III. sent Charles V. twelve thousand foot and five hundred horse. Pius V. sent a greater aid to Charles IX.; 256 PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. JAMES HOWELL. and for riches, besides the temporal dominions he hath in all the countries before named, tlie datany or despatching of bulls, the triennial subsidies, annats, and other ecclesiastical rights, mount to an unkno\\ii sum ; and it is a common saying here, that as Ion? as the pope can finger a pen, he can want no pence. Fius v., notwithstanding his expenses in buildings, left four millions in the castle of Saint Angelo in less than five years ; more, I believe, than this Gregory XV. will, for he hath many nephews ; and better it is to be the pope's nephew, than to be a favourite to any prince in Christendom. Touching the temporal government of Rome, and oppidan affairs, there is a pra?tor and some choice citizens, which sit in the Capitol. Amongst other pieces of policy, there is a synagogue of Jews permitted here (as in other places in Italy) under the pope's nose, but they go with a mark of distinction in their hats ; they are tolerated for a-ivantage of commerce, wherein the Jews are wonderful dexterous, though most of them be only brokers and Lombardeers ; and they are held to be here as the cynic held women to be — malum necessariuin. There be few of the Romans that use to pray for the pope's long life, in regard the oftener the change is, the more advantageous it is for the city, because commonly it brings strangers, and a recruit of new people. The air of Rome is not so wholesome a^ of old ; and amongst other reasons, one is, because rf the burning of stubble to fatten their fields. I'or her antiquities, it would take up a whole volume to write them ; those which I hold the chiefest are \'espasiau's amphitheatre, where fourscore thou- sand people might sit ; the stoves of Anthony ; divers rare statues at Belvidere and St Peter's, specially that of Laocoon ; the obelisk ; for the genius of the Roman hath always been much taken with imager^', limning, and sculptures, insomuch that, as in former times, so now 1 believe, the statues and pictures in Rome ex- ceed the number of living people. One antiquity among others is very remarkable, because of the change of language ; which is, an ancient column erected as a tropliy for Duilllus the consul, after a famous naval victoi-y obtained against the Carthagi- nians in the second Punic war, where these words are engraven, and remain legible to this day, ' Exemet leciones Macistrates Castreis exfocient pugnandod caped enque navebos marid consul,' and half a dozen lines more. It is called Columna Rostrata, having the beaks and prows of ships engraven up and down, whereby it appears, that the Latin then spoken was much differing from that which was used in Cicero's time, 150 years after. Since the dismembering of the empire, Rome hath run through many vicissitudes and turns of fortune ; and had it not been for the residence of the pope, I believe she had become a heap of stones, a mount of rubbish, by this time : and how- ever that she bears .up indifferent well, yet one may say — Qui miseranda viJet veteris vestigia Romje, lUe potest nieiito dicere, Roma fuit. ' They who the ruins of first Rome behold, Blay say, Rome is not now, but was of old.* Present Rome may be said to be but a monument of Rome past, when she was in that flourisli that St Austin desired to see her in. She who tamed the world, tamed herself at last, and falling under her own weight, fell to be a prey to time ; yet there is a provi- dence seems to have a care of her still; for though her air be not so good, nor her circumjacent soil so kindly as it was, yet she hath wherewitli to keep life and soul together still, by her ecclesiastical courts, which is the sole cause of her peopling now ; so that it may be said, when the pope came to be her head, she was reduced to her first principles ; for as a shepherd was founder, | so a shepherd is still governor and preserver. But whereas the French have an odd saying, that Jamais chcval ni liomme, S'amenda pour aller a Rome. ' Ne'er horse nor man did mend, That unto Rome did wend ;' truly, I must confess, that I find myself much bet- tered by it ; for the sight of some of these ruins did fill me with symptoms of mortification, and made me more sensible of the frailty of all sublunary things, how all bodies, as well inanimate as animate, are sub- ject to dissolution and change, and everything else under the moon, except the love of — Your faithful ser- vitor — J. H. Rome, September 13, 1621. To Captain Tliomas B. Noble Captain — Yours of the 1st of ]\Iarch was delivered me by Sir Richard Scot, and I hold it no profanation of this Sunday evening, considering the quality of my subject, and having (I thank God for it) performed all churcli duties, to employ some hours to meditate on you, and send you this friendly salute, though I confess in an unusual monitory way. My dear Captain, I love you perfectly well ; I love both your person and parts, Avhich are not vulgar ; I am in love with your disposition, which is generous, and I verily think you were never guilty of any pusillani- mous act in your life. Nor is this love of mine con- ferred upon you gratis, but you may challenge it as your due, and by way of correspondence, in regard of those thousand convincing evidences you have given me of yours to me, which ascertain me that you take me for a true friend. Now, I am of the number of those that had rather commend the virtue of an enemy than soothe the vices of a triend ; for j'our own par- ticular, if your parts of virtue and your infirmities were cast into a balance, I know the first would much outpoise the other ; yet give me leave to tell you that there is one frailty, or ratlier ill-favoured custom, that reigns in you, which weighs much ; it is a humour ol swearing in all your discourses, and they are not slight but deep far-fetched oaths that you are wont to rap out, which you use as flowers of rhetoric to enforce a faith upon the hearers, who believe you never the more ; and you use this in cold blood when you are not pro- voked, which makes the humour far more dangerous. I know many (and I cannot say I myself am free from it, God forgive me), that, being transported with choler, and, as it were, made drunk with passion by some sudden provoking accident, or extreme ill-fortune at play, will let fall oaths and deep protestations ; but to belch out, and send forth, as it were, whole vo.lies of oaths and curses in a caliH humour, to verify every trivial discourse, is a thing of horror. I knew a king that, being crossed in his game, would amongst his oaths fall on the gi'ound, and bite the very earth in the rough of his passion ; I heard of another king (Heiry IV. of France), that in his highest distemper would swear but 'Ventre de Saint Gris,' ['By the belly of St Gris ;'] I heard of an Italian, that, having been much accustomed to blaspheme, was weaned from it by a pretty wile, for, having been one night at play, and lost all his money, after many execrable oaths, and having offered money to another to go out to face heaven and defy God, he threw himself upon a bed hard by, and there fell asleep. The other gamesters played on still, and finding that he was fast asleep, they put out the candles, and made semblance to i)lay on still ; they fell a wrangling, and spoke so loud that he awaked ; he hearing them play on still, fell a rub- bing liis eyes, and his conscience presently prompted him that he was struck blind, and that God's judg- ment had deservedly fallen down upon him for his 2hl 18 FROM 1558 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1642> blasphemies, and so he fell to sigh anS weep pitifully ; a ghostly father was sent for, who undertook to do some act's of penance for hiui, if he would make a vow never to play again or blaspheme, which he did ; and so the candles were lighted again, which he thought were burning all the while ; so he became a perfect convert. I could wish this letter might produce the same effect in you. There is a strong text, that the curse of heaven hangs always over the dwelling of the swearer, and j'ou have more fearful examples of mira- culous judgments in this particular, than of any other sin. There is a little town in Languedoc, in France, that hath a multitude of the pictures of the Virgin Mary up and down ; but she is made to carry Christ in her rif^ht arm, contrary to the ordinary custom, and the reason they told me was this, that two gamesters being at play, and one having lost all his money, and bolted out many blasphemies, he gave a deep oath, that that jade upon the wall, meaning the picture of the blessed Virgin, was the cause of his ill luck; hereupon the child removed imperceptibly from the left arm to the right, and the man fell stark dumb ever after ; thus went the tradition there. This makes me think upon the Lady Southwell's news from Utopia, that he who sweareth when he playeth at dice, may chal- lenge his damnation by way of purchase. This in- fandous custom of swearing, I observe, reigns in Eng- land lately, more than anywhere else ; though a German in his highest puff of passion swear a hun- dred thousand sacraments, the Italian by * * * the French by God's deatli, the Spaniard by his flesh, the Welshman by his sweat, the Irishman by his five wounds, though the Scot commonly bids the devil ha'e his soul, yet, for variety of oaths, the English roarers put do^vn all. Consider well what a dangerous thing it is to tear in pieces that dreadful name, which makes the vast fabric of the world to tremble, that holy name wherein the whole hierarchy of heaven doth triumph, that blissful name, wherein consists the fulness of all felicity. I know this custom in you yet is but a light disposition ; 'tis no habit, I hope ; let me, therefore, conjure j'ou by that power, friend- ship, by that holy league of love which is between us, that you would suppress it, before it come to that ; for 1 must tell you that those who could find it in their hearts to love you for many other things, do disrespect you for this ; they hate your company, and give no credit to whatsoever you sa}", it being one of the pun- ishments of a swearer, as well as of a liar, not to be believed when he speaks truth. Excuse me that I am so free with you ; what I write proceeds from the clear current of a pure affection, and I shall heartily thank you, and take it for an argument of love, if you tell me of my weaknesses, which are (God wot) too, too many ; for my body is but a Cargazon of corrupt humours, and being not able to overcome them all at once, I do endeavour to do it by degrees, like Sertorius his soldier, who, when he could not cut off" the horse's tail at one blow with his sword, fell to pull out the hair one by one. And touching this particular humour from which I dis- suade you, it hath raged in me too often by contingent fits, but I thank God for it, I find it much abated and purged. Now, the only ])hysic I used was a precedent fast, and recourse to the holy sacrament the next dav, of purpose to implore pardon for what had passed, and power for the future to quell those exorbitant motions, those ravings and feverish fits of the soul ; in regard there are no infinuities more dangerous, for at the same instant they have lieing, tliey become im- pieties. And the greatest symptom of amendment I find in me is, because whensoever I hear the holy name of God jslasphemed by any other, it makes my heart to tremble within my breast ; now, it is a i)eui- »ential rule, that if sins present do not please thee, sins past will not hurt thee. All other sins have for their object either pleasure or profit, or some aim or satisfaction to body or mind, but this hath none at all ; therefore fie upon't, my dear Cajitain ; try whether you can make a conquest of yourself in subduing this execrable custom. Alexander subdued the world, CiBs.ar his enemies, Hercules monsters, but he that o'ercomes himself is the true valiant captain. York, Aug. 1, 1628. To the Eight Hon. the Lord Cliffe. My Lord — Since, among other passages of enter- tainment we had lately at the Italian ordinary (where your lordship was pleased to honour us with your jire- sence), there happened a large discourse of wines, and of other drinks that were used by several nations of the earth, and that your lordship desired me to deliver what I obsen-ed therein abroad : I am bold now to confirm and amplify, in this letter, what I then let drop extempore from me, having made a recoUecti'^n of myself for that purpose. It is without controversy, that, in the nonage of the world, men and beasts had but one buttery, which was the fountain and river, nor do we read of anv vines or wines till two hundred years after the flood"; but now I do not know or hear of anj nation that hath water only for their drink, except the Japanese, and they drink it hot too ; but we may say, tliat what beverage soever we make, either by brewin'^, by distillation, decoction, percolation, or pressing, it is but water at first ; nay, wine itself is but water sub- limed, being nothing else but that moisture .and sap, which is caused either by rain or other kind of irriga- tions about the roots of the vine, and drawii up to the bi-anches and berries by the virtual attractive heat of the sun, the bowels of the earth serving as a leaibic to that end, which made the Italian vineyard-man (after a long drought, and an extreme hot summer, which had parched up all his grapes) to con)])l;iin that — ' per mancamento d'acco bevo del' accqua ; se io bavessi accqua, beveriel vino' — [' for want of water I am forced to drink water ; if I had water, I would drink wine'] ; it may also be applied to the miller, when he has no water to drive his mills. The vine doth so abhor cold, that it cannot gmw beyond the 49th degree to any purpose ; therefore God and nature hath furnished the north-west nations with other inventions of beverage. In this island the old drink was ale, noble ale, than which, as 1 heard a great foreign doctor afiirm, there is no liquor that more in- creascth the radical moisture, and preserves the natu- ral heat, which are the two pillars that support the life of man. But since beer hath hupped in amongst us, aie is thought to be much adulterated, and nothing so go.^d as Sir .John Oldcastle and Smugg the smith was u>ed to drink. Besides ale and beer, the natural driiik of part of this isle may be said to be metheglin, brag;>iit, and mead, which differ in strength according to tlie three degrees of comparison. The first of the three, which is strong in the superlative, if taken immoiit r- ately, doth stupify more than any other liquor, and keeps a humming in the brain, which made one say, that he loved not metheglin, because he was used to speak too much of the house he came from, meaning the liive. Cider and perry are also the natural drinks of parts of this isle. But I have read in some old authors of a famous drink the ancient nation of the Picts, who lived 'twixt Trent and Tweed, and were utterly extinguished by the overpowering of the Scot, were used to make of decoction of flowers, tlie receipt whereof they kept as a secret, and a tiling sacred to themselves, so it perished with them. These are all the common drinks of this isle, and of Ireland also, where they are more given to milk and strong waters of all colours ; the prime is usquebagh, which cannot 258 PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. JAMES HOWELt. be made anpvhere in that iierfcction, and whereas we drink it here in aqua vitas measures, it goes down there by beer-glassfuls, being more natural to the nation. In the Seventeen Provinces hard by, and all Low Germany, beer is the common natural drink, and nothing else ; so is it in Westphalia, and all the lower circuit of Saxony ; in Denmark, Swethland, and Nor- way. The Pruss hath a beer as thick as honey ; in the Duke of Saxe's country, there is beer as yellow as gold, made of wheat, and it inebriates as soon as sack. In some parts of Germany they use to spice their beer, which will keep many years ; so that at some wed- dings there will be a butt of beer drunk out as old as the bride. Poland also is a beer country ; but in Russia, ^luscovy, and Tartar}', they use mead, which is the naturalest drink of the country, being made of the decoction of water and honey ; this is that which the ancients called hydromel. glare's milk is a great drink with the Tartar, which may be a cause why they are bigger than ordinar\', for the physicians hold, that milk enlargeth the bones, beer strengtheneth the nerves, and \vine breeds blood sooner than any other liquor. The Turk, when he hath his stomach full of pilau, or of mutton and rice, will go to nature's cel- lar, either to the next well or river to drink water, which is his natural common drink ; for JSIahomet taught them that there was a devil in every berry of the gi-ape, and so made a strict inhibition to all his sect from drinking of wine as a thing profane ; he had also a reach of policy therein, because they should not be encumbered with luggage when they went to war, as other nations do, who are so troubled with the car- riage of their wine and beverages. Yet hath the Turk peculiar drinks to himself besides, as sherbet made of juice of lemon, sugar, amber, and other ingredients ; he hath also a drink called Cauphe,* which is made of a bro^vn berrj', and it may be called their clubbing drink between meals, which, though it be not very gustful to the palate, yet it is very comfortable to the stomach, and good for the sight ; but notwithstanding their prophet's anathema, thousands of them will ven- ture to drink wine, and they will make a precedent prayer to their souls to depart from their bodies in the interim, for fear she partake of the same pollution. * * In Asia, there is no beer drunk at all, but water, wine, and an incredible variety of other drinks, made of dates, dried raisins, rice, divers sorts of nuts, fruits, and roots. In the oriental countries, as Camhaia, Calicut, Narsingha, there is a drink called Banque, which is rare and precious, and 'tis the height of en- tertainment they give their guests before they go to sleep, like that nepenthe which the poets speak so much of, for it provokes pleasing dreams and delightful fantasies ; it will accommodate itself to the humour of the sleeper ; as, if he be a soldier, he will dream of victories and taking of towns ; if he be in love, he will think to enjoy his mistress ; if he be covetous, he will dream of mountains of gold, &c. In the Molucca and Philippines there is a curious drink called Tampoy, made of a kind of gillyflowers, and another drink called Otraqua, that comes from a nut, and it is the more general drink. In China, they have a holy kind of liquor made of such sort of flowers for ratifying and binding of bargains, and having drunk thereof, they hold it no less than perjury to break what they promise ; as they write of a river of Bythinia, whose water hath a peculiar virtue to discover a per- jurer, for, if he drink thereof, it will presently boil in his stomach, and put him to visible tortures ; this makes me think of the river Styx among the poets, which the gods were used to swear by, and it was the greatest oath for the performance of anything. Nubila promissi Styx niihi testis erit. It put me in mind, also, of that which some write of * i. e. Coffee. the river of Rhine, for trying the legitimation of a child being thrown in — if he be a bastard, he will sink ; if otherwise, he will not. In China, they speak of a tree called Magnais, which affords not only good drink, being pierced, but all things else that belong to the subsistence of man ; they bore the trunk with an auger, and there issucth out sweet potable liquor ; 'twixt the rind and the tree there is a cotton, or hempie kind of moss, which they wear for their clothing : it bears huge nuts, which have ex- cellent food in them : it shoots out hard prickles above a fathom long, and those ann them : with the bark they make tents, and the dotard trees scne for firing. Africa also hath a great diversity of drinks, as having more need of them, being a hotter country far. In Guinea, of the lower Ethiopia, there is a famous drink called ^lingol, which issueth out of a tree much like the palm, being bored. But in the upper Ethiopia, or the Habassins' country, they drink mead, concocted in a different manner ; there is also much wine there. The common drink of Barbary, after water, is that which is made of dates. But in Egypt, in times past, there was beer drunk called Zicus in Latin, which was no other than a decoction of barley and water : they had also a famous composition (and they use it to this day) called Chissi, made of divers cordials and provo- cative ingredients, which they throw into water to make it gustful ; they use it also for fumigation. But now the general drink of Egypt is Nile water, which of all water may be said to be the best ; * * 'tis yellow- ish and thick ; but if one cast a few almonds into a potful of it, it will become as clear as rock-water ; it is also in a degree of lukewarmness — as Martial's boy : Tolle puer calices, tepidique toreumata Nili. In the New World they have a world of drinks, for there is no root, flower, fruit, or pulse, but is reducible to a potable liquor ; as in the Barbadoe Island, the common drink among the English is mobbi, made of potato roots. In ^lexico and Peru, which is the great continent of America, with other parts, it is prohibited to make wines, under great penalties, for fear of starring of trade, so that all the wines they have are sent from Spain. Now for the pure wine countries. Greece, with all her islands, Italy, Spain, France, one part of four of Germany, Hungary, with divers countries thereabouts, all the islands in the ^Mediterranean and Atlantic sea, are wine countries. The most generous wines of Spain grow in the mid- land parts of the continent, and Saint Martin bears the bell, which is near the court. Now as in Spain, so in all other wine countries, one cannot pass a day's journey but he will find a differing race of wine ; those kinds that our merchants carry over are those onlj' that grow upon the sea-side, as malagas, sherries, tents, and alicants : of this last there's little comes over right ; therefore the vintners make tent (which is a name for all wines in Spain, except white) to supply the place of it. There is a gentle kind of white wine grows among the mountains of (iallicia, but not of body enough to bear the sea, called Ribadavia. Por- tugal affords no wines worth the transporting.* They have an old stone they call Yef, which they use to throw into their wines, which clarifieth it, and makes it more lasting. There's also a drink in Spain called Alosha, which they drink between meals inhotweather, and 'tis a hydromel made of water and honey ; much of them take of our mead. In the court of Spain there's a German or two that brow beer ; Init for that ancient drink of Spain which Pliny speaks of, composed of flowers, the receipt thereof is utterly lost. * This will sound stranpely in these days, when the wine chiefly drunk in England is of Portupuesc extrae true, surely I more English go to heaven this way tlian any other ; for I think there's more Canary brought into England than to all the world besides. I think, also, there is a hundred times more drunk under the name of Canary wine than there is brought in ; for sherries and ma- lagas, well mingled, pass for canaries in most taverns, more often than Canary itself; else I do not see how 'twere possible for the vintner to save by it, or to live by his calling, unless he were permitted sometimes to be a brewer. When sacks and canaries were brouglit in first among us, they were used to be drunk in aqua vitjB measures, and 'twas held fit only for those to drink who were used to carry their legs in their hands, their eyes upon their noses, and an almanac in tlieir bones ; but now they go down every one's throat, both young and old, like milk. The countries that are freest from excess of drink- ing are Spain and Italy. If a woman can prove her husband to have been thrice drunk, by the ancient laws of Spain she may plead for a divorce from him. Nor indeed can the Spaniard, being hot-brained, bear much drink, yet I have heard that Gondamar was once too hard for the king of Denmark, when he was here in England. But the Spanish soldiers that have been in the wars of Flanders will take their cups freely, and the Italians also. When I lived 'tother side the Alps, a gentleman told me a merry tale of a Ligurian soldier, who had got drunk in Genoa ; and Prince Doria going a-horseback to walk the round one night, the soldier took his horse by the bridle, and asked what tlie price of him was, for lie wanted a horse. The prince, seeing in what humour he was, caused him to be taken into a house and put to sleep. In the morning he sent for him, and asked him what he would give for his horse. ' Sir,' said the recovered soldier, ' the mercliant that would have bought him last ni;,lit of your highness, went away betimes in the morning.' The boonest companions for drinking are the Greeks and Germans ; but the Greek is the mer- riest of the two, for he will sing, and dance, and kiss his next companions ; but the other will drink as deep as he. If the Greek will drink as many glasses as there be letters in his mistress's name, the otlier will drink the number of his years ; and though he be not apt to break out in singing, being not of so airy a constitution, yet he will drink often musically a health to every one of these six notes, ut, re, mi, fa, sol, la ; which, with this reason, are all comprehended in this hexameter : — TJt rellvet miserum fatum solitosque labores. The fewest draughts he drinks are three — the first to quench the thirst past, the second to quench the pre- sent thirst, the third to prevent the future. I heard of a company of Low Dutelimen that had drunk so deep, that, beginning to stagger, and their heads turn- ing round, they thought verily they were at sea, and that the upper chamber where they were was a ship, insomuch that, it being foul windy weather, they fell to throw the stools and other things out of the window, to lighten the vessel, for fear of suffering shipwreck. Thus have I sent your lordship a dry discourse upon s, fluent subject; yet I hope your lordshij) will please to take all in good i)art, because it proceeds from your most humble and ready servitor, .J. II. Wcatmin. 7. Octob. 1634. From ai.other of Howell's works, entitled Tnstruc- tiovsforForen/nTravel, published in 104:2, and which, like ills letters, contains many acute and liuniorous observations on men and things, we extract the fol- lowing passage on the [Tales of Travellers.'] Others have a custom to be always relating strange things and wonders (of the humour of Sir John Man- 2 fid PROSE WIIITEIUS. EiNGLisH liti:rail:uk. WILLIAM CAMDEN. deville), and they usually present them to the hearers through inultiplyiiig-glasses, and thereby cause the thing to appear far greater than it is in itself; they make mountains of mole-hill?, like Charenton-Bridge- Echo, which doubles the sound nine times. Such a traveller was he that reported the Indian fly to be as big as a fox ; China birds to be as big as some horses, and their mice to be as big as monkeys ; but they have the wit to fetch this far enough off, because the hearer ma}- rather believe it than make a voyage so far to disprove it. Every one knows the tale of him who reported he had seen a cabbage, under whose leaves a regiment of soldiers were sheltered from a shower of rain. Another, who was no traveller (yet the wiser man), said, he had passed bj' a place where there were 400 braziers making of a cauldron — 200 within, and 200 without, beating the nails in ; the traveller asking for what use that huge cauldron was? he told him — 'Sir, it was to boil your cabbage.' Such another was the Spanish traveller, who was so habituated to hA'perbolise, and relate wonders, that he became ridiculous in all companies, so that he was forced at last to give order to his man, when he fell into any excess this way, and report anything impro- bable, he should pull him by the sleeve. The master falling into his wonted hyperboles, spoke of a church in China that was ten thousand j-ards long ; his man, standing behind, and pulling liim by the sleeve, made him stop suddenly. The company' ask- ing, ' I pray, sir, how broad might that chi.rch be?' he replied, ' But a yard broad, and you may thank my man for pulling me by the sleeve, el*' I had made it foursquare for you.' SIR TH03IAS HERBERT. The only other traveller of much note at this time vas Sir Thojias Herbert, who in 1626 set out on .1 journey to the east, and, after his return, pub- lished, in 1634, ^4 Relation of some Years' Travels into Africa and the Greater Asia, especialli/ the Ter- ritory of the Persian Monarchy, and some parts of the Oriental Indies and Isles adjacent. According to the judgment of the author of the Catalogue in Churchiirs Collection, these travels ' have de- servedly had a great reputation, being tlie best account of those parts written [before the end of the seventeenth century] by any Englishman, and not inferior to the best of foreigners ; what is peculiar in them is, the excellent description of all antiquities, the curious remarks on them, and the extraordinary accidents that often occur.'* This eulogy seems too high ; at least we have found the author's accounts of the places which he visited far too meagre to be relished by modern taste. A brief extract from the work is given below. In the civil ■wars of England, Herbert sided with the parliament, and, when the king was required to dismiss his own servants, was chosen by his majesty one of the grooms of the bed-chamber. Herbert then became much attached to the king, served him with much zeal and assiduity, and was on the scaffold when the ill-fated monarch was brought to the block. After the Restoration, he was rewarded by Charles H. with a baronetcy, and subsequently devoted much time to literary pursuits. In 1678 he wrote Thren- odia Carolina, containing an Historical Account if the Two Last Years of the Life of King Charles I. This was reprinted in a collection of ' Memoirs of the Two Last Years of that Unparalleled Prince, of Ever- blessed Memory, King Charles I.,' pubUshedin 1702. Sir Thomas Herbert died in 1682. * Vol. i. p. 21. \_DLiseription of !^t Helena.'^ St Helena was so denominated by Juan de Nova, the Portugal, in regard he first discovered it on that saint's day. It is doubtful whether it adhere to America or Afric, the vast ocean bellowing on both sides, and almost equally ', yet I imagine she in- clines more to Afer than Vespusius. 'Tis in circuit thirty English miles, of that ascent and height that 'tis often enveloped with clouds, from whom she receives moisture to fatten her ; and as the land is very high, so the sea at the brink of this isle is excessive deep, and the ascent so immediate, that tliougli tlie sea beat fiercely on her, yet can no ebb nor flow be well perceived there. The water is sweet above, but, running down and participating with the salt hills, tastes brackish at his fall into the valleys, which are but two, and those wcry small, having their appellations from a lemon-tree above, and a ruined chapel placed beneath, built by the Spaniard, and dilapidated by the Dutch. Thc'.e has been a village about it, lately depopulated ''njin her inhabitants by command from the Spanish king; for that it became an unlawful magazine of seamen's treasure, in turning and returning out of both the Indies, whereby he lost both tribute and prerogative in apparent measure. Monuments of antique beings nor other rarities can be found here. You see all, if you view the ribs of an old carrick, and some broken pieces of her ord- nance left there against the owner's good will or ap- probation. Goats and hogs are the now dwellers, who nniltiplyin great abundance,'and (though unwillingly) artbrd themselves to hungry and sea-beaten passengers. It has store of patridge and guinea-hens, all which were brought thither by the honest Portugal, who now dare neither anchor there, nor own their labours, lest the English or Flemings question them. The isle is very even and delightful above, and gives a large prospect into the ocean. 'Tis a saying with the seamen, a man there has his choice, whetlier he will break his heart going up, or his neck coining dovnx • either wish bestowing more jocundity than comfort. WILLIAM CAMDEX. We now turn to a circle of laborious writers, w..o exerted themselves in the age of Elizabeth to dis- cover and jireserve the remains of antiquity which had come down to their times. Among these, tlie leading place is unquestionably clue to \Villiam Camden, who, besides being eminent as an antiquary, claims to be considered likewise as one of the best historians of his age. Camden was born in London in l.'j.'jl, and received his education first at Clirist's hospital and St Paul's school, and afterwards at Oxford. In 157.5 he l)ecame second master of West- minster school; and while performing the duties of this office, devoted his leisure hours to the study of the antiquities of Britain — a subject to which, from his earliest years, he had been strongly inclined. That he might personally examine ancient remains, he travelled, in 1582, through some of the eastern and northern counties of England ; and the fruits of his researches appeared in his most celebrated work, written in Latin, with a title signifying. Ihilain; or a Chorographical Description of the Most Flourishing Kingdom of Ungland, Scotland, Ireland, and the Adja- cent Islands, from Remote Antiquity. This was pub- lished in 1586, and immediately brought liim into high repute as an antiquary and man of learning. Anxious to improve and enlarge it, he joiirnied at several times into different parts of the country, examining archives and relics of antiiinity, and col- lecting, with indefatigable industry, whatever iiifor- 261 FROM 1558 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 164^. mation niiglit contribute to render it more complete. The sixth edition, published in 1607, was that which received his finishing touches ; and of this an Eng- /lVi^(^^^y^ Cy"^ lish translation, executed, probably with the author's assistance, by Dr Philemon Holland, appeared in 1610. From the preftice to that translation we extract the account which Camden gives of his labours : — I hope it shall be no discredit if I now use again, by way of preface, the same words, with a few more, that I used twenty-four years since in the tirst edi- tion of this work. Abraham Ortelius, the worthv restorer of ancient geography, arriving here in Eng- land about thirty -four years past, dealt earnestly with me that I would illustrate this isle of Britain, or, as he said, that I would restore antiquity to Bri- tain, and Britain to antiquity ; which was (I under- stood), that I would renew ancientn,-, enlighten ob- scurity, clear doubts, and recall horue verity, by way of recovery, which the negligence of writers", and cre'- dulity of the common sort.'had in a manner proscribed and utterly banished from among us. A painful matter, I assure you, and more than difficult ; wherein what toil is to be taken, as no man thinketh, so no man believcth but he who hath made the trial. Never- theless, how much the difficulty discouraged me from it, so much the glory of my country encouraged me to undertake it. So, while at one and the same time I was fearful to undergo the burden, and yet desirous to do some senice to my country, I found two diffe- rent affections, fear and boldness, I know not how, conjoined in one. Notwithstanding, by the most gracious direction of the Almighty, taking industry for my consort, I adventured upon it ; and, with all my study, care, cogitation, continual meditation, jiain, and travail, I employed myself thereunto when I had any spare time. I made search after the ety- mology of Britain and the firs^^nhabitants timorously ; neither in so doubtful a matter have I affirmed ought confidently. For I am not ignorant that the first originals of nations are obscure, by reason of their profound antiquity, as things which are seen very deep and far remote ; like as the coui-ses, the reaches, the coiiduences, and the outlets of great rivers are well-known, yet their first fountains and heads lie commonly unknown. I have succinctly run over the Romans' government in Britain, and the inundation of foreign people thereinto, what they were, and from whence they came. I have traced out the ancient divisions of these kingdoms ; I have summarily speci- fied the states and judicial courts of the same. Iii the several counties, I have compendiously set Aovra the limits (and yet not exactly by perch and pole, to breed questions), what is the nature of the soil, which were pLaces of the greatest antiquity, who have been dukes, marquesses, earls, viscounts, barons, and some of the most signal and ancient families therein (for who can particulate all ?) What I have performed, I leave to men of judgment. But time, the most sound and sincere witness, will give the truest infor- mation, when envy (which persecuteth the living) shall have her mouth stopped. Thus much give me leave to say — that I have in no wise neglected such things as are material to search and sift out the truth. I have attained to some skill of the most ancient British and Saxon tongues. I have travelled over all England for the most part ; I have conferred with most skilful observers in each country ; I have stu- diously read over our own country writers (old and new), all Greek and Latin authors which have once made mention of Britain ; I have liad conference with learned men in the other parts of Christendom ; I have been diligent in the records of this realm ; I have looked into most libraries, registers, and memo- rials of churches, cities, and cor{)orations ; I have pored over many an old roll and evidence, and pro- duced their testimony (as beyond all exception) when the cause required, in their very own words (although barbarous they be), that the honour of verity might in no wise be impeached. For all this I may be censured as unadvised, and scant modest, who, being but of the lowest form in the school of antiquity, where I might well have lurked in obscurity, have adventured as a scribbler upon the stage in this learned age, amidst the dlvei-sities of re« lishes both in wit and judgment. But to tell the truth unfeignedly, the love of my country, which conipriseth all love in it, and hath endeared me to it, the glory of the British name, the advice of some judicious friends, hath over-mastered my modesty, and (will'd I, nill'd I) hath enforced me, against mine own judg- ment, to undergo this burden too heavy for me, and so thrust me forth into the world's view. For I see judgments, prejudices, censures, aspersions, obstruc- tions, detractions, affronts, and confronts, as it were, in battle array to environ me on every side ; some there are which wholly contemn and avile this study of antiquity as a back-looking curiosity ; whose autho- rity, as I do not utterly vilify, so I do not over-prize or admire their judgment. Neither am 1 destitute of reason whereby I might approve this my purpose to well-bred and well-meaning meii, which tender the glory of their native country ; and, moreover, could give them to understand that, in the study of antiquity (which is always accompanied with dignity, and hath a certain resemblance with eternity), there is a sweet food of the mind well befitting such as are of honest and noble disposition. If any there be which are desirous to be strangers in their own soil, and foreigners in their own city, they may so continue, and therein flatter themselves. For such like I have not written these lines, nor taken these pains. The ' Britannia' has gone through many subse- quent editions, and has proved so useful a repository of antiquarian and topographical knowledge, that it has been styled by Bishop Nicolsou ' the common 262 FROSE WRITEUS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. SAMUEL DANIEL. sun, whereat our modern writers have all lij^lited their little torclies.' The last edition is that of 1789, in two volumes folio, largely augmented by I>Ir Gough. In 1593 Camden became head master of 'West- minster school, and, for the use of his pupils, pub- lished a Greek grammar in 1597. In the same year, however, his connexion with that seminary came to an end, on his receiving the appointment of Claren- cieux king-of-arms, an oflBce which allowed him more leisure for his favourite pursuits. The prin- cipal works which he subsequently published are, I. An Account of the jSIonuments and Inscriptions in Westminster Abbey; 2. A Collection of Ancient English Historians ; 3. A Latin JVarrative of the Gunpowder Plot, drawn up at the desire of James YI. ; and, 4. Annals of the Reign of Queen Elizabeth, also in Latin. The last of these works is praised by Hume as good composition, with respect both to style and matter, and as being ' written with simplicity of expression, very rare in that age, and with a regard to truth.' It is, however, generally considered as too favour- able to EUzabeth ; and Dr Robertson characterises the account of Scottish affairs under Queen JIary as less accurate than any other. Camden died un- married in 1623, at the age of seventy-two, and was interred in Westminster Abbey. Not long before his death, he foxmded and endowed a history lecture at Oxford. BIB HENRY SPELMAN — SIR ROBERT COTTON — JOHN SPEED — SAMUEL DANIEL. Sir Henry Spelman, a man of similar tastes, and who was intimate with Camden, was bom in 1562 at Congham, in Norfolk, of which county ht»was high-sheriff in 1604. His works are almost all upon legal ar.d ecclesiastical antiquities. Hav- ing, in the coujse of his investigations, found it necessary to study the Saxon language, he em- bodied the fruits of his labour in his great work called Glossarittm Archwologicum, the object of which is the explanation of obsolete words occurring in the laws of England. Another of his produc- tions is A History of the English Conncih, pub- lished partly in 1639, and partly after his death, which took place in 1641. The writings of this author have furnished valuable materials to English liistorians, and he is considered as the restorer of Saxon literature, both by means of his own studies, and by founding a Saxon professorship at Cam- bridge. Sir Robert Cotton (1570-1631) is cele- brated as an industrious collector of records, chart- ers, and writings of every kind relative to the an- cient history of England. In the prosecution of his object he enjoyed unusual facilities, the recent sup- pression of monasteries having thrown many valuable books and written documents into private hands. In 1600, he accompanied his friend Camden on an excursion to Carlisle, for the purpose of examining the Eicts' wall and other relics of former times. It was principally on his suggestion that James I. re- sorted to the scheme of creating baronets, as a means of supplying the treasury ; and he himself was one of those who purchased the distinction. Sir Robert Cotton was the author of various historical, political, and antiquarian works, which are now of little in- terest, except to men of kindred tastes. His name is remembered chiefly for the benefit which he conferred upon literature, by saving his valuable library of manuscripts from dispersion. After Ixjing considerably augmented by his son and grandson, it became, in 1706, the property of tiie public, and in 1757 was deposited in the British Museum. One hundred and eleven of the manuscripts, many of them higlily valuable, had before tliis time been un- f)rtunately destroyed by fire. Erom those which remain, historians still continue to extract large stores of inforiiiation. During his lifetime, materials were drawn from his library by Raleigh, Bacon, Selden, and Herbert; and he furnished literary assistance to many contemporary authors. Besides aiding Camden in the compilation of the ' Britannia,' he materially assisted John Speed (1552-1629), by revising, correcting, and adding to a Hidory of Great Brituin, published by that writer in 1614. Speed was indebted also to Spelman and others for contributions. He is characterised by Bishop Nicol- son as ' a person of extraordinary industry and at- tainments in the study of antiquities.' Being a tailor by trade, he enjoyed few advantages from educa- tion ; yet his history is a highly creditable perform- ance, and was long the best in existence. He was the first to reject the fables of preceding chroniclers concerning the origin of the Britons, and to exercise a just discrimination in the selection of autliorities. His history commences with the original inhabitants of the island, and extends to the union of England and Scotland under King James, to wluim the work is dedicated. In 1606 he published maps of Great Britain and Ireland, witli the English sliires, hun- dreds, cities, and shire-towns This collection was superior to any other that had appeared. Samuel Daniel (1562-1619), wlio has already been men- tioned as a poet, distinguished himself also as a writer of prose. Besides A Defence of Ithjme, pub- lished in 1611, he composed A History of England, of which only the first and second parts, extending from the Norman Conquest to the end of the reign of Edward III., were comjileted by himself. Of these, the first appeared in 1613, and the second about five years later. Being a judicious and tasteful per- formance, and written in a clear, simple, and agree- able style, the work became very popular, and soon passed tlirough several editions. It was continued in an inferior manner to the death of Richard III., by John Trussel, an alderman of Winchester. Like Speed, Daniel was cautious in giving credit to nar- ratives of remote events, as will appear from his remarks, here subjoined, on the [Uncertainty of the Early History of Nations."] Undertaking to collect the principal affairs of this kingdom, I had a desire to have deduced the same from the beginning of the first British kings, as they are registered in their catalogue ; but finding no authentical warrant how they came there, I did put off that desire with these considerations : That a lesser part of time, .and better known (which was from 'William I., surnamed the Bastard), was more than enough for my ability ; and how it was but our curiosity to search further back into times pa,st than we might discern, and whereof we could neither have proof nor profit ; how the begiiniings of all people and states were as uncertain as the heads of great rivers, and could not add to our virtue, and, peradventure, little to our reputation to know them, considering how commoidy they rise from the springs of poverty, piracy, robbery, and violence ; howsoever fabulous writers (to glorify their nations) strive to abuse the credulity of after-ages with heroical or miraculous bcginninlum-]irrridi:e. When he writes, he commonly steers the sense of liis lines by the rhyme that is at the end of them, as butchers do calves by the tail. For when he has made one line, which is easy enough, and has found out some sturdy hard word that will but rhyme, he will hammer the sense upon it, like a piece of hot iron upon an anvil, into what form he pleases. There is no art in the world so rich in terms as poetry ; a whole dictionary is scarce able to contain them ; for there is hardly a pond, a sheep-walk, or a gravel-pit in all Greece, but the ancient name of it is become a term of art in poetry. By this means, small poets have such a stock of able hard words lying by them, as drj'ades, hamadryades, aouides, fauni, nymphoa, sylvani, &;c., that signify nothing at all ; and such a world of pedantic terms of the same kind, as may serve to furnish all the new inventions and 'thorough reformations' thai nn happen between this and Plato's great year. A Yinlncr Hangs out his bush to show he has not good wine ; for that, the proverb says, needs it not. He had rather sell bad wine than good, that stands him in no more ; for it makes men sooner drunk, and then they are the easier over-reckoned. By the knaveries he acts above-board, which every man sees, one may easily take a measure of those he does under-ground in his cellar ; for he that will pick a man's pocket to his face, will not stick to use him worse in private, when he knows nothing of it. He does not only spoil and destroy his wines, but an ancient reverend pro- verb, with brewing and racking, that says, ' In vino Veritas ;' for there is no truth in his, but all false and sophisticated ; for he can counterfeit wine as cun- ningly as Apelles did grapes, and cheat men with it, as he did birds. He is an Antichristian cheat, for Christ turned water into wine, and he turns wine into water. He scores all hia reckonings upon two tables, made like those of the Ten Commandments, that he may be put in mind to break them as oft as possibly he can ; especially that of stealing and bearing false witness against his neighbour, when he draws him bad wine, and swears it is good, and that he can take more for the pipe than the wine will yield him by the bottle — a trick that a Jesuit taught him to cheat his own conscience with. When he is found to over- reckon notoriously, he has one common evasion for all, and that is, to say it was a mistake ; by which he means, that he thought they had not been sober enough to discover it ; for if it had passed, there had been no error at all in the case. A Prater Is a common nuisance, and as great a grievance to those that come near him, as a pewterer is to his neighbours. His discourse is like the braying of a mortar, the more impertinent, tlie more voluble and loud, as a pestle makes more noise when it is rung on the sides of a mortar, than when it stamps down- right, and hits upon the business. A dog that opens upon a wrong scent will do it oftener than one that never opens but upon a right. He is as long-winded as a ventiduct, that fills as fast as it empties ; or a trade- wind, that blows one way for half a year together, and another as long, as if it drew in its breath for six months, and blew it out again for six more. He has no mercy on any man's ears or patience that he can get within his sphere of activity, but tortures him, as they correct bovs in Scotland, by stretching their lugs without remorse. He is like an ear- wig, when be gets withir. a man's car, he is not easily to be got cut again. He is a siren to himself, and has no way to escape shipwreck but by having his mouth stopped instead of his ears. He plays with his tongue as a cat does with her tail, and is transported with the delight he gives himself of liis own making. An Antiquanj Is one that has his being in this age, but his life and conversation is in the days of old. He despises the present age as an innovation, and sliglits the future ; but has a great value for that which is past and gone, like the madman that fell in love with Cleopatra. All his curiosities take place of one another accord- ing to their seniority, and he values them not by their abilities, but their standing. He has a gr. jit veneration for words that are stricken in ycar.t, jind are grown so aged that the}' have outlived their em- ployments. These he uses with a respect agrer;ilile to their antiquity, and the good services tlicy Iv.ve done. He is a great time-server, but it is of time cut of mind to which he conforms exactly, but is wliolly retired from the present. His days were spent iuid gone long before he came into the world ; and since, his only business is to collect what he can out of the ruins of them. He has so strong a natural atfcction to anything that is old, that he may truly say to dust and worms, 'you are my father,' and to rotten- ness, 'thou art my mother.' lie has no j>rovidence nor foresight, for all his contemplations look back- ward upon the days of old, and his brains arc turned with them, as if he walked backwards. He values things wrongfully upon their antiquity, forgetting that the most modern are really the most ancient of all things in the world, like those that reckon their pounds before their shillings and pience, of which they are made up. He esteems no customs but such as have outlived themselves, and are long since out of use ; as the Catholics allow of no saints but such as are dead, and the i'anatics, in opposition, of none but the living. WALTER CHARLETON. Another lively deseriber of human character, who flourished in this period, was Dr Walter Charle- TO\ (1619-1707), physician to Charles II.. a friend of Ilobbes, and for sevcnd years president of the College of Physicians in London. He wrote many works on theology, natural history, natnnil piiilosopliy, medicine, and antiquities; in which last department his most noted production is a treatise published in 1663, maintaining the Danish origin of Stone- henge on Salisbury Plain, in opposition to Inigc Jones, wlio attributed tliat remarkable structure to the Romans. The work, however, which seems to deserve more particularly our attention in this jilace is, A Brief Discourse cvnccrning the Different Witi of Men, published by l)r Charleton in 1675. It is interesting, both on account of the lively and accu- rate sketelies of character which it contains, and because the author, like a sect whose opinions have lately attracted much notice, attributes the varieties of talent wliich are found among men to differences in the form, size, and quality of their brains.* Wc shall give two of his happiest sketches. The Ready and Nimble Wit. Such as are endowed wherewith have a certain ox- temporarv acutcness of conceit, accompanied with a quick delivery of their thoughts, so as they can at ♦ Bee Plirenologic;U Journal, vii. S97. 409 FSOM 1649 CYCLOPiEDIA O*' TO 1689. pleasure entertain their auditors with facetious pas- Bages ana fluent discourses even upon slight occasions ; bu^t being generally impatient of second thoughts and deliberations, they seem fitter for pleasant colloquies and drollery than for counsel and design ; like fly- boats, good only in fair weather and shallow waters, and then, too, more for pleasure than traffic. If they be, as for the most p.art they are, narrow in the hold, and destitute of ballast sufficient to counterpoise their Jiirge sails, they reel with every blast of argu- ment, and are often driven upon the sands of a ' non- plus ;' but where favoured with the breath of common applause, they sail smoothly and proudly, and, like the city pageants, discharge whole volleys of squibs and cr.ackers, and skirmish most furiously. But take them from their familiar and private conversation into grave and severe assemblies, whence all extem- porary flashes of wit, all fantastic allusions, all per- sonal reflections, are excluded, and there engage them in an encounter witli solid wisdom, not in light skirmishes, but a pitched field of long and serious debate concerning any important question, and then you shall soon discover their weakness, and contenm that barrenness of understanding which is incapable of struggling with the difficulties of apodictical know- ledge, and the deduction of truth from a long series of reasons. Again, if those very concise sayings and lucky repartees, wherein they are so happy, and which at first hearing were entertained with so much of pleasure and admiration, be written down, and brought to a strict examination of their pertinency, coherence, and verity, how shallow, how frothy, how forced will they be found ! how much will they lose of that applause, which their tickling of the ear and present flight through the imagination had gained ! In the greatest part, therefore, of such men, you ought to expect no deep or continued river of wit, but only a few plashes, and those, too, not altogether free from mud and putrefaction. The Slow hut Sure Wit. Some heads there are of a certain close and reserved constitution, which makes them at first sight to pro- mise as little of the virtue wherewith they are en- dowed, as the former appear to be above the imper- fections to which they are subject. Somewhat slow they are, indeed, of both conception and expression ; yet no whit the less provided with solid prudence. When they are engaged to speak, their tongue doth not readily interpret the dictates of their mind, so that their langu.ige comes, as it were, dropping from their lips, even where they are encouraged by familiar intreaties, or provoked by the smartness of jests, which sudden and nimble wits have newly darted at them. Costive they are also in invention ; so that when they would deliver somewhat solid and re- markable, they are long in seeking what is fit, and as long in determining in what manner and words to utter it. But, after a little consideration, they pene- trate deeply into the substance of things and marrow of business, and conceive proper and emphatic words by which to express their sentiments. Barren they are not, but a little heavy and retentive. Their gifts lie deep and concealed ; but being furnished with notions, not airy and umbratil ones borrowed from the pedantism of the schools, but true and useful — and if they have been manured with good learning, and the habit of exercising their pen — oftentimes they produce many excellent conceptions, worthy to be transmitted to posterity. Having, however, an aspect very like to narrow and dull capacities, at first sight most men take them to be really such, and strangers look upon them with the eyes of neglect and contempt. Hence it comes, that excellent parts remaining unknown, irfilen want the favour and patronage of great persons, whereby they might be redeemed from obscurity, and raised to employments answerable to their faculties, and crowned with honours proportionate to their merits. The best course, therefore, for these to over- come that eclipse which prejudice usually brings upon them, is to contend against their own modesty, and either, by frequent converse with noble and discern- ing spirits, to enlarge the windows of their minds, and dispel those clouds of reservedness that darken the lustre of their faculties ; or by writing on some new and useful subject, to lay open their talent, so that the world may be convinced of their intrinsic value. In 1670 Dr Charleton published a vigorous trans- lation of Epicurus's ' jNIorals,' prefaced by an earnest vindication of that philosopher. We extract one of the chapters, as a specimen of the style in which the ancient classics were ' faithfully EngUshed' in the middle of the seventeenth century. Of Modesty, opposed to Amhltiop.. Concerning this great virtue, which is the fourth branch of temperance, there is very little need of say- ing more than what we have formerly intimated, when we declared it not to be the part of a wise man to afl^ect greatness, or power, or honours in a cf mmonwealth ; but so to contain himself, as rather tr live not only privately, but even obscurely and concealed in some secure comer. And therefore the advice we shall chiefly inculcate in this place shall be the very same we usually give to our best friends. Live private and concealed (unless some circumstance of state call you forth to the assistance of the public), insomuch as ex- perience frequently confirms the truth of that prover- bial saying, ' lie hath well lived who hath well con- cealed himself.' Certainly, it hath been too familiarly observed, that many, who had mounted up to the highest pinnacle of honour, have been on a sudden, and, as it were, with a thunderbolt, thrown down to the bottom of misery and contempt ; and so been brought, though too late, to acknowledge, that it is much better for a man quietly and peaceably to obey, than, by laborious climbing up the craggy rocks of ambition, to asj)ire to command and sovereignty; and to set his foot rather upon the plain and humble ground, than upon that slippery height, from which all that can be with reason expected, is a precipitous and ruinous downfall. Besides, are not those grandees, upon whom the ad- miring multitude gaze, as upon refulgent comets, and prodigies of glory and honour ; are tliey not, we say, of all men the most unhappy, in this one respect, that their breasts swarm with most weighty and trouble- some cares, that incessantly gall and corrode their very hearts ? Beware, therefore, how you believe that such live securely and tranquilly; since it is impos- sible but those who are feared by many should them- selves be in contiimal fear of some. Though you see them to be in a manner environed with power, to have navies numerous enough to send abroad into all seas, to be in the heads of mighty and victorious armies, to be guarded with well armed and faithful legions ; yet, for all this, t.ake heed you do not conceive them to be the only happy men, nay, that they partake so much as of one sincere pleasure ; for all these things are mere pageantry, shadows gilded, and ridiculous dreams, insomuch as fear and care are not things that are afraid of the noise of arms, or re- gard the brightness of gold, or the sj)lendour of purple, but boldly intrude themselves even into the hearts of princes and potentates, and, like the poet's vulture, daily gnaw and consume them. Beware, likewise, that you do not conceive that the body is made one whit the more strong, or healthy, by the glory, greatness, and treasures of monarchy, espe- 410 I'ROSF. WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. THOMAS FULLEE. cially when you may daily obsen-e, that a fever doth as violently and long hold hini who lies upon a bed of tissue, under a covering of Tyriun scarlet, as liim that lies upon a mattress, and liatli no covering but rags ; and that we have no reason to complain of the want of scarlet robes, of golden embroideries, jewels, and ropes of pearl, while we have a coarse and easy garment to keep away the cold. And what if you, lying cheerfully and serenely upon a truss of clean fitraw, covered with rags, should gravely instruct men how vain those are who, with astonished and turbu- lent minds, gape and thirst after the trifles of magni- ficence, not understanding how few ami small those things are which are requisite to a happy life ] believe me, your discourse would be truly magnificent and high, because delivered by one whose own happy ex- perience confirms it. What though your house do not shine with silver and gold hatchments ; nor your arched roofs resound with the multiplied echoes of loud music ; nor your walls be not thickly beset with golden figures of beau- tiful youths, holding great lamps in their extended arms, to give light to your nightly revels and sump- tuous banquets ; why yet, truly, it is not a whit less (if not much more) pleasant to repose your wearied limbs upon the green grass, to sit by some cleanly and purling stream, under the refreshing shade of some well-branched tree, especially in the spring time, when the head of everv- plant is crowned with beautiful and fragrant flowers, the merry birds entertaining you with the music of their wild notes, the fresh western winds continually fanning your heats, and all nature smil- ing upon you. Wherefore, when any mai- may, if he please, thus live at peace and liberty .abroad in the open fields, or his own gardens, what reijjin is there why he should affect and pursue honours, and not rather modestly bound his desires with the calmness and security of that condition ? For, to hunt after gloiT by the os- tentation of virtue, of science, of eloquence, of nobi- lity, of wealth, of attendants, of rich cloths, of beauty, of garb, and the like, seriously, it is altogether the fame of ridiculous vanity; and in all things modesty exacts no more than this, that we do not, through rusticity, want of a decent garb, or too much negli- gence, do anything that doth not correspond with civility and decorum. For it is equally vile, and doth as much denote a base or abject mind, to grow insolent and lofty upon the possession of these ad- juncts of magnificence, as to become dejected, or sink in spirit, at the loss or want of them. Now, according to this rule, if a wise man chance to have the statues or images of his ancestors, or other renowned persons of former ages, he will be very far from being proud of them, from showing them as badges of honour, from affecting a glory from the generosity of their actions and achievemenis ; and as far from wholly neglecting them, but will place them (as memorials of virtue) indifferently either in his porch or gallery, or elsewhere. Nor will he be solicitous about the manner or place of his sepulture, or command his executors to bestow any great cost, or pomp and ceremony, at his funeral. The chief subject of his care will be, what may be beneficial and pleasant to his successors ; being well assured that, as for his dead corpse, it will little con- cern him what becomes of it. For to propagate vanity even beyond death is the highest madness ; and not much inferior thereto is the fancy of some, who in their lives are afraid to have their carcasses torn by the teeth of wild beasts after their death. For if that be an evil, why is it not likewise an evil to have the dead corpse burned, embalmed, and immersed in honey, to grow cold and stiff under a ponderous marble, to be pressed down by the weight of earth and passengers i THOMAS FULLER. A conspicuous place in the prose literature of this age is due to 1)r Thomas Fuller ( 1 608-1 6G 1 ), author of various works in practical divinit}' and history. Fuller was tlie son of a clergyman of the same name settled at Aldwinkle, in Northampton : he and Dry- den thus were natives of tlie same place. A quick intellect, and uncommon jxjwers of memory, made Thomas Fuller. him a scholar almost in his boyhood ; his studies at Queen's college, Cambridge, were attended with the highest triumphs of tlie university, and on entering life as a preacher in that city, he acquired the greatest popularity. He afterwards passed through a rapid succession of promotions, until he acquired the lecturesliip of the Savoy in London. Meanwhile, he -puhVishcdhis II Uiori/nf ilie Holy War. On the breaking out of the civil war, F' idler attached himself to the king's party at Oxford, and he seems to have accompanied the army in active service for some years as chaplain to Lord Hopton. Even in these circumstances, his active mind busied itself in collecting materials for some of the works which he subsequently published. His comjiany was at the same time much courted, on account of the extraordi- nary amount of intelligence which he had acquired, and a strain of lively humour which seems to have been quite irrepressible. The quaint and fan)ihar nature of his mind disposed him to be less nice in the selection of materials, and also in their arrange- ment, than scholarly men generally are. He would sit patiently for hours listening to the prattle of old women, in order to obtain snatches of local history, traditionary anecdote, and proverbial wisdom. And these he has wrought up in his work entitled 77i( Worthies of England, which is a strange melange of topography, biography, and popular antiquities. ■WTien tlie heat of the war was past. Fuller returned to London, and became lecturer at St Bride's church. He was now engaged in his Church History of Britain, which was given to the world in 1656, in one volume folio. Afterwards, he devoted himself to the prepa- ration of his ' Worthies,' wliich he did not complete till 16C0. Meanwhile, he had passed through some other situations in the church, the last of wliich was tliat of cl:aplain to Charles II. It was thought that he would liave been made a bishop, if he had not been prematurely cut off by fever, a year after tlie Kesto- ration. This extraordinary man possessed a tall and handsome person, and great conversational powers. 411 Rou 1G49 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1689. He was of kind dispositions, and amiable in all the domestic relations of life. He was twice married ; on the second occasion, to a sister of Viscount Bal- OldSt Bride's Church, Fleet Street. tinglufs. As proofs of his wonderful memory, it is stated that he could repeat five hundred unconnected words after twice hearing them, and recite the whole of the signs in tlie principal thorouglifare of London after once passing tlirougli it and back again. His only other works of the least importance are The Profane and Holy States, iuid A I'lsgah View of Palestine. The principal work, tlie ' Worthies,' is rather a collection of brief memoranda tlian a regular com- position, so tliat it does not admit of extract for these pages. While a modern reader smiles at the vast quantity of gossip which it contains, he must also be sensible that it ha.s preserved much curious information, which would have otlierwise been lost. The eminent men whose lives lie records, are ar- ranged l>y Fuller according to their native counties, of which he mentions also the natural i)roductions, manufactures, medicinal waters, herbs, wonders, buildings, local proverbs, sheriffs, and modern battles. The style of all Fuller's works is extreniely quaint and jocular; and in the power of drawing humo- rous comparisons, he is little, if at all, inferior to Butler liimself. Bishop Nicolson, speaking of his 'Cliurch History,' accuses liim of being fonder of a joke than of correctness, and says that he is not scru- pulous in his inquiry into the foundation of any good story that comes in his way. 'Even the most serious and authentic parts of it are so interlaced •with pun and quibble, that it looks as if the man had designed to ridicule the amuds of our church into fable and romance.'* These animadversions, however, are accounted too strong. Fuller's ' Holy and Profane States' contains admiralily drawn cha- racters, which are held fortli as examples to be re- *pretively imitated and avoided ; such as the Good * Kn;;lish IlUtoi.cat l^ibrary, p. lib. Father, the Good Soldier, the Good IMaster, and so on. In this and the other productions of Fuller, there is a vast fund of sagacity and good sense, fre- quently expressed in language so pitliy, that a large collection of admirable and striking maxims might easily be extracted from his pages. We shall give samples of these, after presenting the character which he has beautifully drawn of TliC Good Schoolmaster. There is scarce any profes.sion in the commonwealth more necessary, which is so slightly performed. The reasons whereof I conceive to be these : — First, young scholars make this calling their refuge ; yea,])erchaiice, before they have taken any degree in the university, conmicnce schoohnasters in the country, as if nothing else were required to set up this profession but only a rod and a ferula. Secondly, others v.ho are able, use it oidy as a passage to better preferment, to patch the rents in their present fortune, till they can pro- vide a new one, and betake themselves to some more gainful calling. Thirdly, they are disheartened from doing their best with the miserable reward which in some places they receive, being masters to their chil- dren and slaves to their parents. Fourthly, being grown rich they grow negligent, and scorn to touch the school but by the proxy of the usher. But see how well our schoolmaster behaves himself. His genius inclines him with delight to his profes- sion. Some men liad as well be schoolboys as school- masters, to be tied to the school, as Cooper's Dictionary and Scapula's Lexicon are chained to the desk therein , and though great scholars, and skilful in other arts, arc bunglers in this. But God, of his goodness, hath fitted several men for several callings, that the neces- sity of church and state, in all conditions, may be provided for. So that he who beholds the fabric thereof, may say, God hewed out the stone, and ap- pointed it to lie in this very place, for it would tit none other so well, and here it doth most excellent. And thus God mouldeth some for a schoolmaster's life, undertaking it with desire and delight, and dis- charging it with dexterity and happy success. He studieth his scliolars' natures as carefully as they their books ; and ranks their dispositions into several forms. And though it may seem difficult for him in a great school to descend to all particulars, yet experienced schoolmasters may quickly make a granunar of boys' natures, and reduce them all (sav- ing some few exceptions) to these general rules: 1. Those that are ingenious and industrious. Tlie conjunction of two such planets in a youth presage nuich good unto him. To such a lad a frown may be a whipping, and a whipping a death ; yea, where their master whips them once, shame whips them all the week after. Such natures he useth with all gentleness. '2. Those that are ingenious and idle. These think with the hare in the fable, that miming with snails (so they count the rest of their schoolfellows), they shall come soon enough to the post, though sleeping a good while before their starting. Oh, a good rod would finely take them napping. 3. Those that are dull and diligent. Wines, the stronger they be, the more lees they have when they are new. Many boys are muddy-headed till they be clarified with age, and such afterwards prove the best. Bristol diamonds arc both bright, and squared, and pointed by nature, and yet are soft and worthless ; whereas orient ones in India are rough and rugged naturally. Hard, rugged, and dull natures of youth, acquit themselves afterwards the jewels of the country, and therefore their dulnes.s at first is to be borne with, if they be diligent. That schoolmaster deserves to be beaten b!msclf, who beats nature in a boy Tor a faiUt. ..•'Uid I question whether all the whipping in 412 PROSE AVRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. THOMAS FULLER. the world can make their parts which are naturally sluggish, rise one minute before the hour nature hafh appointed. 4. Those that are invincibly dull, and negligent also. Correction may reform the hitter, not amend the former. All the whetting in the world can never set a razor's edge on that which hath no steel in it. Such boys he consigneth over to other professions. Shipm-ights and boat-makers will choose those crooked j)ieces of timber which other carpenters refuse. Those may mako excellent merchants and mechanics which will not serve for scholars. He is able, diligent, and methodical in his teach- ing ; not leading them rather in a circle than forwards. He minces his precepts for children to swalloAV, hang- ing clogs on the nimbleness of his own soul, that his scholars may go along with him. He is and will be known to be an absolute monarch in his school. If cockering mothers proffer him money to purchase their sons' exemption from liis rod (to live, as it were, in a peculiar, out of their master's jurisdiction), with disdain he refuseth it, and scorns the late custom in some places of commuting whip- ping into money, and ransoming boys from the rod at a set price. If he hath a stubborn youth, correc- tion-proof, he debaseth not his authority by contesting with him, but fairly, if he can, puts him away before his obstinacy hath infected others. He is moderate in inflicting deserved correction. Man}' a schoolmaster better answcreth the name paidotribcs than paidagogor,, rather tearing his scho- lars' flesh with whipping than giving them good edu- cation. No wonder if his scholars hate the muses, being presented unto them in the shapes of fiends and furies. Such an Orbilius mars more scholars than he makes. Their tyranny hath caused many tongues to stammer which spake plain by nature, and whose stuttering at first was nothing else but fears quavering on their speech at their master's presence. And whose maul- ing them about their heads hath dulled those who in quickness exceeded their master. He makes his school free to him who sues to him in forma pauperis. And surely learning is the greatest alms that can be given. But he is a beast who, be- cause the poor scholar cannot pay hira his wages, pays the scholar in his whipping; rather are diligent lads to be encouraged with all excitements to learning. This minds me of what I have heard concerning Mr Bust, tliat worthy late schoolmaster of Eton, who would never suffer any wandering begging scholar (such as justly the statute hath ranked in the fore- front of rogues) to come into his school, but would thrust him out with earnestness (however privately charitable unto him), lest his schoolboys should be dis- heartened from their books, by seeing some scholars after their studying in the university preferred to beggary. He spoils not a good school to make thereof a bad college, therein to teach his scholars logic. For, be- sides that logic may have an action of trespass against grammar for encroaching on her liberties, syllogisms are solecisms taught in the school, and oftentimes they are forced afterwards in the university, to unlearn the fumbling skill they had before. Out of his school he is no way pedantical in carriage or discourse ; contenting himself to be rich in Latin, though he doth not gingle with it in every company wherein he comes. To conclude, let this, amongst other motives, make Bchoolmasters careful in their place — that the emi- nences of their scholars have commended the memories of their schoolmasters to posterity, who, otherwise in obscurity, had altogether been forgotten. A\'ho had ever heard of II. Bond, in Lanca'iure, but for tlie breeding of learned Ascham, his scholar ? or of Hart- grave, in Brundly school, in the same county, but be- cause he was tlie first did teach worthy Dr Whitaker % Nor do I honour the memory of IMulcaster for any- tliing so much as liis scholar, tliat gulf of learning, Bishop Andrews. This nuule tlie Athenians, the day before the great feast of 'J'lieseus, tlielr founder, to sacrifice a ram to the memory of Conidas, his school- master, that iirst instructed him, \^RccreatlonJ\ Recreation is a second creation, when weariness liath almost annihilated one's spirits. It is the breathing of the soul, which othenvise would be stifled with continual business. • * * Spill not the morning (the quintessence of the day) in recreation ; for sleep itself is a recreation. Add not therefore sauce to sauces ; and he cannot properly have any title to be refreshed who was not first faint. Pastime, like wine, is poison in the morning. It is then good husbandry to sow the head, which hath lain fallow all night, with some serious work. Chiefly, intrench not on the Lord's day to use unlawful sports ; this were to spare thine own flock, and to slicar tiod's lamb. * * • Take heed of boisterous aTid over-violent exercises. Ringing ofttimes hath made good music on tlie bells, and put men's bodies out of tune, so that, by over- heating themselves, they have rung their own passing bell. [Bool-s.] It is a vanity to persuade the world one hath much learning by getting a great library. As soon shall I believe every one is valiant that hatli a well-furnished armoury. I guess good housekeeping by the smoking, not the number of the tunnels, as knowing that many of them (built merely for uniformity) are without chimneys, and more without fires. * * Some books are only cursorily to be tasted of : namely, first, voluminous books, the task of a man's life to read them over ; secondly, auxiliary books, only to be repaired to on occasions ; thirdly, such as are mere pieces of formality, so that if you look on them you look through tlicm, and he that peei)s through the casement of the index, sees as nmcli as if he were in the house. But the laziness of those can- not be excused, wlio perfunctorily pass over authors of consequence, and only trade in their tables and contents. These, like city-cheaters, having gotten the names of all country gentlemen, make silly people believe they have long lived in tliose places where they never were, and flourish with skill in those au- thors they never seriously studied. \_Educalion confined too much to Language.} Our conmion education is not intended to render us good and wise, but learned : it hath not taught us to follow and embrace virtue aiul prudence, but hath imprinted in us their derivation ai;d "tymology ; it hath chosen out for us not such bocks as contain the soundest and truest opinions, but these that speak the best Cireek and Latin ; and, by these rules, has in>tilled into our fancy tlic vainest humours of antiquity. But a good cducKtion alters the judgment and manners. * '* 'Tis a silly conceit that men without languages are also witliout understanding. It 's apparent, in all ages, that some such have been even prodigies for ability; for it's not to be believed that \Visdom speaks to her disciples only in Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. [Rules for Improving the Memory.'] First, soundly infix in tliy mind what thou deairesl to remember. VVhat wonder is it if agitation of busi- 413 FROH 1649 CYCLOPAEDIA OF TO 1689. ness jog that out of thy head, which was there rather tacked than fastened ? whereas those notions which g»^t in by ' violenta possessio,' will abide there till ' ejectio firma,' slcknessi, or extreme age, dispossess them. It is best knocking in the nail over night, and clinching it the next moniing. Overburden not thy memory to make so faithful a •pr\-ant a slave. Remember Atlas was weary. Have as much reason as a camel, to rise when thou hast thy full load. Memory, like a purse, if it be over full that it cannot shut, all will drop out of it : take heed of a gluttonous curiosity to feed on many things, lest the greediness of the appetite of thy memorj' spoil the digestion thereof. Beza's case was peculiar and memo- rable ; being above fourscore years of age, he perfectly could say by heart any Greek chapter in St Paul's epistles, or anything else which he had learnt long before, iDut forgot whatsoever was newlj- told him ; his memory, like an inn, retaining old guests, but having no room to entertain new. Spoil not thy memory by thine own jealousy, nor make it bad by suspecting it. How canst thou find that true which thou wilt not trust ? St Augustine tells us of his friend Simplicius, who, being asked, could tell all Virgil's verses backward and forward, and j-et the same party avowed to God that he knew not that he could do it till they did try him. Sure there is concealed strength in men's memories, which they take no notice of. Marshal thy notions into a handsome method. One will carr}' twice more weight trussed and packed up in bundles, than when it lies untoward flapping and hanging about his shouWers. Things orderly fardled up under heads are most portable. Adventure not all thy learning in one bottom, but divide it betwixt thy memory and thy note-books. He that with Bias carries all his learning about him in his head, will utterly be beggared and bankrupt, if a violent disease, a merciless thief, should rob and strip him. I know some have a common-place against common-place books, and yet, perchance, will privately make use of what they publicly declaim against. A common-place book contains many notions in garrison, whence the owner may draw out an army into the field on competent warning. [Terrors of a Guilty Conscience.} Fancy runs most furiously when a guilty conscience drives it. One that owed much monej', and had raanj' creditors, as he walked London streets in the evening, a tenterhook catched his cloak : ' At whose suit ?' said he, conceiving some bailiff' had arrested him. Thus guilty consciences are afraid where no fear is, and count every creature they meet a sergeant sent from God to punish them. [Marriage.] Deceive not thyself by over-expecting happiness in the married state. Look not therein for contentment greater than God will give, or a creature in this world can receive, namely, to be free from all inconveniences. Marriage is not like the hill Olympus, wholly clear, without clouds. Remember the nightingales, which sing only some months in the spring, but commonly are silent when they have hatched their eggs, as if their mirth were turned into care for their young ones. [ Conversation.} The study of books is a languishing and feeble motion, that heats not ; whereas conference teaches and exercises at once. If I confer with an understand- in" nrian and a rude jester, he presses hard upon me on botht.ides ; his imaginations raise up mine to more than ordinary pitch. Jealousy, glory, and contention, sti- mulate and raise me up to something above myself; and a consent of judgment is a quality totally oifen- sive in conference. But, as our minds fortify them- selves by the communication of vigorous and regular understandings, 'tis not to be expressed how much they lose and degenerate by the continual commerce and frequentation we have with those that are mean and low. There is no contagion that spreads like that. I know sufficiently, by experience, what 'tis worth a yard. I love to discourse and dispute, but it is with few men, and for myself; for to do it as a spectacle and enter- tainment to great persons, and to vaunt of a man's wit and eloquence, is in my opinion very unbecoming a man of honour. Impertinency is a scurvy quality ; but not to be able to endure it, to fret and vex at it, as I do, is another sort of disease, little inferior to impertinence itself, and is the thing that I will now accuse in myself. I enter into conference and dispute with great liberty and facility, forasmuch as opinion meets in me with a soil very unfit for penetration, and wherein to take any deep root : no propositions asto- nish me, no belief off'i'nds me, though never so contrary to my own. There is no so frivolous and extravagant fancy that does not seem to me suitable to the pro- duct of human wit. * * The contradictions of judg- ments, then, do neither offend nor alter, they only rouse and exercise me. We evade correction, whereas we ought to ofl^er and present ourselves to it, espe- cially when it appears in the form of conference, and not of authority. At every opposition, we do not con- sider whether or no it be just, but right or wrong how to disengage ourselves ; instead of extending the arms, we thrust out our claws. I could suffer myself to be rudely handled by my friend, so much as to tell me that I am a fool, and talk I know not of what. I love stout expressions amongst brave men, and to have them speak as they think. We must fortify and harden our hearing against this tenderness of the ceremonious sound of words. I love a strong and manly familiarity in conversation ; a friendship that flatters itself in the sharpness and vigour of its communica- tion, like love in biting and scratching. It is not vigorous and generous enough if it be not quarrelsome ; if civilised and artificial, if it treads nicely, and fears the shock. When any one contradicts me, he raises my attention, not my anger; I advance towards him that controverts, that instructs me. The cause of truth ought to be the common cause both of one and the other. « * j embrace and caress truth in what hand soever I find it, and cheerfully surrender myself and my conquered arms, as far oft' as I can dis- cover it ; and, provided it be not too imperiousl}', take a pleasure in being reproved ; and accommodate my- self to my accusers, very often more by reason of civility than amendment, loving to gratify and nou- rish the liberty of admonition by my facility of sub- mitting to it. * * In earnest, I rather choose the frequentation of those that ruflile me than those that fear me. 'Tis a dull and hurtful pleasure to have to do with people who admire us, and approve of all we say. [Domestic Eco)iomy.'\ The most tiseful and honourable knowledge for the mother of a family, is the science of good housewifery. I see some that are ''ovetous, indeed, but very few that are saving. 'Tis the supreme quality' of a woman, and that a man ought to seek after beyond any other, as the only dowry that must ruin or preserve our houses. Let men say what they will, according to the experience I have learned, I require in married women the economical virtue above all other virtues ; I put my wife to't as a concern of her own, leaving her, by my absence, the whole government of my aflriirs. I sec, and am ashamed to see, in several families 1 know, 414 PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. IZAAK WALTOS, monsieur about dinner time come home all dirt, and in ^reat disorder, from trotting about amongst his husbandmen and labourers, when madam is perhaps scarce out of her bed, and afterwards is pouncing and tricking up herself, forsooth, in her closet. This is for queens to do, and that's a question too. 'Tis ridicu- lous and unjust that the laziness of our wives should be maintained with our sweat and labour. IMisccUancoits ApJtorisms.'j It is dangerous to gather flowers that grow on the banks of the pit of hell, for fear of falling in : yea, they which play with the devil's rattles will be brought by degrees to wield his sword ; and from making of sport, they come to doing of mischief. Heat gotten by degrees, with motion and exercise, is more natural, and staj'S longer by one, tlian what is gotten all at once by coming to the fire. Goods acquired by industry prove commonly more lasting than lands by descent. A public office is a guest which receives the best usage from them who never invited it. Scoff not at the natural defects of any, which are not in their power to amend. Oh ! 'tis cruelty to beat a cripple with his own crutches. Anger is one of the sinews of the soul : he that wants it hath a maimed mind. Generally, nature hangs out a sign of simplicity in the fiice of a fool, and there is enough in his coun- tenance for a hue and cry to take him on susj)icion ; or else it is stamped in the figure of his body : their heads sometimes so little, that there is no room for wit ; sometimes so long, that there is no wit for so much .oom. They that marry ancient people, merely in expecta- tion to bury them, hang themselves, in hope that one will come and cut the halter. Learning hath gained most by those books by which the printers have lost. Is there no way to bring home a wandering sheep but by worrying him to death ? Moderation is the silken string running through the pearl-chain of all virtues. IZAAK WALTOX. One of the most interesting and popular of onr early writers was Izaak Walton, an Knglish u-ortlii/ of the simple antique cast, who retained in tlie heart of London, and in the midst of close and suc- cessful application to business, an unworldly simpli- city of character, and an inextinguishable fondness for country scenes, pastimes, and recreations. lie had also a power of natural description and lively dialogue that has rarely been surpassed. His Com- plete Angler is a rich storehouse of rural pictures and pastoral poetry, of quaint but wise thoughts, of agreeable and humorous fancies, and of truly apostolic purity and benevolence. Tlie slight tincture of su- perstitious credulity and innocent eccentricity wliicli pervades his works gives them a finer zest, and ori- ginal flavoiir, without detracting from their higher power to soothe, instruct, and delight. Walton was born in the town of Stafford in August 1.193. Of his education or his early years nothing is related ; but according to Anthony Wood, he acquired a moderate competency, by following in London the occupation of a sempster or linen-draper. He had a shop in the Roy.al Burse in Cornhill, which was seven feet and a-lialf long, and five wide. Lord Bacon has a punning remark, that a small room helps a studious man to condense liis tlioughts, and cer- tainly Izaak Walton was not destitute of tliis intel- lectual succedaneum. He had a more pleasant and •pacious study, however, in the fields and rivers in the neighbourhood of London, ' in such days and times as he laid asiJe business, and went a-fishing with honest Nat. and R. Roe.' From the Royal Burse Izaak (for so he always wrote his name) re- moved to Fleet Street, where he had one half of a shop, the other half being occupied by a hosier. Wfilton's House. About the year 1 G32, he was married to Anne, ths daughter of Thomas Ken, of Furnival's Inn, and sister of Dr Ken, bishop of Bath and Wells. This respectable connexion probably introduceii Walton to the acquaintance of the eminent men and digni- taries of the church, at whose lumscs he spetit much of his time in his latter years, especially after the death of his wife, ' a woman of lemarkable prudence, 415 r FUOM 1649 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1689 and of the primitive piety.' Walton retired from business in 1 G43, and lived forty years afterwards in uninterrnpteil leisure. His first work was a Life of Dr Donne, prefixed to a collection of the doctor's sermons, published in 1640. Sir Henry Wotton was to have written Donne's life, Walton merely collect- ing the materials ; but Sir Henry dying before he liad begun to execute the task, Izaak ' reviewed his for- saken collections, and resolved that the world should see the best plain picture of the author's life that his artless pencil, guided by the hand of trutli, could present.' Tlie memoir is circumstantial and deeply interesting. He next wrote a Life of Sir Henry Wotton, and edited his literary remains. liis prin- cipal production. The Complete Angler, or Contem- plative Mcnis Recreation, appeared in 1653, and four other editions of it were called for during his life, namely, in 1655, 1664, 1668, and 1676. Walton also wrote a Life of Richard Hooker (1662), a Life of George Herbert (1670), and a Life of Bishop Sanderson (1678). They are all exquisitely simple, touching, and impressive. Though no man seems to have possessed his soul more patiently during the troublous times in which he lived, the A-enerable Izaak -was tempted, in 1680, to write and publish anonymously two letters on the Distempers of the Times, ' written from a quiet and conformable citizen of London to two busie and factious shopkeepers in Coventry.' In 1683, when in his ninetieth year, he published the Thcalma and Clearchus of Chalkhill, ■which we have previously noticed ; and he died at Winchester on the 15th December of the same year, ■while residing with his son-in-law, Dr Hawkins, prebendary of Winchester cathedral. The ' Complete Angler' of Walton is a production unique in our literature. In writing it, he says he made ' a recreation of a recreation,' and, by mingling innocent mirth and pleasant scenes with the graver parts of his discourse, he designed it as a picture of his own disposition. The ■ivork is, indeed, essentially autobiographical in spirit and execution. A hunter and falconer are introduced as parties in the dia- logues, but they serve only as foils to the venerable and complacent Piscator, in whom the interest of the piece wholly centres. The opening scene lets us at once into the genial character of the work and its hero. The three interlocutors meet accidentally on Tottenham hill, near London, on a ' fine fresh May morning.' The}' are open and cheerful as the day. Piscator is going towards Ware, Venator to meet a pack of other dogs upon Amwell hill, and Auceps to Theobald's, to see a hawk that a friend there mews or moults for him. Piscator willingly joins with the lover of hounds in helping to destroy otters, for he ' hates them i)erfectly, because they love fish so well, and destroy so much.' The sportsmen proceed on- ■wards together, and they agree each to ' commend his recreation' or favourite pursuit. Piscator alludes to the virtue and contentcdness of anglers, but gives the precedence to his companions in discom-sing on their different crafts. The lover of hawking is elo- quent on the virtues of air, the element that he trades in, and on its various winged inhabitants. He describes the falcon ' making her liighway over the steepest mountains and deepest rivers, and, in her glorious career, looking with contempt upon those high steejjles and magnificent palaces which we adore and wonder at.' The singing birds, ' those little nimble musicians of the air, that warble forth their curious ditties with which nature hath furnished them to the shame of art,' are descanted upon with pure poetical feelirig and expression. * At first the lark, when she means to rejoice, to cheer herself and those that hear her, she then quits the earth, and sings as she ascends higher into the air ; and having ended her heavenly emplo_ynient, grows then mute and sad, to think slie must descend to the dull earth, which she would not touch but for necessity. Ilow do the bl.ackbird and throsscl (song-thrush), with their melodious voices, bid welcome to the cheer- ful spring, and in their fixed mouths warble forth such ditties as no art or instrument can reach to ! Nay, the .smaller birds also do tlie like in their p.ar- ticular seasons, as, namely, the laverock (skylark), the titlark, the little linnet, and the honest robin, that loves mankind both alive and dead. But the nightingale, another of my airy creatures, breathes such sweet loud music out of lier little in- strumental throat, that it might make mankind to think miracles are not ceased. He that at midnight, when the very labourer sleeps securely, should hear, as I have very often, the clear airs, the sweet descants, the natural rising and falling, the doubling and re- doubling of her voice, might well be lifted above earth, and say, " Lord, what music hast thou provided for the saints in heaven, when thou affordest bad men such music on earth !'" The lover of hunting next takes his turn, and comments, though ■with less force (for here Walton himself must have been at fault), on the perfection ot smell possessed by the hoimd, and the joyous music made by a pack of dogs in full chase. Piscator then unfolds his long-treasured and highly-prized lore on the virtues of water — sea, river, and brook ; and on the antiquity and excellence of fishing and angling. The latter, he says, is ^somewhat like poetnj : men must he born so.' He quotes Scripture, and numbers the prophets who allude to fishing. He also remeni- bers with pride that four of the twelve apostles were fishermen, and that our Saviour never reproved them for their employment or calling, as he did the Scribes and money-changers ; for ' He foimd that the hearts of such men, by nature, were fitted for contemplation and quietness ; men of mild, and sweet, and peace- able spirits, as, indeed, most anglers are.' The idea of angling seems to have unconsciously mixed itself with all Izaak Walton's speculations on goodness, loyalty, and veneration. Even ■worldly enjoyment he appears to have grudged to any less gifted mortals. A finely-dressed dish of fish, or a rich drink, he pronounces too good for any but anglers or very honest men : and his parting benediction is ujion ' all that are lovers of virtue, and dare trust in Pro- vidence, and be quiet, and go a- angling.' The last condition would, in his ordinary mood, when not pecidiarly solenm or earnest, be quite equivalent to any of the others. The rhetoric and knowledge of Piscator at length fairly overcome Venator, and make him a convert to the superiority of angling, as compared with his more savage pursuit of hunting. He agrees to accompany Piscator in his sport, adopts him as his nuister and guide, and in time becomes initiated into the practice and mj'steries of the gentle craft. The angling excursions of the pair give occa- sion to the practical lessons and descrijitions in the book, and elicit what is its greatest charm, the minute and vivid painting of rural objects, the dis- play of character, both in action and conversation, the flow of generous sentiment and feeling, and ths associated recollections of picturesque poetry, na- tural piety, and examples and precepts of morality. Add to this the easy elegance of A\^alton's style, sprinkled, but not obscured, by the antiquated idiom and expression of his times, and clear and sjjarkling as one of his own favourite summer streams. Not an hour of the fishing day is wasted or ununprovcd. Tlie master and scholar rise witli the early dawn, and after four hours' fisliing, breakfast at nine inider a sycamore that shades them from the sun's heat. 416 PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. IZ.VAK WALTON. Old Piscator reads his admiring scliolar a lesson on fly-fisliing, and they sit and discourse while 'a ' smoking shower ' passes oif, freshening all the meadow and the flowers. • And now, scholar, I think it will be time to repair to our angle rods, which we left in the water to fish for themselves ; and you shall choose which shall be \ours ; and it is an even lay, one of them catches. And, let me tell you, this kind of fishing with a dead rod, and laying night hooks, are like putting money to use; for they both work for their owners when they do nothing but sleep, or eat, or rejoice, as you know we have done this last hour, and sat as quietly and as free from cares under this sycamore, as Virgil's Tityrus and his IMeliboeus did under their broad beech tree. No life, my honest scholar, no life 60 happy and so pleasant as the life of a well-governed angler ; for when the la^vj-er is swallowed up with business, and the statesman is preventing or contriv- ing plots, then we sit on cowslip banks, hear the birds sing, and possess ourselves in as much quietness as these silent silver streams which we now see glide so quietly by us. Indeed, my good scholar, we may say of angling as Dr Boteler said of strawberries, " Doubt- less God could have made a better berry, but doubt- less God never did ;" and so (if I might be judge) " God never did make a more calm, quiet, innocent recreation than angling." ril tell you, scholar, Avhen I sat last on this prim- rose bank, and looked down these meadows, I thought of them as Charles the Emperor did of the city of Florence, " that they were too pleasant to be looked on but orly on holidays." As 1 then sat on this very gi-ass, I turned my present thoughts into verse : 'twas a wish, which ''11 repeat to you : — Hie Angler^ s Wish. I in these flowery meads would be ; These crj-stal streams should solace me ; To whose harmonious bubbling noise, I with my angle would rejoice ; Sit here, and see the turtle-dove Court his chaste mate to acts of lore ; Or on that bank feel the west wind Breathe health and plenty : please my mind, To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers. And then wash'd ofl^by April showers; Here, hear my Kenna sing a song ; There, see a blackbird feed her young, Or a laverock build her nest : Here, give my weary spirits rest. And raise my low-pitched thoughts above Earth, or what poor mortals love : Thus, free from law-suits and the noise Of princes' courts, I would rejoice. Or, with my Brj-an' and a book, Loiter long days near Shawford brook ; There sit by him, and eat my meat. There see the sun both rise and set. There bid good morning to ne.xt day, There meditate my time away. And angle on ; and beg to have A quiet passage to a welcome grave.' The master and scholar, at another time, sit under a honeysuckle hedge while a shower falls, and en- counter a handsome milkmaid and her mother, who sing to them ' that smooth song which was made by Kit Marlow' — Come live with me, and be my love ; and the answer to it, 'which was made by Sir Walter Raleigh in his younger days.' At night, 1 Supposed to be the name of his dog. when sport and instruction are over, they repair to the little alehouse, well-known to Piscator, where the}' find ' a cleanly room, lavender in the windows, and twenty ballads stuck about the wall.' The hostess is cleanly, handsome, and civil, and knows how to dress the fish after Piscator's own fashion (he is learned in cookery) ; and having made a supper of their gallant trout, they drink their ale, tell tales, sing ballads, or join with a brother angler who drops in, in a merry catch, till sleep overpowers them, am? they retire to the hostess' two Iieds, ' the linen of which looks white and smells of lavender.' All this humble but hajjpy painting is fresh as nature her- self, and instinct with moral feeling and beauty. Tlie only speck upon the brightness of old Piscator's be- nevolence is one arising from Ins entire devotion to his art. He will allow no creature to take fish but the angler, and concludes that any honest man may make a just quarrel with swan, geese, ducks, the sea-gull, heron, &c. His directions" for making live- bait have subjected liim to the charge of cruelty,'^ and are certainly curious enough. Painted flies seem not to have occurred to him ; and the use of snails, worms, &c., induced no comp\nictious visitings. Tor taking pike he recommends a perch, as the longest lived fish on a hook, and the poor frog is treated with elaborate and extravagant inhumanitj- : — ' And thus use your frog, that he may continue long alive : put your hook into his mouth, which you mav easily do from the middle of April till August ; anil then the frog's mouth grows up, and he continues so for at least six months without eating, but is sustained none but He whose name is 'Wonderful knows how. I say, put your hook, I mean the arming wire, through his mouth and out at his gills ; and with a fine needle and silk sew the upper part of his leg, with only one stitch, to the arming wire of your hook ; or tie the frog's leg above the upper joint to tlie armed wire ; and, in so doing, w.^'e him us though you loved him, that is, harm him as little as you may possible, that he may lire the longer.' jModern taste and feeling would recoil from such experiments as these, and we may oppose to the aberrations of the venerable Walton the iihilosophical maxim of Wordsworth — Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels. If this observation falls into the opposite extreme (seeing that it would, if rigidly interpreted, suppress field sports and many of the luxiaies and amuse- ments of life), we must claim, that it is an excess more amiable than that into which Piscator was led by his attachment to angling. Towards the conclu- sion of his work, Walton indulges in the following strain of moral reflection and admonition, and is as philosophically just and wise in his counsels, as his language and imagery are chaste, beautiful, and ani- mated. [Thankfulness for Worldly Blessings.] ' Well, scholar, having now taught you to paint your rod, and we having still a mile to Tottenham High Cross, I will, as we walk towards it in the cool shade of this sweet honeysuckle hedge, mention to you some of the thoughts and joys that have possessed my soul since we met together. And these thougbts shall be told you, that you also may join with me in thankful- ness to the Giver of every good and perfect gift for * ' And angling, too, that solitary vice, ■\Vh.atever lza,ik W.iltim sings or says; The quaint, old, cruel co.xcomb, in liis gullet Should have a book, and a small trout tn i)ull it.' Don Juan, Canto x'm 417 2o FKOM 1549 CYCLOPAEDIA OF TO iG^H. our happiness. And that our present happiness may appear to be the greater, and we the more thankful for it, I will beg you to consider with me how many do, even at this very time, lie under the torment of the stone, the gout, and toothache ; and this we are free from. And every misery that I miss is a new mercy ; and therefore let us be thankful. There have been, since we met, others that have met disasters of broken limbs ; some have been blasted, others thun- der-strucken ; and we have been freed from these and all those many other miseries that threaten human nature : let us therefore rejoice and be thankful. Nay, which is a far greater mercy, we are free from the in- supportable burden of an accusing, tormenting con- science — a misery that none can bear ; and therefore let us praise Him for his preventing grace, and say. Every misery that I miss is a new mercy. Nay, let me tell you, there be many that have forty times our estates, that would give the greatest part of it to be healthful and cheerful like us, who, with the expense of a little money, have eat, and drank, and laughed, and angled, and sung, and slept securely ; and rose next day, and cast away care, and sung, and laughed, and angled again, which are blessings rich men can- not purchase with all their money. Let me tell you, eeholar, I have a rich neighbour that is always so busy that he has no leisure to laugh ; the whole busi- ness of his life is to get money, and more monej', that he ma)' still get more and more money ; he is still drudging on, and says that Solomon says, " The hand of the diligent maketli rich;" and it is true indeed: but he considers not that it is not in the power of riches to make a man happy : for it was wisely said by a man of great observation, "That there be as many miseries beyond riches as on this side them." And yet God deliver us from pinching poverty, and grant that, having a competency, we may be content acd thankful ! Let ue not repine, or so much as think the gifts of God unequally dealt, if we see an- other abound with riches, when, as God knows, the cares that are the keys that keep those riches hang often so heavily at the rich man's girdle, that they clog him with weary days and restless nights, even when others sleep quietly. We see but the outside of the rich man's happiness ; few consider him to be like the silkworm, that, when she seenss to play, is at the very same time spinning her owb bowels, and con- suming herself; and this many uieh men do, loading themselves with corroding caroa, to keep what they have, probably unconscionably got. Let us therefore be thankful for health and competence, and, above all, for a quiet conscience. Let me tell you, scholar, tharf; Diogenes walked on a day, with his friend, to see a country fair, where he saw ribbons, and looking-glasses, and nut-crackers, and fiddles, and hobby-horses, and many other giin- cracks ; and having observed them, and all tlie other fiimimbruns that make «. lOiUplete country fair, he said to his friend, " Lord, how many things are there in this world of which Diogenes hath no need !" And truly it is so, or might be so, with very many who vex and toil themselves to get what they have no need of. Can any man charge God that he hath not given him enough to make his life happy ? No, doubtless ; for nature is content with a little. And j'et you shall hardly meet with a man that complains not of some want, though he, indeed, wants nothing but his will ; it may be, nothing but his will of his poor neighbour, for not worshipping or not flattering him : and thus, when we might be happy and quiet, we create trouble to ourselves. I have heard of a man that was angry with himself because he was no taller ; and of a wo- man that broke her looking-glass because it would not show her face to be as young and handsome as her next neighbour's was. And I knew another to whom (hi had given health and plenty, but a wife that nature had made peevish, and her husband's riches had made purse-proud ; and must, because she was rich, and for no other virtue, sit in the highest pew in the church ; which being denied her, she engaged her husband into a contention for it, and at last into a law-suit with a dogged neighbour, who was as rich as he, and had a wifa as peevish and purse-proud as the other ; and this law-suit begot higher oppositions and actionable words, and more vexations and law-suits ; for you must remember that both were rich, and must therefore have their wills, ^^'ell, this wilful purse- proud law-suit lasted during the life of the first hus- band, after which his wife vexed and chid, and chid and vexed, till she also chid and vexed herself into her grave ; and so the wealth of these poor rich people was cursed into a punishment, because they wanted meek and thankful hearts, for those only can make us happy. I knew a man that had health and riches, and several houses, all beautiful and ready-furnished, and would often trouble himself and family to be re- moving from one house to another ; and being asked by a friend why he removed so often from one house to another, replied, " It was to find content in some one of them." But his friend knowing his temper, told him, " If he would find content in any of his houses, he must leave himself behind him ; for content will never dwell but in a meek and quiet soul." And this may appear, if we read and consider what our Savi- our says in St Matthew's gospel, for he there says, " Blessed be the merciful, for tliey shall obtain mercy. Blessed be the pure in heart, for they shall see (Jod. Blessed be the poor in spirit, for theirs is the king- dom of heaven. And blessed be the meek, for they shall possess the earth." Not that the meek shall not also obtain mercy, and see God, and be com- forted, and at last come to the kingdom of heaven , but, in the meantime, he, and he only, possesses the earth, as he goes toward that kingdom of heaven, by being humble and cheerful, and content with wliat his good God has allotted him. He has no turbulent, repining, vexatious thoughts that he deserves better-, nor is vexed when he sees others possessed of more honour or more riches than his wise God has allotted for his share ; but he possesses what he has witli a meek and contented quietness, such a quietness as makes his very dreams pleasing, both to God and himself. My honest scholar, all this is told to incline you to thankfulness ; and, to incline you the more, let me tell you, that though the prophet David was guilty ol murder and adultery, and many other of the most deadly sins, yet he was said to be a man after God's own heart, because he abounded more with thankful- ness than iiny other that is mentioned in holy Scrip- ture, as may appear in his book of Psalms, where there is such a commixture of his confessing of his sins and unworthiness, and such tliankfulness foi God's pardon and mercies, as did make him to be accounted, even by God himself, to be a man aftei his own heart : and let us, in that, labour to be as like him as we can ; let not the blessings we receive daily from God make us not to value, or not praise llim, because they be common ; let not us forget to praise Him for the innocent mirth and pleasure wt have met with since we met together. What would a blind man give to see the pleasant rivers, and mea- dows, and flowers, and fountains, that we have met with since we met together ? I have been told, that if a man that was born blind could obtain to have his sight for but only one hour during his whole life, and should, at the first opening of his eyes, fix his sighl upon the sun when it was in his full glory, either at the rising or setting of it, he would be so transported and amazed, and so admire the glory of it, that ht would not willingly turn his eyes from that first ravishing object to behold all the other various beau 418 PROSE WRITERS. EXGLTSIT LITERATURE. JOHN EVELYN. ties this world could present to him. And this, and many other like blessings, we enjoy daily. And for most of them, becau.-^e they be so common, most men forget to pay their praises ; but let not us, because it is a sacrifice so pleasing to Him that made that sun and us, and still protects us, and gives us flowers, and showers, and stomachs, and meat, and content, and leisure to go a-fishing. I Well, scholar, I liave almost tired myself, and, I fear, more than almost tired you. But I now see Tottenham High Cross, and our short walk thither will put a period to my too long discourse, in which mj' meaning was, and is, to plant that in your mind with which I labour to possess my ovn\ soul — that is, a meek and thankful heart. And to that end I have showed you that riches without them (meekness and thankfulness) do not make an}- man happy. But let me tell you that riches with them remove many fears and cares. And therefore my advice is, that you endeavour to be honestly rich, or contentedly poor ; but be sure that your riches be justlj' got, or you spoil all ; for it is well said by Caussin, " He that loses his conscience has nothing left that is worth keeping." Therefore be sure you look to that. And, in the next place, look to your health, and if you have it, praise God, and value it next to a good conscience ; for health is the second blessing that we mortals are capable of — a blessing that money cannot buy — and therefore value it, and be thankful for it. As for money (which may be said to be the third blessing), neglect it not ; but note, that there is no necessity of being rich ; for I told you there be as many miseries beyond riches as on this side them ; and if you have a competence, enjoy it with a meek, cheerful, thank- ful heart. I will tell you, scholar, I have heard a grave divine say that God has two dwellings, one in heaven, and tlie other in a meek and thankful heart; which Almighty God gi-ant to me and to my honest scholar ! And so you are welcome to Tottenham High Cross. Venator. Well, master, I thank you for all your good directions, but for none more than this last, of thankfulness, which I hope I shall never forget.' To the fifth edition of the ' Complete Angler' was added a second part by Charles Cotton, the poet, and translator of ]Montaigne. It consisted of in- structions how to angle fiir a trout or grayling in a clear stream. Though the work was written in the short space of ten days, Cotton, who had long been familiar with fly-fishing, and was an adopted son of Izaak Walton, produced a treatise valuable for its technical knowledge and accuracy. Walton's form of conveying instruction in dialogues is also preserved, the autlmr being Piscator Junior, and his companion a traveller (Viator), wlio had paid a visit to the romantic scenery of Derbyshire, near which the residence of Cotton was situated. This traveller turns out to be the Venator of the first part, 'wholly addicted to the chase' till 'Mr Izaak Walton taught him ns good, a more quiet, iiniocent, and less dangerous diversion. The friends embrace; Piscator conducts his new associate to his ' beloved river Dove,' extends to him the hosjiitalities of liis mansion, and next morning shows him his fisliing house, inscribed ' Piscatoribus Sacrum,' with the prettily contrived' cipher including the two first letters of father Walton's name and those of his son Cotton. A delicate clear river flowed about the house, which stood on a little peninsula, witli a bowling-green close by, and fair meadows and moun- tains in the neighbourhood. The ruins of this building still remain, adding interest to the romantic and beautiful scenery on the banks of the river Dove, and recalling the memory of the venerable angler and liis disciftlc, whose genuine love of nature, atul moral and descriptive pages, have silently but powerfully infliienced the taste and literature of their native countrv. JOHN EVELYN. John Evelyn (1C20-1706). a gentleman of easy fortune, and the most amiable personal character. John EveljTi. distinguished himself by several scieitific works written in a popular stylo. His S?/lva, or a Discourse of Forest Trees, and the J'ropac/ation of Timber in kia Majesty's Domiiiious, ])ublislied in 1664, was written in conseqtience of an apjilication to the Koj'al Society by tlie commissioners of the navy, who Ireaded a scarcity of timber in the country. This \s ork, aided by the king's example, stimulated the landholders to jjlant an immense number of oak trees, which, a century after, proved of the greatest service to the nation in the construction of ships of war. Terra, a Discourse of the Earth, relatiiiij to the Culture and Improvement of it, for Vegetation and tlie Propagation of Plants, appeared in 1675 ; and a treatise on medals is another i)roduction of the venerable author. There has been jjrinted, also, a volume of his Miscellanies, including a treatise in praise of 'Public; Employment and an Active Life,' wliicli he wrote in reply to Sir George Mackenzie's ' Essay on Solitude.' Evelyn was one of the first in this country to treat garden- ing and planting scientifically ; and his grounds at Saves- Court, near Dcptford, wlwre he resided during a great part of his life, attracted much admiration, on account of the number (jf fircign plants tvhich he reared in them, and the fine order in which they were kept. Tlie czar, Feter, was tenant of that mansion after the removal of Evelyn to another estate; and the old man was mortified by the gross manner in which his bouse and garden were abused by the Russian potentate aiul bis retiinie. It was one of Peter's anuisements to demolish a ' most glorious and impenetrable holly hedge,' by riding tlirough it on a wiieelbarrow. Evelyn, throughout the greater part of his life, kept a "diary, in which he entered every remarkable event in which he was in any way concerned. This was publislied in 1818 (two volumes quarto), and proved to be a most valuable addition to our store of historical nuiterials respecting ti»e latter half ol 419 FROM 1649 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1689. the seventeenth century. Evelyn chronicles fami- liar as well as important circumstances; but he does it without loss of dignity, and everywhere preserves ^W!^,^^^^^ House of Evelyn at Deptford. the tone of an educated and reflecting man. It is curious to read, in tliis work, of great men going after dinner to attend a council of state, or the busi- ness of their particular offices, or tlie bowling-green, or even the church ; of an liour's sermon being of moderate length; of lailies ])ainting their faces being a novelty; or of their receiving visits from gentle- men whilst dressing, after liaving just risen out of bed; of the female attendant of a lady of fashion travelling on a pillion behind one of the footmen, and the footmen riding with swords. The impres- sion conveyed of the reign of Charles II. is, upon the whole, unexpected, leading to the conviction, that the dissoluteness of manners attributed to it aflected a narrower circle of society than is usually sup- posed ; and that even in tlie court there were many bright exceptions from it. Of the following extracts from the Diary, the first is given in the original spelling : — [Tlie Great Fire in London.'] 1G66. 2d Sept. This fatal night about ten began that deplorable fire near Fish Streete in London. 3d. The fire continuing, after dinner I took coach with my wife and soini and went to the Bank side in Southwark, where we beheld that dismal spectacle, the whole citty in dreadful flames near ye water side ; all the houses from the BriT re- ceived the honour of knij^lithood. He is gei.i'r.illy considered to have been the first writer wlio s^/M Ins services in di'fence of any measure, good or bad. As a controversialist, ho was bold, lively, and vigorous, but coarse, impudent, abusive, and by no means a scrupulous regardir of truth. He is known .'dso as a translator, iiaviiig produced versions of vF-sop's Fables, Seneca's Morals, Cicero's OflSces, Krasnius's 423 FROM l649 CYCLOPAEDIA OF TO J 689. Colloquies, Queveilo's Visions, and the works of Josephus. Sir Kogcr was so anxious to acoonuno- date his style to the taste of the common people, that few of his works could now be read with any plea- sure. The class whom he addressed were only begin- ning to be readers, and as yet relished nothing but the meanest ideas, presented in the meanest language. What inuuediatcly follows is a chapter of his life of .fflsop, prefixed to the translation of the Fables. ^sop's Invention to hrlnr) his Mistress bach again to her Husband after she had left him. The wife of Xanthus was well born and wealthy, but so proud and domineering withal, as if her for- tune and her extraction had entitled her to the breeches. She was horribly bold, meddling and ex- pensive (as that sort of women commonly are), easily put off the books, and monstrous hard to be pleased a.-^ain ; perpetually chattering at her husband, and ui.on all occasions of controversy threatening him to be gone. It came to this at last, that Xanthus's stock of patience being quite spent, he took up a resolution of going another way to work with her, and of trying a course of severity, since there was nothing to be done with her by kindness. But this experiment. Instead of mending the matter, made it worse ; for, upon harder usage, the woman grew des- perate, and went away from him in earnest. She was as bad, 'tis true, as bad might well be, and yet Xantlms had a kind of hankering for her still ; beside that, there was matter of interest in the case ; and a pestilent tongue she had, that the poor husband dreaded above all things under the sun. But the man was willing, however, to make the best of a bad game, and so his wits and his friends were set at work, in the fairest manner that might be, to get her home again. But there was no good to be done in it, it seems ; and Xanthus was so visibly out of humour upon it, that iEsop in pure pity bethought himself immediately how to comfort him. ' Come, master,' saj's he, ' pluck up a good heart, for I have a project in ray noddle, that shall bring my mistress to you back again, with as good a will as ever she went from you.' What does my .'Esop, but away immediately to the market among the butchers, poulterers, fish- mongers, confectioners, &c., for the best of everything Shat was in season. Nay, he takes private people in his way too, and chops into the very house of his uns- tress's relations, as by mistake. This way of proceed- ing set the whole town agog to know the meaning of all this bustle ; and yEsop innocently told everybody that his master's wife was run away from him, and he had married another ; Ins friends up and down were all invited to come and make merry with him, and this was to be the wedding feast. The news flew like lightning, and happy were they that could carry the first tidings of it to the run-away lady (for every- body knew TEsop to be a servant in that family). It gathered in the rolling, as all otlier stories do in the telling, especially where women's tongues and pas- sions have the spreading of them. The wife, that was ju her nature violent and unsteady, ordered her cha- riot to be made ready immediately, aiul away she posts back to her hvisband, falls upon him with outrages of looks and language ; and after the easing of her mind a little, ' No, Xanthus,' says slie, ' do not you Hatter 3-ourself with the hopes of enjoying another woman while 1 am alive.' Xanthus looked upon this as one of TEsop's iiiasteq)ieces ; and for that bout all was well again betwixt master and mistress. [The Popish Plot.] lowing of execrations and revenge .against the accursed bloody papists. It was imputed at first, and in the general, to the principles of the religion ; and .a Roman Catholic and a regicide were made one and the sair.e thing. Nay, it was a saying frequent in some of our great and holy mouths, that they were confident there was not so much as one soul of the whole party, within his majesty's dominions, that was not either an actor in this plot, or a friend to't. In this heat, they fell to picking up of priests and Jesuits as fast as they could catch 'em, and so went on to consult their oracles the witnesses (with all formalities of sifting and examining) upon the particulars of place, time, manner, persons, &:c. ; while Westminster Hall and the Court of Re- quests were kept warm, and ringing still of new men come in, corroborating proofs, and further discoveries, &c. Under this train and method of reasoning, the managers advanced, decently enough, to the finding out of what they themselves had laid and concerted beforehand ; and, to give the devil his due, the whole story was but a farce of so many parts, and the noisy informations no more than a lesson that they had much ado to go through with, even with the help of diligent and careful tutors, and of many and many a prompter, to bring them off at a dead lift. But popery was so dreadful a thing, and the danger of the king's life and of the Protestant religion so astonishing a surprise that people were almost bound in duty to be inconsi- derate and outrageous upon 't ; and loyalty itself would have looked a little cold and indiiferent if it had not been intemperate ; insomuch that zeal, fierce- ness, and jealousy were never more excusable than upon this occasion. And now, having excellent matter to work upon, and the passions of the people already disposed for violence and tumult, there needed no more than blowing the coal of Oates's narrative, to put all into a flame: and in the mean time, all arts and accidents were improved, as well toward the en- tertainment of the humour, as to the kindling of it. The people were first haired out of their senses with tales and jelousies, and then made judges of the danger, and consequently of the remedy ; which upon the main, and briefly, came to no more than this : The plot was laid all over the three kingdoms; France, Spain, and Portugal, taxed their quotas to't ; we were all to be burnt in our beds, and rise with our throats cut ; and no way in the Avorld but exclusion* and union to help us. The fancy of this exclusion spreai immediately, like a gangrene, over the whole body of the monarchy ; and no saving the life of his majesty without cutting off every limb of the prerogative : the device of union passed insensibly into a league of con- spiracy ; and, instead of uniting protestants against papists, concluded in an association of subjects against their sovereign, confounding policy with reli- gion. * •» ♦ I shall now pass some necessary reflections upon the whole. There never was, perhaps, since the creation of the world, so much confusion wrought by so mean, so scaiulalous, so ridiculous instruments ; lousy, greasy rogues, to he taken into the hands of princes ; porters, and the coarsest of letter-carriers, to be made the con- fidants of public ministers; starving indigent varlets, that had not credit in the world for a Brumigen groat, .and lived upon the common charity of the basket, to be a matter of seven hundred pound out of pocket in his majesty's service, as Gates and Bcdloe pretended ; sots, to find treason in words, at length in common ))Ost-letters. The four ruffians to have but twenty [lound a man for murdering the king by assault, and Sir George Wakeman fifteen thousand pound only for poisoning him, without running the fifteenth part of the risk ; n.ay, and Bedloe fifteen hundred pound for -At the first opcidng of this plot, .almost all people's * The exclusion of the heir-prosumptive, the Duke of York, bcarts took fireat it, and nothing was heard but the bel- who was a Catholic, from the throne.— iiii. 421 IL PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. DR RALPH CUDWOKTH. but Iciidiiig a hand to the helping away of a dead jus- tice : these, and a thousand incredibilities more, must be all bplieved, or the witnesses found to be most damnably forsworn, unless it were for the evidence's sake that they had credit given 'em ; for the matter of fact, under such circumstances, was morally im- possible to be true ; and for the probity of the wit- nesses, they were already as well known as the whip- ping-post, for a pack of swearing, lying, cheating, a prostitute and an abandoned sort of mercenary vil- lains : and yet such was the infatuated credulity of the common people at that season, and such the bold and shameless hj-pocrisy of the managers of that im- posture, that there was no place for either truth or honesty to appear. The inference I draw from this preposterous way of proceeding is, that the whole story, from end to end, was a practice ; that the suborners of the perjury were also the protectors and the patrons of it both under one ; and that they had their accom- plices in the House of Comirwns upon this crisis of state, that plaj^ed the same game which their fore- fathers had done upwards of forty years before. There is more good taste in the style of Sir Roger L'Estraiige's translations of ancient authors than in that of his original works. The following is a brief f xtract from his version of ' Seneca's Morals :' — l^Inc/ratltude.l The principal causes of ingratitude are pride and self-conceit, avarice, envy, &c. It is a familiar ex- clamation, ' 'Tis true, he did this or that for me, but it came so late, and it was so little, I had e'en as good have been without it : If he had not given it to mo, he must have given it to somebody else ; it was nothing out of his own pocket.' Nay, we are so ungrateful, that 'le that gives us all we have, if he leaves anything to limself, we reckon that he does us an injury. It cost lulius Coasar his life the disappointment of his un- latiable companions ; and yet he reserved nothing of ill that he got to himself, but the liberty of dispos- ng it. There is no benefit so large, but malignity ft'ill still lessen it: none so narrow, which a good •nterpretation will not enlarge. No man shall ever be grateful that views a benefit on the wrong side, or takes a good office by the wrong handle. The avari- cious man is naturally ungrateful, for he never thinks be has enough, but without considering what he has, only minds what he covets. Some pretend want of power to make a competent return, and you shall find in others a kind of gi-aceless modesty, that makes a man ashamed of requiting an obligation, because 'tis a confession that he has received one. Not to return one good ofiice for another is in- human ; but to return evil for good is diabolical. There are too many even of this sort, who, the more they owe, the more they hate. There's nothing more dangerous than to oblige those people ; for when they are con- scious of not paying the debt, they wish the creditor out of the way. It is a mortal hatred that which arises from the shame of an abused benefit. When we are on the asking side, what a deal of cringing there is, jmd profession. ' Well, I shall never forget this favour, it will be an eternal obligation to me.' Cut, within a while the note is changed, and we hear no more words ou't, till by little and little it is all quite forgotten. So long as we stand in need of a benefit, there is no- thing dearer to us ; nor anything cheaper when wo have received it. And yet a man may as well refuse to deliver up a sum of money that's left him intrust, without a suit, as not to return a good office without asking; and when we have no value any further for the benefit, we do commonly care as little for the author. People follow their interest; one man is grateful for his convenience, and another man is un- grateful for the same reason. DH RALPH CUDWORXn. I)r Ralph Cuoworth (1G17-1C88) is celebrated as a very learned divine and i)liilosop]ier of this ago. He studied at the university of Cambridge, where, during the thirty years succeeding 1645, he held the office of regius j)rofessrobable persuasion or opinion to be had of the existence of a God, without any certain knowledge or science. Nevertheless, it will not follow from lience that whosoever shall read these demonstrations of ours, and understand all the words of them, must therefore of necessity be presently convinced, wlietlier he will or no, and put out of all manner of doubt and hesitancy concerning the existence of a God. For we believe that to be true which some have affirmed, that were there any interest of life, any con- cernment of appetite and passion, against the truth of geometrical theorems themselres, as of a triangle Laving three angles equal to two right, whereby men's judgments may be clouded and bribed, notwithstand- ing all the demonstrations of them, many would re- main at least sceptical about them. [Creation.'] Because it is undeniably certain, concerning our- selves, and all imperfect beings, that none of these can create any new substance, men are apt to mea- sure all things by their own scantling, and to sup- pose it universally impossible for any power what- ever thus to create. But since it is certain that imperfect beings can themselves produce some things out of nothing pre-existing, as new cogitations, new local motion, and new modifications of things corpo- real, it is surely reasonable to think that an absolutely perfect Being can do something more, that is, create new substances, or give them their wliole being. And it may well be thought as easy for God, or an Omni- potent Being, to make a whole world, matter and all, as it is for us to create a thought or to move a finger, or for the sun to send out rays, or a candle light ; or, lastly, for an opaque body to produce an image of itself in a glass or water, or to project a shadow ; all these imperfect things being but the energies, rays, images, or shadows of the Deity. For a substance to be made out of nothing by God, or a Being infinitely perfect, is not for it to be made out of nothing in the impossible sense, because it comes from Him who is all. Nor can it be said to be impossible for anything whatever to be made by that which hath not only infinitely greater perfection, but also infinite active power. It is indeed true, that infinite power itself cannot do tilings in their own nature impossible ; and, therefore, those who deny creation, ought to prove, that it is absolutely impossible for a substance, though not for an accident or modification, to be brought from non-existence into being. But nothing is in itself impossible which does not imply contradiction ; and though it be a contradiction to be and not to be at the same time, there is surely no contradiction in conceiving an imperfect being, which before was not, afterwards to be. DR RICHARD CUMBERLAND. Dr rticHARD Cumberland (1G32-171S), another learned and amiable divine of the churcli of Eng- land, was raised by King William to the see of retcrborougli in 1688. He had previously publislied, in 1072, a Latin work, Z>e I.cglhus Naturcf^Disquisiiio Fhilusuphicu, &c. ; or, ' A Philosophical Inquiry into tlie Laws of Nature ; in which their form, order, promulgation, and obligation, are investigated from the nature of tilings ; and in whicli, also, the pliilo- sophieal principles of Ilobbes, moral as well as civil, are considered and refuted.' This modest and eru- dite, but verbose production (of whieli t« o English translations have appeared), contains many sound and at that time novel views on moral science, along witli otliers of very doubtful soundness. Tlia laws of nature he deduces from tlie results of liuman conduct, regarding that to be commanded by God wliich conduces to the liappiness of man. lie wrote also a learned Essay towards tlie Recover)/ of the Jewish Weights aiul Measures, comprehending their Monies, and a translation of Sanchoniatho's Phanician History. In tlie performance of his episcopal duties he dis- ])layed a rare degree of activity, moderation, and benevolence. Vv'lien expostulated with by liis friends on account of the great labour which he underwent, he replied, ' I will do my duty as long as I can ; a man had better wear out than rust out.' He lived, liowever, to the advanced age of eighty-six, in the enjoyment of such mental vigour, that he success- fully studied tlie Coptic language only three years before his death. [_Thc Tahei-nacle and Temple of the Jews.l The fit measures of the tabernacle and temple, to the uses of the whole nation of the Jews, demonstrate God's early care to settle his people Israel, in the form of one entire national church, under Moses, Aaron, and the other priests, who were general officers for all Israel. The church in the wilderness, mentioned by Saint Stephen (Acts vii. 38), was thus national, and is the first collective body of men called a church in the Scripture language, by a man full of the evan- gelical spirit. . Synagogues for particular neighbourhoods' conve- nience, in the public exercise of religion, were intro- duced long after, by the jiious prudence of the na- tional governors of tlie Jewish church and state, and accordingly were all subordinate to them. It is to be observed, also, that this limited place for public national worship was within their own nation, in the midst of their camp in the wilderness, in their ovn\ land in Canaan. No recourse from it to a foreign church by appeals, but all differences finally decided witliin their own nation, and therein all, even Aaron, although the high priest, and elder brother to Moses, yet was sul ject to ISIoses, who was king in Jesurun. By these means all schismatical setting up of one altar against another was prevented ; national com- munion in solemn and decent piety, with perfect cliarity, was promoted ; which being no shadows, but the most substantial concerns of religion, are to be preserved in the gospel times. Hereby is more evidently proved the magnificence. symmetry, and beauty that was in the structure of the temple ; and the liberal maintenance wliich God provided for the Levites liis ministers. For if the cubit by me projioscd determine the area both of the temple and of the priests' suburbs (as the Scripture sets them both out by cubits), they must be much longer; and if they were set out by so many .shorter cubits (sujipose cubits of If! inches), in such propor- tion as the squares of tlicso diflt'ixnt cubits bear to each other, by the liJth aud 20th ^ropositiou of 427 FROM 164J, CYCLOP^liDIA OF TO 1689. Euclid's 6'th book. But the square of these diflerent cubits are in foot measure, which is here more conve- nient, as 3, 82 to 2, 2o ; the bigger of which is near half as much more as the less. Therefore the areas of the temple, and of the priests' suburbs, are, ac- cording to m^' measure, near half as big again as they would be if determined by that shorter cubit. Such greatness of the temple Solomon intimates to the kii:g of Tyre to be requisite, as best suiting with the greatness of God (2 Chronicles ii. .5). This reason, alleged by Solomon to a heathen, must be of moral or natural, and therefore perpetual force, continuing to ^^•angelical times ; and therefore intimating to us, that even now magnificent and stately buildings are useful means to signify what great and honourable thoughts we hare of God, and design to promote in those that come to the places of his public worship. And from God's liberal provision of land in the Levites' suburbs, besides other advantages, we are taught by Saint Paul, that even so those that preach the gospel should live of the gospel (1 Cor. ix. 14). The fitness, safety, and honour of keeping to the use of such indifferent things, as have been deter- mined by law or custom, is clearly proved b\' the constancy' of Israel's using those measures (although others might be assigned as the Greek or Roman measures, to serve the same ends) from the time of Moses, and probably before, to the captivity and after. And this, notwithstanding they were used by the Eg}-ptians and Canaanites, which altered not their nature in the least. .And this instance proves un- deniably that such inditferent practices, as the use of the measures, may be highly useful to the greatest moral duties, the public honour of God, and the pre- sen-ation of justice among them. The church of England has at no period produced so many great divines as during that to wliich our attention is at present directed. Barrow, Tillotson, Stillingfleet, Sherlock, and South, who flourished during this era, were not only eminent preachers in their day, but have since continued to stand in the very first rank of e.Kcellence as writers on theology. DR ISAAC BARROVC Dr Isaac Barrow, the son of a linen-draper of London, was born in 1630, and at school was more remarkable for a love of fighting than for attention to his books. He studied at Cambridge for the church ; but perceivipg, at the time of the connnon- wealth, that the ascendency of theological and poli- tical opinions different from his own gave him little chance of preferment, he turned liis views to the medical profession, and engaged in the study of anatomy, botany, and cliemistry. After some time, however, he resumed his theo'logical pursuits, de- voting also much attention to mathematics and astronomy. In 1655, having been disappointed in his hopes of obtaining the Greek professorship at Cam- bridge, he went abroad for several years, during which he visited France. Italy, Smvrna, Constan- tinople, Germany, and Holland. At the Turkish capital, where he spent twelve months, he studied with great delight the works of St Chrysostom, which were composed in that city. Barrow returned to England in 1659, and in the following year ob- tained, without opposition, the professorship for which he had formerly been a candidate ; to which appointment was added, in 1662, that of ])rofessor of geometry in Greshani college, London. Both these he resigned in 1663, on becoming Lucasian professor of roatiiematics in Cambridge university. After fill- ing the last of these offices with great ability for six years, towards the end of which he published a valuable and pr^fdund work on optics, he resolved to devote himself more exclusively to theology, and in 1669 resigned his chair to Isaac Newton. He Dr Isaac Barrow. was subsequently appointed one of the royal chap lains ; and in 1672 was nominated to the mastership of Trinity college by the king, who observed on the occasion, that ' he had bestowed it on the best scholar in England.' To complete his honours, he was, in 1675. chosen vice-chancellor of the university ; but this final appointment he survived only two years, having been cut off by fever in 1677. at the age of forty-six. Dr Barrow was distinguished by scrupu- lous integrity of character, with great candour, modesty, disinterestedness, and mental serenity. His manners and external aspect were more fliose of a student than of a man of the world ; and he took no pains to improve his looks by attention to dress. On an occasion when he preached before a London audience who did not know him, his appear- ance on mounting the pulpit made so unfavourable an impression, that nearlj- the whole congregation immediately left the church. He never was married. Of his powers and attainments as a mathemati- cian (in which capacity he is accounted inferior to Sir Isaac Newton alone), Barrow has left evidence in a variety of treatises, nearly all of which are in the Latin tongue. It is, however, bj- his theological works that he is more generally known to the public. These, consisting of sermons — expositions of the Creed, the Lord's prayer, the Decalogue, and the Doctrine of the Sacraments — and treatises on the pope's supremacy and the unity of the church — were published in three folio volumes a few j-ears after his death. His sermons continue in high estimation for depth and copiousness of thought, and nervous though unpolished eloquence. 'As a writer,' says Mr Stewart, 'he is equally distinguished by the re- dundancy of his matter, and bj' the pregnant brevity of his expression ; but what more peculiarly charac terises his manner, is a certain air of powerful and of conscious facility ii' the execution of whatever he undertakes. Whether the subject be mathematical, metaphysical, or theological, he seems always tc bring to it a mind which feels itself superior to the occasion ; and wliich, in contending with the greatest diflBculties, " puts forth but half its strength." '* He * First Prfcliminary Dissertation to Encyclopsedia Britannica p. 45. 42s PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. DR ISAAC BARROW. composed with such care, that in general it was not till he had transcribed his sermons three or four times, that their language satisfied him, Tlie length of his discourses was unusually great, seldom less than an hour and a-half being occupied in tlie de- livery. It is recorded, tliat having occasion to preach a charity sermon before the lord mayor and aldermen of London, he spoke for three liours and a- half ; and that wlien asked, on coming down from the pulpit, whether he was not tired, he replied, ' Yes, indeed, I began to be weary with standing so long.' The influence of tlie intellectual fertility which this anecdote strikingly illustrates, is seen in the composition of his sermons ; for tlie coitiousness of liis thouglits seems to overpower him in giving them expression, and in this way is apt to render his sentences parenthetical and involved. Barrow's style is less poetical than that of Jeremy Taylor. \_The ExceUency of the Christian Rdigion.'] * * Another peculiar excellency of our religion is, that it prescribes an accurate rule of life, most agree- able to reason and to our nature, most conducive to our welfare and content, tending to procure each man's ][)rivate good, and to promote the public benefit of all, by the strict obsei-vance whereof we bring our human nature to a resemblance of the divine ; and we shall also thereby obtain God's favour, oblige and benefit men, and procure to ourselves the conveniences of a sober life, and the pleasure of a good conscience. For if we examine the precepts which i-espect our duty to God, what can be more just, pleasant, or beneficial to us, than are those duties of piety which our religion enjoins ? What is more fit and reasonable, than that we should most highly esteem and honour him, who is most excellent ? that we should bear the sincerest affec- tion for him, who is perfect goodness himself, and most beneficial to us ? that we should have the most awful dread of him, that is infinitely powerful, holy, and just 1 that we should be very grateful to him, from whom we received our being, with all the comforts and conveniences of it ? that we should entirely trust and hope iu him, who can and will do whatever we may in reason expect from his goodness, nor can he ever fail to perform his promises ? that we should render all due obedience to him, whose children, sciwants, and subjects we are ? Can there be a higher privilege than to have liberty of access to him, who will favour- ably hear, and is fully able to supply our wants ? Can we desire to receive benefits on easier terms than the asking for them 1 Can a more gentle satisfaction for our offences be required than confessing of them, re- pentance, and strong resolutions to amend them \ The practice of such a piety, of a service so reasonable, cannot but be of vast advantage to us, as it procures peace of conscience, a comfortable hope, a freedom from all terrors and scruples of mind, from all tor- menting cares and anxieties. And if we consider the precepts by which our reli- gion regulates our carriage and behaviour towards our neighbours and brethren, what can be imagined so good and useful as those which the gospel affords ? It enjoins us sincerely and tenderly to love one an- other ; earnestly to desire and delight in each other's good ; heartily to sympathise with all the evils and Borrows of our brethren, readily affording them all the help and comfort we are able ; willingly to part with our substance, ease, and pleasure, for their benefit and relief; not confining this our charity to particular friends and relations, but, in conformity to the bound- less goodness of Almighty God, extending it to all. It requires us mutually to bear with one another's in- firmities, mildly to resent and freely remit all in- I'uries; retaining no grudge, nor executing no revenge, lut requiting our enemies with good wishes and good deeds. It commands us to be quiet in our stationai diligent iu our callings, true in our words, u]iright in our dealings, observant of our relatinns, obedient and respectful to our superiors, meek and gentle to our in- feriors, modest and lowly, ingenuous and condescend- ing in our conversation, candid in our censures, and innocent, inoffensive, and obliging in our behaviour towards all persons. It enjoins us to root out of our hearts all envy and malice, all pride and haughtiness ; to restrain our tongues from all slander, detraction, reviling, bitter and harsh language ; not to injure, hurt, or needlessly trouble our neighbour. It engages us to prefer the public good before our own opinion, humour, advantage, or convenience. And woukl men observe and practise what this excellent doctrine teaches, how sociable, secure, and pleasant a life we might lead ! what a paradise would this world then become, in comparison to what it now is? If we further survey t!ie laws and directions of our religion, with regard to the management of our souls and bodies, we shall also find that nothing could be devised more worthy of us, more agreeable to reason, or more productive of our welfare. It obliges us to preserve unto our reason its natural prerogative and due empire ; not to suffer the brutish part to usurp and domineer over us ; not to be enslaved to bodily temper, or deluded by vain i\incy, to commit that which is unworthy of, or mischievous to us. It enjoins us to have sober and moderate thouglits concerninjj ourselves, suitable to our total dependence on God, to our natural meanness, weakness, and sinful inclina- tions ; and that we should not be puffed up witli self- conceit, or vain confidence in our wealth, honour, and prosperity. It directs us to compose our minds into a calm, serene, and cheerful state ; that we should not easily be moved with anger, distracted with care oi trouble, nor disturbed with any accident ; but that we should learn to be content in eveiy condition, and patiently bear all events that may happen to us. It commands us to restrain our appetites, to be temperate in our enjoyments ; to abstain from all irregular plea- sures which may corrupt our minds, impair our liealth, lessen our estate, stain our good name, or prejudice our repose. It doth not prohibit us the use of any creature that is innocent, convenient, or delightful ; but indulgeth us a prudent and sober use of them, so as we are thankful to God, whose goodness bestows them. It orders us to sequester our minds from the fading glories, unstable possessions, and vanisliing de- lights of this world ; things which are unworthy the attention and affection of an immortal spirit ; and that we should fix our thoughts, desires, and endea- vours on heavenly and spiritual objects, which are infinitely pure, stable, and durable ; not to love the world and the things therein, but to cast all our care on God's providence ; not to trust in uncei-tain riches, but to have our treasure, our heart, hope, ami conver- sation in heaven. And as our religion deliiers a most excellent and perfect rule of life, so it chiefly requires from us a rational and spiritual service. The ritual observances it enjoins are in number few, in nature easy to perform, also very reasonable, decent, and use- ful ; apt to instruct us in, and excite us to the practice of our duty. And our religion hath this farther pecu- liar advantage, that it sets before us a living copy of good practice. Example yields the most compendious instruction, the most efficacious incitement to action ; and never was there any example so perfect in itself, so fit for our imitation, as that of our blessed Saviour, intended by him to conduct us through all the parts of duty, especially in those most high and difficult ones, that of charity, self-denial, humility, and jiatience. Ilia practice was suited to all degrees and capacities of men, and so tempered, that persons of all callings might easily follow him in the paths of righteousness, in the performance of all substantial duties towards 429 KROM 1649 C3YCL0PJEDIA OF TO 1689. God and man. It is also an example attended with the greatest obligations and inducements to follow it, whether we consider the great excellency and dignity of the person (who was the most holy Son of God), or our manifold relations to him, being our lord and master, our best friend and most gracious redeemer ; or the inestimable benefits we have received from him, even redemption from extreme misery, and being put into a capacity of the most perfect happiness ; all which are so many potent arguments engaging us to imitate him. Ao'ain, our religion doth not only fully acquaint us with our duty, but, which is another peculiar virtue thereof, it builds the same on the most solid founda- licn. Indeed, ancient philosophers have highly com- jnended virtue, and earnestly recommended the prac- tice of it ; but the grounds on which they laid its praise, and the arguments used to enforce its practice, were very weak ; also the principles from whence it was deduced, and the ends they proposed, were poor and mean, if compared with ours. But the Christian doctrine recommends goodness to us not only as agree- able to man's imperfect and fallible reason, but as conformable to the perfect goodness, infallible wisdom, and most holy will of God ; and which is enjoined us by this unquestionable authority, as our indispensable duty, and the only way to happiness. The principles from whence it directs our actions are lore, reverence, lind gratitude to God, good-will to men, and a due regard to our own welfare. The ends which it pre- scribes are God's honour and the salvation of men ; it excites us to the practice of virtue, by reminding us that we shall thereby resemble the supreme goodness, express our gratitude to our great benefactor, dis- charge our duty to our almighty lord and king ; that we shall thereby avoid the wrath and displeasure of God, and certainly obtain his favour, mercy, and every blessing necessary for us ; that we shall escape not only the terrors of conscience here, but future end- less misery and torment ; that we shall procure not only present comfort and peace of mind, but acquire crowns of everlasting glory and bliss. These are the firmest grounds on which virtue can subsist, and the most effectual motives to the embracing of it. Another peculiar advantage of Christianity, and which no other law or doctrine could ever pretend to, is, that as it clearly teaches and strongly persuades us to so excellent a way of life, so it sufficiently enables us to practise it ; without which, such is the frailty of our nature, that all instruction, exhortation, and encouragement would little avail. The Christian law is no dead letter, but hath a quickening spirit attending it. It sounds the ear and strikes the heart of him who sincerely embraces it. To all good men it is a sure guide, and safety from all evil. If our minds are dark or doubtful, it directs us to a faithful oracle, where we may receive counsel and information ; if our passions and appetites are unruly and outrage- ous, if temptations are violent and threaten to overbear us, it leads us to a full magazine, where we may supply ourselves with all proper arms to withstand and sub- due them. If our condition is disconsolate or despe- rate, here we may apply for relief and assistance ; for on our earnest seeking and asking, it offers us the wisdom and power of God himself to direct, assist, support, and comfort us in all exigencies. To them who with due fervency and constancy a lively briskness of humour, not apt to damp those sportful flashes of imagination. Whence in Aristotle such persons are termed epidexioi, dexterous men ; and tutroj}"!, men of facile or versa- tile manners, who can easily turn themselves to all things, or turn all things to tliemselves. It also pro- cureth delight, by gratifying curiosity with its rare- ness or semblance of difficulty; as monsters, not for their beauty, but their rarity ; as juggling tricks, not for their use, but their abstruseness, are behebl with pleasure, by diverting the mind from its road of serious thoughts ; by instilling gaiety and airiness of spirit; by provoking to such dispositions of spirit in way of emulation or complaisance ; and by seasoning matters, otherwise distasteful or insipid, with an unusual and thence grateful tang. [ Wise Selection of Pkasu7-es.] "Wisdom is exci'edingly pleasant and peaceable ; in general, by disposing us to acquire and to enjoy all the good delight and ]u;ppiness we are capable of; and by freeing us from all the inconveniences, mis- chiefs, and infelicities our condition is subject to. For whatever good from clear understanding, deliberate advice, sagacious foresight, stable resolution, dexter- ous address, right intention, and orderly proceeding, doth naturally result, wisdom coiifers : whatever evil blind ignorance, false presumption, unwary credulity, precipitate rashness, unsteady purpose, ill contrivance, backwardness, inability, unwieldiness and confusion of thought beget, wisdom prevents. From a thousand snares and treacherous allurements, from innumerablf rocks and dangerous sui-priscs, from exceedingly many needless incumbrances and vexatious toils of fruitless endeavours, she redeems and secures us. Wisdom instructs us to examint compare, and rightly to value the objects that court our affections and challenge our care ; and thereby regulates our passions and moderates our endeavours, which begets a pleasant serenity and peaceable tranquillity of mind. For when, being deluded with false shews, and relying upon ill-grounded presumptions, we highly esteem, passionatelj' affect, and eagerly pursue vhings of little wortli in themselves or concernment to us ; as we unhandsomel}' prostitute our affections, and prodigally mispend our time, and v.iinly lose oui labour, so the event not answering our expectation, our minds thereby .are confounded, disturbed, and distempered. But when, guided by right reason, we conceive grea,t esteem of, and zealously are enamoured with, and vigorously strive to attain, things of excel- lent worth and weighty consequence, the conscience of having well placed our affections and will emjiloyed our pains, and the experience of fruits c\ rresponding to our hopes, i-avislics our minds with uhcxpres>il)lo content. And so it is: present a]ipearance and v:.l- gar conceit ordinarily impose upon our fancies, dis- guising things with a deceitful varnish, and rojiie- senting those that are vainest with the grcalesfc advantage; whilst the noblest objects, being of a more subtle and spiritual nature, like fairest jiwuls enclosed in a homely box, avoid the notice of gross sense, and j)ass undiscerned by us. But the light of wisdom, as it unmasks specious imposture, ami be- reaves it of its false colours, so it penetrates into the retirements of true excellency, and reveals itsgeuuins lustre. [Grief Controlled hy Wisdom. ~\ Wisdom makes all the troubles, griefs, and pauis 431 r FROM 1649 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 16S9. incident to life, whether casual adversities or natural afflictions, easy and supportable, by rightly valuing the importance and moderating the influence of them. It suflers not busy fancy to alter the nature, amplify the detrree, or extend the duration of them, by repre- senting them more sad, heavy, and remediless than thev truly are. It allows them no force beyond what naturally and necessarily they have, nor contributes nourishment to their increase. It keeps them at a due distance, not permitting them to encroach upon the soul, or to propagate their influence beyond their proper sphere. [Honmir to God.'] God is honoured by a willing and careful practice of all pietj' and virtue for conscience' sake, or an avowed obedience to his holy will. This is the most natural expression of our reverence towards him, and the most effectual way of promoting the same in others. A subject cannot better demonstrate the re- verence he bears towards his prince, than by (with a cheerful diligence) observing his laws ; for by so doing, he declares that he acknowledgeth the autho- rity "and revereth the majesty which enacted them ; that he approves the wisdom v.hich devised them, and the goodness which designed them for public benefit ; that he dreads his prince's power, which can maintain them, and his justice, which will vindicate them ; that he relies upon his fidelity in making good what of protection or of recompense he propounds to the observers of them. No less pregnant a signification of our reverence towards God do we yield in our gladly and strictly obeying his laws, thereby evi- dencing our submission to God's sovereign authority, our esteem of his wisdom and goodness, our a^rful regard to his power and justice, our confidence in him, and dependence upon his word. The goodliness to the sight, the pleasantness to the taste, which is ever perceptible in those fruits which genuine piety beareth, the beauty men see in a calm mind and a sober conversation, the sweetness they taste from ■works of justice and charity, will certainly produce veneration to the doctrine that teacheth such things, and to the authority which enjoins them. We shall especially honour God by discharging faithfully those offices which God hath intrusted us with ; by improv- ing diligently those talents which God hath conmiitted to us ; by using carefully those means and opportu- nities which God hath vouchsafed us of doing him service and promoting his glory. Thus, he to whom God hath given wealth, if he expend it, not to the nourishment of pride and luxury, not only to the gratifying his own pleasure or humour, but to the furtherance of God's honour, or to the succour of his indigent neighbour, in any pious or charitable way, he doth thereby in a special manner honour God. He also on whom God hath bestowed wit and parts, if he employ them not so much in contriving projects to advance his own petty interests, or in procuring vain applause to himself, as in advantageously setting forth God's praise, handsomely recommending goodness, dexterously engaging men in ways of virtue, he doth thereby rt'markably honour God. He likewise that hath honour conferred upon him, if he subordinate it to God's honour, if he use his owi credit as an instru- ment of bringing credit to goodness, thereby adorning and illustrating piety, he by so doing doth eminently practise this duty. [TJie Goodness of God.} Wherever we direct our eyes, whether we reflect them inward upon ourselves, we behold his goodness to occupy and penetrate the very root and centre of our beings ; or extend them abroad towards the things •bout ust we may perceive ourselves enclosed wholly, and surrounded with his benefits. At home, we find a comely body framed by his curious artifice, various organs fitly proportioned, situated and tempered for strength, ornament, and motion, actuated by a gentle heat, and invigorated with lively spirits, disposed to health, and qualified for a long endurance ; subser- vient to a soul endued with divers senses, faculties, and powers, apt to inquire after, pursue, and perceive various delights and contents. Or when we contem- plate the wonderful works of nature, and, walking about at our leisure, gaze upon this ample theatre of the world, considering the stately beauty, constant order, and sumptuous furniture thereof, the glorious splendour and uniform motion of the heavens, the pleasant fertility of the earth, the curious figure and fragrant sweetness of plants, the exquisite frame of animals, and all other amazing miracles of nature, wherein the glorious attributes of God (especially his transcendent goodness) are most conspicuously dis- played (so that by them not only large acknowledg- ments, but even congratulatory hymns, as it were, of praise, have been extorted from the mouths of Ais- totle, Pliny, Galen, and such like men, never sus- pected guilty of an excessive devotion), then should our hearts be affected with thankful sense, and our lips break forth into his praise. [Charihj.l Is any man fallen into disgrace ? charity doth hold down its head, is abashed and out of counteiuiT< — partaking of his shame. Is any man disappointea o/ his hopes or endeavours ? charit}' crieth out, alas ! as if it were itself defeated. Is any man afflicted with pain or sickness? charity looketh sadly, it sighetli and groaneth, it fainteth and languisheth with him. Is .eif innocency when tliey do virtuously, but are a.>iiia?ned and out of countenance when they do the contrary. Now, glory and sljame are nothing else but an appeal 435 FROM 1649 CYCLOP-^DIA OF ic 1689. to the judgment of others concerning the good or evil of our actions. ' There are, indeed, some such mon- sters as are impudent in their impieties, but these are but few in comparison. Generally, mankind is modest ; the greatest part of those who do evil are apt to blush at their owi faults, and to confess them in their coun- tenance, which is an acknowledgment that they are not only guilty to themselves that they have done amiss, but that they are apprehensive that others think so ; for guilt is a passion respecting ourselves, but shame regards others. Now, it is a sign of shame that men love to conceal their faults from others, and commit them secretly in the dark, and without wit- nesses, and are afraid even of a child or a fool ; or if they be discovered in them, they are solicitous to ex- cuse and extenuate them, and ready to lay the fault upon anybody else, or to transfer their guilt, or as much of it as they can, upon others. All which are certain tokens that men are not only naturally guilty to themselves when they commit a fault, but that they are sensible also what opinions others have of these things. And, on the contrary, men are apt to stand upon their justification, and to glory when they have done well. The conscience of a man's own virtue and in- tegrity lifts up his head, and gives him confidence before others, because he is satisfied they have a good opinion of his actions. What a good face does a man naturally set upon a good deed ! And how does he sneak when he hath done wickedly, being sensible that he is condemned by others, as well as by himself! No man is afraid of being upbraided for having dealt iionestly or kindly with others, nor does he account it any calumny or reproach to have it reported of him that he is a sober and chaste man. No man blusheth when he meets a man with whom he hath kept his word and discharged his trust ; but every man is apt to do so when he meets one with whom he has dealt dishonestly, or who knows some notorious crime by him. 3. Vice is generally forbidden and punished by human laws ; but against the contrary virtues there never was any law. Some vices are so manifestly evil in themselves, or so mischievous to human society, that the laws of most nations have taken care to dis- countenance them by severe penalties. Scarce any nation was ever so barbarous as not to maintain and vindicate the honour of their gods and religion by public laws. Murder and adultery, rebellion and sedition, perjury and breach of trust, fraud and op- pression, are vices severely prohibited by the laws of most nations — a clear indication what opinion the generality of mankind and the wisdom of nations have always had of these things. But now, against the contrary virtues there never was any law. No man was ever impeached for ' living soberly, righteously, and godly in this present world' — a plain acknowledgment that mankind always thought them good, and never were sensible of the inconvenience of them ; for had they been so, they would have provided against them by laws. This St Paul takes notice of as a great coramcTidation of the Christian virtues — ' The fruit of tlie Spirit is love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, kindness, fidelity, meekness, temperance ; against such there is no law ;' the greatest evidence that could be given that these things are unquestionably good in the esteem of man- kind, ' against such there is no law.' As if he had eaid. Turn over the law of Moses, search those of Athens and Sparta, and the twelve tables of the Ro- mans, and those innumerable laws that have been added since, and you shall not in any of them find any of those virtues that I have mentioned condemned and forbidden— a clear evidence that mankind never took any exception against them, but are generally agreed about the goodness of them. lEvidence of a Creator in the Structure of the World."] How often might a man, after he had jumbled a set of letters in a bag, fling them out upon the ground before they would fall into an exact poem, yea, or so much as make a good discourse in prose ! And may not a little book be as easily made by chance, as this great volume of the world 1 How long might a man be in sprinkling colours upon a canvass with a care- less hand, before they could happen to make the exact picture of a man ? And is a man easier made by chance than his picture? How long might twenty thousand blind men, which should be sent out from the several remote parts of England, wander up and down before they would all meet upon Salisbury Plains, and fall into rank and file in the exact order of an army ? And yet this is much more easy to be imagined, than how the innumerable blind parts of matter should rendezvous themselves ii-to a world. \_Sin and Holiness.'] A state of sin .and holiness are not like two ways that are just parted by a line, so as a man may step out of the one full into the other; but they are like two ways that lead to very distant places, and conse" quently are at a good distance from one another ; and the farther a man hath travelled in the one, the farther he is from the other ; so that it requires time and pains to pass from one to the other. [Resolution necessary in foi'saking Vice.] He that is deeply engaged in vice, is like a man laid fast in a bog, who, by a faint and lazy struggling to get out, does but spend his strength to no purjwse, and sinks himself the deeper into ic : the only way is, by a resolute and vigorous effort to spring out, if pos- sible, at once. When men are sorely urged and pressed, they find a power in themselves which they thought they had not : like a coward driven up to a wall, who, in the extremity of distress and despair, will fight terribly, and perform wonders ; or like a man lame of the gout, who, being assaulted by a pre- sent and terrible danger, forgets his disease, and will find his legs rather than lose his life. [Singidarity.] To be singular in anything that is wise, worthy, and excellent, is not a disjjaragement, but a praise : every man would choose to be thus singular. * * To act otherwise, is just as if a man, upon great deliberation, should rather choose to be drowned than to be saved by a plank or a small boat, or to be carried into the harbour any other way than in a great ship of so many hundred tons. [Commencertvent of a Vicious Course.] At first setting out upon a vicious course, men are a little nice and delicate, like young travellers, who at first are ofi'ended at every speck of dirt that lights upon them ; but after they have been accustomed to it, and have travelled a good while in foul ways, it ceaseth to be troublesome to them to be dashed and bespattered. * * When we bend a thing at first, it will endeavour to restore itself; but it may be held bent so long, till it will continue so of itself, and grow crooked ; and then it may require more force and violence to reduce it to its former straightuess than we used to make it crooked at first. [77(6 Moral Feelings Instinctive.] [God hath discovered our duties to us] by a kind of natural instinct, by which I mean a secret impression 436 PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. EDWARD SriLLlNGFLEET. upon the minds of men, whereby they are naturally carried to approve some things as good and fit, and to dislike other things, as having a native evil and de- formity in them. And this I call a natural instinct, because it does not seem to proceed so much from the exercise of our reason, as from a natural propension and inclination, like those instincts which are in brute creatures, of natural affection and care toward their young ones. And that these inclinations are precedent to all reason and discourse about them, evi- dently appears by this, that they do put forth them- selves every whit as vigorously in young persons as in those of riper reason ; in the rude and ignorant sort of people, as in those who are more polished and re- fined. For we see plainly that the young and igno- rant have as strong impressions of piety and devotion, as true a sense of gratitude, and justice, and pity, as the wiser and more knowing part of mankind. A plain indication, that the reason of mankind is pre- vented* by a kind of natural instinct and anticipation concerning the good or evil, the comeliness or defor- mity, of these things. And though this do not equally extend to all the instances of our duty, yet as to the great lines and essential parts of it, mankind hardly need to consult any other oracle than the mere pro- pensions and inclinations of their nature ; as, whether we ought to reverence the divine nature, to be grate- ful to those who have conferred benefits upon us, to speak the truth, to be faithful to our promise, to re- store that which is committed to us in trust, to pitv and relieve those that are in misery, and in all things to (? 1 to others as we would have them do to us. [^Splrltual Pride.'\ Nothing is more common, and more to be pitied, than to see with what a confident contempt and Econiful pity some ill-instructed and ignorant people will lament the blindness and ignorance of those who have a thousand times more true knowledge and skill than themselves, not only in all other things, but even in the practice as well as knowledge of the Christian religion ; believing those who do not relish their affected phrases and uncouth forms of speech to be ignorant of the mystery of the gospel, and utter strangers to the life and power of godliness. \_Education.'\ Such ways of education as are prudently fitted to the particular disposition of children, are like wind and tide togeth^^r, which will make the work go on amain : but th )se ways which are applied cross to nature are like wind against tide, which will make a stir and conflict, but a veiy slow progress. The principles of religion and virtue must be in- stilled and dropped into them by such degrees, and in such a measure, a,s they are capable of receiving them : for children are narrow-mouthed vessels, and a great deal cannot be poured into them at once. Young years are tender, and easily wrought upon, apt to be moulded into any fashion: they are like moist and soft clay, which is pliable to any form ; but soon grows hard, and then nothing is to be made of it. Great severities do often work an effect quite con- trary to that which was intended ; and many times those who were bred up in a very severe school hate learning ever after for the sake of the cruelty that was used to force it upon them. So likewise an endeavour to bring children to piety and goodness by unreason- able strictness and rigour, does often beget in them a lasting disgust and prejudice against religion, and teacheth them to hate virtue, at the same time that they teach them to know it. * The word prevented is here used in the obsolete sense of anticipated. — Ed. EDWARD STILLINGFLEET. Edward Stillingfleet (1635-1699) distin- guished himself in early life by his writings in defence of the doctrines of the church. The title of his jirincipal work is Origines Sacra; or a liational Account of the Grounds of Natural and Revealed Religion. His abilities and extensive learning caused him to be raised in 1689 to the dignity of bishop of Worcester. Towards the end of his life, he published A Defence of the Doctrine of the Trinity, in which some passages in Locke's p:ssay on the Human Understanding were attacked as subversive of fun- damental doctrines of Christianity ; but in the con- troversy which ensued, the philosopher was gene- rally held to have come off victorious. So great was the bishop's chagrin at this result, that it was thought to have hastened his death. The promi- nent matters of discussion in this controversy were the resurrection of the body and the immateriality of the soul. On these r-oints Locke argued, that although the resurrect) .n of the dead is revealed in Scripture, the re-animation of the identical bodies which inhabited this world is not revealed; and that even if tlie soul were proved to be material, this would not imply its mortality, since an Omnipotent Creator may, if he pleases, impart the faculty of thinking to matter as well as to spirit. The dispu- tation was carried on by Locke with much more gentleness and good temper than by Stillingfleet, who displayed considerable captiousness aud asperity towards his opponent. Fifty of Stillingfleet's sermons, published after his death, deservedly bear a high character for good sense, sound morality, energy of style, and the know- ledge of human nature which they display. Extracts from two of them are subjoined. \_Tni.e Wisdora.l That is the truest wisdom of a man which doth most conduce to the happiness of life. For msdom as it refers to action, lies in the proposal of a right end, and the choice of the most proper means to attain it : which end doth not refer to any one part of a man's life, but to the whole as taken together. He therefore only deserves the name of a wise man, not that con- siders how to be rich and great when he is poor and mean, nor how to be well when he is sick, ni. r how to escape a present danger, nor how to compass a parti- cular design ; but he that considers the whole course of his life together, and what is fit for him to make the end of it, and by what means he may best enjoy the happiness of it. I confess it is one great part of a wise man never to propose to himself too much hap- piness here ; for whoever doth so is sure to find him- self deceived, and consequently is so much more miserable iis he fails in his greatest expectations. But since God did not make men on purpose to be miser- able, since there is a great difference as to men's con- ditions, since that difference depends very nmch on their own choice, there is a great deal of reason to place true wisdom in the choice of those things which tend most to the comfort and happiness of life. That which gives a man the greatest satisfaction in what he doth, and either prevents, or lessens, or makes him more easily bear the troubles of life, doth the most conduce to the happiness of it. It was a bold saying of Epicurus, ' That it is more desirable to be miserable by acting according to reason, than to b« happy in going against it ;' and I cannot tell how it can well agree with his notion of felicity : but it is a certain truth, that in the consideration of happiness, the satisfaction of a man's own mind doth weigh down all the external accidents of life. For, suppr st a man to hiive riches and honours as great as Aha'. have a large share and por- tion of it, others have nothing but what they can earn by ver}' hard labour, or extort from other men's cha- rity by their restless importunities, or gain by more ungodly arts. Now, though the rich and prosperous, who have the world at command, and live in ease and pleasure, would be very well contented to spend some hundred years in this world, yet I should think fifty or threescore years abundantly enough for slaves and beggars ; enough to s])eiid in hunger and want, in a jail and a prison. And those who are so foolish as not to think this enough, owe a great deal to the wis- dom and goodness of God that he does. So that the greatest part of mankind have great reason to be con- tented with the shortness of life, because they have no temptation to wish it longer. 2dly, The present state of this world requires a more quick succession. The world is pretty well peopled, and is divided amongst its present inhabitants ; and but ver}' few, in comparison, as I observed before, have any considerable share in the division. Now, let us but suppose that all our ancestors, who lived a hundred or two hundred years ago, were alive still, and pos- sessed their old estates and honours, what had become of this present generation of men, who have now taken their places, and make as great a show and bustle in the world as they did ? And if you look back three, or four, or five hundred years, the case is still so much the worse ; the world would be overpeopled; and where there is one poor miserable man now, there must have been five hundred ; or the world must have been com- mon, and all men reduced to the same h v'el ; which, I believe, the rich and happy pco])le, who are so fond of long life, would not like very well. This would utterly undo our young prodigal heirs, were their hopes of succession three or four hundred years oft', who, as short as life is now, think their fathers make very little haste to their graves. This would spoil theii trade of spending their estates before they have them, and make them live a dull sober life, whether they would or no ; and such a life, I know, they don't think worth having. And therefore, 1 hope at least they will not make the shortness of their fathers' lives an argument against j)rovidence ; and yet such kind of sparks as these are commonly the wits that set up for atheism, and, when it is put into their headi, quarrel with everything which they fondly conceivo will weaken the belief of a God :ind a j)rovidence, and, among other things, with the shortness of life ; which they have little reason to do, when they so often outlive their estates. 3dly. The world is very bad as it is ; so bad, that good men scarce know how to spend fifty or threescore years in it ; but consider how bad it would probably be, were the life of man extended to six, seven, or eight hundred years. If so near a prusjject of the other world, as forty or fifty years, cannot restrain men from the greatest villanies, what would they do if they 439 FROM 1G49 CYCLOPEDIA OF Tf) Jfi'tS coultl as reasonably sujtpose death to be three or four hundred years oft? If men make such im])rovementR in wickedness in twenty or thirty years, what would ^hey do in hundreds ? And what a blessed place then would this world be to live in! We see in the old world, when the life of men was drawn out to so great a length, the wickedness of mankind grew so insutt'er- able, that it repented God he had made man ; and he resolved to destroy that whole generation, excepting Noah and his family. And the most probable account that can be given how they came to grow so univer- sally wicked, is the long and prosperous lives of such wicked men, who by degrees corrupted others, and they others, till there was but one righteous family left, and no other remedy left but to destroy them all ; leaving only that righteous family as the seed and future hopes of the new world. And when God had determined in himself, iind pro- mised to Noah never to destroy the world again by such an universal destruction, till the last and final judgment, it was necessary by degrees to shorten the lives of men, which was the most effectual means to make them more governable, and to remove bad ex- amples out of the world, which would hinder the spreading of the infection, and people and reform the ■world again by new examples of piety and virtue. For when there are such quick successions of men, there are few ages but have some great and brave ex- amples, which give a new and better spirit to the world. [Advantages of our Ignorance of tlie Time of Death.] For a conclusion of this argument, I shall briefly vindicate the wisdom and goodness of God, in con- cealing from us the time of our death. This we are very apt to complain of, that our lives are so very un- certain, that we know not to-day but that we may die to-morrow ; and we would be mighty glad to meet with any one who would certainly inform us in this matter, how long we are to live. But if we think a little better of it, we shall be of another mind. For, 1st. Though I presume many of you would be glad to know that you shall certainly live twenty, or thirty, or forty years longer, yet would it be any com- fort to know that you must die to-morrow, or some few months, or a year or two hence ? which may be your case for ought you know ; and this, I believe, you are not very desirous to know ; for how would this chill your blood and spirits ! How would it overcast all the pleasures and comforts of life ! You would spend your d.ays like men under the sentence of death, while the execution is suspended. Did all men, who must die young, certainly know it, it would destroy the industry and improvements of half mankind, which would half destroy the world, or be an insupportable mischief to human societies ; for what man, who knows that he nmst die at twenty, or five-and-twenty, a little sooner or later, would trouble himself with ingenious or gainful arts, or con- cern himself any more with this world, than just to live so long in it ? And yet, how necessary is the ser- vice of such men in the world ! What great things do they many times do ! and what great improve- ments do they make ! Ilow pleasant and diverting is their conversation, while it is innocent ! How do they enjoy themselves, and give life and spirit to the graver age ! How thin would our schools, our shops, our universities, and all places of education be, did they know how little time many of them were to live in the world ! For would such men concern them- selves to learn the arts of living, who must die as soon as they have learnt them ? VV^ould any father be at a great expense in educating his child, only that he might die with a little Latin and (ircek, logic and philosophy? No; half the world must be divided into cloisters and nunneries, and nurseries fur the grave. Well, you'll say, suppose that ; and is not this an advantage above all the inconveniences you can think of, to secure the salvation of so many thousands who are now eternally ruined by youthful lusts and vani- ties, but would spend their days in piety and devo- tion, and make the nest world their only care, if they knew how little while they were to live here? Right : I grant this might be a good way to correct the heat and extravagances of youth, and so it would be to show them heaven and hell ; but God does not think fit to do either, because it offers too much force and violence to men's minds; it is no trial of their virtue, of their reverence for God, of their conquests and victory over this world by the power of faith, but makes religion a matter of necessity, not of choice : now, God will force and drive no man to heaven ; the gospel dispensation is the trial and discipline of in- genuous spirits ; and if the certain hopes and fears of another world, and the uncertainty of our living herv, ■will not conquer these flattering temptations, au'l make men seriously religious, as those ■who nmst cer- tainly die, and go into another world, and they know not how soon, God will not try whether the certain knowledge of the time of their death will make them religious. That they may die young, and that thou- sands do so, is reason enough to engage young men to expect death, and prepare for it ; if they will venture, they must take their chance, and not say they had no warning of dying young, if they eternally miscarry by their wilful delays. And besides this, God expects our youthful service and obedience, though we were to live on till old age ; that we may die young, is not the proper, much less the onl}' reason, why we should ' remember our Creator in the days of our 3'outh,' but because God has a right to our youthful strength and vigour; and if this will not oblige us to an early piety, we must not expect that God will set death in our view, to fright and ter- rify us : as if the only design God had in requiring our obedience was, not that we might live like reason- able creatures, to the glory of their ALiker and Re- deemer, but that we might repent of our sins time enough to escape hell. God is so merciful as to ac- cept of returning prodigals, but does not think fit to encourage us in sin, by giving us notice v.-hen we shall die, and when it is time to think of repentance. '2dly. Though I doubt not but that it would be a great pleasure to you to know that you should live till old age, yet consider a little with yourselves, and then tell me, whether you yourselves can judge it wise and fitting for God to let you know this ? 1 observed to you before, what danger there is in flattering ourselves with the hopes of long life ; that it is apt to make us too fond of this world, when we expect to live so long in it ; that it weakens the hopes and fears of the next world, by removing it at too great a distance from us ; that it encourages men to live in sin, because they have time enough before them to indulge their lusts, and to repent of their sins, and make their peace with God before they die ; and if the uncertain hopes of this undoes so many men, what would the certain knowledge of it do? Those who are too wise and considerate to be imposed on by such uncertain hopes, might be conquered by the certain knowledge of a long life. DR ROBERT SOUTH, Dr Robert South, reputed as the wittiest of Ting' lish divines, and a man of powerful though some- what irregular talents, was born at Hackney in 1633, being the son of a London merchant. Having passed through a brilliant career of scholarship at Oxford, until he was elected public orator of the university, 440 {"ROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. DR ROBERT SOUTH. he bad an opportunitj^ of attracting the notice ) hands whoruwith to work ; so neither, in this cas can the religious miser find any hands wherewith to give. It is won- derful to consider how a conunand or call to be liberal, cither upon a civil or religious account, all of a sud- den impoverishes the rich, breaks the merchant, shuts up every private man's exchequer, and makes those men in a minute have nothing who, at the very same instant, want nothing to spend. So that, instead of relieving the poor, such '«t do truth, justice, and common honesty better service, than by ripping up so mali- cious a cheat, to vindicate such as have suffered by it. Certain it is that, amongst all the contrivances of malice, there is not a surer engine to pull men down in the good opinion of the world, and that in spite of the greatest worth and innocence, than this imputa- tion of ill-nature ; an engine which sen-es the ends and does the work of pique and envy botli efTcctually and safely. Forasmuch as it is a loose and general * ' For if there be first a willing mind, it is accepted accord- ing to that a man hath, and not according to that he hath not. —2 Cvr. viil. 12.— Ed. charge upon a man, without alleging an;r particular reason for it from his life or actions ; and consequently does the more mischief, because, as a word of course, it passes currently, and is seldom looked into or exa- mined. And, therefore, as there is no way to prove a paradox or false proposition but to take it for gi-anted, so, such as would stab any man's good name with the accusation of ill-nature, do very rarely descend to proofs or particulars. It is sufficient for their pur- pose that the word sounds odiously, and is believed j easily ; and that is enough to do any one's business I with the generality of men, who seldom have so much / judgment or charity as to hear the cause before they pronounce sentence. But that we may proceed with greater truth, equity, and candour in this case, we will endeavour to find out the right sense and meaning of this terrible con- founding word, ill-nature, by coming to particulars. And here, first, is the person charged with it false or cruel, ungrateful or revengeful ? is he shrewd and unjust in his dealings with others? does he regard no promises, and pay no debts ? does he profess love, kindness, and respect to those whom, underhand, he does all the mischief to that possibly he can ? is he unkind, rude, or niggardly to his friends ? Has he shut up his heart and his hand towards the poor, and has no bowels of compassion for such as are in want and misery ? is he unsensible of kindnesses done him, and withal careless and backward to acknowledge or re- quite them ? or, lastl}-, is he bitter and implacable in the prosecution of such as have wronged or abused him ? No ; generally none of these ill things (which one would wonder at) are ever meant, or so nmch as thought of, in the charge of ill-nature ; but, for the most part, the clean contrary qualities are readily acknowledged. Ay, but where and what kind of thing, then, is this strange occult quality, called ill-nature, which makes such a thundering noise against suih as have'the ill luck to be taxed with it ? Why, the best account that I, or any one else, can give of it, is this : that there are many men in the world who, without the least arrogance or self-coLceit, have yet so just a value both for themselves and others, as to scorn to flatter, and gloze, to fall down and worship, to lick the spittle and kiss the ftet of any proud, swelling, overgrown, domineering huff whatsoever. And such persons generally think it enough for them to show their superiors respect with- out adoration, and civility without servitude. A^ain, there are some who have a certain ill-natured stiffness (forsooth) in their tongue, so as not to be able to applaud and keep pace with this or that self- admiring, vain-glorious Thraso, while he is jiluming and praising himself, and telling fulsome stories in his o\vn commendation for three or four hours by the clock, and at the same time reviling and throwing dirt upon all mankind besides. There is also a sort of odd ill-natured men, whom neither hopes nor fears, frowns nor favours, can pre- vail upon to have anj' of the cast, beggarly, forlorn nieces or kinswomen of any lord or grandee, spiritual or temporal, trumped upon them. To which we may add another sort of obstinate ill- natured persons, who are not to be brought by any one's guilt or greatness to speak or write, or to swear or lie, as they are bidden, or to give up their own consciences in a compliment to those who have none themselves. And lastly, there are some so extremely ill-natured, as to think it very lawful and allowable for tlicm to be sensible, when they are injured and oppressed, when they are slandered in their own good names, and wronged in their just interests; and, withal, to dare to own what they find and feel, without bein^ such beasts of buri.in as to bear tamely whatsoever is cast 443 FSOM 1649 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1689. upon tliein ; or such spaniels as to lick the foot wliich kicks them, or to thank the goodly great one for doing them all these back-favours. Now, these and the like particulars are some of the chief Instances of that ill- nature which men are more properly said to be guilty of towards their superiors. But there is a sort of ill-nature, also, that uses to be practised towards equals or inferiors, such as perhaps ^ num's refusing to lend money to such as he knows will never repay him, and so to straiten and incommode himself, only to gratify a shark. Or possibly the man may prefer his duty and his business before company, and the bettering himself before the humouring of others. Or he may not be willing to spend his time, his health, and his estate, upon a crew of idle, spung- ing, ungrateful sots, and so to play the prodigal amongst a herd of swine. With several other such unpardonable faults in conversation (as some will have them), for which the fore-mentioned cattle, find- ing themselves disappointed, will be sure to go grum- bling and grunting away, and not fail to proclaim him a morose, ill-conditioned, ill-natured person, in all clubs and companies whatsoever ; and so that man's work is done, and his name lies grovelling upon the ground, in all the taverns, brandy-shops, and coffeehouses about the town. And thus having given you some tolerable account of what the world calls ill-nature, and that both to- wards superiors and towards equals and inferiors (as it is easy and natural to know one contrary by the other), we may from hence take a true measure of what the world is observed to mean by the contrary charac- ter of good-nature, as it is generally bestowed. And first, when great ones vouchsafe this endearing eulogy to those below them, a good-natured man gene- rally denotes some slavish, glavering, flattering para- site, or hanger-on ; one who is a mere tool or instru- )nent ; a fellow fit to be sent upon any malicious errand ; a setter, or informer, made to creep into all companies ; a wretch employed under a pretence of friendship or acquaintance, to fetch and carry, and to come to men's tables to play the Judas there ; and, in a word, to do all those mean, vile, and degenerous offices which men of greatness and malice use to en- gage men of baseness and treachery in. But then, on the other hand, when this word passes between equals, commonly by a good-natured man is meant either some easy, soft-headed piece of simpli- cily, who suffers himself to be led by the nose, and wiped of his conveniences by a company of sharping, worthless sycophants, who will be sure to despise, laugh, and droll at him, as a weak empty fellow, for ftU his ill-placed cost and kindness. And the truth is, if such vermin do not find him empty, it is odds but in a little time they will make him so. And this is one branch of that which some call good-nature (and good-nature let it be) ; indeed so good, that ac- cording to the wise Italian proverb, it is even good for nothing. Or, in the next place, by a good-natured man is usually meant neither more nor less than a good fel- low, a painful, able, and laborious soaker. But he who owes all his good nature to the pot and the pipe, to the jollity and compliances of merry company, may possibly go to bed with a wonderful stock of good nature over-night, but then he will sleep it all away again before the morning. [The Glory of the Clerr/ij.'] God is the fountain of honour, and the conduit by which he conveys it to the sons of men are virtues and generous practices. Some, indeed, may please and promise themselves high matters from full re- venues, stately palaces, court interests, and great de- oendences. But that which makes the clergy glori- { ous, is to be knowing in their profession, unspotted in their lives, active and laborious in their charges, bold and resolute in opposing seducers, and daring to look vice in the face, though never so potent and illustri- ous. And, lastly, to be gentle, courteous, and com- passionate to all. These are our robes and our maces, our escutcheons and highest titles of honour. [The Pleasures of Animemcnt and Indiittnj Compared.^ Nor is that man less deceived that thinks to main- tain a constant tenure of pleasure by a continual pursuit of sports and recreations. The most volup- tuous and loose person breathing, were he but tied to follow his hawks and his hounds, his dice and his courtships every day, would find it the greatest tor- ment and calamity that could befall him ; he would fl}' to the mines and galleys for his recreation, and to the spade and the mattock for a diversion from the misery of a continual unintermitted pleasure. But, on the contrary, the providence of God has so ordered the course of things, that there is no action, the use- fulness of which has made it the matter of duty and of a profession, but a man may bear the continual pursuit of it without loathing and satiety. The same shop and trade that employs a man in his youth, em- ploys him also in his age. Every morning he rises fresh to his hammer and anvil ; he passes the day singing; custom has naturalised his labour to him ; his shop is his element, and he cannot with any en- joyment of himself live out of it. [Hypoa-itical Sanctimony.'] Bodily abstinence, joined with a demure, affected countenance, is often called and accounted piety and mortification. Suppose a man iiifinitely ambitious, and equally spiteful and malicious ; one who poisons the ears of great men by venomous whispers, and rises by the fall of better men than himself; yet if he steps forth with a Friday look and a lenten face, with a blessed Jesu ! and a mournful ditty for the vices of the times ; oh ! then he is a saint upon earth : an /\mbrose or an Augustine (1 mean not for that earthly trash of book-learning ; for, alas ! such are above that, or at least that's above them), but for zeal and for fasting, for a devout elevation of the eyes, and a holy rage against other men's sins. And happy those ladies and religious dames characterised in the 2d of Timothy, c. iii. 5, 0', who can have such self-denying, thriving, able men for their confessors ! and thrice happy those families where they vouchsafe to take their Friday night's refreshments! thereby demon- strate to the world what Christian abstinence, and what primitive, self-mortifying vigour there is in for- bearing a dinner, that they may have the better sto- mach to their supper. In fine, the whole world stands in admiration of them : fools are fond of them, and wise men are afraid of them ; they are talked of, they are pointed out ; and, as they order the matter, they draw the eyes of all men after them, and generally something else. [Ignoi-ance in Poiver.] We know how great an absurdity our Saviour ac- counted it for the blind to lead the blind, and to put him that caimot so much as see to discharge the office of a watch. Nothing more exposes to contempt than ignorance. When Samson's eyes were out, of a public magistrate he was made a public sport. And when Eli was blind, we know how well he governed his sons, and how well they governed the church under hitn. But now the blindness of the understanding is greater and more scandalous, especially in such a seeing age as ours, in which the very knowledge >f former times passes but for ignorance in a better 444 PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. DR ROBERT SOUTH. dress ; an age that flies at all learning, and inquires into everything, but especially into faults and defects. Ignorance, indeed, so far as it may be resolved into natural inability, is, as to men at least, inculpable, and consequently not the object of scorn, but pity ; but in a governor, it cannot be without the conjunction of the highest impudence : for who bid such a one aspire to teach and to govern ? A blind man sitting in the chimney-comer is pardonable enough, but sitting at the lielm he is intolerable. If men will be ignorant and illiterate, let them be so in private, and to them- selves, and not set their defects in a high place, to make them visib'e and conspicuous. If owls will not be hooted at, let them keep close within the tree, and not perch upon the upper boughs. Solomon built his temple with the tallest cedars ; and surely when God refused the defective and the maimed for sacrifice, we cannot think that he requires them for the priesthood. When learning, abilities, and what is excellent in the world forsake the church, we may easily foretell its ruin without the gift of prophecy. And when igno- rance succeeds in the place of learning, weakness in the room of judgment, we may be sure heresy and confusion will quickly come in the room of religion. [Religion not Hostile to Pleasure.^ That pleasure is man's chiefest good (because, in- deed, it is the perception of good that is properly plea- sure), is an assertion most certainly true, though, under the common acceptance of it, not only false, but odiou'?. For, according to this, pleasure and sen- Bualil y pass for terms equivalent ; and tlierefore he that takes it in this sense, alters the subject of the discourse. Sensuality is indeed a part, or rather one kind of pleasure, such an one as it is. For pleasure, in general, is the consequent apprehension of a suitable object suitably applied to a rightly disposed faculty ; and so must be conversant both about the faculties of the body and of the soul respectively, as being the re- sult of the fruitions belonging to both. Now, amongst those many arguments used to press upon men the exercise of religion, I know none that are like to be so successful as those that answer and remove the prejudices that generally possess and bar up the hearts of men against it : amongst which there is none so p". The thread that nature spins is seldom broken off by anything but death. I do not by this limit the operation of God's grace, for that may do wonders: but humanly speaking, and according to the method of the world, and the little correctives supplied by art and discipline, it seldom fails but an ill principle has its course, and nature makes good its blow. And therefore, where ingratitude begins remarkably to show itself, he surely judges most wisely who takes alarm betimes, and, arguing the fountain from the stream, concludes that there is ill-nature at the bottom ; and so, reducing his judgment into practice, timely withdraws his frustraneous baffled kindnesses, and sees the folly of endeavouring to stroke a tiger into a lamb, or to court an Ethiopian out of his colour. DR JOHN WILK.INS. Dr John "Wilkins, bishop of Chester (1614- 1672), resembled Dr Barrow in the rare union of BcientiSc with theological study. Having sided with the popular party during the civil war, he received, when it proved victorious, the headship of Wadham college, Oxford. While in that situa- tion, he was one of a small knot of university men ■who used to meet for the cultivation of experi- mental philosophy as a diversion from the painful thoughts excited by public calamities, and who, after the Restoration, were incorporated by Charles II. under the title of the Royal Society. Of the object of those meetings, Dr Sprat, in his history of the society, gives us the following account. ' It was some space after the end of the civil wars, at Oxford, in Dr Wilkins his lodgings, in Wadham college, which was then the place of resort for virtuous and learned men, that the first meetings were made, which laid the foundation of all this that followed. The university had, at that time, many members of its own, who had begun a free way of reasoning ; and was also frequented by some gen- tlemen of philosophical minds, whom the misfor- tunes of the kingdom, and the security and case of a retirement amongst gown- men, had drawn thither. Their first purpose was no more than only tlie satis- faction of breathing a freer air, and of conversing in quiet with one another, without being engaged in the passions and madness of that dismal age. * * For such a candid and unpassionate company as that was, and for such a gloomy season, what could have been a fitter subject to pitch upon than natural philosophy ? To have been always tossing about some theological question, would have been to have made tliat their private diversion, the excess of which they themselves disliked in the public : to have bpen eternally musing on civil business, and the distresses of their country, was too melancholy a reflection : it was nature alone which could plea- santly entertain tliem in that estate. Tiie contem- plation of that draws our minds off from the past or present misfortunes, and makes them conquerors over things in the greatest public unhapjjiness : while the consideration of men, and human affairs, may affect us with a thousand disquiets, tiiat ne\er separates us into mortal factions; that gives vis room to differ wit'iont animosity, and permits us to raise contrary imaginations upon it, without any danger of a civil war.'* Having married a sister of Oliver Cromwell in 1056, l>r Wilkins was enabled, by a disjiensation from tlie Protector, to retain his office in Wadham college, notwitlistanding a rtde which made celibacy imperative on those wlio lii'ld it ; but three years ijfterwarus he removed to Cambridge, the headship * Sprat's Ilistory of the Royal Society, pp. 53, 55. of Trinity college having been presented to hiia during the brief government of his wife's nephew, Richard. At the Restoration, he was ejected from this office ; but his politics being neither violent nor unaccommodating, the path of advancement did not long remain closed. Having gained the favour of the Duke of Buckingham, he was advanced in 1668, after several intermediate steps, to the see of Chester. According to Bishop Burnet, Dr AVilkins ' was a man of as great mind, as true a judgment, as eminent virtues, and of as good a soul, as any I ever knew. Though he married Cromwell's sister, yet he made no other use of that alliance but to do good offices, and to cover the university of Oxford from the sourness of Owen and Goodwin, At Cambridge, he joined with those who studied to propagate better thoughts, to take men off from being in parties, or from narrow notions, from superstitious conceits and fierceness about opinions. He was also a great ob- server and promoter of experimental philosophy, which was then a new thing, and much looked after. He was naturally ambitious ; but was the wisest clergyman I ever knew. He was a lover of mankind, and had a delight in doing good.' Bishop Wilkins, like his friend and son-in-law Tillotson. and the other moderate churchmen of the day, was an object of violent censure to the high-church party ; but fortunately he possessed, as Burnet farther informs us, 'a courage which could stand against a current, and against all the reproaches with which ill-natured clergymen studied to load him.' He wrote several theological and mathema- tical works; but his most noted performance is one which he published in early life, entitled The Dis- cover}/ of a New World ; or a Discourse tending to prove that it is probable there may be another Habiialile World in the Moon : with a Discourse concerninc) the Possibility of a Passage thither. In this ingenious but fantastical treatise, he supports the proposition, ' That it is possible for some of our posterity to find out a conveyance to this other world, and, if there be inhabitants there, to have commerce with them.' He admits, that to be sure this feat has in the pre- sent state of hum.an knowledge an air of utter im- possibility : yet from this, it is argued, no hostile inference ought to be drawn, seeing that many things formerly supposed impossible have actually been accomplished. ' If we do but consider,' says he, ' by what steps and leisure all arts do usually rise to their growth, we shall have no cause to doubt why this also may not hereafter be found out amongst other secrets. It hath constantly yet been the method of Providence not presently to show us all, but to lead us on by degrees from the knowledge of one thing to another. It was a great wliile ere the planets were distinguished from tlie fixed stars; and some time after that ere the morning and evening stars were found to be the same. And in greater space, I doubt not but this also, and other as ex- cellent mysteries, will be discovered.' Though it is evident that tlie possit)ility of any event whatsoever might be argued on the same grounds, they seem to have been quite satisfactory to Wilkins, who goes on to discuss the difficulties in the way of accom- plishing the aerial journey. After disposing, by means of a tissue of absurd h3'potheses, of the ob- stacles presented by ' the natural heaviness of a man's body,' and 'the extreme coldness and tliiimess of the ethereal air' — and having made it appear that even a swift journey to tiie moon would iirobably occupy a period of six months — lie naturally stumbles on the question, 'And how were it jiossible for any to tarry so long without diet or sleep ?' 1. For diet. I su^'pose there could be no trusting to 446 PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. DR J()1:N l-EARSON. that fancy of Philo the Jew (mentioned before), who thinks that the music of the spheres should supply the Strength of food. Nor can we well conceive how a man should be able to carry so much luggage with him as might serve for his viaticum in so tedious a journey. 2. But if he could, yet he must have some time to rest and sleep in. And I believe he shall scarce find iny lodgings by the way. No inns to entertain pas- Hengers, nor any castles in the air (unless they be enchanted ones) to receive poor pilgrims or errant knights. And so, consequently, he cannot have any possible hopes of reaching thither.' The difficulty as to sleep is removed by means of the following ingenious supposition : — 'Seeing we do not then spend ourselves in any labour, we shall not, it may be, need the refreshment of sleep. But if we do, we cannot desire a softer bed than the air, where ■we may repose ourselves firmly and safely as in our chambers.' The necessary supply of food remains, however, to be provided for ; and on this subject the author is abundantly amusing. We have room for only a few of his suggestions. 'And here it is considerable, that since our bodies will then be devoid of gravity,', and other impediments of motion, we shall not at all spend ourselves in any labour, and so, consequently, not much need the reparation of diet ; but maj', perhaps, live altogether without it, as those creatures have done who, by reason of their sleeping for many days together, have not spent any spirits, and so not wanted any food, which is commonly related of serpents, crocodiles, bears, cuckoos, swallows, and such like. To this pur- pose Mendoca reckons up divers strange relations : as that of Epimenides, who is storied to have slept seven ty-fi\e years ; and another of a rustic in Ger- many, who, being accidentally covered with a hay-rick, slept there for all the autumn and the winter fol- lowing without any nourishment. Or, if this will not serve, yet why may not a Papist fast so long, as well as Ignatius or Xaverius ? Or if there be such a strange efiioacy in the bread of the Eucharist, as th(Vr miraculous relations do attribute to it, why, then, that may serve well enough for their viaticum. Or, if we must needs feed upon something else, why may not smells nourish us ? Plutarch and Pliny, and divers other ancients, tell us of a nation in India that lived only upon pleasing odours. And 'tis the common opinion of physicians, that these do strangely both strengthen and repair the spirits. Hence was it that Democritus was able, for divers days together, to feed himself with the mere smell of hot bread. Or if it be necessary that our stomachs must receive the food, why, then,- it is not impossible that the purity of the ethereal air, being not mixed with any imjiroper vapours, may be so agreeable to our bodies, as to yield us sufficient nourishment.' The greatest difficulty of all, however, is still un- removed ; and that is. By what conveyance are we to get to the moon.' With what the author says on this point, we shall conclude our extracts from his work. [How a Man may Fly to the Moon.'\ Tf it Ije here inquired, what means there may be conjectured for our ascending beyond the sphere of the earth's magnetical vigour, 1 answer, 1. It is not perhaps imi)Ossiule that a man may be able to fly, by the application of wings to his own body ; as angels are pictured, as Mercury and Daedalus are feigned, and aa hath been attempted by divers, particularly by a Turk in Constantinople, as Busbequius relates. 2. If there be such a great ruck in Madagascar as iVIarcus Polus, the Venetian, mentions, the feathers in whose wings are twelve feet long, which can soop up a horse and his rider, or an elephant, as our kites do a mouse ; why, then, it is but teaching one of these to carry a man, and he may ride up thither, as Ganymede does upon an eagle. Or if neither of these ways will serve, yet T do seriously, and upon good grounds, affirm it possible tc make a flying chariot, in which a man may sit, and give such a motion unto it, as shall co!ivey him through the air. And this, perhaps, might be made largt enough to carry divers men at the same time, tosethei with food for their viaticum, and commodities foi traffic. It is not the bigness of anything in this kind that can hinder its motion, if the motive faculty be answerable thereunto. ^Ve see a great ship swims as well as a small cork, and an eagle flies in the air as well as a little gnat. This engine may be contrived from the same prin- ciples by which Archytas made a wooden dove, and Regiomontanus a wooden eagle I conceive it were no difficult matter (if a man had leisure) to show more particularly the means of com posing it. DR JOHN PEARSON. Dr Wilkins was succeeded in the see of Chester by another very learned and estimable divine, Dr John Pearson (1613-1686), who had previously filled a divinity chair at Cambridge, and been mas- ter of Trinity college in that university. He pub- lished, in 1659, An Exposition on the Creed, which Bishop Burnet pronounces to be 'among tlie best books that our church has produced.' This work has been much admired for the melody of its Ian guage, and the clear and metliodical way in which the subjects are treated. The author thai illus- trates [The Resurrection.] Beside the principles of which we consist, an 1 the actions which flow from us, the consideration of the things without us, and the natural course of varia- tions in the creature, will render the resurrection yet more highly probable. Every space of tweiity-four hours teacheth thus nmch, in which there is always a revolution amounting to a resurrection. The da^'dies into a night, and is buried in silence and in darkness ; in the next morning it appeareth again and reviveth, opening the grave of darkness, rising from the dead ol night ; this is a diurnal resurrection. As the day dies into night, so doth the summer into winter : the sap is said to descend into the root, and there it lies buried in the ground ; the earth is covered with snow, or crusted with frost, and becomes a general sepulchre ; when the spring appeareth, all begin to rise ; the plants and flowers peep out of their graves, revive, and grow, and flourish ; this is the annual resurrection. The coin by which we live, and for want of which we p( ri.-h with famine, is notwithstanding cast nj)on the earll;, and buried in the ground, with a design that it uiay corrupt, and being corrupted, may revive and miil- tijjly : our bodies are fed by this constant exjieriment, and we continue this present life by succession of resur- rections. Thus all things arc repaired by corrupting;, are preserved by perishing, and revive by dying; and can we think that man, the lord of all these tiiiiigM, which thus die and revive for him, should be detained in death as never to live again { Is it imaginable that God should thus restore all things to man, and not restore man to himself? If there were no other consideration, but of the principles of human nature, of the liberty and remuuerability of human actions, 447 FROM 1649 CYCLOPAEDIA OP TO 1689 and of the natural revolutions and resurrections of other creatures, it were abundantly sufficient to render the resurrection of our bodies highly probable. We must not rest in this school of nature, nor settle our persuasions upon likelihoods; but as we passed from an apparent possibility into a high pre- sumption and probability, so must we pass from thence unto a full assurance of an infallible certainty. And of this, indeed, we cannot be assured but by the revelation of the will of God ; upon his power we must conclude that we may, from his will that we shall, rise from the dead. Now, the power of God is known unto all men, and therefore all men may infer from thence a possibility ; but the will of God is not re- vealed unto all men, and therefore all have not an infallible certainty of the resurrection. For the grounding of which assurance 1 shall show that God hath revealed the determination of his will to raise the dead, and that he hath not only delivered that intention in his Word, but hath also several ways confirmed the same. DR THOMAS SPRAT. Dr Thomas Sprat, bishop of Rochester (1636- 1713), is praised by Dr Johnson as ' an author whose pregnancy of imagination and eloquence of language have deservedly set him high in the ranks of litera- ture ;'* and although the voice of the literary public has not confirmed so high a eulogium, yet the cele- brity of the bishop in his own times, added to the merits of his style, which, though not pre-eminent, are imquestionably great, entitle him to be men- tioned among the leading prose writers of this period. At Oxford, where he received his academi- cal education, he studied mathematics under Dr Wilkins, at whose house the philosophical inquirers who originated the Royal Society used at that time to meet. Sprat's intimacy with Wilkins led to his election as a member of the society soon after its incorporation; and in 1667 he published the history of that learned body, with the object of dissipating the i)rejudice and suspicion with which it Avas re- garded by the public. ' This,' says Dr Johnson. ' is one of the few books which selection of sentiment and elegance of diction have been able to preserve, though written upon a subject flux and transitory. The history of the Royal Society is now read, not with the wish to know what they were then doing, but how their transactions are exhibited by Sprat.'f Previously to this time he had been appointed chaplain to the Duke of Buckingham, whom he is said to have aided in writing the Rehearsal. He was made also chaplain to the king. In these cir- cumstances, ecclesiastical promotion could hardly fail to ensue ; and accordingly, after several advanc- ing steps, the see of Rochester was attained in 1684. Next year he served the government by publishing an account of the Ryehouse plot, written by the command of King James. For this work he found it convenient, after the Revolution, to print an apo- logy ; and having submitted to the new goverimient, he was allowed, notwithstanding his well-known attachment to the abdicated monarch, to remain unmolested in his bishopric. In 1692, however, he was brought into trouble by a false .accusation of joining in a conspiracy for the restoration of James; but after a confinement of eleven days, he clearly proved his innocence. So strong was the impression made by this event upon his mind, that he ever afterwards distinguished the anniversary of his de- liverance as a day of thanksgiving. Besides the works already mentioned, Sprat wrote a Life of Cowlei/ (1668), prefixed to the works of that poet ; * JoliDBon's Life of Cowley. t Life cif Sprat. besides a volume of Sermons, and one or two niinoi productions. He published also some poems, which, being in the style of Cowley, have long since fallen into neglect, though still to be found in the early collections of English poetry. The qualities which deserve to be admired in his prose style are strength, neatness, smoothness, and precision. It displays but little of that splendour which the eulogy by Dr Johnson induces a reader to expect, though we can by no means agree with Dr Drake in the opinion that it is wanting in vigour. ' They who shall study his pages,' says that writer, ' will find no richness, ardour, or strength in his diction ; but, on the contrary, an air of feebleness, and a species of imbecile spruceness, pervading all his productions. They must acknowledge, however, much clearness in his construction, and will pro- bably agree that his cadences are often peculiarly well turned, especially those which terminate his paragraphs, and which sometimes possess a smart- ness which excites attention.'* In our opinion, it would not be eas}' to find in any contemporary work a better specimen of what is called the middle style, than the first of the subjoined extracts, forming a portion of Sprat's History of the Royal Society. It is diflacult to account for the perversity of Lord Orrery, who, after remarking that, 'among our English writers, few men have gained a greater character for elegance and correctness than Sprat,' declares, that ' few men have deserved it less;' and that, ' upon a review of Sprat's works, his lan- guage will sooner give you an idea of one of the insignificant tottering boats uj)on the Thames, than of the smooth noble current of the river itself.'f How far this is true, let the reader judge for him- self. {^Vietv of the Divine Gorcmmcnt afforded by Experimental Philosophy.] We are guilty of false interpretations of providences and wonders, when we either make those to be miracles that are none, or when we put a false sense on those that are real ; when we make general events to have a private aspect, or particular accidents to have some universal signification. Though both these may seem at first to have the strictest appearance of religion, yet they are the greatest usurpations on the secrets of the Almighty, and unpardonable presumptions on his high prerogatives of punishment and reward. And now, if a moderating of these extravagances must be esteemed profaneness, I profess I cannot absolve the experimental philosopher. It must be granted, that he will be very .scrupulous in believing all manner of commentaries on prophetical visions, in giving liberty to new predictions, and in assigning the causes and marking out the paths of God's judg- ments amongst his creatures. He cannot suddenly conclude all extraordinary events to be the immediate finger of God ; because he familiarly beholds the inward workings of things, and thence perceives that many etfects, which use to attVight the ignorant, are brought forth by the com- mon instruments of nature, lie cannot be suddenly inclined to pass censure on men's eternal condition from any temporal judgments that may befall them ; because his long converse with all matters, times, and places, has taught him the truth of what the Scripture says, that ' all things happen alike to all.' He cannot blindly consent to all imaginations of devout nien about future contingencies, seeing he is so rigid in examining all particular matters of fact. He cannot * Essays Illustrative of the Tatler, &c. i. Gfl. t Orrery's Remarks on the Life and Writings of Swift, p, !K7. LoikUjii: IT.Vi. 448 PROSE wRiTr.n?. ENGLISH LITERATURE. DH THOMAS SPRAT. be forward to assent to spiritual raptures and revela- tions ; because he ia truly acquainted witli the tem- pers of men's bodies, the composition of their blood, and the jiower of fancy, and so better understands the difference between diseases and inspirations. Rut in all this he commits nothing that is irre- ligious. 'Tis true, to deny that God has heretofore warned the world of what was to come, is to contra- dict the very Godhead itself; but to reject the sense which any private man shall fasten to it, is not to disdain the Word of God, but the opinions of men like ourselves. To declare against the possibility that new prophets maybe sent from heaven, is to insinuate that the same infinite Wisdom which once showed itself that way is now at an end. But to slight all pretenders, that come without the help of miracles, is not a contempt of the Spirit, but a just circumspec- tion that the reason of men be not over-reached. To deny that God directs the course of human things, is stupidity : but to hearken to everj' prodigy that men frame against their enemies, or for themselves, is not to reverence the power of God, but to make that serve the passions, the interests, and revenges of men. It is a dangerous mistake, into which many good men fall, that we neglect the dominion of God over the world, if we do not discover in every turn of human actions many supernatural providences and miraculous events. Whereas it is enough for the honour of his government, that he guides the whole creation in its wonted course of causes and efFects : as it makes as much for the reputation of a prince's wis- dom, that he can rule his subjects peaceably by his known and standing laws, as that he is often forced to make use of extraordinary justice to punish or reward. Let us, then, imagine our philosopher to have all slowness of belief, and rigour of trial, which by some is miscalled a blindness of mind and hardness of heart. Let us suppose that he is most unwilling to grant that an3-thing exceeds the force of nature, but where a full evidence convinces him. Let it be allowed, that he is always alarmed, and ready on his guard, at tlie noise of any miraculous event, lest his judgment should be surprised by the disguisas of faith. But does he by this diminish the authority of ancient miracles ? or does he not rather confinn them the more, by confining their number, and taking care that every falsehood should not mingle with them ? Can he by this undermine Christianity, which does not now stand in need of such extraordinary testimonies from heaven ? or do not they rather endanger it, who still venture its truths on so hazardous a chance, who require a continuance of signs and wonders, as if the works of our Saviour and his apostles had not been sufficient ? Who ought to be esteemed the most car- nally-minded — the enthusiast that pollutes religion with his own passions, or the experimenter that will not use it to flatter and obey his own desires, but to subdue them ? Who is to be thought the greatest enemy of tlie gospel- oe that loads men's faiths by so many improbable things as will go near to make the reality itself suspected, or he that only admits a few arguments to confirm the evangelical doctrines, but then chooses those that are unquestionable? It can- not be an ungodly purpose to strive to abolish all holy cheats, whicii are of fatal consequence both to the deceivers and those that are deceived : to the deceivers, because they must needs be hypocrites, having the artifice in their keeping ; to the deceived, because, if their eyes shall ever be opened, and they chance to find that they have been deluded in any one thing, they will be apt not only to reject that, but even to despise the very truths themselves which they bad before been taught by those deluders. It were, indeed, to be confessed, that this severity of censure on religious thin;rs were to be condemned in experimenters, if, while they deny any wonders that are falsely attributed to the true God, they should approve those of idols or false deities. But' that is not objected against them. They make no compari- son between his power and the works of any others, but only between the several ways of his own mani- festing himself Thus, if they lessen one heap, yet they still increase the other; in the main, they dimi- nish nothing of his right. If they take from the pro- digies, they add to the ordinary works of the same Author. And those ordinary works themselves they do almost raise to the height of wonders, by the exact discovery which they make of their excellences ; while the enthusiast goes near to bring down the price of the true and primitive miracles, by such a vast and such a negligent augmenting of their number. By this, I hope, it appears that this inquiring, this scrupulous, this incredulous temper, is not the dis- grace, but the honour of experiments. And, therefore, I will declare them to be the most seasonable study for the present temper of our nation. This wild amusing men's minds with prodigies and conceits of providence has been one of the most considerable causes of those spiritual distractions of which our country has long been the theatre. This is a vanity to which the English seem to have been alwaj-s sub- ject above others. There is scarce any modern histo- rian that relates our foreign wars, but he has this objection against the disposition of our countrymen, that they used to order their affairs of the greatest in'portance according to some obscure omens or pre- dictions that passed amongst them on little or no foundations. And at this time, especially this last year [1666], this gloomy and ill-boding humour had prevailed. So that it is now the fittest season for experiments to arise, to teach us a wisdom which springs from the depths of knowledge, to shake cff the shadows, and to scatter the mists which fill the minds of men with a vain consternation. This is a work well becoming the most Christian profession. For the most ajtparent effect which attended the passion of Christ, was the putting of an eternal silence on all the false oracles and dissembled inspirations of ancient times. [Coivlo/s Love of Retlrement.l Upon the king's happy restoration, Mr Cou ley was past the fortieth year of his age ; of which the greatest part had been spent in a various and tempestuous condition. He now thought he had sacrificed enough of his life to his curiosity and experience. He had enjoyed many excellent occasions of observation. He had been present in many great revolutions, which in that tumultuous time disturbed the peace of all our neighbour states as well as our own. He had nearly beheld all the splendour of the highest part of man- kind. He had lived in the presence of princes, and familiarly conversed with greatness in all its degrees, which was necessary for one that would contemn it aright ; for to scorn the pomp of the world before a man knows it, does commonly proceed rather from ill manners than a true magnanimity. He was now weary of the vexations and formalities of an active condition. He had been perplexed with a long compliance to foreign manners. He was satiated with the arts of court ; which sort of life, though his virtue had made innocent to him, yet nothing could make it quiet. These were the reasons that moved him to forego all public employments, and to follow the violent inclination of his own mind, which in the greatest throng of his former business had still called u])on him, and represented to him the true delights of solitary studies, of temperate pleasures, and of a moderate revenue, below the malice and (lat- teries of fortune. * * 449 30 FROM 1649 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 168it. In his last seven or eight j-ears he was concealed in his beloved obscurity, and possessed that solitude which, from his very childhood, he had always most passionately desired. Though he had frequent invita- tions to return into business, yet he never gave ear to any persuasions of profit or preferment. His visits to the city and court were very few ; his stays in town were only as a passenger, not an inhabitant. The places that he chose for the seats of his declining life were two or three villages on tlie bank of the Thames. During this recess, his mind was rather exercised on what was to come than whiit was past ; he suffered no more business nor cares of life to come near him than what were enough to keep his soul awake, but not to disturb it. Some few friends and books, a cheerful heart, and innocent conscience, were his constant companions. * * I acknowledge he chose that state of life, not out of any poetical rapture, but upon a steady and sober ex- perience of human things. But, however, I cannot applaud it in him. It is certainly a great disparage- ment to virtue and learning itself, that those very things which only make men useful in the world should Incline them to leave it. This ought never to be allowed to good men, unless the bad had the same moderation, and were willing to follow them into the wilderness. But if the one shiill contend to get out of employment, while the other strive to get into it, the affairs of mankind are like to be in so ill a posture, that even the good men themselves will hardly be able to enjoy their very retreats in security. DR THOTIAS BURNET. Dr Thomas Burnet (1635-1715), master of the Charter-house in London, and who probably would have succeeded Tillotson as arclibishop of Canter- bury, had not his heterodoxy stood in the way, ac- quired great celebrity by the publication of a work entitled The Sacred Theory of the Earth; containing an Account of the Original of the Earth, and of all the General Changes which it hath alreadij undergone, o?' is tc undergo, till the Consummation of all Things. The first edition, which was written in Latin, appeared in 1680; but an English translation was published by the author in 1691. In 'a geological point of fiew, this treatise is totally wu)rtldess, from its want of a basis of ascertained facts ; but it abounds in fine composition and magnificent description, and amply deserves perusal as an eloquent and in- genious philosophical romance. The author's atten- tion seems to have been attracted to the sub- ject by the unequal and ragged appearance of the earth's surface, which seemed to indicate the globe to be the ruin of some more reguhir fabric. He tells that in a journey across the Alps and Apen- nines, ' the sight of tliose wild, vast, and indigested heaps of stones and earth did so deeply strike my fancy, that I was not easy till I could give myself some tolerable account how that confusion came in nature.' The theory which he formed was the fol- lowing: — The globe in its chaotic state was a dark fluid mass, in wliicli the elements of air, water, and earth were blend(;d into one universal compound. Gradually, tlie heavier parts full towards the centre, and formed a nucleus of solid matter. Around this floated tlie liquid ingredients, and over them was the still ligliter atmospheric air. By and by, the liquid mass became separated into two layers, bj' the separation of the watery particles from those of an oil}- composition, which, being the lighter, tended upwards, and, when hardened by time, became a smooth and solid crust. This was the surface of the antediluvian globe. ' In this smooth cartli,' says Burnet, 'were ue first wenes of the world, and the first generations of mankind ; it had the beauty of youth and blooming nature, fresh and fruitful, and not a wrinkle, scar, or fracture in all its body; no rocks nor mountains, no hollow caves nor gaping channels, but even and uniform all over. And the smoothness of the earth made the face of the heavens so too; the air was calm and serene ; none of those tumultuary motions and conflicts of vapours, which the mountains and the winds cause in ours. 'Twas suited to a golden age, and to the first innocency of nature.' By degrees, however, the heat of the sun, penetrating the superficial crust, converted a portion of the water beneath into steam, the expansive force of which at length burst the superincumbent shell, already weakened by the dryness and cracks occa- sioned by the solar rays. When, therefore, the 'appointed time was come that All-wise Providence had designed for the punishment of a sinful world, the whole fabric brake, and the frame of the earth was torn in pieces, as by an earthquake; and those great portions or fragments into which it was divided fell into the abyss, some in one posture, and some in another.' The waters of course now ap- peared, and the author, gives a fine description of their tumultuous raging, caused by the precipitation of the solid fragments into their bosom. The pres- sure of such masses falling into the abyss, ' could not but impel the water with so nmch strength as would carry it up to a great height in the air, and to the top of anything that lay in its way ; any emi- nency, or high fragment whatsoever: and then roll- ing back again, it would sweep down with it what- soever it rushed upon — woods, buildings, living creatures — and carry them all headlong into the great gulf. Sometimes a mass of water would be quite struck off and separate from the rest, and tossed through the air like a flying river ; but tlie common motion of the waves was to climb up the hills, or inclined fragments, and then retm-n into the vallej's and deeps again, with a perpetual fluctuation going and coming, ascending and descending, till the violence of them being spent by degrees, they settled at last in the places allotted for them ; where bounds are set that they cannot pass our, that they return not again to cover the earth. * * ' Thus the flood came to its heiglit ; and it is not easy to represent to ourselves this strange scene of things, when tlie deluge was in its fury and ex- tremity ; when the earth was broken and swallo.wed tip in the abyss, whose raging waters rose higlier than the mountains, and filled the air with broken waves, with an universal mist, and with thick dark- ness, so as nature seemed to be in a second chaos; and upon this chaos rid the distressed ark that bore the small remains of mankind. No sea was ever so tumultuous as this, nor is there anything in jiresent nature to be compared witli the disorder of these waters. All the poetry, and all the hyperboles that are u.sed in the descrij)tion of storms and raging seas, were literally true in this, if not beneath it. The ark was really carried to the tops of the highest mountains, and into the places of the clouds, and thrown down again into the deepest gulfs ; and to this very state of tlie deluge and of the ark, which was a type of tlic church in this world, David seems to have alluded in the name of the church (I'sal. xlii. 7.) " Ab3^ss calls upon abyss at the noise of thy cataracts or water-spouts ; all thy waves and billows have gone over me." It was no doubt an extraordi- nary and miraculous providence that could make a vessel so ill-manned live upon such a sea ; that kept it from being dashed against the hills, or overwhelmed in the deeps. That abyss which had devoured ;md swallowed up whole forests of woods, cities, and pro- vinces, nay, the whole earth, when it had conquered 450 I-ROSE WRITERS. EXGLISH LITERATURE. DR THOMAS BUK.NET. all, .ind triumphed over .ill, coulJ not destroy tliis single ship. I remember in the story of the Aru^o- nautics {Dion. Anjonaut. 1. i. v. 47.), when Jason set out to fetch the golden fieece, the poet saitli, all the gods that day looked down from heaven to view the ship, and the nymphs stood upon the mountain-tops to see the noble youth of Thessaly pulling at the oars ; we may with more reason suppose the good angels to have looked down upon this ship of Xoah's, and tliat not out of curiosity, as idle spectators, but with a jiassionate concern for its safety and deliver- ance. A ship, whose cargo was no less than a w hole world ; that carried the fortune and hopes of all pos- terity; and if this had perished, the eartli, for any- thing we know, had been nothing but a desert, a great ruin, a dead heap of rubbish, from the deluge to the conflagration. But death and hell, the grave and destruction, have their bounds.' We cannot pursue the author into further details, nor analyse the ingenious reasoning by which he endeavours to defend his theory from some of the many insuperable objections which the plainest facts of geology and natural philosophy furnish against it. The concluding part of his work relates to the final conflagration of the world, by which, he supposes, the surface of the new chaotic mass will be restored to smoothness, a-id ' leave a capacity for another world to rise from it.' Here the style of the author rises into a magnificence worthy of the sublimity of the theme, and he concludes with impressive and appropriate reflections on the transient nature of earthly things. The passage is aptly termed by Addisou the author's funeral oration over his globe. [TJieJinal Conflagration of the Globe.'] But 'tis not possible, from any station, to have a full prospect of this last scene of the earth, for 'tis a mixture of fire and darkless. This new temple is filled with smoke while it is consecrating, and none can enter into it. But I am apt to think, if we could look down upon this burning world from above the clouds, and have a full view of it in all its parts, we should think it a lively representation of hell itself ; for fire and darkness are the two chief things by which that Btate or that place uses to be described ; and they are both here mingled together, with all other ingredients that make that tophet that is prepared of old (Isaiah XXX.) Here are lakes of fire and brimstone, rivers of melted glowing matter, ten thousand volcanos vomiting flames all at once, thick darkness, and pillars of smoke twisted about with wreaths of flame, like fiery snakes ; mountains of earth thrown up into the air, and the heavens dropping down in lumps of fire. These things will all be literally true concerning that day and that state of the earth. And if we suppose Beelzebub and his apostate crew in the midst of this fiery fur- nace (and I know not where they can be else), it will be hard to find any part of the universe, or any state of things, that answers to so many of the properties and characters of hell, as this which is now before us. But if we suppose the storm over, and that the fire hath gotten an entire victory over all other bodies, and subdued everything to itself, the conflagration will end in a deluge of fire, or in a sea of fire, cover- ing the whole globe of the earth ; for, when the ex- terior region of the earth is melted into a fluor, like molten glass or running metal, it will, according to the nature of other fluids, fill all vacuities and depressions, and fall into a regular surface, at an equal distance everywhere from its centre. This sea of fire, like the first ab^ss, will cover the face of the whole earth, make a kind of second chaos, and leave a capacity for an- other world to rise from it. But that is not our present business. Let us only, if you please, to take leave of this subject, reflect, upon this occasion, on the vanity and transient glory of all this habitable world ; how, by the force of one element breaking loose upon the rest, all the varieties of nature, all the works of art, all the labours of men, are reduced to nothing ; all that we admired and adored before, as great and magnificent, is obliterated or vanished ; and another form'and face of things, plain, simi)le, and everywhere the same, overspreads the whole earth. Where are now the great empires of the world, and their great imperial cities 1 Their pillars, trophies, and monuments of glorv ? Show me where they stood, read the inscription, tell rne the victor's name ! What remains, what impres- sions, what difference or distinction do you see in this mass of fire ? Rome itself, eternal Rome, the great city, the empress of the world, whose domination and su{)erstition, ancient and modem, make a great part of the history of this earth, what is become of her now 1 She laid her foundations deep, and her palaces were strong and sumptuous : she glorified herself, and lived deliciously, and said in her heart, T sit a queen, and shall see no sorrow. But her hour is come ; she is wiped away from the face of the earth, and buried in perpetual oblivion. But it is not cities only, and works of men's hands, but the everlasting hills, the mountains and rocks of the earth, are melted as wax before the sun, and their place is nowhere found. Here stood the Alps, a prodigious range of stone, the load of the earth, that covered many countries, and reached their arms from the ocean to the Black Sea ; this huge mass of stone is softened and dissolved, as a tender cloud into rain. Here stood the African moun- tains, and Atlas with his top above the clouds. There was frozen Caucasus, and Taurus, and Hnaus, and the mountains of Asia. And yonder, towards the north, stood the Riphtean hills, clothed in ice and snow. All these are vanished, dropped awa}' as the snow upon their heads, and swallowed up in ared seaof fire. (Rev.xv. 3.) Great and marvellous are thy works. Lord God Al- mighty ; just and true are thy ways, thou King of Saints. Hallelujah. Dr Burnet is led by his subject into the following energetic \_Ilebuke of Human Pride.} We must not, by any means, admit or imagine that all nature, and this great universe, was made only for the sake of man, the meanest of all intelligent creatures that we know of; nor that this little planet where we sojourn for a few days, is the only habitable part of the universe : these are thoughts so groundless and unreasonable in themselves, and also so derogatory to the infinite power, wisdom, and goodness of the First Cause, that as they are absurd in rea.son, so they deserve far better to be marked aiid censured for heresies in religion, than many opinions that have been censured for such in former ages. How is it possible that it should enter into tiie thoughts of vain man to believe himself the principal part of God's creation ; or that all the rest was ordained for him, for his service or pleasure ? 'Man, whose follies we laugh at every day, or else complain of them ; wliose pleasures are vanity, and his passions stronger than his reason ; who sees himself every way weak and im potent ; hath no power over external nature, little over himself ; cannot execute so much as his own good resolutions ; nmtable, irregular, prone to evil. Surely^ if we made the least reflection upon ourselves with impartiality, we should be ashamed of such an arro- gant thought. How few of these sons of men, foi whom, they say, all things were made, are the sons of wisdom I how few find the paths of life! They spend a few davs in fidly and sin, and then go down to tlie regions of dtath and misery. And is it possible to believe that all nature, and all Providence, are only, 451 VRou 1649 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1689. or principally, for their sake ? Is ic not a more reason- able character or conclusion which the prophet hath made, Surely every man is vanity 1 Man that comes into the world at the pleasure of another, and goes out bv a hundred accidents ; his birth and education generally determine his fate here, and neither of those are in his own power ; his wit, also, is as uncertain as his fortune ; he hath not the moulding of his own brain, however a knock on the head makes him a fool, stupid as the beasts of the field ; and a little excess of passion or melancholy makes him worse, mad and frantic. In his best senses he is shallow, and of little understanding ; and in nothing more blind and igno- rant than in things sacred and divine ; he falls down before a stock or a stone, and says, Thou art my God ; he can believe nonsense and contradictions, and make it his religion to do so. And is this the great creature which God hath made by the might of his power, and for the honour of his majesty ? upon whom all things must wait, to whom all things must be subservient ? Methinks, we have noted weaknesses and follies enough in the nature of man ; this need not be added as the top and accomplishment, that with all these he is so vain as to think that all the rest of the world was made for his sake. Figuring to himself the waters of the sea dried up, he thus grandly describes the appearance of \_The Dry Bed of the Ocean.'] That vast and prodigious cavity that nms quite round the globe, and reacheth, for ought we know, from pole to pole, and in many places is unsearchably deep — when I present this great gulf to my imagi- nation, emptied of all its waters, naked and gaping at the sun, stretching its jaws from one end of the earth to another, it appears to me the most ghastly thing in nature. What hands or instruments could work a trench in the body of the earth of this vastness, and lay mountains and rocks on the side of it, as ramparts to inclose it ? * * But if we should suppose the ocean dry, and that we looked down from the top of some high cloud upon the empty shell, how horridly and barbarously would it look ! And with what amazement should we see it under us like an open hell, or a wide bottomless pit ! So deep, and hollow, and vast ; so broken and con- fused ; so everyway deformed and monstrous. This would effectually awaken our imagination, and make us inquire and wonder how such a thing came in nature ; from what causes, by what force or engines, could the earth be torn in this prodigious manner ? Did they dig the sea with spades, and carry out the moulds in hand-baskets ? Where are the entrails laid ? And how did they cleave the rocks asunder ? If as many pioneers as the army of Xerxes had been at work ever since the beginning of the world, they could not have made a ditch of this greatness. According to the proportions taken before in the second chapter, the cavity or capacity of the sea-channel will amount to no less than 1,63.0,090 cubical miles. Nor is it the greatness only, but that wild and multifarious confusion which we see in the parts and fasliion of it, that makes it strange and unaccountable^ It is another chaos in its kind ; who can paint the scenes of it ? Gulfs, and precipices, and cataracts ; pits within pits, and rocks under rocks ; broken mountains, and ragged islands, that look as if they had been countries pulled up by the roots, and planted in the sea. Besides his ' Sacred Theory of the Earth,' Burnet wrote a work entitled Arrhirohxjia Philosojihica. giving (in account of the opinions of tlie ancients concern- ng the nature of things; with the design, as he says. ' to vindicate and give antiquity its due praise, and to show that neither were our ancestors dunces, nor was wisdom or true philosophy born with us.' His opinion of the ancient philosophers, however, seems to have been considerably exalted by his finding in their views some traces of his own favourite theory. In this work he gave much offence to the orthodox, by expressing some free opinions concerning the jMosaic account of the creation, the fall of man, and the deluge ; he even considered the narrative of the fall to be an allegorical relation, as many of the fathers had anciently taught. In a posthumous work On Christian Faith and Duties, he gives the prefer- ence to those parts of Christianit}' Avhlch refer to human conduct over the disputed doctrinal portions. Another posthumous treatise, On the State of the Dead and Beviving* is remarkable as maintaining the finity of hell torments, and the ultimate salvation of the whole human race. It is said that, in conse- quence of holding these views, Dr Burnet, notwith- standing the patronage of Tillotson, and the favour of King William, was slmt out by a combination of his clerical bretliren from high ecclesiastical prefer • meat. DR HENRY MORE. The last of the divines of the established church whom we shall mention at present is Dr Henry More (1614-1687), a very learned cultivator of the Platonic philosophy. He devoted his life to study and religious meditation at Cambridge, and strenu- ously refused to accept preferment in the church, which would have rendered it necessary for him to leave what he called his paradise. The friends of this recluse philosopher once attempted to decoy him into a bishopric, and got him as far as Wliite- hall. that he might kiss the king's hand on the oc- casion ; but when told for what purpose they had brought him thither, he refused to move a step farther. Dr ]\Iore published several works for the promotion of religion and virtue ; his moral doctrines are admirable, but some of his views are strongly tinged with mysticism, and grounded on a philosophy which, though considerable attention was paid to it at the time when he lived, has now fallen into gene- ral neglect as visionary and absurd. He was one of those who held the opinion that the wisdom of the Hebrews had descended to Pythagoras, and from him to Plato, in the writings of whom and his followers he believed that the true principles of divine philo- sophy were consequently to be found. For such a theory, it is hardly necessary to remark, there is no good foundation, the account given of Pytliagoras's travels into the east being of uncertain autliority, and tliere being no evidence that he had any com- munication with the Hebrew prophets. Dr More was an enthusiastic and disinterested inquirer after truth, and is celebrated by his contemporaries as a man of uncommon benevolence, purity, and devotion. He once observed to a friend, ' that "he was thought by some to have a soft head, but he thanked God he had a soft heart.' Among his visionary notions w.as the idea that supernatund communications were made to him, under the direction of God, by a parti- cular genius or demon like that of Socrates ; that he was unusually gifted with the power of explaining * The two works mentioned above were originally published in Latin, under the titles De Fide el Officiis Christ iaiwnim, and Dc Statu Mortuorum et li>surgeiitium. ]3oth have been trans- lated ; thouKh the author, apprehensive of bad cnnseiiuinces from the publication of an English version of the latter, strongly protested, in a note, agaiuBt its being rendered into the verna- cular tongue. 452 PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. DR HENRY MORE. the prophecies of Scripture ; and that, wlien writing on tliat subject, he was under tlie guidance of a spe- cial providence. He was, moreover, credulous as to apparitions and witchcraft, but in this ditl'ered little from many intelligent and learned contemporaries. His works, thougli now little read, were extremely popular in the latter half of the seventeenth century. The principal of them are, The Mystery of Godliness, The Mystery of Iniquity, A Discourse on the Immorta- lity of the Soul, Ethical and Metaphysical Manuals, several treatises against atheism and idolatry, and a dull and tedious poem, entitled A Platonic Song of the Soul. The following two stanzas are a favourable specimen of the last-named work : — [The Soul and Body.'] Like to a light fast lock'd in lanthom dark, Whereby by night our wary steps we guide In slabby streets, and dirty channels mark, Some weaker rays through the black top do glide, And llusher streams perhaps from horny side. But when we've pass'd the peril of the way, Arriv'd at home, and laid that ease aside. The naked light how clearly doth it ray, And spread its joyful beams as bright as summer's day. Even so the soul, in this contracted state, I Confin'd to these strait instruments of sense, More dull and narrowly doth operate ; At this hole hears, the sight nmst ray from thence, Here tastes, there smells : but when she's goue from hence, Like naked lamp she is one shining sphere. And round about has perfect cognoscence Whate'er in her horizon doth appear : She is one orb of sense, all eye, all airy ear. Of the prose composition of Dr IVIore, the sub- joined extracts, the first from his ' INIystery of God- liness,' and the second from ' An Antidote against Atlieism,' will serve as specimens : — [Devout Contemvlation of the Works of God.'] Whether, therefore, our eyes be struck with that more radiant lustre of the sun, or whether we behold that more placid and calm beauty of the moon, or be refreshed with the sweet breathings of the open air, or be taken up with the contemplation of those pure sparkling lights of the stars, or stand astonished at the gushing downfalls of some mighty river, as that of Nile, or admire the height of some insuperable and inaccessible rock or mountain ; or with a plea- sant liorror and chillness look upon some silent wood, or solenm shady grove ; whether the face of heaven smile upon us with a clieerful bright azure, or look upon us with a more sad and minacious countenance, dark pitchy clouds being charged with thunder and lightning to let fly against the earth ; whether the air be cool, fresh, and healthful ; or whether it be sultry, contagious, and pestilential, so that, while we gasp for life, we are forced to draw in a sudden and inevitable death ; whether the eartli stand firm, and prove favourable to the industry of the artificer ; or wliether she threaten the very foundations of our buildings with trembling and tottering earthquakes, accompanied with remugient echoes and ghastly mur- murs from below ; whatever notable emergencies happen for either good or bad to us, tliese are the Joves and Vejoves that we worsliip, wliich to us are not many, but one God, who has the only power to save or destroy. And therefore, from whatever part of this magnificent temple of his — the world — he sliail send forth his voice, our hearts and eyes are presently directed thither- ward wi; h fear, I .re, and veneration. l^Nature of the Evidence of the Existence of God."] When I say that I will demonstrate that there is a God, I do not promise that I will always produce such arguments that the reader shall acknowledge so strong, as he shall be forced to confess that it is utterly unpossible that it should be otherwise ; but they shall be such as shall deserve full assent, and win full as- sent from any uni)rejudiced mind. For I conceive that we may give full assent to that which, notwithstanding, may possibly be otherwise ; which I shall illustrate by several examples : — Sup- pose two men got to the top of Mount Athos, and there viewing a stone in the form of an altar with ashes on it, and the footsteps of men on those ashes, or some words, if you will, as Optimo Maximo, or To agnosto Thco, or the like, written or scrawled out upon the ashes ; and one of them should cry out. Assuredly here have been some men that have done this. But the other, more nice than wise, should reply. Nay, it may possibly be otherwise ; for this stone may have naturally gro\ni into this very shape, and the seeming ashes may be no ashes, that is, no remainders of any fuel burnt there ; hut some unexplicable and unper- ceptible motions of the air, or other particles of this fluid matter that is active everj where, have wrought some parts of the matter into .he form and nature of ashes, and have fridged and j)laYed about so, that they have also figured those intelligible characters in the same. But would not anybody deem it a piece of weakness, no less than dotage, for the other man one v.hit to recede from his former apprehension, but as fully as ever to agree with what he pronounced first, notwithstanding this bare possibility of being other- wise ? So of anchors that have been digged up, either in plain fields or mountainous places, as also the Rom.an urns with ashes and inscriptions, as Severiamis Fid. Linus, and the like, or Roman coins with the effigies and names of the Ca!sars on them, or that which is more ordinary, the skulls of men in every churchyard, with the right figure, and all those necessary perforations for the passing of the vessels, besides those conspicuous hollows for the eyes and rows of teeth, the os istyloeides, ethoeides, and what not. If a man will say of them, that the motions of the particles of the matter, or some hidden spermatic power, has gendered these, both anchors, urns, coins, and skulls, in the ground, he doth but pronounce that which human reason must admit is possible. Nor can any man ever so demonstrate that those coins, anchors, and urns, were once the artifice of men, or that this or that skull was once a part of a living man, that he shall force an acknow- ledgment that it is impossible that it should be other- wise. But yet I do not think that any man, without doing manifest violence to his fiiculties, can at all suspend his assent, but freely and fully agree that this or that skull was once a part of a living man, and that these anchors, urns, and coins, were certainly once made by human artifice, uotwithstanding the possibility of being otherwise. And what I have said of assent is also true in dis- sent ; for the mind of man, not crazed nor prejudiced, will fully and irreconcilably disagree, by its own natural sagacity, where, notwithstanding, tlie thing tliat it doth thus resolvedly and undoubtedly reject, no wit of man can prove impossible to be true. As if we should make such a fiction as this — tliat .Vrchi- medes, with the same individual body that he had when the soldiers slew him, is now safely intent upon his geometrical figures under ground, at the centre of the earth, far from the noise and din of tliis world, that might disturb his meditations, or distract liim in his curious delineations he makes with his rod upon tlie dust ; which no man living can prove inipoHwible. Yet if any man does not as irreconcilably disHeiit froiu 453 FROM 1649 CYCLOPAEDIA OF TO 168!» sucli a fable as this, as from any falsehood imaginable, as.-ui-edly that man is next door to madness or dotage, or does enormous violence to the free use of his fa- culties. During the same period, some writers of eminence appeared among those bodies of Protestant Chris- . tians Avho did not conform to the rules of the esta- blisiied church. The most celebrated of tliese are Baxter, Owen, Calamy, Flavel, Fox, Barclay, Penn, and Bunyan. KICHARD BAXTER. Richard Baxter (1615-1691) is generally es- teemed the most eminent of the nonconformist Richard Baxter. divines of this period. His first employment was that of master of the free school at Dudley, in which town he afterwards became distinguished as a preaclier, first in connexion with the establislied church, and subsequently as a dissenting minister. His labours tliere are said to have been of marked utility in im- proving the moral character of the inhabitants, and increasing their respect for religion. Though lie sided with parliament during tlie civil war, he was a zealous advocate of order and regular government both in church and state. "When Cromwell usurped the supreme power, Baxter openly expressed liis dis- .approbation, and, in a conference with the Protector, plainly told him that the peo])le of England con- sidered monarchy a blessing, the loss of which they deplored. After the Kestoration, he was aj)pointed one of the royal chaplains, but, like Dr Owen, refused a bishopric ofTereil him by I^ord Clarendon. During the persecution of the nonconformists, he was occa- sionally nnich molested in the performance of his ministerial duties ; in 1685, he was, on frivolous grounds, condenmed by the infamous Jeffreys for sedition, but by the king's favour obtained a release from the heavy fine imposed ujion him on this occa- sion. Baxter, who was a man of erdargcd and liberal view.s, refrained from joining any of those sects into which the dissenters were si)lit ; and he was in con- sequence generally regarded with susjiicion and dis- like by the more narrow-minded of them. His character was of course exposed to much obloquy in his lifetime, but is now imjjartially judged of, nosterity having agreed to look upon him as ardently devoted to the cause of piety and good morals, esteeming worth in whatever denomination it wa& found ; and one who, to simplicity of manners, added much sagacity as an observer of human afiiiirs. By many even of his contemporaries his merits were anijdy acknowledged ; and among liis friends and admirers he had the honour to reckon Dr Barrow, Bishop "Wilkins, and Sir Matthew Hale. Baxter engaged in many controversies, chiefly against the principles of the Antinomians ;* but his writings on other subjects are likewise numerous. The remark of one of his biographers, that the works of this in- dustrious author are sufficient to form a library of themselves, is hardly overcharged, for not fewer than one Imndred and sixty-eight publications are named in the catalogue of his works. Their contents, which include bodies of practical and theoretical divinity, are of course very various ; none of them are now much read, except the practical pieces, espe- cially those entitled The Saint's Everlasting Best, and A Call to the Unconverted. The latter was so popular when published, that 20,000 copies are said to have been sold in a single year. His work en- titled The Certainty of the World of Spirits fully evinced by itnqnestionahle Histories of Apparitions and Witchcrafts, Operations, Voices, &c., is interesting to the curious. Baxter wrote a candid, liberal, and rational Narrative of the most Memorable Passages oj his Life and Times, which appeared in 1G96, a few years after his death. It is highly instructive, and, like Baxter's writings generally, was a favourite boolv of Dr Johnson. Our character of this produc- tion will be fully borne out by the following ex- tracts : — [Fruits of Ej-pcriencc of Human Character.'\ I now see more good and more evil in all men than heretofore I did. I see that good men are not so good as I once thought they were, but have more imperfec- tions ; and that nearer approach and fuller trial doth make the best appear more weak and faulty than their admirers at a distance think. And I find that few are so bad as either malicious enemies or censorious separating professors do imagine. In some, indeed, I find that human nature is corrupted into a greater likeness to devils than I once thought any on earth had been. But even in the wicked, usually there is more for grace to make advantage of, and more to testify for God and holiness, than I once believed there had been. I less admire gifts of utterance, and bare profession of religion, than I once did ; and have much more charity for many who, by the want of gifts, do make an obscurer profession than they. I o:ioe thought that almost all that could pray movingly and fluently, and talk well of religion, had been saints. But experi- ence hath opened to ine what odious crimes may con- sist with high profession ; and I have met with divers obscure persons, not noted for any extraordinary pro- fession, or forwardness in religion, but only to live a quiet blameless life, whom I have after found to have long lived, as far as I could discern, a truly godly and sanctified life ; only, their prayers and duties were by accident kept secret from other men's observation. Yet he that u])on this pretence would confound the godly and the ungodly, may as well go about to lay heaven and hell together. [Baxtei's Judgment of Ms Wntings.'] Concerning almost all my writings, I must confess that my own judgment is, that fewer, well studied and I>olished, had been better; but the reader who can * See note, page 425. 454 ntOSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. RICHARD DAXTEB. s.afeiy censure the books, is not fit to censure the au- thor, unless he had been upon the place, and. ac- quainted ivith all the occasions and circumstances. Indeed, for the ' Saint's Rest,' I had four months' vacancy to write it, but in the midst of continual lan- guishing and medicine ; but, for the rest, I -wrote them in the crowd of all my other employments, which would ^llow me no great leisure for polishing and exactness, or any ornament ; so that I scarce ever wrote one sheet twice over, nor stayed to make any blots or interlinings, but was fain to let it go as it was first conceived ; and when my own desire was rather to stay upon one thing long than run over many, some sudden occasions or other extorted almost all my writings from me ; and the apprehensions of present usefulness or necessity prevailed against all other motives ; so that the di- vines which were at hand with me still put me on, and approved of what I did, because they were moved by present necessities as well as I ; but those that were far off, and felt not those nearer motives, did rather wish that I had taken the other way, and pub- lished a few elaborate writings ; and I am ready my- self to be of their mind, when I forgot the case that I then stood in. and have lost the sense of former mo- tives. * * And this token of my weakness so accompanied those my j-ounger studies, that I was very apt to start up controversies in the way of my practical writings, and alsj more desirous to acquaint the world with all that I took to be the truth, and to assault those books by name which I thought did tend to deceive them, and did contain unsound and dan- trcrous doctrine; and the reason of all this was, that I wfit then in the Ti^^ur of my youthful apprehen- sions, and the new appearance of any sacred truth, it ■was more apt to affect me, and be more highly valued, th.-in afterwards, when commonness had dulled my delight ; and I did not sufficiently discern then how much, in most of our controversies, is verbal, and upon mutual mistakes. And withal, I knew not how im- patient divines v/ere of being contradicted, nor how it would stir up all their powers to defend what they have once said, and to rise up against the truth which is thus thrust upon them, as the mortal enemy of their honour ; and I knew not how hardly men's minds are changed from their former apprehensions, be the evidence never so plain. And I have perceived that nothing so much hinders the reception of the truth as urging it on men with too harsh importunity, and falling too heavily on their errors ; for hereby you engage their honour in the business, and they defend their errors as them- selves, and stir up all their wit and ability to oppose you. In controversies, it is fierce opposition which is the bellows to kindle a resisting zeal ; when, if they be neglected, and their opinions lie awhile despised, they usually cool, and come again to themselves. IMeu are so loath to be drenched with the truth, that I am no more for going that way to work ; and, to confess the truth, I am lately much prone to the contrary ex- treme, to bo too indifierent what men hold, and to keep my judgment to myself, and never to mention anything wherein I differ from another on anything which I think I know more than he ; or, at least, if he receive it not presently, to silence it, and leave him to his own opinion ; and I find this effect is mixed according to its causes, which are some good and some bad. The bad causes are, 1. An impatience of men's weakness, and mistaking forwardness, and self-con- ceitcdness. 2. An abatement of my sensible esteem of truths, through the long abode of them on my mind. Though my judgment value them, yet it is hard to be equally affected with old and common things, as with new and rare ones. The better causes are, 1. That I am much more sensible than ever of the necessity of living upon the principles of religion which we are all agreed in, and uniting in these ; and how much mis- chief men that overvalue iheir own opinions have done by their controversies in the church ; how some have destroyed charity, and some caused schisms liy them, and most have hindered godliness in themselvcis and others, and used them to divert men from the serious jirosecuting of a holy life ; and, as Sir Francis Bacon saith in his Essay of Peace, ' that it is one great bene- fit of church peace and concord, that writing contro versies is turned into books of practical devotion foi increase of piety and virtue.' 2. And I find that it is much more for most men's good and edification, to converse with them only in tliat way of godliness which all are agreed in, and not by touching upon dif- ferences to stir up their corru])tioiis, and to tell them of little more of your knowledge than what you find them willing to receive from 3'ou as mere learners ; and therefore to stay till they crave information of you. We mistake men's diseases when we think there needeth nothing to cure their errors, but only to bring them the evidence of truth. Alas! there are many distempers of mind to be removed before men are apt to receive that evidence. And, therefore, that church is happy where order is kept up, and the abi- lities of the ministers command a reverend submission from the hearers, and where all are in Christ's school, in the distinct ranks of teachers and learners ; for in a learning way men are ready to receive the truth, but in a disputing way, they come armed against it with prejudice and animosity. IDesh-c of Approhation.l I am much less regardful of the approbation of man, and set much lighter by contempt or applause, than I did long ago. I am oft suspicious that this is not only from the increase of self-denial and humility, but partly from my being glutted and surfei'ed with human applause : and all worldly things appear must vain and unsatisfactory, when we have tried them most. But though I feel that tliis hath some hand in the effect, yet, as far as I can perceive, the knowledge of man's nothingness, and God's transcendent great- ness, with whom it is that I have most to do, and the sense of the brevity of human things, and the nearness of eternity, are the principal causes of this effect, which some have imputed to self-conceitedness and morositv. \_Clianfje -in Baxter's E.^fimalr of his Own and otlicr Met Kn'jideilij>'.'\ Heretofore I knew much less than now, and yet was not half so much acquainted with my ignorance. I had a great delight in the daily new discovv^ries which I made, and of the light which shincd in upon me (like a man that cometh into a country where he never was before); but I little knew either how imper- fectly I understood those very points whosi discovery so much delighted me, nor how much might be said against them, nor how many things I was yet a stranger to : but now I find fargreater darkness upon all things, and perceive how very little it is that wc know, in com])arison of that which we arc ignorant of, and havei far meaner thoughts of my own understanding, though I must needs know that it is better furnished than it was then. Accordingly, I had then a far higher opinion of learned persons and books than I have now; for what 1 wanted myself, I thought every reverend divine liad attained and was fiuniliarly acquainted with ; and what books I understood not, by reason of the strange- ness of the terms or matter, I tlie more admired, and thought that others understood their worth. But now experience hath constrained wc against my will to know, that reverend learned men are iinperfect, and know but little as well as 1, especially tliose that think themselves the wisest ; and the better I am ac- 4&S FROM 1649 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO ] 689. quainteJ witii them, the more 1 perceive that we are all yet in the dark : and the more I am acquainted with holy men, that are all for heaven, and pre- tend not much to subtilties, the more I value and honour them. And when I have studied hard to un- derstand some abstruse admired book (as De Scicntia Dei, De Providentia circa Malum, De Decretis, De Prcc- determinatione, De Lihertute Creaturce,* &c.), I have but attained the knowledge of human imperfection, and to eee that the author is but a man as well as I. And at first I took more upon my author's credit than now I can do ; and when an author was highly commended to me by others, or pleased me in some part, t was ready to entertain the whole ; whereas now I take and leave in the same author, and dissent in some things from him that I like best, as well as from others. [On the Credit diu: to History. 1 I am nufh more cautelous in my belief of history than heretofore ; not that I run into their extreme, that will believe nothing because they cannot believe all things. But I am abundantly satisfied by the ex- perience of this age, that there is no believing two sorts of men, ungodly men and partial men ; though an honest heathen, of no religion, may be believed, where enmity against religion biasseth him not ; yet a debauched Christian, besides his enmity to the power and practice of his own religion, is seldom with- out some further bias of interest or faction ; especially when these concur, and a man is both ungodly .and ambitious, espousing an interest contrary to a holy heavenly life, and also factious, embodying himself with a sect or i)arty suited to his spirit and designs ; there is no believing his word or oath. If you read any man partially bitter against others, as differing from him in opinion, or as cross to his greatness, in- terest, or designs, take heed how 3'ou believe any more than the historical evidence, distinct from his word, conipelleth you to believe. The prodigious lies which have been published in this age in matters of fiict, with unblushing confidence, even where thousands or multitudes of eye and ear-witnesses knew all to be false, doth call men to take heed what history they believe, especially where power and violence affordeth that privilege to the reporter, that no man dare answer him, or detect his fraud ; or if they do, their writings are all supprest. As long as men have liberty to ex- amine and contradict one another, one may partly conjecture, by comparing their words, on which side the truth is like to lie. But when great men write history, or flatterers by their appointment, which no man dare contradict, believe it but as you are con- strained. Yet, in these cases, I can freely believe history : 1. If the person show that he is acquainted with what he saith. 2. And if he show you the evi- dences of honesty and conscience, and the fear of God (which maybe much perceived in the spirit of a writ- ing). 3. If he appear to be impartial and charitable, and a lover of goodness and of mankind, and not possessed of malignity, or personal ill-will and malice, nor carried away by faction or personal interest. Con- Bcionable men dare not lie : but faction and interest abate men's tenderness of conscience. And a charit- able impartial heathen may speak truth in a love to truth, and hatred 01 a lie ; but ambitious malice and false religion will not stick to serve themselves on any thing. * * Sure 1 am, that as the lies of the Papists, of Luther, Zwinglius, Calvin, and Beza, are visibly malicious and impudent, by the common plenary con- tradicting evidence, and yet the multitude of their * Theee Latin titles of books signify, Of the Knowledge of God, Of Providence concerning Evil, Of Decrees, Of Predesti- lation, Of the Liberty of the Creature. seduced ones believe them all, in despite of truth and charity ; so in this age there have been such things written against parties and persons, whom the ^Titers design to make odious, so notoriously false, as you would think, that the sense of their honour, at least, should have made it impossible for such men to write. My own eyes have read such words and actions as- serted with most vehement, iterated, unblushing con- fidence, which abundance of ear-witnesses, even of their own parties, must needs know to have been alto- gether false : and therefore having myself now \\Titten this history of myself, notwithstanding my protesta- tion that I have not in anything wilfully gone against the truth, I expect no more credit from the reader than the self-evidencing light of the matter, with con- current rational advantages from persons, and things, and other witnesses, shall constrain him to, if he be a person that is unacquainted with the author him- self, and the other evidences of his veracity and credi- bility. [Character of Sir Matthew ITale.'] He was a man of no quick utterance, but spake with great reason. He was most precisely just ; insomuch that, I believe, he would have lost all he had in the world rather than do an unjust act. Patient in hear- ing the most tedious speech which any man had to make for himself. The pillar of justice, the refuge of the subject who feared oppression, and one of the greatest honours of his majesty's government ; for, with some other upright judges, he upheld the honour of the English nation, that it fell not into the reproach of arbitrariness, cruelty, and utter confusion. Every man that had a just cause, was almost past fear if he could but bring it to the court or assize where he was judge ; for the other judges seldom contradicted him. He was the great instrument for rebuilding London ; for when an act was made for deciding all controver- sies that hindered it, he was the constant judge, who for nothing followed the work, and, by his prudence and justice, removed a multitude of great impedi- ments. His great advantage for innocency was, that he was no lover of riches or of grandeur. His garb was too plain ; he studiously avoided all unnecessary famili- arity with great persons, and all that manner of living which signifieth wealth and greatness. He kept no greater a family than myself. I lived in a small house, which, for a pleasant back opening, he had a mind to ; but caused a stranger, that he might not be suspected to be the man, to know of me whether I were willing to part with it, before he would meddle with it. In that house he lived contentedly, without any pomp, and without costly or troublesome retinue or visitors ; but not without charity to the poor. He continued the study of physics and mathematics still, as his great delight. He hath himself written four volumes in folio, three of wliich 1 have read, against atheism, Sadduceism, and infidelity, to prove first the Deity, and then the inmiortality of man's soul, and then the truth of Christianity and the Holy Scrip- ture, answering the infidel's objections against Scrip- ture. It is strong and masculine, only too tedious for impatient readers. He said he wrote it only at vacant hours in his circuits, to regulate his meditations, find- ing, that while he wTote down what he thought on, his thoughts were the easier kept close to work, and kept in a method. But I could not persuade him to pub- lish them. The conference which I had frequently with him, mostly about the immortality of the soul, and other philosophical and foundation points, was so edifying, that his very q\iestions and objections did help me to more light than other men's solutions. Those who take none for religious who frequent not private meet- 456 PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. JOHN OWEN. ings, &c., took him for an excellently righteous moral man ; but I, who heard and read his serious expres- sions of the concernments of eternity, and saw his love to all good men, and the blamelessncss of his life, thought better of his piety than my own. When the people crowded in and out of my house to hear, he openly showed me so great respect before them at the door, and never spake a word against it, as was no small encouragement to the common people to go on ; though the other sort muttered, that a judge should seem so far to countenance that which they took to be against the law. He was a great lamenter of the ex- tremities of the times, and of the violence and foolish- jess of the predominant clergy, and a great desirer of such abatements as might restore us all to serviceable- ness and unity. lie had got but a very small estate, though he had long the greatest practice, because he would take but little mono}', and undertake no more business than he could well despatch. He often offered to the lord chancellor to resign his place, when he was blamed for doing that which he supposed was justice. He had been the learned Selden's intimate friend, and one of his executors ; and because the Hobbians and other infidels would have persuaded the world that Selden was of their mind, I desired him to tell me the truth therein. He assured mc that Selden was an earnest professor of the Christian faith, and so angry an adversary to Hobbes, that he hath rated him out of the room. [^Observance of the Sabbath in Baxter's Youth.] I cannot forget, that in my youth, in those late times, when we lost the labours of some of our con- formable godly teachers, for not reading publicly the book of sports and dancing on the Lord's Da}^ one of my father's own tenants was the town piper, hired by the year (for many years together), and the place of the dancing assembly was not an hundred yards from our door. We could not, on the Lord's Day, either read a chapter, or pray, or sing a psalm, or catechise, or instruct a servant, but with the noise of the pipe and tabor, and the shoutings in the street, continually in our ears. Even among a tractable people, we were the common scorn of all the rabble in the streets, and called puritans, precisians, and hypocrites, because we rather chose to read the Scriptures than to do as they did ; though there was no savour of nonconformity in our family. And when the people by the book were allowed to play and dance out of public service time, they could so hardly break oft' their sports, that many a time the reader was fain to stay till the piper and players would give over. Sometimes the morris-dan- cers would come into the church in all their linen, and scarfs, and antic-dresses, with morris-bells jing- ling at their legs ; and as soon as common prayer was read, did haste out presently to their play again. [ Theological Controversies.] My mind being these many years immersed in studies of this nature, and having also long wearied myself in searching what fathers and schoolmen have said of such things before us, and my genius abhorring confusion and equlvocals, I came, by many years' longer study, to perceive that most of the doctrinal controversies among Protestants are far more about equivocal words than matter ; and it wounded my loul to perceive what work both tyrannical and un- skilful disputing clergymen had made these thirteen hundred years in the world ! Experience, since the year ltJ4o, till this year, 1675, hath loudly called me to repent of my own jirejudices, sidings, and ccnsur- ings of causes and persons not understood, ajid of all the miscarriages of my ministry aud life which have been thereby caused; and to make it my chief work to call men that are within my hearing to more peace- able thoughts, affections, and practices. And my en- deavours have not been in vain, in that the ministers of the county where I lived were very many of such a peaceable temper, and a great number more through the land, by fjod's grace (rather than any endeavours of mine), are so minded. But the sons of the cowl were exasperated the more against me, and accounted him to be against every man that called all men to love and peace, and was for no man as in a contrary way. JOHN OWEN. Dr John Owen (1616-1683), after studying at Oxford for the church of England, became a Presby- terian, but finally joined the Independents. He was highly esteemed by the parliament wliich executed the king, and was frequently called upon to preach before them. Cromwell, in particular, was so highly pleased with him, that, when going to Ireland, he insisted on Dr Owen accompanying him. for tlie purpose of regulating and superintending tlie college of Dublin. After spending six months in that city, Owen returned to his clerical duties in England, from which, however, he was again speedily called away by Cromwell, who took him in 1650 to Edinburgh, where he spent six months. Subsequenth', he was promoted to the deanery of Christ-church college in Oxford, and soon after, to the vice-chancellorship of the uni- versity, wliich oflSces he held till Cromwell's death. After the Restoration, he was favoured by Lord Clarendon, Avho offered him a preferment in the church if he would conform ; but this the prmciples of Dr Owen did not permit him to do. The perse- cution of the nonconformists repeatedly disposed him to emigrate to New England, but attachment to his native country prevailed. Notwithstanding his decided hostility to the church, the amiable disposi tions and agreeable manners of Dr Owen procured him much esteem from many eminent churchmen, among whom was the king himself, who on one oc- casion sent for him, and, after a conv(.Tsation of two hours, gave him a thousand guineas to be distributed among those who had suffered most from the recent persecution. He was a man of extensive learning, and most estimable character. As a preacher, he was eloquent and graceful, and displayed a degree of moderation and liberality not very common among the sectaries with whom he was associated. His extreme industry is evinced by the voluminous- ness of his publications, which amount to no Knver than seven volumes in folio, tweut}' in quarto, and about thirty in octavo. Among these are a collec- tion of Sermons, An Exposition on the Epistle to the Hebrews, A Discourse of the Huh/ Spirit, and The Jjivine Original and Authority of the Scriptures. The style of Dr Owen merits little jjraise. He wrote too rapidly and carelessly to produce composi- tions either vigorous or beautiful. Tlie graces of style, indeed, were confessedly held by him in con- temj)t; for in one of his prefaces we find this plain declaration, ' Know, reader, that you have to do with a person who, provided his words but clearly express the sentiments of his mind, entertains a fixed and absolute disregard of all elegance and ornaments of speecli.' The length of liis sentences, and their intri- cate and parenthetical structure, often render them extremely tedious, and he is far from hajjpy in the choice of the adjectives with wliich they are en- cumbered. In a word, his diction is, for the most part, dry, heavy, and pointless, and his ideas are seldom brought out with powerful effect. Robert Hall entertained a decided antipathy to the writings of this celebrated divine. ' I can't think how you 457 FROM lh'49 CYCLOPEDIA OV TO 168i». like Dr Owen,' said he to a friend ; ' I can't read him with any patience ; I never read a jiage of ])r Owen, sir, without finding some confusion in liis thouglits, eitlier a truism or a contradiction in terms.' 'Sir, lie is a double Dutchman, floundering in a con- tinent of mud.' For moderation in controversy, Dr Owen was most lionourably distinguislied among the theological warriors of his age. ' As a controversial writer,' saj's his excellent biographer, Mr Orme, • Owen is generally distinguished for calmness, acute- ness, candour, and gentlemanly treatment of his op- ponents. He lived during a stormy period, and often experienced the bitterest provocation, but he very seldom lost his temper.' EDMUND CALAMY. Edmund Calamy (1 600-1 ete) was originally a clergyman of the church of England, but had become a nonconformist bef)re settling in London as a preacher in 1G39. A celebrated production against Episcopacy, called Smectymnuiis, from the initials of the names of the writers, and in which Calamy was concerned, appeared in the following year. Pie was much in favour with the Tresby terian party ; and, in his sermons, which were among the most popular of the time, occasionally indulged in violent political declamation ; yet he was, on the whole, a moderate man, and disapproved of those forcible measures which terminated in the death of tlie king. Having exerted himself to promote the restoration of Charles IL, he subsequently received the ofler of a bishopric ; but, after much deliberation, it was rejected. The passing of the act of uniformity in 1662 made him retire from his ministerial duties in the metropolis several j'ears before his death. The latter event was hastened by the impression made on his mind by tlie great fire of London, a view of the smoking ruins having strongly and injuriously affected him. His sermons were of a plain and practical character; and five of them, published under the title of The Goclli/ Mans Ark, or a City of Refuge in tlie Day of his Dis- tress, acquired much popularity. JOHN FLAVEL. John Flavkl (1627-1691) was a zealous preacher at Dartmouth, where he was greatly molested for his nonconformity during the persecutions. His private character was highly respectable, and in the pulpit he was distinguished for the warmth, fluency, and variety of his devotional exercises, which, like his writings, were somewhat tinged with enthusiasm. His works, occupying two folio volumes, are written in a p.kin and perspicuous style, and some of them are still highlj' valued by persons of Calvinistic oj)i- nions. This remark applies more particularly to his Husliamhy Spiritualised, and Navigation Spiritualised, in which the author extracts a variety of pious les- sons from natural objects and phenomena, and the common operations of life. ^lany of his sermons have been published. MATTHEW HENRY. Matthew Henry (1662-1714) was the son of Philip Henry, a pious and learned nonconformist minister in Flintsliire. He entered as a student of law in Gray's Inn ; but, yielding to a strong desire for the office of the ministry, he soon abandoned the pursuit of the law, and turned his attention to theology, which he studied with great diligence and zeal. In 1685 he was chosen i)astor of a noncon- formist congregation at Cliester, where he offi- ciated about twenty -five years. In 1711 he clianged the scene of his labours to Hackney, where he con- tinued till his death in 1714. Of a varietv of theo- logical works published by this excellent divine, the largest and 'vfst known is his Commentary on the Bible, which he did not live to complete. It was originally printed in five volumes folio. The Com- mentary on the Epistles was added by various divines. Considered as an explanation of the sacred volume, this popidar production is not of great value ; but its practical remarks are peculiarly in- teresting, and have secured for it a place in the very first class of expository works. Dr Olinthns Gre- gory, in his Memoir of the Rev. liobert Hall, men- tions, respecting that eminent preacher, that for the last two years of his life he read daily two chapters of Matthew Henry's Commentary, a work whicli I'.s had not before read consecutively, though he had long known and valued it. As he proceeded, he felt increasing interest and pleasure, greatly admiring the copiousness, variety, and pious ingenuity of the thoughts ; the simplicity, strength, and pregnancy of the expressions. The following extract from the exposition of Matthew vi. 24, may be taken as a sjiecimen of the nervous and pointed remarks with which the work abounds. Ye Cannot Serve God and Mammon. Mammon is a Syriac word that signifies gain, so that whatever is, or is accounted by us to be gain, is inanimon. ' Whatever is in the world — the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eye, and the pride of life' — is mammon. To some, their belly is their maminoii, and they serve that ; to others, their ease, their sports and pastimes, are their mammon ; tr others, worldly riches ; to others, honours and preferments : the praise and applause of men was the Pharisees' mammon : in a word, self — the unity in which the world's trinity centres — sensual secular self, is the mammon which cannot be served in conjunction with God; for if it be served, it is in competition with him, and in contradiction to hira. He does not say we rnmt not, or we nhould not, but we cannot serve Cod and manmion ; we cannot love both, or hold to both, or hold by both, in observance, obedience, attendance, trust, and dependence, for they are contrary the one to tlie other. God says, 'My son, give ine thine heart ;' ]\Iammon says, ' No — give it me.' God says, ' Be content with such things as ye have ; ' Mammon says, ' Grasp at all that ever thou canst — " Rem, rem, quocunque modo, rem" — money, money, by fair means or by foul, money.' God says, ' Defraud not ; never lie; be honest and just in thy dealings ;' ^lamiiion says, ' Cheat thy own father if thou canst gain by it.' God says, ' Be charitable ;' Mammon says, ' Hold thy own ; this giving undoes us all.' God says, ' Be care- ful for nothing ;' Mammon says, ' Be careful for every- thing.' God says, ' Keep holy the Sabbath day ;' Alanimon says, ' I\Iake use of that day, as well as any other, for the world.' Thus inconsistent are the com- mands of God and Mammon, so that we cannot serve both. Let us not, then, halt between God and liaal, but ' chooseye this day whom ye will serve,' and abide by your choice. GEORGE FOX. George Fox, the founder of the Society of Friends, or, as they are usually' termed, Quakers, was one of the most prominent religious enthusiasts in an age which produced them in extraordinary abundance. He was the son of a weaver at Drayton, in Leices- tershire, and was born in 1624. llaving been ap- jirenticed to a shoenuiker who traded in wool and cattle, he spent much of his youth in tending sheep, au employment vvliich allowed him to indulge his 458 PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. GEORGE FOX. propensity for musing and solitude. "When about nineteen j-ears of age, he was one day vexed by a disposition to intemperance wliich he observed in two professedly religious friends whom lie met at a fair. ' I went awaj-,' says he in his Journal, ' and, wlien I had done my business, returned home ; but I did not go to bed tliat night, nor could I sleej) ; but sometimes walked up and doAvn, and sometimes prayed, and cried to the Lord, who said unto me, " Tiiou seest how young people go together into vanity, and old people into the earth; thou must forsake all, young and old, keep out of all, and be a stranger to all." ' This divine communieation, as in the warmth of his imagination he considered it to be, was scrupulously obeyed. Leaving his relations and master, lie betook himself for several years to a wandering life, which was interrupted only for a few months, during wliich he was prevailed iipon to reside at home. At this time he seems to have been completely insane. In the course of his melan- choly wanderings, he sometimes, for weeks together, passed tlie night in the open air, and used to spend entire days without sustenance. ' My troubles,' says he, 'continued, and I was often under great temptations. I fasted much, walked abroad in soli- tary places many daj's, and often took my Eihle and sat in hollow trees and lonesome places until night came on ; and frequently in the niglit walked mourn- fully about by myself; for I was a man of sorrows in the first workings of the Lord in me.' On another occasion, ' I was in a fast for about ten days, my spirit being greatly exercised on truth's behalf.' At this period, as well as during the remainder of his life, Fox had many dreams and visions, and sup- posed himself to receive supernatural messages from above. In his Journal he gives an account of a par- ticular movement of his mind in singularly beauti- ful and impressive language : ' One morning, as I was sitting by the fire, a great cloud came over me, and a temjitation beset me, and I sate still. And it ■was said. All things come by nature ; and the Ele- ments and Stars came over me, so that I was in a moment quite clouded with it ; but, inasmuch as I sate still and said nothing, the people of the house perceived nothing. And as I sate still under it and let it alone, a living hope rose in me, and a true voice arose in me which cried, There is a living God ■vrho made all things. And immediately the cloud and temptation vanished away, and the life rose over it all, and my heart was glad, and I praised the liv- ing God.' Afterwards, lie tells us, ' the Lord's power broke forth, and I had great openings and prophe- cies, and spoke unto tlie jieople of the tilings of God, which they heard with attention and silence, and went away and spread tlie fame thereof.' Con- ceiving himself to- be divinely commissioned to convert his countrymen from their sins, he began, about the year 1647, to teacli publicly in tlie vici- nity of Duckenfield and Manchester, wlience he travelled through several neighbouring counties, haranguing at the market-idaces against tlie vices of the age. He had now formed the opinions, that a learned education is unnecessary to a minister; that the existence of a separate clerical profession is unwarranted by the Bible ; that the Creator of the world is not a dweller in temples made witli hands; and that the Scriptures are not the rule either of conduct or judgment, but that man should follow ' the light of Christ within.' He believed, moreover, that he was divinely commanded to abstain from taking off his hat to'any one, of whatever rank; to use the words thee and thou in addressing all persons with whom he communicated ; to bid nobody good- morrow or good-night ; .and never to bend his knee to any one in autliority, or take an oath, even on the most solemn occasion. Acting upon these views, he sometimes went into churches while service was going on, and interrupted the clergymen by loudly contradicting tlieir statements of doctrine. By these breaclies of order, and the employment of such un- ceremonious fashions of address, as, ' Come down, thou deceiver!' he naturally gave great offence, which led sometimes to his imjjrisonment, and sometimes to severe treatment from tlie hands of the populace. At Derby he was imprisoned in a loathsome dun- geon for a year, and afterwards in a still more dis- gusting cell at Carlisle for half that period. To this ill-treatment he submitted with meekness and re- signation ; and out of prison, also, there was ample opportunity for the exercise of the same qualities. As an illustration of the rough usage which he fre- quently brought upon himself, we extract this affect- ing narrative from his Journal : — [Fox's Ill-treatment at Ulrerstone.'] The people were in a rage, and fell upon me in the steeple-house before his [Justice Sawrcy's] face, knocked me do^vIl, kicked me, and trampled upon me. So great was the uproar, that some tumbled over their seats for fear. At last he came and took me from the people, led me out of the steeple-house, and put me into the hands of the constables and other officers, bidding them whip me, and put me out of the town. IMany friendly people being come to the market, and some to the steeple-house to hear me, divers of these they knocked down also, and broke their heads, so that the blood ran do^vn several ; and Judge Fell's son running after, to see what they would do with mo, they threw him into a ditch of water, some of them crying, ' Knock the teeth out of his head.' When they had haled me to the common moss side, a multitude following, the constables and other oificers gave me some blows over my back with willow-rods, and thrust me among the rude multitude, who, having furnished themselves with staves, hedge- stakes, holm or holly-bushes, fell upon me, and beat me upon the head, arms, and shoulders, till they had deprived me of sense ; so that I fell down upon the wet common. "When I recovered again, and saw my- self lying in a watery common, and the people stand- ing about me, I lay still a little while, and the power of the Lord sprang through me, and the ( tenial re- freshings revived nie, so that I stood up again in the strengthening power of the eternal God, and stretchiu" out my arms amongst them, I said with a loud voice, ' Strike again ! here are my arms, my head, and cheeks !' Then they began to fall out among them- selves. In 1635, Fox returned to his native town, where he continued to preach, dispute, .and hold lonfer- ences, till he was sent by Colonel Hacker to Crom- well, under the charge of Captain Drury. Of what followed, his Journal contains the subjoined parti- culars. [Interview with Oliver CromwellJ^ After Captain Drury had lodged me at the IMer- maid, over against the Mews at Charing-Cross, he went to give the Protector an account of me. A\'hen he came to me again, he told me the Protector re- quired that I should promise not to take up a canial sword or weapon against him or the goverimieiit, as it then was ; and that I should wTite it in what words I saw good, and set my hand to it. I said little in reply to Captain Drury, but the next moniiiig I was moved of the Lord to write a paper to the Protector, by the name of Oliver Cromwell, wherein 1 did, in the presence of the Lord (Jod, declare, that 1 did den; the wearing or drawing of a 'carnal sword, or any 459 FROM 1649 CYCLOr.KDlA OF TO 16^9. other outward weapon, against him or any man ; and that I was sent of God to stand a witness against all violence, and against the works of darkness, and to turn people from darkness to light ; to bring thetn from the occasion of war and fighting to the peaceable Gospel, and from being evil-doers, which the magis- trates' sword should be a terror to.' When I had written what the Lord had given me to \\Tite, I set my name to it, and gave it to Captain Drury to hand to Oliver Cromwell, which he did. After some time. Captain Drury brought me before the Protector him- self at Whitehall. It was in a morning, before he was dressed ; and one Harvey, who had come a little among friends, but was disobedient, waited upon him. When I came in, I was moved to say, ' Peace be in this house ;' and I exhorted him to keep in the fear of God, that he might receive wisdom from him ; that by it he might be ordered, and with it might order all things under his hand unto God's glory. I spoke much to him of truth ; and a great deal of dis- course I had with him about religion, wherein he carried himself ver\' moderately. But he said we quarrelled with the priests, whom he called ministers. I told him, ' I did not quarrel with them, they quar- relled with rae and my friends. Rut, said 1, if we own the prophets, Christ, and the apostles, we cannot hold up such teachers, prophets, and shepherds, as the prophets Christ and the apostles declared against ; but we must declare against tliein by the same power and spirit.' Then I shewed him that the prophets, Christ, and the apostles, declared freely, and declared against them that did not declare freely ; such as preached for filthy lucre, divined for money, and preached fur hire, and were covetous and greedy, like the dumb dogs that could never have enough ; and that they who have the same spirit that Christ, and the prophets, and the apostles had, could not but declare against all such now, as they did then. As I spoke, he several times said it was very good, and it was truth. I told him, ' That all Christendom (so called) had the Scriptures, but they wanted the power and spirit that those had who gave forth the Scrip- tures, and that was the reason they were not in fellow- ship with the Son, nor with the Father, nor with the Scriptures, nor one with another.' ^lany more words I had with him, but people coming in, I drew a little back. As I was turning, he catched me by the hand, and with tears in his eyes said, ' Come again to my house, for if thou and I were but an hour of a day together, we should be nearer one to the other ;' add- ing, that he wished me no more ill than he did to his own soul. I told him, if he did, he wronged his ovtii soul, and admonished him to hearken to God's voice, that he might stand in his counsel, and obey it ; and if he did so, that would keep him from hardness of heart ; but if he did not hear God's voice, his heart would be hardened. He said it was true. Then I went out ; and when Captain Drury came out after me, he told me the lord Protector said I was at liberty, and might go whither I would. Then I was brought into a great hall, where the Protector's gentlemen were to dine. I asked them what they brought me thither for. They said it was by the Protector's order, that I might dine with them. I bid them let the Protector know I would not eat of his bread, nor drink if his drink. When he heard this, he said, ' Now I lee there is a people risen that I cannot win, either ?rith gifts, honours, offices, or places ; but all other Beets and people 1 can.' It was told him again, 'That we had forsook our own, and were not like to look for luch things from him.' The sect lieaded by Fox was now becoming numerous, and attracted much opposition from the pulpit and press. He therefore continued to travel through the kingdom, expounding his views, and answering objections both verbally and by the pub- lication of controversial pamphlets. In the course of his peregrinations he still suffered frequent im- prisonment, sometimes as a disturber of tiie peace, and sometimes because he refused to uncover his head in the presence of magistrates, or to do violence to his principles by taking the oath of allegiance. After reducing (with the assistance of his educated disciples Ivobert Barclay, Samuel Fisher, and George Keith) the doctrine and discipline of his sect to a more systematic and permanent form than that in which it had hitherto existed, he visited Ireland and the American plantations, employing in the latter nearly two years in confirming and increasing his followers. He afterwards repeatedly visited Holland, and other parts of the continent, for similar purposes. He died in London in 1690, aged sixty six. That Fox was a sincere believer of what he preached, no rational doubt can be entertained ; and that he was of a meek and forgiving disposition towards his persecutors, is equally unquestionable. His integrity, also, was so reinarkaV)le, that his word was taken as of equal value with his oath. Religious enthusiasm, however, amounting to mad- ness in the earlier stage of his career, led him into many extravagances, in which few members of th© respectable society whiih he founded have partaken. The severities so liberally inflicted on him were ori- ginally occasioned by those breaches of the peace already spoken of, and no doubt also by what in his speeches must have appeared blasjihemous to many of his hearers. His public addresses were usually prefaced by such phrases as, ' The Lord hath opened to nie ;' ' I am moved of the Lord ;' ' I am sent of the Lord God of heaven and earth.' In a warning to magistrates, he says, ' All ye powers of the eartn, Christ is come to reign, and is among you, and ye know him not.' Addressing the ' seven parishes at the Land's End,' his language is equally strong : ' Christ,' he tells them, ' is come to teach his people himself; and every one that will not hear this pro- phet, which God hath raised up, and which Closes spake of, when he said, " Like unto me will God raise you up a prophet, him shall you hear ;" every one, I say, that will not hear this prophet, is to be cut otf.' And stronger still is what we find in this passage in his Journal : ' From Coventry I went to Atherstone, and, it being their lecture-day, I was moved to go to their chapel, to speak to the priest and the people. They were generally pretty quiet ; only some few raged, and would have had my rela- tions to have bound me. I declared largely to them, that God was come to teach his people himself, and to bring them from all their man-made teachers, to hear his Son ; and some were convinced there.' In conformity with these high pretensions. Fox not only acted as a prophet, but assumed the power ol working miracles — in the exercise of which he claims to have cured various individuals, including a inaa whose arm had long been disabled, and a woman troubled with King's Evil. C)n one occasion he ran with bare feet through Lichfield, exclaiming, ' Wo to the bloody city of Lichfiehi !' and, when no cala- mity followed this denouncement as expected, found no better mode of accounting for the failure tlian discovering that some Christians had once been slain there. Of his power of discerning witches, the fol- lowing examples are given in his Journal: — 'As I was sitting in a house full of peo{)le, declaring the word of life to them, I cast mine eyes upon a woman, and I discerned an unclean spirit in her ; and I was moved of the Lord to speak sharply to her, and told her she was a witch ; whereuj)on the woman went out of the room. Now, I being a stranger there, and knowing nothing of the womau outwardly, the 460 PROSE wmrcRS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. KOBERT BARCLAY. people wondered at it, and told nie afterwards I had discovered a great thing, for all the country looked upon her as a witch. The Lord had given uie a spirit of discerning, by which I many times saw the states and conditions of people, and could try their spirits. ITor, not long before, as I was going to a meeting, I saw women in a tield, and I discerned them to be witches ; and I was moved to go out of my way into the field to them, and to declare unto them their conditions, telling them plainly they were in the spirit of witchcraft. At another time, there came such an one into Swarthmore Hall, in the meeting time, and I was moved to speak sharply to her, and told her she was a witch ; and the people Baid afterwards, she was generally account The writings of George Fox are comprised in three folio volumes, printed respectively in 1694, 1698, and 1706. The first contains his Journal, largely quoted from above ; the second, a collection of his Epiitlcs ; and the third, his Doctrinal l\cces. ROBERT BARCLAY. Robert Barclay (1648-1690), a country gentle- man of Kincardineshire, has already been mentioned as one of those educated Quakers who aided Fox in systematising the doctrines and discijiline of the sect. By the publication of various aiile works in defence of tliose doctrines, he gave tlie Society of "'riinds a iiiii' li more respectable station in the eyes Lrv lIouM?, Kinc irdincshire, of psople of other persuasions tlian it had previously occupied. His fother, who was a colonel in tlie army, had been converted to Quakerism in 1666, and he himself was soon after induced to embrace the same views. In taking this step, he is said to have acted chiefly from the dictates of his under- standing; though, it must be added, the existence of considerable enthusiasm in his disposition was indicated by a remarkable cii-cumstance mentioned by himself — namely, that, feeling a strong impulse to pass through the streets of Aberdeen clothed in sack- cloth and ashes, he could not be easy till he obeyed what he supposed to be a divine command. His most celebrated production is entitled An Apology for the True Christian Divinity, as the Same is held forth and Preached by the People in Scorn called Quakers. This work, which appeared in Latin in 1676, and in Eng- lish two j-ears after, is a learned and methodical treatise, very difltrent from what the world expected on such a subject, and it was therefore read with avidity both in Britain and on the continent. Its most remarkable theological feature is the attemj)t to prove that there is an internal light in man, ■which is better fitted to guide him aright in reli- gious matters than even the Scriptures themselves ; the genuine doctrines of which he asserts to be ren- dered uncertain by various readings in different manuscripts, and the fallilnlity of translators and interpreters. These circumstances, says he, ' and tfiuch more which might be alleged, puts the minds, eyen of the learned, into infinite doubts, scruples, and inextricable difficulties ; whence we may very safely conclude, that Jesus Christ, who promised to ^^ ~»^^A \yi*- the se It of Robert Barclay. be always with his children, to lead Ibcm into all truth, to guard them against the devices of the enemy, and to establish their faith upon an unmove- able rock, left them not to be i)nncii>nlly ruled by that which was subject, in itself, to many uncer- tainties ; and therefore he gave tlicm bis Spirit as their principal guide, which neither moths nor time can wear out, nor transcribers nor translators cor- rupt ; which none are so young, none so illiterate, none in so remote a place, but they may come to be reached and rightly informed by it.' It would be erroneous, however, to regard this work (if Barclay as an exposition of all the doctrines which have been or are prevalent among the Quakers, or, indeed, to consider it as anything more than the vehicle of such of his own views, as in his character of an apologist he thought it desirable to state. ' This ingenious man,' says ^losheim, ' appeared as a patron and defender of Quakerism, and not as a professed teacher or expositor of its various doctrines ; and he interprtied and modified the opinions of this sect after the manner of a champion or advocate, who undertakes the defence of an odious cause. How, then, does he go to work? In the first jilace, lie observes an entire silence in relation to those funda- mental principles of Christianity, concerning which it is of great consequence to know the real o])inions of the Quakers ; and thus he exhibits a system ot theology that is evidently lame and imperfect. For it is the peculiar business of a prudent apuli'gist tt pass over in silence points that are scarcely suscep- tible of a plausible defence, and to enlarge upon those ©nly which the powers of genius and eloVilliam, the son, a district in North America, which was named Pennsjlvania by his majesty's desire, and of which Penn was constituted sole proprietor and governor. lie immediately took measures for the settlement of the province, and drew up articles of government, among which the follo^v^ng is one of the most remarkable : — ' That all persons in this province, who confess and acknowledge the one al- mighty and eternal God to be the creator, upholder, and ruler of the world, and tluit hold themselves obliged in conscience to live peaceably and justly in society, shall in no ways be molested or prejudiced for their religious persuasion, or practice in matters of faith and worship ; nor shall they be compelled, at any time, to frequent, or maintain, any religious worship, place, or ministry whatever.' Having gone out to his colony in 1682, he proceeded to buy land from the natives, with whom he entered into a treaty of peace and friendship, which was observed wliile the power of tlie Quakers predominated in the colony, and which for many years after his death caused his memory to be affectionately cherished by the Indians. He then fixed on tlie site of his capital, Philadelphia, the building of wliich, on a regular plan, was immediately commenced. After spending two j-ears in America, he returned to Eng- land in 1684, and was enabled, by his intimacy with James II., to procure the release of his Quaker brethren, of whom fourteen hundred and eighty were in prison at the accession of that monarch. When James, in order, no doubt, to facilitate the re-esta- blisliment of the Catholic religion, proclaimed liberty of conscience to his subjects, the Quakers sent up an address of thanks, which was delivered to his majesty by Penn. This brought a suspicion of popery upon the latter, between whom and Dr Tillotson a correspondence took place on the sub- ject. Tillotson, in his concluding letter, acknow- ledged himself convinced of the falsity of the accu- sation, and asked pardon for having lent an ear to it. After the Revolution, Penn's former intimacy with James caused him to be regarded as a dis- affected person, and led to various troubles ; but he still continued to preach and write in support of his favourite doctrines. Having once more gone out to America in 1699, he there exerted himself for the improvement of his colony till 1701, when he finally returned to England. This excellent and philan- thropic man survived till 1718. Besides the work already mentioned, Penn wrote Reflections and ilai-'tms nlutlny to the Conduct of Life, and A Keif, Sfc. to discern the Dijf'erence be- tween the Religion professed bi/ the Quakers, and the Misrepresentations of their Adversaries. To George Fox's Journal, which was published in 1694, he prefixed A Brief Account of the Rise and Progress of the People called Quakers. The first of the subjoined specimens of his composition is extracted from his ' No Cross, no Crown,' where he thus argues lAgain.H the Pride of Nolle Birth.] That people are generally proud of their persons, is too visible and troublesome, especially if they have any pretence either to blood or beauty ; the one has raised many quarrels among men, and the other among women, and men too often, for their sakes, and at their excitements. But to tlie first : what a pother has this noble blood made in the world, antiquity of name or family, whose father or mother, great grand- father or great-grandmother, was best descended or allied? what stock or what clan they came of! what coat of arms they gave? which had, of right, the pre- cedence ? But, niethiiiks, nothing of man's folly has less show of reason to palliate it. For, first, what matter is it of whom any one is de- scended, that is not of ill fame; since 'tis his own virtue that must raise, or vice depress him ? An an- cestor's character is no excuse to a man's ill actions, but an aggravation of his degeneracj' ; and since vir- tue comes not by generation, I neither am the better nor the worse for my forefather : to be sure, not in God's account ; nor should it be in man's. Nobody would endure injuries the easier, or reject favours the more, for coining by the hand of a man well or ill de- scended. I confess it were greater honour to have had no blots, and with an hereditary estate to have had a lineal descent of worth : but that was never found ; no, not in the most blessed of families upon earth ; I mean Abraham's. To be descended of wealth and titles, fills no man's head with brains, or heart with truth ; those qualities come from a higher cause. 'Tis vanity, then, and most condemnable pride, for a man of bulk and character to despise anoth r of less size in the world, and of meaner alliance, for want of them ; because the latter may have the merit, where the former has only the effects of it in an ancestor : and though the one be great by means of a foiefitther, the other is so too, but 'tis by his own ; then, pray, which is the bravest man of the two ? ' {),' Fays the person proud of blood, ' it was never a good world since we have had so many upstart gentle- men !' But what should others have said of that man's ancestor, when he started first up into the knowledge of the world ! For he, and all men and faniilies_ ay, and all states and kingdoms too, have had their up- starts, that is, their beginnings. This is like beini^ the True Church, because old, not because good ; for families to be noble by being old, and not by being virtuous. No such matter : it must be age in virtue, or else virtue before age ; for othenvise, a man should be noble by means of his predecessor, and yet the pre- decessor less noble than he, because he was the ar quirer ; which is a paradox that will puzzle all tl.cir heraldry to explain. Strange ! that they should be more noble than their ancestor, that got their nobility for them ! But if this be absurd, as it is, then the upstart is the noble man ; the man that got it by his virtue : and those only are entitled to his lionour tliat are imitators of his virtue ; the rest may bear his name from his blood, but that is all. If virtue, then, give nobility, whicli heathens themselves agree, tiien families are no hmger truly noble than they are vir- tuous. And if virtue go not by blood, but by the qualifications of the dosceiidautH, it follows, blood in 463 r FROM 1649 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1689. excluded ; else blood would bar virtue, and no man that wanted the one should be allowed the benefit of the other ; which were to stint and bound nobility for want of antiquity, and make virtue useless. No, let blood and name go together ; but pray, let nobility and virtue keep company, for they are nearest of kin." 'Tis thus positeil by God himself, that best knows how to apportion things with an equal and just hand. He neither likes nor aislikes by descent ; nor does he regard what people were, but are. He re- members not the righteousness of any man that leaves his righteousness, much less any unrighteous man for the righteousness of his ancestor. But" if these men of blood please to think themselves concerned to believe and reverence God in his Holy Scriptures, they may learn that, in the beginning, he made of one blood all nations of men, to dwell upon all the face of the earth ; and that we are descended of one father and mother ; a more certain original than the best of us can assign. From thence go down to Noah, who was the second planter of human race, and we are upon some certainty for our forefathers. What violence has rapt, or virtue merited since, and how far we that are alive are concerned in either, will be hard for us to determine but a few ages oft' us. But, methinks, it should suffice to say, our own eyes gee that men of blood, out of their gear and trappings, without their feathers and finery, have no more marks of honour by nature stamped upon them than their inferior neighbours. Nay, themselves being judges, they will frankly tell us they feel all those passions in their blood that make them like other men, if not farther from the virtue that truly dignifies. The lamentable ignorance and debauchery that now rages among too many of our greater sort of folks, is too clear and casting an evidence in the point : and pray, tell me of what blood are they come I Howbeit, when I have said all this, I intend not, by debasing one false quality, to make insolent an- other that is not true. I would not be thought to set the churl upon the present gentleman's shouliler ; by no means ; his rudeness will not mend the matter. But what 1 have writ, is to give aim to all, where true nobility dwells, that everyone may arrive at it by the ■ways of virtue and goodness. But for all this, I must allow a great advantage to the gentleman ; and there- fore prefer his station, just as the Apostle Paul, who, after he had humbled the Jews, that insulted upon the Christians with their law and rites, gave them the ad- vantage upon all other nations in statutes and judg- ments. I must grant, that the condition of our great men is much to be preferred to the ranks of inferior people. For, first, they have more power to do good ; and, if their hearts be equal to their ability, they are blessings to the people of any country. Secondly, the eyes of the people are usually directed to them ; and if they will be kind, just, and helpful, they shall have their aflcctions and services. Thirdly, they are not under equal straits with the inferior sort ; and conse- quently they have more help, leisure, and occasion, to polish their passions and tempers with books and con- versation. Fourthly, they have more time to observe the actions of other nations ; to travel and view the laws, customs, and interests of other countries, and bring home whatsoever is worthy or imitable. And so an easier way is open for great men to get honour ; and such as love true reputation will embrace the best means to it. But because it too oftpu hajipens that great men do little mind to give God the glory of their prosperity, and to live answerable to his mercies, but, on the contrary, live without God in the world, fulfilling the lusts thereof. His hand is often seen, either in impoverishing or extinguishing them, and raising up men of more virtue and humility to their estates and dignity. However, I nmst allow, that Among people of this rank, there have been some of them of more than ordinary virtue, whose examples have given light to their families. And it has been something nr.tural for some of their descendants to endeavour to keep up the credit of their houses in proportion to the merit of their founder. And, to say true, if there be any advantage in such descent, 'tis not from blood, but education ; for blood has no intel- ligence in it, and is often spurious and uncertain ; but education has a mighty influence and strong bias upon the affections and actions of men.* In this the ancient nobles and gentry of this kingdom did excel ; and it were much to be wished that our great people would set about to recover the ancient economy of their houses, the strict and virtuous discipline of their ancestors, when men were honoured for their achieve- ments, and when nothing more exposed a man to shame, than his being bom to a nobility that he had not a virtue to support, [Penn's Advice to his Children.} Next, betake yourselves to some honest, industrious course of life, and that not of sordid covetousness, but for example, and to avoid idleness. And if you change your condition and marry, choose with the knowledge and consent of your mother, if living, or of guardians, or those that have the charge of you. Mind neither beauty nor riches, but the fear of the Lord, and a sweet and amiable disposition, such as you can love above all this world, and that may make your habitations pleasant and desirable to you. And being married, be tender, affectionate, patient, and meek. Live in the fear of the Lord, and he will bless you and your offspring. Be sure to live within compass ; borrow not, neither be beholden to any. Ruin not yourselves by kindness to others ; for that exceeds the due bounds of friendship, neither will a true friend expect it. Small matters I heed not. Let your industry and parsimony go no further than for a sufficiency for life, and to make a provision for your children, and that in moderation, if the Lord gives vou any. I charge you help the poor and needy ; let the Lord have a voluntary share of your income for the good of the poor, both in our society and others ; for we are all his creatures ; remembering that ' he that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord.' Know well your incomings, and your outgoings may be better regulated. Love not money nor the world : use them only, and they will serve you ; but if you love them you serve them, which will debase your spirits as well as offend the Lord. Pity the distressed, and hold out a hand of help to them ; it may be your case, and as you mete to others, God will mete to you again. Be humble and gentle in your conversation ; of few words I charge you, but always pertinent when you speak, hearing out before you attempt to answei, and then speaking as if you would persuade, not impose. Aff"ront none, neither revenge the aff'ronts that are done to you ; but forgive, and you shall be forgiven of your heavenly Father. In making friends, consider well first ; and when you are fixed, be true, not wavering by reports, nor "deserting in affliction, for that becomes not the good and virtuous. Watch against anger ; neither speak nor act in it ; for, like drunkenness, it makes a man a beast, and throws people into desperate inconveniences. Avoid flatterers, for they are thieves in disguise ; their praise is costly, designing to get by those they bespeak ; they are the worst of creatures ; they lie to * WHiile the influence of education, here spoken of by Peiin, is unquestionaWe, the fact of the hereditary transmission of qualities, both bodily and ment.al, has been equally well ascer tained, although the laws by which it is regidated are still ia some respects obscure. — Ed. 4(U PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. THOMAS ELLWOOD. flatter, and flatter to cheat ; and, which is worse, if you believe them, j-ou cheat yourselves most dange- rously. But the virtuous, though poor, love, cherish, and preftT. Remember David, who, asking the Lord, ' Who shall abide in thy tabernacle ? who shall dwell upon thy holy hill V answers, ' He that walketh up- rightly, worketh righteousness, and speaketh the truth in his heart ; in whose eyes the vile person is con- temned, but honoureth them who fear the Lord.' Next, my children, be temperate in all things : in your diet, for that is phjsic by prevention ; it keeps, nay, it makes people healthy, and their generation sound. This is exclusive of the spiritual advantage it brings. Be also plain in your apparel ; keep out that lust which reigns too much over some ; let your virtues be your ornaments, remembering life is more than food, and the body than raiment. Let your fur- niture be simple and cheap. Avoid pride, avarice, and luxury. Read my ' No Cross, no Crown.' There is instruction. jNIake your conversation with the most eminent for wisdom and piety, and shun all wicked men as you hope for the blessing of God and the com- fort of your father's living and dying prayers. Be sure you spsak no evil of any, no, not of the meanest ; much less o'f your superiors, as magistrates, guardians, tutors, teachers, and elders in Christ. Be no busybodies ; meddle not with other folk's matters, but when in conscience and duty pressed ; 'or it procures trouble, and is ill manners, and very unseemly to wise men. In your families remember Abraham, Moses, and Joshua, their integrity to the Lord, and do as you have them for your examples. Let the fear and service of the living God be encou- raged in your houses, and that plainness, sobriety, and moderation in all things, as becometh God's chosen people ; and as I advise you, my beloved chil- dren, do you counsel yours, if God should give you any. Yea, I counsel and command them as my pos- terity, that they love and serve the Lord God with an upright heart, that he may bless you and yours from generation to g •aeration. And as for yo,\ who are likely to be concerned in the government oi Pennsylvania and my parts of East Jersey, especially the first, I do charge you before the Lord God and his holy angels, that you be lowly, diligent, and tender, fearing God, loving the people, and hating covetousness. Let justice have its im- partial course, and the law free passage. Though to your loss, protect no man against it ; for you are not above the law, but the law above you. Live, there- fore, the lives yourselves you would have the people live, and then you have right and boldness to punish the transgressor. Keep upon the square, for God sees you : therefore, do your duty, and be sure you see with your own eyes, and hear with your own ears. En- tertain no lurchers, cherish no informers for gain or revenge, use no tricks, fly to no devices to support or cover injustice ; but let your hearts be upright before the Lord, trusting in him abo%e the contrivances of men, and none shall be able to hurt or supplant. THOMAS ELL WOOD. Thomas Ellwood (1639-1713) is the last writer among the early Quakers whom we think it neces- sary to mention. He was a man of considerable talent, and remarkably endowed with the virtues of benevolence, perseverance, and integritj', which have been so generally displayed by the members of the Society of Friends. He seems to have been totally free from the violent and intolerant disposition by which George Fox was characterised. From an in- teresting and highly instructive Life of Ellwood, written by himself, it appears that his conversion to the principles of Quakerism gave deep offence to his father, who sometimes beat him with great reverity, particularly when the son persisted in remaining covered in his presence. To prevent the recurrence of this offence, he successively took from Tliomas all his hats, so that, when he "went abroad, t!ie ex- posure of his bare head occasioned a severe cold. Still, however, there remained another cause of offence ; for ' whenever I had occasion,' says Ellwood, ' to speak to my father, though I had no hat now to offend him, yet my laiiguage did as much ; for I durst not say " you" to liini, but " thou" or " thee," as the occasion required, and then he would be sure to fall on me with his fists. At one of these tinjes, I remember, when lie had beaten me in that man- ner, he commanded nie (as he commoidy did at such times) to go to my chamber, which I did, and he followed me to the bottom of the stairs. Being come thitlier, he gave me a parting-blow, and in "a very angry tone, said, " Sirrah, if ever I hear you say thou or thee to me again, I'll strike your teeth down your throat." I was greatly grieved to hear him say so, and feeling a word rise in my heart \mto him, I turned again, and calmly said unto him, " Shotild it not be just if God should serve thee so, when thou sayest ' thou' or ' tliee' to him." Tliough his hand Avas up, I saw it sink, and his countenance fall, and he turned away, and left nie standing there. But I, notwithstanding, went up into my chamber and cried unto the Lord, earnestly beseeching hirr that he would be pleased to open my father's eyes, that he might see whom he fought against, and" for what ; and that he would turn his heart.' But what has given a peculiar interest to Ellwood in the eyes of posterity, is the circumstance of his having been a pupil and friend of Milton, and one of those who read to the poet after the loss of his sight. The object of Ellwood in offering his services as a reader was, tliat he miglit, in return, obtain from MUton some assistance in his own studies. One of his friends, as we learn from his autobiography, 'had an intimate acquaintance with Dr Paget, a physician of note in London ; and he with John Milton, a gentleman of great note for learning throughout the learned world, for the accurate pieces he had written on various subjects and occasions. This person, having filled a public station in former times, lived now a private and retired life in Lon- don ; and, having wholly lost his siglit, kept always a man to read to him, which, usually, was the son of some gentleman of his acquaintance, whom, in kindness, he took to improve his learning.' The autobiography contains the following particidars of lElbcood's Inte}-cou7-se with Milton.'] He received me courteously, as well for the sake of Dr Paget, who introduced me, as of Isaac Pennington, who recommended me, to both of whom he bore a o-ood respect ; and having inquired divers things of me, with respect to my former progressions in learning, he dismissed me, to provide myself of such accommoda- tions as might be most suitable to my futur*? studies. I went, therefore, and took myself a lodging as near to his house (which was then in Je^vin-Street) as conve- niently I could ; and, from thenceforward, went every day, in the afternoon (except on the first days of the week), and sitting by liim in his dining-room, read to him such books, in the Latin tongue, as he pleased to hear me read. At my first sitting to road to him, obsen'ing that I used the English pronunciation, he told me if I would have the benefit of the Latin tongue (not only to read and understand Latin authors, but to converse with foreigners, either abroad or at home), I must learn the foreign pronunciation. To this I consenting, he in- 465 FBOU 1649 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 168S structed me how to sound the tc wels, so different from the common pronunciation used by the English (who epeak Anglice their Latin), that (with some few other variations in sounding some consonants, in particular cases, as C, before E or /, like Ch; Sc, before /, like Sh, &c.) the Latin thus spoken seemed as difterent from that which was delivered as the English gene- rally speak it, as if it was another language. I had, before, during my retired life at my father's, by unwearied diligence and industry', so far recovered the rules of grammar (in which I had once been very ready), that I could both read a Latin author, and, after a sort, hammer out his meaning. But this change of pronunciation proved a new difficulty to me. It w^ now harder to me to read than it was before to understand when read. But * Labor omnia vincit Improbus.' Incessant pains The end obtains. And so did I, which made my reading the more ac- ceptable to my master. He, on the other hand, per- ceiving with what earnest desire I pursued learning, gave me not only all the encouragement, but all the help he could ; for, having a curious ear, he under- stood, by my tone, when I understood what I read, and when I did not ; and accordingly would stop me, examine me, and open the most difficult passages to me. Thus went I on for about six weeks' time, reading to him in the afternoons, and exercising myself, with my own books, in my chamber in the forenoons. I was sensible of an improvement. But, alas ! I had fixed my studies in a wrong place. London and I could never agree for health. My lungs (as I suppose) were too tender to bear the sulphureous air of that city ; so that I soon began to droop, and, in less than two months' time, I was fain to leave both my studies and the city, and return into the country, to preserve life ; and much ado I had to get thither. * * [Having recovered, and gone back to Lon- don,] I was very kindly received by my master, who had conceived so good an opinion of me, that my con- versation (I found) was acceptable to him ; and he seemed heartily glad of ray recovery and return ; and into our old method of study we fell again, I reading to him, and he explaining to me as occasion re- quired. * * Some little time before I went to Aylesbury prison, I was desired by my quondam master, Milton, to take a house for him in the neighbourhood where I dwelt, that he might get out of the city, for the safety of himself and his family, the pestilence then growing hot in London. I took a pretty box for him in Giles Chalfont, a mile from me, of which I gave him notice, and intended to have waited on him, and seen kim well-settled in it, but was prevented by that ini-prison- ment. But now, being released, and returned home, I soon made a visit to him, to welcome him into the country. After some common discourses had passed between us, he called for a manuscript of his, which, being broufht, he delivered to me, bidding me to take it home with me, and read it at my leisure, and, when I had 80 done, return it to him, with my judgment thereupon. When I came home, and had set myself to read it, I found it was that excellent poem, which he entitled ' Paradise Lost.' After I had, with the utmost atten- tion, read it through, I made him another visit, and returned him his book, with due acknowledgment for the favour he had done me, in communicating it to me. He asked me how I liked it, and what I thought of it, which I modestly but freely told him ; and Mter some furthei discourse i.bout it, I pleasantly said to him, ' Thou hast said much here of Paradise Lost ; but what hast thou to say of Paradise Found V He made me no answer, but sat some time in a muse ; then brake off that discourse, and fell upon another subject. After the sickness was over, and the city well cleansed, and become safely habitable again, he re- turned thither ; and when, afterwards, I went to wait on him there (which I seldom failed of doing, whenever my occasions drew me to London), he showed me his second poem, called ' Paradise Regained,' and, in a pleasant tone, said to me, ' This is owing to you, for you put it into my head at Chalfont ; which before I had not thought of.' Ellwood furnishes some interesting particulars concerning the Londfin prisons, in which he and many of his brother Quakers were confined, and the manner in which tliey were treated both there and out of doors. Besides his autobiography, he wTOte numerous controversial treatises, tlie most promi- nent of which is The Foundation of Tithes Shaken, published in 1682. His Sacred IJistorics of the Ohl and iVew Testaments, which appeared in 1705 and 1709, are regarded as his most considerable produc- tions. JOHN BUNVAX. John Bunyan (1G2S-1G88). the son of a tinker residing at Elton, in Bedfordshire, is one of the most remarkable religious authors of this jivi-. He was taught in childhood to read and write, ami afterwards, John Bunyan. having resolved to follow his father's occupation, travelled for many years about the country as a repairer of metal utensils. At this time he is repre- sented to have been sunk in profligacy and wicked- ness, though, as we find a love of dancing and ringing bells included among what he afterwards looked upon as heinously sinful tendencies, it is probable that, like many other religious enthusiasts, he has greatly ex- aggerated the depravity of his unregenerated condi- tion. One of his most grievous transgressions was that of swearing immoderately ; and it appears that even while lying in wickedness, his conscience often troubled him. By degrees his religious impressions acquired strengtii and permanence ; till, after many doubts respecting his acceptability with God, the divme authority of the Scriptures, and the reality of his possession of faith (which last circumstancu 46G PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. JC HN BUNT AN. he was (inre on the eve of putting to the test by comniandinu: some water puddles to be dry), lie at length attained a comfortable state of belief; and, having now resolved to lead a moral and pious life, vas, about the year 1655, baptised and admitted as a Birtliplace of Bunyan. aiember of tlie Baptis'" congregation in Bedford. By the solicitation of the ither members of that body, he was induced to become a preacher, though not without some modest reluctance on his part. After zealously preaching the gospel for five years, he was apprehended as a maintainer and upholder of as- semblies for religious purposes, which, soon after the Restoration, liad been declared unlawful. His sen- tence of condemnation to peri)etual banishment was commuted to imprisonment in Bedford jail, where he remained for twelve years and a-half During that long period he employed himself partly In writing pious works, and partly in making tagged laces for the support of himself and his family. His library while in prison consisted but of two books, the Bible and Fox's Book of Martyrs, with both of which his own productions show him to have become extremely familiar. Having been li- berated through the V)enevolent endeavours of I)r Barlow, bishop of Lincoln, he resumed his occupa- tion of itinerant preacher, and continued to exercise it until the proclamation of liberty of conscience by James H. After that event, he was enabled, by the contributions of his friends, to erect a meet- ing-house in Bedford, where his preaching attracted large congregations during the remainder of his life. He frequently visited and preached to the noncon- formists in London, and when there in 1688, was cut off by fever in the sixty-first year of his age. While in prison at Bedford, Bunyan, as we have said, composed several works ; of these Tlie Pilgrinis Progress from tliis World to that which is to Come is the one which has acquired the most extensive cele- '/rity. Its popularity, indeed, is almost unrivalled; it has gone through innumerable editions, and been translated into most of the European languages. The object of this remarkable production, it is hardly necessary to say, is to give an allegorical view of the life of a Christian, his difficulties, temptations, en- couragements, and idtiinatc triumph; -and this is done with sucli skill and graphic effect, that the book, though upon the most serious of subjects, is read by children with as much pleasure as the fictions professedly written for their amusement. The work is, throughout, strongly imbued with the Calvinistic principles of the author, who, in relating the conten- tions of his hero with the powers of darkness, anc' the terrible visions by which he was so frequently ippalled, has doubtless drawn largely from what he hunself experienced under the influence of his own fervid imagination. It has, not without reason, been (juestioned whether the religious ideas which the V ork is calculated to inspire, be not of so unneces sirdy gloomy a character as to render its indiscrimi- nate perusal by children improper. Of the literary nitrits of ' The Pilgrim's Progress' Jlr Southey speaks in the following terms: — ' His is a home- spun style, not a manufiictured one : and what a difference is there between its homeliness and the flippant vulgarity of the Roger L'Estrange and Tom Brown school I If it is not a well of English unde- filed to v.-hich the pott as well as tlie philologist must repair, if they wou.d drink of the living waters, it is a clear stream of current English, the vernacular speech of his age, sometimes, indeed, in its rusticity and coarseness, but always in its plainness and its strength. To this natural style Bunyan is in some degree beholden for his general popularity ; his language is everywhere level to the most ignorant reader, and to the meanest capacity- : tliere is a homely reality about it ; a nurser}' tale is not more intelligible, in its manner of narration, to a child. Another cause of his popularity is, that he taxes tlie imagination as little as the understanding. The vividness of his own, which, as his history shows, sometimes coidd not distinguish ideal impressions from actual ones, occasioned this. He saw the things of which he was writing as distinctly with hit mind's eye as if they were indeed passing before him in a dream. And the reader perhaps sees theit more satisfactorily to himself, because the outline Oj the picture only is presented to him, and the autlioi having made no attempt to fill up the details, every reader supplies them according to the measure anO scope of his own intellectual and imatrinativt powers.'* Another allegorical production of Bunyan which is still read, though less extensively, is T/h ]Ioly War made hy King Shaddai upon I)iaf)oliis, fut the Regaining of the JSIvtropolis of tlie World, or thi Losing and Betaking of Mansoul. Here the fall ol man is tj'pified by the capture of the flourishing city of ^lansoul by Diabolus, the enemy oi its right- ful sovereign Shaddai, or Jehovah; whose son Im- manuel recoveis it after a tedious siege. Bunyan's Grace abounding to the Chief of Sinners (of which the most remarkable portions are given below) is an interesting though fanatical narrative of his own life and religious experience. His other works, which are numerous, and principally of the emlilematic class, need not be mentioned, as their merits are not great enough to have preserved them frop almost total oblivion. The concluding extracts are from ' The Pilgrim's Progress.' [Extracts from Bimyan's Autobiography.'] In this niy relation of the merciful working of God upon my soul, it will not bo amiss, if, in the first place, I do, in a few words, give you a hint of my ♦ Southey's edition of ' The Pilgrim's Progress,' p. IxxxviiL 4C7 FROM 1649 CYCLOPiEDIA OF •10 168& pedijrree and manner of bringing up, that thereby the goodness and bounty of God to\yards me may be the more adranced and magnified before the sons of men. For my descent, then, it was, as is well kno^vn by many, of a low and inconsiderable generation, ray father's house being of that rank that is meanest and most despised of all the families of the land. Where- fore I have not here, as others, to boast of noble blood, and of any high-born state, according to the flesh, though, all things considered, I magnify the hearenly niaje'sty, for that by this door he brought me into the world, to partake of the grace and life that is in Christ by the gospel. But, notwithstanding the meanness and inconsiderableness of my parents, it pleased God to put it into their hearts to put me to school, to learn me both to read and write ; the which I also attained, according to the rate of other poor men's children, though, to my shame, I confess I did soon lose that I had learned, even almost utterly, and that long before the Lord did work his gracious work of conversion upon my soul. As for my own natural life, for the time that I was without God in the world, it was, in- deed, according to the course of this world, and the spirit that now worketh in the children of disobedience, Eph. ii. 2, 3. It was my delight to be taken captive by the devil at his will, 2 Tim. ii. 26, being filled with all unrighteousness ; the which did also so strongly work, both in my heart and life, that I had but few equals, both for cursing, swearing, lying, and blas- pheming the holy name of God. Yea, so settled and rooted was 1 in these things, that they became as a second nature to me ; the which, as 1 have also with soberness considered since, did so offend the Lord, that even in my childhood he did scare and terrify me with fearful dreams and visions. For often, after I had spent this and the other day in sin, I have been greatly afilicted while asleep with the apprehensions of devils and wicked spirits, who, as I then thought, laboured to draw me away with them, of which I could never be rid. Also I should, at these years, be greatly troubled with the thoughts of tlie feai-ful tor- ments of hell-fire, still fearing that it would be my lot to be found at last among those devils and hellish fiends, who are there bound down with the chains and bonds of darkness unto the judgment of the great day. These things, I say, when 1 was but a child but nine or ten years old, did so distress my soul, that then, in the midst of my many sports and childish vanities, amidst my vain companions, I was often much cast down and afilicted in my mind therewith, yet could I not let go my sins. Yea, I was also then 80 overcome with despair of life and heaven, that I should often wish either that there had been no hell, or that I had been a devil, supposing they were only tormentors, that if it must needs be that I went thither, I might be rather a toimentor then be tormented my- self. A while after, these terrible dreams did leave me, ■which also I soon forgot ; for my pleasures did quickly cut off the remembrance of them, as if they had never been ; wherefore, with more greediness, according to the strength of nature, 1 did still let loose the reins of my lusts, and deliglited in all transgressions against the law of God ; so that, until I came to the state of marriage, I was the very ringleader in all manner of vice and ungodliness. Yea, such prevalcncy had the lusts of the flesh on my poor soul, that, had not a miracle of precious grace prevented, I had not only perished by the stroke of eternal justice, but also laid myself open to the stroke of those laws which bring some to disgrace and shame before the face of the world. In these days the thoughts of religion were very grievous to me ; I could neither endure it myself, nor that any other should ; so that when 1 have seen some ^ead in those books that concerned Christian piety, it would be as it were a prison to me. Then I said unto God, 'Depart from me, for I desire not the knowledge of thy ways,' Job xx. 14, 15. I was now void of all good consideration ; heaven and hell were both out of sight and mind ; and as for saving and damning, they were least in my thoughts. ' Lord, thou knowest my life, and my ways are not hid from thee.' But this I well remember, that, though I could my- self sin with the greatest delight and ease, yet even then, if I had at any time seen wicked things, by those who professed goodness, it would make my spirit tremble. As once, above all the rest, when I was in the height of vanity, yet hearing one to swear that was reckoned for a religious man, it had so great a stroke upon my spirit, that it made my heart ache. But God did not utterly leave me, but followed me still, not with convictions, but judgments mixed with mercy. For once I fell into a creek of the sea, ana hardly escaped drowning. Another time I fell out of a boat into Bedford river, but mercy yet preserved me ; besides, another time being in the field with my companions, it chanced that an adder passed over the highway, so I, having a stick, struck her over the back, and having stunned her, I forced open her mouth with my stick, and plucked her sting out with my fingers, by which act, had not God been merciful to me, I might, by my desperateness, have brought myself to my end. This, also, I have taken notice of with thanksgiving : when I was a soldier, I with others were drawn out to go to such a place to besiege it ; but when I was just ready to go, one of the company de- sired to go in my room ; to which when I had con- sented, he took my place, and coming to the siege, as he stood sentinel, he was shot in the head with a musket-bullet, and died. Here, as I said, were judg- ments and mercy, but neither of them did awaken my soul to righteousness; wherefore I sinned still, and grew more and more rebellious against God, and care less of my own salvation. Presently after this I changed my condition into a married state, and my mercy was to light upon a wife whose father and mother were counted godly ; this woman and I, though we came together as poor as poor might be (not having so much household stuff" as a dish or spoon betwixt us both), yet this she had foi her part, ' The Plain Man's Pathway to Heaven,' and ' The Practice of Piety,' which her father had left when he died. In these two books I sometimes read, wherein I found some things that were somewhat pleasant to me (but all this while I met with no con- viction). She also often would tell me what a godly man her father was, and how he would reprove and correct vice, both in his house and among his neigh- bours, and what a strict and holy life he lived in his days, both in word and deed. Wherefore these books, though they did not reach my heart to awaken it about my sad and sinful state, yet they did beget within me some desires to reform my vicious life, and fall in very eagerly with the religion of the times ; to wit, to go to church twice a-day, and there very de- voutly both say and sing as others did, yet retaining my wicked life ; but withal was so overrun with the spirit of superstition, that I adored, and that with great devotion, even all things (both the high-place, priest, clerk, vestment, service, and what else) belong- ing to the church ; counting all things holy that were therein contained, and especially the priest and clerk most happy, and, without doubt, greatly blessed, be- cause they were the servants, as I then thought, of God, and were principal in the holy temple, to do his work therein. This conceit grew so strong upi>n my spirit, that had I but seen a priest (though never so sordid and debauched in his life), I should find my spirit fall under him, reverence him, and knit unto him ; yea, I thought for the love I did bear unto them (supposing they were the ministers of God), I could 468 PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. JOHN BUNYAN. have laid down at their feet, and have been trampled upon by them — their name, their garb, and work did 80 intoxicate and bewitch me. * * But all this while 1 was not sensible of the danger and evil of sin ; I was kept from considering that sin would damn me, what religion soever I followed, un- less I was found in Christ. Kay, I never thouglit whether there was such a one or no. Thus man, while blind, doth wander, for he knoweth not the way to the city of God, Eccles. x. 15. I3ut one day, amongst all the sermons our parson made, his subject was to treat of the Sabbath-day, and of the evil of breaking that, either with labour, sports, or otherwise ; wherefore I fell in my conscience under his sermon, thinking and believing that he made that sermon on purpose to show me my evil doing. And at that time I felt what guilt was, though never before that I can remember ; but then I was for the present greatly loaded therewith, and so went home, when the sermon was ended, with a great burden upon my spirit. This, for that instant, did embitter my former pleasures to me ; but hold, it lasted not, for before I had well dined, the trouble began to go off my mind, and my heart returned to its old course ; but oh, how glad was I that this trouble was gone from me, and that the fire was put out, that I might sin again with- out control ! Wherefore, when I had satisfied nature with my food, I shook the sermon out of my mind, and to my old custom of sports and gaming I returned with great delight. But the same day, as I was in the midst of a game of cat, and having struck it one blow from the hole, just as I was about to strike it the second time, a voice did suddenly dart from heaven into my soul, which said, ' Wilt thou l'?ave thy sins and go to heaven, or have thy sins and go to hell?' At this I was put to an exceeding maze ; wherefore, leaving my cat upon the gi'ound, I looked up to heaven, and was as if I had, with the eyes of my understanding, seen the Lord Jesus look down upon me, as being very hotly dis- pleased with me, and as if he did severely threaten me with some grievous punishment for those and other ungodly practices. I had no sooner thus conceived in my raind, but suddenly this conclusion fastened on my spirit (for the former hint did set my sins again before my face), that I had been a great and grievous sinner, and that it was now too late for me to look after heaven ; for Christ would not forgive me nor pardon my transgres- sions. Then, while I was thinking of it, and fearing lest it should be so, I felt my heart sink in despair, concluding it was too late, and therefore I resolved in my mind to go on in sin ; for, thought I, if the case be thus, mj' state is surely miserable ; miserable if I leave my sins, and but miserable if I follow them : I can but be damned ; and if I must be so, I had as good be damned for many sins as be damned for few. Thus I stood in the midst of my play, before all that then were present ; but yet I told them no- thing ; but, I say, having made this conclusion, I returned desperately to my sport again ; and I well remember, that presently this kind of despair did so possess my soul, that I was persuaded I could never attain to other comfort than what I should get in sin ; for heaven was gone already, so that on that I must not think ; wherefore I found within me great desire to take my fill of sin, that I might taste the sweetness of it ; and I made as much haste as I could to fill my belly with its delicates, lest I should die before I had my desires ; for that I feared greatly. In these things, I protest before God I lie not, neither do I frame this sort of speech ; these were really, strongly, and with all my heart, my desires ; the good Lord, whose mercy is unsearchable, forgive my trans- gressions. And I am very confident that this temp- tation of the devil is more usual among poor cresjires I than many are aware of, yet they continuallv have a secret conclusion within them, that there are no hopes for them ; for the}- have loved sins, therefore after them they will go, Jer. ii. 25. xviii. 12. Now, therefore, I went on in sin, still grudging that I could not be satisfied with it as I would. This did continue with me about a month or more ; but one day, as I was standing at a neighbour's shop window, and there cursing and swearing after my wonted man- ner, there sat within the woman of the house, who heard me ; and though she was a very loose and un- godly wretch, yet protested that I swore and cursed at that most fearful rate, that she was made to tremble to hear me ; and told me further, that I was the un- godliest fellow for swearing that she ever heard in all her life ; and that I, by thus doing, was able to spoil all the youth in the whole town, if they came but in my company. At this reproof I was silenced, and put to secret shame, and that, too, as I thought, before the God of heaven ; wherefore, while I stood there, hang- ing down my head, I wished that I might be a little child again, that m}' father might learn me to speak without this wicked way of swearing ; for, thought I, I am so accustomed to it, that it is in vain to think of a reformation, for that could never be. But how it came to pass I know not, I did from this time for- ward so leave my swearing, that it was a gi-eat wonder to m3-self to observe it ; and whereas before I knew not how to speak unless I put ai, oath before, and another behind, to make my words have authority, now I could without it speak better, and with more pleasant- ness, than ever I could before. All this while I knew not .Tesus Christ, neither did leave my sports and plays. But quickly after this, I fell into company with one poor man that made profession of religion, who, as I then thought, did talk pleasantly of the Scriptures and of religion ; wherefore, liking what he said, I be- took me to my Bible, and began to take great pleasure in reading, especially with the historical part thereof; for, as fur Paul's epistles, and such like scriptures, I could not away with them, being as yet ignorant either of my nature, or of the want and worth of Jesus Christ to save us. Wherirfbro I fell to some outward reformation both in my words and life, and did set the commandments before me for my way to heaven ; which commandments I also did strive to keep, and, as I thought, did keep them pretty well sometimes, and then I should have comfort ; j'et now and then should break one, and so afilict my conscience ; but then I should repent, and say I was sorry for it, and promise God to do better next time, and there got help again ; for then I thought I pleased God as well as any man in England. Thus I continued about a year, all which time our neighbours did take me to be a very godly and reli- gious man, and did marvel much to see such great alteration in my life and manners ; and, indeed, so it was, though I knew not Christ, nor grace, nor faith, nor hope ; for, as I have since seen, had I tJien died, my state had been most fearful. But, I say, my neighbours were amazed at this my great conver- sion — from prodigious profaneness to something like a moral life and sober man. Now, therefore, they began to praise, to commend, and to speak well of me, both to my face and behind my back. Now I was, as they said, become godly ; now I was become a right honest man. But oh ! when I understood those were their words and opinions of me, it pleased me mighty well ; for though as yet I was nothing but a poor painted hypocrite, yet I loved to be talked of as one that was truly godly. I was proud of my godliness, and, in- deed, I did all I did either to be seen of or well spokeu of by men ; and thus I continued for about a twelve* month or more. Now you nmst kimw, that before this I had taken 46'.) -Jl FROM 1649 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1689. much delight in ringing, but my conscience beginning to be tender, 1 thought such practice was but vain, and therefore forced myself to leave it ; yet my mind hankered ; wherefore I would go to the steeple-house and look on, though I durst not ring; but I thought this did not become religion neither ; yet I forced my- self and would look on still. But quickly after, I be- gan to think, ' How, if one of the bells should fall ?' Then I chose to stand under a nuvin beam that lay overthwart the steeple, from side to side, thinking here 1 might stand sure ; but then I thought again, should the bell fall with a swing, it might first hit the wall, and then rebounding upon me, might kill me for all this beam. This made me stand in the steeple-door ; and now, thought I, I am safe enough ; for if a bell should then fall, I can slip out behind these thick walls, and so be preserved notwithstand- ing. So after this I would yet go to see them ring, but would not go any farther than the steeple-door ; but then it came into my head, ' How, if the steeple itself should fall *' And this thought (it may, for aught I know, when I stood and looked on) did con- tinually so shake my mind, that I durst not stand at the steeple-door any longer, but was forced to fiee, for fear the steeple should fall upon my head. Another thing was my dancing ; I was a full year before I could quite leave that. But all this while, when I thought I kept that or this commandment, or did by word or deed anything I thought was good, I had great peace in my conscience, and would think with myself, God cannot choose but be now pleased with me ; yea, to relate it in my own way, I thought no man in England could please God better than I. But, poor wretch as I was, I was all this while igno- rant of Jesus Christ, and going about to establish my ovra righteousness ; and had perished therein, had not God in his mercy showed me more of my state by nature. * * In these days, when I have heard others talk of what was the sin against the Holy Ghost, then would the tempter so provoke me to desire to sin that sin, that I was as if I could not, must not, neither should be quiet until I had committed it ; now no sin would serve but that : if it were to be committed by speak- ing of such a word, then I have been as if my mouth would have spoken that word whether I would or no ; and in so strong a measure was the temptation upon me, that often I have been ready to clap my hands under my chin, to hold my mouth from opening ; at other times, to leap with my head downward into some muck-hill hole, to keep my mouth from ppeak- ing. Now, again, I counted the estate of everything that God had made far better than this dreadful state of mine was ; yea, gladly would I have been in the condition of a dog or a horse, for I knew they had no souls to perish under the everlasting weight of hell or sin, as mine was like to do. Nay, though I saw this and felt this, yet that which added to my sorrow was, that I could not find that with all my soul I did de- sire deliverance. That scripture did also tear and rend my soul in the midst of these distractions, 'The wicked are like the troubled sea, which cannot rest, whose waters cast up mire and dirt. There is no peace to the wicked, saith my God,' Isaiah Ivii. 20 21. * * And now I am s[>eaking my experience, I will in this place thrust in a word or two concerning my preaching the word, and of God's dealing with me in that particular also. After I had been about five or six years awakened, and helped to see both the want and worth of .lesus Christ our Lord, and to venture my soul upon him, some of the most able among the saints with us for judgment and holiness of life, as \hey conceived, did perceive that God counted me "^-orthy to understand something of Lis will in his noly word, and had given me utterance to express what I saw to others for edification ; therefore they desired me, with much earnestness, that I would be willing at some times to take in hand, in one of the meetings, to speak a word of exhortation unto them. The which, though at the first it did much dash and .abash my spirit, yet being still by them de- sired and intreated, I consented, and did twice, at two several assemblies, but in private, though with much weakness, discover my gift amongst them ; at which they did solemnly protest, as in the sight of the great God, they were both affected and comforted, and gave thanks to the Father of mercies for the grace bestowed on me. After this, sometimes, when some of them did go into the country to teach, they would also that I should go with them, where, though as yet I durst not make use of my gift in an open way, yet more pri- vately, as I came amongst the good people in those places, I did sometimes speak a word of admonition unto them also, the which they received with rejoic- ing at the mercy of God to me-ward, professing their souls were edified thereby. Wherefore, to be brief, at last being still desired by the church, 1 was more particularly called forth, and appointed to a more ordinary and public preaching of the word, not only to and amongst them that believed, but also to offer the gospel to those who had not yet received the faith thereof: about which time I did evidently find in my mind a secret pricking forward thereto, though at that time I was most sorely afflicted with fiery darts of the devil concerning my eternal state. * * Wherefore, though of myself, of all the saints the most unworth}', yet I, with great fear and trembling at my own weakness, did set upon the work, and did, according to my gift, preach that blessed gospel that God hath shown me in the holy word of truth ; which, when the country understood, they came in to hear the word by hundreds, and that from all parts, though upon divers and sundry accounts. And I thank God he gave unto me some measure of bowels and pity for their souls, which also put me forward to labour with great earnestness to find out such a, word as might, if God would bless it, awaken the conscience, in which also the good Lord had respect to the desire of his servant ; for 1 had not preached long before some began to be greatly afflicted in their minds at the greatness of their sin, and of their need of .Jesus Christ. But I first could not believe that God should spe.ak by me to the heart of any man, still counting myself unworthy ; yet those who were thus touched would have a particular respect for me ; and though I did put it from me that they should be awakened by me, still they would aflirm it before the saints of God : they would also bless God for me (unworthy wretch that I am !), and count me God's instrument that showed to them the way of salvation. * * Thus I went on for the space of two years, crying out against men's sins, and their fearful state because of them. After which the Lord came in upon my own soul with some sure peace and comfort through Christ : wherefore now I altered in my preaching (for still I preached what I saw and felt) ; now therefore I did much labour to hold with Jesus Christ in all his offices, relations, and benefits unto the world, and did strive also to condemn and remove those false .sup- ports and props on which the world doth lean, and by them fall and perish. On these things also I stayed as long as on the other. After this, God led me into something of the mys- stery of the union of Christ ; wherefore that I dis- covered and showed to them also. And when I had travelled through these three points of the word of God, about the space of five years or more, I was caught in my present practice, and cast into piison, where I have lain above as long again to confirm the i70 PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. JOHN BUNTAN. truth by wuy of sutfcring, as I was before in testifying of it according to the Scriptures in a way of preach- inff. * * When I first went to preach the word abroad, the doctors and priests of the country did open wide against me ; but I was persuaded of this, not to render railing foi railing, but to see how many of their car- nal profesjors I could convince of their miserable state by the law, and of the want and worth of Christ : for, thought I, ' That shall answer for me in time to come, when they shall be for my hire before their face,' Gen. XXX. 33. I never cared to meddle with things that were con- troverted, and in dispute among the saints, especially things of the lowest nature; yet it pleased me much to contend with great earnestness for the word of faith, and the remission of sins by the death and suf- ferings of Jesus ; but, I say, as to other things, I would let them alone, because 1 saw they engendered strife ; and because that they neither in doing nor in leaving undone did commend us to God to be his: besides, I saw my work before me did run into another channel, even to carry an awakened word ; to that therefore I did stick and adhere. * * If any of those who were awakened by my minis- try did after that fall back (as sometimes too many did), I can truly say their loss hath been more to me than if my own children, begotten of my own body, had been going to their grave. I think verily, I may speak it without any offence to the Lord, nothing has gone so near me as that, unless it was the fear of the loss of the salvation of my own soul. I have counted as if I had goodly buildings and lordships in those places where my children were born : my heart hath been so ^vrapped up in the glory of this excellent work, that I counted myself more blessed and honoured of God by this than if he had made me the emperor of the Christian world, or the Lord of all the glory of the earth without it. * * But in this work, as in all other, I had my temp- tations attending me, and that of divers kinds ; as sometimes I should be assaulted with great discourage- ment therein, fearing that I should not be able to speak a word at all to edification ; nay, that I should not be able to speak sense to the people ; at which times I should have such a strange faintness seize upon my body, that my legs have scarce been able to carry me to the place of exercise. Sometimes, when I have been preaching, I have been violently assaulted with thoughts of blasphemy, and strongly tempted to speak the words with my mouth before the congregation. I have also at times, even when I have begun to speak the word with much clearness, evidence, and liberty of speech, been, before the ending of that opportunity, so blinded and so estranged from the things I have been speaking, and have been also so straitened in my speech as to utter- ance before the people, that I have been as if I had not known what I have been about, or i« vhich the nation then underwent, in being deprived of a prince whose example would have had a greater influence upon the manners and piety of the nation, than the most strict laws can have. To speak first of his private qualifications as a man, be- fore the mention of hi* princely and roj'al virtues ; he was, if ever any, the most worthy of the title of an honest man ; so great a lover of justice, that no temp- tation could dispose him to a wrongful action, except it was so disguised to him that he believed it to be just. He had a tenderness and compassion of nature which restrained him from ever doing a hard-hearted thing ; and, therefore, he was so apt to grant pardon to malefactors, that the judges of the land represented to him the damage and insecurity to the public that flowed from such his indulgence. And then he re- strained himself from pardoning either murders or highway robberies, and quickly discerned the fruits of his severity by a wonderful reformation of those enormities. He was very punctual and regular in his devotions ; he was never known to enter upon his re- creations or sports, though never so early in the morn- ing, before he had been at public prayers ; so that on hunting days, his chaplains were bound to a very early attendance. He was likewise very strict in observing the hours of his private cabinet devotions, and was so severe an exacter of gravity and reverence in all mention of religion, that he could never endure any light or profane word, with what sharpness of wit so- ever it was covered ; and though he was well pleased and delighted with reading verses made upon an}' oc- casion, no man durst bring before him anything that was profane or unclean. That kind of wit had never any coiwitenance then. He was so great an example of conjugal affection, that they who did not imitate him in that particular, durst not brag of their liberty ; and he did not only permit, but direct his bishops to prosecute those scandalous vices, in the ecclesiastical courts, against persons of eminence, and near relation to his service. His kingly virtues had some mixture and allay that hindered them from shining in full lustre, and from producing those fruits they should have been attendei with. He was not in his nature very bountiful, thougt he gave very much. This appeared more after the Duke of Buckingham's death, after which those showers fell very rarely ; and he paused too long in giving, which made those to whom he gave less sensible of the benefit. He kept state to the full, which made his court very orderly, no man presuming to be seen in a place where he had no pretence to be. He saw and observed men long before he received them about his person ; and did not love strangers, nor very confident men. He was a patient hearer of causes, which he frequently accustomed himself to at the council board, and judged very well, and was dexterous in the medi- ating part ; so that he often put an end to causes by persuasion, which the stubbornness of men's humours made dilatory in courts of justice. He was very fearless in his person ; but, in his riper years, not very enterprising. He had an excellent understanding, but was not confident enough of it ; which made him oftentimes change his own opinion for a worse, and follow the advice of men that did not judge so well as himself. This made liim more irre- solute than the conjuncture of his affairs would ad- mit ; if he had been of a rougher and more imperious nature, he would have found more respect and duty. .\nd his not applying some severe cures to approach- ing evils proceeded from the lenity of his nature, and the tenderness of his conscience, wliich, in all cases of blood, made him choose the softer way, and not hearken to severe counsels, how reasonably soever urged. This only restrained him from pursuing his advantage in the first Scottish expedition, when, humanly sjjcaking, he might have reduced that nation to the n.o>t 'iitire obedience that could have been wished. Bui no man 479 FBOU 1649 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 168S. can say he had then many who advised him to it, but the contrary, by a wonderful indisposition all his council had "to the war or any other fotigue. He was always a great lover of the Scottish nation, haring not only been" born there, but educated by that people, and besieged by them always, having few English about him till he was king ; and the major number of his servants being still of that nation, who he thought could never fail him. And among these, no manliad such an ascendant over him, by the humblest insinuations, as Duke Hamilton had. As he excelled in all other virtues, so in temperance he was so strict, that he abhorred all debauchery to that degree, that, at a great festival solemnity, where be once was, when very many of the nobility of the English and Scots were entertained, being told by one who withdrew from thence, what vast draughts of wine they drank, and ' that there was one earl who had drank most of the rest down, and was not himself moved or altered,' the king said, ' that he deserved to be hanged ;' and that earl coming shortly after into the room where his majesty was, in some gaiety, to show how unhurt he was from that battle, the king sent one to bid him withdraw from his majesty's pre- sence ; nor did he in some days after appear before him. So many miraculous circumstances contributed to his ruin, that men might well think that heaven and earth conspired it. Though he was, from the first declension of his power, so much betrayed by his o^vn servants, that there were very few who remained faith- ful to him, ye* that treachery proceeded not always from any treasonable purpose to do him any harm, but from particular and personal animosities against other men. And afterwards, the terror all men were under of the parliament, and the guilt they were con- scious of themselves, made them watch all opportu- nities to make themselves gracious to those who could do them good ; and so they became spies upon their master, and from one piece of knavery were hardened and confirmed to undertake another, till at last they had no hope of preservation but by the destruction of their master. And after all this, when a man might reasonably believe that less than a universal defection of three nations could not have reduced a great king to so ugly a fate, it is most certain that, in that very hour, when he was thus wickedly murdered in the sight of the sun, he had as great a share in the hearts and affections of his subjects in general, was as much beloved, esteemed, and longed for by the people in general of the three nations, as any of his predecessors had ever been. To conclude, he was the worthiest gentleman, the best master, the best friend, the best husband, the best father, and the best Christian, that the age in which he lived produced. And if he were not the greatest king, if he were without some parts and qualities which hare made some kings great and happy, no other prince was ever unhappy who was possessed of half his virtues and endowments, and so much without any kind of vice. [Escape of Charles IT. after the Battle of Worcester.*'] Though the king could not get a body of horse to fight, he could have too many to fly with him ; and he had not been many hours from Worcester, when he found about him near, if not above, four thousand of his horse. There was David Lesley with all his own equipage, as if he had not fled upon the sudden ; so that good order, and regularity, and obedience, might yet have made a retreat even into Scotland itself. But there was paleness in every man's looks, and jealousy and confusion in their faces ; and scarce any- thing could worse befall the king than a return into * The particulars of this escape arc here narrated ' as the author had them from the king himself." Scotland, which yet he could not reasonably promise to himself in that con)pany. But when the night covered them, he found means to withdr.aw himself mth one or two of his own servants, whom he likewise discharged when it begun to be light ; and after he had made them cut off his hair, he betook himself alone into an adjacent wood, and relied only upon Him for his preservation who alone could, and did miraculously deliver him. When it was morning, and the troops which had marched all night, and who knew that when it begun to be dark the king was with them, found now that he was not there, they cared less for each other's com- pany ; and most of them who were English separated themselves, and went into other roads ; and wherever twenty horse appeared of the country, which was now awake, and upon their guard to stop and arrest the runaways, the whole body of the Scottish horse would fly, and run several ways ; and twenty of them would give themselves prisoners to two country fellows ; how- ever, David Lesley reached Yorkshire with above fif- teen hundred horse in a body. But the jealousies in- creased every day ; and those of his o^^Tl countiy were so unsatisfied with his whole conduct and behaviour, that they did, that is, many of them, believe that he was corrupted by Cromwell ; and the rest, who did not think so, believed him not to understand his pro- fession, in which he had been bred from his cradle When he was in his flight, considering one morning; with the principal persons which way they should take, some proposed this and others that way, Sir William Armorer asked him, ' which way he thought best V which, when he had named, the other said, ' he would then go the other ; for, he swore, he had be- trayed the king and the army all the time ;' and st- left him. * * It is great pity that there was never a journal made of that miraculous deliverance, in which there might be seen so many visible impressions of the immediate hand of God. When the darkness of the night was over, after the king had cast himself into that wood, he discerned another man, who had gotten upon an oak in the same wood, near the place vrhere the king had rested himself, and had slept soundly. The man upon the tree had first seen the king, and knew him, and came do^vn to him, and was known to the king, being a gentleman of the neighbour county of Staf- fordshire, who had sen-ed his late majesty during the war, and had now been one of the few who resorted to the king after his coming to Worcester. His name was Careless, who had had a command of foot, about the degree of a captain, under the Lord Loughborough. He persuaded the king, since it could not be safe for him to go out of the wood, and that, as soon as it should be fully light, the wood itself would probably be visited by those of the country, who would be searching to find those whom they might make pri- soners, that he would get up into that tree where he had been, where the boughs were so thick with leaves that a man would not be discovered there without a narrower inquiiy than people usually make in places which they do not suspect. The king thought it good counsel, and, with the other's help, climbed into the tree, and then helped his companion to ascend after him, where they sat all that day, and securely saw many who came purposely into the wood to look after them, and heard all their discourse, how they would use the king himself if they could take him. This wood was either in or upon the borders of Staftbrd- shire ; and though there was a highway near one side of it, where the king had entered into it, yet it was large, and all other sides of it opened amongst inclosures, and Careless was not unacquainted with the neighbour villages ; and it was part of tlie king's good fortune that this gentleman, by being a Ro- man Catholic, was acquainted with those of that pro- 480 FROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. LORD CLARENDON. fessioii of all degree-!, who Lad the best opportuni- ties of concealing him ; for it must never be denied, that some of that religion had a very great share in. his majesty's preservation. The day being spent in the tree, it was not in the king's power to forget that he had lived two days with eating very little, and tvro nights with as little sleep ; so that, when the night came, he was willing to make some provision for both ; and lie resolved, with the advice and assistance of his companion, to leave his blessed tree ; and, when the night was dark, they walked through the wood into those inclosures which were farthest from any highway, and making a shift to get over hedges and ditches, after walking at least eight or nine miles, which were the more grievous to the king by the weight of his boots (for he could not put them oif when he cut off his hair, for want of shoes), before morning they came to a poor cottage, the owner whereof, being a Roman Catholic, was known to Careless. He was called up, and as soon as he knew one of them, he easily concluded in what condi- tion they both were, and presently carried them into a little barn full of hay, which was a better lodging than he had for himself. But when they were there, and had conferred with their host of the news and temper of the country, it was agreed that the danger would be the greater if they stayed together ; and, therefore, that Careless should presently be gone, and should, within two days, send an honest man to the king, to guide him to some other place of security; and in the mean time his majesty should stay upon the hay- now. The poor man had nothing for him to eat, but promised him good butter-milk ; and so he was once more left alone, his companion, how weary soever, departing from him before day, the poor man of the house knowing no more than that he was a friend of the captain's, and one of those who had escaped from Worcester. The king slept very well in his lodging, till the time that his host brought him a piece of bread, and a great pot of butter-milk, which he thought the best food he ever had eaten. The poor man spoke very intelligently to him of the country, and of the people who were well or ill affected to the king, and of the great fear and terror that possessed the hearts of those who were best affected. He told him, ' that he himself lived by his daily labour, and that what he had brought him was the fare he and his wife had ; and that he feared, if he should endea- vour to procure better, it might draw suspicion upon him, and people might be apt to think he had some- body with him that was not of his own family. How- ever, if he would have him get some meat, he would do it ; but if he could bear this hard diet, he should have enough of the milk, and some of the butter that was made with it.' The king was satisfied with his reason, and would not run the hazard for a change of diet ; desired only the man ' that he might have his company as often and as much as he could give it him ;' there being the same reason against the poor man's discontinuing his labour, as the alteration of his fare. After he had rested upon this hay-mow and fed upon this diet two days and two nights, in the even- ing before the third night, another fellow, a little above the condition of his host, came to the house, sent from Careless, to conduct the king to another house, more out of any road near which any part of the army was like to march. It was above twelve miles that he was to go, and was to use the sa-n3 caution he had done the first night, not to go in any common road, which his guide knew well how to avoid. Here he new dressed himself, changing clothes with his landlord ; he had a gi-eat mind to have kept his own shirt ; but he considered, that men are not sooner discovered by any mark in disguises than by having fint linen in ill clothes ; and so he parted with his shirt too, and took the same his poor host had then on. Though he had foreseen that he must leave his boots, and his landlord had taken the best care he could to provide an old pair of shoes, yet they were not easy to him when he first put them on, and, in a short time after, grew very grievous to him. In this equipage he set out from his first lodging in the be- ginning of the night, under the conduct of this guide, who guided him the nearest way, crossing over hedges and ditches, that they might be in least danger of meeting passengers. This was so gi-ievous a march, and he was so tired, that he was even ready to despair, and to prefer being taken and suffered to rest, before purchasing his safety at that price. His shoes had, after a few miles, hurt him so much, that he had thrown them away, and walked the rest of the way in his ill stockings, which were quickly worn out ; and his feet, with the thorns in getting over hedges, and with the stones in other places, were so hurt and wounded, that he many times cast himself upon the gi-ound, with a desperate and obstinate resolution to rest there till the morning, that he might shift with less torment, what hazard soever he run. But his stout guide still prevailed with him to make a new attempt, sometimes promising that the way should be better, and sometimes assuring him that he had but little farther to go ; and in this distress and perplexity, before the morning they arrived at the house desigTied ; which, though it was better than that which he had left, his lodging was still in the bam, upon straw instead of hay, a place being made as easy in it as the expectation of a guest could dispose it. Here he had such meat and porridge as such people use to have, with which, but especially with the butter and the cheese, he thought himself well feasted ; and took the best care he could to be supplied with other, little better, shoes and stockings ; and after his feet were enough recovered that he could go, he was conducted from thence to another poor house, within such a dis- tance as put him not to much trouble ; for having not yet in his thought which way or by what means to make his escape, all that was designed was only, by shifting from one house to another, to avoid discovery. And being now in that quarter which was more in- habited by the Roman Catholics than most other parts in England, he was led from one to anotner of that persuasion, and concealed with great fidelity. But he then observed that he was never carried to any gentle- man's house, though that country was full of them, but only to poor houses of poor men, which only yielded him rest with very unpleasant sustenance ; whether there was more danger in those better houses, in regard of the resort and the many servants, or whether the owners of great estates were the owners likewise of more fears and apprehensions. Within few days, a very honest and discreet person, one Mr Hudleston, a Benedictine monk, who attended the service of the Roman Catholics in those parts, came to him, sent by Careless, and was a very great assistance and comfort to him. And when the places to which he carried him were at too great a distance to walk, he provided him a horse, and more proper habit than the rags he wore. This man told him, 'that the Lord Wilmot lay concealed likewise in a friend's house of his, which his majesty was very glad of, and wished him to contrive some means how they might speak together,' which the other easily did , and, within a night or two, brought them into one place. Wilmot told the king ' that he liad by very good fortune fallen into the house of an honest gentle- man, one Mr Lane, a person of an excellent reputa- tion for his fidelity to the king, but of so universal and general a good name, that, though he had a son who had been a colonel in the king's service during the late war, and was then upon liis way with men to Worcester, the very day of tlie defeat, men of all affev- 481 32 FKOH 1649 CYCLOPiEDIA OF TO 168Lr. tions in the country, and of all opinions, paid the old man a very great respect ; that he had been very civilly treated there ; and that the old gentleman had used some diligence to find out where the king was, that he might get him to his house, where, he was sure, he could conceal hira till he might contrive a full deliverance.' He told him, ' he had withdrawn from that house, in hope that he might, in some other place, discover where his majesty was ; and hav- ing now happily found him, advised him to repair to that house, which stood not near any other.' The king inquired of the monk of the reputation of this gentleman, who told him, ' that he had a fair estate, was exceedingly beloved, and the eldest justice of peace of that county of Stafford ; and though he was a very zealous Protestant, yet he lived with so much civility and candour towards the Catholics, that they would all trust him as much as they would do any of their own profession ; and that he could not think of any place of so good repose and security for his ma- jesty's repair to.' The king liked the proposition, yet thought not fit to surprise the gentleman, but sent Wilmot thither again, to assure himself that he might be received there, and was willing that he should know what guest he received ; which hitherto was so much concealed, that none of the houses where he had yet been, knew or seemed to suspect more than that he was one of the king's party that fled from Wor- cester. The monk carried him to a house at a reason- able distance, where he was to expect an account from the Lord Wilmot, who returned very punctually, with as much assurance of welcome as he could wish. And so they two went together to Mr Lane's house, where the king found he was welcome, and conveni- ently accommodated in such places as in a large house had been provided to conceal the persons of malig- nants, or to preserve goods of value from being plun- dered. Here he lodged and ate very well, and began to hope that he was in present safety. Wilmot re- turned under the care of the monk, and expected summons when any farther motion should be thought to be necessary. In this station the king remained in quiet and blessed security many days, receiving every day in- formation of the general consternation the kingdom was in. out of the apprehension that his person might fall into the hands of his enemies, and of the great diligence they used to inquire for him. He saw the proclamation that was issued out and printed, in which a thousand pounds were promised to any man who would deliver and discover the person of Charles Stuart, and the penalty of high treason declared against those who presumed to harbour or conceal him, by which he saw how much he was beholden to all those who were faithful to him. It was now time to con- sider how he might get near the sea, from whence he might find some means to transport himself; and he was now near the middle of the kingdom, saving that it was a little more northward, where he was utterly unacquainted with all the ports, and with that coast. In the west he was best acquainted, and that coast was most proper to transport him into France, to which he was inclined. Upon this matter he communicated with those of this family to whom he was known, that Is, with the old gentleman the father, a very grave and venerable person ; the colonel, his eldest son, a very plain man in his discourse and behaviour, but of a fearless courage, and an integrity superior to any temptation ; and a daughter of the house, of a very good wit and discretion, and very fit to bear any part in such a trust. It was a benefit, as well as an incon- venience, in those unhappy times, that the affections of all men were almost as well known as their faces, by the discovery they had made of themselves in those sad seasons in many trials and persecutions ; so that men knew not only the minds of their next neigh- bours, and those who inhabited near them, but, upon conference with their friends, could choose fit houses, at any distance, to repose themselves in security, fr<)m one end of the kingdom to another, without trusting the hospitality of a common inn ; and men were very rarely deceived in their confidence upon such occa- sions ; but the persons with whom they were at any time, could conduct them to another house of the same affection, Mr Lane had a niece, or very near kinswoman, who was married to a gentleman, one Mr Norton, a person of eight or nine hundred pounds per annum, who lived within four or five miles of Bristol, which was at least four or five days' journey from the place where the king then was, but a place most to be wished for the king to be in, because he did not only know all that country very well, but knew many persons also to whom, in an extraordinary case, he durst make himself known. It was hereupon resolved that Mrs Lane should visit this cousin, who was known to be of good affections, and that she should ride behind the king, who was fitted with clothes and boots for such a service ; and that a servant of her fatliar's, in his liverj', should wait upon her. A good house was easily pitched upon for the first night's lodging, where Wilmot had notice given him to meet ; and in this equipage the king began his journey, the colonel keep- ing him company at a distance, witli a hawk upon his fist, and two or three spaniels, which, where there were any fields at hand, warranted him to ride out of the way, keeping his company still in his eye, and not seeming to be of it. In this manner tliey came to their first night's lodging ; and they need not now contrive to come to their journey's end about the close of the evening, for it was in the month of Oc- tober far advanced, that the long journeys they made could not be despatched sooner. Here the Lord Wil- mot found them, and their journeys being then ad- justed, he was instructed where he should be every night ; so they were seldom seen together in the jour- ney, and rarely lodged in the same house at night. In this manner the colonel hawked two or three days, till he had brought them within less than a day's journey of Mr Norton's house, and then he gave his hawk to the Lord Wilmot, who continued the journey in the same exercise. There was great care taken when they came to any house, that the king might be presently carried into some chamber, Mrs Lane declaring ' that he was a neighbour's son, whom his father had lent her to ride before her, in hope that he would the sooner recover from a quartan ague, with which he had been miser- ably afflicted, and was not yet free.' And by this artifice she caused a good bed to be still provided for him, and the best meat to be sent, which she often carried herself, to hinder others from doing it. There was no resting in any place till they came to Mr Nor- ton's, nor anything extraordinary that hap])ened in the way, save that they met many people e^cry ilay in the way, who were very well known to the king ; and the day that they went to Mr Norton's, they were necessarily to ride quite through the city of Bristol- — a place and people the king had been so well acquainted with, that he could not but send his eyes abroad to view the great alterations which had been made there, after his departure from thence ; and when he rode near the place where the great fort had stood, he could not forbear putting his horse out of the way, and rode with his mistress behind him round about it. They came to Mr Norton's house sooner than usual, and it being on a holiday, they saw many people about a bowling-green that was before the door; and the first man the king saw was a chaplain of his own, who was allied to the gentleman of th(' hon«e. n'n] was sitting upon the rails to see how the l)0wler;- 482 PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. CORD CLARENDON. played. ^\'llllaIn, by which name the ting went, walked with his horse into the stable, until his mis- tress could provide for his retreat. Mrs Lane was very welcome to her cousin, and was presently con- ducted to her chamber, where she no sooner was, than she lamented the condition of ' a good youth who came with her, and whom she had borrowed of his father to ride before her, who was very sick, being newly recovered of an ague ;' and desired her cousin ' that a chamber might be provided for him, and a good fire made, for that he would go early to bed, and was not fit to be below stairs.' A pretty little cham- ber was presently made ready, and a fire prepared, and a boy sent into the stable to call William, and to show him his chamber; who was very glad to be there, freed from so much company as was below. Mrs Lane was put to find some excuse for making a visit at that time of the year, and so many days' jour- ney from her father, and where she had never been before, though the mistress of the house and she had been bred together, and friends as well as kindred. She pretended ' that she was, after a little rest, to go into Doreetshire to another friend.' When it was supper-time, there being broth brought to the table, Mrs Lane filled a little dish, and desired the butler who waited at the table ' to carry that dish of porridge to William, and to tell him that he should have some meat sent to him presently.' The butler carried the porridge into the chamber, with a nakpin, and spoon, and bread, and spoke kindly to the young man, who was willing to be eating. The butler, looking narrowly upon him, fell upon his knees, and with tears told him, ' he was glad to see his majesty.' The king was infinitely surjjrised, yet recollected himself enough to laugh at the man, and to ask him ' what he meant V The man had been falconer to Sir Thomas Jerniyn, and made it appear that he \new well enough to whom he spoke, repeating some particulars which the king had not forgot. Whereupon the king conjured him 'not to speak of what he knew, so much as to his master, though he believed him a very honest man.' The fel- low promised, and kept his word ; and the king was the better waited upon during the time of his abode there. Dr Gorges, the king's chaplain, being a gentleman of a good family near that place, and allied to Mr Norton, supped with them ; and being a man of a cheerful conversation, asked Mrs Lane many questions concerning William, of whom he saw she was so care- ful, by sending up meat to him, ' how long his ague had been gone ? and whether he had purged since it left him ?' and the like ; to which she gave such an- swers as occurred. The doctor, from the final preva- lence of the Parliament, had, as many others of that function had done, declined his profession, and pre- tended to study physic. As soon as supper was done, out of good nature, and without telling anybody, he went to see William. The king saw him coming into the chamber, and withdrew to the inside of the bed, that he might be farthest from the candle ; and the doctor came and sat down by him, felt his pulse, and asked him many questions, which he answered in as few words as was possible, and expressing great incli- nation to' go to his bed ; to which the doctor left him, and went to Mrs Lane, and told her ' that he had been with William, and that he would do well ;' and advised her what she should do if his ague returned. The next morning the doctor went away, so that the king saw him no more. The next day, the Lord Wil- mot came to the house with his hawk, to see Mrs Lane, and so conferred with William, who was to con- sider what he was to do. They thought it necessary to rest some days, till they were informed what port lay most convenient for them, and what person lived nearest to it, upon whose fidelity they might rely; and the king ga'"e him directions to inquire after some persons, and some other particulars, of which when he should be fulh' instructed, he should return again to him. In the mean time, Wilmot lodged at a house not far from Air Norton's, to which he had been recommended. After some days' stay here, and communication be- tween the king and the Lord Wilmot by letters, the king came to know that Colonel Francis Windham lived within little more than a day's journey of the place where he was, of which he was very glad ; for, be- sides the inclination he had to his eldest brother, whose wife had been his nurse, this gentleman had behaved himself very well during the war, and had been go- vernor of Dunstar castle, where the king had lodged when he was in the west. After the end of the war, and when all other places were surrendered in that county, he likewise surrendered that, upon fair con- ditions, and made his peace, and afterwards married a wife with a competent fortune, and lived quietly, without any suspicion of having lessened his affection towards the king. The king sent Wilmot to him, and acquainted him where he was, and ' that he would gladly speak with him.' It was not hard for him to choose a good place where to meet, and thereupon the day was appointed. After the king had taken his leave of Mrs Lane, who remained with her cousin Norton, the king and the Lord Wilmot met the colonel ; and in the way he met, in a towm through which they passed, Mr Kirton, a servant of the king's, who well knew the Lord Wilmot, who had no other disguise than the hawk, but took no notice of him, nor suspected the king to be there; yet that day made the king more wary of having him in his company upon the way. At the place of meet- ing, they rested only one night, and then the king went to the colonel's house, where he rested many days, whilst the colonel projected at what place the king might embark, and how they might procure a vessel to be ready there, which v.-as not easy to find, there being so great a fear possessing those who were honest, that it was hard to procure any vessel that was outward-bound to take in any passenger. There was a gentleman, one Mr Ellison, who lived near Lyme, in Dorsetshire, and was well known to Colonel Windham, having been a captain in the king's army, and was still looked upon as a very honest man. With him the colonel consulted how they might get a vessel to be ready to take in a couple of gentlemen, friends of his, who were in danger to be arrested, and transport them into France. Though no man would ask who the persons were, yet it could not but be suspected who they were ; at least they con- cluded that it was some of Worcester party. Lyme was generally as malicious and disaffected a town to the king's interest as any to'ivn in England could be, yet there was in it a master of a bark, of whose honesty this captain was very confident. This man was 'ately returned from France, and had unladen his vessel, when Ellison asked him 'when he would make an- other voyage ?' And he answered, ' as soon as he could get lading for his ship.' The other asked 'whether he would undertake to carry over a couple of gentle- men, and land them in France, if ho might be as well paid for his voyage as he used to be when he was freighted by the merchants !' In conclusion, lie told him ' he should receive fifty pounds for his fare.' The large recompense had that effect, that the man under- took it ; though he said ' he must make his provision very secretly, for that he might be well suspected for going to sea again without being frciglited, after he was so newly returned.' Colonel ^\'indhanl being advertised of this, came, together with the Lord Wil- mot, to the captain's house, from whence the lord and the captain rid to a house near Lyme, where the iiuw^ ter of the bark met them ; and the Lord Wilmi.: being 483 TROH 1649 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1689, satisfied with the discourse of the man, and his wari- ness in foreseeing suspicions which would arise, it was resolved that on such a night, which upon considera- tion of the tides was agreed upon, the man should draw out his vessel from the pier, and, being at sea, should corue to such a point about a mile from the town, where his ship should remain upon the beach when the water was gone, which would take it off again about break of day the next morning. There was very near that point, even in the riew of it, a (mail inn, kept by a man who was reputed honest, to which the caraliei-s of the country often resorted ; and the London road passed that way, so that it was sel- dom without company. Into that inn the two gentle- men were to come in the beginning of the night, that they might put themselves on board. All things being thus concerted, and good earnest given to the master, the Lord ^^'ilmot and the colonel returned to the colonel's house, above a day's journey from the place, the captain undertaking every day to look that the master should provide, and, if anything fell out con- trary to expectation, to give the colonel notice at such a place where they intended the king should be the day before he was to embark. The king being satisfied with these preparations, came at the time appointed to that house where he was to hear that all went as it ought to do ; of which he received assurance from the captain, who found that the man had honestly put his provisions on board, and had his company ready, which were but four men, and that the vessel should be drawn out that night ; so that it was fit for the two persons to come to the aforesaid inn : and the captain conducted them within sight of it, and then went to his own house, not distant a mile from it ; the colonel remain- ing still at the house where they had lodged the night before, till he might hear the news of their being em- barked. They found many passengers in the inn, and so were to be contented with an ordinary chamber, which they did not intend to sleep long in. But as soon as there appeared any light, Wilmot went out to discover the bark, of which there was no appearance. In a word, the sun arose, and nothing like a ship in view. They sent to the captain, who was as much amazed ; and he sent to the town, and his servant could not find the master of the bark, which was still in the pier. They suspected the captain, and the captain suspected the master. However, it being past ten of the clock, they concluded it- was not fit for them to stay longer there, and so they mounted their horses again to return to the house where they had left the colonel, who, they knew, resolved to stay there till he were assured that they were gone. The truth of the disappointment was this : the man meant honestly, and made all things ready for his departure ; and the night he was to go out with his Tessel, he had stayed in his own house, and slept two or three hours ; and the time of the tide being come that it was necessary to be on board, he took out of a cupboard some linen and other things, which he used to carry with him to sea. His wife had observed that he had been for some days fuller of thoughts than he used to be, and that he had been speaking with sea- men who used to go with him, and that some of them had carried provisions on board the bark ; of which she had asked her husband the reason, who had told her ' that ho was promised freight speedily, and there- fore he would make all things ready.' She was sure that there was yet no lading in the ship, and there- fore, when she saw her husband take all those mate- nala with him, which was a sure sign that he meant to go to sea, and it being late in the night, she shut the door, and swore he should not go out of his house. He told her ' he must go, and was engaged to go to ica that night, for which he should be well paid.' His wife told him * she was sure he was doing somewhat that would undo him, and she was resolved he should not go out of his house ; and if he should persist in it, she would tell the neighbours, and carry him be- fore the mayor to be examined, that the truth might be found out.' The poor man, thus mastered by the passion and violence of his wife, was forced to yield to her, that there might be no farther noise, and so went into his bed. And it was very happy that the king's jealousy hastened him from that inn. It was the solemn fast- day, which was observed in those times principally to inllame the people against the king, and all those who were loyal to him ; and there was a chapel in that village over against that inn, where a weaver, who had been a soldier, used to preach, and utter all the vil- lany imaginable against the old order of government . and he was then in the chapel preaching to his con- gregation when the king went from thence, and tell- ing the people 'that Charles Stuart was lurking some- where in that country, and that they would merit from God Almighty if they could find him out.' The passengers, who had lodged in the inn that night, had, as soon as they were up, sent for a smith to visit their horses, it being a hard frost. The smith, when he had done what he was sent for, according to the custom of that people, examined the feet of the other two horses, to find more work. When he had observed them, he told the host of the house ' that one of those horses had travelled far, and that he was sure that his four shoes had been made in four several counties ;* which, whether his skill was able to discover or no, was very true. The smith going to the sermon, told his story to some of his neighbours, and so it came to the ears of the preacher when his sermon was done. Immediately he sent for an officer, and searched the inn, and inquired for those horses ; and being in- formed that they were gone, he caused horses to be sent to follow them, and to make inquiry after the two men who rid those horses, and positively declared ' that one of them was Charles Stuart.' When they came again to the colonel, they presently concluded that they were to make no longer stay in those parts, nor any more to endeavour to find a ship upon that coast ; and without any farther delay, they rode back to the colonel's house, where they arrived in the night. Then they resolved to make their next attempt in Hampshire and Sussex, where Colonel Windhaiir had no interest. They must pass through all Wiltshire before they came thither, which would require many days' journey ; and they were first to consider what honest houses there were in or near the way, where they might securely repose ; and it was thought very dangerous for the king to ride through any great toNvn, as Salisbury or \\'inchester, which might probably lie in their way. There was, between that and Salisbury, a Tery honest gentleman, Colonel Robert Philips, a younger brother of a very good family, which had always been very loyal, and he had served the king during the war. The king was resolved to trust him, and so sent the Lord Wilmot to a place from whence he might send to Mr Philips to come to him ; and when he had spoken witli him, Mr Philips should come to the king, and Wilmot was to stay in such a place as they two should agree. Mr Philips accordingly came to the colonel's house, which he could do without suspicion, they being nearly allied. The ways were very full of soldiers, which were sent now from the army to their quarters, and many regiments of horso and foot were assigned for the west, of which division Desborough was commander-in-chief. These marches were like to last for many days, and it would not be fit for the king to stay so long in that place. There- upon he resorted to his old security of taking a woman behind him, a kinswoman of Colonel Windham, whom 484 FBOSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. Bl'LSTRODE WHITELOCKXi he carried in that manner to a place not far from Salisbury, to which Colonel Philips conducted him. In this journey he passed through the middle of a regiment of horse, and, presently after, met Des- borough walking down a hill with three or four men with him, who had lodged in Salisbury the night be- fore, all that road being full of soldiers. The next day, upon the plains, Dr Hinchman, one of the prebends of Salisbury, met the king, the Lord Wilmot and Philips then leaving 1 im to go to the sea-coast to find a vessel, the doctoi conducting the king to a place called Heale, three n: iles from Salis- bury, belonging then to Serjeant Hyde , who was after- wards Chief Justice of the King's Ben .'h, and then in the possession of the widow of his elder brother — a house that stood alone from neighbours, and from any highwa}' — where coming in late in the evening, he supped with some gentlemen who accidentally were in the house, which could not well be avoided. But the next morning he went early from thence, as if he had continued his journey ; and the widow, being trusted with the knowledge of her guest, sent her ser- vants out of the way, and at an hour appointed re- ceived him again, and accommodated him in a little room, which had been made since the beginning of the troubles for the concealment of delinquents, the seat always belonging to a malignant family. Here he lay concealed, without the knowledge of some gentlemen who lived in the house, and of others who daily resorted thither, for many days ; the widow herself only attending him ^vith such things as were necessary, and bringing him such letters as the doctor received from the Lord Wilmot and Colonel Philips. A vessel being at last provided upon the coast of Sussex, and notice thereof sent to Dr Hinchman, he sent to the king to meet him at Stonehenge, upon the plains, three miles from Heale, whither the widow took care to direct him ; and being there met, he attended him to the place where Colonel Philips received him. He, the next day, delivered him to the Lord Wilmot, who went with him to a house in Sussex recommended by Colonel Gunter, a gentleman of that country, who had served the king in the war, who met him there, and had provided a little bark at Brighthelrastone, a small fisher town, where he went early on board, and, by God's blessing, arrived safely in Normandy. [Character of Oliver Cromwell.'] He was one of those men, quos vituperare ne inimici quidem 'possunt, nisi vt simul lavAent; whom his very enemies could not condemn without commending hiiu at the same time ; for he could never have done half that mischief without great parts of courage, industry, and judgment. He must have had a wonderful un- derstanding in the natures and humours of men, and as great a dexterity in applying them ; who, from a private and obscure birth (though of a good family), without interest or estate, alliance or friendship, could raise himself to such a height, and compound and knead such opposite and contradictory tempers, hu- mours, and interests into a consistence, that contri- buted to his designs, and to their own destruction ; whilst himself grew insensibly powerful enough to cut off those by whom he had climbed, in the instant that they projected to demolish their own building. What was said of Cinna may very justly be said of him, aumm eum, qxue nemo auderet bonus; perfedsm, qiUB a nulla, nisi fortissimo, perfici poisent — [' he attempted those things which no good man durst have ventured on, and achieved those in which none but a valiant andgreat man could have succeeded.'] Without doubt, uo man with more wickedness ever attempted any- thing, or brought to pass what he desired more wickedly, more in the face and contempt of religion and moral honesty. Yet wickedness as great as his could never have accomplished those designs without the assistance of a great spirit, an admirable circum- spection and sagacity, and a most magnanimous reso- lution. When he appeared first in the parliament, he seemed to have a person in no degree gracious, no ornament of discourse, none of those talents which use to con- ciliate the affections of the stander-by. Yet as he grew into place and authority, his parts seemed to be raised, as if ha had had concealed faculties, till he had occasion to use them ; aTid when he was to act the part of a great man, he did it without any inde- cency, notwithstanding the want of custom. After he was confirmed and invested Protector by the humble petition and advice, he consulted with very few upon any action of importance, nor comnm- nicated any enterprise he resolved upon with more than those who were to have principal parts in the execution of it ; nor with them sooner than was abso- lutely necessary. What he once resolved, in which he was not rash, he would not be dissuaded from, nor endure any contradiction of his power and authority, but extorted obedience from them who were not will- ing to yield it. * * Thus he subdued a spirit that had been often troublesome to the most sovereign power, and made Westminster Hall as obedient and subservient to his commands as any of the rest of his quarters. In all other matters, which did not concern the life of his jurisdiction, he seemed to have great reverence for the law, rarely interposing between part}' and party. As he proceeded with this kind of indignation and haughtiness with those who were refractoiy, and durst contend with his greatness, so towards all who com- plied with his good pleasure, and courted his protec- tion, he used great civility, generosity, and bounty. To reduce three nations, which perfectly hated him, to an entire obedience to all his dictates ; to avre and govern those nations by an army that was indevoted to him, and wished his ruin, was an instance of a very prodigious address. But his greatness at home was but a shadow of the glory he had abroad. It was hard to discover which feared him most, France, Spain, or the Low Countries, where his friendship was cut- rent at the value he put upon it. As thej did all sacrifice their honour and their interest to his plea- sure, so there is nothing he could have demanded that either of them would have denied him. * * To conclude his character : Cromwell was not so far a man of blood as to follow ilachiavel's method ; which prescribes, upon a total alteration of govern- ment, as a thing absolutely necessary, to cut off all the heads of those, and extirj)ate their families, who are friends to the old one. It was confidently re- ported, that in the council of officers it was more than once proposed, ' that there might be a general mas- sacre of all the royal party, as the only expedient to secure the government,' but that Cromwell would never consent to it ; it may be, out of too great a con- tempt of his enemies. In a word, as he was guiltv of many crimes against which damnation is denounced, and for which hell-fire is prepared, so he had s,>nie good qualities which have caused the memory of some men in all ages to be celebrated ; and he will be looked upon by posterity as a brave wicked man. BDLSTRODE "WHITELOCKE. BuLSTRODE Whitelocke (1605-1676), an eminent lawj-er, who wrote Memorials of Etnjlish Affairs fron: the beginning of the reign of Charles I. to tin. Restoration, was of principles opposite to those of Lord Clarendon, though, like Selden and other mode- rate anti-royalists, he was averse to a civil var. Whitelocke was the legal adviser of Hampden during the prosecution of that celebrated patriot for refusing 48^ FKOM 1649 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1689. to pay ship-money. As a member of parliament, and one of the commissioners appointed to treat with the kirg at Oxford, he advocated pacific measures; and, being an enemy to arbitrary power botli in church and state, he refused, in tlie Westminster assembly for settling the form of churcli government, to ad- mit the assumed divine right of presbytery. Under Cromwell he held several high appointments ; and during the governmentof the Protector's son Kich.ard, acted as one of the keepers of tlie great seal. At the Restoration, he retired to his estate in Wiltshire, Avhich continued to be his principal residence till his death in 1676. Whitelocke's ' IMemorials' not hav- ing been intenled for publication, are almost wholly written in the form of a diary, and are to be regarded rather as a collection of historical materials than as history itself. In a posthumous volume of Essays, Ecclesiastical and Civil, he strongly advocates reli- gious toleration. GILBERT BURNET. Gilbert Burnet was the son of a Scottisli ad- vocate of reputation, and nephew to Johnston of Gilbert Burnet. Warriston, one of the principal popular leaders of the civil war in Scotland. He was born at Edinburgh in 1643, and after entering life as a clergyman of liis native cliurch, and holding for some years the divinity professorship at Glasgow, he removed to a benefice in London, where, partly by his talents, and partly through forward and offi- cious habits, he rendered liimself the confidant of many high political persons. In 1679 he greatly increased his reputation by publishing the first volume of a Iliston/ of the Reformatiun in Enyland. The appearance of this work at the time when the Popish I'lot was engaging public attention, pro- cured to the author the thanks of both houses of parliament, with a request that he would complete the history. This he did by ])ublisliing two addi- tional volumes in 1681 and 1714; and the work is considered the best existing account of the important occurrences of which it treats. The conduct of Charles II. towards the conclusion of his reign was highly offensive to Burnet, who firmed an intimate connexion witli the opjjosition party, and even wrote a letter to the king, freely censuring l)oth his pnblic acts and private vices. Both in this and the suc- ceeding reign, his o])inions brouglit him into dis- p'easure w ith the court. Having, therefore, retired to the continent, he became serviceable in Holland to the Prince of Orange, accompanied the expedition which brought about the Revolution, and was re- warded witli the bishopric of Salisbury. Both as a prelate and a literary man, he s])ent the remainder of his life with usefulness and activitj', till its ter- mination in 1715. Burnet left in manuscript his celebrated History of My Own Times, giving an out- line of the events of the civil war and common- wealth, and a full narration of what took place from the Restoration to the j^ear 1713, during which period the author advanced from his seventeenth to his seventieth year. As he had, under various cir- cumstances, personally known the conspicuous cha- racters of a whole century, and penetrated most of tlie state secrets of a period nearly as long, he has been able to exhibit all these in his work with a felicity not inferior to Clarendon's, though allowance is also required to be made in his case for political prejudices. Foreseeing that the freedom with which he delivered his opinions concerning men of all ranks and parties would give ofltnce in many quarters, Bishop Burnet ordered, in his will, that his liistorj should not be published till six years after his death; so that it did not make its appearance till 1723.* Its publication, as might have been expected, was a signal for the commencement of numerous attacics on the reputation of the author, whose veracity and fairness were loudly impeached. It fell under the lash of the Tory wits — Pope, Swift, and Arbuthnot; by the last of wliom it was ridiculed in a humorous production, entitled Memoirs of P. P., Clerk of this Parish. In the opinion of a more impartial posterity, however. Bishop Burnet's honest freedom of sjieech, his intrepid exposure of injustice and corruption, in what rank soever he found it to exist, and the live- liness and general accuracy with which the events and characters of his age are described, are far more than sufficient to counterbalance his garrulous vanity and self-importance, and a singular tendenc}^ to view persons and occurrences with the spirit and credu- lity of a partisan. There is no good reason to sup- pose that he willingly distorts the truth ; though, in his preface, he makes the following admission that some things may have been over-coloured. ' I find that the long experience I have had of the baseness, the malice, and the falsehood of mankind, has in- clined me to be apt to think generally the worst both of men and parties ; and, indeed, the peevish- ness, the ill-nature, and the ambition of many clergy- men, has sharpened my spirits too much against them : so I warn my reader to take all that I say on these heads with some grains of allowance, though 1 have watched over myself and my pen so carefully, that I hope there is no great occasion for this apology. I have written,' says lie, ' with a design to make both myself and my readers wiser and Vietter, and to lay open the good and bad of all sides and parties as clearly and impartially as I myself under- stood it ; concealing nothing that I thought fit to be known, and representing things in their natural colours, without art or disguise, without any regard to kindred or friends, to parties or interests : for I do solemnly say this to the world, and make my liumble appeal upon it to the great God of truth, that I tell the truth on all occasions, as fully and freely as upon my best inquiry I have been able to find it out. AVhere things appear doubtful, I deliver •► them with the same uncertainty to the world.' Dr King of Oxford says in his ' Anecdotes of His Own Times,' ' I knew Burnet, bishop of Salisbury ; he was * Btirnet's sons, by whom it was published, took the liberty of suppressing many passages, which were restored in the Oxford edition of 1«23. 486 ROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. GILBERT BURNET. a furious party-man, and easily imposed on by any lying spirit of his own faction ; but he was a better pastor tlian any man wlio is now stated on the bishops' bench. Although he left a large family when he died, three sons and two daughters (if 1 rightly remember), yet he left them nothing more than their mother's fortune. He always declared, that he sliould think himself guilty of the greatest crime if he were to raise fortunes for his children out of the revenue of liis bishopric.'* The principal works of Bishop Burnet, in addition to tliose already mentioned, are Memoirs of the Dukes of Hamilton (1676) ; An Account of the Life and Death of the Earl of Bochcstcr (1680), whom lie attended on his penitent death-bed ; Tlie Lives of Sir Matthew Hale and Bishop Bedell (1682 and 1685) ; a transla- tion of Sir Thomas Jlore's ' Utopia ;' f and various theological treatises, among whicli is an Exposition of the Thirty-Nine Articles of the Church of England. His style, though too unpolished to place him in the foremost rank of historical writers, is spirited and vigorous ; while his works afford sufficient evidence that to various and extensive knowledge he added great acuteness in the discrimination of human cha- racter. As he composed with great ease and rapidity, and avoided long and intricate sentences, his pages are mucli more I'eadable than those of Clarendon. IDcalh and Character of Edward VI.'] [Prom the ' History of the Reformation.'] In the beginning of January this year [1553], he was seized with a deep cough, and all medicines that were used did rather increase than lessen it. He was .so ill when the parliament met, that he was not able to go to Westminster, but ordered their first meeting and the sermon to be at Whitehall. In the time of his sickness, Bishop Ridley preached before him, and took occasion to run out much on works of charity, and the obligation that lay on men of high condition to be eminent in good works. This touched the king to the quick ; so that, presently after the sermon, he sent for the bishop. And, after he had commanded him to sit down by him, and be covered, he resumed most of the heads of the sermon, and said he looked upon himself as chiefly touched by it. He desired him, as he had already given him the exhortation in general, so to direct him to do his duty in that parti- cular. The bishop, astonished at this tenderness in so young a prince,^: burst forth in tears, expressing how much he was overjoyed to see such inclinations in him ; but told him he must take time to think on it, and craved leave to consult with the lord-mayor and court of aldermen. So the king writ by him to them to consult speedily how the poor should be re- lieved. They considered there were three sorts of * King's ' Anecdotes,' p. 185. Sir James Mackintosh (Edin- burgh Review, vol. xxxvi. p. 15) characterises Burnet as ' a zealous and avowed partisan, but an honest writer, whose account of facts is seldom substantially erroneous, tliougli it be often inaccurate in points of form and detail.' Dr Jolinson's opinion is thus recorded by Boswell : — ' Burnet's History of His Own Times is very entertaining : tlie style, indeed, is mere chit-chat. I do not believe that Burnet intentionally lied ; but he was so much prejudiced, th.at he took no pains to find out the truth. He was like a man who resolves to regulate his time by a certain watch, but will not inquire whetlier the watch is right or not.' Horace Walpole says—' Burnet's style and manner are very interesting ; it seems as if he liad just come from the king's closet, or from the apartments of tho men whom he describes, and was telling his reader, in plain honest terms, what he had seen and heard.' t An extract from this will be found at p. 60 of the present volume. i The king was sixteen years of age. poor; such as were so by natural infirmity or folly, as impotent persons, and madmen or idiots ; such as were so by accident, as sick or maimed persons ; and such as, by their idleness, did cast themselves into poverty. So the king ordered the Greyfriars' church, near Newgate, with the revenues belonging to it, to he a house for orphans ; St Bartholomew's, near Smith- field, to bo an hospital ; and gave his own house of Bridewell to be a place of correction and work for such as were wilfully idle. He also confinned and enlarged the grant for the hospital of St Thomas in Southwark, which he had erected and endowed in August last. And when he set his hand to these foundations, which was not done before the 5th of June this year, he thanked God that had prolonged his life till he had finished that design. So he was the first founder of those houses, which, by many great additions since that time, have risen to be amongst the noblest in Europe. He expressed, in the whole course of his sickness, great submission to the will of God, and seemed glad at the approaches of death ; only, the consideradon of religion and the church touched him much ; and upon that account he said he was desirous of life. * * His distemper rather increased than abated ; so that the physicians had no hope of his recovery. Upon which a confident woman came, and undertook his cure, if he might be put into her hands. This was done, and the physicians were put from him, upon this pretence, that, they having no hopes of his reco- very, in a desperate case desperate remedies Were to be applied. This was said to be the Duke of Nor- thumberland's advice in particular ; and it increased the people's jealousy of him, when they saw the king grow sensibly worse every day after he came under the woman's care ; which becoming so plain, she was put from him, and the physicians were again sent for, and took him into their charge. But if they had small hopes before, they had none at all now. 'Death thus hastening on him, the Duke of Northumberland, who had done but half his work, except he had got the king's sisters in his hands, got the council to write to them in the king's naine, inviting them to come and keep him company in his sickness. But as they were on the way, on the 6th of July, his spirits and body were so sunk, that he found death approachino- ; and so he composed himself to die in a most devout man- ner. His whole exercise was in short prayers and eja- culations. The last that he was heard to use was in these words: ' Lord God, deliver me out of this miserable and ivretched life, and take me among thy chosen ; how- beit, not my will, but thine be done ; Lord, I connuit my spirit to thee. Oh Lord, thou knowest how haj)py it were for me to be with thee ; yet, for thy chosen 's sake, send me life and health, that I may truly serve thee. Oh my Lord God, bless my people, and save thine in- heritance. Oh Lord God, save thy chosen people of England ; oh Lord God, defend this realm from pa- pistry, and maintain thy true religion, that I and my people may praise thy holy name, for Jesus Christ his sake.' Seeing some about him, he seemed troubled that they were so near, and had heard him ; but, with a pleasant countenance, he said he had been praying to God. And soon after, the pangs of death coming upon him, he said to Sir Henry Sidney, who was hold- ing him in his arms, ' I am faint ; Lord have mercy on me, and receive my spirit ;' and so he breathed out his innocent soul. Thus died King Edward VI., tliat incomparable young prince. He was then in the sixteenth year ol his age, and was counted the wonder of that time. He was not only learned in the tongues, and other liberal sciences, but knew well the state of liis king- dom. He kept a book, in wliich he writ the charac- ters that were given him of all the chief men of the nation, all the judges, lord-lieutenants, and justices 487 FROM 1649 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1689. of the peace over England : in it he had marked down their way of living, and their zeal for religion. He had studied the matter of the mint, with the exchange and value of money ; so that he understood it well, as appears by his journal. He also understood forti- fication, and designed well. He knew all the har- bours and ports, both of his own dominions, and of France and Scotland ; and how much water they had, and what was the way of coming into them. He had acquired great knowledge of foreign affairs ; so that he talked with the ambassadors about them in such a manner, that they filled all the world with the highest opinion of him that was possible ; which appears in most of the histories of that age. He had great quick- ness of apprehension ; and, being mistrustful of his memory, used to take notes of almost everything he heard ; he writ these first in Greek characters, that those about him might not understand them ; and afterwards writ them out in his journal. He had a copy brought him of everything that passed in coun- cil, which he put in a chest, and kept the key of that always himself. In a word, the natural and acquired perfections of his mind were wonderful ; but his virtues and true piety were yet more extraordinary. * * [He] was tender and compassionate in a high measure ; so that he was much against taking away the lives of here- tics ; and therefore said to Cranmer, when he per- suaded him to sign the warrant for the burning of Joan of Kent, that he was not willing to do it, because he thought that was to send her quick to hell. He expressed great tenderness to the miseries of the poor In his sickness, as hath been already shown. He took particular care of the suits of all poor persons ; and gave Dr Cox special charge to see that their petitions were speedily answered, and used oft to consult with him how to get their matters set forward. He was an exact keeper of his word ; and therefore, as appears by his journal, was most careful to pay his debts, and to keep his credit, knowing that to be the chief nerve of government; since a prince that breaks his faith, and loses his credit, has thrown up that which he can never recover, and made himself liable to perpetual distrusts and extreme contempt. He had, above all things, a great regard to religion. He took notes of such things as he heard in sermons, which more especially concerned himself ; and made his measures of all men by their zeal in that matter. * * All men who saw and observed these qualities in him, looked on him as one raised by God for most extraordinary ends ; and when he died, concluded that the sins of England had been great, that had provoked God to take from them a prince, under whose government they were like to have seen such blessed times. He was so afl^able and sweet-natured, that all had free access to him at all times ; by which he came to be most universally beloved ; and all the high things that could be devised were said by the people to express their esteem of him. [Character of Leighton, Bishop of Dumhlane — ffis Death.'] [From the ' History of My Own Times.'] He was the son of Dr Leighton, who had in Arch- bishop Laud's time writ ' Zion's Plea against the Prelates,* for which he was condemned in the Star- Chamber to have his ears cut and his nose slit. He was a man of a violent and ungovemed heat. He sent his eldest son Robert to be bred in Scotland, who was accounted a saint from his youth up. He had great quickness of parts, a lively apprehension, with a charming vivacity of thought and expression. He had the greatest command of the purest Latin that ever I knew in any man. He was a master both of Greek and Hebrew, and of the whole compass of theo- logical learning, chiefly in the study of the Scriptures. But that which excelled all the rest was, he was pos- sessed with the highest and noblest sense of divine things that I ever saw in any man. He had no re- gard to his person, unless it was to mortify it by a constant low diet, that was like a perpetual fast. He had a contempt both of wealth and reputation. He seemed to have the lowest thoughts of himself possible, and to desire that all other persons should think as meanly of him as he did himself. He bore all sorts of ill usage and reproach like a man that took plea- sure in it. He had so subdued the natural heat of his temper, that in a great variety of accidents, and in a course of twenty-two years' intimate conversation with him, I never observed the least sign of passion but upon one single occasion. He brought himself Into so composed a gravity, that I never saw him laugh, and but seldom smile. And he kept himself in such a constant recollection, that I do not remem- ber that ever I heard him say one idle word. There was a visible tendency in all he said to raise his o^^-n mind, and those he conversed with, to serious reflec- tions. He seemed to be in a perpetual meditation. And though the whole course of his life was strict and ascetical, yet he had nothing of the sourness of tem- per that generally possesses men of that sort. He was the freest from superstition, of censuring others, or of imposing his own methods on them, possible ; so that he did not so much as recommend them to others. He said there was a diversity of tempers, and every man was to watch over his own, and to turn It In the best manner he could. His thoughts were lively, oft out of the way, and surprising, yet just and genuine. And he had laid together in his memory the greatest treasure of the best and wisest of all the ancient sayings of the heathens as well as Christians, that I have ever known any man master of; and he used them in the aptest manner possible. He had been bred up with the greatest aversion imaginable to the whole frame of the church of England. From Scotland, his father sent him to travel. He spent some years in France, and spoke that language like one bom there. He came afterwards and settled in Scotland, and had Presby- terian ordination ; but he quickly broke through the prejudices of his education. His preaching had a sublimity both of thought and expression in it. The grace and gravity of his pronunciation was such, that few heard him without a very sensible emotion : I am sure I never did. His style was rather too fine ; buu there was a majesty and beauty in it that left so deep an impression, that I cannot yet forget the sermons I heard him preach thirty years ago. And yet with this he seemed to look on himself as so ordinary a preacher, that while he had a cure, he was ready to employ all others. And when he was a bishop, he chose to preach to small auditories, and would never give notice beforehand : ho had. Indeed, a very low voice, and so could not be heard by a great crowd. * * Upon his coming to me [in London], I was amazed to see him, at above seventy, look still so fresh and well, that age seemed as if it were to stand still with him. His hair was still black, and all his motions were lively. He had the same quickness of thought, and strength of memorj', but, above all, the same heat and life of devotion, that I had ever seen in him. When I took notice to him upon my first seeing him how well he looked, he told me he was very near his end for all that, and his work and journey both were now almost done. This at that time made no great impression on me. He was the next day taken with an oppression, and as it seemed with a cold and with stitches, which was indeed a pleurisy. The next day Leighton sunk so, that both speech and sense went away of a sudden. And he continued panting about twelve hours, and then died without pangs or convulsions. I was by him all the while. 188 PB08E WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. GILBERT BURITRT. Thus I lost him who had been for so many 3-ears the chief guide of my whole life. He had lived ten j'ears in Sussex, in great privacy, dividing his time wholly between study and retirement, and the doing of good ; for in the parish where he lived, and in the parishes round about, he was always employed in preaching, and in reading prayers. He distributed all he had in charities, choosing rather to have it go through other people's hands than his own ; for I was his almoner in London. He had gathered a well-chosen library of curious as well as useful books, which he left to the diocese of Dumblane for the use of the clergy there, that country being ill provided with books. He lamented oft to me the stupidity that he observed among the commons of England, who seemed to be much more insensible in the matters of religion than the commons of Scotland were. He retained still a peculiar inclination to Scotland ; and if he had seen any prospect of doing good there, he would have gone and lived and died among them. In the short time that the affairs of Scotland were in the Duke of Monmouth's hands, that duke had been pos- sessed with such an opinion of him, that he moved the king to write to him, to go and at least live in Scotland, if he would not engage in a bishopric there. But thai fell with that duke's credit. He was in his last j'ears turned to a greater severity against popery than I had imagined a man of his temper and of his largeness in point of opinion was capable of. He spoke of thi^ corruptions, of the secular spirit, -and of the cruelty that appeared in that church, with an extraordinary concern ; and lamented the shameful advances that we seemed to be making towards popery. He did this w» ,h a tenderness and an edge that I did not expect from so recluse and mortified a man. He looked on the state the church of England was in with very melancholy reflections, and was very uneasy at an expression then much used, that it was the best constituted church in the world. He thought it was truly so with relation to the doctrine, the worship, and the main part of our government ; but as to the administration, both with relation to the ecclesiasti- cal courts and the pastoral care, he looked on it as one of the most corrupt he had ever seen. He thought we looked like a fair carcass of a body without a spirit, without that zeal, that strictness of life, and that laboriousness in the clergy, that became us. There were two remarkable circumstances in his death. He used often to say, that if he were to choose a place to die in, it should be an inn ; it looking like a pilgrim's going home, to whom this world was all as an inn, and who was weary of the noise and con- fusion in it. He added, that the officious tenderness and care of friends was an entanglement to a dying man ; and that the unconcerned attendance of those that could be procured in such a place would give less disturbance. And he obtained what he desired, for he died at the Bell Inn in Warwick Lane. Another circumstance was, that while he was bishop in Scot- land, he took what his tenants were pleased to pay him. So that there was a great arrear due, which was raised slowly by one whom he left in trust with his affairs there. And the last payment that he could I expect from thence was returned up to him about six weeks before his death. So that his provision and journey failed both at once. [Character of Charles II.} [From the same.] Thus lived and died King Charles II. He was the greatest instance in history of the various revolutions of which any one man seemed capable. He was bred up the first twelve years of his life with the splendour that became the heir of so great a crown. After that, he passed th^'ough eighteen years of great inequali- ties ; unhappy in the war, in the loss of his father, and of the crown of England. Scotland did not only receive him, though upon terras hard of digestion, but made an attemjjt ujion England for him, though a feeble one. He lost the battle of Worcester with too much indifference. And then he showed more care of his person than became one who had so much at stake. He wandered about England for ten weeks after that, hiding from place to place. But, under all the apprehensions he had then upon him, he showed a temper so careless, and so much turned to levity, that he was then diverting himself with little house- hold sports, in as unconcerned a manner as if he had made no loss, and had been in no danger at all. He got at last out of England. But he had been obliged to so many who had been faithful to him, and cai-eful of him, that he seemed afterwards to resolve to make an equal return to them all ; and finding it not easy to reward them all as they deserved, he forgot tli:im all alike. Most princes seem to have this prettv deep in them, and to think tliat they ought never to re- member past services, but that their acceptance of them is a full reward. lie, of all in our age, exerted this piece of prerogative in the amplest manner ; for he never seemed to charge his memory, or to trouble his thoughts, with the sense of any of the services that had been done him. While he was abroad at Paris, Colen,' or Brussels, he never seemed to lay anything to heart. He pursued all his diversions and irregular pleasures in a free career, and seemed to be as serene under the loss of a crown as the greatest philosopher could have been. Nor did he willingly hearken to any of those projects with which he often complained that his chancellor persecuted him. That in which he seemed most concerned was, to find money for sup- porting his expense. And it was often said, that if Cromwell would have compounded the matter, and have given him a good round pension, that he might have been induced to resign his title to him. During his exile, he delivered himself so entirely to his plea- sures, that he became incapable of application. He spent little of his time in reading or study, and yet less in thinking. And in the state his affairs were then in, he accustomed himself to say to every person, and upon all occasions, that which he thought would please most ; so that words or promises went very easily from hiin. And he had so ill an opinion of mankind, tliat he thought the great art of living and governing was, to manage all things and all persons with a dej)th of craft and dissimulation. And in that few men in the world could put on the appearances of sincerity better than he could ; under which so much artifice was usually hid, that in conclusion he could deceive none, for all were become mistrustful of him. He had great vices, but scarce any virtues to correct them. He had in him some vices tliat were less hurtful, which corrected his more hurtful ones. He was, during the active part of life, given up to sloth and lewdness to such a degree, that he hated business, and could not bear the engaging in anything that gave him much trouble, or put him under any constraint. And though he desired to become abso- lute, and to overturn both our religion and our laws, yet he would neither run the risk, nor give himself the trouble, which so great a design required. He had an appearance of gentleness in his outward de- portment ; but he seemed to have no bowels nor tenderness in his nature, and in the end of his life he became cruel. He was ai)t to forgive all crimes, even blood itself, yet he never forgave anything that was done against himself, after his first and general act of indemnity, which was to be reckoned as done rather upon maxims of state than inclinations of 1 Coloene. i&i FROM 1649 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1689. mercy. He dellvereJ himself up to a most enormous course of vice, without any sort of restraint, even from the consideration of the nearest relations. The most studied extrav.agances that way seemed, to the very last, to be much delighted in and pursued by him. He had the art of making all people grow fond of him at first, by a softness in his whole way of conversation, as he was certainl}' the best-bred man of the age. But when it appeared how little could be built on his promise, they were cured of the fondness that he ■was apt to raise in them. When he saw young men of quality, who had something more than ordinary in them, he drew them about him, and set himself to corrupt them both in religion and morality ; in which he proved so unhappily successful, that he left Eng- land much changed at his death from what he had found it at his restoration. He loved to talk over all the stories of his life to every new man that came about him. His stay in Scotland, and the share he had in the war of Paris, in carrying messages from the one side to the other, were his common topics. He went over these in a very graceful manner, but so often and so copiously, that all those who had been long accustomed to them grew weary of them ; and when he entered on those stories, they usually with- drew. So that he often began them in a full audience, and before he had done, there were not above four or five persons left about him, which drew a severe jest from Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. He said he won- dered to see a man have so good a memory as to re- peat the same story without losing the least circum- stance, and yet not remember that he had told it to the same persons the very day before. This made him fond of strangers, for they hearkened to all his often-repeated stories, and went away as in a rapture at such an uncommon condescension in a king. His person and temper, his vices as well as his for- tunes, resemble the character that we have given us of Tiberius so much, that it were easy to draw the parallel between them. Tiberius's banishment, and nls coming afterwards to reign, makes the comparison in that respect come pretty near. His hating of busi- ness, and his love of pleasures ; hisraisingof favourites, and trusting them entirely ; and his pulling them down, and hating them excessively ; his art of cover- ing deep designs, particularly of revenge, with an appearance of softness, brings them so near a likeness, that I did not wonder much to observe the resem- blance of their faces and persons. At Rome, I saw one of the last statues made for Tiberius, after he had lost his teeth. But, bating the alteration which that made, it was so like King Charles, that Prince Borg- hese and Signior Dominico, to whom it belonged, did agree with me in thinking that it looked like a statue made for him. Few things ever went near his heart. The Duke of Gloucester's death seemed to touch him much. But those who knew him best, thought it was because he had lost him by whom only he could have balanced the surviving brother, whom he hated, and yet em- broiled all his affairs to preserve the succession to him. His ill conduct in the first Dutch war, and those terrible calamities of the plague and fire of London, with that loss and reproach which he suffered by the insult at Chatham, made all people conclude there was a curse upon his government. His throwing the public hatred at that time upon Lord Clarendon was both unjust and ungrateful. And when his people had brought him out of all his difficulties upon his entering into the triple alliance, his selling tliat to France, and his entering on the second Dutch war with as little colour as he had for the first ; his beginning it with the attempt or the Dutch Smyrna fleet, the shutting up the exchequer, and his declara- (ioi. for toleration, which was a step for the introduc- tion of popery, make such a chain of black actions, flowing from blacker designs, that it amazed those who had known all this to see with what impudent strains of flattery addresses were penned during his life, and yet more grossly after his death. His con- tributing so much to the raising the greatness of France, chiefly at sea, was such an error, that it could not flow from want of thought, or of true sense. Ruvigny told me he desired that all the metliods the French took in the increase and conduct of their naval force might be sent him ; and he said he seemed to study them with concern and zeal. He showed what errors they committed, and how they ought to be cor- rected, as if he had been a viceroy to France, rather than a king that ought to have watched over and prevented the progress they made, as the greatest of all the mischiefs that could happen to him or to his people. They that judged the most favourably of this, thought it was done out of revenge to the Dutch, that, with the assistance of so great a fleet as France could join to his own, he might be able to destroy them. But others put a worse construction on it ; and thought, that seeing he could not quite n\aster or deceive his subjects by his own strength and ma- nagement, he was willing to help forward the great- ness of the French at sea, that by their assistance he might more certainly subdue his own people ; accord- ing to what was generally believed to have fallen from Lord Clifford, that if the king must be in a depend- ence, it was better to pay it to a great and generous king, than to five hundred of his own insolent sub- jects. No part of his character looked wickeder, as avcU as meaner, than that he, all the while that he was professing to be of the church of England, ex])ressing both zeal and affection to it, was yet secretly recon- ciled to the church of Rome ; thus mocking God, and deceiving the world with so gross a prevarication. And his not having the honesty or courage to own it at the last ; his not showing any sign of the least re- morse for his ill-led life, or any tenderness either for his subjects in general, or for the queen and his ser- vants ; and his recommending only his mistresses and their children to his brother's care, would have been a strange conclusion to any other's life, but was well enough suited to all the other parts of his. [The C~ar Pder in England in 1C98.] [From the same.] I mentioned, in the relation of the former year, the Czar's coming out of his own country, on which I mil now enlarge. He came this winter over to England, and stayed some months among us. I waited often on him, and was ordered, both by the king and the archbishop and bishops, to attend upon him, and to offer him such informations of our religion and con- stitution as he was willing to receive. I had good in- terpreters, so I had much free discourse with him. He is a man of a very hot temper, soon inflamed, and very brutal in his passion. He raises his natural heat by drinking much brandy, which he rectifies himself with great application ; he is subject to convulsive motions all over his body, and his head seems to be affected with these ; he wants not capacity, and has a larger measure of knowledge than might be expected from his education, which was very indifferent ; a want of judgment, with an instability of temper, appear in him too often and too evidently ; he is mechani- cally turned, and seems designed % nature rather to be a ship-carpenter than a great prince. This was his chief study and exercise while he stayed litre ; he wrought much with his own hands, and made all about him work at the models of ships. He told me he designed a great fleet at Azuph, and witli it to attack the Turkish empire : but he did not seem cap- 4yo PROSE WRITEBS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. GILBERT BURNET. ftble of conducting so great a design, though his con- duct in his wars since tliis has discovered a greater genius in him than appeared at that time. lie was desirous to understand our doctrine, but he did not seem disposed to mend matters in Moacovy. He was, indeed, resolved to encourage learning, and to polish his people by sending some of them to travel in other countries, and to draw strangers to come and live among them. He seemed apprehensive still of his sister's intrigues. There was a mixture both of pas- sion and severity in his temper. He is resolute, but understands little of war, and seemed not at all in- quisitive that way. After I had seen him often, and had conversed much with liim, I could not but adore the depth of the providence of God, that had raised up such a furious man to so absolute an authority over so great a part of the world. David, considering the great things God had made for the use of man, broke out into the meditation, ' \Vhat is man that thou art so mindful of him ?' But here there is an occasion for reversing these words, since man seems a very contemptible thing in the sight of God, while such a person as the Czar has such multi- tudes put, as it were, under his feet, exposed to his restless jealousy and savage temper. He went from hence to the court of Vienna, where he puiposed to have stayed some time ; but he was called home, sooner than he had intended, upon a discovery or a suspicion of intrigues managed by his sister. The strangers, to whom he trusted most, were so true to him, that those designs were crushed before he came back. But on this occasion he let loose his fury on all whom he suspected. Some hundreds of them were hanged all round Moscow ; and it was said that he cut off many heads with his own hand. And so far was he frooi relenting, or showing any sort of tender- ness, that he seemed delighted with it. How long he is to be the scourge of that nation, or of his neigh- bours, God only knows. So extraordinary an incident will, I ho' e, justify such a digression. [Character of William III.} [From the same.] Thus Uvea wnd died "William III., King of Great Britain, and Prince of Orange. He had a thin and weak body, was bro-vvii-haired, and of a clear and deli- cate constitution. He had a Roman eagle nose, bright and sparkling eyes, a large front, and a countenance composed to gravity and authority. All his senses were critical and exquisite. He was always asthma- tical ; and the dregs of the small-pox falling on his lungs, he had a constant deep cough. His behaviour was solemn and serious, seldom cheerful, and but with a few. He spoke little and very slowly, and most commonly with a disgusting dryness, which was his character at all times, except in a day of battle ; for then he was all fire, though without passion ; he was then everywhere, and looked to everything. He had no great advantage from his education. De Witt's dis- courses were of great use to him ; and he, being appre- hensive of the observation of those who were looking narrowly into everything he said or did, had brought himself under a habitual caution, that he could never shake off ; though in another scene it proved as hurt- ful as it was then necessary to his affairs. He spoke Dutch, French, English, and German equally well ; and he understood the Latin, Spanish, and Italian, so that he was well fitted to command armies com- posed of several nations. He had a memory that amazed all about him, for it never failed him. He was an exact observer of men and things. His strength lay rather in a true discerning and a sound judgment, than in imagination or invention. His designs were always great and good. But it was thought he trusted too much to that, and that he did not desce.il enough to the humours of his people, to make himself and his notions more acceptable to tliem. This, in a government that has so much of freedom in it as ours, was more necessary than he was inclined to be- lieve. His reservedness grew on him, so that it dis- gusted most of those who served him ; but he had observed the errors of too much talking, more than those of too cold a silence. He did not like contra- diction, nor to have his actions censured ; but he loved to employ and favour those who had the arts of com- placence, yet he did not love flatterers. His genius lay chiefly to war, in which his courage was more admired than his conduct. Great errors were often committed by hir^ ; but his heroical courage set things right, as it inflamed those who were about him. He was too lavish of money on some occasions, both in his buildings and to his favourites, but too sparing in rewarding services, or in encouraging those who brought intelligence. He was apt to take ill im- pressions of people, and these stuck long with him ; but he never carried them to indecent revenges. He gave too much way to his own humour, almost in every- thing, not excepting that which related to his own health. He knew all foreign affairs well, and under- stood the state of everj' court in P^urope very particu- larly. He instructed his own ministers himself, but he did not apply enough to affairs at home. He tried how he could govern us, by balancing the two parties one against another ; but he came at last to be persuaded that the Tories were irreconcilable to him, and he was resolved to try and trust them no more. He be- lieved the truth of the Christian religior very firmly, and he expressed a horror at atheism an( blasphemy ; and though there was much of both in his court, yet it was always denied to Mm, and kept out of sight. He was most exemplarily decent and devout in the public exercises of the worship of God ; only on week-days he came too seldom to then. He was an attentive hearer of sermons, and was (.-onstant in his private prayers, and in reading the rjcriptures ; and when he spoke of religious matters, which he did not often, it was with a becoming gravity. He was much possessed with the belief of absolute decrees. He said to me he adhered to these, because he did not see how the belief of Providence could be main- tained upon any other supposition. His indiflerence as to the forms of church-government, and his being zealous for toleration, together with his cold behaviour towards the clergy, gave them generally very ili im- pressions of him. In his deportment towards all about him, he seemed to make little distinction between the good and the bad, and those who sirved well, or those who served him ill. He loved the Dutch, and was much beloved among them ; but the ill returns he met from the English nation, their jealousies of him, and their perverseness towards him, had too much soured his mind, and had in a great measure alienated him from them ; which he did not take care enough to conceal, though he saw the ill effects this had upon his business. He grew, in his last years, too remiss and careless as to all affairs, till the treacheries of France awakened him, and the dread- ful conjunction of the monarchies gave so loud an alarm to all Europe ; for a watching over that court, and a bestimng himself against their practices, was the prevailing passion of his whole life. Few men had the art of concealing and governing passion more than he had ; yet few men had stronger passions, which were seldom felt but by inferior servants, to whom he usually made such recompenses for ar.y sudden or indecent vents he might give his anger, that they were glad at every time that it broke upon them. He was too easy to the faults of those about him, when they did not lie in his ovm way, or cross any of his designs ; and he was so apt to think that his ministers might grow insolent, if they should find 491 FROM 1649 CYCLOPAEDIA OF TO 1 68;) that thev li;id much credit with him, that he seemed to hare 'made it a maxim to let them often feel how- little power they had even in small matters. His favourites had a more entire power, but he accustomed the-n only to inform him of things, but to be sparing in tfferiu"'- advice, except when it was asked. It was not easy to account for the reasons of the favour that he showed, in the highest instances, to two persons beyond all others, the Earls of Portland and Albe- marle, they being in all respects men not only of different, but of opposite characters. Secrecy and fidelity were the only qualities in which it could be said that they did in any sort agree. I have now run through the chief branches of his character. I had occasion to know him well, having observed him very carefully in a course of sixteen years. I had a large measure of his favour, and a free access to him all the while, though not at all times to the same degree. The freedom that I used with him was not always acceptable ; but he saw that I served him faithfully ; so, after some intervals of coldness, he always returned to a good measure of confidence in me. I was, in many great instances, much obliged by him ; but that was not my chief bias to him ; I considered him as a person raised up by God to resist the power of France, and the progress of tyranny and persecution. The series of the five Princes of Orange that was now ended in him, was the noblest succession of heroes that we find in any history. And the thirty years, from the year 1C72 to his death, in which he acted so great a part, carry in them so many amazing steps of a glo- rious and distinguishing Providence, that, in the words of David, he may be called ' The man of God's right hand, whom he made strong for himself.' After all the abatements that may be allowed for his errors and faults, he ought still to be reckoned among the greatest princes that our history, or indeed that any other, can afl^ord. He died in a critical time for his own glory, since he had formed a great alliance, and had projected the whole scheme of the war ; so that if it succeeds, a gi-eat part of the honour of it will be as- cribed to him ; and if otherwise, it will be said he was the soul of the alliance, that did both animate and knit it together, and that it was natural for that body to die and fall asunder, when he who gave it life was withdra^vn. Upon his death, some moved for a magnificent funeral ; but it seemed not decent to run into unnecessary expense, when we were enter- ing on a war that must be maintained at a vast charge. So a private funeral was resolved on. But for the honour of his memory, a noble monument and an equestrian statue were ordered. Some years must show whether these things were really intended, or if they were only spoke of to excuse the privacy of his funeral, which was scarce decent, so far was it from being magnificent. JOHN DRYDEN. Dryden, who contributed more than any other English writer to improve the poetical diction of his native tongue, performed also essential service of the same kind with respect to the quality of our prose. Throwing off, still more than Cowley had lone, those inversions and other forms of Latin idiom which abound in the pages of his most dis- tinguished predecessors, Dryden speaks in the lan- guage of one addressing, in easy j'et dignified con- versational phraseology, an assemblage of polite and well-educated men. Strength, ease, copiousness, variety, and animation, are tiie predominant qualities of his style; but tlie haste with wliich he composed, and his inherent dislike to the labour of correction, are aonietimes betrayed by tlie negligence and rough- ness of his sentences. On the whole, however, to the orose of Dryden may be assigned the foremost place among the specimens which can be furnished of vigorous and genuine idiomatic English. In addition to the qualities just enumerated, it possesses those of equability and freedom from mannerism. Speaking of this attribute of Dryden's style, Dr Johnson observes, ' He who writes much, will not easily escape a manner — such a recurrence of particular modes as may be easily noted. Dryden is always another and the same ; he does not exhibit a second time the same elegances in tlie same form, nor appears to have any art other than tliat of expressing with clearness what he thinks with vigour. His style could not easily be imitated, either seriously or ludicrously; for, being always equable and always varied, it has no prominent or discriminative charac- ters. The beauty who is totally free from dispro- portion of parts and features, cannot be ridiculed by an overcharged resemblance.'* Dryden has left no extensive work in prose; the pieces which he wrote were merely accompaniments to his poems and plays, and consist of prefaces, dedications, and critical essays. His dedications are noted for the fulsome and unprincipled flattery in which he seems to have thought himself authorised by his poverty to indulge. The critical essays, though written with more haste and carelessness than would now be tolerated in similar produc- tions, embody many sound and vigorously-expressed thoughts on subjects connected with polite lite- rature. Of his prefaces Dr Johnson remarks, ' They have not the formality of a settled style, in which the first half of the sentence betrays the other. The clauses are never balanced, nor the periods modelled; every word seems to drop by chance, though it falls into its proper place. Nothing is cold or languid; the whole is airy, animated, and vigorous ; what is little is gay; what is great is splendid. He may be thought to mention himself too frequently ; but while he forces himself upon our esteem, we can- not refuse him to stand high in his own. Every- thing is excused by the play of images and the sprightliness of expression. Though all is easy. nothing is feeble ; though all seems careless, there is nothing harsh ; and though, since his earlier works, more tlian a century has passed, they have nothing yet uncouth or obsolete.' According to the same critic, Dryden's Efsay on Dramatic Foesy ' was the first regular and valuable treatise on the art of writing. He who, having formed his opinions in the present age of English literature, turns back to peruse this dialogue, will not perhaps find much increase of knowledge, or much novelty of instruction ; but he is to remember that critical principles were then in the hands of a few, who had gathered them partlj- from the ancients, and partly from the Italians and French. The structure of dramatic poems was then not generally understood. Audiences applauded by instinct, and poets, perhaps, often pleased by chance. A writer who obtains his full purpose, loses himself in his own lustre. Of an opinion whicli is no longer doubted, tJie evidence ceases to be examined. Of an art universally practised, the first teacher is forgotten. Learning, once made popular, is no longer learning; it has the appearance of something wliich we have bestowed ujion ourselves, as the dew aj)pears to rise from the field which it refreshes. To judge rightly of an author, we must transport ourselves to his time, and examine what were the wants of his cotemporaries, and what were liis means of supplying tliem. That which was easy at one time was difficult at another. Dryden, at least, imported his science, and gave his country what it * Johnson' jife of Dryden. 41)2 PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. JOHN DRYDEN. wantc-d before ; or rather he imported only tlie materials, and manufactured them by his own skill. The Dialogue on the Drama was one of his first essays of criticism, written when he was yet a timorous candidate for reputation, and therefore laboured ^rith that diligence, wliich he might allow himself somewhat to remit, wlien his name gave sanction to his positions, and his awe of the public was abated, partly by custom and partly by success. It will not be easy to find, in all the opulence of our language, a treatise so artfully variegated with suc- cessive representations of opposite probabilities, so enlivened with imagery, so brightened with illus- trations. His portraits of the English dramatists are wrought with great spirit and diligence. The account of Shakspeare may stand as a perpetual model of encomiastic criticism ; being lofty with- out exaggeration. The praise lavished by Longinus on the attestation of the heroes of Marathon by Demosthenes, fades away before it. In a few lines is exhibited a character so extensive in its compre- hension, and so curious in its limitations, that nothing can be added, diminished, or reformed ; nor can the editors and admirers of Shakspeare, in all their emulation of reverence, boast of much more than of having diffused and paraphrased this epitome of excellence — of having changed Dryden's gold for baser metal, of lower value though of greater bulk. In this, and in all his other essays on the same subj< ct, the criticism of Dryden is the criticism of a poet not a dull collection of theorems, not a rude detei tion of faults which, perhaps, the censor was not able to have committed, but a gay and vigorous dissertation, where delight is mingled with instruc- tion, and where the author proves his right of judg- ment by his power of performance.' ' The prose of Dryden,' says Sir Walter Scott, ' may rank with the best in the English language. It is no less of his own formation than his ver- sification ; is equally spirited, and equally har- monious. Without the lengthened and pedantic sentences of Clarendon, it is dignified when dignity is becoming, and is lively without the accumulation of strained and absurd allusions and metaphors, which were unfortunately mistaken for wit by many of the author's contemporaries.' It is recorded by Malone, that Dr\-den's miscel- laneous prost writings were held in high estimation by Edmund Burke, who carefully studied them on account equally of their style and matter, and is thought to have in some degree taken them as the model of his own diction. As specimens of Dryden's prose composition, we here present, in the first place, his characters of some of the most eminent English dramatists. [Shakspeare.'] To begin, then, with Shakspeare. lie was the man, who, of all modern, and perhaps ancient poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul. All the images of nature were still present to him, and he drew them not laboriously, but luckily. When he describes anything, you more than see it — you feel it too. Those who accuse him to have wanted learning, give him the greater commendation. He was natu- rally learned ; he needed not the spectacles of books to read nature ; be looked inwards, and found her there. I cannot say he is everywhere alike ; wore he so, I should do him injury to compare him with the greatest of mankind. He is many times flat, insipid ; his comic wit degenerating into clenches, his serious swelling into bombast. But he is always great when some great occasion is preseuted to him ; no man can \l=:7:r=.z say he ever had a fit subject for his wit, and did not then raise himself as liigh above the rest of poets, Quantum Icnta solent inter vibuma cupres8i.' The consideration of this made ]\rr Hales of Eton say, that there was no subject of which any poet ever writ, but he would produce it much better done in Shakspeare ; and however others are now generally preferred before him, yet the age wherein he lived, which had contemporaries with him Fletcher and Jonson, never equalled them to him in their esteem. And in the last king's court, when Ben's reputation was at highest. Sir John Suckling, and with him the greater part of the courtiers, set our Shakspeare far above him. [Beaumont and Fletcher.] Beaumont and Fletcher, of whom I am next to speak, had, with the advantage of Shakspeare's wit, which was their precedent, great natural gifts, im- proved by study ; Beaumont especially, being so ac- curate a judge of plays, that Ben Jonson, while he lived, submitted all his writings to his censure, and, 'tis thought, used his judgment in correcting, if not contriving, all his plots. What value he had for him, appears by the verses he writ to him, and therefore I need speak no farther of it. The first play that brought Fletcher and him in esteem was their ' Phi- laster ;' for before that they had written two or three very unsuccessfully : as the like is reported of Ben Jonson, before he writ ' Every Man in his Humour.' Their plots were generally more regular than Shak- speare's, especially those which were made before Beaumont's death ; and they understood and imi- tated the conversation of gentlemen much better ; whose wild debauclieries, and quickness of wit in re- partees, no poet before them could paint as they have done. Humour, which Ben Jonson derived from par- ticular persons, they made it not their business to de- scribe : they represented all the passions very lively, but above all, love. I am apt to believe the English language in them arrived to its highest perfection : what words have since been taken in, are rather super- fluous than ornamental. Their plays are now the most pleasant and frequent entertainments of the stage ; two of theirs being acted through the year, for one of Shakspeare's or Jonson's : the reason is, be- cause there is a certain gaiety in their comedies, and pathos in their more serious plaj'S, which suits gene- rally with all men's humours. Shakspeare's lan- guage is likewise a little obsolete, and Ben Jonson's wit comes short of theirs. [Bai Jonson.] As for Jonson, to whose character I am now arrived, if vi-e look upon him while he was himself (for his L^st plays were but his dotages), 1 think him the most learned and judicious writer which any theatre ever had. He was a most severe judge of himself, as well as others. One cannot say he wanted wit, but rather that he was frugal of it. In his works you find little to retrench or alter. Wit, and language, and humour also in some measure, we had before him ; but some- thing of art was wanting to the drama, till he came. He managed his strength to more advantage than any who preceded him. You seldom find him making love in any of his scenes, or endeavouring to move the passions ; his genius was too sullen and saturnine to do it gracefully, especially when he knew he came after those who had performed both to such a height. Humour was his proper sphere; and in tha. he de- lighted most to represent mechanic people. He wag deeply conversant in the ancients, both. Greek and ' Aa the cypress is above surrounding shrubs. 493 VBOH 1649 CYCLOPAEDIA OF TO 1689. Latin, and he borrowed boldly from them ; there is scarce a poet or historian among the Roman authors of thoic times whom he has not translated in ' Sejanus ' and 'Catiline.' But hehas done his robberies so openly, that one may see he fears not to be taxed by any law. He invades authors like a monarch ; and what would be theft in other poets is only victory in him. With the spoils of these wTiters he so represented Rome to us, in its rites, ceremonies, and customs, that if one of their poets had written either of his tragedies, we had seen less of it than in him. If there was any fault in his language, 'twas that he weaved it too closely and laboriously, in his comedies especially : perhaps, too, he did a little too much Romanise our tongue, leaving the words which he translated almost as much Latin as he found them ; wherein, though he learnedly followed their language, he did not enough complj' with the idiom of ours. If I wouhl compare him with Shakspeare, I must acknowledge him the more correct poet, but Shakspeare the greater wit. Shakspeare was the Homer, or father of our dramatic poets : Jonson was the Virgil, the pattern of elaborate writing; I admire him, but I love Shaks- peare. To conclude of him : as he has given us the most correct plays, so, in the precepts which he has laid down in his ' Discoveries,' we have as many and profitable rules for perfecting the stage, as any where- with the French can furnish us. {^Improved Style of Dramatic Dialogue after the Restoration.^ I have always acknowledged the wit of our prede- cessors witli all the veneration which becomes me ; but, I am sure, their wit was not that of gentlemen ; there was ever somewhat that was ill-bred and clownish in it, and which confessed the conversation of the authors. And this leads me to the last and greatest advantage of our writing, which proceeds from conversation. In the age wherein those poets' lived, there was less of gallantry than in ours ; neither did they keep the best company of theirs. Their fortune has been much like that of Epicurus in the retirement of his gardens ; to live almost unknown, and to be celebrated after their decease. I cannot find that any of them had been conversant in courts, except Ben Jonson ; and his genius lay not so much that way, as to make an im- provement by it. Greatness was not then so easy of access, nor conversation so free, as it now is. I cannot, therefore, conceive it any insolence to aflirm, that by the knowledge and pattern of their wit who writ before us, and by the advantage of our own conversation, the discourse .and raillery of our comedies excel what has been written by them. And this will be denied by none, but some few old fellows who value themselves on their acquaintance with the Black Friars ; who, because they saw their plays, would pretend a right to judge ours. * * Now, if they ask me whence it is that our conver- sation is so much refined, I must freely, and without flattery, ascribe it to the court ; and in it, particularly to the king, whose example gives a law to it. His own misfortunes, and the nation's, aff"orded him an oppor- tunity which is rarely allowed to sovereign princes, I mean of travelling, and being conversant in the most polished courts of Europe ; and thereby of cul- tivating a spirit which was formed by nature to re- ceive the impressions of a gallant and generous edu- cation. At his return, he found a nation lost as much in barbarism as in rebellion : And, as the excellency of his nature forgave the one, so the excellency of his manners reformed the other. Vhe desire of imitating JO great a pattern first awakened the dull and heavy ' Shakspeare, Jonson, kc spirits of the English from their natural reservedness ; loosened them from their stiff forms of conversation, and made them easy and pliant to each other in dis- course. Thus, insensibly, our way of living, _d allow. I may seem sometimes to have varied from his sense ; but I think the greatest variations may be fairly deduced from him ; and where I leave his commentators, it may be I understand him better; at least I writ without consulting them in many places. But two particular lines in ' Mezentius and Lausus ' I cannot so easily ex- cuse. They are, indeed, remotely allied -to Virgil's sense ; but they are too like the trifling tenderness of Ovid, and were printed before I had con.sidered them enough to alter them. The first of them 1 have for- gotten, and cannot easily retrieve, because the copy Lb at the press. The second is thi.s — When Lausus died. I was already slain. This appears pretty enough at first sight ; but I am convinced, for many reasons, that the expression is too 495 FBOM 1649 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1689. bold ; that Virgil would not have said it, though Ovid would. The reader may pardon it, if he please, for the frceness of the confession ; and instead of that, and the former, admit these two lines, which are more according to the author — Nor ask I life, nor fought yrith that design ; As I had used my fortune, use thou thine. Having with much ado got clear of Virgil, I have, in the nest place, to consider the genius of Lucretius, whom I have translated more happily in those parts of him which I undertook. If he was not of the best at'e of Roman poetry, he was at least of that which preceded it ; and he himself refined it to that degree of perfection, both in the language and the thoughts, that he left an easy task to Virgil, who, as he suc- ceeded him in time, so he copied his excellences ; for the method of the Georgics is plainly derived from him. Lucretius had chosen a subject naturally crab- bed ; he therefore adorned it with poetical descrip- tions, and precepts of morality, in the beginning and ending of his books, which you see Virgil has imitated with great success in those four books, which, in my opinion, are more perfect in their kind than even his divine ^neids. The turn of his verses he has like- wise followed in those places which Lucretius has most laboured, and some of his very lines he has transplanted into his own works, without much va- riation. If I am not mistaken, the distinguishing character of Lucretius (I mean of his soul and genius) is a certain kind of noble pride, and positive assertion of his opinions. He is everywhere confident of his own reason, and assuming an absolute command, not only over his vulgar reader, but even his patron Mera- mius ; for he is always bidding him attend, as if he had the rod over him, and using a magisterial autho- ritv while he instructs him. From his time to ours, I know none so like him as our poet and philosopher of Malmesbury.* This is that perpetual dictatorship which is exercised by Lucretius, who, though often in the ^\Tong, yet seems to deal bona fide with his reader, and tells him nothing but what he thinks ; in which plain sincerity, I believe, he differs from our Hobbes, who could not but be convinced, or at least doubt, of some eternal truths which he has opposed. But for Lucretius, he seems to disdain all manner of replies, and is so confident of his cause, that he is before-hand with his antagonists ; urging for them whatever he imagined they could say, and leaving them, as he supposes, without an objection for the future : all this, too, with so much scorn and indignation, as if he were assured of the triumph before he entered into the lists. From this sublime and daring genius of his, it must of necessity come to pass that his thoughts must be masculine, full of argumentation, and that suffi- ciently warm. From the same fiery temper proceeds the loftiness of his •expressions, and the perpetual torrent of his rerse, where the barrenness of his subject does not too much constrain the quickness of his fanc_y. For there is no doubt to be made, but that he could have been everywhere as poetical as he is in his de- scriptions, and in the moral part of his philosophy, if he had not aimed more to instruct, in his system of nature, than to delight. But he was bent upon mak- ing Memmius a materialist, and teaching him to defy an invisible power : in sh irt, he was so much an atheist, that he forgot sometimes to be a poet. These are the considerations which I had of that author, before I attempted to translate some parts of him. And accordingly I laid by my natural diffidence and scepticism for a while, to take up that dogmatical way of his which, as I said, is so much his character, as to make him that individual poet. As for his opinions concerning the mortality of the soul, they are » Hobbes, who died in 1679. so absurd, that I cannot, if I would, believe them. I think a future state demonstrable even by natural arguments ; at least, to take away rewards and punish- ments is only a pleasing prospect to a man who re- solves beforehand not to live morally. But, on the other side, the thought of being nothing after death is a burden insupportable to a virtuous man, even though a heathen. We naturally aim at happiness, and cannot bear to have it confined to the shortness of our present being ; especially when we consider that virtue is generally unhappy in this world, and vice fortunate : so that it is hope of futurity alone that makes this life tolerable, in expectation of a better. Who would not commit all the excesses to which he is prompted by his natural inclinations, if he may do them with security while he is alive, and be incapable of punishment after he is dead ? If he be cunning and secret enough to avoid the laws, there is no band of morality to restrain him ; for fame and reputation are weak ties : manj' men have not the least sense of them. Powerful men are only awed by them as they conduce to their interest, and that not always when a passion is predominant ; and no man will be contained within the bounds of duty, when he may safely trans- gress them. These are my thoughts abstractedly, and without entering into the notions of our Christian faith, which is the proper business of divines. But there are other arguments in this poem (which I have turned into English) not belonging to the mor- tality of the soul, which are strong enough to a rea- sonable man, to make him less in love with life, and consequently in less apprehensions of death. Such as are the natural satiety proceeding from a perpetual enjoyment of the same things ; the inconveniences of old age, which make him incapable of corporeal plea- sures ; the decay of understanding and memory, which render him contemptible and useless to others. These, and many other reasons, so pathetically urged, so beautifully expressed, so adorned with examples, and so admirably raised by the prosopnpeia of nature, who is brought in speaking to her children with so much authority and vigour, deserve the pains I have taken with them, which I hope have not been unsuccessful, or unworthy of my author : at least I must take the liberty to own that I was pleased with my o\ni endea- vours, which but rarely happens to me ; and that I am not dissatisfied upon the review of anything I have done in this author. [Spenser and Milton.'] [In epic poetry] the English have onl}' to boast of Spenser and IMilton, who neither of them wanted either genius or learning to have been perfect poets, and yet both of them are liable to many censures. For there is no uniformity in the design of Spenser ; he aims at the accomplishment of no one action, he raises up a hero for every one of his adventures, and endows each of them with some particular moral vir- tue, which renders them all equal, without subordina- tion or preference. Every one is most valiant in his ovm legend ; only, we must do hira that justice to ob- serve, that magnanimit}', which Is the character of Prince Arthur, shines throughout the whole poem, and succours the rest when they are in distress. The original of every knight was then living in the court of Queen Elizabeth ; and he attributed to each of them that virtue which he thought was most conspi- cuous in them— an Ingenious piece of flattery, though it turned not much to his account. Had he lived to finish his poem, in the six remaining legends, it had certainly been more of a piece, but could not have been perfect, because the model was not true. But Prince Arthur, or his chief patron Sir Philip Sidney, wliom he intended to make happy by the marriage of his Gloriaiia, dying before him, deprived the poet both 496 PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. JOHN DRTDEN. of means and spirit to accomplish his desi^. For the rest, his obsolete language, and the ill choice of his stanza, are faults but of the second magnitude ; for, notwithstanding the first, he is still intelligible, at least after a little practice ; and for the last, he is the more to be admired, that, labouring under such a difficulty, his verses are so numerous, so various, and so harmonious, that only Virgil, whom he professedly imitated, has surpassed him among the Romans, and only Mr Waller among the English. As for Mr Milton, whom we all admire with so much justice, his subject is not that of a heroic poem, pro- perly so called. His design is the losing of our happi- ness ; his event is not prosperous, like that of all other epic works ; his heavenly machine? are many, and his human persons are but two. Bui I will not take Mr Rymer's work out of his hands ; he has promised the world a critique on that author, wherein, though he will not allow his poem for heroic, I hope he will grant us that his thoughts are elevated, his words sounding, and that no man has so happily copied the manner of Homer, or so copiously translated his Grecisms, and the Latin elegancies of Virgil. It is true he runs into a fiat of thought sometimes for a hundred lines together, but it is when he has got into a track of Scripture. His antiquated words were his choice, not his necessity ; for therein he imitated Spenser, as Spenser did Chaucer. And though, per- haps, the love of their masters may have transported both too far, in the frequent use of them, yet, in my opinion, obsolete words may then be laudably revived, when either they are more sounding or more signifi- cant than those in practice ; and when their obscu- rity is taken away, by joining other words to them which clear the sense, according to the rule of Horace, for the admission of new words. But in both cases a moderation is to be observed in the use of them ; for unnecessary coinage, as well as unnecessary revival, runs into affectation ; a fault to be avoided on either hand. Neither will I justify Milton for his blank verse, though I may excuse him, by the example of Hannibal Caro, and other Italians, who have used it ; for whatever causes he alleges for the abolishing of rhyme (which I have not now the leisure to examine), his own particular reason is plainly this, that rhyme was not his talent ; he had neither the ease of doing it, nor the graces of it, which is manifest in his Juvenilia,' or verses written in his youth, where his rhyme is always constrained and forced, and comes hardly from him, at an age when the soul is most pliant, and the passion of love makes almost every man a rhymer, though not a poet. [^Lampoon.'] In a word, that fonner sort of satire, which is known in England by the name of lampoon, is a dangerous sort of weapon, and for the most part unlawful. We have no moral right on the reputation of other men. It is taking from them what we cannot restore to them. There are only two reasons for which we may be permitted to write lampoons ; and I will not pro- mise that they can always justify us. The first is revenge, when we have been aff"ronted in the same nature, or have been anyways notoriously abused, ftnd can make ourselves no other reparation. And yet we know, that, in Christian charity, all offences are to be forgiven, as we expect the like pardon for those wliich we daily commit against Almighty God. And this consideration has often made me tremble when I was saying our Saviour's prayer ; for the plain condition of the forgiveness which we beg, is the par- doning of others the ofi"ences which they have done to us ; for which reason I have many times avoided the commission of that fault, even when I have been notoriously provoked. Let not this, my lord, pass for vanity in me, for it is truth. More libels have been written against me than almost any man now living ; and I had reason on my side to have defended mj own innocence. I speak not of my poetry, which I have wholly given up to the critics : let them use it as they please : posterity, perhaps, may be more favourable to me ; for interest and passion will lie buried in another age, and partiality and prejudice be forgotten. I speak of my morals, which have been sufficiently aspersed : that only sort of reputation ought to be dear to every honest man, and is to me. But let the world witness for me, that I have been often wanting to myself in that particular : I have seldom answered any scurrilous lampoon, when it was in my power to have exposed my enemies : and, being naturally vindictive, have suffered in silence, and possessed my soul in quiet. Anything, though never so little, which a man speaks of himself, in ray opinion, is still too much ; and therefore I will waive this subject, and proceed to give the second reason which may justify a poet when he writes against a particular person ; and that is, when he is become a public nuisance. All those, whom Horace in his Satires, and Persius and Juvenal have mentioned in theirs, with a brand of infamy, are wholly such. It is an action of virtue to make ex- amples of vicious men. They may and ought to be upbraided with their crimes and follies ; both for their amendment, if they are not yet incorrigible, and for the terror of others, to hinder them from falling into those enormities, which they see are so severely punished in the persons of others. The first reason was only an excuse for revenge ; but this second is absolutely of a poet's office to perform : but how few lampooners are now living who are capable of this duty !* When they come in my way, it is impossible sometimes to avoid reading them. But, good God ! how remote they are, in common justice, from the choice of such persons as are the proper subject of satire ! And how little wit they bring for the support of their injustice ! The weaker sex is their most or- dinary theme ; .and the best and fairest are sure to be the most severely handled. Amongst men, those who are prosperously unjust are entitled to panegyric ; but affiicted virtue is insolently stabbed with all manner of reproaches ; no decency is considered, no fulsome- ness omitted ; no venom is wanting, as far as dulness can supply it ; for there is a perpetual dearth of wit ; a barrenness of good sense and entertainment. The neglect of the readers will soon put an end to this sort of scribbling. There can be no pleasantry where there is no wit ; no impression can be made where there is no truth for the foundation. To conclude : they are like the fruits of the earth in this unnatural season ; the com which held up its head is spoiled with rankness ; but the greater part of the harvest is laid along, and little of good income and wholesome nourishment is received into the barns. This is al- most a digression, I confess to your lordship ; but a just indignation forced it from me. [Zh-ydm's Translation of Virgil.'] What Virgil wrote in the vigour of his age, in plenty and at ease, I have undertaken to translate in my declining years ; struggling with wants, oppressed with sickness, curbed in my genius, liable to be mis- construed in all 1 write; and my judges, if they are not very equitable, already prejudiced against me, * The abuse of personal satires, or I.impoons, as they were called, was carried to a prodigious extent in the days of Dry- den, when every man of fashion was obliged to write verses ; and those who had neither poetry nor wit, had recourse to ribaldry and libelling.— .Sir Walter Scott. 497 33 FROM 1649 CYCLOPAEDIA OF TO IdHh. by the lying character which has been given them of my morals. Yet, steady to my principles, and not dispirited with my afflictions, I have, by the blessing of God on my endeavours, overcome all difficulties, and in some measure acquitted myself of the debt which I owed the public when I undertook this work. In the first place, therefore, I thankfully acknowledge to the Almighty Power the assistance he has given me in the beifinning, the prosecution, and conclusion of my present studies, which are more happily performed than I could have promised to myself, when I laboured under such discouragements. For what I have done, imperfect as it is for want of health and leisure to correct it, will be judged in after ages, and possibly in the present, to be no dishonour to my native country, whose language and poetry would be more esteemed abroad, if they were better understood. Somewhat (give me leave to say) I have added to both of them in the choice of words and harmony of numbers, which were wanting (especially the last) in all our poets, even in those who, being endued with genius, yet have not cultivated their mother-tongue with sufficient care ; or, relying on the beauty of their thoughts, have judged "the ornament of words and sweetness of sound unnecessary. One is for raking in Chaucer (our English Ennius) for antiquated words, which are never to be revived, but when sound or significancy is wanting in the present language. But many of his deserve not this redemption, any more than the crowds of men who daily die, or are slain for sixpence in a battle, merit to be restored to life, if a wish could revive them. Others have no ear for verse, nor choice of words, nor distinction of thoughts, but mingle farthings with their gold to make up the sum. Here is a field of satire opened to me; but since the Revolution, I have wholly re- nounced that talent: for who would give physic to the great when he is uncalled — to do his patient no good, and endanger himself for his prescription ? Neither am I ignorant but I may justly be condemned for many of those faults, of which I have too liberally arraigned others. [Histwy and Biography.'] It may now be expected that, having written the life of a historian,* I should take occasion to write somewhat concerning history itself. But I think to commend it is unnecessary, for the profit and pleasure of that study are both so very obvious, that a quick reader will be beforehand with me, and imagine faster than I can write. Besides, that the post is taken up already ; and few authors have travelled this way, but who have strewed it with rhetoric as they passed. For my own part, who must confess it to my shame, that I never read anything but for pleasure, it has always been the most delightful entertainment of my life ; but they who have employed the study of it, as they ought, for their instruction, for the regulation of their private manners, and the management of public affairs, must agree with me that it is the most plea- sant school of wisdom. It is a familiarity with past ages, and an acquaintance with all the heroes of them ; it is, if you will pardon the similitude, a pro- spective glass, carrying your soul to a vast distance, and taking in the farthest objects of antiquity. It informs the understanding by the memory ; it helps us to judge of what will happen, by showing us the like revolutions of former times. For mankind being the same in all ages, agitated by the same passions, and moved to action by the same interests, notliing can come to pass but some precedent of the like nature has already been produced ; so that, having the causes before our eyes, we cannot easily be deceived in the effects, if we have judgment enough but to draw the parallel. God, it is true, with his divine providence over- rules and guides all actions to the secret end he has ordained them ; but in the way of human causes, a wise man may easily discern that there is a natural connection betwixt them ; and though he cannot fore- see accidents, or all things that possibly can come, he may apply examples, and by them foretell that from the like counsels will probably succeed the like events; and thereby in all concernments, and all offices of life, be instructed m the two main points on which depend our happiness — that is, what to avoid, and what to choose. The laws of historj, in general, are truth of matter, method, and clearnesii of expression. The first pro- priety is necessary, to keep our understanding from the impositions of falsehood ; for history is an argu- ment framed from many particular examples or in- ductions ; if these examples are not true, then those measures of life which we take from tliem will be false, and deceive us in their consequence. The second is grounded on the former ; for if the method be confused, if the words or expressions of thought are any way obscure, then the ideas which we receive must be imperfect ; and if such, we are not taught by them what to elect or what to shun. Truth, therefore, is required as the foundation of history to inform us, disposition and perspicuity as the inanner to inform us plainly ; one is the being, the other tlie well being of it. History is principally divided into these three spe- cies — commentaries, or annals ; history, properly so called ; and biographia, or the lives of particular men. Commentaries, or annals, are (as I may so call them) naked history, or the plain relation of matter of fact, according to tlie succession of time, divested of all other ornaments. The springs and motives of actions are not here sought, unless they offer themselves, and are open to every man's discernment. The method Is the most natural that can be imagined, depending only on the observation of months and years, and drawing, in the order of them, whatsoever hap])ened worthy of relation. The style is easy, simple, unforced, and unadorned with the pomp of figures ; councils, guesses, politic observations, sentences, and orations, are avoided ; in few words, a bare narration is its busi- ness. Of this kind, the ' Commentaries of Cfwsar' are certainly the most admirable, and after him the ' An- nals of Tacitus' may have j)lace ; nay, even the prince of Greek historians, Thucydides, may almost be adoj-ted into the number. For, though he instructs everywhere by sentences, though he gives the causes of actions, the councils of both parties, and makes orations wliere they are necessary, yet it is certain that he first de- signed his work a commentary ; every year writing down, like an unconcerned spectator as he was, the particular occurrences of the time, in the order as they happened ; and his eighth book is wholly written after the way of annals ; though, out-living the war, he inserted in his others those ornaments which render his work the most complete and most instructive now extant. History, properly so called, may be described by the addition of those parts which are not required to annals ; and therefore there is little farther to be said concerning it ; only, that the dignity and gravity of style is here necessary. That the guesses of secret causes inducing to the actions, be drawn at least from the most probable circumstances, not perverted by the malignity of the author to sinister interpretations (of which Tacitus is accused), but candidly laid down, and left to the judgment of the reader; that nothing of concernment be omitted ; but things of trivial mo- ment are still to be neglected, as debasing tlie inajosty of the work ; that neither partiality nor prejudice 498 PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. JOHN DRYDEN. appear, but that truth may everywhere be sacred : ' Ne quid falsi dicere audeat, ne quid veri iion audeat historicus' — [' that a historian should never dare to speak falsely, or fear to speak what is true'] ; that he neither iucline to superstition, in giving too much credit to oracles, prophecies, divinations, and prodi- gies, nor to irreligion, in disclaiming the Almighty Providence ; but where general opinion has prevailed of any miraculous accident or portent, he ought to relate it as such, without imposing his opinion on our belief. Next to Thucj-dides in this kind, may be accounted Polybius, amongst the Grecians ; Livj', though not free from superstition, nor Tacitus from ill nature, amongst the Romans ; amongst the modern Italians, Guicciardini and Davila, if not partial ; but above all men, in my opinion, the plain, sincere, un- affected, and most instructive Philip de Comines, amongst the French, though he only gives his history the humble name of Commentaries. I am sorry I cannot find in our own nation, though it has produced some commendable historians, any proper to be ranked with these. Buchanan, indeed, for the purity of his Latin, and for his learning, and for all other endow- ments belonging to a historian, might be placed amongst the greatest, if he had not too much leaned to prejudice, and too manifestly declared himself a party of a cause, rather than a historian of it. Ex- cepting only that (which I desire not to urge too far on so great a man, but only to give caution to his readers concerning it), our isle may justly boast in him a writer comparable to any of the moderns, and excelled by few of the ancients. Biographia, or the history of particular men's lives, comes next to be considered ; which in dignity is in- ferior to the other two, as being more confined in action, and treating of wars and councils, and all other public affairs of nations, only as they relate to him whose life is written, or as his fortunes have a particular dependence on them, or connexion to them. All things here are circumscribed and driven to a point, so as to terminate in one ; consequently, if the action or counsel were managed by colleagues, some part of it must be either lame or wanting, except it be supplied by the excursion of the writer. Herein, likewise, must be less of variety, for the same reason ; because the fortunes and actions of one man are re- lated, not those of many. Thus the actions and achievements of Sylla, Lucullus, and Pompey, are all of them but the successive parts of the Mithri- datie war ; of which we could have no perfect image, if the same hand had not given us the whole, though at several views, in their particular lives. Yet though we allow, for the reasons above alleged, that this kind of writing is in dignity inferior to his- tory and annals, in pleasure and instruction it equals, or even excels, both , of them. It is not only com- mended by ancient practice to celebrate the memory of great and worthy men, as the best thanks which posterity can pay them, but also the examples of xirtue are of more vigour when they are thus con- tracted into individuals. As the sunbeams, united in a burning-glass to a point, have greater force than when they are darted from a plain superficies, so the virtues and actions of one man, drawn together into a single story, strike upon our minds a stronger and more lively impression than the scattered relations of many men and many actions ; and by the same means that they give us pleasure, they afi'ord us profit too. For when the understanding is intent and fixed on a single thing, it carries closer to the mark ; every jiart of the object sinks into it, and the soul receives it unmixed and whole. For this reason Aristotle com- mends the unity of action in a poem ; because the mind is not capable of digesting many tilings at once, nor of conceiving fully any more than one idea at a time. Whatsoever distracts the pleasure, lessens it ; and as the reader is more concerned at one man's fortune than those of many, so likewise the writer is more capable of making a perfect work if he confine himself to this narrow compass. The lineaments, features, and colourings of a single picture may be hit exactly ; but in a history-j)iece of many figures, the general design, the ordonnance or disposition of it, the relation of one figure to another, the diversity of the posture, habits, shadowings, and all the other graces conspiring to a uniformity, are of so difficult performance, that neither is the resemblance of parti- cular persons often perfect, nor tlie beauty of the piece complete ; for any considerable error in the parts renders the whole disagreeable and lame. Thus, then, the perfection of the work, and the benefit arising from it, are both more absolute in biography than in histoi-y. All history is only the precepts of moral philosophy reduced into examples. Aloral phi- losophy is divided into two parts, ethics and politics j the first instructs us in our private offices of virtue, the second in those which relate to the management of the commonwealth. Both of these teach by argu- mentation and reasoning, which rush as it were into the mind, and possess it with violence ; but history rather allures than forces us to virtue. There is no- thing of the tyrant in example ; but it gently glides into us, is easy and pleasant in its passage, and, in one word, reduces into practice our speculative notions ; therefore the more powerful the examples are, they are the more useful also, and by being more known, they are more powerful. Now, unity, which is defined, is in its own nature more apt to be understood than multiplicity, which in some measure participates of infinity. The reason is Aristotle's. Biographia, or the histories of particular lives, though circumscribed in the subject, is yet more extensive in the style than the other two ; for it not only compre- hends them both, but has somewhat superadded, whicb neither of them have. The style of it is various, ac- cording to the occasion. There are proper places in it for the plainness and nakedness of narration, which is ascribed to annals ; there is also room reserved for the loftiness and gravity of general history, when the actions related shall require that manner of tjcpres- sion. But there is, withal, a descent into minute cir- cumstances and trivial passages of life, which are natural to this way of writing, and which the dignity of the other two will not admit. There you art con- ducted only into the rooms of state, here you aio led into the private lodgings of the hero ; you see him in his undress, and are made familiar with his most pri- vate actions and conversations. You ma> behold a Scipio and a La^lius gathering cockle-shelis on the shore, Augustus playing at bounding-stones with boys, and Agesilaus riding on a hobby-horse among hia children. The pageantry of life is taken away ; you see the poor reasonable animal as naked as ever nature made him ; are made acquainted with his passions and his follies, and find the demi-god a man. Plu- tarch himself has more than once defended this kind of relating little passages ; for, in the Life of Alex- ander, he says thus : ' In writing the lives of illustrious men, I am not tied to the laws of history ; nor does it follow, that, because an action is great, it therefore manifests the greatness and virtue of him who did it ; but, on the other side, sometimes a word or a casual jest betrays a man more to our knowledge of him, than a battle fought wherein ten thousand men were slain, or sacking of cities, or a course of victories.' In an- other place, he quotes Xenophon on the like occasion : ' The sayings of great men in their familiar discourses, and amidst their wine, have somewhat in them which is worthy to be transmitted to posterity.' Our author therefore needs no excuse, but rather deserves a com- mendation, when he relates, as pleasant, si.inf saving* of his heroes, which appear (I mu-'t confess it) verv 4yy FROM 164.9 CYCLOPiEDIA OF TO 1689. cold and insipid mirth to us. For it is not his mean- ing to commend the jest, hut to paint the man ; be- sides, we may have lost somewhat of the idiotism of that language in which it was spoken ; and where the conceit is couched in a single word, if all the signi- fications of it are not critically understood, the grace and the pleasantry are lost. But in all parts of biography, whether familiar or stately, whether sublime or low, whether serious or merrj', Plutarch equally excelled. If we compare him to others, Dion Cassius is not so sincere ; Herodian, a lover of truth, is oftentimes deceived himself with what he had falsely heard reported ; then, the time of his emperors exceeds not in all above sixty years, so that his whole history will scarce amount to three lives of Plutarch. Suetonius and Tacitus may be called alike either authors of histories or writers of lives ; but the first of them runs too willingly into obscene descriptions, which he teaches, while he re- lates ; the other, besides what has already been noted of him, often fivlls into obscurity ; and both of them have made so unlucky a choice of times, that they are forced to describe rather monsters than men ; and their emperors are either extravagant fools or tyrants, and most usually both. Our author, on the contrary, as he was more inclined to commend than to dispraise, has generally chosen such great men as were famous for their several virtues ; at least such whose frailties or vices were overpoised by their excellences ; such from whose examples we ma}' have more to follow than to shun. Yet, as he was impartial, he disguised not the faults of any man, an example of which is in the life of LucuUus, where, after he has told us that the double benefit which his countrymen, the Chosroneans, received from him, was the chiefest motive which he had to write his life, he afterwards rips up his luxury, and shows how he lost, through his mismanagement, his authority and his soldiers' love. Then he was more happy in his digressions than any we have named. I have alvrays been pleased to see him, and his imitator IMontaigne, when they strike a little out of the common road ; for we are sure to be the better for their wandering. The best quarry lies not always in the open field : and who would not be content to follow a good huntsman over hedges and ditches, when he knows the game will reward his pains? But if wo mark him more narrowly, we may observe that the great reason of his frequent starts is the variety of his learning ; he knew so much of nature, was so vastly furnished with all the treasures of the mind, that he was uneasy to himself, and was forced, as I may say, to lay down some at every passage, and to scatter his riches as he went : like another Alexander or Adrian, he built a city, or planted ,a colony, in every part of his progress, and left behind him some memorial of his greatness. Sparta, and Thebes, and Athens, iind Rome, the mistress of the world, he has discovered in their foundations, their institutions, their growth, their height ; the decay of the three first, and the alteration of the last. You see those several people in their different laws, and policies, and forms of government, in their warriors, and senators, and demagogues. Nor are the ornaments of poetry, and the illustrations of similitudes, forgotten by him ; in both which he instructs, as well as pleases ; or rather pleases, that he may instruct. Dryden was exceedingly sensitive to the criticisms of the paltry versifiers of his day. Among those who annoyed him was Elkanah Kettle, a now for- gotten rhymer, with whom he carried on a violent war of ridicule and abuse. The following is an amusing specimen of a criticism by Dryden on Settle's tragedy, called ' The Empress of Morocco,' which seems to have roused tlie jealousy and indig- nation of the critic : — ' To conclude this act with the mo.st rumbling jiiece of nonsense spoken yet — " To flattering lightning our feigned smiles confonn. Which, backed with thunder, do but gild a storm." Conform a smile to light n'tng, make a smile imitate lightning, and Jiaticnny lightning ; lightning, sure, is a threatening thing. And this lightning must gild a storm. Now, if I must conform my smiles to light- ning, then my smiles must gild a storm too : to gild with smiles is a new invention of gilding. And gild a storm by being laclced nitli thunder. Thunder is part of the storm ; so one part of the storm must help to gild another part, and help by baching ; as if a man would gild a thing the better for being backed, or having a load upon his back. So that here is gilding by conforming, smiling, lightning, backing, and thim- dering. The whole is as if I should say thus : I will make my counterfeit smiles look like a flattering horse, which, being backed with a trooper, does but gild the battle. I am mistaken if nonsense is not here pretty thick sown. Sure the poet writ these two lines aboard some smack in a storm, and, being sea-sick, spewed up a good lump of clotted nonsense at once.' The controversies in which Dryden was frequently engaged, were not in general restrained within the bounds of legitimate discussion. The authors of those days descended to gross personalities. ' There was,' says Sir Walter Scott, ' during the reign of Charles II., a semi-barbarous virulence of controversy, even upon abstract points of literature, which would be now thought injudicious and unfair, even by the newspaper advocates of contending factions. A critic of that time never deemed he had so effec- tually refuted the reasoning of his adversary, as when he had said something disrespectful of his talents, person, or moral character. Thus, literary contest was embittered by personal hatred, and truth was so far from being the object of the combatants, that even victory was tasteless unless obtained by the disgrace and degradation of the antagonist.'* SIR •WILLIAM TEMPLE. Sir "William Temple, a well-known statesman and miscellaneous writer, possesses a high reputation as one of the chief polishers of the English language. He was the son of Sir John Temple, master of the Rolls in Ireland in the reigns of Charles I. and II., and was born in London in 1628. He studied at Cambridge under Cudworth as tutor ; but being in- tended for public life, devoted his attention chiefly to the French and Spanish languages. After travelling for six years on the continent, he went to reside with his father in Ireland, where he represented the county of Carlow in the parliament at Dublin in 1661. Eemoving, two years afterwards, to Eng- land, the introductions which he carried to the leading statesman of the day speedily procured him employment in the diplomatic service. He was sent, in 166.5, on a secret mission to the bishop ot Munster, and performed his duty so well, that on his return a baronetcy was bestowed on him, and he was appointed English resident at the court of Brussels. The peace of western Europe was at this time in danger from the ambitious designs of Louis XIV., who aimed at the subjugation of the Spanish Netherlands. Temple paid a visit to the Dutch governor, De Witt, at the Hague, and with great skill brought about, in 1668, the celebrated ' triple alliance' between England, Holland, and Sweden, by which the career of Louis was for a time effectually checked. In the same year he re- * Scott's Life of Dryden, Sect. iiL 500 PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. SIR WILLIAM TK.MPLE. ceiveil the appointment of ambassador at tlie Hague, where he resided in that capacity for about twelve Sir William Temple. months, on terms of intimacy with De Witt, and also with the young Prince of Orange, afterwards William III. of England. The corrupt and wavering principles of the English court having led to the recall of Temple in 1669, he retired from public business to his residence at Sheen, near Richmond, and there employed himself in literary occupations and gardening. In 1674, however, lie with some reluctance consented to return as ambassador to Holland ; in which country, besides engaging in various important negotiations, he contributed to bring about the marriage of the Prince of Orange with the Duke of York's eldest daughter Mary. That important and popular event took place in 1677. Having finally returned to England in 1679, Temple was pressed by the king to accept the ap- pointment of secretary of state, which, however, lie persisted in refusing. Charles was now in the ut- most perplexity, in consequence of the discontents and difficulties which a long course of misgovern- ment had occasioned ; and used to hold long conver- sations with Temple, on the means of extricating himself from his embarrassments. The measure advised by Sir William was the appointment of a privy council of thirty persons, in conformity with wliose advice the king should always act, and by whom all his affairs should be freely and openly debated ; one half of the members to consist of the great officers of state, and the other of the most in- fluential and wealthy noblemen and gentlemen of the country. This scheme was adopted by Charles, and excited great joy throughout the nation. The hopes of the people were, however, speedily frustrated by the turbulent and unprincipled factiousness of some of the members. Temple, who was himself one of the council, soon became disgusted witli its proceed- ings, as well as those of the king, and, in 1681, finally retired from public life. He spent the re- mainder of his days chiefly at Moor Park, in Surrey, where Jonathan Swift, then a young man, resided with him in the capacity of amanuensis. After the Revolution, King William sometimes visited Temple in order to consult him about public affairs. His death took place in 1698, at the age of sixty-nine. Throughout his whole career, the conduct of Sir WilUam Temple was marked by a cautious regard for his personal comfort and reputation ; a quality which strongly disposed him to avoid risks of every kind, and to stand aloof from those departments of public business where the exercise of eminent courage and decision was required. His character as a patriot is therefore not one which calls fur high admiration; thougli it ouglit t(j be remarked, in his favour, that as he seems to liave had a lively consciousness that neither his abilities nor dispo- sitions fitted him for vigorous action in stormy times, he probably acted with prudence in with- drawing from a field in which lie would have only been mortified by failure, and done harm instead of good to the public. Being subject to frequent attacks of low spirits, he might have been disabled for action by the very emergencies which demanded the greatest mental energy and self-possession. As a private character, he was respectable and decorous: his temper, naturally haughty and unainiable, was generally kept under gooil regulation ; and among his foibles, vanity was the most prominent. The works of Sir William TL'mi)le consist chiefly of short miscellaneous pieces. His longest production is Observations upon the United Provinces of the Nether- lands, composed during his first retirement at Sheen. This is accounted a masterpiece of its kind, and, when compared with his Essay on the Original and Nature of Government, written about the same time, shows that he had much more ability as an observer and describer, than as a reasoner on what he saw. Besides several political tracts of temporary interest, he wrote Essays on Ancient and jModern Learning ; the Gardens of Epicurus ; Heroic Virtue ; Poetry ; Popular Discontents ; Health and Long Life. h\ these are to be found many sound and acute obser- vations exjjressed in the perspicuous and easy, but not very correct or precise language, for which he is noted. His correspondence on public affairs has also been published. Of all his productions, that which appears to us, in matter as well as composition, the best, is a letter to the Countess of Essex on her excessive grief occa- sioned by the loss of a belovtd daughter. As a spe- cimen of eloquent, firm, and dignified, sat tender and affectionate expostulation, it is probably un- equalled within the compass of English literature. This admirable ])itce will be found anung the extracts which follow. The style of Sir William Temple is characterised by Dr Blair as remarkable for its simplicity. ' In point of ornament and correctness,' adds that critic, ' he rises a degree above Tillotson ; though, for cor- rectness, he is not in the highest rank. All is easy and flowing in him ; he is exceedingly harmonious ; smoothness, and what maj' be called amenit}^ are tlie distinguishing characters of his maimer ; relaxing sometimes, as such a manner will naturally do, into a prolix and remiss style. No writer whatever has stamped upon his style a more lively impression of his own character. In reading his works, w-e stem engaged in conveisatifm with him ; we become thoroughly acquainted with him, not merely as an author, but as a man, and contract a friendship for him. He may be classed as standing in the middle between a negligent simpli(nty and the higliest degree of ornament which this character of style admits.'* In a conversation jiieservud by Bosw( 11 Dr Johnson said, that ' Sir William Temj)l(; was the first writer who gave cadence to English prose . before his time, they were careless of arrangement, and did not mind whether a sentence ended with an important word or an insignificant wore], tir with wliat part of speech it was (oncluded.'f This * Blair's Lectures, Lect. I!». t IJosvveU's Life of .Iiilinson, vol. iii. 501 FROM 1649 CYCLOPiKDIA OF TO 1689. reaiark, however, has certainly greater latitude than Johnson would have given it if published by himself. It is true that some of Temple's produc- tions are eminently distinguislied by harmony and cadence; but that he was the first who introduced the latter, will not be admitted by any one who is familiar witli the prose of Drummond, Cowley, Dryden, and Sprat. [Agahist Excessive Grief. *'\ The honour which I received by a letter from your ladyship was too great not to be acknowledged ; yet I doubted whether that occasion could bear me out in the confidence of giving your ladyship any further trouble. But I can no longer forbear, on account of the sensible wounds that have so often of late been given your friends here, by the desperate expressions in several of your letters, respecting your temper of mind, your health, and your life ; in all which you must allow them to be extremely concerned. Per- haps none can be, at heart, more partial than I am to whatever regards your ladyship, nor more inclined to defend you on this very occasion, how unjust and un- kind soever you are to 3'ourself. But when you throw away your health, or your life, so great a remainder of your own familj-, and so great hopes of that into which 3'ou are entered, and all by a desperate melancholy, upon an event past remedy, and to which all the mor- tal race is perpetually subject, give me leave to tell you, madam, that what you do is not at all consistent either with so good a Christian, or so reasonable and great a person, as your ladyship appears to the world in all other lights. I know no duty in religion more generally agreed on, nor more justly required by God Almighty, than a perfect submission to his will in all things ; nor do I think any disposition of mind can either please him more, or becomes us better, than tliat of being satis- fied with all he gives, and contented with all he takes away. None, I am sure, can be of more honour to God, nor of more ease to ourselves. For, if we con- sider him as our Maker, we cannot contend with him ; if as our Father, we ought not to distrust him ; so that we may be confident, whatever he does is intended for good ; and whatever happens that we interpret otherwise, yet we can get nothing by repining, nor save anything b}' resisting. But if it were fit for us to reason with God Almighty, and your ladyship's loss were acknowledged as great as it could have been to any one, yet, I doubt, you would have but ill grace to complain at the rate you have done, or rather as you do ; for the first emotions or passions may be pardoned ; it is only the continu- ance of them which makes them inexcusable. In this world, madam, there is notliing perfectly good ; and whatever is called so, is but either comparatively with other things of its kind, or else with the evil that is mingled in its composition ; so he is a good man who is better than men commonly are, or in whom the good qualities are more than the bad ; so, in the course of life, his condition is esteemed good, which is better than that of most other men, or in which the good circumstances are more than the evil. By this measure, I doubt, madam, your complaints ought to be turned into acknowledgments, and your friends would have cause to rejoice rather than to condole with you. When your ladyship has fairly considered how God Almighty has dealt with you in what he has given, you may be left to judge yourself how you have dealt with him in your complaints for what he has taken away. If you look about you, and consider other lives as well as your own, and what your lot * Addressed to the Countess of Essex in 1674, after the death of her only 4aughter. is, in comparison with those that have been dni«x in the circle of your knowledge ; if you think how few are born with honour, how uumy die without name or children, how little beauty we see, how ic\s friends we hear of, how much poverty, and how many diseases there are in the world, you will fall down upon your knees, and, instead of repining at one afiliction, will admire so many blessings as you have received at the hand of God. To put your ladyship in mind of what you are, and of the advantages which you have, would look like a design to flatter you. But this I may say, that we will pity you as much as you please, if you will tell us who they are whom you think, upon all circum- stances, you have reason to envy. Now, if I had a master who gave me all I could ask, but thought fit to take one thing from me again, either because I used it ill, or gave myself so much over to it as to neglect what I owed to him, or to the world ; or, per- haps, because he would show his power, and put me in mind from whom I held all the rest, would you think I had mucli reason to complain of hard usage, and never to remember any more what was left me, never to forget what was taken away ? It is true you have lost a child, and all that could be lost in a child of that age ; but you have kept one child, and you are likely to do so long ; 3'ou have the assurance of another, and the hopes of many more. You have kept a husband, great in employmeut, in fortune, and in the esteem of good men. You have kept your beauty and your health, unless you have destroyed them yourself, or discouraged them to stay with you by using them ill. You have friends who are as kind to you as j-ou can wish, or as you can give them leave to be. You have honour and esteem from all who know you ; or if ever it fails in any degree, it is only upon that point of your seeming to be fallen out with God and the whole world, and neither to care for yourself, nor anything else, after what you have lost. You will say, perhaps, that one thing was all to you, and your fondness of it made you indifferent to everything else. But this, I doubt, will be so far from justifying you, that it will prove to be your fimlt as well as your misfortune. God Almighty gave you all the blessings of life, and you set your heart wholly upon one, and despise or undervalue all the rest : is this his i-Auli or yours ? Nay, is it not to be very un- thankful to Heaven, as well as very scornful to the rest of the world ? is it not to say, because you have lost one thing God has given, you thank him for no- thing he has left, and care not what he takes away ? is it not to say, since that one thing is gone out of the world, there is nothing left in it which you think can deserve your kindness or esteem ? A friend makes me a feast, and places before me all that his care or kind- ness could provide : but I set my heart upon one dish alone, and, if that happens to be thrown do\vn, I scorn all the rest ; and though he sends for another of the same kind, yet I rise from the table in a rage, and say, ' My friend is become my enemy, and hq has done me the greatest wrong in the world.' Have I reason, madam, or good grace in what I do ? or would it be- come me better to eat of the rest that is before me, and think no more of what had happened, and could not be remedied ? Christianity teaches and commands us to moderate our passions ; to temper our affections towards all things below ; to be thankful for the possession, and patient under the loss, whenever he who gave shall see fit to take away. Your extreme fondness was perhaps as displeasing to God before as now your extreme afflic- tion is ; and your loss may have been a punishment for your faults in the manner of enjoying what you had. It is at least pious to ascribe all the ill that befalls us to our o^vn demerits, rather than to injus- 502 PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE. tlce in God. And it becomes us better to adore the issues of his providence in the effects, than to inquire into the causes ; for submission is the only way of reasoning between a creature and its Maker ; and con- tentment in his will is the greatest duty wc can pre- tend to, and the best remedy we can apply to all our misfortunes. But, madam, though religion were no party in your case, and for so violent and injurious a grief you had nothing to answer to God, but only to the world and youi-self, yet I very much doubt how you would be acquitted. We bring into the world with us a poor, needy, uncertain life ; short at the longest, and un- quiet at the best. All the imaginations of the Avitty and the wise have been perpetually busied to find out the wa3's to revive it with pleasures, or to relieve it with diversions ; to compose it with ease, and settle it with safety. To these ends have been employed the institutions of lawgivers, the reasonings of philoso- phere, the inventions of poets, the pains of labouring, and the extravagances of voluptuous men. All the world is perpetually at work that our poor mortal lives may pass the easier and happier for that little time we possess them, or else end the better when we lose them. On this account riches and honours are coveted, friendship and love pursued, and the virtues themselves admired in the world. Now, madam, is it not to bid defiance to all mankind, to condemn their universal opinions and designs, if, instead of passing your life as well and easily, you resolve to pass it as ill and as miserably as you can? You grow insensible to the conveniences of riches, the delights of honour and praise, the charms of kindness or friend- ship ; nay, to the observance or applause of virtues themselves ; for who can you expect, in these excesses of passions, will allow that you show either temper- ance or fortitude, either prudence or justice I And as for your friends, I suppose you reckon upon losing their kindness, when you have sufficiently convinced them they can never hope for any of yours, since you have left none for yourself, or anything else. Passions are perhaps the stings vvithout which, it is said, no honey is made. Yet I think all sorts of men have ever agreed, they ought to be our servants and not our masters ; to give us some agitation for enter- tainment or exercise, but never to throw our reason out of its seat. It is better to have no passions at all, than to have them too violent ; or such alone as, in- stead of heightening our pleasures, afibrd us nothing but vexation and pain. In all such losses as your ladyship's has been, there is something that common nature cannot be denied ; there is a great deal that good nature may be al- lowed. But all excessive and outrageous grief or lamentation for the dead was accounted, among the ancient Christians, to have something heathenish ; and, among the civil nations of old, to have something barbarous : and therefore it has been the care of the first to moderate it by their precepts, and of the lat- ter to restrain it by their laws. When young chil- dren are taken away, we are sure they are well, and escape much ill, which would, in all appearance, have befallen them if they had stayed longer with us. Our kindness to them is deemed to proceed from com- mon opinions or fond imaginations, not friendship or esteem ; and to be grounded upon entertainment rather than use in the many offices of life. Nor would it pass from any person besides your ladyship, to say you lost a companion and a friend of nine years old ; though you lost one, indeed, who gave the fairest hopes that could be of being both in time and every- thing else that is estimable and good. But yet that itself is very uncertain, considering the chances of time, the infection of company, the snares of the world, and the passions of youth : so that the most excellent and ajn-eeab'e creature of that tender age might, by the course of years and accidents, become the most miserable herself; and a greater trouble to her friends by living long, than she could have been by dying young. Yet after all, madam, I think your loss so great, and some measure of your grief so deserved, that, would all your passionate complaints, all the anguish of your heart, do anything to retrieve it ; could tears water the lovely plant, so as to make it grow again after once it is cut down ; could sighs furnish new breath, or could it draw life and spirits from the wasting of yours, I am sure your friends would be so far from accusing your passion, that they would encourage it as much, and share it as deeply, as they could. But alas ! the eternal laws of the creation extinguish all such hopes, forbid all such designs ; nature gives us many children and friends to take them awa}', but takes none away to give them to us again. And this makes the excesses of grief to be universally condemned as unnatural, because so much in vain ; whereas nature does nothing in vain : as un- reasonable, because so contrary to our own designs ; for we all design to be well and at ease, and by grief we make ourselves troubles most properly out of the dust, whilst our ravings and complaints are but like arrows shot up into the air at no mark, and so to no purpose, but only to fall back upon our own heads and destroy ourselves. Perhaps, madam, you will say this is your design, or, if not, your desire ; but I hope you are not yet s? far gone or so desperately bent. Your ladyship knows very well j'our life is not your own, but His who lent it you to manage and preserve in the best way you can, and not to throw it away, as if it came from some common hand. Our life belongs, in a great measure, to our country and our family: therefore, by all human laws, as well as divine, self-murder has ever been agreed upon as the greatest crime ; and it is punished here with the utmost shame, which is all that can be inflicted upon the dead. But is the crime much less to kill ourselves by a slow poison than by a sudden wound ? Now, if we do it, and know we do it, by a long and continual grief, can we think our- selves innocent? What great difference is there, if we break our hearts or consume them, if we pierce them or bruise them ; since all terminates in the same death, as all arises from the same despair? But what if it does not go so far ; it is not, indeed, so bad as it might be, but that does not excuse it. Though I do not kill my neighbour, is it no hurt to wound him, or to spoil him of the conveniences of life ? The greatest crime is for a man to kill himself: is it a small one to wound himself by anguish of heart, by grief, or despair; to ruin his health, to shorten his age, to de- prive himself of all the pleasure, ease, and enjoyment of life ? Next to the mischiefs which we do ourselves, are those which we do our children and our friends, who deserve best of us, or at lea.st deserve no ill. The child you carry about you, what has it done that you should endeavour to deprive it of life almost as soon as you bestow it? — or, if you suffer it to be born, that you should, by your ill-usage of j-ourself, so much impair the strength of its body, and perhaps the very temper of its mind, by giving it such an infusion of melancholy as may serve to discolour the objects and disrelish the accidents it may meet with in the com- mon train of life? Would it be a small injury to my lord Capell to deprive him of a mother, from whose prudence and kindness he may justly expect the care of his health and education, the forniing of his body, and the cultivating of his mind ; tlie seeds of honour and virtue, and the true princi])lcs of a happy life{ How has Lord Ilssex deserved that you should de- prive him of a wife whom he loves with so much pas- sion, and, which is more, with so much reason ; who 503 fhoh 1649 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1689. is 60 great an honour and support to his family, so great a hope to his fortune, and comfort to his life? Are there so many left of your ovn\ great family that you should desire in a manner wholly to reduce it, by Buffering almost the last branch of it to wither away before its time ? or is your countr}', in this age, so stored with gi-eat persons, that you should envy it those whom we may justly expect from so noble a race ? ■Whilst 1 had any hopes that your tears would ease you, or that j'our grief would consume itself by liberty and time, your ladyship knows very well I never ac- cused it, nor ever increased it by the common formal ways of attempting to assuage it : and this, I am sure, is the first office of the kind I ever performed, other- wise than in the most ordinary forms. I was in hopes what was so violent could not be long ; but when I observed it to grow stronger with age, and increase like a stream the further it ran ; when I saw it draw out to such unhappy consequences, and threaten not less than your child, your health, and your life, I could no longer forbear this endeavour. Nor can I end it without begging of j'our ladyship, for God's sake, for your o\vn, for that of your cliildren and your friends, your country and your family, that you would no longer abandon yourself to so disconsolate a pas- sion ; but that you would at length awaken your piety, give way to your prudence, or, at least, rouse up the invincible spirit of the Percies, which never yet shrunk at any disaster; that you would sometimes remember the great honours and fortunes of your family, not always the losses ; cherish those veins of good humour that are so natural to you, and sear up those of ill, that would make you so unkind to your children and to yourself; and, above all, that you would enter upon the cares of your health and your life. For my part, I know nothing that could be so great an honour and a satisfaction to me, as if your ladyship would own me to have contributed towards this cure ; but, however, none can perhaps more justly pretend to your pardon for the attempt, since there is none, 1 am sure, who has always had at heart a greater honour for your ladyship's family, nor can have more esteem for you, than, madam, your most obedient and ">ost humble servant. [Right of Private JxiAgment in ReligionJ] Whosoever designs the change of religion in a country or government, by any other means than that of a general conversion of the people, or the greatest part of them, designs all the mischiefs to a nation that use to usher in, or attend, the two greatest dis- tempers of a state, civil war or tyranny ; which are violence, oppression, cruelty, rapine, intemperance, injustice ; and, in short, the miserable effusion of human blood, and the confusion of all laws, orders, and virtues among men. Such consequences as these, 1 doubt, are something more than the disputed opinions of any man, or any particular assembly of men, can be worth ; since the great and general end of all religion, next to men's happiness hereafter, is their happiness here ; as ap- pears by the commandments of God being the best and greatest moral and civil, as well as divine pre- cepts, that have been given to a nation ; and by the rewards proposed to the piety of the .lews, throughout the Old Testament, which were the blessings of this life, as health, length of age, number of children, plenty, peace, or victory. Now, the way to our future happiness has been per- rwtually disputed throughout the world, and must be ?oft at last to the impressions made ui)on every man's belief and conscience, either by natural or super- natural arguments and means ; which impressions men may disguise or dissemble, but no man can resist. For belief is no more in a man's power than his stature or his feature ; and he that tells me I must change my opinion for his, because 'tis the truer and the better, without other arguments that have to me the force of conviction, may as well tell me I nmst change my gray eyes for others like his that are black, because these are lovelier or more in esteem, ile that tells me I must inform myself, has reason, if I do it not ; but if I endeavour it all that 1 can, and perhaps more than ever he did, and yet still differ from him ; and he that, it may be, is idle, will have me study on, and inform myself better, and so to the end of my life, then I easily understand what he means by informing, which is, in short, that I must do it till I come to be of his opinion. If he that, perhaps, pursues his pleasures or inte- rests as much or more than I do, and allows me to have as good sense as he has in all other matters, tells me I should be of his opinion, but that passion or interest blinds me ; unless he can convince me how or where this lies, he is but where he was ; only pre- tends to know me better than I do myself, who cannot imagine why I should not have as much care of my soul as he has of his. A man that tells me my opinions are absurd or ridiculous, impertinent or unreasonable, because they differ from his, seems to intend a quarrel instead of a dispute, and calls me fool, or madman, with a little more circumstance ; though, perhaps, I pass for one as well in my senses as he, as pertinent in talk, and as prudent in life : yet these are the common civilities, in religious argument, of sufficient and conceited men, who talk much of right reason, and mean always their own, and make their private imagination the measure of general truth. But such language determines all between us, and the dispute comes to end in three words at last, which it might as well have ended in at first. That he is in the right, and I am in the wrong. The other great end of religion, which is our happi- ness here, has been generally agreed on by all man- kind, as appears in the records of all their laws, as well as all their religions, which come to be established by the concurrence of men's customs and opinions; though in the latter, that concurrence may have been produced by divine impressions or inspirations. For all agree in teaching and commanding, in planting and improving, not only those moral virtues wliich conduce to the felicity and tranquillity of every private man's life, but also those manners and dis- positions that tend to the peace, order, and safety of all civil societies and governments among men. Nor could I ever understand how those who call them- selves, and the world usually calls, religious men, come to put so great weight upon those points of belief which men never have agreed in, and so little upon those of virtue and morality, in which they have hardly ever disagreed. Nor why a state should ven- ture the subversion of their peace, and their order, which are certain goods, and so universally esteemed, for the propagation of uncertain or contested opinions. [^Poetical Genius.} The more true and natural source of poetry may be discovered by observing to what god this inspiration was ascribed by the ancients, which was Apollo, or the sun, esteemed among them the god of learning in general, but more particularly of music and of j)oetry. The mystery of this fable means, I suppose, that a certain noble and vital heat of temper, but especially of the brain, is the true spring of these two parts or sciences : this was that celestial fire which gave such a pleasing motion and agitation to the minds of those men that have been so much admired in the world, that raises such infinite images of things so agreeable 504 PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE. and delightful to mankind ; by the influence of this sun are produced those golden and inexliausted mines of invention, which has furnished the world with trea- sures so highly esteemed, and so universally known and used, in all the regions that have yet been dis- covered. From this arises that elevation of genius which can never be produced by any art or study, by pains or by industry, which cannot be taught by precepts or examples ; and therefore is agreed by all to be the pure and free gift of heaven or of nature, and to be a fire kindled out of some hidden spark of the very first conception. But though invention be the mother of poetry, yet this child is, like all others, born naked, and must be nourished with care, clothed with exactness and ele- gance, educated with industry, instructed with art, improved by application, corrected with severity, and accomplished with labour and with time, before it arrives at any great perfection or growth : 'tis certain that no composition requires so many several ingre- dients, or of more different sorts than this ; nor that, to excel in any qualities, there arc necessary so many gifts of nature, and so many improvements of learning and of art. For there must be a universal genius, of great compass as well as great elevation. There must be a sprightly imagination or fancy, fertile in a thou- sand productions, ranging over infinite ground, pierc- ing into every corner, and, by the light of that true poetical fire, discovering a thousand little bodies or images in the world, and similitudes among them, unseen to common eyes, and which could not be discovered without the rays of that sun. Besides the heat of invention and liveliness of wit, there must be the coldness of good sense and sound- ness of judgment, to distinguish between things and conceptions, which, at first sight, or upon short glances, seem alike ; to choose, among infinite productions of wit and fancy, which are worth preserving and culti- vating, and which are better stifled in the birth, or thrown away when they are born, as not worth bring- ing up. Without the forces of wit, all poetry is flat and languishing; without the succours of judgment, 'tis wild and extravagant. The true wit of poesy is, that such contraries must meet to compose it ; a genius both penetrating and solid ; in expression both delicacy and force ; and the frame or fabric of a true poem must have something both sublime and just, amazing and agreeable. There must be a great agitation of mind to invent, a great calm to judge and correct ; there must be upon the same tree, and at the same time, both flower and fruit. To work up this metal into exquisite figure, there must be em- ployed the fire, the hammer, the chisel, and the file. There must be a general knowledge both of nature and of arts, and, to go the lowest that can be, there are required genius, judgment, and application ; for, with- out this last, all the. rest will not serve turn, and none ever was a great poet that applied himself much to anj'thing else. ^\'hen I speak of poetry, I mean not an ode or an elegy, a song or a satire ; nor by a poet the composer of any of these, but of a just poem ; and after all I have said, 'tis no wonder there should be so few that appeared in any parts or any ages of the world, or that such as have should be so much admired, and have almost divinity ascribed to them and to their works. * * I do not here intend to make a further critic upon poetry, which were too great a labour ; nor to give rules for it, which were as great a presumption : be- sides, there has been so much paper blotted upon these subjects, in this curious and censuring age, that 'tis all grown tedious, or repetition. The modern French wits (or pretenders) have been very severe in tlieir censures, and exact in their rules, I think to very \ittle purpose; for I know not why they might not have contented themselves with those given by Aris- totle and Horace, and have translated them rather than conmiented upon them; for all they have done has been no more ; so as they seem, by their writings of this kind, rather to have valued themselves, than improved anybody else. The truth is, there is some- thing in the genius of poetry too libertine to be con- fined to so many rules ; and whoever goes about to subject it to sucli constraints, loses both its spirit and grace, which are ever native, and never learned, even of the best masters. 'Tis as if, to make excellent honey, you should cut oft' the wings of your bees, con- fine them to their hive or their stands, and lay flowert- before them such as you think the sweetest, and like to yield the finest extraction ; j'ou had as good pull out their stings, and make arrant drones of them. They must range through fields, as well as garden?, choose such flowers as they please, and by proprie'.i.;.- and scents they only know and distinguish: t.'itv must work up their cells with admirable'art, extract their honey with infinite labour, and sever itfrov: the wax with such distinction and choice, as beloi.gs to none but themselves to perform or to judge. Sir William Temple's Essai/ upon the Ancient and Modern Learning gave occasion to one of the most celebrated literary controversies which have oc- curred in England. The composition of it was suggested to him principally by a French M-ork of Charles Perrault, on ' The Age of Louis the Great,' in which, with the view of flattering the pride of tlie grand monarqve, it was afhrnied that the writers of antiquity had been excelled by those of modern times. Tliis doctrine excited a warm controversy in France, where the poet Boileau was among those by whom it was strenuous!}' opposed. It was in behalf of the ancients that Sir William Temple also took tlie field. The first of the enemy's arguments which he controverts, is the allegation, ' tliat we must have more knowledge than the ancients, because we have the advantage both of tlieirs and our own ; just as a dwarf standing upon a giant's shoulders sees more and farther than he.' To this he replies, that the ancients may have derived vast stores of knowledge from their predecessors, namely, the Cliinese, Egyptians, Chaldeans, Persians, Syri- ans, and Jews. Among these nations, says he, 'were planted and cultivated mighty growtlis of astronomy, astrology, magic, geometry, natural jiliilosopliy, and ancient story ; and from tliese sources Orpheus, Homer, Lycurgus, Pythagoras, Plato, and otliers of tlie ancients, are acknowledged to have drawn all those depths of knowledge or learning which have made them so renowned in all succeeding ages.' Here Temple manifests wonderful ignorance and credulity in assuming as facts the veriest fables of the ancients, particularly with respect to Orpheus, of whom he afterwards speaks in C' injunction with that equally authentic personage, Arion, and in reference to whose musical powers ne asks trium- phantly, 'What are become of the charms of music, by wliich men and beasts, fishes, fowls, and serpcjits, were so frequently' enchanted, andtheir very natures changed ; by which the passions of men Avcre raised to the greatest height and violence, and then as sud- denly appeased, so that they might be justly said to be turned into lions or lambs, into wolves or into harts, by tlie powers and cliarms of this admirable music ?' In the same credulous si)irit, he aflirms that 'The more ancient sages of Greece appear, by the characters remaining of them, to have been much greater men than Hip[)ocrates, IMato, and Xeno])hon. They were generally princes or lawgivers of their countries, or at least ottered or invited lu be so, either of their own or of others, that desired 50.5 FROM 1649 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1639. 1 them to frame or reform tlieir several institutions of civil srovcrnment. They were commonly excellent poets and great physicians: tliey were so learned in natural "philosophy, that they foretold not only eclipses in the heavens, but earthquakes at land, and storms at sea, great drouglits, and great plagues, much plenty or much scarcity of certain sorts of fruits or grain ; not to mention the magical powers attributed to several of them to allay storms, to raise gales, to appease commotions of the people, to make plagues cease; which qualities, whether upon any ground of trutli or no, yet, if well believed, must have raised them to that strange height they Avere at, of common esteem and honour, in their own and succeeding ages.' The objection occurs to him, as one likely to be set up by the admirers of modern learn- ing, that there is no evidence of the existence of books before those now either extant or on record. This, however, gives him no alarm : for it is very doubtful, he tells us, whether books, though they may be helps to knowledge, and serviceable in dif- fusing it, ' are necessary ones, or nuich advance anj' other science beyond the particular records of actions or registers of time' — as if any example could be adduced of science having flourished where tradition was the only mode of handing it down ! His notice of astronomy is equally ludicrous: 'There is nothing new in astronomy,' says he, ' to vie with the ancients, latless it be the Copernican system' — a system which overturns the wliole fabric of ancient astronomical science, though Temple declares with great simplicity tliat it ' has made no change in the conclusions of astronomy.' In comparing ' the great wits among the moderns' with tlie authors of antiquity, he mentions no Englishmen except Sir Philip Sidney, Bacon, and Selden, leaving Shak- speare and IMilton altogether out of view. How little he was qualified to judge of the comparative merits of ancient and modern authors, is evident not only from his total ignorance of the Greek language, but from the very limited knowledge of English lite- rature evinced by his esteeming Sir Philip Sidney to be ' both the greatest poet and the noblest genius of any that have left writings behind them, and published in ours or any other modern language.' He farther declares, that after Ariosto, Tasso, and Spenser, he ' knows none of the moderns that have made any achievements in heroic poetry worth re- cording.' Descartes and Hobbes are ' the only new philosophers that have made entries upon the noble stage of the sciences for fifteen hundred j-ears past,' and these ' have by no means eclipsed the lustre of Plato, Aristotle, Epicurus, and others of the ancients.' Bacon, Newton, and Boyle, are not regarded as phi- losophers at all. But the most unlucky blunder committed by Temple on this occasion was his adducing the Greek Epistles of Phalaris in sup- port of the proposition, that ' the oldest books we have are still in their kind the best.' These Epis- tles, says he, 'I think to have more grace, more spirit, more force of wit and genius, than any others I have seen, either ancient or modern.' Some critics, he admits, have asserted that they are not the pro- duction of Phalaris (who lived iu Sicily more than I five centuries before Christ), but of some writer in I the declining age of Greek literature. In reply to these sceptics, he enumerates such transcendent i excellences of the Epistles, that any man, he thinks, I ' must have little skill in painting that caimot find out this to be an original.' The celebrity given to these Epistles by the publication of Temple's Essay, led to the appearance of a new edition of them at Oxford, under the name of Charles Boyle as editor. Boyle, while preparing it for the press, got into a quarrel with the celebrated critic Richard Bentley, a man deeply versed in Greek literature; on whom he inserted a bitter reflection in his preface. Bentley, in revenge, demonstrated the Epistles to be a forgery, taking occasion at the same time to speak some- what irreverently of Sir "William Temple. Boyle, with the assistance of Aldrich, Atterbmy, and other Christ-churcli doctors (who, indeed, were the real combatants), sent forth a reply, the plausibility of which seemed to give him the advantage ; till Bentley, in a most triumphant rejoinder, exposed the gross ignorance wliich lay concealed under the wit and assumption of his opponents. To these parties, however, the controversy was not confined. Boyle and his friends were backed by the sarcastic powers, if not by the learning, of Pope, Swift, Garth, Middle- ton, and others. Swift, who came into the field on behalf of his patron Sir William Temple, published on this occasion his famous ' Battle of the Books,' and to the end of his life continued to speak of Bent- ley in the language of hatred and contempt. In the work just mentioned. Swift has ridiculed not only that scholar, but also his friend the Eev. William Wotton, who had opposed Temple in a treatise entitled ' Eeflections upon Ancient and Modern Learning,' published in 1G94. To some parts of that treatise Sir William wrote a reply, tlie fol- lowing passage in which suggested, Ave doubt not, the satirical account given long afterwards by Swift in ' Gulliver's Travels,' of the experimental researches of the jirojectors at Lagoda. 'What has been pro- duced for the use, benefit, or pleasure of mankind, by all the airy speculations of those Avho have passed for the great advancers of knoAvledge and learning these last fifty years (avIhcIi is the date of our modern pretenders), I confess I am yet to seek, and should be veiy glad to find. I have indeed heard cf wondrous jjretensions and visions of men possessed with notions of the strange advancement of learning and sciences, on foot in this age, and the progress they are like to make in the next ; as the universal medicine, Avhich Avill certainly cure all that have it ; the phi'.osopher's stone, which Avill be found out by men that care not for riches ; the transfusion of young blood into old men's veins, Avhich Avill make them as gamesome as the lambs from Avliich 'tis to be derived ; a universal language, which may serve all men's turn Avhen they have forgot their OAvn ; the knoAvlcdge of one another's thoughts Avithout the grievous trouble of speaking; the art of filing, till a man happens to fall doAvn and break his neck ; doul)le-bottomed ships, Avhereof none can ever be cast a^vay besides the first that Avas made ; the admirable virtues of that noble and necessary juice called spittle, Avhicli Avill come to be sold, and very cheap, in the apothecaries' shops ; discoveries of ncAv worlds in the planets, and voyages between this and that in the moon to be made as frequently as betAA-een York and London: Avhicli such poor mortals as I am think as wild as those of Ariosto, but without half so much Avit, or so much instruc- tion ; for there, these modern sages may kiioAV where they may hope in time to find their lost senses, preserved in vials, with those of Orlando.' ■WILLIAM -WOTTON. William Wotton (1666-1726), a clergyman in Buckinghamshire, whom we haA'e mentioned as the author of a reply to Sir William Temple, wrote various other works, of which none deserves to be si)ecified except his condemnatory remarks on Swift'fS ' Tale of a Tub.' In childhood, his talent for languages was so extraordinary and precocious, that Avhen five years old he was able to read Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, almost as well as English. At the age of 506 PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. SIR MATTHEW HALE. twelve he took the degree of bachelor of arts, pre- viously to which he had gained an extensive ac- quaintance with several additional languages, include ing Arabic, Syriac, and Chaldeu ; as well as with geography, logic, philosophy, chronology, and ma- thematics. As in many similar cases, liowever, the expectations held out by his early jiroficiency were not justified by any great acliievements in after life. We quote the following passage from his Reflections upon Ancient and Modern Learning (1C94), chiefly because it records the change of manners which took place among literary men during the seven- teenth ceuturj-. [Decline of Pedantry in England.^ The last of Sir William Temple's reasons of the great decay of modem learning is pedantry ; the urging of which is an evident argument that his dis- course is levelled against learning, not as it stands now, but as it was fifty or sixty years ago. For the new philosophy has introduced so great a correspon- dence between men of learning and men of business ; which has also been increased by other accidents amongst the masters of other learned professions ; and that pedantry which formerly was almost universal is now in a great measure disused, especially amongst the young men, who are taught in the universities to laugh at that frequent citation of scraps of Latin in common discourse, or upon arguments that do not require it ; and that nauseous ostentation of reading and scholarship in public companies, which formerly was so much in fashion. Affecting to write politely in modern languages, especially the French and ours, has also helped very much to lessen it, because it has enabled abundance of men, who wanted academical education, to talk plausibly, and some exactly, upon very many learned subjects. This also has made Writers habitually careful to avoid those imperti- nences which they know would be taken notice of and ridiculed ; and it is probable that a careful perusal of the fine new French books, which of late years have been greedily sought after by the politer sort of gentle- men and scholars, may in this particular have done abundance of good. By this means, and by the help also of some other concurrent causes, those who were not learned themselves being able to maintain disputes with those that were, forced tliem to talk more warily, and brought them, by little and little, to be out of countenance at that vain thrusting of their learning into everything, which before had been but too visible. SIR MATTHEW HALE. Sir Matthew Hale (1609—1676) not only ac- quired some reputation as a literary man, but is celebrated as one of the most upright judges that have ever sat upon the English bench. Both in his studies and in the exercise of his profession he dis- played uncommon industry, which was favoured by his acquaintance with Selden, who esteemed hira so highly as to appoint him his executor. Hale was a judge both in the time of the commonwealth and under Charles II., who appointed him chief baron of the exchequer in 1660, and lord chief-justice of the king's bench eleven years after. In the former capacity, one of his most notable and least creditable acts was the condemnation of some persons accused of witchcraft at Bury St Edmunds in 1664. Amidst the immorality of Charles II.'s reign, Sir Matthew Hale stands out with peculiar lustre as an impartial, incorruptible, and determined administrator of jus- tice. Though of a benevolent and devout, as well as righteous disposition, his manners are said to have been austere ; he was, moreover, opinionative, and accessible to flattery. In a previous page, we have extracted from Baxter a character of tliis estimable man. Tlie productions of his pen, which are many and various, relate chiefly to natural philosophy, divinity, and law. His religious opinions were Cal- vinistical; and his chief theological work, entitled Contemplations, Moral and iHrine, retains consider- able popularitj' among serious peajjle of that persua- sion. As a specimen of his style, we present a letter of advice to his children, written about the year 1662. [On Conversation.} Dear Children — I thank God I came well to Far- rington this day, about five o'clock. And as I have some leisure time at my inn, I cannot spend it more to my own satisfaction, and your benefit, than, by a letter, to give you some good counsel. The subject shall be concerning your speech ; because much of the good or evil that befalls persons arises from the well or ill managing of their conversation. When I have leisure and opportunity, I shall give you my direc- tions on other subjects. Never speak anything for a truth which you know or believe to be false. Lying is a great sin against God, who gave us a tongue to speak the truth, and not falsehood. It is a great offence against humanity itself; for, where there is no regard to truth, there can be no safe society between man and man. And it is an injury to the speaker; for, besides the dis- grace which it brings upon him, it occasions so much baseness of mind, that he can scarcely tell truth, or avoid lying, even when he has no colour of necessity for it ; and, in time, he comes to such a pass, that as other people cannot believe he speaks truth, so he himself scarcely knows when he tells a falsehood. As you must be careful not to lie, so you must avoid coming near it. You must not equivocate, nor speak anything positively for which you have no authority but report, or conjecture, or opinion. Let your words be few, especially when your supe- riors, or strangers, are present, lest you betray your o\^^l weakness, and rob yourselves of "the oi)portunity, which you might otherwise have had, to gain know- ledge, wisdom, and experience, by hearing those whom you silence by your impertinent talking. Be not too earnest, loud, or violent in your conver- sation. Silence your opponent with reason, not with noise. Be careful not to interrupt another when he is speaking ; hear him out, aiul you will understand him the better, and be able to give him the better answer. Consider before you speak, especially when the busi- ness is of moment ; weigh the sense of what you mean to utter, and the expressions you intend to use, that they may be significant, pertinent, and inoffensive. Inconsiderate persons do not think till they speak ; or they speak, and then think. Some men excel in husbandry, some in gardening, some in mathematics. In conversation, learn, as near as you can, where the skill or excellence of any per- son lies ; put him upon talking on that subject, ob- serve what he says, keep it in your memory, or com- mit it to writing. By this means you will glean the worth and knowledge of eveiybody you converse with ; and, at an easy rate, acquire what may be of use to you on many occasions. When you are in company with light, vain, imper- tinent persons, let the observing of their failings make you the more cautious both in your conversation with them and in your general behaviour, that you may avoid their errors. If any one, whom you do not know to be a person of truth, sobriety, and weight, rclatvs strange stories, be not too ready to believe or report them ; and yet 507 FROM 1649 CYCLOPAEDIA OF TO 1689. (unless he is one of your familiar acquaintance) be not too forward to contradict him. If the occasion requires jou to declare your opinion, do it modestly and pentiv, not bluntly nor coarsely ; by this means you will avoid giving offence, or being abused for too much credulity. If a man, whose integrity you do not very well know, makes you great and extraordinary professions, do not give much credit to him. Probably, you will find that he aims at something besides kindness to vou, and that when he has served his turn, or been disappointed, his regard for you will grow cool. Beware also of him who flatters you, and commends you to j-our face, or to one who he thinks will tell you of it ; most probably he has either deceived and abused you, or moans to do so. Remember the fable of the fox commending the singing of the crow, who had something in her mouth which the fox wanted. Be careful that you do not commend yourselves. It is a sign that your reputation is small and sinking, if your own tongue must praise you ; and it is fulsome and unpleasing to others to hear such commenda- tions. Speak well of the absent whenever jou have a suit- able opportunity. Never speak ill of them, or of anybody, unless you are sure they deserve it, and unless it is necessary for their amendment, or for the safety and benefit of others. Avoid, in your ordinary communications, not only oaths, but all imprecations and earnest protestations. Forbear scoifing and jesting at the condition or natural defects of anj' person. Such ofiences leave a deep impression ; and they often cost a man dear. Be very careful that you give no reproachful, me- nacing, or spiteful words to any person. Good words make friends ; bad words make enemies. It is great prudence to gain as many friends as we honestly can, especialh' when it may be done at so easy a rate as a good word ; and it is great folly to make an enemy by ill words, which are of no advantage to the party who uses them. When faults are committed, they may, and by a superior' they must, be reproved : but let it be done without reproach or bitterness ; other- wise it will lose its due end and use, and, instead of reforming the offence, it will exasperate the offender, and lay the reprover justly open to reproof. If a person be passionate, and give you ill language, rather pity him than be moved to anger. You will find that silence, or very gentle words, are the most exquisite revenge for reproaches ; they will either cure the distemper in the angry man, and make him son-y for his passion, or they will be a severe reproof and punishment to him. But, at any rate, the}' will preserve your innocence, give you the deserved repu- tation of wisdom and moderation, and keep up the serenity and composure of your mind. Passion and anger make a man unfit for everything that becomes him as a man or as a Christian. Never utter any profane speeches, nor make a jest of any Scripture expressions. When you pronounce the name of God or of Christ, or repeat any passages or words of Holy Scripture, do it with reverence and eeriousness, and not lightly, for that is 'taking the name of God in vain.' If you hear of any unseemly expressions used in religious exercises, do not publish them ; endeavour to forget them ; or, if you mention them at all, let it be with pity and sorrow, not with derision or reproach. Read these directions often ; think of them seri- ously ; and practise them diligently. You will find them useful in your conversation ; which will be every day the more evident to you, as your judgment, understanding, and experience increase. I have little further to add at this time, but my wi7. 510 rf= PROSE WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. JOHN LOCKS. • have contributed more to rectify prejudice; to under- mine established errors, to diffuse a just mode of thinking, to excite a fearless spirit of inquiry, and yet to contain it within the boundaries which nature has prescribed to the human understanding. An amendment of the general habits of thought is, in most parts of knowledge, an object as important as even the discovery of new truths, though it is not so palpable, nor in its nature so capable of being esti- mated by superficial observers. In the mental and moral world, which scarcely admits of anything which can be called discovery, the correction of the intellectual habits is probably the greatest service which can be rendered to science. In this respect, the merit of Locke is unrivalled. His writings have diffused throughout the civilised world the love of civil Uberty ; the spirit of toleration and charity in religious differences ; the disposition to reject what- ever is obscure, fantastic, or hypothetical in specu- lation ; to reduce verbal disputes to their proper value ; to abandon problems which admit of no solu- tion ; to distrust whatever cannot be clearly ex- pressed ; to render theory the simple expression of facts ; and to prefer those studies which most directly contribute to human happiness. If Bacon first dis- covered the rules by which knowledge is improved, Locke has most contributed to make mankind at large observe them. He has done most, though often by remedies of silent and almost insensible operation, to cure those mental distempers which obstructed the adoption of these rules ; and thus led to that general diffusion of a healthful and vigorous under- standing, which is at once the greatest of all improve- ments, and the instrument by which all other im- provements must be accomplished. He has left to posterity the instructive example of a prudent refor- mer, and of a philosophy temperate as well as liberal, which spares the feelings of the good, and avoids direct hostility with obstinate and formidable pre- judice. These benefits are very slightly counter- balanced by some political doctrines liable to mis- application, and by the scepticism of some of his ingenious followers, an inconvenience to which every philosophical school is exposed, which does not steadily limit its theory to a mere exposition of ex- perience. If Locke made few discoveries, Socrates made none. Yet both did more for the improvement of the understanding, and not less for the progress of knowledge, than the authors of the most brilliant discoveries.'* In 1690, Locke published two Treatises on Civil Government, in defence of the principles of the Revo- lution against the Tories ; or, as he expresses himself, ' to establish the throne of our great restorer, our present King William ; to make good his title in the consent of the people, which, being the only one of all lawful governments, he has more fully and clearly than any prince in Christendom ; and to justify to the world the people of England, whose love of their just and natural rights, with their resolution to pre- serve them, saved the nation when it was on the very brink of slavery and ruin.' The chief of his other productions are Thoughts concerning Education (1G93), The Reasonableness of Christianity {\G9^>), two Vin- dications of that work (1696), and an admirable tract On the Conduct of the Understanding, printed after the author's death. A theological controversy in which he engaged with Stihingfleet, bishop of Worcester, has already been spoken of in our account of that prelate. Many letters and miscellaneous pieces of Locke have been published, partly in the beginning of last century, and partly by Lord King in his recent Ufe of the philosopher. * Edinburgh Review, vol. ixxvi, p. 243. In reference to the writings of Locke, Sir James Mackintosh observes, that justly to understand their character, it is necessary to take a deliberate survey of the circumstances in which tlie writer was placed. 'Educated among tlie English dissenters, during the sliort period of their political ascendency, he early imbibed that deep piety and ardent spirit of liberty which actuated that body of men ; and he probably imbibed also in their schools the disposition to me- taphysical inquiries which has everywhere accom- panied the Calvinistic theology. Sects founded in the right of private judgment, naturally tend to purify themselves from intolerance, and in time learn to respect in others the freedom of thought to tlie exercise of which they owe their own existence. By the Independent divines, who were his instructors, our philosopher was taught those principles of reli- gious liberty whicli they were tlie first to disclose to the world.* Wlien free inquiry led him to milder dogmas, he retained the severe morality which was their honourable singularity, and which continues to distinguish their successors in those communities which have abandoned their rigorous opinions. His professional pursuits afterwards engaged him in the study of the physical sciences, at the moment when the spirit of experiment and observation was in its youtliful fervour, and when a repugnance to scholas- tic subtleties was the ruling passion of the scientific world. At a more mature age, he was admitted into the society of great wits and ambitious politicians. During the remainder of his life, he was often a man of business, and always a man of the world, witliout much undisturbed leisure, and probablj' with that abated relisli for merely abstract speculation which is the inevitable result of converse with society and experience in affairs. But his political connexions agreeing with liis earl}' bias, made him a zealous ad- vocate of liberty in opinion and in government ; and he gradually limited his zeal and activity to the illus- tration of such general principles as are the guardians of these great interests of human society. Almost all his writings, even his essay itself, were occasional, and intended directly to counteract the enemies of reason and freedom in his own age. The first letter on toleration, the most original perliaps of his works, was composed in Holland, in a retirement wliere he was forced to conceal himself from the tyranny which pursued him into a foreign land ; and it was pub- lished in England in the year of the Revolution, to vindicate the toleration act, of which the author lamented the imperfection.'f On the continent, the principal works of Locke became extensively known through the medium of translations into French. They seem to have been attentively studied by Voltaire, who, in his writings on toleration and free inquiry, has diffused still far- ther, and in a more popular shape, the doctrines of the English philosopher. Immediately after the Revolution, employment in the diplomatic service was offered to Locke, who decUned it on tlie ground of ill health. In 1695, having aided government with his advice on the sub- ject of the coin, he was appointed a member of t)ie Board of Trade, which office, however, the same cause quickly obliged him to resign. Tlie last years of his existence were spent at Gates, in Essex, the seat of Sir Francis Mashani, who had invited him to make that mansion his home. Lady ]\fasham. a daugliter of l)r Cudworth, and to whom Locke was attaclied by strong ties of friendship, palliated by lier atten- tion the infirmities of his declining years. The * ' Orme's Memoirs of Dr Owen, pp. 09-110. London, I82fi. lu this very able volume, it ig clc:vrly proved tli.it the Iude))en- dents were the first teachers of religious liberty." t Edinbure-h Roview, vol. xxxvi, p. 229. 511 r FROM 1649 CYCLOPAEDIA OF TO 1689. death of tliis excellent man took place in 1704, wlien lie had attained the age of seventy-two. In the following selection of passages from his works, we shall endeavour to display at once the general character of the author's thoughts and opi- nions, and the style in which they are expressed. [^Caioses of WeaJcness in Men^s Understandings. 1 There is, it is visible, great variety in men's under- starjdings, and their natural constitutions put so wide a diflerence between some men in this respect, that art and industry would never be able to master ; erhai(s the most correctly written ; but the tales and lighter jiieces of Prior are undoubtedly his happiest efforts. In these 5'6& FROM 1689 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1727. he displays that ' charming ease' with which Cowper saj's he embellished all his poems, added to the lively illustration and colloquial humour of his master, Horace. No poet ever possessed in greater perfection the art of graceful and fluent versification. His narratives flow on like a clear stream, without break or fall, and interest us by their perpetual good humour and vivacity, even when they wander into metaphysics, as in ' Alma,' or into licentiousness, as in his tales. His expression was choice and studied, abounding in classical allusions and images (which were then the fashion of the day), but without any air of pedantry or constraint. Like Swift, he loved to versify the common occurrences of life, and relate his personal feelings and adventures. He had, liow- ever, no portion of the dean's bitterness or misan- thropy, and employed no stronger weapons of satire than raiUery and arch allusion. He sported on the surface of existence, noting its foibles, its pleasures, and eccentricities, but without the power of pene- trating into its recesses, or evoking the higher pas- sions of our nature. He was the most natural of artificial poets — a seeming paradox, yet as true as the old maxim, that the perfection of art is the con- cealment of it. For My Own Monument. As doctors give physic by way of prevention, Matt, alive and in health, of his tombstone took care ; For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention May haply be never fulfill'd by his heir. Then take Matt's word for it, the sculptor is paid ; That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye ; Yet credit but lightly what more may be said, For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie. Yet counting as far as to fifty his years, His virtues and vices were as other men's are ; High hopes he conceiv'd, and he smother'd great fears, In a life party-colour'd, half pleasure, half care. Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave, He strove to make int'rest and freedom agree ; In public employments industrious and grave. And alone with his friends, Lord ! how merry was he. Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot, Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust ; And wbirl'd in the round as the wheel turn'd about. He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust. This verse, little polish'd, though mighty sincere, Sets neither his titles nor merit to view ; It says that his relics collected lie here, And no mortal yet knows if this may be true. Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway, So Matt may be kill'd, and his bones never found ; False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea. So Matt may yet chance to be hang'd or be drown 'd. If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air. To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same; And if passing thou giv'st him a smile or a tear, He cares not — yet, prithee, be kind to his fame, Epitaplt, Extempore. Nobles and heralds, by your leave. Here lies what once was Matthew Prior, The son of Adam and of Eve ; Can Stuart or Nassau claim higher? An Epitaph. Interr'd beneath this marble stone, Lie sauntering .lack and idle Joan. While rolling threescore years and one Did round this globe their courses run ; If human things went ill or well. If changing empires rose or fell, The morning past, the evening came, And found this couple just the same. They walk'd and ate, good folks : What then ? Why, then tliey walk'd and ate again ; They soundly slept the night away ; They did just nothing all the day. Nor sister either had nor brother ; They seemed just tallied for each other. Their Moral and Economy Most perfectly they made agree ; Each virtue kept its proper bound. Nor trespass'd on the other's ground. Nor fame nor censure they regarded ; They neither punish'd nor rewarded. He cared not what the footman did ; Her maids she neither prais'd nor chid : So every servant took his course, And, bad at first, they all grew worse. Slothful disorder fiU'd his stable. And sluttish plenty deck'd her table. Their beer was strong, their wine was port , Their meal was large, their grace was short. They gave the poor the remnant meat, Just when it grew not fit to eat. Tliey paid the churcli and parish rate, And took, but read not, the receipt ; For which they claim'd their Sunday's due. Of slumbering in an upper pew. No man's defects sought they to know. So never made themselves a foe. No man's good deeds did they commend. So never rais'd themselves a friend. Nor cherish'd they relations poor, That might decrease their present store ; Nor barn nor house did they repair, That might oblige their future heir. They neither added nor confounded ; They neither wanted nor abounded. Nor tear nor smile did they employ At news of public grief or joy. When bells were rung and bonfires made, If ask'd, they ne'er denied their aid ; Their jug was to the ringers carried. Whoever either died or married. Their billet at the fire was found. Whoever was depos'd or crown'd. Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise, They would not learn, nor could advise ; Without love, hatred, joy, or fear. They led — a kind of — as it were ; Nor wish'd, nor car'd, nor laugh'd, nor cried ; And so they liv'd, and so they died. Tlie Garland. The pride of every grove I chose. The violet sweet and Illy fair. The dappled pink and bkishing rose, To deck my channlng Chloe's hair. At morn the nymph vouchsaf'd to place Upon her brow the various ^vreath ; The flowers less blooming than her face. The scent less fragrant than her breath. The flowers she wore along the day. And every nymph and shepherd said, Tliat in her hair they look'd more gay Than glowing in their native bed. Undress'd at evening, when she found Their odours lost, their colours past. She chang'd her look, and on the ground Her garland and her eyes she cast. 636 ENGLISH LITERATURE. MATT!IKW PRICK. That eye dropp'd sense distinct and clear, As any muse's tongue could speak, When from its lid a pearly tear Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek. Dissembling what I knew too well, My lore, my life, said I, explain This change of humour ; prithee tell — That falling tear — what does it mean ? She sigh'd, she smil'd ; and to the flowers Pointing, the lovely mor'list said. See, friend, in some few fleeting hours. See yonder, what a change is made. Ah me ! the blooming pride of May And that of beauty are but one ; At morn both flourish bright and gay, Both fade at evening, pale, and gone. [Abra^s Love for Solomon.'] [From ' Solomon on the Vanity of the World.'] Another nymph, amongst the many fair, That made my softer hours their solemn care. Before the rest aftected still to stand, And watch'd my ej'c, preventir^g my command. Abra, she so was call'd, did soonest haste To grace my presence ; Abra went the last ; Abra was ready ere I call'd her name ; And, though I call'd another, Abra came. Her equals first observ'd her growing zeal, And laughing, gloss'd that Abra serv'd so well. To me her actions did unheeded die, Or were remark'd but with a common eye ; Till, more appris'd of what the rumour said, More I observ'd peculiar in the maid. The sun declin'd had shot his western ray. When, tir'd with business of ihe solemn day, I purpos'd to unbend the evening hours. And banquet private in the women's bowers. I call'd before I sat to wash my hands (For so the precept of the law commands) : Love had ordain'd that it was Abra's turn To mix the sweets, and minister the urn. With awful homage, and submissive dread. The maid approach'd, on my declining head To pour the oils : she trembled as she pour'd ; With an unguarded look she now devour'd My nearer face ; and now recall'd her eye. And heav'd, and strove to hide, a sudden sigh. And whence, said I, canst thou have dread or pain ? What can thy imagery of sorrow mean ? Secluded from the world and all its care. Hast thou to grieve or joy, to hope or fear? For sure, I added, sure thy little heart Ne'er felt love's anger, or receiv'd his dart. Abash'd she blush'd, and with disorder spoke : Her rising shame adorn'd the words it broke. If the great master will descend to hear The humble series of his handmaid's care ; O ! while she tells it, let him not put on The look that awes the nations from the throne ! ! let not death severe in glory lie In the king's frown and terror of his eye ! Mine to obey, thy part is to ordain ; And, though to mention be to suffer pain, If the king smile whilst I my wo recite, If weeping, I find favour in his sight, Flow fast, my tears, full rising his delight. ! witness earth beneath, and heaven above ! For can I hide it ? I am sick of love ; If madness may the name of passion bear, Or love be call'd what is indeed despair. Thou Sovereign Power, whose secret will controls The inward bent and motion of our souls ! Why hast thou plac'd such infinite degrees Rctwcen the cause and cure of my disease! The niiglity oliject of that raging fire. In which, unpitied, Abra must expire. Had he been born some simple sliepherd's Iicir, The lowing herd or fleecy sheep his care, At morn with liim I o'er the hills had run. Scornful of winter's frost and suininer's sun. Still asking where he made his flock to rest at noon ; For him at night, the dear expected guest, I had with hasty joy prepar'd the feast ; And from the cottage, o'er the distant plain. Sent forth my longing eye to meet the swain. Wavering, impatient, toss'd by hope and fear. Till he and joy together should appear, And the lov'd dog declare his master near. On my declining neck and open breast I should have luU'd the lovely youth to rest. And from beneath his head, at dawning day, With softest care have stol'n my arm away. To rise, and from the fold release his sheep. Fond of his flock, indulgent to his sleep. Or if kind heaven, propitious to my fiaino (For sure from heaven the faithful ardour cam"--), Had blest my life, and deck'd my natal hour With height of title, and extent of power ; Without a crime my passion had aspirVl, Found the lov'd prince, and told what I deslr'd. Then I had come, preventing Sheba's queen, To see the comelicst of the sons of men. To hear the charming poet's amorous song. And gather honey falling from his tongue, To take the fragrant ki.sses of his mouth. Sweeter than breezes of her native south. Likening his grace, his person, and his mien, To all that great or beauteous I had seen. Serene and bright his eyes, as solar beams Reflecting temper'd light from cr3'stal stream.« ; Ruddy as gold his cheek ; his bosom fair As silver; the curl'd ringlets of his hair Black as the raven's wing ; his lip more red Than eastern coral, or the scarlet thread ; Even his teeth, and white like a young flock Coeval, newly shorn, from the clear brook Recent, and branching on the sunny rock. Ivory, with sapphires interspers'd, explains How white his hands, how blue the manly vein.^. Columns of polish'd marble, firmly set On golden bases, are his legs and feet ; His stature all majestic, all divine. Straight as the palm-tree, strong as is the pine. Saffi-on and myrrh are on his garments shed, And everlasting sweets bloom round his head. What utter I ? where am I ? wretched maid ! Die, Abra, die : too plainly hast thou said Thy soul's desire to meet his high embrace. And blessing stamp'd upon thy future race ; To bid attentive nations bless thy womb. With unborn monarchs charg'd, and Solom.jij tt; come. Here o'er her speech her flowing eyes prevail. foolish maid ! and oh, unhappy tale ! * * 1 saw her ; 'twas humanity ; it gave Some respite to the sorrows of my slave. Her fond excess proclaim'd her passion true, And generous pity to that truth was due. Well I intreated her, who well deserv'd ; I call'd her often, for she ahvay serv'd. Use made her person easy to my sight. And ease insensibly produc'd delight. Whene'er I revell'd in the women's bowers (For first I sought her but at looser hours), The apples she had gather'd smelt most sweet, The cake she kneaded was the savoury meat : But fruits their odour lost, and meats their tasie If gentle Abra, had not deck'd the feast. 637 FROM 1G89 CYCLOPEDIA OF Di.'ihouour'd did the sparkling goblet stand, Unless received from gentle Abra's hand ; And, when the virgins form'd the evening choir, Raising their voices to the master lyre. Too flat I thought this voice, and that too shrill, One show'd too much, and one too little skill ; Nor could my soul approve the music's tone, Till all was hush'd, and Abra sung alone. Fairer she seem'd distinguish'd from the rest, And better mien disclos'd, as better drest. A bright tiara round her forehead tied. To juster bounds confin'd its rising pride. The blushing ruby on her sno^y breast Render'd its panting whiteness more confess'd ; Bracelets of pearl gave roundness to her ann, And every gem augmented eveiy charm. Her senses pleased, her beauty still improv'd, And she more lovely grew, as more belov'd. TJic Tltkfand the Cordelia:— A Ballad. To the tune of ' King John and the Abbot of Canterbury." Who has e'er been at Paris, must needs know the Greve, The fatal retreat of th' unfortunate brave ; Where honour and justice most oddly contribute To ease heroes' pains by a halter and gibbet. Derry down, down, hey derry down. There death breaks the shackles which force had put on. And the hangman completes what the judge but begun ; There the 'squire of the pad, and the knight of the post. Find their pains no more baulk'd, and their hopes no more cross'd, Derry down, &c. Great claims are there made, and great secrets are known ; And the king, and the law, and the thief, has his own ; But my hearers cry out. What a deuce dost thou ail ? Cut off thy reflections, and give us thy tale. Derry down, &c. 'Twas there, then, in civil respect to harsh laws. And for want of false witness to back a bad cause, A Norman, though late, was obliged to appear ; And who to assist, but a grave Cordelier ? Derry down, &c. The 'squire, whose good grace was to open the scene, Seem'd not in great haste that the show should begin ; Now fitted the halter, now travers'd the cart ; And often took leave, but was loath to depart. Derry down, &;c. \Miat frightens you thus, my good son 1 says the priest. You murder'd, are sorry, and have been confess'd. father ! my sorrow will scarce save my bacon ; For 'twas not that I murder'd, but that I was taken. Derry down, &.c. Pough, prithee ne'er trouble thy Lead with such fancies ; Rely on the aid you shall have from St Francis ; If the money you promis'd be brought to the chest, You have only to die ; let the church do the rest. Derry down, &c. And what will folks say, if they see you afraid ? It reflects upon me, as I knew not my trade ; Courage, friend, for to-day is your period of sorrow ; A.nd things will go better, believe me, to-morrow. Deny down, &c. To-morrow ! our hero replied in a fright ; He that's hang'd before noon, ought to think cf to- night ; Tell your beads, quoth the priest, and be fairly truss'd up. For you surely to-night shall in paradise sup. Derry do^vn, kc. Alas ! quoth the 'squire, howe'er sumptuous the treat, Parbleu ! I shall have little stomach to eat ; 1 should therefore esteem it great favour and grace. Would you be so kind as to go in my place. Derry down, kc. That I would, quoth the father, and thank you to boot ; But our actions, you know, with our duty must suit ; The feast I proposed to you, I cannot taste. For this night, by our order, is marked for a fast. Derry down, kc. Then, turning about to the hangman, he said, Despatch me, I prithee, this troublesome blade : For thy cord and my cord both equally tie. And we live by the gold for which other men die. Deny down, &c. The Cameleon. As the Cameleon, who is known To have no colours of his own ; But borrows from his neighbour's hue, His white or black, his green or blue ; And struts as much in ready light. Which credit gives him upon sight. As if the rainbow were in tail. Settled on him and his heirs male ; So the young squire, when first he conies From country school to Will's or Tom"s, And equally, in truth, is fit To be a statesman, or a wit ; Without one notion of his own, He saunters wildly up and do^vn, Till some acquaintance, good or bad, Takes notice of a staring lad. Admits him in among the gang ; They jest, reply, dispute, harangue; He acts and talks, as they befriend him, Smear'd with the colours which they lend hiio. Thus, merely as his fortune chances, His merit or his vice advances. If haply he the sect pursues, That read and comment upon news; He takes up their mysterious face ; He drinks his coffee without lace ; This week his mimic tongue runs o'er What they have said the week before; His wisdom sets all Europe right. And teaches JNIarlborough when to fight. Or if it be his fate to meet With folks who have more wealth than wit. He loves cheap port, and double bub, And settles in the Humdrum Club ; He learns how stocks will fall or rise ; Holds poverty the greatest vice ; Thinks wit the bane of conversation ; And says that learning spoils a nation. But if, at first, he minds his hits. And drinks champaign among the wits ; Five deep he toasts the towering lasses ; Repeats you verses wrote on glasses ; Is in the chair ; prescribes the law ; And 's lov'd by those he never saw. 538 ENGLISH LITERATURE. MATTHEW PBIOR. Protogeiies and Apelles. When poets wrote and painters drew, As nature pointed out the view ; Ere Gothic forms were known in Greece, To spoil the well-proportion'd piece ; And in our verse ere monkish rhymes Had jangled their fantastic chimes ; Ere on the flowery lands of Rhodes, Those knights had fixed their dull abodes, Who knew not much to paiirt or write, Nor car'd to pray, nor dar'd to fight : ■ Protogenes, historians note, Liv'd there, a burgess, scot and lot ; And, as old Pliny's writings show, Apelles did the same at Co. Agreed these points of time and place, Proceed we in the present case. Piqu'd by Protogenes's fame. From Co to Rhodes Apelles came, To see a rival and a friend, Prepar'd to censure, or commend ; Here to absolve, and there object. As art with candour might direct. He sails, he lands, he comes, he rings ; His servants follow with the things : Appears the governante of th' house, For such in Greece were much in use: If young or handsome, yea or no. Concerns not me or thee to know. Does Squire Protogenes live here ? Yes, sir, says she, with gracious air And curtsy low, but just call'd out By lords peculiarly devout. Who came on pui-pose, sir, to borrow Our Venus for the feast to-morrow, To grace the church ; 'tis Venus' day : I hope, sir, you intend to stay. To see our Venus ? 'tis the piece The most reno-ivn'd throughout all Greece ; So like th' original, they say : But I have no great skill that way. But, sir, at six ('tis now past three), Dromo must make my master's tea : At six, sir, if you please to come. You'll find my master, sir, at home. Tea, says a critic big with laughter, y\ as found some twenty ages after ; Authors, before they write, should read. 'Tis very true ; but we'll proceed. And, sir, at present would you please To leave your name. — Fair maiden, yes. Reach me that board. No sooner spoke But done. With one judicious stroke. On the plain ground Apelles drew A circle regularly true : And will you please, sweetheart, said he, To show your master this from me ? By it he presently will know How painters write their names at Co. He gave the pannel to the maid. Smiling and curtsying, Sir, she said, I shall not fail to tell my master : And, sir, for fear of all disaster, I'll keep it my own self : safe bind, Says the old proverb, and safe find. So, sir, as sure as key or lock — Your servant, sir — at six o'clock. Again at six Apelles came, Found the same prating civil dame. Sir, that my master has been here. Will by the board itself appear. If from the perfect line be found He has presum'd to swell the round. Or colours on the draught to lay, lis thus (he order'd me to say), Thus write the painters of this isle ; Let those of Co remark the style. She said, and to his hand restor'd The rival pledge, the missive board. Upon the happy line were laid Such obvious light and easy shade. The Paris' a])ple stood confcss'd, Or Leda's egg, or Chloe's breast. Apelles view'd the fiuish'd piece; And live, said he, the arts of Greece! Howc'er Protogenes and I May in our rival talents vie ; Howe'er our works may have express'd Who truest drew, or colour'd best, When he beheld my flowing line. He found at least I could design : And from his artful round, I grant. That he with perfect skill can paint. Tlie dullest genius cannot fail To find the moral of my title ; ■ That the distinguish'd part of men. With compass, pencil, sword, or pen, Should in life's visit leave their name In characters which may proclaim That they with ardour strove to raise At once their arts and country's praise ; And in their working, took great care That all was full, and round, and fair. \_Richard^s Tlieory of the Mind.'\ [From ' Alma.'] I say, whatever you maintain Of Alma' in the heart or brain, The plainest man alive may tell ye, Her seat of empire is the belly. From hence she sends out those supplies, Which make us either stout or wise : Your stomach makes the fabric roll Just as the bias rules the bowl. The great Achilles might employ The strength design'd to ruin Troy ; He dined on lion's marrow, spread On toasts of ammunition bread ; But, by his mother sent away Amongst the Thracian girls to play. Effeminate he sat and quiet — Strange product of a cheese-cake diet ! * • Observe the various operations Of food and drink in several nations. Was ever Tartar fierce or cruel Upon the strength of water-gruel ? But who shall stand his rage or force If first he rides, then eats his horse ? Sallads, and eggs, and lighter fare, Tune the Italian spark's guitar ; And, if I take Dan Congreve right. Pudding and beef make Britons fight. Tokay and coifee cause this work Between the German and the Turk ; And both, as they provisions want. Chicane, avoid, retire, and faint. * * As, in a watch's fine machine. Though many artful springs are seen ; The added movements, which declare How full the moon, how old the year, Derive their secondary power From that which simply points the liour ; For though these gimcracks were away (Quare- would not swear, but Quare would say), However more reduced and plain. The watch would still a watch remain : But if the horal orbit ceases. The whole stands still, or breaks to pieces. The mind. " Probably a noted watchmaker of the day, 539 FROM 1689 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1727. Is iKiw 110 longer what it was, And you may e'en go sell the case. So, if unprejiidiced you scan The goings of this clock-work, man. You find a hundred movements made By fine devices in his head ; But 'tis the stomach's solid stroke That tells his being what's o'clock. If vou take off this rhetoric trigger. He talks no more in trope and figure ; Or clog his raatliematic wheel. His buildings fall, his ship stands still ; Or, lastly, break his politic weight, His voice no longer rules the state : Yet, if these finer Avhims are gone. Your clock, though plain, will still go on : But, spoil the organ of digestion. And you entirely change the question ; Alma's affairs no power can mend ; The jest, alas ! is at an end ; Soon ceases all the worldly bustle, And you consign the corpse to Russel.l JOSEPH ADDISON. The prose works of Addison constitute the chief source of his fame ; but his muse proved the archi- tect of his fortune, and led him first to distinc- tion. From his character, station, and talents, no man of his day exercised a more extensive or bene- ficial influence on literature. Joseph Addison, the son of an English dean, was born at Milston, Wilt- shire, in 1672. He distinguished himself at Oxford by his Latin poetry, and appeared first in English verse by an address to Dryden, written in his twenty-second year. It opens thus How long, great poet ! shall thy sacred lays Provoke our wonder, and transcend our praise ! Can neither injuries of time or age Damp thy poetic heat, and quench thy rage \ Not so thy Ovid in his exile wrote ; Orief chill'd his breast, and check'd his rising thought ; * Probably an undertaker. Pensive and sad, his drooping muse betrays The Roman genius in its last decays. The youthful poet's praise of his great master is confined to his translations, works which a modern eulogist would scarcely select as the peculiar glory of Dryden. Addison also contributed an Essay on Virgil's Georgics, prefixed to Dryden's translation. His remarks are brief, but finely and clearly written. At the same time, he translated the fourth Georgic, and it was published in Dryden's ^lisccllany, issued in 1693, with a warm commendation from the aged poet on the ' most ingenious ^fr Addison of Oxford.' Next year he ventured on a bolder flight — An Ac- count of the Grenfest English Potfs, addressed to Mr II. S. (supposed to be the famous Dr Sachcverell), April 3, 1694. This Account is a poem of about 150 lines, containing sketches of Chaucer, S]ienser, Cowley, IMilton, Waller, &c. We subjoin the lines on the autlior uf the Faery Queen, though, if we are to believe Spence, Addison had not then read the poet he ventured to criticise : — Old Spenser next, warm'd with poetic rage, In ancient tales amus'd a barbarous age ; An age, that yet uncultivate and rude. Where'er the poet's fancy led, pursued Through pathless fields, and unfrequented floods, To dens of dragons and enchanted woods. But now the mystic tale, that pleas'd of j'ore. Can charm an understanding age no more ; The long-spun allegories fulsome grow, While the dull moral lies too plain below. We view well-pleased, at distance, all the sights Of arms and palfreys, battles, fields, and fights, And damsels in distress, and courteous knights. But when we look too near, the shades decay, And all the pleasing landscape fades awaj'. This subdued and frigid character of Spenser shows that Addison wanted both the fire and the fancy of the poet. His next production is equally tame and commonplace, but the theme was more congenial to his style : it is A Poem to His Majesty, Presented to the Lord Keeper. Lord Somers, then the keeper of the great seal, was gratified by this compliment, and became one of the steadiest patrons of Addison. In 1699, he procured for him a pension of £300 a-year, to enable him to make a tour in Italy. The govern- ment patronage was never better bestowed. The poet entered upon his travels, and resided abroad two years, writing from thence a poetical Letter from Italy to Charles Lord Halifax, 1701. This is the most elegant and animated of all his poetical productions. The classic ruins of Eonic, the ' heavenly figures' of Raphael, the river Tiber, and streams ' immortalised in song,' and all the golden groves and flowery meadows of Italy, seem, as Pope has remarked, ' to have raised his fancy, and brightened his expressions.' There was also, as Goldsmith observed, a strain of political thinking in the Letter, that was then new to our poetry. He returned to England in 1702. The death vi King William deprived him of his pension, and ap- peared to crush his hopes and expectations ; but being afterwards engaged to celebrate in verse the battle of Blenheim, Addison so gratified the lord- treasurer, Godolphin, by his ' gazette in rhjmie,' that he was appointed a conmiissioner of appeals. He was next made under secretary of state, and went to Ireland as secretary- to the Marquis of Wharton, lord-lieutenant. The queen also made him keeper of the records of Ireland. Previous to this (in 17u7), Addison had brought out his opera of Ilosamond, which was not successful on the stage. The story of fair Rosamond would seem well adapted for 540 EL JBYXNFXlEt. ^ . //i/^/^/r^^^. ENGLISH LITERATURE. JOSEPH ADDISON. dramatic representation ; and in the bowers and shades of Woodstock, the poet had materials for scenic description and disphiy. Tlie genius of Addison, however, was not adapted to the drama ; and his opera being confined in action, and written wliolly in rhyme, possesses Httle to attract either readers or spectators. He wrote also a comedy, The Drummer, or the Haunted House, which Steele brought out after the death of the autlior. This play contains a fund of quiet natural humour, but lias not strength or breadtli enough of character or action for the stage. Addison next entered upon his brilliant career as an essayist, and by his papers in the Tatler, Spectator, and Guardian, left all his con- temporaries far behind in this delightful department of literature. In these papers, he first displayed that chaste and delicate humour, refined observation, and knowledge of the world, which now form his most distinguishing characteristics ; and in his Vision of Mirza, his Reflections in Westminster Abbey, and other of his graver essays, he evinced a more poetical imagination and deeper vein of feeling than his pre- vious writings had at all indicated. In 1713, his tragedy of Cato was brought upon the stage. Pope thought tlie piece deficient in dramatic interest, and the world has confirmed his judgment ; but he wrote a prologue for the tragedj^ in his happiest manner, and it was performed with almost unexampled suc- cess. Party spirit ran high : the Whigs applauded the liberal sentiments in tlie play, and their cheers were echoed back by the Tories, to show that tliey did not apply them as censures on themselves. After all the Whig enthusiasm. Lord Bulingbroke sent for Booth the actor, who personated the character of Cato, and presented him with fifty guineas, in ac- knowledgment, as he said, of his defending the cause of liberty so well against a perpetual dictator (a hit at the Duke of ^Marlborough). Poetical eu- logiums were showered upon the author, Steele, Hughes, Young, Tickell, and Ambrose Philips, being among the writers of these encomiastic verses. The queen expressed a wish that the tragedy should be dedicated to her, but Addisoti had previously de- signed this honour for his friend Tickell; and to avoid giving offence either to his loyalty or his friendship, he published it without any dedication. It was translated into French. Italian, and German, and was performed by the Jesuits in their college at St Omers. ' Being,' sa3's Sir Walter Scott, ' in form and essence rather a French than an English play, it is one of the few English tragedies which foreigners have admired.' The unities of time and place have been preserved, and the action of the play is consequently much restricted. Cato abounds in generous and patriotic sentiments, and contains passages of great dignity and sonorous diction ; but the poet fails to unlock the sources of passion and natural emotion. It is a splendid and imposing work of art, with the grace and majesty, and also the lifelessness, of a noble antique statue. Addison was now at the height of his fame. lie had long aspired to the hand of the countess-dowager of Warwick, whom he had first known by becoming tutor to her son, and he was united to her in 1716. The poet ' married discord in a noble wife.' Ilis marriage was as unhappy as Dryden's with Lady ElizaVjcth Howard. Both ladies awarded to their husbands ' the heraldry of hands, not hearts,' and the fate of the poets should serve as beacons to warn ambitious literary adventurers. Addison received his highest poUtical honour in 1717, when he was made secretary of state ; but he held the ofl[ice only for a short time. He wanted the physical boldness and ready resources of an elfective public speaker, and was 'ioable to defend his measures in parlia- ment. He is also said to have been slow and fas- tidious in the discharge of the ordinary duties of office. When he held the situation of luider secretary, he was employed to send word to Prince George at Hanover of the death of the queen, and the vacancy of the throne ; but the critical nicety of the author overpowered his official experience, and Addison was so distracted by the choice of expression, that the task was given to a clerk, who boasted of having done what was too hard for Addison. The love of vulgar wonder may have exaggerated the poet's inaptitude for business, but it is certain he was no orator. He retired from the principal secretaryship with a pension of £1500 per annum, and during his retirement, engaged hinjself in writing a work on the Addison's Walk, Magdiilen College, Oxford. Evidences of the Christian JReliyiim, which he did noi live to complete. He was oppressed by asthma and drops}', and was conscious that he should die at comparatively an earlj' age. Two anecdotes are related of his deathbed. He sent, as Pope relates, a message by the Earl of Warwick to Gay, desiring to see him. Gay obeyed the summons ; and Addison begged his forgiveness for an injury he had done him, for which, he said, he would recompense him if he recovered. The nature or extent of tlie injury he did not explain, but Gay sujiposed it referred to his having prevented some preferment designed for him by the court. At another time, he requested an interview of the Earl of Warwick, whom he was anxious to reclaim from a dissipated and licentious life. ' I have sent for you,' he said, ' that you may see in what peace a Christian can die.' The event thus calmly anticipated took place in Holland house on the 17th of June 1719. A minute or critical review of the daily life of Addison, and his intercourse with his literary associates, is calculated to diminish our reverence and affection. The quarrels of rival wits have long been proverbial, and Addison was also soured by political difl'erences and contention. His temper was jealous and taciturn 541 lir= FROM 1689 CYCLOPAEDIA OF TO 172]. (until thawed by wine) ; and the satire of Pope, that he coiild ' bear no rivul near the throne,' seems to have been just and well-founded. His quarrels with Pope and Steele throw some disagreeable shades among the lights and beauties of the picture ; but enough will still remain to establish Addison's title to the character of a good man and a sincere Chris- tian. The uniform tendency of all his writings is his best and highest eulogium. No man can dis- semble upon paper through j-ears of literary exer- tion, or on topics calculated to disclose the bias of liis tastes and feelings, and the qualities of his heart and temper. The display of these by Addison is so fascinating and unaffected, that the impression made by his writings, as has been finely remarked, is ' like being recalled to a sense of something like that original purity from which man has been long estranged.' Holland House. A ' Life of Addison,' in two volumes, by Lucy Aiken, published in 1843, contains several letters suiiplied by a descendant of Tickell. This work is written in a strain of unvaried eulogium, and is frequently unjust to Steele, Pope, and the other contemporaries of Addison. The most interesting of the letters were written by Addison during his early travels ; and though brief, and often incorrect, contain touches of his inimitable pen. He thus re- cords his impressions of France : — ' Tnily, by what I have yet seen, tliey are the happiest nation in the world. 'Tis not in the power of want or slavery to make 'em miserable. There is nothing to be met with in the country but mirth and poverty. Every one sings, laughs, and starves. Their conversation is generally agreeable ; for if they have any wit or sense, they are sure to show it. They never mend upon a second meeting, but use all the freedom and familiarity at first sight that a long intimacy or abundance of wine can scarce draw from an EngUsli- man. Their women are perfect mistresses in this art of showing themselves to the best advantage. They are always gay and sprightly, and set off the worst faces in Europe with the best airs. Every one knows how to give herself as diarming a look and posture as Sir Godfrey Kneller coi^d draw her in,' After some further experience, he recurs to the same subject: — ' I have already seen, as I informed you in my last, all tlic king's palaces, and have now seen a great part of the country ; I never thought there had been in the world such an excessive mag- nificence or poverty as I have met with in both together. One can scarce conceive the pomp that appears in everything about the king; but at the same time it makes half his subjects go bare-foot. Tlie people are, however, the hapjiiest in the world, and enjoy from the benefit of their climate and natural constitution such a perpetual mirth and easiness of temper, as even liberty and plenty can- not bestow on those of other nations. Devotion and loyalty are everywhere at their greatest height, but learning seems to run very low, especially in the 3'ounger people ; for all the rising geniuses have turned their ambition anotlier way, and endeavoured to make their fortunes in the army. Tlie belles lettres in particular seem to be but short-lived in PVance.' In acknowledging a present of a snuff-box, we see traces of the easy wit and playfulness of the Spec- tator : — ' About three days ago, Mr Bocher put a verv prett}' snuff-box in my hand. I was not a little pleased to hear that it belonged to mj'self, and was nmch more so when I found it was a i)resent from a gentleman that I have so great an honour for. You do not probably foresee that it would draw on you the trouble of a letter, but j^ou must blame your- self for it. For my part, I can no more accept of a snuff-box without returning my acknowledgments, than I can take snuff without sneezing after it. This last, I must own to you, is so great an absur- dity, that I should be ashamed to confess it, were not I in hopes of correcting it very speedily. I am observed to have my box oftener in my hand tlian those that have bin used to one these twenty years, for I can't forbear taking it out of my pocket wlien- ever I think of iMr Dashwood. You know ]\Ir Bays recommends snuff as a great provocative to wit, but you may produce this letter as a standing evi- dence against him. I have, since the beginning of it, taken above a dozen pinches, and still find myself much more inclined to sneeze than to jest. From wlience I conclude, that wit and tobacco are not inseparable; or to make a pun of it, tho' a man n)ay be master of a snuff-box, " Non cuicunque datum est habere Nasani." I should be afraid of being thought a pedant for my quotation, did not I know that tlie gentleman I am writing to always carrys a Horace in his pocket.' The same taste which led Addison, as we have seen, to censure as fulsome the wild and gorgeous genius of Spenser, made him look with indifference, if not aversion, on the splendid scenery of the Alps : 'I am just arrived at Geneva,' he says, 'by a very troublesome journey over the Alps, where I have been for some days together shivering among the eternal snows. My head is still giddy with moun- tains and precipices, and you can't imagine how much I am pleased with the sight of a plain, that is as agreeable to me at present as a shore was about a year ago, after our tempest at Genoa.' The matured powers of Addison show little of this tame prosaic feeling. The higher of his essays, and his criticism on the Paradise Lost, betray no in- sensibility to the nobler beauties of creation, or the sublime effusions of genius. His conceptions were enlarged, and his mind expanded, by that literary study and reflection from which his political ambi- tion never divorced him even in the busiest and most engrossing period of his life. fiiS ENGLISH LITERATURE. JOSEPH ADDISON. [From the Letter from Italy.] For wheresoe'er I turn my ravisli'd eyes, Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise ; Poetic fields encompass me around, And still I seem to tread on classic ground ;1 For here the muse so oft her harp has strung, That not a mountain rears its head unsung ; Renown'd in verse each shady thicket grows, And every stream in heavenly numbers flows. * * See how the golden groves around me smile. That shun the coast of Britain's stormy isle ; Or when transplanted and preserved with care, Curse the cold clime, and stance in northern air. Here kindly warmth their mounting juice ferments To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents ; Even the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom, And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume. Bear me, some god, to Baia's gentle seats, Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats j Where western gales eternally reside, And all the seasons lavish all their pride ; Blossoms, and fruits, and flowers together rise. And the whole year in gay confusion lies. * * How has kind heaven adorn'd the happy land. And scatter'd blessings with a wasteful hand ! But what avail her unexhausted stores. Her blooming mountains, and her sunny shores, With all the gifts that heaven and earth impart. The smiles of nature, and the charms of art. While proud oppression in her valleys reigns, And tyranny usurps her happy plains ? The poor inhabitant beholds in vain The redd'ning orange, and the swelling grain : Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines. And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines: Starves in the midst of nature's bounty curst, And in the loaded vineyard dies for thirst. liberty, thou goddess heavenly bright. Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight ! Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign, Aiid smiling plenty leads thy wanton train ; Eas'd of her load, subjection grows more light, And poverty looks cheerful in thy sight ; Thou mak'st the gloomy face of nature gay, Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day. Thee, goddess, thee, Britannia's isle adores ; How has she oft exhausted all her stores. How oft in fields of death thy presence sought. Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought ! On foreign mountains may the sun refine The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine ; With citron groves adorn a distant soil, And the fat olive swell with floods of oil : We envy not the warmer clime, that lies In ten degrees of more indulgent skies ; Nor at the coarseness of our heaven repine, Thoufrh o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine : 'Tis liberty that crowns Britannia's isle. And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains smile. Ode. How are thy servants blest, Lord I How sure is their defence ! Eternal wisdom is their guide, Their help Omnipotence. In foreign realms, and lands remote, Supported by thy care. Through burning climes I pass'd unhurt, And breathed in tainted air. ' Malone states that this was the first time the phrase classic ffrotind, since so common, was ever used. It was ridiculed by some contemporaries as very quaint and affected. Thy mercy sweeten'd every soil, !NIade every region please ; The hoary Alpine hills it warm'd. And smooth'd the Tyrrhene seas. Think, my soul ! devoutly think, How, with aflrighted eyes. Thou saw'st the wide-extended deep In all its horrors rise. Confusion dwelt on every face, And fear in every heart. When waves on waves, and gulfs on gulfs, O'ercame the pilot's art. Yet then from all my griefs, Lord ! Thy mercy set me free ; Whilst in the confidence of prayer lily soul took hold on thee. For though in dreadful whirls we hung High on the broken wave,* I knew thou wert not slow to hear. Nor impotent to save. The storm was laid, the winds retir'd, Obedient to thy will ; The sea that roar'd at thy command, At thy command was still. In midst of dangers, fears, and death, Thy goodness I'll adore ; I'll praise thee for thy mercies past, And humbly hope for more. My life, if thou preserv'st my life, Thy sacrifice shall be ; And death, if death must be my doom, Shall join my soul to thee. Ode. The spacious firmament on high. With all the blue ethereal s'vv. And spangled heavens, a shining frame, Their great original proclaim : Th' unwearied sun, from day to day. Does his Creator's power display. And publishes to every land The work of an Almighty hand. Soon as the evening shades prevail. The moon takes up the wond'rous tale, And nightly to the list'ning earth Repeats the story of her birth : Whilst all the stars that round her bum, And all the planets in their turn, Confirm the tidings as they roll. And spread the truth from pole to pole. What, though in solemn silence, all Move round the dark terrestrial ball ? What though nor real voice nor sound Amid their radiant orbs be found 1 In reason's ear they all rejoice. And utter forth a glorious voice. For ever singing, as they shine. The hand that made us is divine. * ' The earliest composition that I recollect takinp: any plea» sure in was the Vision of Mirza, and a hjTnn of Addison s, beRinning, " How are thy servants blest, (t Lord I" I particu- larly remember one half-stanza, which was music to my boy- ish ear : " For though in dreadful whirls we hung High on the broken wave."' IJurvs — Letter to />>■ Moore. 513 r PROM 1689 CYCLOPAEDIA OF TO 172r. [The Battle of Blaihcim.'] [From ' The Campaign.'] Cut no->v the trumpet terrible from far, In shriller clangours auimates the war ; Coufed'rate drums in fuller concert beat, And echoing hills the loud alarm repeat : Gallia's proud standards to Bavaria's join'd, Unfurl their gilded lilies in the wind ; The daring prince his blasted hopes renews, And while the thick embattled host he views Stretch'd out in deep array, and dreadful lengt'o, His heart dilates, and glories in his strength. The fatal day its mighty course began. That the griev'd world had long desir'd in vain ; States that their new captivity bemoan'd, Armies of martyrs that in exile groan'd. Sighs from the depth of gloomy dungeons heard, And prayers in bitterness of soul preferr'd ; Europe's loud cries, that providence assail'd. And Anna's ardent vows, at length prevail'd ; The day was come when Heav'n design'd to show His care and conduct of the world below. Behold, in a^vful march and dread array The long-extended squadrons shape their way ! Death, in approaching, terrible, imparts An anxious horror to the bravest hearts ; Yet do their beating breasts demand the strife, And thirst of glory quells the love of life. No vulgar fears can British minds control ; Heat of revenge, and noble pride of soul, O'erlook the foe, advantag'd by his post. Lessen his numbers, and contract his host ; Though fens and floods possess'd the middle space. That unprovok'd they would have fear'd to pass ; Nor fens nor floods can stop Britannia's bands, "When her proud foe rang'd on their borders stands. But 0, my muse, what numbers wilt thou find To sing the furious troops in battle join'd ! Methinks I hear the drum's tumultuous sound, The victor's shouts and dying groans confound ; The dreadful burst of cannon rend the skies, And all the thunder of the battle rise. 'Twas then great Matlbro's mighty soul was prov'd, That, in the shock of charging hosts unmov'd, Arnidst confusion, horror, and despair, Examin'd all the dreadful scenes of war; In peaceful thought the field of death survey'd. To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid. Inspired repuls'd battalions to engage, And taught the doubtful battle where to rage. So when an angel, by divine command, With rising tempests shakes a guilty land. Such as of late o'er pale Britannia pass'd. Calm and serene he drives the furious blast. And, pleas'd th' Almighty's orders to perform. Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm. [The concluding simile of the angel has been much celebrated, and was so admired by the lord treasurer, that on seeing it, without waiting for the completion of the poem, he rewarded the poet by appointing him, in the jilace of JNIr Locke (who had been promoted), a commissioner of appeals.] [ From the Tragedy of Cato.^ Act iv. — Scene iv. Re-enter Fortius. Portius. Misfortune on misfortune! grief on grief! My brother Marcus Calo. Hah ! what has he done ? Has he forsook his post ? has he given way ? Did he look tamely on, and let them pass ? L Portiics. Scarce had I left my father, but 1 met him Borne on the shields of his surviving soldiers, Breathless and pale, and cover'd o'er with wounds. Long at the head of his few faithful friends He stood the shock of a whole host of foes ; Till obstinately brave, and bent on death, Opprest with multitudes, he greatly fell. Cato. I'm satisfied. Fortius. Nor did he fall before His sword had pierced through the false h.cart of Syphax. Yonder he lies. I saw the hoary traitor Grin in the pangs of death, and bite the ground. Cato. Thanks to the gods ! my boy has done his duty. Portius, when I am dead, be sure thou place His um near mine. Portius. Long may they keep asunder! Lxi.civ^. Cato ! arm thy soul with all its patience ; See where the corse of thy dead son approaches I The citizens and senators, alarmed. Have gather'd round it, and attend it weeping. Cato. [meeting the coi-pse.] Welcome, my son ! here lay him down, my friends, Full in my sight, that I may view at leisure The bloody corse, and count those glorious wounds. How beautiful is death, when eam'd by virtue ! Who would not be that youth 1 what pity is it That we can die but once to serve our country ! AVhy sits this sadness on your brows, my friends' I should have blushed if Cato's house had stood Secure, and flourished in a civil war. Portius, behold thy brother, and remember Thy life is not thy own when Rome demands it. Juha. Was ever man like this ! \_Aside. Cato. Alas ! my friends, Why mourn you thus ? let not a private loss AflSict j-our hearts. 'Tis Rome requires our tears. The mistress of the world, the seat of empire, The nurse of heroes, the delight of gods. That humbled the proud tyrants of the cartli. And set the nations free, Rome is no more. liberty ! virtue ! my country I Juha. Behold that upright man I Rome fills his eyes With tears that flow'd not o'er his own dead son. [Ande. Cato. Whate'er the Roman virtue has subdued. The sun's whole course, the day and year, are Ca-sar's. For him the self-devoted Decii died. The Fabii fell, and the great Scipios conquered : Even Pompey fought for Ca?sar. Oh ! ray friends ! How is the toil of flite the work of ages. The Roman empire fallen ! curst ambition ! Fallen into Cresar's hands ! our great forefathers Had left him nought to conquer but his country. Juha. While Cato lives, Caesar will blush to see Mankind enslaved, and be ashamed of empire. Cato. Caesar ashamed ! has not he seen Pharsalia ! Lucius. Cato, 'tis time thou save thyself and tis. Cato. Lose not a thought on me, I'm out of danger. Heaven will not leave me in the victor's hand. Caesar shall never say I conquer'd Cato. But oh ! my friends, your safety fills my heart With anxious thoughts : a thousand secret terrors Rise in my soul : how shall I save my friends ! 'Tis now, Caesar, I begin to fear thee ! Lucius. Caesar has mercy, if we ask it of him. Cato. Then ask it, I conjure you ! let him know Whate'er was done against him, Cato did it. Add, if you please, that I request it of him. The virtue of my friends may pass unpunish'd. Juba, ray heart is troubled for thy sake. Should I advise thee to regain Numidia, Or seek the conqueror ? 544 POKTS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. JO?MTHAN 3WIFT. Jitha. If I forsake thee Whilst I have life, may heaven nbaiidon Juba! Cuto. Thy Tirtues, prince, if I foresee ari;L'ht, Will one day make thee great ; at Rome, hereafter, 'Twill be no crime to have been Cato's friend. Porting, draw near ! ]My son, thou oft has seen Thy sire engaged in a corrupted state, Wrestling with vice and faction : now thou soe.st me Spent, overpower'd, despairing of success : Let me advise thee to retreat betimes To thy paternal seat, the Sabine field. Where the great Censor toiled with his own hands. And all our frugal ancestors were blest In humble virtues and a rural life. There live retired ; pray for the peace of Rome ; Content thj'self to be obscurely good. When vice prevails, and impious men bear sway. The post of honour is a private station. Portius. I hope my father does not recommend A life to Portius that he scorns himself. Cato. Farewell, my friends ! if there be any of you Who dare not trust the victor's clemency. Know, there are ships prepared by my command (Their sails already opening to the winds) That shall convey you to the wish'd-for port. Is there aught else, my friends, I can do for 3'ou ? The conqueror draws near. Once more farewell ! If e'er we meet hereafter, we shall meet In happier climes, and on a safer shore. Where Coesar never shall approach us more. [Pointing to his (lead son. There the brave youth, with love of virtue fired. Who greatly in his country's cause expired. Shall know he conquer'd. The firm patriot there (Who made the welfare of mankind his care). Though still, by faction, vice, and fortune crost, Shall find the generous labour was not lost. Act v.— Scene I. [Cato, alone, sitting in a thoughtful posture : in his hand Plato's book on the Immortality of the SouL A drawn s« ord on the tahle by him.] It must be so — Plato, thou reason'st well ! — Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire. This longing after immortality ? Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror. Of falling into nought 1 why shrinks the soul Back on herself, and startles at destruction ? 'Tis the divinity that stirs within us ; 'Tis b 'aven itself that points out an hereafter. And hitlmates eternity to man. Eternity ! thou pleasing, dreadful thought ! Through what variety of untried being. Through what new scenes and changes must we pass ? The wide, th' unbounded prospect, lies before me ; But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. Here will I hold. If there's a power above us, (And that there is, all nature cries aloud Through all her works), he must delight in virtue ; And that which he delights in must be happy. But when ? or where ? This world was made for CiEsar. I'm weary of conjectures. This must end them. [_La>jinff his hand on his sivord. Thus am I doubly arm'd : my death and life. My bane and antidote are both before me : This in a moment brings me to an end ; But this informs me I shall never die. The soul, secured in her existence, smiles At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. The stars shall fade away, the sun himself Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years; But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth. Unhurt amidst the wars of elements. The wrecks of matter, and the crush of worlds. What means this heaviness that hangs upon me 1 This lethargy that creeps through all my senses ? Nature oppress'd, and harass'd out with care, Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favour her. That my awaken'd soul may take her flight, Renew'd in all her strength, and fresh with life, An ofl^ering fit for heaven. Let guilt or fear Disturb man's rest : Cato knows neither of them ; ludift'erent in his choice to sleep or die. JONATHAN SWIFT. Jonathan Swift, one of the most remarkable men of the age, was born in Dublin in 1667. His father was steward to the society of the King's Inns, but died in great poverty before the birth of his dis* tinguished son. Swift was supported by his uncle and the circumstances of want and dependence with which he was early familiar, seem to have su.ik deep in his haughty soul. ' Born a posthumous child,* says Sir Walter Scott, ' and bred up an object of charity, he early adopted the custom of observing his birth-day as a term, not of jo}', but of sorrow, and of reading, when it annually recurred, the striking passage of Scripture in which Job laments and execrates the day upon which it was said in his father's house " that a man-child was oorn." ' Swift was sent to Trinity college, Dublin, whicn he left in his twenty-first j'car, and was received into the house of Sir William Temple, a distant relation of his mother. Here Swift met King William, and indulged hopes of preferment, which "were never rea- lised. In 1692 he repaired to Oxford, for the pur- pose of taking his degree of ^LA., and shortly after obtaining this distinction he resolved to quit the establishment of Temple and take orders in the Irish church. He procured the prebend of Kilroot, in the diocese of Connor, but was soon disgusted with the life of an obscure country clergyman with an income of £100 a-year. He returned to Moor- park, the house of Sir William Temple, and threw up his living at Kilroot. Temjile died in KiOO, and tlie poet was glad to accompany Lord Berkeley to Ireland in the capacity of chaplain. From this nobleman he obtained the rectory of Aghar, and the vicarages of Laraccr and Rathveggan ; to which .545 FROM 1689 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1727. was afterwards added the prebend of Dunlavin, making his income only about £200 per annum. At Moorpark, Swift had contracted an intimacy •with Miss Hester Johnson, daughter of Sir William Temple's steward, and, on his settlement in Ireland, this lady, accompanied by another female of middle age, went to reside in his neighbourhood. Her future life was intimately connected with that of Swift, and he has immortalised her under the name of Stella. In 1701, Swift became a political writer on the side of the Whigs, and on his visits to England, he associated with Addison, Steele, and Arbuthnot. In 1710, conceiving that he was neglected by the mi- nistry, he quarrelled with the Whigs, and united with Harley and the Tory administration. He was re- ceived with open arms. ' I stand with the new people,' he writes to Stella, ' ten times better than ever I did with the old, and forty times more caressed.' He carried with him shining weapons for party warfare — irresistible and unscrupulous satire, steady hate, and a dauntless spirit. From his new allies, he received, in 1713, the deanery of St Patrick's. During his residence in England, he had engaged the affections of another young lady, Esther Vanhomrigh, who, under the name of Vanessa, rivalled Stella in poetical celebrity, and in personal misfortune. After the death of her father, this young lady and her sister retired to Ireland, where their father had left a small property near Dublin. Human nature has, perhaps, never before or since presented the spectacle of a man of such transcendent powers as Swift involved in such a pitiable labyrinth of the affections. His pride or ambition led him to postpone indefinitely his mar- riage with Stella, to whom he Avas early attached. Though, he said, he ' loved her better than his life a thousand millions of times,' he kept her hanging on in a state of hope deferred, injurious alike to her peace and her reputation. Did he fear the scorn and laughter of the world, if he should marry the obscure daughter of Sir William Temple's steward ? He dared not afterwards, with manly sincerity, de- clare liis situation to Vanessa, when this second victim avowed her passion. He was flattered that a girl of eighteen, of beauty and accomplishments, sighed for ' a gown of forty-fom*,' and he did not stop to weigh the consequences. The removal of Vanessa to Ireland, as Stella had gone before, to be near the presence of Swift — her irrepressible passion, which no coldness or neglect could extinguish— her life of deep seclusion, only chequered by the occa- sional visits of Swift, each of which she commemo- rated by planting with her own hand a laurel in the garden where they met — her agonizing remon- strances, when all her demotion and her offerings had failed, are touching bej'.-nd expression. ' The reason I write to you,' she says, ' is because I cannot tell it to you, should I eee you. For when I begin to complain, then you are angry ; and there is something in your looks so awful, that it strikes me dumb. 1 that you may have but so much re- gard for me left, that this complaint may touch your soul with pity. I say as little as ever I can. Did you but know what I thought, I am sure it would move you to forgive me, and believe that I cannot help telling you this, and hve.' To a being thus agitated and engrossed with the strongest passion, how poor, how cruel, must have seemed the return of Swift ! Cadenus, common forms apart, In every scene had kept his heart; Had sighed and huigui.shed, vowed and writ. For pastime, or to shew his wit; But books, and time, and state affairs, Had spoiled his fashionable airs : He now could praise, esteem, approve. But understood not what was love : His conduct might have made him styled A father, and the nymph his child. That innocent delight he took To see the virgin mind her book. Was but the master's secret joy In school to hear the finest boy. The tragedy continued to deepen as it approached the close. Eight years had Vanessa nursed in soli- tude the hopeless attachment. At length she wrote to Stella, to ascertain the nature of the connexion between her and Swift ; the latter obtained the fatal letter, and rode instantly to Marley abbey, the re- sidence of the unliappy Vanessa. ' As he entered the apartment,' to adopt the picturesque language of Scott in recording tlie scene, ' the sternness of his countenance, which was peculiarly formed to express the stronger passions, struck the unfortunate Vanessa with such terror, that she could scarce ask whether he would not sit down. He answered by flinging a letter on the table; and instantly leaving the house, mounted his horse, and returned to Dublin. When Vanessa opened the packet, she only found her own letter to Stella. It was her death-warrant. She sunk at once under the disappointment of the delayed yet cherished hopes which had so long sickened her heart, and beneath the unrestrained wrath of him for whose sake she had indulged them. How long she survived this last interview is uncertain, but the time does not seem to have exceeded a few weeks.'* Even Stella, though ultimately united to Swift, dropped into tlie grave without any public recogni- tion of the tie ; they were married in secrecy in the garden of the deanery, when on her part all but life had faded away. The fair sufferers were deeply avenged. But let us adopt the only charitable — perhaps the just — interpretation of Swift's conduct ; the malady which at length overwhelmed his reason might then have been lurking in his frame ; the heart might have felt its ravages before the intel- lect. A comparison of dates proves that it was some years before Vanessa's death that the scene occurred which lias been related by Young, the author of the ' Night Thoughts.' Swift was walking with some friends in the neighbourhood of Dublin, ' Perceiving he did not follow us,' says Young, ' I * Tlie talents of Vanessa may be scon from Ikt letters to Swift. They are further evinced in the foUnwing Ode to Spring, in which she alludes to her unhappy attachment : — Hail, blushing goddess, beanteous Spring ! AVho in thy jocund train dost bring Loves and graces — smiling hours — Balmy breezes — fragrant flowers ; Come, with tints of roseate hue, Nature's faded charms renew ! Yet why should I thy presence hail ? To me no more the breathing gale Comes fraught with sweets, no more the rose With such transcendent beauty blows, As when Cadenus blest the scene, And shared with me those joys serene. When, imperccivcd, the lambent fire Of friendship kindled new desire ; Still listening to his tuneful tongue, The truths which angels might have sung, Divine imprest their gentle sway. And sweetly stole my soul away. My guide, instructor, lover, friend. Dear names, in one idea blend ; Oh ! still conjoined, your incense rise, And waft sweet odours to the skies! 546 ENGLISH LITERATURE. JONATHAN SWIFT. went back, and found him fixed as a statue, and earnestly gazing upward at a noble elm, which in its uppermost branches was much decayed. Point- ing at it, he said, " I shall be like that tree ; I shall die at the top." ' The same presentiment finds ex- pression in his exquisite imitation of Horace (book iL satire 6.), made in conjunction with Pope: — I've often wished that I had clear For life six hundred pounds a-year, A handsome house to lodge a friend, A river at my garden's end, A terrace-walk, and half a rood Of land, set out to plant a wood. Well, now I have all this and more, I ask not to increase my store ; But here a grievance seems to lie. All this is mine but till I die ; I can't but think 'twould sound more clever, To me and to my heirs for ever. If I ne'er got or lost a groat By any trick or any fault ; And if I pray by reason's rules, And not like forty other fools, As thus, ' Vouchsafe, oh gracious ]\Iaker ! To grant me this and 'tother acre ; Or if it be thy will and pleasure. Direct my plough to find a treasure!' But only what my station fits, And to he I'ept in my nrjht xoits; Preserve, Almighty Providence ! Just what you gave me, competence. And let me in these shades compose Something in verse as true as prose. Swift was at first disliked in Ireland, but the Drapiers Letters and other works gave him un- bounded popularity. His wisli to serve Ireland was one of his ruling passions ; yet it was something like the instinct of the inferior animals towards their offspring; waywardness, contemjjt, and abuse were strangely mingled with affectionate attaclmient and ardent zeal. Kisses and curses were alternately on his lips. Ireland, however, gave Swift her whole heart — he was more than king of the rabble. After various attacks of deafness and giddiness, his temper became ungovernable, and his reason gave way. Truly and beautifully has Scott said, ' the stage darkened ere the curtain fell.' Swift's almost total sUence during the last three years of his life (for the last year he spoke not a word) appals and overawes the imagination. He died on the 19th of October 1745, and was interred in St Patrick's cathedral, amidst the tears and prayers of his countrymen. His fortune, amounting to about £10,000, he left chiefly to found a lunatic asylum in Dublin, which he had long meditated. He gave the little wealth he had To build a house for fools and mad, And showed, by one satiric touch. No nation wanted it so much. Gulliver's Travels and the Tale of a Tub must ever be the chief corner-stones of Swift's fame. The purity of his prose style renders it a model of Eng- lish composition. He could wither with his irony and invective ; excite to mirth with liis wit and in- vention ; transport as with wonder at his marvellous powers of grotesque and ludicrous combination, his knowledge of human nature (piercing quite through the deeds of men), and his matchless power of feign- ing reality, and assuming at pleasure different cha- racters and situations in life. He is often disgust- ingly coarse and gross in his style and subjects ; but his grossness is always repulsive, not seductive. Swift's poetry is perfect, exactly as the old Dutch artists were perfect painters. He never attempted to rise above this 'visible diuinal sphere.' He ia Tomb of Swift in DubLn catliedraL content to lash the frivolities of the ;*ge, and to de- pict its absurdities. In his too faithful representa- tions, there is much to condemn and mucli to admire. Who has not felt the truth and humour of his City Shoiver, and his description of Morning? Or the liveliness of his Grand Question Debated, in which the knight, his lady, and the chambermaid, are so admirably drawn ? His most ambitious flight is his Rhapsody on Poetry, and even this is pitched in a pretty low key. Its best lines are easily remembered : Not empire to the rising sun. By valour, conduct, fortune won ; Not highest wisdom in debates For framing Laws to govern states , Not skill in sciences profound. So large to grasp the circle round, Such heavenly influence require. As how to strike the Muses' lyre. Not beggar's brat on bulk begot, Not bastard of a pedler Scot, Not boy brought up to cleaning shoes. The spawn of Bridewell or the stews, Not infants dropt, the spurious pledges Of gipsies littering under hedges. Are so disqualified by fate To rise in church, or law, or state, As he whom Phoebus in his ire Hath blasted with poetic fire. Swift's verses on his own death are the finest example of his peculiar poetical vein. He predicts what his friends will say of his illness, his death, and his reputation, varying tlie style and the topics to suit each of the parties. The versification is easy and flowing, with nothing but tlie most familiar and commonplace expressions. There arc some little touclies of homely patlios, which are felt like trick- ling tears, and the effect of the piece altogether is electrical: it carries with it the strongest convic tion of its sincerity and truth ; and we see and feel 547 HiOM 1689 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 172V (especially as years creep on) how faithful a depicter of human nature, in its frailty and weakness, was the misanthropic dean of St Patrick's. [_A Description of the Morning.'] Now hardly here and there a hackney-coach Appearing showed the ruddy mom's approach. The slipshod 'prentice from his master's door Had pared the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor. Now Moll had whirled her mop with dexterous airs, Prepared to scrub the entry and the stairs. The youth with broomy stumps began to trace The kennel's edge, where wheels had woni the place. The small-coal man was heard with cadence deep, Till drown'd in shriller notes of chimney-sweep : Duns at his lordship's gate began to meet ; And brick-dust Moll had screamed through half the street. The turnkey now his flock returning sees, Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees ; The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands, And schoolboys lag with satchels in their hands. lA Desmption of a City Shower.^ Careful observers may foretell the hour (By sure prognostics) when to dread a shower. While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o'er Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more. Returning home at night, you'll find the sink Strike your offended sense with double stink. If 3'ou be wise, then go not far to dine ; You'll spend in coach-hire more than save in wine. A coming shower your shooting corns presage, Old aches will throb, your hollow tooth will rage : Sauntering in coffee-house is Dulman seen ; He damns the climate, and complains of spleen. Meanwhile the south, rising with dabbled wings, A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings. That swilled more liquor than it could contain. And, like a drunkard, gives it up again. Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope, While the first drizzling shower is borne aslope ; Such is that sprinkling, which some careless quean Flirts on you from her mop — but not so clean : You fly, invoke the gods ; then turning, stop To rail ; she, singing, still whirls on her mop. Not yet the dust had shunned the unequal strife. But, aided by the wind, fought still for life, And wafted with its foe by violent gust, 'Twas doubtful which was rain, and which was dust. Ah ! where must needy poet seek for aid. When dust and rain at once his coat invade? Sole coat, where dust cemented by the rain Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain ! Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down. Threatening with deluge this devoted town. To shops in crowds the daggled females fly. Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy. The Templar spruce, while every spout's a-broach. Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach. The tucked-up sempstress walks with hasty strides. While streams run down her oiled umbrella's sides. Here various kinds, by various fortunes led, Commence acquaintance underneath a shed. Triumphant Tories and desponding Whigs, Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs. Boxed in a chair the beau impatient sits. While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits ; And ever and anon with frightful din The leather sounds ; he trembles from within. So when Troy chainnen bore the wooden steed. Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed (Those bully Greeks, who, as the modems do, iQ^tead of paying chainnen, run them tlirough). Laocoon struck the outside with his spear, And each imprisoned hero quaked for fear. Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow, And bear their trophies with them as they go : Filths of all hues and odours seem to tell What street they sailed from by their sight and smeU. They, as each torrent drives, with rapid force. From Smithfield or St 'Pulchre's shape their course, And in huge confluence joined at Snowhill ridge, Fall from the conduit prone to Holbom Bridge. Sweepings from butchers' stalls, dung, guts, and blood, Drowned puppies, stinking sprats, all drenched in mud. Dead cats, and turnip-tops, come tumbling down the flood. Baucis and Philemon. [Imitated from the Eighth Book of Ovid.— Written about thft year 1708.1 In ancient times, as story tells. The saints would often leave their cells. And stroll about, but hide their quality, To try good people's hospitality. It happened on a winter night (As authors of the legend \vrite). Two brother hermits, saints by trade, Taking their tour in masquerade, Disguised in tattered habits, went To a small village down in Kent ; Where, in the strollers' canting strain, They begged from door to door in vain J Tried every tone might pit}' win. But not a soul would let them in. Our wandering saints in woful state. Treated at this ungodly rate. Having through all the village past. To a small cottage came at last, Where dwelt a good old honest yeoman, Called in the neighbourhood Philemon, "\^'ho kindly did the saints invite In his poor hut to pass the night. And then the hospitable sire Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire. While he from out the chimney took A flitch of bacon off the hook. And freely from the fattest side Cut out large slices to be fried ; Then stepped aside to fetch them drink^ Filled a large jug up to the brink, And saw it fairly twice go round ; Yet (what was wonderful) they found 'Twas still replenished to the top, As if they ne'er had touched a drop. The good old couple were amazed, And often on each other gazed : For both were frighted to the heart. And just began to cry — ' What art V Then softly turned aside to view. Whether the lights were burning blue. The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't. Told them their calling and their errant! Good folks, you need not be afraid, We are but saints, the hermits said ; No hurt shall come to you or yours ; But, for that pack of churlish boors. Not fit to live on Christian ground. They and their houses shall l)e drowned : While you shall see your cottage rise. And grow a church before your eyes. They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft. The roof began to mount aloft ; Aloft rose every beam and rafter, The heavy wall climbed slowly after. The chimney widened, and grew higher, Became a steeple with a spire. 548 ENGLISH LITERATURE. Jonathan swift. The kettle to the top was hoist, And there stood fastened to a joist; But with the up-side down, to show Its inclination for below : In vain ; for some superior force. Applied at bottom, stops its course; I)oomed ever in suspense to dwell, 'Tis now no kettle, but a bell. A wooden jack, which had almost Lost by disuse the art to roast, A sudden alteration feels. Increased by new intestine wheels : And, what exalts the wonder more, The number made the motion slower ; The filer, which, thought 't had leaden feet. Turned round so quick, you scarce could see't. Now, slackened by some secret power, Can hardly move an inch an hour. The jack and chimney, near allied, Had never left each other's side : The chimney to a steeple grown, The jack would not be left alone ; » But, up against the steeple reared, Became a clock, and still adhered : And still its love to household cares. By a shrill voice at noon, declares ; Warning the cook-maid not to bum That roast meat, which it cannot turn. The groaning chair was seen to crawl, Like a huge snail, half up the wall ; There stuck aloft in public view. And, with small change, a pulpit grew. The porringers, that in a row Hung high, and made a glittering show. To a less noble substance changed. Were now but leathern buckets ranged. The ballads pasted on the wall, Of Joan of France, and English Moll, Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, The Little Children in the Wood, Now seemed to look abundance better, Improved in picture, size, and letter ; And high in order placed, describe The heraldry of every tribe. A bedstead of the antique mode. Compact of timber many a load ; Such as our grandsires wont to use. Was metamorphosed into pews ; Which still their ancient nature keep. By lodging folks disposed to sleep. The cottage, by such feats as these, Grown to a church by just degrees ; The hermits then desire their host To ask for what he fancied most. Philemon, having paused a while. Returned them thanks in homely style ; Then said, my house is grown so fine, Methinks I still would call it mine : I'm old, and fain would live at ease ; Make me the parson, if you please. He spoke, and presently he feels His grazier's coat fall down his heels : He sees, yet hardly can believe. About each arm a pudding sleeye : His waistcoat to a cassock grew, And both assumed a sable hue ; But being old, continued just As threadbare and as full of dust. His talk was now of tithes and dues ; Could smoke his pipe, and read the news : Knew how to preach old sennons next. Vamped in the preface and the text : At christenings well could act his part, And had the service all by heart : Wished women might have children fast, And thought whose sow had farrowed last : Against dissenters would repine. And stood up firm for right divine ; Found his head filled with many a system. But classic authors — he ne'er missed them. Thus having furbished up a parson. Dame Baucis next they played their farce on : Instead of home-spun coifs, were seen Good pinners, edged with Colberteen : Her petticoat, transformed apace, Became black satin flounced with lace. Plain Goody would no longer down ; 'Twas Madam, in her grograra gown. Philemon was in great surprise. And hardly could believe his eyes : Amazed to see her look so prim ; And she admired as much at him. Thus, happy in their change of life. Were several years the man and wife : When on a day, which proved their last, Discoursing o'er old stories past. They went by chance, amidst their talk, To the churchyard to fetch a walk ; When Baucis hastily cried out. My dear, I see your forehead sprout ! Sprout, quoth the man, what's this you tell us ! I hope j-ou don't believe me jealous ? But yet, methinks, I feel it true ; And really yours is budding too Nay now I cannot stir my foot ; It feels as if 'twere taking root. Description would but tire my Muse ; In short, they both were turned to yews. Old Goodman Dobson, of the green, Remembers he the trees hath seen ; He'll talk of them from noon to night. And goes with folks to show the sight ; On Sundays, after evening praj-er, He gathers all the parish there ; Points out the place of either yew. Here Baucis, there Philemon grew. 'Till once a parson of our town. To mend his barn, cut Baucis down ; At which, 'tis hard to be believed, How much the other tree was grieved ; Grew scrubby, died a-top, was stunted ; So the nest parson stubbed and burnt it. [ Verses on Tiis oxen 7>cafA.] As Rochefoucault his maxims Irew From nature, I believe them ti le : They argue no corrupted mind In him ; the fault is in mankind. This maxim more than all the rest Is thought too base for human breast : ' In all distresses of our friends We first consult our private ends ; While nature, kindly bent to ease us. Points out some circumstance to please us.' If this perhaps your patience move. Let reason and experience prove. We all behold with envious eyes Our equal raised above our size. I love my friend as well as you ; But why should he obstruct my view ? Then let me have the higher jKist ; Suppose it but an inch at most. If in a battle you should find r)ne whom you love of all mankind. Had some heroic action done, A champion killed, or trophy won ; Hather than thus be oveno])t, XS'ould you not wish his laurels cropt ! l>ear honest Ned is in the gout, Lies racked with pain, and you without : 549 FBOM 1689 CYCLOPAEDIA OF to 1727. How patiently you hear him groan ! I'd have him throw away his pen — How glad the case is not your own ! But there's no talking to some men. What poet would not grieve to see And then their tenderness appears His brother write as well as he ? By adding largely to my years : But, rather than they should excel. He's older than he would be reckoned. Would wish his rivals all in hell ? And well remembers Charles the Second. Her end when emulation misses, He hardly drinks a pint of wine ; She turns to envy, stihgs, and hisses : And that, I doubt, is no good sign. The strongest friendship yields to pride, His stomach, too, begins to fail ; Unless the odds be on our side. Last year we thought him strong and hale ; Vain human kind ! fantastic race ! But now he's quite another thing ; Thy various follies who can trace i I wish he may hold out till spring. Self-love, ambition, envy, pride, They hug themselves and reason thus : Their empire in our hearts divide. It is not yet so bad with us. Give others riches, power, and station, In such a case they talk in tropes, 'Tis all on me a usurpation. And by their fears express their hopes. I have no title to aspire ; Some great misfortune to portend Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher. No enemy can match a friend. In Pope I cannot read a line, With all the kindness they profess, But with a sigh I wish it mine : The merit of a lucky guess When he can in one couplet fix (When daily how-d'ye's come of course. More sense than I can do in sis. And servants answer, ' Worse and worse !') It gives me such a jealous fit. Would please them better than to tell. I cry. Pox take him and his wit. That, God be praised ! the dean is well. I grieve to be outdone by Gay Then he, who prophesied the best, In ray own humorous biting way. Approves his foresight to the rest : Arbuthnot is no more my friend, ' You know I always feared the worst, Who dares to irony pretend. And often told you so at first.' Which I was born to introduce, He'd rather choose that 1 should die. Eefined it first, and showed its use. Than his prediction prove a lie. St John,' as well as Pulteney,^ knows Not one foretells I shall recover. That I had some repute for prose ; But all agree to give me over. And, till they drove me out of date, Yet, should some neighbour feel a ])ain Could maul a minister of state. Just in the parts where 1 complain, If they have mortified my pride, How many a message would he send ! And made me tlirow my pen aside ; What hearty prayers, that I should mend ! If with such talents heaven hath blest 'em, Inquire what regimen I kept? Have I not reason to detest 'em ? What gave me ease, and how I slept ? To all my foes, dear fortune, send And more lament when I was dead. Thy gifts, but never to my friend : Than all the snivellers round my bed. I tamely can endure the first ; My good companions, never fear ; But this with envy makes me burst. For, though you may mistake a year, Thus much may serve by way of proem ; Though your prognostics run too fast. Proceed we therefore to our poem. Thoy must be verified at last. The time is not remote, when I Behold the fatal day arrive ! Must by the course of nature die ; How is the dean ? he's just alive. When, I foresee, my special friends Now the departing prayer is read ; Will try to find their private ends : He hardly breathes. The dean is dead. And, though 'tis hardly understood, Before the passing-bell begun. Which way my death can do them go^id. The news through half the towi\ has run ; Yet thus, methinks, I hear them speak : Oh ! may we all for death prepare ! See, how the dean begins to break ! What has he left ? and who's his heir? Poor gentleman ! he droops apace ! I know no more than what the news is ; You plainly find it in his face. 'Tis all bequeathed to public uses. That old vertigo in his head To public uses ! there's a whim ! Will never leave him, till he's dead. What had the public done for him { Besides, his memory decays : Mere envy, avarice, and pride : He recollects not what he says ; He gave it all — but first he died. He cannot call his friends to mind ; And had the dean in all the nation Forgets the place where last he dined ; No worthy friend, no poor relation ? Plies you with stones o'er and o'er; So ready to do strangers good. He told them fifty times before. Forgetting his own flesh and blood ! How does he fancy we can sit Now Grub Street wits are all employed ; To hear his out-of-fashion wit ? With elegies the town is cloyed : But he takes up with younger folks. Some paragraph in every ])a])er Who for his wine will bear his jokes. To curse the dean, or bless the drapier. Faith, he must make his stories shorter, The doctors, tender of tlieir fame, Or change his comrades once a quarter : Wisely on me lay all the bl.ame. In half the time he talks them round. We must confess his case was nice; There must another set be found. But he would never take advice. For poetry, he's past his prime ; Had he been ruled, for aught appears. He takes an hour to find a rhyme : He might have lived these twenty years; His fire is out, his wit decayed, For when we opened him, we found His fancy sunk, his muse a jade. That all his vital parts were sound. Lord Viscount Bolingbroke. From Dublin soon to London spread. ■WUliaiD Pulteney, Esq., created Earl of Dath. 'Tis told at court the dean is dead. 5S0 ENGLISH LITERATURE. JONATHAN SWIFT. And Lady Suffolk' in the spleen Runs laughing up to tell the queen ; The queen so gracious, mild, and good, Cries, ' Is he gone ! 'tis time he should. He's dead, you say, then let him rot ! I'm glad the medals were forgot. I promised him, I owTi ; but when 1 I only was the princess then ; But now as consort of the king, You know 'tis quite another thing.'^ Now Charteris,-' at Sir Robert's^ levee. Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy ; 'Why, if he died without his shoes (Cries Bob), I'm sorrj' for the news: Oh, were the wretch but living still. And in his place my good friend Will l^ Or had a mitre on his head. Provided Bolingbroke was dead !' Now Curie" his shop from rubbish drains : Three genuine tomes of Swift's Remains ! And then to make them pass the glibber, Revised by Tibbalds, Moore, and Gibber. He'll treat me, as he does my betters, Publish my will, my life, my letters ;7 Revive the libels born to die. Which Pope must bear, as well as I. Here shift the scene, to represent How those I love my death lament. Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay A week, and Arbuthnot a day. St John himself will scarce forbear To bite his pen, and drop a tear. The rest will give a shrug, and cry, ' I'm sorry — but we all must die !' Indifference clad in wisdom's guise, All fortitude of mind supplies ; For how can stony bowels melt In those who never pity felt ? When we are lashed, they kiss the rod, Resigning to the will of God. The fools my juniors by a year Are tortured with suspense and fear ; Who wisely thought my age a screen, When death approached, to stand between ; The screen removed, their hearts are trembling They mourn for me without dissembling. My female friends, whose tender hearts Have better learned to act their parts, Receive the news in doleful dumps : ' The dean is dead (pray, what is trumps I) Then, Lord, have mercy on his soul! (Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.) Six deans, they say, must bear the pall. (I wish I knew what king to call.) Madam, your husband will attend The funeral of so good a friend : No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight ; And he's engaged to-morrow night : My Lady Club will take it ill. If he should fail her at quadrille. He loved the dean^(I lead a heart) But dearest friends, they say, must part. ' The Countess of Suffolk (formerly Mrs Iloward), a lady of the queen's bed-chamber. 2 Queen Caroline had, when princess, promised Swift a pre- sent of medals, which promise was never fulfilled. 3 Colonel Francs Charteris, of infamous character, on whom an epitaph was written by Dr Arbuthnot. * Sir Robert Walpole, then first minister of state, afterwards Earl of Orford. 6 William Pulteney, Esq., the great rival of Walpole. ' An infamous bookseller, who published things in the dean's name, which he never wrote. ' For some of these practices he was brought before the House of Lords. His time was come, he ran his race ; We hope he's in a better place.' Why do wc grieve that friends should die! No loss more easy to supply. One year is past ; a different scene ! No further mention of the dean, Who now, alas ! no more is missed, Tlian if he never did exist. Where's now the favourite of Apollo I Departed : and his works must follow ; Must undergo the common fate ; His kind of wit is out of date. Some country squire to Lintot goes,' Inquires for Swift in verse and prose. Says Lintot, ' I have heard the name ; He died a year ago.' ' The same.' He searches all the shop in vain. ' Sir, you may find them in Duck-Lane. ' I sent them, with a load of books. Last Monday to the pastry-cook's. To fancy they could live a year ! I find you're but a stranger here. The dean was famous in his time. And had a kind of knack at rhyme. His way of writing now is past ; The town has got a better taste. I keep no antiquated stuff, But spick-and-span I have enough. Pray, but do give me leave to show 'era ; Here's CoUey Cibber's birth-day poem ; This ode you never yet have seen By Stephen Duck upon the queen. Then here's a letter finely penned Against the Craftsman and his friend ; It clearly shows that all reflection On ministers is disaffection. Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication, And Mr Henley's-'' last oration. The hawkers have not got them yet ; Your honour please to have a set ?' « * « Suppose me dead ; and then suppose A club assembled at the Rose, Where, from discourse of this and that, I grow the subject of their chat. 'The dean, if we believe report, Was never ill-received at court. Although ironically grave, He shamed the fool, and lashed the knave. To steal a hint was never known. But what he -writ was all his own.' ' Sir, I have heard another story ; He was a most confounded Tory, And grew, or he is much belied, Extremely dull, before he died.' ' Can we the Drapier then forget ? Is not our nation in his debt ? 'Twas he that writ the Drapier's letters!' ' He should Iiave left them for his betterg ; We had a hundred abler men. Nor need depend upon his pen. Say what you will about his reading. You never can defend his breeding; Who, in his satires running riot, Could never leave the world in quiet ; Attacking, when he took the whim. Court, city, camp — all one to him. But why would he, except he slobbered. Offend our patriot, great Sir Robert, Whose counsels aid the sovereign power To save the nation every hour * ' Bernard Lintot, a bookseller. See Poik-'s ' Dunciad' anft Letters. 2 A place where old book.s are sold. 3 Commonly calliHl Orator Iknlcy, a quack iircaclier in Lon« don, of gieat notoriety in his day. 551 FROM 1689 CYCLOPiHUIA OF TO 1727. What scenes of evil he unravels, In satirtis, libels, lying travels ! Not sparing his own clergy-cloth, But eats into it, like a moth !' ' Perhaps I may allow, the dean Had too much satire in his vein. And seemed determined not to starve it, Because no age could more deserve it. Vice, if it e'er can be abashed. Must be or ridiculed or lashed. If you resent it, who's to blame ? He neither knew you, nor your name : Should vice expect to 'scape rebuke, Because its owner is a duke ? His friendships, still to few confined, Were always of the middling kind ; No fools of rank or mongrel breed. Who fain would pass for lords indeed, Where titles give no right or power, And peerage is a withered flower. He would have deemed it a disgrace. If such a wretch had knoivn his face. He never thought an honour done him, Because a peer was proud to own him ; Would rather slip aside, and choose To talk with wits in dirty shoes ; And scorn the tools with stars and garters, So often seen caressing Charteris. He kept with princes due decorum. Yet never stood in awe before 'em. He followed David's lesson just ; In princes never put his trust : And, would you make him truly sour, Provoke him with a slave in power.' ' Alas, poor dean ! his only scope Was to be held a misanthrope. This into general odium drew him. Which, if he liked, much good may't do him. His zeal was not to lash our crimes, But discontent against the times : For, had we made him timely offers To raise his post, or fill his coflTers, Perhaps he might have truckled down. Like other brethren of his gown. For party he would scarce have bled : I say no more — because he's dead. What writings has he left behind ? I hear they're of a different kind : A few in verse ; but most in prose : Some high-flown pamphlets, I suppose : All scribbled in the worst of times. To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes ; To praise Queen Anne, nay more, defend her. As never favouring the Pretender : Or libels yet concealed from sight. Against the court, to show his spite : Perhaps his travels, part the third ; A lie at every second word Offensive to a loyal ear ; But — not one sermon, you may swear.* ' As for his works in verse or prose, I own myself no judge of those. Nor can I tell what critics thought 'em ; But this I know, all people bought 'em. As with a moral view designed. To please, and to reform mankind : And, if he often missed his aim, The world must own it to their shame. The praise is his, and theirs the blame. He gave the little wealth he had To build a house for fools and mad ; To show, by one satiric touch, No nation wanted it so much. That kingdom he hath left his debtor ; I wish it soon may have a better. And, since you dread no further lashes, Methiuks you may forgive his ashes.' The Grand Question Debated : ■\Vhether Hamilton's Ba-\vn should be turned into a Barrack or a Malt-house. 1729.* Thus spoke to my lady the knight^ full of care : Let me have your advice in a weighty affair. This Hamilton's Bawn,2 whilst it sticks on my hand, I lose by the house what I get by the land ; But how to dispose of it to the best bidder, For a barrack or malt-house, we now must consider. First, let me suppose I make it a malt-house, Here I have computed the profit will fall to us ; There's nine hundred pounds for labour and grain, I increase it to twelve, so three hundred remain ; A handsome addition for wine and good cheer. Three dishes a day, and three hogsheads a year ; With a dozen large vessels my vault shall be stored ; No little scrub joint shall come on my board : And you and the dean no more shall combine To stint me at night to one bottle of wine ; Nor shall I, for his humour, permit you to purloin A stone and a quarter of beef from ray sirloin. If I make it a barrack, the crown is my tenant ; My dear, I have pondered again and again on't : In poundage and drawbacks I lose half my rent. Whatever they give me I must be content, Or join with the court in every debate ; And rather than that I would lose my estate. Thus ended the knight : thus began his meek wife ; It mtist and shall be a barrack, my life. I'm grovm a mere mopus ; no company comes. But a rabble of tenants and rusty dull rums.3 With parsons what lady can keep herself clean ? I'm all over daubed when I sit by the dean. But if you will give us a barrack, my dear. The captain, I'm sure, will always come here ; I then shall not value his deanship a straw, For the captain, I warrant, will keep him in awe ; Or should he pretend to be brisk and alert, AVill tell him that chaplains should not be so pert ; That men of his coat should be minding their prayers, And not among ladies to give themselves airs. Thus argued my lady, but argued in vain ; The knight his opinion resolved to maintain. But Ilannah,4 who listened to all that was past. And could not endure so vulgar a taste. As soon as her ladyship called to be drest. Cried, Madam, why, surely my master's possest. Sir Arthur the maltster ! how fine it will sound ! I'd rather the bawn were sunk under ground. But, madam, I guessed there would never come good, When I saw him so often with Darby and Wood.^ And now my dream's out ; for I was a-dreamed That I saw a huge rat ; dear, how I screamed ! And after, methought, I had lost my new shoes ; And Molly she said I should hear some ill news. * Swift spent almost a wliole year (1728-9) at Gosford, in the north of Ireland, the seat of Sir Arthur Aoheson, assisting Sir Arthur in his agricultural improvements, and lecturing, as usual, the lady of the manor upon the improvement of her health by walking, and her mind by reading. The circum- stance of Sir Arthur letting a ruinous building called Hamilton's liawn to the crown for a barrack, gave rise to one of the dean's most lively pieces of fugitive humour.— ScoH'* Life vn that seven-fold fence to fail. Though stiff with hoops, and armed with ribs of whale. Form a strong line about the silver bound, And guard the wide circumference around. Whatever spirit, careless of his charge, His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large, Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertake his sins, Be stopped in vials, or transfixed with pins ; Or plunged in lakes of bitter washes lie. Or wedged whole ages in a bodkin's eye : Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain, While clogged he beats his silken wings in vain ; Or alum styptics with contracting power Shrink his thin essence like a shrivelled flower : Or, as Ixion fixed, the wretch shall feel The giddy motion of the whirling mill ; In fames of burning chocolate shall glow. And tremble at the sea that froths below ! He spoke ; the spirits from the sails descend : Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend ; Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair. Some hang upon the pendants of her ear : VVith beating hearts the dire event they wait. Anxious, and trembling for the birth of fate. [From the Ejnstle of Eloisa to Alelard.'] In these deep solitudes and awful cells, Where heavenly-pensive contemplation dwells. And ever-musing melancholy reigns. What means this tumult in a vestal's veins ? Why rove ray thoughts beyond this last retreat ? Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat ? Yet, yet I love! — From Abelard it came, And Eloisa yet must kiss the name. Dear, fatal name ! rest ever unrevealed, Nor pass these lips in holy silence sealed : Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise. Where, mixed with God's, his loved idea lies : 0, write it not, my hand — the name appears Already written — wash it out, my tears ! In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays. Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys. Relentless walls ! whose darksome round contains Repentant sighs, and voluntary j)ains : Ye rugged rocks, which holy knees have worn ! Ye grots and caverns shagged with horrid thorn ! Shrines, where their vigils pale-eyed virgins keep ! And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep! Though cold like you, unmoved and silent grown, I have not yet forgot myself to stone. All is not heaven's while Abelard has part. Still rebel nature holds out half iny heart ; Nor prayers nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain. Nor tears for ages taught to flow in vain. Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose. That well-known naine awakens all my woes Oh, name for ever sad, for ever dear; Still breathed in sighs, still ushered with a tear! I tremble, too, where'er my own 1 find. Some dire misfortune follows close behind. Line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow, Led through a sad variety of wo : Now warm in love, now withering in my bloom, I/Ost in a convent's solitary gloom ! There stern religion quenched the unwilling flame. There died the best of passions, love and fame. Yet write, oh write me all, that I may join Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine ! Nor foes nor fortune take this power away ; And is my Abelard less kind than they ? Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare ; Love but demands what else were shed in prayer No happier task these faded eyes pursue ; To read and weep is all they now can do. Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief; Ah, more than share it, give me all thy grief. Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid. Some banished lover, or some captive maid ; They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires. The virgin's wish without her fears impart. Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart. Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul. And waft a sigh from Indus to the pole. * * Ah, think at least thy flock deserves thy care. Plants of thy hand, and children of thy prayer; From the false world in early youth they fled. By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led. You raised these hallowed walls ; the desert smiled. And paradise was opened in the wild. No weeping orphan saw his father's stores Our shrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors ; No silver saints, by dying misers given, Here bribed the rage of ill-requited heaven : But such plain roofs as piety could raise. And only vocal with the Maker's praise. In these lone walls (their day's eternal bound) These moss-grown domes with spiry turrets crowred, Where awful arches make a noon-day night, And the dim windows shed a solemn light ; Thy eyes diifused a reconciling ray. And gleams of glory brightened all the day. But now no face divine contentment wears, 'Tis all blank sadness or continual tears. See how the force of others' prayers I try, O pious fraud of amorous charity ! But why sliould I on others' prayers depend 1 Come thou, my father, brother, husband, friend ! Ah, let thy handmaid, sister, daughter, move. And all those tender names in one, thy love ! The darksome \nnes that o'er yon rocks reclined. Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind ; The wand'ring streams that shine between the hilU, The grots tliat echo to the tinkling rills. The dying gales that pant upon the trees. The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze ; No more these scenes my meditation aid. Or lull to rest the visionary maid. But o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves. Long sounding isles, and intermingled graves, Black Melancholy sits, and nnuul lier throws A death-like silence, and a dread repose : n FBOM 1689 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1727. Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene, Shades every flower, and darkens every green, Deepens the murmur of the falling floods, And breathes a browner horror on the woods. * * What scenes appear where'er I turn my view ? The dear ideas, where I fly, pursue, Rise in the grove, before the altar rise, Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes. I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee ; Thy image steals between my God and me ; Thy voice I seem in every hymn to hear, With every bead I drop too soft a tear. When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll, And swelling organs lift the rising soul, One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight, Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight ; In seas of flame my plunging soul is drowned. While altars blaze, and angels tremble round. While prostrate here in humble grief I He, Kind virtuous drops just gathering in ray eye; While praying, trembling in the dust I roll. And dawning grace is opening on my soul : Come, if thou dar'st, all charming as thou art ! Oppose thyself to heaven ; dispute my heart : Come, with one glance of those deluding eyes Blot out each bright idea of the skies ; Take back that grace, those sorrows, and those tears ; Take back my fruitless penitence and prayers ; Snatch me, just mounting, from the blest abode ; Assist the fiends, and tear me from my God 1 No, fly me, fly me ! far as pole from pole ; Rise Alps between us ! and whole oceans roll ! Ah, come not, ^vrite not, think not once of me, Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee. Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign ; Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine. Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view!) Long loved, adored ideas, all adieu ! Oh grace serene! Oh virtue heavenly fair ! Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care ! Fresh-blooming hope, gay daughter of the sky ! And faith, our early immortality ! Enter, each mild, each amicable guest : Receive, and wrap me in eternal rest ! See in her cell sad Eloisa spread, Propt on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead. In each low wind raethinks a spirit calls, And more than echoes talk along the walls. Here, as I watched the dying lamps around. From yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound. ' Come, sister, come ! (it said, or seemed to say) Thy place is here ; sad sister, come away ; Once like thyself, I trembled, wept, and prayed. Love's victim then, though now a sainted maid : But all is calm in this eternal sleep ; Here grief forgets to groan, and love to weep. Even superstition loses every fear ; For God, not man, absolves our frailties here.' I come, I come ! prepare your roseate bowers, Celestial palms, and ever-blooming flowers ; Thither, where sinners may have rest, I go. Where flames refined in breasts seraphic glow : Thou, Abclard ! the last sad oflice pay. And smooth my passage to the realms of day. See my lips tremble, and my eyeballs roll. Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul ! Ah no ! — in sacred vestments may'st thou stand, The hallowed taper trembling in thy hand ; Present the cross before my lifteaven's first law ; and this confessed. Some are, and must be, greater than the rest. More rich, more wise ; but who infers from hence That such are happier, shocks all common sense. Heaven to mankind impartial we confess, If all are equal in their happiness : But mutual wants this happiness increase ; All nature's difference keeps all nature's peace. Condition, circumstance, is not the thing : Bliss is the same in subject or in king. In who obtain defence, or who defend. In him who is, or him who finds a friend : Heaven breathes through every member of the whole One common blessing, as one common soul. But fortune's gifts, if each alike possessed. And each were equal, must not all contest ? If then to all men happiness was meant, God in externals could not place content. Fortune her gifts may variously dispose, And these be happy called, unhappy those ; But Heaven's just balance equal will appear. While those are placed in hope, and these in fear ; Not present good or ill, the joy or curse, But future views of better, or of worse. Oh, sons of earth ! attempt ye still to rise. By mountains piled oh mountains, to the skies ? Heaven still with laughter the vain toil surveys. And buries madmen in the heaps they raise. Know, all the good that individuals find. Or God and nature meant to mere mankind. Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense. Lie in three words — Health, Peace, and Competence. But Health consists with temperance alone ; And Peace, oh virtue ! Peace is all thy own. The good or bad the gifts of fortune gain ; But these less taste them, as they worse obtain. Say, in pursuit of profit or delight, Who risk the most, that take wrong means, or right ? Of vice or virtue, whether blest or curst. Which meets contempt, or which compassion first? Count all the advantage prosperous vice attains, 'Tis but what virtue flies from and disdains : And grant the bad what happiness they would, One they must want, which is, to pa.s8 for good. Oh blind to truth, and God's whole scheme below, Who fancy bliss to vice, to virtue wo ! Who sees and follows that great scheme the best, Best knows the blessing, and will most be blest. But fools the good alone unhappy call. For ills or accidents that chance to all. See Falkland dies, the virtuous and the just! See godlike Turenne prostrate on the dust ! See Sidney bleeds amid the martial strife ! Was this their virtue, oi contempt of life 1 Say, was it virtue, more though heaven ne'er gave. Lamented Digby ! sunk thee to the grave ? Tell me, if virtue made the sou expire ? Why, full of days and honour, lives the sire ? Why drew Marseilles' good bisliop purer breath. When nature sickened, and each gale was death \ Or why so long (in life if long can be) Lent Heaven a parent to the poor and me? What makes all physical or moral ill ? There deviates nature, and here wanders will. God sends not ill ; if rightly understood. Or partial ill is universal good. Or change admits, or nature lets it fall. Short, and but rare, till man improved it all. We just as wisely might of heaven complain That righteous Abel was destroyed by Cain, As that the virtuous son is ill at ease When his lewd father gave the dire disease. Think we, like some weak prince, the Eternal Causa Prone for his favourites to reverse his laws ? Shall burning ^■Etna, if a sage requires, Forget to thunder, and recall her fires ? On air or sea new motions be impressed, C>h blameless Bethel ! to relieve thy breast ? When the loose mountain trembles from on high, Shall gravitation cease, if vou go by ? Or some old temple, nodding to its fall. For Chartres' head reserve the hanging wall ? But still this world (so fitted for the knave) Contents us not. A better shall we have ? A kingdom of the just then let it be : But first consider how those just agree. The good must merit God's peculiar care ; But who, but God, can tell us who they are ? One thinks on Calvin Heaven's own spirit fell j Another deems him instrument of hell ; If Calvin feel Heaven's blessing, or its rod. This cries there is, and that there is no God. What shocks one part will edify the rest. Nor with one system can they all be blest. The verj' best will variously incline. And what rewards your virtue, punish mine. Whatever is, is right. This world, 'tis true. Was made for Casar — but for Titus too ; And which more blest ? who chained his country, saj Or he whose virtue sighed to lose a day ? ' But sometimes virtue starves, while vice is fed.' What then ? Is the reward of virtue bread ? That vice may merit, 'tis the price of toil ; The knave deserves it, when he tills the soil ; The knave deserves it, when he tempts the main. Where folly fights for kings, or dives for gain ; The good man may be weak, be indolent ; Nor is his claim to plenty, but content. But grant him riches, your demand is o'er ? 'No — shall the good want health, the good want power? Add health and power, and every earthly thing ; * Why bounded power? why private? why no king?' Nay, why external for internal given ? Why is not man a god, and earth a heaven ? Who ask and reason thus, will scarce conceive God gives enough, while he has more to give ; Immense the power, immense were the demand , Say at what part of nature will they stand ? What nothing earthly gives, or can de.stroy, The soul's calm sunshine, and the hcart-lVlt joy, 561 sr FROM 1689 CYCLOPAEDIA OF TO 1727. .s virtue's prize : a better would you fix ? Then give Humility a coach and six, Justice a conqueror's sword, or Truth a gown, Or Public Spirit its great cure, a crown. Weak, foolish man ! will Heaven reward us there With the same trash mad mortals wish for here 1 The boy and man an individual makes, Yet sigh'st thou now for apples and for cakes ? Go, like the Indian, in another life, Expect thy dog, thy bottle, and thy wife ; As well as dream such trifles are assigned, As toys and empires, for a godlike mind. Rewards, that either would to virtue bring No joy, or be destructive of the thing ; How oft by these at sixty are undone The virtues of a saint at twenty-one ! To whom can riches give repute or trust, Content, or pleasure, but the good and just? Judges and senates have been bought for gold ; Esteem and love were never to be sold. Oh fool ! to think God hates the worthy mind, The lover and the love of humankind. Whose life is healthful, and whose conscience clear. Because he wants a thousand pounds a-year. Honour and shame from no condition rise ; Act well your part, there all the honour lies. Fortune in men has some small difference made, One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade ; The cobbler aproned, and the parson gowned. The friar hooded, and the monarch crowned. ' What differ more (you cry) than crown and cowl !' I'll tell you, friend — a wise man and a fool. You'll find, if once the monarch acts the monk, Or, cobbler-like, the parson will be drunk ; Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow ; The rest is all but leather or prunella. Stuck o'er with titles, and hung round with strings, That thou may'st be by kings, or whores of kings : Boast the pure blood of an illustrious race. In quiet flow from Lucrece to Lucrece : But by your father's worth if yours you rate, Count me those only who were good and great. Go ! if your ancient but ignoble blood Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood, Go ! and pretend your family is young ; Nor own your fathers have been fools so long. What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards ? Alas ! not all the blood of all the Howards. Look next on greatness ; say where greatness lies : * Where, but among the heroes and the wise V Heroes are much the same, the point's agreed. From Macedonia's madman to the Swede ; The whole strange purpose of their lives to find, Or make, an enemy of all mankind ! Not one looks backward, onward still he goes. Yet ne'er looks forward further than his nose. No less alike the politic and wise : All sly slow things, with circumspective eyes : Men in their loose unguarded hours they take. Not that themselves are wise, but others weak. But grant that those can conquer, these can cheat ; 'Tis phrase absurd to call a villain great ! Who wickedly is ^vise, or madly brave. Is but the more a fool, the more a knave. Who noble ends by noble means obtains, Or failing, smiles in exile or in chains. Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed Like Socrates, that man is great indeed. What's fame 1 a fancied life in others' breath A thing beyond us, even before our death. Just what you hear, you have ; and what's unknown The same (ray lord) if Tully's, or your own. All that we feel of it begins and ends In the small circle of our foes or friends ; To all beside as much an empty shade, e. Or infamous for plundered provinces. Oh, wealth ill-fated! which no act of fame Ere taught to shine, or sanctified from shame ! What greater bliss attends their close of life ? Some greedy minion, or imperious wife. The trophied arches, storied halls invade. And haunt their slumbers in the pompous shade. Alas ! not dazzled with their noontide ray. Compute the mom and evening to the day ; The whole amount of that enormous fame, A tale, that blends their glory with their shame ! Know then this truth (enough for man to know), * Virtue alone is happiness below.' The only point where human bliss stands still, And tastes the good without the fall to ill ; Where only merit constant pay receives. Is blest in what it takes, and what it gives ; The joy unequalled, if its end it gain, And if it lose, attended with no pain : Without satiety, though e'er so blessed. And but more relished as the more distressed : The broadest mirth unfeeling Folly wears, Less pleasing far than Virtue's verj' tears : 562 TOSTS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. ALEXANDER POPS. Good, from each object, froiri each place acquired. For ever exercised, yet never tired ; Never elated, while one man's oppressed ; Never dejected, while another's blest ; And where no wants, no wishes can remain, Since but to wish more virtue, is to gain. [From the Prologue to the Satires, Addressed to Arhuthnot-I P. Shut up the door, good John ! fatigued I said. Tie up the knocker ; say I'm sick, I'm dead. The dog-star rages ! nay, 'tis past a doubt, All bedlam or Parnassus is let out : Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, They rave, recite, and madden round the land. What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide ? They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide. By land, by water, they renew the charge ; They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. No place is sacred, not the church is free, Even Sunday shines no Sabbath day to me ; Then from the mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy to catch me just at dinner time. Is there a parson, much bemused in beer, A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, A clerk, foredoomed his father's soul to cross. Who pens a stanza, when he should engross ? Is there, who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls ! All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain. Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, Imputes to me and my damned works the cause : Poor Comus sees his frantic wife elope. And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope. Friend to my life ! (which did you not prolong, The world had wanted many an idle song) What drop or nostrum can this plagv e remove 1 Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love ? A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped ; If foes, they write ; if friends, they read me dead. Seized and tied down to judge, how wi etched I ; Who can't be silent, and who will not lie : To laugh were want of goodness and of grace ; And to be grave, exceeds all power of face. I sit with sad civility ; I read With honest anguish, and an aching head ; And drop at last, but in unwilling ears. This saving counsel, ' Keep your piece nine years.' ' Nine years !' cries he, who high in Drury Lane, Lulled by soft zephyrs through the broken pane. Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends. Obliged by hunger, and request of friends : ' The jiiece, you think, is incorrect ? why take it ; I'm all submission ; what you'd have it, make it.' Three things another's modest wishes bound. My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. Pitholeon sends to me : ' You know his grace ; I want a patron ; ask him for a place.' Pitholeon libelled me — ' but here's a letter Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew no better. Dare you refuse him ? Curll invites to dine, He'll \vrite a journal, or he'll turn divine.' Bless me ! a packet — ' 'lis a stranger sues, A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse.' If I dislike it, 'furies, death, and rage !' If I approve, ' commend it to the stage.' There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends. The players and I are, luckily, no friends. Fired that the house reject him,"Sdeath ! I'll print it And shame the fools— your interest, sir, with Lintot. Lintot, dull rogue ! will think your price too much : *Not, sir, if j'ou revise it, and retouch.' All my demurs but double his attacks : At la.st he whispers, ' Do, and we go snacks.' Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door, ' Sir, let me see your works and you no more.' * * You think this cruel ? Take it for a rule. No creature smarts so little as a fool. Let peals of laughter, Codrus ! round thee break, Thou unconcerned canst hear the mighty crack : Pit, box, and gallery, in convulsions hurled. Thou stand'st unsliook amidst a bursting world. Who shames a scribbler ? Break one cobweb through, He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew : Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain, The creature's at his dirty work again ; Throned in the centre of his thin de^^igns, Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines ! Whom have I hurt ? has poet yet, or peer, Lost the arched eyebrow, or Parnassian sneer? And has not Colly still his lord and whore! His butchers Henley, his freemasons Moor? Does not one table Bavius still admit ? Still to one bishop Philips seem a wit \ Still Sappho — ^.Hold ; for God's sake — you'll offend- No names — be calm — learn prudence of a friend : I, too, could write, and I am twice as tall ; But foes like these — P. One flatterer's worse than all. Of all mad creatures, if the learned are right. It is the slaver kills, and not the bite. A fool quite angry is quite innocent : Alas ! 'tis ten times worse when they repent One dedicates in high heroic prose. And ridicules beyond a hundred foes : One from all Grub-street will my fame defejid, And, more abusive, calls himself my friend. This prints my letters, that expects a bribe. And others roar aloud, ' Subscribe, subscribe !' There are, who to my person pa}' their court : I cough like Horace, and though lean, am short. Amnion's great son one shoulder had too high. Such Ovid's nose, and, ' Sir ! you have an eye !' Go on, obliging creatures, make me see All that disgraced my betters, met in me. Say for my comfort, languishing in bed, ' Just so immortal ^laro held his head ;' And when I die, be sure you let me know Great Homer died three thousand years ago Why did I \vrite ? what sin to me unknowu Dipped me in ink ; my parents', or my own ? As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came. I left no calling for this idle trade. No duty broke, no father disobeyed : The muse but served to ease some friend, not wife , To help me through this long disease, my life ; To second, Arbuthnot ! thy art and care. And teach the being you preserved, to bear. But whj' then publish? Granville the polite. And knowing Walsh, would tell nie I could write, Well-natured Garth, inflamed with early praise, And Congreve loved, and Swift endured my lays; The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheflield read. Even mitred Rochester would nod the head. And St John's self (great Dryden's friends before) With open arms received one poet more. Happy my studies, when by these approved ! Happier their author, when by these beloved ! From these the world will judge of men and books, Not from the Burnets, Oldmixonn, and Cooks. Soft were my numbers ; who could take offence While pure description held the place of sense ! Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme, A painted mistress, or a purling stream. Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill ; I wished the man a dinner, and sat still. Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret ; I never answered ; I was not in debt. If want provoked, or madness made them print, I waged no war with bedlam or the mint. 564 FROM 1689 CYCLOPiEDlA OF TO ij27. Did some more sober critic come abroad ; If WTong, I smiled ; if right, I kissed the rod. Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. Commas and points they set exactly right, And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite. Yet ne'er one sprig of laurels graced these ri1)alds, From slashing IBentlcy down to piddling Tibbulils ; Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells, Each word-catcher, that lives on syllables, Even such small critics some regard may claim. Preserved in Milton's or in Shakspeare's name. Pretty ! in amber to observe the forms Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms ! The things we know are neither rich nor rare, But wonder how the devil they got there. Were others angry ? I excused them too ; Well might they rage, I gave them but their due. A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find ; But each man's secret standard in his mind. That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness. This, who can gratify ? for who can guess ? The bard whom pilfered pastorals renown, Who turns a Persian tale for half-a-crown. Just writes to make his barrenness appear. And strains from hard-bound brains eight lines a-ycar ; He who, still wanting, though he lives oa theft. Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left : And he, who now to sense, now nonsense leaning. Means not, but blunders round about a meaning ; And he, whose fustian's so sublimely bad, It is not poetrj', but prose run mad : All these my modest satire bade translate. And owiied that nine such poets made a Tate. How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe ! And swear, not Addison himself was safe. Peace to all such ! but were there one whose fires True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires ; Blest with each talent and each art to please, And born to write, converse, and live with 5ase : Should such a man, too fond to rule alone. Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, And hate for arts that caused himself to rise ; Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer. And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer ; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; Alike reserved to blame, or to commend, A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend ; Dreading even fools, by flatterers besieged. And so obliging, that he ne'er obliged ; Like Cato, give his little senate laws. And sit attentive to his own applause ; While wits and Templars every sentence raise. And wonder with a foolish face of praise. Who but must laugh, if such a man there be ? Who would not weep, if Atticus were he ?* * * * Cursed be the verse, how well soe'er it flow, That tends to make one worthy man my foe. Give virtue scandal, innocence a fear. Or from the soft-eyed virgin steal a tear ! But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace, Insults fallen worth, or beauty in distress ; ^\'ho loves a lie, lame slander helps about, Who writes a libel, or who coj)ies out ; That fop, whose pride afl'ects a patron's name. Yet absent wounds an author's honest fame : * Tlie jealousy betwixt Addison and Pope, originatinp in literary and political rivalry, broke out into an open rupture by tlie above highly-finished and poignant satire. When Atter- bury read it, he Haw that Poixj's strength lay in satirical jrietry, and h<> wrote to him not to suffer that talent to be un- "jnployed. Who can your merit selJisJily approve. And show the sense of it without the loi-e ; Who has the vanity to call you friend, Yet wants the honour, injured, to defend ; Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you say, And, if he lie not, must at least betray : * * ^^'ho reads, but with a lust to misapply, Makes satire a lampoon, and fiction lie ; A lash like mine no honest man shall dread. But all such babbling blockheads in his stead. Let Sporus tremble*—^. What? that thing of silk, Sporus, that mere white curd of asses' milk J Satire or sense, alas ! can Sporus feel ? Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel ? P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings, This painted child of dirt, that stinks and stings •, Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys. Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys : So well-bred spaniels civilly delight In mumbling of the game they dare not bite. Eternal smiles his emptiness betra}'. As shallow streams run dimpling all the way ; Whether in florid impotence he speaks, And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks; Or at the ear of Eve, familiar toad, Half froth, half venom, spits himself abroad. In puns, or politics, or tales, or lies, Or spite, or smut, or rhymes, or blasphemies ; His wit all seesaw, between that and this, Now high, now low, now master up, now miss, And he himself one vile antithesis. Amphibious thing ! that acting either part, The trifling head, or the corrupted heart. Fop at the toilet, flatterer at the board, Now trips a lady, and now struts a lord. Eve's tempter thus the Rabbins have expressed : A cherub's face, a reptile all the rest. Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will trust. Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust. Not fortune's worshipper, nor fashion's fool ; Not lucre's madman, nor ambition's tool ; Not proud nor servile : be one poet's praise, That, if he pleased, he pleased by manly ways ; That flattery even to kings he held a shame, And thought a lie in verse or prose the same ; That not in fancy's maze he wandered long. But stooped to truth, and moralised his song; That not for fame, but virtue's better end, He stood the furious foe, the timid friend, The damning critic, half-approving wit. The coxcomb hit, or fearing to be hit ; Laughed at the loss of friends he never had. The dull, the proud, the wicked, and the mad ; The distant threats of vengeance on his head ; The blow, unfelt, the tear he never shed ; The tale revived, the He so oft o'erthrown. The imputed trash, and dulness not his own ; The morals blackened when the writings 'scape, The libelled person, and the pictured shajie ; Abuse on all he loved, or loved him, spread, A friend in exile, or a father dead ; The whisper, that to greatness still too near, Perhaj)s yet vibrates on his sovereign's ear. Welcome to thee, fair Virtue, all the past ; For thee, fair Virtue ! welcome even the last! The Man of Jloss.f [From the Moral Essays. Kpistle III.] But all our praises why should lords engross ? Rise, honest Muse ! and sing the Man of Ross : * Lord Ilervcy. t The Man of Ross was Mr John Kyrlc, who died in 1724, aged 90, and was interred in the church of Ross, in llcrefonlshire, Mr Kyrle was enabled to effect many of his benevolent pur- poses by tlie assistance of liberal subscriptions. Poj)c had been in Ross, on Iiis way from Lord Bathurst's to Lord Oxford. 564 ENGLISH LITERATURE. ALEXANDER POPE. Pleased Vaga echoes through her winding bounds, And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds. AVho hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow ! From the drj' rock who bade the waters flow 2 Not to the skies in useless columns tost, Or in proud falls magnificently lost ; But clear and artless, pouring through the plain, Health to the sick, and solace to the swain. Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows ? Whose seats the weary traveller repose ? Who taught the heaven-directed spire to rise ? * The ilan of Ross,' each lisping babe replies. Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread ! The !Man of Ross divides the weekly bread : He feeds yon almshouse, neat, but void of state, Where age and want sit smiling at the gate : Him portioned maids, apprenticed orphans blessed. The young who labour, and the old who rest. Is any sick ? the Man of Ross reli€ves, Prescribes, attends, and mcd'cine makes and gives. Is there a variance I enter but his door, Baulked are the courts, and contest is no more : Despairing qu.acks with curses fled the place, And vile attorneys, now a useless race. JB. Thiice happy man, enabled to pursue What all so wish, but want the power to do! say, what sums that generous hand supply 1 What mines to swell that boundless charity ? P. Of debts and taxes, wife and children cleai, This man possessed five hundred pounds a-year. Blush, grandeur, blush ! proud courts, withdraw your blaze ; Ye little stars ! hide your diminished rays. B. And what ! no monument, inscription, stone? His race, his form, his name almost unknown? P. Who builds a church to God, and not to fame, Will never mark the marble with his name : Go, search it there, where to be born and die. Of rich and poor makes all the history ; Enough, that virtue filled the space between ; Proved by the ends of being to have been. When Hopkins dies, a thousand lights attend The wretch, who living saved a candle's end ; Shouldering God's altar a vile image stands, Belies his features, nay, extends his hands ; That live-long wig, which Gorgon's self might own. Eternal buckle takes in Parian stone. Behold what blessings wealth to life can lend ! And see what comfort it aflTords our end ! In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half-hung, The floors of plaster, and the walls of dung, On once a flock-bed, but repaired with straw, With tape-tied curtains, never meant to draw. The George and Garter dangling from that bed Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red, Great Villiers lies — alas ! how changed from him. That life of pleasure, and that soul of whim ! Gallant and gay, in Cliefden's proud alcove. The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and love ; Or just as gay, at council, in a ring Of mimic statesmen, and their merry king. No wit to flatter, left of all his store ! No fool to laugh at, which he valued more. There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends, And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends. The Dying Christian to his Soul. Vital spark of heavenly flame. Quit, oh quit this mortal frame : Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying — Oh the pain, the bliss of dying ! Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life! Hark ! they whisper ; angels say, '^ister spirit, come away ! What is this absorbs me quite ? Steals my senses, shuts my sight. Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? Tell me, my soul, can this be death ? The Avorld recedes ; it disappears ! Heaven opens on my eyes ! my ears With sounds seraphic ring : Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! I fly ! Grave ! where is thy victory ? Death ! where is thy sting ? We may quote, as a specimen of the melodious versification of Pope's Homer, the well-known moon- light scene, which lias been both extravagantly praised and censured. Wordsworth and Southey luiite in considering the lines and imagery as false and contradictory. It will be found in this case, as in many passages of Dryden, that, though natural objects be incorrectly described, the beauty of the language and versification elevates the whole into poetry of a high imaginative order. Pope followed the old version of Chapman, which we also sub- join :— The troops exulting sat in order round. And beaming fires illumined all the ground, As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night ! O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light ; When not a breath disturbs the deep serene, And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene ; Around her throne the vivid planets roll. And stars unnumbered gild the glowing pole ; O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed, And tip with silver every mountain's head ; Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise, A flood of glory bursts from all the skies : The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight, Eye the blue vault, and bliss the useful light. So many flames before proud Ilion blaze. And lighten glimmering Xanthus with their rays ; The long reflections of the distant fires Gleam on the walls and tremble on the spires. A thousand piles the dusky horrors gild. And shoot a shady lustre o'er the field. Full fifty guards each flaming pile attend, Whose umbered arms, by fits, thick flashes sc id ; Loud neigh the coursers o'er their heaps of com. And ardent warriors wait the rising morn. Chapman's version is as follows : — This speech all Trojans did applaud, who from their traces loosed Their sweating horse, which severally with headstalls they reposed, And fastened by their chariots ; when others brought from town Fat sheep and oxen instantly ; bread, wine, and hewed down Huge store of wood ; the winds transferred into the friendly sky Their supper's savour ; to the which they sat delight- fully, And spent all night in open field ; fires round about them shined. As when about the silver moon, when air is free from wind, And stars shine clear, to whose sweet beams, high prospects, and the brows Of all steep hills and pinnacles, thrust up themselves for shows ; And even the lowly valleys gay to glitter in their sight. When the unmeasured firmament bursts to disclose her light. And all the signs in heaven are seen, that glad the shepherd's heart ; Lo, many fires disclosed their beams, made by the Trojan part 565 FROM 1689 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1^ Before the face of Ilion, and her bright turrets showed. A thousand courts of guard kept fires, and every guard allowed Fifty stout men, by whom their horse eat oats, and hard-white com, And all did wilfully expect the silver-throned mom. Cowper's translation is brief, but vivid and distinct : — As when around the clear bright moon, the stars Shine in full splendour, and the winds are hushed. The groves, the mountain-tops, the headland heights Stand all apparent, not a vapour streaks The boundless blue, but ether opened wide All glitters, and the shepherd's heart is cheered. THOMAS TICKELL. The friendship of Addison has shed a reflected light on some of his contemporaries, and it elevated them, in their own day, to considerable importance. Amongst these was Thomas Tickell (1686-1740), born at Bridekirk, near Carlisle, and educated at Oxford. He was a writer in the Spectator and Guar- dian, and when Addison went to Ireland as secre- tar}- to Lord Sunderland, Tickell accompanied him, and was employed in public business. He published a translation of the first book of the Iliad at the same time with Pope. Addison and tlie Whigs pronounced it to be the best, while the Tories ranged under the banner of Pope. The circumstance led to a breach of the friendship betwixt Addison and Pope, which ■was never healed. Addison continued his patronage of Tickell, made him his under secretary of state, and left him the charge of publishing his works. Tickell had elegance and tenderness as a poet, but was deficient in variety and force. His ballad of ' Colin and Lucy' is worth all his other works. It has the simplicity and pathos of the elder lyrics, without their too frequent coarseness and abrupt transitions. His ' Elegy on the Death of Addison' is considered by Johnson one of the most elegant and sublime funeral poems in the language. The author's own friend, Steele, considered it only ' prose in rhyme !' The following extract contains the best verses in the elegy : — Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, Sad luxury ! to vulgar minds unknown, Along the walls where speaking marbles show What worthies form the hallowed mould below ; Proud names ! who once the reins of empire held, In arms who triumphed, or in arts excelled ; Chiefs graced with scars, and prodigal of blood. Stem patriots, who for sacred freedom stood ; Just men by whom impartial laws were given. And saints who taught and led the way to heaven. Ne'er to these chambers where the mighty rest. Since their foundation came a nobler guest ; Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed A fairer spirit, or more welcome shade. In what new region to the just assigned, What new employments please the unbodied mind? A winged virtue through the ethereal skv, From world to world unwearied docs he ily ; Or curious trace the long laborious maze Of Heaven's decrees, where wondering angels gaze ! Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell How IVIichael battled, and the dragon fell ; Or, mixed with milder cherubim, to glow In hymns of love not ill essayed below ? Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind ? A task well suited to thy gentle mind. Oh ! if sometimes thy spotless form descend. To me thy aid, thou guardian genius ! lend. When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms. When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms, In silent whisp'rings purer thoughts impart. And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart ; Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before, Till bliss shall join, nor death can part no more. That awful form which, so the Heavens decree, Must still be loved, and still deplored by me. In nightly visions seldom fails to rise, Or roused by Fancy, meets my waking eyes. If business calls, or crowded courts invite. The unblemished statesman seems to strike my sight ; If in the stage I seek to soothe my care, I meet his soul, which breathes in Cato there ; If pensive to the rural shades I rove. His step o'ertakes me in the lonely grove ; 'Twas there of just and good he reasoned strong. Cleared some great truth, or raised some serious song ; There patient showed us the wise course to steer, A candid censor, and a friend severe ; There taught us how to live, and (oh ! too high The price for knowledge) taught us how to die. Thou hill ! whose brow the antique structures grace, Reared by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race ; Why, once so loved, whene'er thy bower appeal's. O'er my dim eyeballs glance the sudden tears ! How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair. Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air ! How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees. Thy noontide shadow, and thy evening breeze ! His image thy forsaken bowers restore. Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more ; No more the summer in thy glooms allayed. Thy evening breezes, and thy noonday shade. Colin and Ln/^y. — A Ballad. Of Leinster, famed for maidens fair, Bright Lucy was the grace, Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid stream Reflect so sweet a face ; Till luckless love and pining care Impaired her rosy hue, Her coral lips and damask cheeks. And eyes of glossj' blue. Oh ! have you seen a lily pale When beating rains descend ? So drooped the slow-consuming maid, Her life now near its end. By Lucy warned, of flattering swains Take heed, ye easy fair ! Of vengeance due to broken vows. Ye perjured swains ! beware. Three times all in the dead of night A bell was heard to ring. And shrieking, at her window thrice The raven flapped his wing. Too well the love-lorn maiden knew The solemn boding sound. And thus in dying words bespoke The virgins weeping round: ' I hear a voice you cannot hear. Which says 1 must not stay ; I see a hand you cannot see, Which beckons me away. By a false heart and broken vows In early youth I die. Was I to blame because his bride Was thrice as rich as I ? 566 . ENGLISH LITERATURE. SIR SAMUEL OARTH. Ah, Colin ! give not her thy vows, Vows due to me alone ; Nor thou, fond maid ! receive his kiss, Nor think him all thy own. To-morrow in the church to wed, Impatient both prepare ; But know, fond maid ! and know, false man ! That Lucy will be there. Then bear my corse, my comrades ! bear, This bridegroom blithe to meet ; He in his wedding trim so gay, I in my winding sheet.' She spoke ; she died. Her corpse was bome The bridegroom blithe to meet ; Fie in his wedding trim so gay, She in her winding sheet. Then what were perjured Colin's thoughts ? How were these nuptials kept I The bridesmen flocked round Lucy dead, And all the village wept. Confusion, shame, remorse, despair. At once his bosom swell ; The damps of death bedewed his brow ; He shook, he groaned, he fell. From the vain bride, ah ! bride no more ! The varying crimson fled, When stretched before her rival's corpse She saw her husband dead. Then to his Lucy's new made grave Conveyed by trembling swains. One mould with her, beneath one sod, For ever he remains. Oft at this grave the constant hind And plighted maid are seen ; "With garlands gay and true-love knots They deck the sacred green. But, swain forsworn ! whoe'er thou art, This hallowed spot forbear ; Remember Colin's dreadful fate. And fear to meet him there. SIR SAMUEL GARTH. Sir Samuel Garth, an eminent physician, pub- lished in 1696 his poem of The Dispensary, to aid the college of physicians in a war they were then waging with the apothecaries. The latter had ven- tured to prescribe, as well as compoxmd medicines ; and the physicians, to outbid them in popularity, advertised that they would give advice gratis to the poor, and establish a dispensary of their own for the sale of cheap medicines. The college triumphed ; but in 1703 the House of Lords decided that apothe- caries were entitled to exercise the privilege which Garth and his brother physicians resisted. Garth was a popular and benevolent man, a firm Whig, yet the early encourager of Pope ; and when Dryden died, he pronounced a Latin oration over the poet's remains. With Addison, he was, politically and personally, on terms of the closest intimacy. Garth died in 1718. The ' Dispensary' is a mock heroic poem in six cantos. Some of the leading apothe- caries of the day are happily ridiculed ; but the in- terest of the satire has passed away, and it did not contain enough of the life of poetry to preserve it. A few lines will give a specimen of the manner and the versification of the poem. It opens in the fol- lowing strain : — Speak, goddess! since 'tis thou that best canst tell, How ancient leagues to modern discord fell; And why pliysicians were so cautious grown Of others' lives, and lavish of their own ; . How by a journey to the Klysian plain. Peace triuinplied, and old time returned again. Not far from that most celebrated place,' \Miere angry justice shows her awful face ; Where little villains must submit to fate, That great ones may enjoy the world in state ; There stands a dome,- majestic to the sight, And sumptuous arches bear its oval height ; A golden globe, placed high with artful skill, Seems, to the distant sight, a gilded pill ; This pile was, by the pious patron's aim, Raised for a use as noble as its frame ; Nor did the learned society decline The propagation of that great design ; In all her mazes, Nature's face they viewed. And, as she disappeared, their search pursued. Wrapt in the shade of night the goddess lies. Yet to the learned unveils her dark disguise, But shuns the gross access of vulgar eyes. Now she unfolds the faint and dawning strife Of infant atoms kindling into life ; How ductile matter new meanders takes. And slender trains of twisting fibres makes ; And how the viscous seeks a closer tone. By just degrees to harden into bone ; While the more loose flow from the vital urn. And in full tides of purple streams retun. ; How lambent flames from life's bright lamps arise. And dart in emanations through the eyes; How from each sluice a gentle torrent pours. To slake a feverish heat with ambient showers ; Whence their mechanic powers the spirits claim ; How great their force, how delicate their frame ; How the same nerves are fashioned to sustain The greatest pleasure and the greatest pain ; Why bilious juice a golden light puts on. And floods of chyle in silver currents run ; How the dim speck of entity began To extend its recent form, and stretch to man ; * * Why envy oft transforms with wan disguise. And why gay Mirth sits smiling in the eyes ; * * Whence Mile's vigour at the Olympic's shown, Whence tropes to Finch, or impudence to Sloane ; How matter, by the varied shape of pores Or idiots frames, or solemn senators. Hence 'tis we wait the wondrous cause to find, How body acts upon impassive mind ; How fumes of wine the thinking part can fire. Past hopes revive, and present joys inspire ; Why our complexions oft our soul declare, And how the jiassions in the features are ; How touch and harmony arise between Corporeal figure, and a form unseen ; How quick their faculties the limbs fulfil. And act at every summons of the will ; With mighty truths, mysterious to descry, Which in the womb of distant causes lie. But now no grand inquiries are descried ; Mean faction reigns where knowledge should preside; Feuds are increased, and learning laid aside; Thus synods oft concern for faith conceal. And for important nothings show a zeal : The drooping sciences neglected pine. And Prean'fi beams with fading lustre shine. No readers here with hectic looks are found. Nor eyes in rheum, through midnight-watching drowned: The lonely edifice in sweats complains That nothing there but sullen silence rei'^ns. ' Old BaUcy. * The College of Physicians. 567 FROM 1689 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1727. This place, so fit for undisturbed repose, The god of sloth for his asylum chose ; Upon a couch of down in these abodes, Supine with folded arms, he thoughtless nods ; Indulging dreams his godhead lull to ease, With murmurs of soft rills, and whispering trees : The poppy and each numbing plant dispense Their drowsy virtue and dull indolence ; No passions interrupt his easy reign, No problems puzzle his lethargic brain : But dark obliTion guards his peaceful bed, And lazy fogs hang lingering o'er his head. The following is from a grandiloquent address by Colocynthus, a keen apothecary : — Could'st thou propose that we, the friends of fates, Who fill churchyards, and who unpeople states, Who baffle nature, and dispose of lives. Whilst Russel, as we please, or starves or thrives. Should e'er submit to their despotic will, Who out of consultation scarce can skill ? The towering Alps shall sooner sink to vales. And leeches, in our glasses, swell to whales ; Or Norwich trade in instruments of steel, And Birmingham in stufls and druggets deal ! Alleys at Wapping furnish us new modes. And Monmouth Street, Versailles, with riding-hoods ; The sick to the Hundreds in pale throngs repair, And change the Gravel-pits for Kentish air. Our properties must on our arms depend ; 'Tis next to conquer, bravely to defend. 'Tis to the vulgar death too harsh appears ; The ill we feel is only in our fears. To die, is landing on some silent shore, Where billows never break, nor tempests roar : Ere well we feel the friendly stroke, 'tis o'er. The wise through thought the insults of death defv ; The fools through blessed insensibility. 'Tis what the guilty fear, the pious crave ; Sought by the wretch, and vanquished by the brave. It eases lovers, sets the captive free ; And, though a tyrant, offers liberty. Garth wrote the epilogue to Addison's tragedy of Cato, which ends with the following pleasing lines : — Oh, may once more the happy age appear. When words were artless, and the thoughts sincere ; When gold and grandeur were unenvied things. And courts less coveted than groves and springs. Love then shall only mourn when truth complains, And constancy feel transport in his chains ; Sighs with success their own soft language tell, And eyes shall utter what the lips conceal : Virtue again to its bright station climb. And beauty fear no enemy but time ; The fair shall listen to desert alone, And every Lucia find a Cato's son. SIR RICHARD BLACKMORE. Sir Eichard Blackmore was one of the most fortunate physicians, and the most persecuted poets, of this period. He was born of a good family in Wiltshire, and took the degree of JI.A. at Oxford in 1676. He was in extensive medical practice, was knighted by King William III., and afterwards made censor of the college of physicians. In 1695, he published Prince Arthur, an epic poem, which he says he wrote amidst the duties of his profession, in coffeehouses, or in passing up and down the streets! Dryden, whom he had attacked for licentiousness, Batirised him for writing ' to the rumbling of his chariot-wheels.' Blackmore continued writing, and published a series of epic poems on King Alfred, Qucf-a Elizabeth, the Kedeemer, the Creation, &c. All have sunk into oblivion ; but Pope has preserved his memor}' in various satirical allusions. Addison extended liis friendship to the Wliig poet, whose private character was exemplary and irreproachable. Dr Johnson included Blackmore in his edition of the poets, but restricted his publication of his works to the poem of ' Creation,' which, he said, ' wants neither harmony of numbers, accuracy of thouglit, nor elegance of diction.' Blackmore died in 1729. The design of ' Creation' was to demonstrate the existence of a Divine Eternal Mind. He recites the proofs of a Deity from natural and physical pheno- mena, and afterwards reviews the systems of the Epicureans and the Fatalists, concluding witli a hymn to the Creator of the world. The piety of Blackmore is everywhere apparent in his writings ; hut the genius of poetry too often evaporates amiilst his commonplace illustrations and prosing decla- mation. One passage of ' Creation' (addressed to the disciples of Lucretius) will suffice to show the style of Blackmore, in its more select and improved manner : — You ask us why the soil the thistle breeds ; Why its spontaneous birth are thorns and weeds ; Why for the harvest it the harrow needs ? The Author might a nobler world have made. In brighter dress the hills and vales arrayed, And all its face in flowery scenes displayed : The glebe unfilled might plenteous crops have borne, And brought forth spicy groves instead of thorn : Rich fruit and flowers, without the gardener's pains, flight every hill have crowned, have honoured all the plains : This Nature might have boasted, had the Mind \\'ho formed the spacious universe designed That man, from labour free, as well as gi'ief, Should pass in lazy luxury his life. But he his creature gave a fertile soil, Fertile, but not without the owner's toil, That some reward his industry should cro^vn, And that his food in part might be his own. But while insulting you arraign the land. Ask why it wants the plough, or labourer's hand ; Kind to the marble rocks, you ne'er complain That they, without the sculptor's skill and pain, No perfect statue yield, no basse relieve. Or finished column for the palace give. Yet if from hills unlaboured figures came, !Man might have ease enjoyed, though never fame. You may the world of more defect upbraid. That other works by Nature are unmade : That she did never, at her own expense, A palace rear, and in magnificence Out-rival art, to grace the stately rooms ; That she no castle builds, no lofty domes. Had Nature's hand these various works prepared. What thoughtful care, what labour had been spared ' But then no realm would one great master show. No Phidias Greece, and Rome no Angelo. With equal reason, too, you mi_ght demand Why boats and ships require the artist's hand ; Why generous Nature did not these provide, To pass the standing lake, or flowing tide ? You say the hills, which high in air arise. Harbour in clouds, and mingle with the skies. That earth's dishonour and encumbering load, Of many spacious regions man defraud ; For beasts and birds of prey a desolate abode. But can the objector no convenience find In mountains, hills, and rocks, which gird and bind The mighty frame, that else would be disjoined ? Do not those heaps the raging tide restrain. And for the dome afford the marble vein ? Does not the rivers from the mountains flow. And bring down riches to the vale below I 568 POETS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. AMBROSE TniLlPS. See how the torrent rolls the golden sand From the high ridges to the flatter land. The lofty lines abound with endless store Of mineral treasure and metallic ore. AMBROSE PHILIPS. Among the Wliig poets of the day, -whom Pope's enmity raised to temporarj' importance, was Ambrose Philips (1671-1749). He was a native of Leices- tershire, educated at Cambridge, and patronised by the Whig government of George I. He was a com- missioner of the collieries, held some appointments in Ireland, and sat for the county of Armagh in the Irish House of Commons. The works of Philips consist of three plaj's, some miscellaneous poems, translations, and pastorals. The latter were pub- lished in the same miscellany with those of Pope, and were injudiciously praised by Tickell as the finest in the Enghsh language. Pope resented this unjust depreciation of his own poetry by an ironical paper in the Guardian, calculated to make Philips appear ridiculous. Ambrose felt the satire keenly, and even vowed to take personal vengeance on his adversary, by whipping him with a rod in Button's coffeehouse. A paper war ensued, and Pope im- mortalised Phihps as — The bard whom pilfered pastorals renown, Who turns a Persian tale for half-a-cro\vn ; Just writes to make his barrenness appear, And strains from hard-bound brains eight lines a-year. The pastorals are certainly poor enough ; but Philips was an elegant versifier, and Goldsmith has eulogised part of his epistle to Lord Dorset, as ' in- comparably fine.' A fragment of Sappho, translated by Philips, is a poetical gem so brilliant, that Warton thought Addi- son must have assisted in its composition : — Blessed as the immortal gods is he, The youth who fondly sits by thee, And hears and sees thee all the while, Softly speak and sweetly smile. 'Twas this deprived my soul of rest, And raised such tumults in my breast ; For while I gazed in transport tossed, My breath was gone, my voice was lost. My bosom glowed ; the subtle flame Ran quickly through my vital frame ; O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung ; My ears with hollow murmurs rung. In dewy damps my limbs were chilled. My blood with gentle horrors thrilled ; My feeble pulse forgot to play ; I fainted, sunk, and died away. Epistk to the Earl of Dorset. Copenhagen, March 9, 1709. From frozen climes, and endless tracts of snow. From streams which northern winds forbid to flow. What present shall the Muse to Dorset bring, Or how, so near the pole, attempt to sing? The hoary winter here conceals from sight All pleasing objects which to verse invite. The hills and dales, and the delightful woods, The flowery plains, and silver-streaming floods, By snow disguised, in bright confusion lie, And with one dazzling waste fatigue the eye. No gentle-breathing breeze prepares the spring, No birds within the desert region sing. The ships, unmoved, the boisterous winds defy, While rattling chariots o'er the ocean fly. The vast leviathan wants room to play. And spout his waters in the face of d.ay. The starving wolves along the main sea prowl. And to the moon in icy valleys howl. O'er many a shining league the level main Here spreads itself into a glassy plain : There solid billows of enormous size, Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise. And yet but latel}' have I seen, even here, The winter in a lovely dress appear. Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasured snow. Or winds begun through hazy skies to blow: At evening a keen eastern breeze arose, And the descending rain unsullied froze. Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew. The ruddy mom disclosed at once to view The face of nature in a rich disguise, And brightened every object to my eyes : For every shrub, and every blade of grass. And every pointed thorn, seemed wrought in gla-'i ; In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show. While through the ice the crimson berries glow. The thick-sprung reeds, which watery marshes yie'i. Seemed polished lances in a hostile field. The stag, in limpid currents, with sui-jirise Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise : The spreading oak, the beech, and towering pine Glazed over, in the freezing ether shine. The frighted birds the rattling branches shui. Which wave and glitter in the distant sue. When, if a sudden gust of wind arise. The brittle forest into atoms flies ; The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends. And in a spangled shower the prospect ends : Or, if a southern gale the region warm, And by degrees unbind the wintry charm, The traveller a miry country sees. And journeys sad beneath the dropping trees : Like some deluded peasant. Merlin leads Through fragrant bowers, and through delicious meads While here enchanted gardens to him rise, And airj' fabrics there attract his eyes. His wandering feet the magic paths pursue, And, while he thinks the fair illusion true The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air. And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear : A tedious road the wearj' wretch returns. And, as he goes, the transient vision mourns. The First Pastoral. If we, Dorset ! quit the city-throng, To meditate in shades the rural song. By your command, be present ; and, bring The Muse along! The Muse to you shall sin" Her influence, Buckhurst, let me there obtain, And I forgive the famed Sicilian swain. Begin. — In unluxurious times of yore, When flocks and herds were no inglorious store, Lobbin, a shepherd boy, one evening fair, As western winds had cooled the sultry air. His numbered sheep within the fold now pent, Thus plained him of his dreary discontent; Beneath a hoary poplar's whispering boughs, He, solitary, sat, to breathe his vows. Venting the tender anguish of his heart, As passion taught, in accents free of art ; And little did he hope, while, night by night. His sighs were lavished thus on Lucy bright. ' Ah ! well-a-day, how long must I end\ire This pining pain? Or who shall speed my cure! Fond love no cure will have, seek no repose, Delights in grief, nor any measure knows : And now the moon begins in clouds to rise ; The brightening stars increase within the skies , 66(> FROM 1689 CYCLOPAEDIA OF TO 172/. The winds are hushed ; the dews distil ; and sleep Hath closed the eyelids of my weary sheep : [ only, with the prowling wolf, constrained All night to wake : with hunger he is pained, And I with love. His hunger he may tame ; But who can quench, cruel love ! thy flame ? ^Vhilom did I, all as this poplar fair, ITpraise my heedless head, then void of care, 'Mong rustic routs the chief for wanton game ; Nor could they merry make, till Lobbin came. Who better seen than I in shepherd's arts. To please the lads, and win the lasses' hearts ? How deftly, to mine oaten reed so sweet. Wont they upon the green to shift their feet ? And, wearied in the dance, how would they yearn Some well-devised tale from me to learn ? For many songs and tales of mirth had I, To chase the loitering sun adown the sky : But ah ! since Lucy coy deep-wrought her spite ^V'ithin my heart, unmindful of delight, The jolly grooms I fly, and, all alone. To rocks and woods pour forth my fruitless moan. Oh ! quit thy wonted scorn, relentless fair. Ere, lingering long, I perish through despair. Had Rosalind been mistress of my mind. Though not so fair, she would have proved more kind. think, unwitting maid, while yet is time. How flying years impair thy youthful prime ! Thy virgin bloom will not for ever stay. And flowers, though left ungathered, will decay : The flowers, anew, returning seasons bring ! But beauty faded has no second spring. My words are wind! She, deaf to all my cries, Takes pleasure in the mischief of her eyes. Like frisking heifer, loose in flowery meads, She gads where'er her roving fancy leads ; Yet still from me. Ah me! the tiresome chase! Shy as the fawn, she flies my fond erubrace. She flies, indeed, but ever leaves behind. Fly where she will, her likeness in my mind. No cruel purpose in my speed I bear ; 'Tis only love ; and love why should'st thou fear ? What idle fears a maiden breast alarm! Stay, simple girl ; a lover cannot harm ; Two sportive kidlings, both fair-flecked, I rear. Whose shooting horns like tender buds appear : A lambkin too, of spotless fleece, I breed. And teach the fondling from my hand to feed : Nor will I cease betimes to cull the fields Of every dewy sweet the morning yields : From early spring to autumn late shalt thou Receive gay girlonds, blooming o'er thy brow : And when — but why these unavailing pains? The gifts alike, and giver, she disdains ; And now, left heiress of the glen, she'll deem Me, landless lad, unworthy her esteem ; _ Yet was she bom, like me, of shepherd-sire, And I may fields and lowing herds acquire. 0! would my gifts but win her wanton heart, Or could I half the warmth I feel impart, How would I wander, every day, to find The choice of wildings, blushing through the rind ! For glossy plums how lightsome climb the tree, How risk the vengeance of the thrifty bee. Or, if thou deign to live a shepherdess. Thou Lobbiu's flock, and Lobbin shall possess ; And fair my flock, nor yet uncomely I, If liquid fountains flatter not ; and why Should liquid fountains flatter us, yet show The bordering flowers less beauteous than they growl come, my love ! nor think the employment mean, The dams to milk, and little lambkins wean ; To drive afield, by morn, the fattening ewes. Ere the warm sun drink up the coolly dews ; While with my pipe, and with my voice, I cheer Each hour, and through the day detain thine ear. How would the crook beseem thy lily hand! How would my j'ounglings round thee gazing t-tainl { Ah, witless younglings! gaze not on her eye : Thence all my sorrow ; thence the death 1 die. Oh, killing beauty! and oh, sore desire! Must then my sutferings but with life expire ? Though blossoms every year the trees adom. Spring after spring I wither, nipt with scorn : Nor trow I when this bitter blast will end. Or if yon stars will e'er my vows befriend. Sleep, sleep, my flock ; for happy ye may take Sweet nightly rest, though still your master wake.' Now to the waning moon the nightingale. In slender warblings, tuned her piteous tale. The love-sick shepherd, listening, felt relief, Pleased with so sweet a partner in his grief, Till, by degrees, her notes and silent night To slumbers soft his hea^y heart invite. JOHN GAY. The Italian opera and English pastorals — bolh sources of fashionable and poetical aflectation — were driven out of the field at this time bj' the easj-, indo- lent, good-humoured John Gay, who seems to have been the most artless and the best-beloved of all the Pope and Swift circle of wits and poets. Gay was born at Barnstaple, in Devonshire, in 1688. lie was of the ancient family of the Le Gays of Oxford and Devonshire ; but his father being in reduced circum- stances, the poet was put apprentice to a silk-niercer in the Strand, London. He disliked this mercenary employment, and at length obtained his discharge from his master. In 1711, he published his 7i'tt/nZ Sports, a descriptive poem, dedicated to Pope, in ■which we may trace his joy at being eniancipaAed from the drudgery of a shop : — But I, who ne'er was blessed by Fortune's hand. Nor brightened ploughshares in paternal land ; Long in the noisy town have been immured. Respired its smoke, and all its cares endured. 570 ENGLISH LITERATURE. JOHN OAT. Fatigued at last, a calm retreat I chose, And soothed my harassed mind with sweet repose, AVhere fields, and shades, and the refreshing clime Inspire the sylvan song, and prompt my rhyme. Next year. Gay obtained the appointment of domestic secretary to the Duchess of Monmouth, on which he was cordially congratulated by Pope, who took a warm interest in his fortunes. Ilis next work was his Shepherd's Wee/;, in Six Pastorals, written to throw ridicule on those of Ambrose Philips; but containing so much genuine comic humour, and en- tertaining pictures of country life, that they became popular, not as satires, but on account of their in- trinsic merits, as affording ' a prospect of his own country.' In an address to the ' courteous reader,' Gay says, 'Thou wilt not find my shepherdesses idly piping on oaten reeds, but milking the kine, tying up the sheaves ; or, if the hogs are astray, driving them to their styes. My shepherd gathereth none other nosegays but what are the growth of our own fields; he sleepetli not under myrtle shades, but under a hedge ; nor doth he vigilantly defend his flock from wolves, because there are none.' This matter-of-fact view of rural life has been admirably followed by Crabbe, with a moral aim and effect to wliich Gay never aspired. About this time the poet also produced his Trivia, or the Art of Walking the Streets of London, and The Fan, a poem in three books. The former of these is in the mock-heroic style, in which he was assisted by Swift, and gives a graphic account of the dangers and impediments then encountered in traversing the narrow, crowded, ill-lighted, and vice-infested thoroughfares of the metropolis. His paintings of city life are iu the Dutch style, low and familiar, but correctly and forcibly c rawn. The following sketch of the fre- quenters of book-stalls in the streets may stiU be Verified:- - Volumes on sheltered stalls expanded lie. And various science lures the learned eye; The bending shelves with ponderous scholiasts groan, And deep divines, to modern shops unknown ; Here, like the bee, that on industrious wing Collects the various odours of the spring. Walkers at leisure learning's flowers may spoil. Nor watch the wasting of the midnight oil ; May morals snatch from Plutarch's tattered page, A mildewed Bacon, or Statgyra's sage : Here sauntering 'prentices o'er Otway weep, O'er Congreve smile, or over D'Urfey sleep ; Pleased sempstresses the Lock's famed Rape unfold ; And Squirts* read Garth till apozems grow cold. The poet gives a lively and picturesque account of the great frost in London, when a fair was held •jn the river Thames : — 0, roving muse ! recall that wondrous year VVhen winter reigned in bleak Britannia's air ; When hoary Thames, with frosted oziers crowned, Was three long moons in icy fetters bound. The waterman, forlorn, along the shore, Pensive reclines upon his useless oar : See harnessed steeds desert the stony town, And wander roads unstable not their own ; Wheels o'er the hardened water smoothly glide. And raze with whitened tracks the slippery tide ; Here the fat cook piles high the blazing fire, And scarce the spit can turn the steer entire; Booths sudden hide the Thames, long streets appear. And numerous games proclaim the crowded fair. * Squirt is t" 18 name of an apothecary's boy in Garth's ' Dis- pensary." So, when a general bids the martial train Spread their encampment o'er the spacious plain, Thick-rising tents a canvass city build. And the loud dice resound through all the field. In 1713, Gay brought out a comedy entitled The Wife of Bath; but it failed of success. His friends were anxious in his behalf, and next v'ear (July 1714), he writes with joy to Pope — ' Since you went out of the town, my Lord Clarendon was appointed envoy-extraordinary to Hanover, in the room of Lord Paget ; and by making use of those friends, which I entirely owe to you, he has accepted me for his secretary.' The poet accordingly quitted his situation in the Monmouth family, and accompanied Lord Clarendon on his embassy. He seems, how- ever, to have held it only for about two months; for on the 23d of September of the same year. Pope welcomes him to his native soil, and counsels him, now that the queen was dead, to write something on the king, or prince, or princess. Gay was an anxious expectant of court favour, and he" complied with Pope's request. He wrote a poem on the prin- cess, and the royal family went to see his play of WhatUije Call It? produced shortly after his return from Hanover, in 1714. The piece was eminently successful; and Gay was stimulated to another dra- matic attempt of a similar nature, entitled Three Hours After Marriage. Some personal satire and indecent dialogues in this piece, together with the improbability of the plot, sealed its fiite with the public. It soon fell into disgrace; and its author being afraid that Pope and Arbuthnot would suffer injury from their supposed connexion with it, took ' all the shame on himself.' Gay was silent and dejected for some time; but in *1720 he published his poems by subscription, and realised a sum of £ 1 000. He received, also, a present of South-Sea stock, and was supposed to be worth £20,000, all of which he lost by the explosion of tliat famous delusion. This serious calamity to one fimd of finery in dress and living only prompted to fiirther literary exer- tion. In 1724, Gay brought out another drama. The Captives, which was acted with moderate suc- cess; and in 1726 he wrote a volume of fables, designed for the special improvement of the Duke of Cumberland, who certainly did not learn mercy or humanity from them. The accession of the prince and princess to the throne seemed to augur well for the fortunes of Gay ; but he was only offered the situation of gentleman uslier to one of the young princesses, and considering this an insult, he rejected it. His genius proved his best patron. In 1726, Swift came to England, and resided two months with Pope at Twickenham. Among other plans, the dean of St Patrick suggested to Gay the idea of a Newgate pastoral, in which the charac- ters should be thieves and highwaymen, and the Beggar s Opera was the result. When finished, the two friends were doubtful of the success of the pieces but it was received with unbounded applause. The songs and music aided greatly its popularity, and there was also the recommendation of political satire ; for the quarrel between Peachum and Lockit was an allusion to a personal collision between Walpole and his colleague. Lord Townseiid. The spirit and variety of the piece, in which song and sentiment are so happily intermixed with vice and roguery, still render the ' Beggar's Opera' a favourite with the public ; but as Gay has succeeded in making highwaymen agreeable, and even attractive, it can- not be commended for its moral tendency. Of this we suspect the Epicurean author thought little. The opera had a run of sixty-three nights, and became the rage of town and country. Its success had sdso 571 FROM 1689 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 172. the effect of givinjr rise to the English opera, a spe- cies of light comedy enlivened by songs and music, which for a time supplanted the Italian opera, witli all its exotic and elaborate graces. Gay tried a sequel to the ' Beggar's Opera,' under the title of Pollr/; but as it was supposed to contain sarcasms on the court, tlie lord chamberlain prohibited its representation. The poet had recourse to publica- tion ; and such was the zeal of his friends, and the effect of party spirit, that while the ' Beggars Opera' realised for him only about £400, ' Polly' produced a profit of £1100 or £1200. The Duchess of Marl- borough gave £100 as her subscription for a copy. Gay had now amassed £3000 by his writings, which he resolved to keep ' entire and sacred.' He was at the same time received into the house of his kind patrons the Duke and Ducliess of Queensberry, with whom he spent the remainder of his life. His only literary occupation was composing additional fables, and corresponding occasionally with Pope and Swift. A sudden attack of inflammatory fever hurried him out of life in three days. He died on the 4th of December 1732. Pope's letter to Swift announcing the event was indorsed by the latter : ' On my dear friend Mr Gay's death. Received, December 15th, but not read till the 20th, by an impulse foreboding some misfortune.' The friend- ship of these eminent men seems to have been sin- cere and tender; and nothing in the life of Swift is more touching or honourable to his memory, than tliose passages in his letters where the recollection of Gay melted his haughty stoicism, and awakened his deep though unavailing sorrow. Pope, always more affectionate, was equdly grieved by the loss of him whom he has characterised as — Of manners gentle, of affections mild ; In wit a man, simplicity a child. Gay was buried in Westminster abbey, where a handsome monument was erected to his memory by the Duke and Duchess of Queensberrj'. The works of this easy and loveable son of the muses have lost much of their popularity. He has the licentiousness, without the elegance, of Prior. His fables are still, however, the best we possess; and if they have not the nationality or rich humour and archness of La Fontaine's, the subjects of them are light and pleasing, and the versification always smooth and correct. The Hare with Many Friends is doubtless drawn from Gaj''s own experience. In the Court of Death, he aims at a higher order of poetry, and mar- shals his ' diseases dire' with a strong and gloomy power. His song of Black-Eyed Susan, and the ballad beginning ' Twas when the seas were roaring,' are full of characteristic tenderness and. lyrical me- lody. Tiie latter is said by Cowper to have been the joint production of Arbuthnot, Swift, and Gay. [2%fi Countnj Ballad Singer.'] [From ' The Sheplierd's "Week."] Sublimer strains, rustic muse ! prepare ; Forget awhile the bam and dairy's care ; Thy homely voice to loftier numbers raise, The drunkard's flights require sonorous lays ; With Bowzybeus' songs exalt thy verse, While rocka and woods the various notes rehearse. 'Twas in the season when the reapers' toil Cf the ripe harvest 'gan to rid the soil ; Wide through the field was seen a goodly rout. Clean damsels bound the gathered sheaves about ; The lads with sharpened hook and sweating brow Cut down the labours of the winter plough. * * When fast asleep they Bowzybeus spied, riJ8 hat and oaken staff laj close beside ; That Bowzybeus who could sweetly sing, Or with the rosined bow torment the string; That Bowzybeus who, with fingers' speed, Could call soft warblings from the breathing reed ; That Bowzybeus who, with jocund tongue. Ballads, and roundelays, and catches sung : They loudly laugh to see the damsel's fright, And in disport surround the drunken wight. Ah, Bowzybee, why didst thou stay so long? The mugs were large, the drink was wondrous strong 1 Thou should'st have left the fair before 'twas night, But thou sat'st toping till the morning light. Cicely, brisk maid, steps forth before the rout, And kissed with smacking lip the snoring lout (For custom says, ' Whoe'er this venture proves. For such a kiss demands a pair of gloves'). By her example Dorcas bolder grows, And plays a tickling straw within his nose. He rubs his uostril, and in wonted joke The sneering strains with stammering speech bespoke • To you, my lads, Til sing my carols o'er; As for the maids, I've something else in store. No sooner 'gan he raise his tuneful song. But lads and lasses round about him throng. Not ballad- singer placed above the crowd Sings with a note so shrilling sweet and loud ; Nor parish-clerk, who calls the psalm so clear, Like Bowzybeus soothes the attentive ear. Of nature's laws his carols first begun. Why the grave owl can never face the sun. For owls, as swains observe, detest the light. And only sing and seek their prey by night. How turnips hide their swelling heads below, And how the closing coleworts upwards grow ; How Will-a-wisp misleads night-faring clowns O'er hills, and sinking bogs, and pathless do^vns. Of stars he told that shoot with shining trail. And of the glow-worm's light that gilds his tall. He sung where woodcocks in the summer feed. And in what climates they renew their breed (Some think to northern coasts their flight they tend. Or to the moon in midnight hours ascend) ; Where swallows in the winter's season keep. And how the drowsy bat and dormouse sleep ; How nature does the puppy's eyelid close, Till the bright sun has nine times set and rose (For huntsmen by their long experience find. That puppies still nine rolling suns are blind). Now he goes on, and sings of fairs and shows, For still new fairs before his eyes arose. How pedlers' stalls with glittering toys are laid, The various fairings of the country maid. Long silken laces hang upon the twine. And rows of pins and amber bracelets shine ; How the tight lass knives, combs, and scissors spies, And looks on thimbles with desiring eyes. Of lotteries next with tuneful note he told. Where silver spoons are won, and rings of gold. The lads and lasses trudge the street along, And all the fair is crowded in his song. The mountebank now treads the stage, and sells His pills, his balsams, and his ague-spells ; Now o'er and o'er the nimble tumbler springs, And on the rope the venturous maiden swings ; Jack Pudding, in his party-coloured jacket, Tosses the glove, and jokes at every packet. Of raree-shows he sung, and Punch's feats. Of pockets picked in crowds, and various cheats. Then sad he sung ' The Children in the Wood,' (Ah, barbarous uncle, stained with Infant blood !) IIow blackberries they plucked in deserts wild. And fearless at the glittering faulchion smiled ; Their little corpse the robin-redbreasts found. And strewed with pious bill the leaves around. (Ah, gentle birds ! if this verse lasts so long, Your names shall live for ever in my song.) 572 ENGLISH LITERATURE. For ' Buxom Joan' he sung the doubtful strife, How the slv sailor made the maid a wife. To louder strains he raised his voice, to tell What woful wars in ' Chevy Chase' befell. When ' Percy drove the deer with hound and horn ; Wars to be wept by children yet unborn !' Ah, Witherington ! more years thy life had crowned, If thou hadst never heard the horn or hound ! Yet shall the squire, who fought on bloody stumps. By future bards be wailed in doleful dumj)s. ' -Ml in the land of Essex' next he chaunts. How to sleek mares starch Quakers turn gallants : How the grave brother stood on bank so green — Happy for him if mares had never been ! Then he was seized with a religious qualm, And on a sudden sung the hundredth psalm. He sung of ' Tafiy Welsh' and ' Sa^vney Scot,' ' Lilly-bullero' and the ' Irish Trot.' Why should I tell of ' Bateman' or of ' Shore,' Or ' Wantley's Dragon' slain by valiant Moore, * The Bower of Rosamond,' or ' Robin Hood,' And how the ' grass now grows where Troy to\vn stood V His carols ceased ; the listening maids and swains Seem still to hear some soft imperfect strains. Sudden he rose, and, as he reels along, Swer.rs kisses sweet should well reward his song. The damsels laughing fly ; the giddy clown Again upon a wheat-sheaf drops adown ; The DOwer that guards the drunk his sleep attends, Till, uddy, like his face, the sun descends. [ WalMng the Streets of London. 1 [From ' Trivia.'] Through winter streets to steer your course aright, How to walk clean by day, and safe by night ; How jostling crowds with prudence to decline. When to assert the wall, and when resign, I sing ; thou, Trivia, goddess, aid my song. Through spacious streets conduct thy bard along ; By thee transported, I securely stray Where winding alleys lead the doubtful way ; The silent court and opening square explore, And long perplexing lanes untrod before. To jiave thy realm, and smooth the broken ways, Earth from her womb a flinty tribute pays ; For thee the sturdy pavior thumps the ground. Whilst every stroke his labouring lungs resound ; For thee the scavenger bids kennels glide Within their bounds, and heaps of dirt subside. Sly youthful bosom bums with thirst of fame. From the great theme to build a glorious name ; To tread in paths to ancient bards unknown, And bind my temples with a civic crown : But more my country's love demands my lays ; My country's be the profit, mine the praise ! When the black youth at chosen stands rejoice. And ' clean your shoes' resounds from every voice ; When late their miry sides stage-coaches show. And their stiff horses through the town move slow ; When all the Mall in leafy ruin lies. And damsels first renew their oyster cries ; Then let the prudent walker shoes provide, Kot of the Spanish or Morocco hide ; The wooden heel may raise the dancer's bound. And with the scalloped top his step be crowned: Let firm, well-hammered soles protect thy feet Through freezing snows, and rains, and soaking sliit. Should the big last extend the shoe too wide, Each stone will wrench the unwary step aside ; The sudden turn may stretch the swelling vein. Thy cracking joint unhinge, or ankle sprain ; And, when too short the modish shoes are wom. You'll judge the seasons by your shooting corn. Xor should it prove thy less important care. To choose a proper coat for winter's wear. Now in thy trunk thy D'Oily habit f)ld. The silken drugget ill oin fence the cold ; The frieze's spongy nap Is soaked with rain. And showers soon drench the camblet's cockled grain ; True Witneyl broadcloth, with its shag unshorn, Unpierced is in the lasting tempest wom : Be this the horseman's fence, for who would wear Amid the town the spoils of Russia's bear ? Within the roquelaure's clasp thy hands are pent, Hands, that, stretched forth, invading harms prevent Let the looped bavaroy the fop embrace. Or his deep cloak bespattered o'er with lace. That garment best the winter's rage defends. Whose ample form without one plait depends ; By various names- in various counties known, Yet held in all the true surtout alone ; Be thine of kersey firm, though small the cost. Then brave unwet the rain, unchilled the frost. If the strong cane support thy walking hand, Chairmen no longer shall the wall command ; Even sturdy carmen shall thy nod obey. And rattling coaches stop to make thee way : This shall direct thy cautious tread aright. Though not one glaring lamp enliven night. Let beaux their canes, with amber tipt, produce ; Be theirs for empty show, but thine for use. In gilded chariots while they loll at ease, And lazily insure a life's disease ; While softer chairs the tawdiy load convey To court, to White's,'^ assemblies, or tlie play ; Rosy-complexioned Health thy steps attends. And exercise thy lasting youth defends. Imprudent men Heaven's choicest gifts profane : Thus some beneath their arm support the cane ; The dirty point oft checks the careless pace. And miry spots the clean cravat disgrace. C)h ! may I never such misfortune meet! May no such vicious walkers crowd the street ! IMay Providence o'ershade me with her wings. While the bold Muse experienced danger sings ! S07ir/. Sweet woman is like the fair flower in its lustre, Which in the garden enamels the ground ; Near it the bees, in play, flutter and cluster. And gaudy butterflies frolic around. But when once plucked, 'tis no longer iilhiring. To Covent-Garden 'tis sent (as yet sweet), There fades, and shrinks, and grows past all enduiiag, Rots, stinks, and dies, and is trod under feet. [TIte Poet and the Jiose.'\ [From the ' Fables.'] I liate the man who builds his name On ruins of another's fame: Thus jsrudes, by characters o erthro^vn, Imagine that they raise their own ; Thus scribblers, covetous of praise. Think slander can transplant the baya. Beauties and bards have equal pride, With both all rivals are decried : Who praises Lesbia's eyes and feature. Must call her sister ' awkward creature ;' P'or the kind flattery's sure to charm. When we some other nymph disanii. As in the cool of early day A poet sought the sweets of May, The garden's fragrant breath ascends, And every stalk with odour bends ; A rose he plucked, he gazed, admired. Thus singing, as the muse inspired — ' A town in Oxfordsliirc. 2 A Joseph, wrap-rascal, kc 3 A chocolate-house in St James's Street. 677 I'ROM 1G89 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 172y. ' Go, Rose, my Chloe's bosom grace ; How happy should I prove, Might I supply that envied place With iievcr-lading love ! There, Pheuix-like, beneath her eye, Involved in fragrance, burn and die. Know, hapless flower ! that thou shalt find More fragrant roses there : I see thy withering head reclined With envy and despair ! One common fate we both must prove ; You die with envy, I with love.' * Spare your comparisons,' replied An angry Rose, who grew beside. * Of all mankind, you should not flout us ; What can a poet do without us 1 In every love-song roses bloom ; We lend you colour and perfume. Does it to Chloe's charms conduce, To found her praise on our abuse! Must we, to flatter her, be made To wither, envy, pine, and fade ?' The Cotirt of Death. Death, on a solemn night of state, In all his pomp of terror sate ; The attendants of his gloomy reign, Diseases dire, a ghastly train ! Crowd the vast court. With hollow tone, A voice thus thundered from the throne : ' This night our minister we name, Let every servant speak his claim ; T^Ierit shall bear this ebon wand.' All, at the word, stretched forth their hand. Fever, with burning heat possessed, Advanced, and for the wand addressed : ' I to the weekly bills appeal. Let those express my fervent zeal ; On every slight occasion near. With violence I persevere.' Next Gout appears with limping pace. Pleads how he shifts from place to place ; From head to foot how swift he flies. And every joint and sinew plies ; Still working when he seems supprest, A most tenacious stubborn guest. A haggard spectre from the crew Crawls forth, and thus asserts his due : ' 'Tis I who taint the sweetest joj-. And in the shape of love destroy. My shanks, sunk eyes, and noseless face. Prove my pretension to the place.' Stone urged his overgrowing force ; And, next, Consumption's meagre corse. With feeble voice that scarce was heard. Broke with short coughs, his suit preferred : ' Let none object my lingering way; I gain. Like Fabius, by delay ; Fatigue and weaken every foe By long attack, secure, though slow.' Plague represents his rapid power. Who thinned a nation in an hour. All spoke their claim, and hoped the wand. Now expectation hushed the band. When thus the monarch from the throne : * Merit was ever modest known. What, no physician speak his right ! None here ! but fees their toils requite. Let then Intemperance take the wand. Who fills with gold their zealous hand. You, Fever, Gout, and all the rest (Whom wary men as foes detest), Forego your claim. No more pretend ; Intemperance is esteemed a friend ; He shares their mirth, their social joys. And as a courted guest destroys. The charge on him must justly fall, Who finds employment for you all.* TIte Hare and Many Friends. Friendship, like love, is but a name. Unless to one you stint the flame. The child, whom many fathers share. Hath seldom knoAvn a father's care. 'Tis thus in friendship ; who depend On many, rarely find a friend. A Hare, who in a civil way. Complied with everything, like Gay, Was known by all the bestial train. Who haunt the wood, or graze the {jlalu. Her care was never to ofl!end. And every creature was her friend. As forth she went at early dawn. To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn. Behind she hears the hunter's cries. And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies : She starts, she stops, she pants for breath ; She hears the near advance of death ; She doubles, to mislead the hound. And measures back her mazy round ; Till, fainting in the public way. Half dead with fear she gasping lay ; What transport in her bosom grew. When first the Horse appeared in view ! Let me, says she, your back ascend. And owe my safety to a friend. You know my feet betray my flight. To friendship every burden's light. The Horse replied : Poor honest Puss, It grieves my heart to see thee thus ; Be comforted, relief is near. For all your friends are In the rear. She next the stately Bull implored, And thus replied the mighty lord: Since every beast alive can tell That I sincerely wish you well, I may, without oflfence, pretend To take the freedom of a friend. Love calls me hence ; a favourite cow Expects me near j'on barley-mow ; And when a ladj-'s in the case. You know, all other things give place. To leave you thus might seem unkind ; But see, the Goat is just behind. The Goat remarked her pulse was high. Her languid head, her heavy eye ; My back, says he, may do you harm. The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm. The Sheep was feeble, and complained His sides a load of wool sustained : Said he was slow, confessed his fears, For hounds eat sheep as well as hares. She now the trotting Calf addressed. To save from death a friend distressed. Shall I, says he, of tender age. In this important care engage ? Older and abler passed you by ; How strong are those, how weak am I ! Should I presume to bear you hence, Those friends of mine may take offence. Excuse me, then. You know my heart ; But dearest friends, alas ! must part. How shall we all lament ! Adieu ! For, see, the hounds are just in view ! Tlie Lion, the Tiger, and the Traveller. Accept, 3'oung prince, the moral lay. And in these tales mankind survey ; 674 ENGLISH LITERATURE. With early virtues piant your breast, The specious arts of vice detest. Princes, like beauties, froiu their youth Are strangers to the voice of truth ; Learn to contemn all praise betimes, For flattery is the nurse of crimes : Friendship by sweet reproof is shown (A virtue never near a throne) ; In courts such freedom must offend, There none presumes to be a friend. To those of your exalted station, Each courtier is a dedication. Must I, too, flatter like the rest, And turn my morals to a jest ? The muse disdains to steal from those Who thrive in courts by fulsome prose. But shall I hide your real praise. Or tell you what a nation says ? They in your infant bosom trace The virtues of your royal race ; In the fair dawning of your mind Discern you generous, mild, and kind : They see you grieve to hear distress. And pant already to redress. Go on, the height of good attain. Nor let a nation hope in vain ; For hence we, justly may presage The virtues of a riper age. True courage shall your bosom fire, And future actions own your sire. Cowards are cruel, but the brave Love mercy, and delight to save. A Tiger, roaming for his prey. Sprung on a Traveller in the way ; The prostrate game a Lion spies. And on the greedy tyrant flies ; With mingled roar resounds the wood, Their teeth, their claws, distil with blood ; Till, vanquished by the Lion's strength, The spotted foe extends his length. The man besought the shaggy lord. And on his knees for life implored ; His life the generous hero gave. Together walking to his cave, The Lion thus bespoke his guest : What hardy beast shall dare contest My matchless strength ? You saw the fight. And must attest my power and right. Forced to forego their native home, My starving slaves at distance roam ; Within these woods I reign alone ; The boundless forest is my own. Bears, wolves, and all the savage brood. Have dyed the regal den with blood. These carcasses on either hand, Those bones that whiten all the land, My former deeds and triumphs tell, Beneath these jaws what numbers fell. True, says the man, the strength I saw Might well the brutal nation awe : But shall a monarch, brave like you, Place glory in so false a view ? Robbers invade their neighbour's right. Re loved ; let justice bound your might. Mean are ambitious heroes' boasts Of wasted lands and slaughtered hosts. Pirates their power by murders gain : Wise kings by love and mercy reign. To me your clemency hath sho\vn The virtue worthy of a throne. Heaven gives you power above the rest. Like Heaven, to succour the distrest. The case is plain, the monarch said ; False glory hath my youth misled ; For beasts of prey, a sci-vile train, Hi,ve been the flatterers of my reign. You reason well. Yet tell me, friend, Did ever you in courts attend? For all my fawning rogues agree. That human heroes rule like me. Sweet William's Farewell to Black-Eyed Simtn. All in the dowTis the fleet was moored. The streamers waving in the wind. When black -eyed Susan came aboard. Oh ! where shall I my true love find ? Tell nie, ye jovial sailors, tell me true. If my sweet William sails among the crew! William, who high upon the yard Rocked with the billow to and fro. Soon as her well-known voice he heard. He sighed, and cast his eyes below : The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands, And (quick as lightning) on the deck he st»ids. So sweet the lark, high poised in air. Shuts close his jiinions to his bre.ast (If chance his mate's shrill call he hear). And drops at once into her nest. The noblest captain in the British fleet Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet. ! Susan, Susan, lovely dear, My vows shall ever true remain ; Let me kiss ott' that falling tear ; We only part to meet again. Change as ye list, ye winds ! my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee. Believe not what the landmen say, Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind ; They'll tell thee, sailors, when away, In every port a mistress find : Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so. For thou art present wheresoe'er I go. If to fair India's coast we sail. Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright. Thy breath is Afrlc's spicy gale. Thy skin is ivory so white. Thus every beauteous object that I view, Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. Though battle call me from thy arms, Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms, William sliall to his dear return. Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye. The boatswain gave the dreadful word. The sails their swelling bosom spread ; No longer must she stay aboard ; They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land, Adieu ! she cries, and waved her lily hand. A Ballad. [From the ' What-d'yc-c:ill-it ?'] 'Twas wlien the seas were roaring With hollow blasts of wind, A damsel lay deploring. All on a rock reclined. Wide o'er the foaming billows She cast a wistful look ; Her head was crowned with willows, That trembled o'er the brook. Twelve months are gone and over. And nine long tedious days ; Why didst thou, venturous lover. Why didst thou trust the seasi Cease, cease thou cruel ocean, And let my lover rest : Ah ! wliat's thy troubled motion To that within my breast? 575 FROM 1689 CYCLOPEDIA OP TO 1727. The merchant robbed of pleasure, Sees tempests in despair ; But what's the loss of treasure, To losing of my dear 1 Should you some coast be laid on, Where gold and diamonds grow, You'd find a richer maiden, But none that loves you so. How can they say that nature Has nothing made in vain ; Why then, beneath the water, Should hideous rocks remain J No eyes the rocks discover That lurk beneath the deep, To wreck the wandering lover, And leave the maid to weep. All melancholy lying, Thus wailed she for her dear ; Repaid each blast with sighing. Each billow with a tear. When o'er the white wave stooping His floating corpse she spied. Then, like a lily drooping, She bowed her head, and died. THOMAS PARNELL. Another friend of Pope and Swift, and one of the popular authors of that period, was Thomas Par- NELL (1679-1718). His father possessed consider- able estates in Ireland, but was descended of an English family long settled at Congleton, in Che- fihire. The poet was born and educated in Dublin, Thomas Pamell. went into sacred orders, and was appointed arch- deacon of Clogher, to which was afterwards added, through the influence of Swift, the vicarage of Fin- glass, in the diocese of Dublin, worth £400 a-year. Parnell, like Swift, disliked Ireland, and seems to have considered his situation there a cheerless and irksome banishment. As permanent residence at their livings was not then insisted upon on the part of the clergy, Parnell lived chiefly in London. He married a young lady of beauty and miirit. Miss Anne Minchen, wlio died a few years after their union. His grief for her loss preyed upon liis spirits (wliich had always been unequal), and hur- ried him into intemperance. He died on the 18tli of October, 1718, at Chester, on his way to Ireland. Parnell was an accomplished scholar and a delight- ful companion. His life was written by Goldsmith, who Avas proud of his distinguished countryman, considering him the last of the great school that had modelled itself upon the ancients. Parnell's works are of a miscellaneous nature — translations, songs, hymns, epistles, &c. His most celebrated piece is the Hermit, familiar to most readers from tlieir in- fancy. Pope pronounced it to be ' very good,' and its sweetness of diction and picturesque solemnity of style must always please. His Night Piece on Death was indirectly preferred by Goldsmitli to Gray's celebrated Elegy ; but few men of taste or feeling will subscribe to such an opinion. In the * Night Piece,' Parnell meditates among the tombs. Tired with poring over the pages of schoolmen and sages, he sallies out at midnight to the churcliyard — How deep yon azure dyes the sky ! Where orbs of gold unnumbered lie ; While through their ranks, in silver pride, The nether crescent seems to glide. The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe, The lake is smooth and clear beneath, Where once again the spangled show Descends to meet our eyes below. The grounds, which on the right aspire. In dimness from the view retire : The left presents a place of graves, Whose wall the silent water laves. That steeple guides thy doubtful sight Among the livid gleams of night. There pass, with melancholy st.ate. By all the solemn heaps of fate, And think, as softly sad you tread Above the venerable dead, ' Time was, like thee, they life possessed, And time shall be that thou shalt rest.' Those with bending osier bound, That nameless heave the crumbled ground. Quick to the glancing thought disclose Where toil and poverty repose. The flat smooth stones that bear a name. The chisel's slender help to fame (Which, ere our set of friends decay. Their frequent steps may wear away), A middle race of mortals own. Men, half ambitious, all unknown. The marble tombs that rise on high. Whose dead in vaulted arches lie. Whose pillars swell with sculptured stones, Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones ; These all the poor remains of state. Adorn the rich, or praise the great ; Who, while on earth in fame they live, Are senseless of the fame they give. TJie HeiTnit. Far in a wild, unknown to public view, From youth to age a reverend hermit grew; The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell. His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well ; Remote from men, with God he passed his days. Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise. A life so sacred, such serene repose. Seemed heaven itself, till one suggestion rose- That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey ; This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway ; His hopes no more a certain prospect boast. And all the tenor of his soul is lost. So, when a smooth expanse receives impressed Calm nature's image on its watery breast, Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow, And skies beneath with answering colours glow j But, if a stone the gentle sea divide, Swift ruffling circles curl on every side, 676 ENGLISH LITERATURE. THOMAS PARNKLU And glimmering fragments of a broken sun, Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run. To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight, To find if books, or swains, report it riglit (For yet by swains alone the world he knew. Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew), He quits his cell ; the pilgrim-statf he bore, And fixed the scallop in his hat before ; Then, with the rising sun, a journey went, Sedate to think, and watching each event. The morn was wasted in the pathless grass, And long and lonesome was the wild to pass ; But, when the southern sun had warmed the day, A youth came posting o'er a crossing way ; His raiment decent, his complexion fair. And soft in graceful ringlets waved his hair ; Then, near approaching, ' Father, hail !' he cried. And, * Hail, my son !' the reverend sire replied. Words followed words, from question answer (lowed, And talk, of various kind, deceived the road ; Till each with other pleased, and loath to part, While in their age they differ, join in heart. Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound. Thus useful ivy clasps an elm around. Now sunk the sun ; the closing hour of day Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray ; Nature, in silence, bid the world repose. When, near the road, a stately palace rose. There, by the maon, through ranks of trees they pass. Whose verdure crowned their sloping sides with grass. It chanced the noble master of the dome Still made his house the wandering stranger's home ; Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise. Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease. The pair an-ive ; the liveried servants wait ; Their lord receives them at the pompous gate ; The table groans with costly piles of food, And all is more than hospitably good. Then led to rest, the day's long toil they drown. Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down. At length 'tis morn, and, at the dawn of day. Along the wide canals the zephyrs play ; Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep, And shake the neighbouring wood to banish sleep. Up rise the guests, obedient to the call. An early banquet decked the splendid hall ; Rich luscious wine a golden goblet graced, Which the kind master forced the guests to taste. Then, pleased and thankful, from the porch they go ; And, but the landlord, none had cause of wo ; His cup was vanished ; for in secret guise, The younger guest purloined the glittering prize. As one who spies a serpent in his way,. Glistening and basking in the summer ray. Disordered stops to shun the danger near. Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear ; So seemed the sire, when, far upon the road. The shining spoil his wily partner showed. He stopped with silence, walked with trembling heart. And nmch he wished, but durst not ask to part ; Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard That generous actions meet a base reward. While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds. The changing skies hang out their sable clouds ; A sound in air presaged approaching rain. And beasts to covert scud across the plain. Warned by the signs, the wandering pair retreat To seek for shelter at a neighbouring seat. 'Twas built with turrets on a rising ground. And otiong, and large, and unimproved around ; Its owner's temper, timorous and severe. Unkind and griping, caused a desert there. As near the miser's heavy door they drew, Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ; The nimble lightning, mixed with showers, began, And o'er their heads loud rolling thunders ran ; Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain. Driven by the wind, and battered by the rain. At length some ])ity wanned the master's breast ('Twas then his thresliold first received a guest) ; Slow creaking turns the door with jealous ciire. And half he welcomes in the shivering pair ; One frugal faggot lights the naked walls. And Nature's fervour through their limbs recalls ; Bread of the coarsest sort, with meagre wi?ic, (Each hardly granted), served them botli to dine; And when the tempest first appeared to cease, A ready warning bid them part in peace. With still remark, the pondering hermit viewed, In one so rich, a life so poor and rude ; And why should such (within himself lie cried) Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside ? But what new marks of wonder soon take place In every settling feature of his face. When, from his vest, the 3'oung companion bore That cup, the generous landlord owned before, And paid profusely with the precious bowl, The stinted kindness of this churlish soul ! But now the clouds in airy tumult fly ; The sun emerging, opes an azure sky ; A fresher green the smelling leaves display', And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the day: The weather courts them from their poor retreat. And the glad master bolts the weary gate. While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom wrought With all the travail of uncertain thought : His partner's acts without their cause appear ; 'Twas there a vice, and seemed a madness here : Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes, Lost and confounded with the various shows. Now night's dim shades again involve the sky; Again the wanderer's want a place to lie ; Again they search, and find a lodging nigh. The soil improved around, the mansion neut. And neither poorly low, nor idly great; It seemed to speak its mtister's turn of mind, Content, and not for praise, but virtue, kind. Hither the walkers turn their weary feet. Then bless the mansion, and the master greet. Their greeting fair, bestowed with modest guise. The courteous master hears, and thus replies : — ' Without a vain, without a grudging heart. To him who gives us all, I yield a part ; From him you come, for him accept it here, A frank and sober, more than costly cheer !' He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread. Then talked of virtue till the time of bed ; When the grave household round his hall repair, Warned by a bell, and close the hours with prayer. At length the world, renewed by calm repose, Was strong for toil ; the dapj)led morn arose ; Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept Near a closed cradle where an infant slept, And writhed his neck : the landlord's little jirlde, O strange return ! grew black, and gasped, and died! Horror of horrors ! what ! his only son ! How looked our hermit when the fact was done ! Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder part. And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart. Confused, and struck with silence at the deed, He flies, but trembling, fails to fly with speed ; His steps the youth pursues: tlie counti-y lay Perplexed with roads ; a servant showed the way ; A river crossed the path ; the passage o'er Was nice to find ; the servant trod before ; Long arms of oaks an open bridge supplied, And deep the waves beneath them bending glide. The youth, who seemed to watch a time to ^ln, Approached the careless guide, and tlirust lu::i in; Plunging he falls, and rising, lifts his head, Then flashing turns, and sinks among tlie dead. 577 93 FROM 1689 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1727. While sparkling rage inflamea the father's eyes, He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries, ' Detested wretch !' — but scarce his speech began. When the strange partner seemed no longer man ! His youthful face grew more serenely sweet ; His robe turned white, and flowed upon his feet ; Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair ; Celestial odours breathe through purpled air ; And wings, whose colours glittered on the day, Wide at his back their gradual plumes display. The form ethereal bursts upon his sight, And moves in all the majesty of light. Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion grew, Sudden he gazed, and wist not what to do ; Surprise, in secret chains, his words suspends, And in a calm, his settling temper ends, But silence here the beauteous angel broke (The voice of Music ravish'd as he spoke) : — ' Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown. In sweet memorial rise before the throne : These charms success in our bright region find, And force an angel dowTi to calm thy mind ; For this commissioned, I forsook the sky : Nay, cease to kneel — thy fellow servant I. Then know the truth of government divine, And let these scruples be no longer thine. The Maker justly claims that world he made ; In this the right of Providence is laid ; Its sacred majesty through all depends On using second n)eans to work his ends : 'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye, The power exerts his attributes on high ; Your action uses, nor controls your will. And bids the doubting sons of men be still. What strange events can strike with more surprise. Than those which lately struck thy wondering eyes ? Yet, taught by these, confess the Almighty just. And, where you can't unriddle, learn to trust. The great vain man, who fared on costly food. Whose life was too luxurious to be good ; Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine. And forced his guests to morning draughts of wine; Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost. And still he welcomes, but with less of cost. The mean suspicious wretch, whose bolted door Ne'er moved in pity to the wandering poor ; With him I left the cup, to teach his mind That Heaven can bless, if mortals will be kind. Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl. And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead. With heaping coals of fire upon its head ; In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow, And, loose from dross, the silver runs below. Long had our pious friend in virtue trod. But now the child half-weaned his heart from God ; (Child of his age) for hiui he lived in pain, And measured back his steps to earth again. To what excesses had his dotage run ! But God, to save the father, took the son. To all but thee, in fits he seemed to go. And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow. The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust. Now owns in tears the punishment was just. But how had all his fortunes felt a wrack. Had that false servant sped in safety back ? This night his treasured heaps he meant to steal, And what a fund of charity would fail ! Thus Heaven instructs thy mind : this trial o'er, Dej)art in peace, resign, and sin no more.' On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew, Tho sage stood wondering as the seraph flew ; Thus looked Elisha, .when, to mount on high, His master took the chariot of the sky ; The fiery pomp ascending left the view ; the prophet gazed, and wished to follow too. The bending Hermit here a prayer begun, ' Lord, as in heaven, on earth thy will be done.' Then, gladly turning, sough* his ancient place, And passed a life of piety and peace. MATTHEW GREEN. ^Iatthew Green (1696-1737) was author of a poem. The Spleen, which received the praises of Pope and Gray. He was born in 1696, of dissenting parentage, and enjoj'cd a situation in the custom- house. His disposition was cheerful ; but this did not save him from occasional attacks of low spirits, or spleen, as the favourite phrase was in his time. Having tried all imaginable remedies for his maladj', he conceived himself at length able to treat it in a philosophical spirit, and therefore wrote the above- mentioned poem, which adverts to all its forms, and their apjiropriate remedies, in a style of comic verse I'esembling Hudibras. but which Pope him- self allowed to be eminently original. Green ter- minated a quiet inoffensive life of celibacy in 1737, at the age of forty-one. ' The Sjjleen' was first published by Glover, the author of 'Leonidas,' himself a poet of some jircten- sions in his day. Gray thought that 'even the wood-notes of Green often break out into strains of real poetry and music' As ' The Spleen' is almost unknown to modern readers, we present a few of its best passages. The first tliat follows contains one line (marked by Italic) which is certainly one of the happiest and wisest things ever said by a British author. It seems, however, to be imitated from Shakspeare — Man but a rush against Othello's breast, And he retires. [Cures for Melancholy.'] To cure the mind's wrong bias, spleen. Some recommend the bowling-green ; Some hilly walks ; all exercise ; Fling hut a stone, the giant dies; Laugh and be well. Monkeys have been Extreme good doctors for the spleen ; And kitten, if the humour hit. Has harlequined away the fit. Since mirth is good in this behalf, At some particulars let us laugh. Witlings, brisk fools * * Who buzz in rhyme, and, like blind flies, Err with their wings for want of eyes. Poor authors worsliipping a calf; Deep tragedies that make us laugh ; Folks, things prophetic to dispense, Making the past the future tense; The popish dubbing of a priest ; Fine epitajdis on knaves deceased ; A miser starving to be rich ; The prior of Newgate's dying speech ; A jointured widow's ritual state; Two Jews disputing tete-a-tcte ; New almanacs composed by seers ; Experiments on felons' ears ; Disdainful prudes, who ceaseless ply The superb muscle of the eye ; A coquette's April- weather face ; A Queen'brough mayor behind his ma06^ And fops in military show, Are sovereign for the case in view. If spleen-fogs rise at close of day, I clear my evening with a plaj', Or to some concert take my way. The company, the shine of lights, The scenes of humour, music's (lights. Adjust and set the soul to rights S78 ENGLISH LITERATURE. MATTHEW GREKM. In rainy da3's keep double guard, Or spleen will surely be too hard ; Which, like those fish by sailors met. Fly highest while their wings are wet. In such dull weather, so unfit To enterprise a work of wit ; When clouds one yard of azure sky, That's fit for simile, deny, I dress my face with studious looks, And shorten tedious hours with books. But if dull fogs invade the head, That memory minds not what is read, I sit in window dry as ark, And on the drowning world remark : Or to some cofteehouse I stray For news, the manna of a day, And from the hipped discourses gather, That politics go by the weather. * * Sometimes I dress, with women sit, And chat away the gloomy fit ; Quit the stifFgarb of serious sense, And wear a gay impertinence. Nor think nor speak with any pains. But lay on fancy's neck the reins. * * Law, licensed breaking of the peace, To which vacation is disease ; A gipsy diction scarce known well By the ruagi, who law-fortunes tell, I shun ; nor let it breed within Anxiety, and that the spleen. * * I never game, and rarely bet. Am loath to lend or run in debt. No Compter-writs me agitate ; Who moralising pass the gate, And there mine eyes on spendthrifts turn, M'ho vainly o'er their bondage mourn. Wisdom, before beneath their care. Pays her upbraiding visits there. And forces folly through the grate Her panegyric to repeat. This view, profusely when inclined, Enters a caveat in the mind : Experience, joined with common sense. To mortals is a providence. Reforming schemes are none of mine ; To mend the world's a vast design : Like theirs, who tug in little boat To pull to them the ship afloat. While to defeat their laboured end, At once both wind and stream contend : Success herein is seldom seen. And zeal, when bafSed, turns to spleen. Happy the man, who, innocent. Grieves not at ills he can't prevent ; His skiflTdoes with the current glide, Not pufling pulled against the tide. He, paddling by the scuffling crowd. Sees unconcerned life's wager rowed. And when he can't prevent foul play. Enjoys the folly of the fray. * * Yet philosophic love of ease I suffer not to prove disease, But rise up in the virtuous cause Of a free press, and equal laws. * * Since disappointment galls within, And subjugates the soul to spleen, Most schemes, as money snares, I hate, And bite not at projector's bait. Suflicient wrecks appear each day, And yet fresh fools are cast away. Ere well the bubbled can turn round. Their painted vessel runs aground ; Or in deep seas it oversets By a fierce hurricane of debts ; Or helm-directors in one trip. Freight first embezzled, sink the ship. * When Fancy tries her limning skill To draw and colour at her will. And raise and round the figures well. And show her talent to excel, 1 guard my heart, lest it should woo Unreal beauties Fancy drew. And, disappointed, feel despair At loss of things that never were. \_Contentinent — A WkhJ] Forced by soft violence of prayer. The blithsome goddess soothes my care; I feel the deity inspire. And thus she models my desire : Two hundred pounds half-yearly paid. Annuity securely made, A farm some twenty miles from town. Small, tight, salubrious, and my own ; Two maids that never saw the town, A serving-man not quite a clown, A boy to help to tread the mow. And drive, while t'other holds the plough j A chief, of temper formed to please. Fit to converse and keep the keys ; And better to preserve the peace. Commissioned by the name of niece ; With understandings of a size, To think their master very wise. May heaven (it's all I wish for) send One genial room to treat a friend, ^^'here decent cupboard, little plate. Display benevolence, not state. And may my humble dwelling stand Upon some chosen spot of land : A pond before full to the brim. Where cows may cool, and geese may swim; Behind, a green, like velvet neat. Soft to the eye, and to the feet ; Where odorous plants in evening fair Breathe all around ambrosial air ; From Eurus, foe to kitchen ground. Fenced by a slope with bushes crowned. Fit dwelling for the feathered throng, A^'ho pay their quit-rents with a song; ^Vith opening views of hill and dale. Which sense and fancy do regale, Where the half-cirque, which vision bounds, Like amphitheatre surrounds : And woods impervious to the breeze. Thick phalanx of embodied trees ; From hills through plains in dusk array. Extended far, repel the day ; Here stillness, height, and solemn shade, Invite, and contemplation aid : Here nymphs from hollow oaks re'aio The dark decrees and will of fate : And dreams, beneath the spreading beech Inspire, and docile fancy teach ; While soft as breezy breath of wind, Impulses rustle through the mind : Here Dryads, scorning Pho-bus' ray. While Pan melodious pipes away. In measured motions frisk about, Till old Silcnus puts them out. There see the clover, pea, and bean, Vie in variety of green ; Fresh pastures speckled o'er with sheep, Brown fiehls their fallow iabbaths keep, Plump Ceres golden tresses wear. And poppy top-knot;; deck her hair, Anvn, To crops of late repentance gro\\Ti, Through which we toil at last. Whilst every care's a driving harm. That helps to bear us down ; Which faded smiles no more can charm, But every tear's a winter storm. And every look's a frown. WILLIAM SOMERVILLE. The author of The Chase is still included in our editions of the poets, but is now rarely read or con- sulted. William Somerville (1GS2-1742), was, as he tells Allan Ramsay, his brother-poet, A squire well born, and six foot high. His estate lay in Warwickshire, and brought him in £1500 per annum. He was generous, but extrava- gant, and died in distressed circumstances, ' plagued £80 ENGLISH LITERATURE. ALLAN RAMSAT. and threatened by wretches,' says Shenstone, ' that are low in every sense, and forced to drink himself into pains of the body to get rid of the pains of the mind.' He died in 1742, and was buried at Wot- tcn, near Henley-on-Ardeu. ' The Chase' is in Urn erected by Shenstone to Somerville, blank verse, and contains practical instructions and admonitions to sportsmen. The following is an animated sketch of a morning in autumn, prepara- tory to ' throwing off the pack :' — Now golden Autumn from her open lap Her fragrant bounties showers ; the fields are shorn ; Inwardly smiling, the proud farmer riews The rising pyramids that grace his .yard. And counts his large increase ; his barns are stored, And groaning staddles bend beneath their load. All now is free as air, and the gay pack In the rough bristly stubbles range unblamed ; No widow's tears o'erflow, no secret curse Swells in the farmer's breast, which his pale lips Trembling conceal, by his fierce landlord awed : But courteous now he levels every fence, Joins in the common cry, and halloos loud. Charmed with the rattling thunder of the field. Oh bear me, some kind power invisible ! To that extended lawn where the gay court View the swift racers, stretching to the goal ; Games more renowned, and a far nobler train, Than proud Elean fields could boast of old. Oh! were a Theban lyre not wanting here. And Pindar's voice, to do their merit right ! Or to those spacious plains, where the strained eye. In the wide prospect lost, beholds at last Sarum's proud spire, that o'er the hills ascends. And pierces through the clouds. Or to thy downs. Fair Cotswold, where the well-breathed beagle climbs. With matchless speed, thy green aspiring brow, And leaves the lagging multitude behind. Hail, gentle Dawn! mild, blushing goddess, hail ! Rejoiced I see thy purple mantle spread O'er half the skies ; gems pave thy radiant way, And orient pearls from every shrub depend. Farewell, Cleora ; here deep sunk in down. Slumber secure, with happy dreams amused. Till grateful streams shall tempt thee to receive Thy early meal, or thy officious maids ; The toilet placed shall urge thee to perform The important work. Me other joys invite ; The horn sonorous calls, the pack awaked, Their matins chant, nor brook thy long delay. My courser hears their voice ; see there with ears And tail erect, neighing, he paws the ground ; Fierce rapture kindles in his reddening eyes, And boils in every vein. As cajjtive boys Cowed by the ruling rod and haughty frowns Of pedagogues severe, from their hard tasks, If once dismissed, no limits can contain The tumult raised within their little breasts, But give a loose to all their frolic play ; So from their kennel rush the joyous pack ; A thousand wanton gaieties express Their inward ecstacy, their pleasing sport Once more indulged, and liberty restored. The rising sun that o'er the horizon peeps, As many colours from their glossy skins Beaming reflects, as paint the various bow When April showers descend. Delightful scene! Where all around is gay ; men, horses, dogs ; And in each smiling countenance appears Fresh blooming health, and universal joy. Somerville wrote a poetical address to Addison, on the latter purchasing an estate in Warwickshire. ' In his verses to Addison,' says Johnson, ' the couplet which mentions Clio is written with the most exquisite delicacy of praise ; it e.xhibits one of those liappj- strokes that are seldom attained.' Addison, it is well-known, signed his papers in the ' Specta- tor' with the letters forming the name of Clio. The couplet which gratified Johnson so highly is as follows : — When panting virtue her last efforts made, You brought your Clio to the virgin's aid. In welcoming Addison to the banks of Avon, Som- erville does not scruple to place him above Shaks- peare as a poet ! In heaven he sings ; on earth your muse supplies The important loss, and heals our weeping eyes : Correctly great, she melts ea -h flinty heart With equal genius, but superior art. Gross as this niisjudgment is, it should be remem- bered that Voltaire also fell into the same. The cold marble of Cato was preferred to the living and breathing creations of the ' myriad -minded' ma- gician. ALLAN RAMSAY. The Scottish muse had been silent for nearly a century, excepting when it found brief expression in some stray song of broad humour or sim])le pa- thos, chanted by the population of the hills and dales. The genius of the country was at length revived in all its force and nationality, its comic dialogue, Doric simplicity and tenderness, by Allan Kamsay, whose very name is now an impersonation of Scottish scenery and manners. The religious austerity of the Covenanters still hung over Scotland, and damped the efforts of poets and dramatists ; but a freer spirit found its way into the towns, along with the increase of trade and connnerce. Tiie higher classes were in the habit of visiting London, thougli the journey was still performed on horseback ; and the writings of Pope and Swift were circulated over the North. Clubs and taverns were rife in Edin- burgh, in which the assembled wits loved to indulge in a pleasantry that often degenerated to excess. Talent was readily known and aiiiireciatcd; and when Kamsay appeared as an author, lie found the nation ripe for his native hununir, his ' manners- painting strains,' and his lively original skf-tches 5U1 FROM 1689 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1727 of Scottish life. Allan Ramsay was born in 1686, in the village of LtiuUnlls, Lanarkshire, wliere his father held the situation of manager of Lord Hope- ton's mines. When he became a poet, he boasted that he was of the ' auld descent' of the Dalhousie family, and also collaterally 'sprung from a Douglas loin.' His mother, Alice Bower, was of English parentage, her father having been brought from Derbyshire to instruct the Scottish miners in their art. Those who entertain the theory, that men of genius usually partake largely of the qualities and dispositions of their mother, may perhaps recognise some of the Derbyshire blood in AUan Ramsay's frankness and joviality of character. His father died while the poet was in his infancy ; but his mother marrying again in the same district, Allan was brought up at Leadhills, and put to the village school, where he acquired learning enough to enable him, as he tells us, to read Horace 'faintly in the original.' His lot might have been a hard one, but it was fortunately spent in the country till he had reached his fifteenth year; and his lively tempera- ment enabled him, with cheerfulness — To wade through glens wi' chorking feet, When neither plaid nor kilt could fend the weet ; Yet blythely wad he bang out o'er the brae, And stend o'er bums as light as ony rac, Hoping the mom' might prove a better day. At the age of fifteen, Allan was put apprentice to a wig-maker in Edinburgh — a light employment suited to his slender frame and boyish smaitne.ss, but not Tery congenial to his literary taste. His poetical talent, however, was more observant than creative, and he did not commence writing till he was about twenty-si.K years of age. He then penned an address to the 'Easy Club,' a con>ivial society of young men, tinctured with Jacobite predilections, which were also imbibed by Ramsay, and which probably formed an additional recommendation to the favour r>f Pope and Gay, a distinction that he afterwards 1 To-morrow. enjoyed. Allan was admitted a member of this 'blythe societj',' and became their poet laureate. He wrote various light pieces, chiefly of a local and humorous description, which were sold at a penny each, and became exceedingly popular. He also sedulously courted the patronage of the great, sub- duing his Jacobite feelings, and never selecting a fool for his patron. In this mingled spirit of pru- dence and poetry, he contrived To theek the out, and line the inside. Of mony a douce and witty pash, And baith ways gathered in the cash. In the year 1712 he married a writer's daughter, Christiana Ross, who was his faithful partner for more than thirty years. He greatly extended his reputation by writing a continuation to King James's ' Christ's Kirk on the Green,' executed with genuine humour, fancy, and a perfect mastery of the Scottisli language. Nothing so rich had ap- peared since the strains of Dunbar or Lindsay. What an inimitable sketch of rustic life, coarse, but as true as any by Teniers or Hogarth, is presented in the first stanza of the third canto ! — Now frae the east nook of Fife the dawn Speeled westlins up the lift ; Carles wha heard the cock had craw'n, Begoud to rax and rift ; And greedy wives, wi' girning thrawn, Cried lasses up to thrift ; Dogs barked, and the lads frae hand Banged to their breeks like drift By break of day. ^ Ramsay now left off wig-making, and set up a bookseller's shop, 'opposite to Niddry's Wynd.' He next appeared as an editor, and published two works. The Tea Table Miscellany, being a collection of songs, partly his own ; and The. Evergreen, a col- lection of Scottish poems written before 1600. He was not well qualified for the task of editing works of this kind, being deficient both in knowledge and taste. In the ' Evergreen,' he published, as ancient poems, two pieces of his own, one of which, The Vision, exhibits high powers of poetry. The genius of Scotland is drawn with a touch of the old heroic Muse : — Great daring darted frae his ee, A braid-sword shogled at his thie, On his left arm a targe ; A shining spear filled his right hand, Of stalwart make in bane and brawnd, Of just proportions large ; A various rainbow-coloured plaid Owre his left spaul he threw, Down his braid back, frae his white head, The silver wimplers grew. Amazed, I gazed, To see, led at command, A stampant and rampant Fierce lion in his hand. In 1725 appeared his celebrated pastoral drama, 7Vie Gentle Shepherd, of which two scenes had previously been published under the titles of Palie and Roger, and Jenny and Meggy. It was received with uni- versal approbation, and was republished both in London and Dublin. Wlien Gay visited Scotland in company with his patrons, the Duke and Duchess of Queensberry, he used to lounge in Allan Ram- say's shop, and obtain from him explanations of some of the Scottish expressions, that he might communicate them to Pope, who was a great admirer of the poem. This was a delicate and marked com- pliment, which Allan must have felt, though he 58'2 ENGLISH LITERAT'JRE. ALLa.N RAMSAY had previously represented himself as the vicegerent of Apollo, and equal to Homer ! He now removed to a better shop, and instead of the IMercury's head which had graced his sign-board, he put up ' tlie presentment of two brotliers' of tlie iluse, Ben Jon- son and Drummond. He next establislied a circu- latipg library, the first in Scotland. He associated on familiar terms witli tlie leading nobilitj', lawyers, •wits, and literati of Scotland, and was the Pope or Swift of the Xorth. His son, afterwards a distin- guished artist, he sent to Rome for instruction. But the prosperity of poets seems liable to an im- common share of crosses. He was led by the promptings of a taste then rare in Scotland to expend his savings in tlie erection of a theatre, for the per- formance of the regular drama. He wished to keep his ' troop' together by the ' pitli of reason ;' but he did not calculate on the pith of an act of par- liament in the hands of a hostile magistrate. The statute for licensing theatres prohibited all dramatic exhibitions without special license and the royal letters-patent; and on the strength of this enact- ment the magistrates of Edinburgh shut up Allan's tlieatre, leaving him without redress. To add to his mortification, the envious poetasters and strict religionists of tlie day attaclied him with personal satires and lampoons, under such titles as — ' A Looking-Glass for Allan Ramsay ;' ' The Dying "Words of Allan Ramsay ;' and ' The Flight of Reli- gious Piety from Scotland, upon the account of Ramsay's lewd books, and the hell- bred playhouse comedians,' &c. Allan endeavoured to enlist Presi- dent Forbes and the judges on his side by a poetical address, in which he prays for compensation from the legislature — Syne, for amends for what Pve lost, Edge me into some canny post. His circumstances and wishes at this crisis are more particularly explained in a letter to the president, which now lies before us : — ' Will you,' he writes, ' give me something to do? Here I pass a sort of half idle scrimp life, tending a trifling trade, that scarce affords me tlie needful. Had I not got a parcel of guineas from you, and such as you, who were pleased to patronise my subscriptions, I should not have had a gray groat. I think shame (but why should I, wlien I open my mind to one of your goodness ?) to hint that I want to have some small commission, wlien it happens to fall in your way to put me into it.'* It does not appear that lie either got money or a post, but he applied himself attentively to his busi- ness, and soon recruited his purse. A citizen-like good sense regulated the life of Ramsay. He gave over poetry 'before,' he prudently says, 'the cool- ness of fancy that attends advanced years should make me risk the reputation I had acquired.' Frae twenty-five to five-and-forty, My muse was nowther sweer nor dorty ; My Pegasus wad break his tether E'en at the shagging of a feather, And through ideas scour like drift, Streaking his wings up to the lift ; Then, then, my soul was in a low, That gart my numbers safely row. But eild and judgment 'gin to say. Let be your sangs, and learn to pray. About the year 1 743, his circumstances were sufB- ulently flourishing to enable him to build himself a iniall octagon-shaped house on the north side of ♦ From the manuscript coUccti ;na in Culloden House. the Castle hill, which he called Ramsay Lodge, but which some of his waggish friends comj>are(i to a Ramsay Lodge, goose pie. He told Lord Elibank one day of this ludicrous comparison. ' What,' said the witty peer, 'a goose pie! In good faith, Allan, now that I see you in it, I think the house is not ill named.' He lived in this singular-looking mansion (which has since been somewhat altered) twelve years, and died of a complaint tliat had long afflicted him, scurvy in the gums, on the 7th of January 1758, at the age of seventy-two. So much of pleasantry, good humour, and worldly enjoyment, is mixed up witii the history of Allan Ramsay, that his life is one of the ' green and sunny spots' in literary bio- graphy. Ilis genius was well rewarded; and he pos- sessed that turn of mind which David Hume says it is more happy to possess than to be born to an estate often thousand a-j'ear — a disposition always to see the favourable side of things. Ramsay's poetical works are sufficiently various ; and one of his editors has ambitiously classed them under the lieads of serious, elegiac, comic, satiric, epigrammatical, pastoral, lyric, epistolary, fables and tales. He wrote trash in all departments, but failed in none. His tales are quaint and humorous, though, like those of Prior, they are too often indelicate. The Monk and Miller's Wife, founded on a jioem of Dunbar, is as happy an adaptation of an old poet as any of Pope's or Dryden's from Chaucer. His lyrics want the grace, simplicity, and beauty which Burns breathed into these ' wood-notes wild,' designed alike for cottage and hall ; yet some of those in the 'Gentle Shepherd' are delicate and tender; and others, such as The laxt time I came o'er the Mvor, and The Yellow-haired Laddie, are still favourites with all lovers of Scottish song. In one of the least happy of the lyrics there occurs this beautiful image : — How joyfully my spirits rise, When dancing she moves finely, ; I guess what heaven is by her eyes, Which sparkle so divinely, 0. His Lochaher no More is a strain of manly feeling and unafl'ected pathos. The poetical epistles of 583 PROM 1689 CYCLOPAEDIA OF TO 1727. Ramsay were undoubtedly the prototypes of those by Burns, and many of the stanzas niaj' ehallenge comparison vith them. He makes frequent classi- cal allusions, especially to the works of Horace, with which he seems to have been well acqiminted, and wliose gay and easy turn of mind harmonised with his own. In an epistle to Mr James Arbuckle, the poet pives a characteristic and miimte painting cf himself:— Imprimis, then, for tallness, I Am fire foot and four inches high ; A black-a-viced snod dapper fellow, Nor lean, nor overlaid wi' tallow ; \^'ith phiz of a Morocco cut, Resembling a late man of wit, Auld gabbet Spec, who was sae cunning To be a dummie ten years running. Then for the fabric of my mind, 'Tis mair to mirth than grief inclined : I rather choose to laugh at folly, Than show dislike by melancholy ; Well judging a sour heavy face Is not the truest mark of grace. I hate a drunkard or a glutton, Yet I'm nae fae to wine and mutton : Great tables ne'er engaged my wishes, When crowded with o'er mony dishes ; A healthfu' stomach, sharply set, Prefers a back-sey' piping het. I never could imagine 't vicious Of a fair fame to be ambitious : Proud to be thought a comic poet. And let a judge of numbers know it, I court occasion thus to show it. Hamsay addressed epistles to Gay and Somerville, and tlie latter paid him in kind, in very flattering verses. In one of Allan's answers is the following picturesque sketch, in illustration of his own con- tempt for the stated rules of art : — I love the garden wild and wide. Where oaks have plum trees by their side ; Where woodbines and the twisting vine Clip round the pear tree and the pine ; Where mixed jonquils and gowans grow. And roses 'midst rank clover blow Upon a bank of a clear strand. In wimplings led by nature's hand ; Though docks and brambles here and there May sometimes cheat the gardener's care, Yet this to me 's a paradise Compared with prime cut plots and nice, Where nature has to art resigned, Till all looks mean, stiff, and confined. ''' * Heaven Homer taught ; the critic draws Only from him and such their laws : The native bards first plunge the deep Before the artful dare to leap. The 'Gentle Shepherd' is the greatest of Ramsay's •works, and perhaps the finest pastoral drama in the world. It possesses that air of primitive simplioit}'- and seclusion which seems indispensable in compo- sitions of this class, at tlie same time that its land- scapes are filled with life-like beings, who interest us from their character, situation, and circumstances. It has none of that studied pruriency and unnatural artifice which are intruded into the 'Faithful Shep- herdess' of Fletcher, and is equally free from the tedious allegory and forced conceits of most pastoral poems. It is a genuine picture of Scottish life, but of life passed in simple rural employments, apart from the guilt and fever of large towns, and reflect- ing only the pure and unsopliisticated emotions of ' A birhiin. our nature. The affected sensibilities and feigned distresses of the Corydons and Delias find no jilacein Ramsay's clear and manly page. He drew liis sliep- herds from the life, placed them in scenes which he actually saw, and made them speak the language which he every day heard — the free idiomatic speech of his native vales. His art lay in the beautiful selection of his materials — in the grouping of his well-defined characters — the invention of a plot, ro- mantic yet natural — the delightful appropriateness of every speech and auxiliary incident, and in the tone of generous sentiment and true feeling which sanctifies this scene of humble virtue and happiness. The love of his ' gentle' rustics is at first artless and confiding, though partly disguised by maiden coyness and arch humour; and it is expressed in lan- guage and incidents alternately amusing and im- passioned. At length the hero is elevated in station above his mistress, and their affection assumes a deeper character from the threatened dangers of a separation. Mutual distress and tenderness break down reserve. The simple heroine, without forget- ting her natural dignity and modesty, lets out her whole soul to her early companion ; and when assured of his unalterable attachment, she not only, like Mi- randa, ' weeps at what she is glad of,' but, witli the true pride of a Scottisli maiden, slie resolves to study ' gentler charms,' and to educate herself to be wortliy of her lover. Poetical justice is done to this faitliful attachment, by both the characters being found equal in birth and station. The poet's taste and judgment are evinced in the superiority which he gives his hero and heroine, without debasing their associates below their proper level ; while a ludicrous contrast to both is supplied by the underplot of Bauldy and his courtsliips. The elder characters in tlie piece afford a fine relief to the youthful pairs, besides completing the rustic picture. While one scene discloses the young sliepherds by 'craigy bields' and ' crystal springs,' or presents Peggy and Jenny on the bleaching green — A trotting hurnie wimpling through the ground — another shows us the snug thatched cottage, with its barn and peat-stack, or the interior of tlie house, with a clear ingle glancing on the floor, and its in- mates happy with innocent mirth and rustic plenty. The drama altogether makes one proud of peasant life and the virtues of a Scottish cottage. By an ill-judged imitation of Gay, in his ' Beggar's Opera,' Ramsay interspersed songs tliroughout the ' Gentle Sliepherd,' which interrupt the action of the piece, and too often merely repeat, in a diluted form, tlie sentiments of the dialogue. These should be re- moved to the end of the drama, leaving undisturbed the most perfect delineation of rural life and man- ners, without vulgar humility or affectation, thai ever was drawn. [Ode from Horace.'^ Look up to Pentland's towering tap, Buried beneath great wreaths of snaw. O'er ilka cleugh, illc scaur, and slap, As high as ony Roman wa'. Driving their ba's frae whins or tee. There's no ao gowfer to be seen. Nor douser fowk wysiiig ajee The biast bouls on Tamson's green. Then fling on coals, and ripe the ribs. And beek the house baith but and ben ; Tliut mutchkin stoup it bauds but dribs, Then let's get in the tappit hen. 584 ENGLISH LITERATURE. ALLAN RAMSAk. Good claret best keeps out the cauld, And drives away the winter soon ; It makes a man baith gash and bauld, And heaves his saul beyond the moon. Leave to the gods j'our ilka care, If that they think us worth their while ; They can a rowth of blessings spare, Which will our fashious fears beguile. For what they have a mind to do, That will they do, should we gang wud ; If they command the storms to blaw, Then upo' sight the hailstanes thud. But soon as e'er they cry, ' Be quiet,' The blattering winds dare nae mair move, But cour into their caves, and wait The high command of supreme Jove. L«t neist day come as it thinks fit, The present minute's only ours ; On pleasure let's employ our wit. And laugh at fortune's feckless powers. Be sure ye dinna quat the grip Of ilka joy when ye are young, Before auld age your vitals nip. And lay ye twafald o'er a rung. Sweet youth's a blythe and heartsome time ; Then, lads and lasses, while it's May, Gae pou the gowan in its prime, Before it wither and decay. Watch the saft minutes of delight. When Jenny speaks beneath her breath ; And kisses, laying a' the wyte On you, if she kep ony skaith. ' Haith, ye're ill bred,' she'll smiling say ; ' Ye'U worry me, you greedy rook ;' Syne frae your arms she'll rin away. And hide hersell in some dark nook. Her laugh will lead you to the place. Where lies the happiness you want. And plainly tells you to your face. Nineteen naysays are half a grant. Now to her heaving bosom cling, And sweetly toolie for a kiss, Frae her fair finger whup a ring. As token of a future bliss. These benisons, I'm very sure. Are of the gods' indulgent grant ; Then, surly carles, whisht, forbear To plague us with your whining cant. [In this instance, the felicitous manner in which Ramsay has preserved the Iloratian ease and spirit, and at the same time clothed the whole in a true Scottish garb, renders his version greatly superior to Dryden's English one. For comparison, two stanzas of the latter are subjoined : — Secure those golden early joys, That youth unsoured with sorrow bears, Ere withering time the taste destroys With sickness and unwieldy years. For active sports, for pleasing rest, This is the time to be possest ; The best is but in season best. The appointed hour of promised bliss, The pleasing whisper in the dark. The half unwilling willing kiss. The laugh that guides thee to the mark, When the kind nymph would coyness feign, And hides but to be found again ; These, these are joys the gods for youth ordain.] Sonfj. Tunc — Bush Aboon Traquair. At setting da}' and rising morn. With soul that still shall love tlice, I'll ask of heaven thy safe return. With all that can improve thee. I'll visit aft the birken bush, Where first thou kindly told me Sweet tpJes of love, and hid thy blush, Whilst round thou didst enfold me. To all our haunts I will repair, By greenwood shaw or fountain ; Or wliere the summer day I'd share With tliee upon yon mountain : There will I tell the trees and flowers, From thoughts imfeigned and tender ; By vows you're mine, by love is yours A heart which cannot wander. The last Time I came o^er the Moor. The last time I came o'er the moor, I left my love behind me ; Ye powers ! what pain do I endure, ^Vhen soft ideas mind me ! Soon as the ruddy morn displayed Tlie beaming day ensuing, I met betimes my lovely maid. In fit retreats for wooing. Beneath the cooling shade we lay. Gazing and chastely sporting ; We kissed and promised time away. Till night spread her black curtain. I pitied all beneath the skies, E'en kings, when she was nigh me ; In raptures I beheld her eyes. Which could but ill deny me. Should I be called where cannons roar Where mortal steel may wound me ; Or cast upon some foreign shore, Where dangers may surround me ; Yet hopes again to see my love. To feast on glowing kisses. Shall make my cares at distance move, In prospect of such blisses. In all my soul there's not one place To let a rival enter ; Since she excels in every grace, In her my love shall centre. Sooner the seas shall cease to flow, Their waves the Alps shall cover. On Greenland ice shall roses grow, Before I cease to love her. The next time I go o'er the moor. She shall a lover find me ; And that my faith is firm and pure, Though I left her behind me : Then Hymen's sacred bonds shall chaia My heart to her fair bosom ; There, while my being does remain. My love more fresh shall blossom. Lochaler No More. Farewell to Lochaber, and farewell my Jean, Where heartsome with thee I've mony day been • For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more. We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more. These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear, And no for the dangers attending on wear ; Though bore on rough seas to a far bloody shore, Maybe to return to Lochaber no more. FROM 1689 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 117! Though hurricanes rise, and rise cverj' wind, They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind ; Though loudest of thunder on louder waves roar, That's naething like leaving my love on the shore. To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained ; By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained ; And beauty and love's the reward of the brave, And I must deserve it before I can crave. Then glory, my Jeany, man plead my excuse ; Since honour commands me, how can I refuse? Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee. And without thy favour I'd better not be. I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame, And if I should luck to come gloriously hame, I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er, And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more. IRustic Courtsliip.'] [From the ' Gentle Shepherd.' — Act I.] Hear how I served my lass I love as well As 3-6 do .Tenny, and with heart as leal. Last morning 1 was gay and early out. Upon a dike I leaned, glowering about, I saw my Meg come linkin' o'er the lee ; I saw my Meg, but jNIeggy saw na me ; For yet the sun was wading through the mist, And she was close upon me e'er she wist ; Her coats were kiltit, and did sweetly shaw Her straight bare legs that whiter were than snaw. Her cockemony snooded up fu' sleek, Her haffet locks hang waving on her cheek ; Her cheeks sae ruddy, and her e'en sae clear ; And oh ! her mouth's like ony hinny pear. Neat, neat she was, in bustine waistcoat clean, As she came skiffing o'er the dewy green. Blythsome I cried, ' My bonny Meg, come here, I ferly wherefore ye're so soon asteer ? But I can guess, ye're gaun to gather dew.' She scoured away, and said, ' What's that to you V 'Then, fare-ye-weel, Meg-dorts, and e'en's ye like,' I careless cried, and lap in o'er the dike. I trow, when that she saw, within a crack, She came with a right thieveless errand back. Misca'd me first ; then bade me hound my dog. To wear up three watF ewes strayed on the bog. I leugh ; and sae did she ; then with great haste I clasped my arms about her neck and waist ; About her yielding waist, and took a fouth Of sweetest kisses frae her glowing mouth. While hard and fivst I held her in my grips, My very saul came louping to my lips. Sair, sair she flet wi' me 'tween ilka smack, But weel 1 kend she meant nae as she spak. Dear Roger, when your jo puts on her gloom. Do ye sae too, and never fash your thumb. Seem to forsake her, soon she'll change her mood ; Gae woo auither, and she'll gang clean wud. {_Dlcdogw on Marriage.'] PEooY and jbnmy. Jenny. Come, Meg, let's fa' to wark upon this green ; This shining day will bleach our linen clean ; The water clear, the lift unclouded blue, W'ill mak them like a lily wet wi' dew. Perjfjy. Gae far'er up the bum to Habbie's How, There a' the sweets o' spring and summer grow : There 'tween twa birks, out ower a little lin, The water fa's and maks a singin' din ; A pool breast-deep, beneath as clear as glass, Kisses wi' easy whirls the bordering grass. We'll end our washing while the morning's cool ; And when the day grows het, we'll to the pool, There wash oursells — 'tis healthfu' now in May, And sweetly cauler on sae warm a da_y. Jenny. Daft lassie, when we're naked, what'U y". say Gif our twa herds come brattling down the brae. And see us sae? — that jeering fallow Pate Wad taunting say, 'Haith, lasses, ye're no blate !' Peggy. We're far frae ony road, and out o' si;;ht ; The lads they're feeding far beyont the height. But tell me, now, dear Jenny, we're our lane. What gars ye plague j'our wooer wi' disdain ? The neebours a' tent this as weel as I, That Roger loes ye, yet ye carena by. What ails ye at him ? Troth, between us twa, He's wordy you the best day e'er ye saw. Jeiiny. I dinna like him, Peggy, there's an end ; A herd mair sheepish yet I never kend. He kames his hair, indeed, and gaes right snug, Wi' ribbon knots at his blue bannet lug, Whilk pensily he wears a thought a-jee. And spreads his gartens diced beneath his knee ; He falds his o'erlay down his breast wi' care, And few gang trigger to the kirk or fair : For a' that, he can neither sing nor say. Except, ' How d'ye V — or, ' There's a bonny day.' Peggy. Ye dash the lad wi' constant slighting pride, Hatred for love is unco sair to bide: But ye'U repent ye, if his love grow cauld — What like's a dorty maiden when she's auld ? Like dawted wean, that tarrows at its meat. That for some feckless whim will orp and greet ; The lave laugh at it, till the dinner's past. And syne the fool thing is obliged to fast, Or scart anither's leavings at the last. Fy ! Jenny, think, and dinna sit your time. Jenny. I never thought a single life a crime. Peggy. Nor I : but love in whispers lets us ken. That men were made for us, and we for men. Jenny. If Roger is my jo, he kens himsell, For sic a tale I never heard him tell. He glowrs and sighs, and I can guess the cause ; But wha's obliged to spell his hums and haws? Whene'er he likes to tell his mind mair plain, I'se tell him frankly ne'er to do't again. They're fools that slavery like, and may be free ; The chiels may a' knit up themsells for me. Peggy. Be doing your wa's ; for me, I hae a mind To be as yielding as my Patie's kind. Jenny. Heh lass ! how can ye loe that rattle-skull? A very deil, that aye maun hae his wuU ; We'll soon hear tell, what a poor fechting life You twa will lead, sae soon's ye're man and wife. Peggy. I'll rin the risk, nor hae I ony fear, But rather think ilk langsome day a year. Till I wi' pleasure mount my bridal-bed. Where on my Patie's breast I'll lean my head. Jenny. He may, indeed, for ten or fifteen days, Mak meikle o' ye, wi' an unco fraise. And daut ye baith afore fouk, and your lane ; But soon as his newfangledness is gane, He'll look upon you as his tether-stake, And think he's tint his freedom for your sake. Instead then 0' lang days 0' sweet delight, Ae day be dumb, and a' the neist he'll flyte : And maybe, in his barleyhoods, ne'er stick To lend his loving wife a loundering lick. Peggy. Sic coarse-spun thoughts as thac want j ith to move My settled mind ; I'm ower far gane in love. Patie to me is dearer than my breath ; But want 0' him, I dread nae other skaith. There's nane 0' a' the herds that tread the green Has sic a smile, or sic twa glancing een : And then he speaks wi' sic a taking art — His words they thirle like music through my heart. How blithely can he sport, and gently rave, And jest at feckless fears that fright the lave ! 586 ENGLISH LITERATURE. AI.r.AN RAMSAY. Ilk day that he's alane upon the hill, He reads fell books that teach him meikle skill. He is but what need I say that or this I I'd spend a month to tell you what he is ! In a' he says or does, there's sic a gate, The rest seem coofs compared wi' my dear Pate. His better sense ■will lang his love secure ; Ill-nature hefts in sauls that's weak and poor. Jenny. Hey, Bonny lass o' Branksomc! or't be lang. Your witty Pate will put you in a sang. Oh, 'tis a pleasant thing to be a bride ; Syne whingeing getts about your ingle-side, Yelping for this or that wi' fasheous din : To mak them brats, then ye maun toil and spin. Ae wean fa's sick, ane scads itsell wi' broe, Ane breaks his shin, anither tines his shoe ; The Deil goes o'er Jock Wabster, hame grows hell. And Pate misca's ye waur than tongue can tell ! Peggy. Yes, it's a heartsome thing to be a wife. When round the ingle-edge young sprouts are rife. Gif I'm sae happy, 1 shall hae delight To hear their little plaints, and keep them right. "Wow ! Jenny, can there greater pleasure be. Than see sic wee tots toolying at your knee ; When a' they ettle at — their greatest wish. Is to be made o' and obtain a kiss ? Can there be toil in tenting day and night The like o' them, when love raaks care delight ? Jenny. But poortith, Peggy, is the warst o' a" ; Gif o'er your heads ill-chance should begg'ry draw, But little love or canty cheer can come Frae duddy doublets, and a pantry toom. Your nowt may die — the spate may bear away Frae afF the howms your dainty rucks o' hay. The thick-blawn wreaths o' snaw, or blashy thows, May smoor your wathers, and may rot your ewes. A dyvour buys your butter, woo, and cheese. But, or the day o' payment, breaks, and flees. Wi' gloomiu' brow, the laird seeks in his rent ; It's no to gie ; your merchant's to the bent. His honour maunna want — he poinds your gear ; Syne, driven frae house and hald, where will ye steer? Dear Meg, be wise, and live a single life ; Troth, it's nae mows to be a married wife. Peggy. May sic ill luck befa' that silly she Wha has sic fears, for that was never me. Let fouk bode weel, and strive to do their best ; Nae mair's required ; let Heaven mak out the rest. I've heard my honest uncle aften say, That lads should a' for wives that's virtuous pray ; For the maist thrifty man could never get A weel-stored room, unless his wife wad let : Wherefore nocht shall be wanting on my part, To gather wealth to raise my shepherd's heart : Whate'er he wins, I'll guide wi' canny care. And win the Togue at market, tron, or fair. For halesome, clean, cheap, and sufficient ware. A flock o' lambs, cheese, butter, and some woo. Shall first be said to pay the laird his due ; Syne a' behind's our ain. Thus, without fear, Wi' love and rowth, we through the warld will steer; And when my Pate in bairns and gear grows rife, He'll bless the day he gat me for his wife. Jenny. But what if some young giglet on the green, Wi' dimpled cheeks and tvva bewitching een. Should gar your Patie think his half-worn Meg, And her kenn'd kisses, hardly worth a feg ? Peggy. Nae mair o' that — Dear Jenny, to be free, There's some men constanter in love than we : Nor is the ferly gtcat, when nature kind Has blest them wi' solidity o' mind. They'll reason calmly, anil wi' kindness smile. When our short passions wad our peace beguile : Sae, whensoe'er they slight their inaiks at hame, It's ten to ane the wives arc maist to blame. Then I'll employ wi' pleasure a' my art To keep him cheerfu', and secure his heart. At e'en, when he conies weary frae the hill, I'll hae a' things made ready to his will ; In winter, when he toils through wind and rain, A bleezing ingle, and a clean hearthstane ; And soon as he flings by his plaid and stall". The seething pat's be ready to tak aff; Clean hag-a-bag I'll spread upon his bo.ard, And serve him wi' the best we can afl^ord ; Good humour and white bigonets shall be Guards to my face, to keep his love for nie. Jenny. A dish o' married love right soon grows cauld, And dosens down to nane, as fouk grow auld. Peggy. But we'll grow auld tliegither, and ne'er find The loss o' youth, when love grows on the mind. Bainis and their bairns mak sure a firmer tie, Than aught in love the like of us can spy. See yon twa elms that grow up side by side. Suppose them some years syne bridegroom and briilc; Nearer and nearer ilka year they've prest, Till wide their spreading branches are increast. And in their mixture now are fully blest : This shields the ither frae the eastlin blast. That, in return, defends it frae the wast. Sic as stand single (a state sae liked by you I) Beneath ilk storm, frae every airt, maun bow. Jenny. I've done — I yield, dear lassie ; I maun yield ; Your better sense has fairly won the field, With the assistance of a little fae Lies darned within my breast this mony a day. Peggy. Alake, poor prisoner ! Jenny, that's no fair. That ye'U no let the wee thing tak the air : Haste, let him out ; we'll tent as weel's we can, Gif he be Bauldy's ox p>.or Roger's man. Jenny. Anither tiiut's as good — for see, the sun Is right far up, and we're not yet begun To freath the graith — if cankered Madge, our aunt, Come up the burn, she'll gie's a wicked rant : But when we've done, I'll tell ye a' my mind; For this seems true — nae lass can be unkind. DRAMATISTS. The dramatic literature of this period was, like its general poetry, polished and artificial. In tragedy, the highest name is tliat of Southerne, who may claim, with Otwa}', the power of touching the pas- sions, yet his language is feeble compared with that of the great dramatists, and his general style low and unimpressive. Addison's ' Cato' is more pro- perly a classical poem than a drama — as cold and less vigorous than the tragedies of Jonsoii. In comedy, the national taste is apparent in its faithful and witty delineations of polished life, of which Wycherley and Congrevc had set the example, and which was well continued by Farquhar and Van- brugh. Beaumont and Fletcher first introduced what may be called comedies of intrigue, borrowed from the Spanish drama ; and the innovation ap- pears to have been congenial to the English taste, for it still pervades our comic literature.' The vigorous exposure of the immorality of the stage by Jeremy Collier, and the essays of Steele and Addi- son, improving the taste and moral feeling of the public, a partial reformation took place of those nuisances of the drama which the Restoration had introduced. The IMaster of the Revels, by whoni all plays liad to be licensed, also aided in tliis work of retrenchment ; but a glance at even tliose ini' proved plays of the reign of William III. and his successors, will show tliat ladies frequenting the theatres had still occasion to wear masks, wliieh Colley Gibber says they usually did on the first dayi of acting of a new play. 587 FROM 1689 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 172?. THOMAS SOUTHERNE. Thomas Southerne (1659-1746) may be classed either with the last or the present period. His life was long, extended, and prosperous. He M'as a native of Dublin, but came to England, and enrolled himself in the Middle Temple as a student of law. He afterwards entered the army, and held the rank of captain under the Duke of York, at the time of Monmouth's insurrection. His latter days were spent in retirement, and in the possession of a con- siderable fortune. Southerne wrote ten plays, but only two exhibit his characteristic powers, namely, Isabella, or the Fatal Marriage, and Oroonoko. The latter is founded on an actual occurrence ; Oroonoko, an African prince, having been stolen from his native kingdom of Angola, and carried to one of the West India islands. The impassioned grandeur of Oroonoko's sufferings, his bursts of horror and indignation at the slave trade, and his unliappy passion for Imoinda, are powerful and pathetic. In the following scene, the hero and heroine unexpectedly meet after a long absence : — Oroo. My soul steals from my body through my eyes ; All that is left of life I'll gaze away, Ajid die upon the pleasure. Lieut. This is strange ! Oroo. If you but mock me with her image here: If she be not Imoinda — [S/ie loolcs upon Mm and falls into a swoon ; he runs to her. Ha ! she faints ! Nay, then, it must be she— it is Imoinda ! My heart coniesses her, and leaps for joy, To welcome her to her own empire here. [Kisses her. Imoinda ! oh, thy Oroonoko calls. Imo. (^Recovering.) My Oroonoko! Oh! I can't believe What any man can say. But if I am To be deceived, there's something in that name, That voice, that face — [Stares at him. Oh ! if I know myself, I cannot be mistaken. [^Embraces him. Oroo. Never here : You cannot be mistaken : I am yours, Your Oroonoko, all that you would have ; Your tender, loving husband. Imo. All, indeed. That I would have : my husband ! then I am Alive, and waking to the joys I feel : They were so great, I could not think 'em true ; But'l believe all that you say to me: For truth itself, and everlasting love, Grows in this breast, and pleasure in these arms. Oroo. Take, take me all ; inquire into my heart (You know the way to every secret there), My heart, the sacred treasury of love : And if, in absence, I have misemployed A mite from the rich store ; if I have spent A wish, a sigh, but what I sent to you, May I be cursed to wish and sigh in vain, And you not pity me. Imo. Oh ! I believe, And know you by myself. If these sad eyes, Since last we parted, have beheld the face Of anj' comfort, or once wished to see The light of any other heaven but you, May 1 be struck this moment blind, and lose Your blessed sight, never to find you more. Oroo. Imoinda! Oh! this separation Has made you dearer, if it can be so. Than you were ever to me. You appear Like a kind star to ray benighted steps, To guide me on my way to happiness : I cannot miss it now. Governor, friend, You think me mad ; but let me bless you all, Who any ways have been the instruments Of finding her again. Imoinda's found ! And everything that I would have in her. [Embraces her. Bland. Sir, we congratulate your happiness ; I do most heartily. Lieut. And all of us : but how it comes to pass Oroo. That would require More precious time than I can spare you now. I have a thousand things to ask of her, And she as many more to know of me. But you have made me happier, I confess, Acknowledge it, much happier than I Have words or power to tell you. Captain, you, Even you, who most have wronged me, I forgive. I wo'not say you have betrayed me now : I'll think you but the minister of fate, To bring me to my loved Imoinda here. Imo. How, how shall I receive you? how be worthy Of such endearments, all this tenderness? These are the transports cf prosperity, When fortune smiles upon us. Oroo. Let the fools Who follow fortune live upon her smiles ; All our prosperity is placed in love ; We have enough of that to make us happy. This little spot of earth you stand upon Is more to me than the extended plains Of my great father's kingdom. Here I reign In full delights, in joys to power unkno\vn ; Your love my empire, and your heart my throne. [Exeunt. ^Ir Hallam says that Southerne was the first Eng- lish writer who denounced (in this play) the traffic in slaves and the cruelties of their West Indian bondage. This is an honour which should never be omitted in any mention of the dramatist. ' Isabella' is more correct and regular than ' Oroonoko,' and the part of the heroine affords scope for a tragic actress, scarcely inferior in pathos to Belvidera. Otway, however, has more depth of passion, and more vigorous delineation of character. The plot of ' Isabella' is simple. In abject distress, and be- lieving her husband, Biron, to be dead, Isabella is hurried into a second marriage. Biron returns, and the distress of the heroine terminates in madness and death. Comic scenes are interspersed through- out Southerne's tragedies, which, tliough they re- lieve the sombre colouring of the main action and interest of the piece, are sometimes misplaced and unpleasant. [Return of Biron.'] A Chamber—Enter Isabella. Isa. I've heard of witches, magic spells, and charms, That have made nature start from her old course ; The sun has been eclipsed, the moon drawn down From her career, still paler, and subdued To the abuses of this under world. Now I believe all possible. This ring. This little ring, with necromantic force. Has raised the ghost of pleasure to my fears ; Conjured the sense of honour and of love Into such shapes, they fright me from myself! I dare not think of them. Enter Nurse. Nurse. Madam, the gentleman's below. ha. I had forgot ; pray, let me speak with him ; {_Exit Nurte, This ring was the first present of my love To Biron, my first husband ; I nmst blush To think I have a second. Biron died 683 DKAMATISTS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. THOMAS SOUTHERNE. (Still to my loss) at Candy ; there's my hope. Oh, do 1 live to hope that he died there ? It must be so ; he's dead, and this ring left, By his last breath, to some known faithful friend, To bring me back again ; That's all I have to trust to. Enter Biron. (Isabella looking at him.) My fears were woman's — I hare viewed him all ; And let me, let me say it to myself, f live again, and rise but from his tomb. Bir. Have you forgot me quite? Isa. Forgot you ! Bir. Then farewell my disguise, and my misfortunes I My Isabella ! [iTe goes to her; she shrieis, and fainti, Isa. Ha! Bir. Oh ! come again ; Thy Biron summons thee to life and love ; Thy once-loved, ever-loving husband calls — Thy Biron speaks to ttiee. ' Excess of love and joy, for my return. Has overpowered her. I was to blame To take thy sex's softness unprepared ; But sinking thus, thus dying in my arms, This ecstacy has made my welcome more Than words could say. Words may be counterfeit, False coined, and current only from the tongue, Without the mind ; but passion's in the soul, And always speaks the heart. Isa. Where have I been ? Why do you keep him from me ? I know his voice ; my life, upon the wing. Hears the soft lure that brings me back again ; 'Tis he himself, my Biron. Do I hold you fast, Never to part again ? If I must fall, death's welcome in these arms. Bir. Live ever in these arms. Isa. But pardon me ; Excuse the wild disorder of my soul ; The joy, the strange surprising j >y of seeing you. Of seeing you again, distracted me. Bir. Thou everlasting goodness ! Isa. Answer me : What hand of Providence has brought you back To your own home again ? Oh,' tell me all. For every thought confounds me. Bir. My best life! at leisure all. Isa. We thought you dead ; killed at the siege of Candy. Bir. There I fell among the dead ; But hopes of life reviving from my wounds, I was preserved but to be made a slave. I often writ to my hard father, but never had An answer ; I writ to thee too. Isa. What a world of wo Had been prevented but in hearing from you ! Bir. Alas ! thou could'st not help me. Isa. You do not know how much I could have done ; At least, I'm sure I could have suffered all ; I would have sold myself to slavery, Without redemption ; given up my child. The dearest part of me, to basest wants. Bir. My little boy! Isa. My life, but to have heard You were alive. Bi7: No more, my lore ; complaining of the past, We lose the present joy. 'Tis over price Of all my pains, that thus we meet again ! I have a thousand things to say to thee. Isa. Would I were past the hearing. [Aside. Bir. How does my child, my boy, my father too ? I hear he's living still. Isa. Well, both ; both well ; And may he prove a father to your hopes, Though we have found him none. Bir. Come, no more tears. Isa. Seven long years of sorrow for your loss Have mourned with me. Bir. And all my days to come Shall be employed in a kind recompense For thy afflictions. Can't I see my boy! Isa. He's gone to bed ; I'll have him brought to you. Bir. To-morrow 1 shall see him ; I want rest Myself, after this weary pilgrimage. Isa. Alas ! what shall I get fur you ? Bir. Nothing but rest, my love. To-night I would not Be known, if possible, to your family : I see my nurse is with you ; her welcome Would be tedious at this time ; To-morrow will do better. Isa. I'll dispose of her, and order everything As you would have it. [Exit. Bir. Grant me but life, good Heaven, and give the means To make this wondrous goodness some amends; And let me then forget her, if I can. ! she deserves of me much more than I Can lose for her, though I again could venture A father and his fortune for her love ! You wretched fathers, blind as fortune all ! Not to perceive that such a woman's worth Weighs down the portions you provide your sons. What is your trash, what all your heaps of gold. Compared to this, my heartfelt happiness? AVhat has she, in my absence, undergone ? 1 must not think of that ; it drives me back Upon myself, the fatal cause of all. Enter Isabella. Isa. I have obeyed your pleasure ; Everj'thing is ready for you. Bir. I can want nothing here ; possessing thee, All my desires are carried to their aim Of happiness ; there's no room for a wish. But to continue still this blessing to me; I know the way, my love. I shall sleep sound. Isa. Shall I attend you ? Bir. By no means ; I've been so long a slave to others' pride, To learn, at least, to wait upon mjself ; You'll make haste after? Isa. I'll but say my prayers, and follow you. [Exit Biron. My prayers ! no, I must never pray again. Prayers have their blessings, to reward our hopes. But I have nothing left to hope for more. What Heaven could give I have enjoyed ; but now The baneful planet rises on my fate. And what's to come is a long life of wo ; Yet I may shorten it. I promised him to follow — him ! Is he without a name ? Biron, my husband — My husband ! Ha I What then is Villeroy ? Oh, Biron, hadst thou come but one day sooner ! [ Wetping, What's to be done? for something must be done. Two husbands ! married to both, And yet a wife to neither. Hold, my brain — Ha I a lucky thought Works the right way to rid me of them all ; All the reproaches, infamies, and scorns, Tliat every tongue and finger will find for me. Let the just horror of my apprehensions But keep me warm ; no matter what can come. 'Tis but a blow ; yet I will see him first, Have a last look, to heighten my despair. And then to rest for ever. 589 FBOH 1689 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1727. NICHOLAS ROWE. Nicholas Rowe was also bred to the law, and forsook it for the tragic drama. He was born in 1673 of a good family in Devonshire, and during the earlier years of manhood, lived on a patrimony Nichol.is Rowe. of L.300 a-year in chambers in the Temple. His first tragedy, The Ambitious Stepinot/ter, was per- formed with great success, and it was followed by Tamerlane, The Fair Penitent, Ubjsses, The Royal Convert, Jane Shore, and Lady Jane Gray. Howe, on rising into fame as an author, was munificently patronised. The Duke of Queensberry made him his secretary for public atfairs. On the accession of George I., he was made poet-laureate and a sur- veyor of customs ; the Prince of Wales appointed him clerk of his council ; and the Lord Chancellor gave him the office of secretary for the presentations. Rowe was a favourite in society. It is stated that his voice was uncommonly sweet, and his observa- tions so lively, and his manners so engaging, that his friends, amongst whom were Pope, Swift, and Addison, delighted in his conversation. Yet it is also reported by Spence, that there was a certain superficiality of feeling about him, which made Pope, on one occasion, declare him to have no heart. Rowe was the first editor of Shakspeare entitled to the name, and the first to attempt the collection of a few biographical particulars of the immortal drama- tist. He was twice married, and died in 1718, at the age of forty-five. In addition to the dramatic works we h.ave enu- merated, Rowe was the author of two volumes of miscellaneous poetry, which scarcely ever rises above dull and respectable mediocrity. His tragedies are passionate and tender, with an equable and smooth style of versification, not uidike that of Ford. His ' Jane Shore' is still occasionally performed, and is effective in the pathetic scenes descriptive of the sufferings of the heroine. ' The Pair Penitent' was long a popular play, and the ' gallant gay Lothario' was the prototype of many stage seducers and ro- mance heroes. Richardson elevated the character in his Lovelace, giving at the same time a purity and aanctity to the sorrows of his Clarissa, which leave Rowe's Calista immeasurably behind. The incidents of Rowe's dramas are well arranged for st.age effect ; they are studied and prepared in the manner of the French school, and were adapted to the taste of the age. As the study of Shakspeare and the romantic drama has advanced in this country, Rowe has proportionally declined, and is now but seldom read or acted. His popularity in his own day is best seen in the epitaph by Pope — a beautiful and tender effusion of friendship, which, however, is perhaps not irreconcilable with the anecdote preserved by I\Ir Spence : — Thy relics, Rowe, to this sad shrine we trust. And near thy Shakspeare place thy honoured bust j Oh ! next him, skilled to draw the tender tear, For never heart-felt passion more sincere ; To nobler sentiment to fire the brave, For never Briton more disdained a slave. Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest ! Blest in thy genius, in thy love, too, blest! And blest, that timely from our scene removed, Thy soul enjoys the liberty it loved. [Penitence and Death of Jane Shore."] Jane Shore, her Husband, and Belmour. Bel. How fare j'ou, lady ? Jane S. My heart is thrilled with horror, Bel. Be of courage ; Your husband lives ! 'tis he, my worthiest friend. Jane S. Still art thou there \ still dost thou horer round me ? Oh, save me, Belmour, from his angry shade! Bel. 'Tis he himself! he lives ! look up. Jane S. I dare not. Oh, that my eyes could shut him out for ever ! Shore. Am I so hateful, then, so deadly to thee, To blast thy eyes with horror ? Since I'm gro\vn' A burden to the world, myself, and thee. Would 1 had ne'er survived to see thee more. Jane S. Oh! thou most injured — dost thou live, indeed ? Fall then, ye mountains, on my guilty head ! Hide me, ye rocks, within your secret caverns ; Cast thy black veil upon my shame, oh night! And shield me with thy sable wing for ever. Shore. Why dost thou turn away? Why tremble thus? Why thus indulge thy fears, and in despair Abandon thy distracted soul to horror ? Cast every black and guilty thought behind thee, And let 'em never vex thy quiet more. My arms, my heart, are open to receive thee, To bring thee back to thy forsaken home. With tender joy, with fond forgiving love. Let us haste. Now, while occasion seems to smile upon us. Forsake this place of shame, and find a shelter. /«?^e no doubt it was correctl*' said that ' George Barnwell" drew more 591 VROH 1689 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1727. tears than the rants of Alexander the Great. His * Fatal Curiosity' is a far higher work. Driven by destitution, an old man and his wife murder a rich stranger who takes shelter in their house, and they discover, but too late, that they have murdered their son, returned after a long absence. The harrowing details of this tragedy are powerfully depicted ; and the agonies of OldWilmot, the father, constitute one of the most appalling and affecting incidents in the drama. The execution of Lillo's plays is unequal, and some of his characters are dull and common- place ; but he was a forcible painter of the dark shades of humble life. His plays have not kept possession of the stage. The taste for murders and public execu- tions has declined ; and Lillo Avas deficient in poetical and romantic feeling. The question, whether the familiar cast of his subjects was fitted to constitute a more genuine or only a subordinate walk in tragedy, is discussed by Mr Campbell in the follow- ing eloquent paragraph : — ' Undoubtedly the genuine delineation of the human heart will please us, from whatever station or circumstances of life it is derived. In the simple pathos of tragedy, probably very little difference will be felt from the choice of characters being pitched above or below the line of mediocrity in station. But something more than pathos is required in tragedy ; and the very pain that attends our sym- pathy requires agreeable and romantic associations of the fancy to be blended with its poignancy. What- ever attaches ideas of importance, publicity, and ele- vation to the object of pity, forms a brightening and alluring medium to the imagination. Athens her- self, with all her simplicity and democracy, delighted on the stage to " let gorgeous Tragedy In sceptred pall come sweeping by." Even situations far depressed beneath the familiar mediocritj- of life, are more picturesque and poetical than its ordinary level. It is, certainly, on the vir- tues of the middling rank of life that the strength and comforts of society chiefly depend, in the same manner as we look for the harvest not on cliffs and precipices, but on the easy slope and the uniform plain. But the painter docs not, in general, fix on level countries for the subjects of his noblest land- scapes. There is an analogy, I conceive, to this in the moral painting of tragedy. Disparities of sta- tion give it boldness of outline. The commanding situations of life are its mountain scenery — the region where its storm and sunshine may be por- trayed in their strongest contrast and colouring.' [^Fatal Curiosity.'] YoiinR Wii.MOT, unknown, enters the house of his parents, and delivers them a casket, requesting to retire an hour for rest. AoNES, the mother, alone, with the casket in her hand. Agnes. Who should this stranger be ? And then this casket — He says it is of value, and yet trusts it, As if a trifle, to a stranger's hand. His confidence amazes me. Perhaps It is not what he says. I'm strongly tempted To open it, and see. No ; let it rest. Why should my curiosity excite nie To search and pry into the affairs of others, Who have to employ my thoughts so many cares And sorrows of my ovnil With how much ease The spring gives way ! Surprising ! most prodigious ! My eyes are dazzled, and my ravished heart Leaps at the glorious sight. How bright's the lustre, How immense the worth of those fair jewels ! Ay, such a treasure would expel for ever Base poverty and all its abject train ; The mean devices we're reduced to use To keep out famine, and presen-e our lives From day to day ; the cold neglect of friends ; The galling scorn, or more provoking pity Of an insulting world. Possessed of these, Plenty, content, and power, might take their tuni, And lofty pride bare its aspiring head At our approach, and once more bend before us. A pleasing dream ! 'Tis past ; and now 1 wake More wretched by the happiness I've lost ; For sure it was a happiness to think, Though but a moment, such a treasure mine. Nay, it was more than thought. I saw and touched The bright temptation, and I see it yet. 'Tis here — 'tis mine — 1 have it in possession. Must I resign it ? Must I give it back ? Am I in love with misery and want, To rob myself, and court so vast a loss 1 Retain it then. But how ? There is a way. Why sinks my heart ? Why does my blood nm cold ! Why am I thrilled with horror ? 'Tis not choice, But dire necessity, suggests the thought. Enter Old AVilmot. Old Wilmot. The mind contented, with how little pains The wandering senses yield to soft repose, And die to gain new life? He's fallen asleep Already — happy man ! What dost thou think, My Agnes, of our unexpected guest ? He seems to me a youth of great humanity: Just ere he closed his eyes, that swam in tears. He wrung my hand, and pressed it to his lips; And with a look that pierced me to the soul. Begged me to comfort thee : and — Dost thou hear met What art thou gazing on ? Fie, 'tis not well. This casket was delivered to you closed : Why have you opened it? Should this be known. How mean must we appear ? Agnes. And who shall know it ? 0. Wil. There is a kind of pride, a decent dignity Due to ourselves, which, spite of our misfortunes. May be maintained and cherished to the last. To live without reproach, and without leave To quit the world, shows sovereign contempt And noble scorn of its relentless malice. Agiies. Shows sovereign madness, and a scorn of sense ! Pursue no further this detested theme : I will not die. I will not leave the world For all that you can urge, until compelled. 0. Wil. To chase a shadow, when the setting sun Is darting his last rays, were just as wise As your anxiety for fleeting life, Now the last means for its support are failing: Were famine not as mortal as the sword, ' This warmth might be excused. But take thy choice} Die how you will, you shall not die alone. Agnes. Nor live, I hope. 0. Wil. There is no fear of that. Agnes. Then we'll live both. 0. Wil. Strange folly ! Where's the means ! Agnes. The means are there ; those jewels. 0. Wil. Ila ! take heed : Perhaps thou dost but try me ; yet take heed. There's nought so monstrous but the mind of man In some conditions may be brought to approve ; Theft, sacrilege, treason, and parricide. When flattering opportunity enticed. And desperation drove, have been committed By those who once would start to hear them named. Agnes. And add to these detested suicide. Which, by a crime nmch leas, wc may avoid. 592 IiRAMATlSTS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. WILLIAM CONGREVK. 0. Wil. The inhospitable murder of our guest ? 'low couldst thou form a thought so very temptiii;i^, !50 advantageous, so secure, and e:usy ; And yet so cruel, and so full of horror? Aosition of his works. During this course of dissipation, being sometimes visited by qualms of conscience, he drew up, for the purpose of self-;idmonition, a small treatise entitled The Christian Hero, and afterwards j)ub- lished it as a still more powerful check upon his irregular passions. Yet it does not appear that even 602 ENGLISH LITERATURE. sin RICHARD STfcELK. the attention thus drawn to his conduct, and the ridicule excited by tlie contrast between his prin- ciples and practice, led to any perceptil)le improve- ment. In order to enliven his character, and so diminish the occasion of mirth to his comrades, he produced, in 1701, a comedy entitled The Funeral, cr Grief a-Ia-mode, in which, with much humour, there is combined a moral tendency superior to that of most of the dramatic pieces of the time. Steele, though personally too much a rake, made it a prin- ciple to employ his literary talents only in the service of virtue. In 170.3, he sent forth another successful comedy, called The Tender Husband, or The Acco7n- plished Fools; and in the year following was repre- sented his third, entitled The Li/ing Lover, the strain of which proved too serious for the public taste. The ill success wdiich it experienced deterred him from again appearing as a dramatist till 1722, when his adiuirable comedy. The Conscious Lovers, was brouglit out with unbounded applause. ' Tlie great, the appropriate praise of Steele,' says I)r lirake, ' is to have been the first who, after the licentious age of Charles II., endeavoured to introduce the Virt\ies on the stage. He clothed them with tlie brilliancy of genius ; he placed them in situations the most interesting to the human heart ; and he taught his audience not to laugh at, biit to exe- crate vice, to despise tlie lewd fool and the witty rake, to applaud the efforts of the good, and to re- joice in the pimishment of the wicked.'* After the failure of ' Tlie Lying Lover,' which, he says, ' was damned for its piety,' Steele conceived the idea of attacking the vices and foibles of the age through the medium of a lively periodical paper. Accordingly, on the 12th of April 1709, he com- menced the publication of the Tafler, a small sheet designed to appear three times a- week, ' to expose.' as the author stated, 'the false arts of life, to pull off the disguises of cunning, vanity, and atfectation, and to recommend a general simplicity in our dress, our discourse, and our behaviour.' Steele, who had then reached his thirty-eighth year, was qualified for his task by a knowledge of the world, acquired in free converse with it, and by a large fund of natural humour ; his sketches, anecdotes, and remarks, are accordingly very entertaining. To conciliate the ordinary readers of news, a part of each paper was devoted to public and political intelligence ; and the price of each number was one penny. At first, the author endeavoured to conceal himself \mder the fictitious name of Isaac Bickerstaff, which he bor- rowed from a pamphlet by Swift; but his real name Boon became known, and his friend Addison then began to assist him with a few papers upon more serious subjects than he himself was able or inclined to discuss, and also, with various articles of a humo- rous character. When the work had extended to the 271st number, -which was published on the 2d of January 1711, the editor was induced, by a conside- ration of the inconvenience of writing such a work ■without personal concealment, to give it up, and to commence a publication nearly similar in plan, and in which he might assume a new disguise. This was the more celebrated Spectator, of which the first number appeared on the 1st of March 1711. The ' Spectator' was published daily, and each number was invariably a complete essay, without any ad- mixture of politics. Steele and Addison were con- junct in this work from its commencement, and they obtained considerable assistance from a few other writers, of whom the chief were Thomas Tickell, and a gentleman named Budgell. The greater part of the light and humorous sketches are * Essays Illustrative of the Tatlor, &c. i. 57. by Steele; while Addison contributed most of the articles in Avhich there is any grave rcllectioii or elevated feeling. ]n tlie course of the work, several fictitious jiersons were introduced as friends of the supposed editor, partly for amusement, and i)art]y for the purpose of quoting them on occasions where their opinions might be supposed appropriate. Thus, a country gentleman was described under the name of Sir Roger de Covcrley, to whom reference was made -when matters connected with rural afiairs were in question. A Caj)tain Sentry stood up for the army ; Will Honeycomb gave law on all things concerning the gay world ; and Sir Andrew Free- piirt represented the commercial interest. Of these characters. Sir Roger was by far the most luqipily delineated : it is understood that he was entirely a being of Addison's imagination ; and certainly, in the whole round of English fiction, there is no cha- racter delineated with more masterly strokes of humour and tenderness. The ' Sjiectator,' which, extended to six hundred and thirt3'-five numbers, or eight volumes, is not only much superior to the ' Tatler,' but stands at the head of all the works of tlie same kind that have since been produced ; and, as a miscellany of polite literature, is not surpassed by any book whatever. All that regards the smaller morals and deicncies of life, elegance or justness of taste, and the improvement of domestic society, is touched upon in this paper with the happiest com- bination of seriousness and ridicule : it is also en- titled to the praise of having corrected the existing style of writing and speaking on common topics, which was much vitiated by slang phraseology and profane swearing. The ' Spectator' appeared every morning in the shape of a single leaf, and was re- ceived at the breakfast tables of most persons of taste then living in the metropolis, and had a large sale. During the j-ear 1713, while the publication of the ' Spectator' was temporarily suspended, Steele, with the same assistance, published the Guardian, which was also issued daily, and extended to a hundred and seventy-five numbers, or two volumes. It ranks in merit between the ' Spectator' and ' Tatler,' and is enriched by contributions of Pope, Berkeley, and Budgell. Addison's papers occur almost exclusively in the second volume, where they are more nume- rous than those of Steele himself. Of two hundred and seventy- one papers of which the 'Tatler' is composed, Steele wrote one hundred and eighty- eight, Addison forty-two, and both conjointly thirty- six. Of six hundred and thirty-five ' Sj)ectators,' Addison wrote two lumdred and seventy-four, and Steele two hundred and forty. And of one hundred and seventy-six ' Guardians,' Steele wrote eighty- two, and Addison fifty-three. The beneficial influence of these publications on the morality, piety, manners, and intelligence of the British people, has been extensive and permanent. When the ' Tatler' first appeared, the ignorance and immorality of the great mass of society in England were gross and disgusting. By the generality of fashionable persons of both sexes, literary and scien- tific attainments were desyiised as pedantic and vul- gar. ' That general knowledge which now circulates in common talk, was then rarely to be found. . IMen not professing learning were not ashamed of igno- rance ; and in the female world, any acquaintance with books was distinguished only to be censured.'* Politics formed almost the sole topic of conversation among the gentlemen, and scandal among the ladies; swearing and indecency were fashionahle vices; gaming and drunkenness aboun'k'd ; and the practico * Johnson's Life of Addison. 603 I ROM 1681 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1727 of duelling was carried to a most irrational excess. In the theatre, as well as in society, the corruption of Charles XL's reign continued to prevail ; and men of the highest rank were the habitual encouragcrs of the coarse amusements of bull-baiting, bear-baiting, and prize-fighting. To the amelioration of this wretched state of public taste and manners did Steele and Addison apply themselves with equal zeal and success, operating by the means thus stated in the Spectator: — 'I shall endeavour to enliven morality with wit, and to temper wit with morality, that m^' readers may, if possible, both ways find their ac- count in the speculation of the day. And to the end that their virtue and discretion may not be short, transient, intermittent starts of thought, I have resolved to refresh their memories from day to day, till I have recovered them out of that desperate state of vice and fully into which the age is fallen. The mind that lies fallow but a single day, sprouts up in follies that are only to be killed by a constant and assiduous culture. It was said of Socrates, that he brought philosophy down from heaven to inhabit among men ; I shall be ambitious to have it said of me, tliat I have brought pliilosophy out of closets and libraries, schools and colleges, to dwell in clubs and assemblies, at tea-tables and in coffee-houses.' Of the excellent effects produced by the essays of Steele and Addison, we possess the evidence not only of the improved state of society and literature which has since prevailed, but likewise of writers contemporary witli the authors themselves. All speak of a decided and marked improvement in so- ciety and manners. ' Tlie acquisition,' says Dr Drake, ' of a popular relish for elegant literature, may be dated, indeed, from the period of the publication of the " Tatler;" to the progress of this new-formed desire, the " Specta- tor" and " Guardian" gave fresh acceleration ; nor has the impulse which was thus received for a moment ceased to spread and propagate its influence through every rank of British society. To these papers, in the department of polite letters, we may ascribe the following great and never-to-be-forgotten obligations. They, it may be affirmed, first pointed out, in a popular way, and with insinuating address, the best authors of classical antiquity and of modern times, and infused into the public mind an enthusiasm for their beauties ; they, calling to their aid the colour- ing of humour and imagination, effectually detected the sources of bad writing, and exposed to never- dying ridicule the puerilities and meretricious deco- rations of false wit and bloated composition ; they first rendered criticism familiar and pleasing to the general taste, and excited that curiosity, that acute- ness and precision, which have since enabled so many classes of readers to enjoy, and to appreciate with judgnient, the various productions of genius and learning. To the essays of Addison, in particular, are we likewise indebted for the formation of a style beyond all former precedent pure, fascinating, and correct, that may be said to have effected a revolution in our language and literature, and which, notwith- standing all the refinements of modern criticism, is Btill entitled to the praise of a just and legitimate model In trit " Spectator," moreover, was the public first presented with a specimen of acute analysis in the papers on the sources and pleasures of the imagina- tion ; they form a disquisition which, while it in- structed and delighted the unlearned reader, led the way, though the arrogance of the literati of the pre- sent day may disclaim the debt, to what has been ♦ern-ed by modern ostentation philosophical criticism. T J the circulation of these volumes also may be ascribed the commencement of a just taste in the fields of fancy and picturesque beauty. The critique on Milton, the inimitable ridicule on the Gothic style of gardening, and the vivid descriptions of rural ele- gance, the creations either of nature or of art, which are dispersed through the pages of the " Tatler," " Spectator," and " Guardian," soon disseminated more correct ideas of simplicity in the formation of landscape, and more attractive views of sublimity and beauty in the loftier regions of true poetry. In fact, from the perusal of these essays, that large body of the people included in the middle class of society first derived their capability of judging of the merits and the graces of a refined writer ; and the nation at large gradually-, from this epoch, became entitled to the distinguished appellations of literary and critical. The readers of the " Spectator" had been thoroughly imbued with the fine enthusiasm for lite- rature which characterised the genius of Addison ; they had felt and admired the delicacy, the amenity, and the purity of his composition, and were soon able to balance and adjust by comparison the pre- tensions of succeeding candidates for fame. * * If in taste and literature such numerous benefits were conferred upon the people through the medium of these papers, of still greater importance were the services which they derived from them in the depart- ment of manners and morals. Both public and private virtue and decorum, indeed, received a firmer tone and finer polish from their precepts and examples ; the acrimony and malevolence that had hitherto attended the discussion of political opinion were in a short time greatly mitigated ; and the talents which had been almost exclusively occupied by controversy, were diverted into channels where elegance and learn- ing mutually assisted in refining and purifying the passions.' The success and utility of the ' Tatler,' ' Spectator,' and ' Guardian,' led to tlie appearance, throughout the eighteenth century, of many works similar in form and purpose ; but of these, with the excep- tion of the Rambler, Adventurer, Idler, World, Con- noisseur, Mirror, and Lounger, none can be said to have obtained a place in the standard literature of our country. Of the productions just named, an ac- count will be given when we come to speak of the authors principally concerned in them ; and with respect to the others, it is sufficient to remark, that so slender is their general merit, that from forty- one of the best among them, Dr Drake has been able to compile only four volumes of papers above mediocrity.* Notwithstanding the high excellence which must be attributed to the ' British Essayists,' as this class of writings is usually called, it cannot be concealed, that since the beginning of the present century, tlieir popularity has undergone a considerable decline. This, we think, may easily be accounted for. All that relates in them to temporary fashions and ab- surdities, is now, for the most part, out of date ; while many of the vices and rudenesses which they attack, have either been expelled from good society by their own influence, or are now fallen into such general discredit, that any formal exposure of them appears tedious and unnecessary. Add to this, that innumerable popular works of distinguished excel- lence, on the same class of subjects, have appeared in later times, so that the essayists are no longer in undisrvi>»d possession of the field which they origi- nally and v> hATuviTHJilv occupied. Since the age of * The selection was pubUbh«1 in 1811, under the title of ' The Gleaner; a Series of Pen,vJioia Essays, selected and arranged from scarce or neglectco '•-Onmfts. By Nathan Drake, M.D.' 8vo. 604 ENGLISH LITERATURE. SIR BiCIIARD STEF.LE. Qaeeii Anne, moreover, tlitre lias come into request a more vigorous, straightforward, and exciting style of writing than that of Steele, or even of Addison, so that the public taste now demands to be stimu- lated by something more lively and piquant than what seemed to our grandmothers the ne plus ultra of agreeable writing. Yet, after making every abatement, it is certain that there are in these collections so many admirably written ess9,ys on subjects of abiding interest and importance — on characters, virtues, vices, and manners, which will chequer society while the human race endures — that a judicious selection can never fail to present indescribable charms to the man of taste, pietj', philanthropy, and refinement. In particular, the humorous productions of Addison, whicli to this day have never been surpassed. Mill probably main- tain a popularity coexistent with our language itself. But to return to the biography of Sir Richard Steele. While conducting the ' Tatler,' and for some years previously to its commencement, he occupied the post of Gazette writer under the Whig ministry ; and for the support whicli he gave them in the political department of that work, he was rewarded in 1710 with an appointment as one of the commissioners of the Stamp-ofRce. When the Tories the same j-ear came into power, an attempt was made to win over his services, by allowing him to retain office, and holding out hopes of farther preferment ; but Steele, true to his principles, pre- served silence on politics for several years, till at length in the 'Guardian' of 28th April 1713, he entered into a controversy with a famous Tory paper called the ' Examiner,' in which Dr Swift at that time \vrote with great force and virulence. In this step, the patriotism of Steele prevailed over his interest, for he shortly afterwards, in a manly letter to Lord Oxford, resigned the emoluments which he derived from government. Thus freed from tram- mels, he entered with the utmost alacrity into poli- tical warfare, to which he was excited by the danger that seemed, towards the close of Queen Anne's reign, to threaten the Protestant succession. Not content with wielding the pen, he jirocured a seat in parliament ; from which, however, he was speedily expelled, in consequence of the freedom with which he commented on public affairs in one of his pam- phlets. For these efforts against the Tory party, he was, on the accession of George I., rewarded with the post of surveyor to the royal stables at Hampton court. He obtained once more a seat in parliament, was knighted by the king, and in 1717 visited Edinburgh as one of the commissioners of forfeited estates. While in the northern metropolis, he made a hopeless attempt to bring about a union of the Eng- lish and Scotch churches ; and also furnished a proof of his humorous disposition, by giving a sj)lendid entertainment to a multitude of beggars and decayed tradesmen, collected from the streets. Two years afterwards, he offended the ministry by strenuously opposing a bill which aimed at fixing permanently the number of peers, and prohibiting the king from creating any, except for the purpose of rei)lacing extinct families. By this proceeding he not only lost a profitable thea'trical patent which he had en- joyed for some years, but became embroiled in a quarrel with his old friend Addison, which arose during a war of pamphlets, in which Addison took the side of the ministry. That eminent person for- got his dignity so far as to sjicak of Steele as ' Little Dicky, whose trade it was to write pami)hlets ;' and it is highly creditable to Steele, that, notwith- standing so gross an insult, he retained both the feeling and the language of respect for his anta- gonist, and was content with administering a mild reproof through the medium of a quotation from the tragedy of Cato. 'Every reader,' says Dr John- son, 'surely nmst regret that these two illustri(ju3 friends, after so many yenrs passed in confidence and endearment, in unity of interest, conformity of opinion, and fellowship of study, should finally part in acrimonious opposition. Such a controversy was bcllnm plusquam civile, as Lucan expresses it. Why could not faction find other advocates? But among the uncertainties of the human state, we are doomed to number the instabilities of friendship.'* During his long intercourse with Addison, Steele, though completely eclipsed by his friend, never evinced towards liim tlie slightest symptom of envy or jealousy, but, on the contrary, seems to have looked up to him with uniform admiration and respect. Though Steele realised considerable sums by his writings, as well as by his places under government, and the theatrical patent, and farther increased his resources by marrying a lady of fortune in South Wales, he was alwa3's at a loss for money, which, it may be said, he could neither want nor keep. With many amiable features of character — such as good- nature, vivacity, candour, urbanity, and affection — and with a high admiration of virtue in the abstract, his conduct, as we have seen, was frequently incon- sistent with tlie rules of propriety — a circumstance which is attributed in part to his pecuniary embar- rassments. Being once reproached by Whiston, a strange but disinterested enthusiast in religion, for giving a vote in parliament contrary to his former professed opinions, he replied, ' Mr Whiston, you can walk on foot, but I cannot ;' a sentiment which, if serious, certainly laj's him open to the severest censure. But on various trying occasions, his poli- tical virtue stood firm ; and it is only justice to mention, that when his affairs became involved shortly before his death, he retired into Wales solely for the purpose of doing justice to his creditors, at a time when he had the fairest prospect of satisfy- ing their claims to the uttermost farthing.f He died at Llangunnor, ne.ar Caermartlien, in 1729. Bv the Steele's nouse at Llangunnor. publication of his private correspondence in 1787, from the originals in the British Museum, his cha- racter has been exhibited in a very amialJe light, and it would be difficult to point out any productions more imbued with tender feeling than the letters written to his wife, both before and after marriage. * Life of Addison. t liee Uibbop Iloadly's works, vol. i p. xii. eo- FROM 1689 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1727. In manner as veil as matter, the writings of Steele are inferior to those of Addison. He aimed only at giving his papers ' an air of common speech ;' and though improved by the example of Addison, his stvie never attained to accuracy or grace. Vivacity and ease are the highest qualities of his composition. He had, however, great fertility of invention, both as respects incident and character. His personages are drawn with dramatic spirit, and with a liveli- ness and airy facilit}-, that blinds the reader to his defects. The Spectator Club, with its fine portraits of Sir Roger de Coverley, Sir Andrew Freeport, "Will Honcj-comb, &c., will ever remain a monument of the felicity of his fancy, and his power of seizing upon the shades and peculiarities of character. If Addison heightened the humour and interest of the different scenes, to Steele belongs the merit of the original design, and the first conception of the actors. We have already spoken of the prose style of Addison, and Dr Johnson's eulogium on it has al- most passed into a proverb in the history of our literature. ' Whoever wishes,' says the critic and moralist, ' to attain an English style, familiar but not coarse, and elegant but not ostentatious, must give his days and nights to the volumes of Addison.' There he will find a rich but chaste vein of humour and satire — lessons of morality and religion divested of all austerity and gloom — criticism at once pleas- ing and profound — and pictures of national character and manners that must ever charm from their viva- city and truth. The mind of Addison was so happily constituted, that all its faculties appear to have been in healthy vigour and due proportion, and to have been under the control of correct taste and principles. Greater energy of character, or a more determined hatred of vice and tyrann}', would have curtailed his usefulness as a public censor. He led the nation gently and insensilily to a love of virtue and consti- tutional freedom, to a purer taste in morals and litera- ture, and to the importance of those everlasting truths which so warmly engaged his heart and ima- gination. Besides his inimitable essays, Addison wrote Bemarhs on Several Parts of Italy in the years 1701, 1702, 1703, in which he has considered the passages of the ancient poets that have any rela- tion to the places and curiosities he saw. The style of this early work is remarkable for its order and simplicity, but seldom rises into eloquence. He published also Dialoyues on the Usefulness of Ancient Medals, especially in relation to the Latin and Greek Poets, a treatise uniting patient research and origi- nality of thought and conception. Pope addressed some beautiful lines to Addison on these Dialogues, in which he has complimented him with his usual felicity and grace : — Touched by thy hand, again Rome's glories shine ; Her gods and godlike heroes rise to view, And all her faded garlands bloom anew. Nor blush these studies thy regard engage : These pleased the fathers of poetic rage ; The verse and sculpture bore an equal part, And art reflected images to art. The learning of Addison is otherwise displayed in his unfinished treatise on the Evidences of the Chris- tian Rehgion, in whi(;h he reviews the heathen phi- los<)i)t)ers and historians who advert to the spread of Christianity, and also touches on a part of the subject now more fully illustrated — the fulfilment of the Scripture prophecies. Tlie Whig Examiners of Addison are clever, witty, party productions. He ridicules liis opponents witliout bitterness or malice, yet with a success that far outstripped competition. 1^ hen we consider that this great ornament of our literature died at the age of forty-seven, and that the greater part of his manhood was spent in tlie discharge of important ofiicial duties, we are equally surprised at the extent of his learning and the va- riety and versatility of his genius. We select the following papers by Steele from the ' Tatler,' ' Spectator,' and ' Guardian.' [Agreeable Companions and Flatterers.^ An old acquaintance who met me this morning seemed overjoyed to see me, and told me 1 looked as well as he had known me do these forty years ; but, continued he, not quite the man you were when we visited together at Lady Brightly's. Oh ! Isaac, those days are over. Do you think there are any such fine creatures now living as we then conversed with ? lie went on with a thousand incoherent circumstances, which, in his imagination, must needs please me ; but they had the quite contrary effect. The flattery with which he began, in telling me how well 1 wore, was not disagreeable ; but his indiscreet mention of a set of acquaintance we had outlived, recalled ten thou- sand things to my memory, which made me reflect upon my present condition with regret. Had he in- deed been so kind as, after a long absence, to felici- tate me upon an indolent and easy old age, and men- tioned how much he and I had to thank for, who at our time of day could walk firmh% eat heartih', and converse cheerfully, be had kept up my pleasure in myself. But of all mankind, there are none so shock- ing as these injudicious civil people. They ordinarily begin upon something that they know must be a satis- faction ; but then, for fear of the imputation of flat- tery, they follow it with the last thing in the world of which you would be reminded. It is this that per- plexes civil persons. The reason that there is such a general outcry among us against flatterers, is, that there are so very few good ones. It is the nicest art in this life, and is a part of eloquence which does not want the preparation that is necessary to all other parts of it, that your audience should be your well- wishers ; for praise from an enemy is the most pleas- ing of all commendations. It is generally to be observed, that the person most agreeable to a man for a constancy, is he that has r.o shining qualities, but is a certain degree above great imperfections, whom he can live with as his inferior, and who will either overlook or not observe his little defects. Such an easy companion as this, either now and then throws out a little flattery, or lets a man silently flatter himself in his superiority to hira. If you take notice, there is hardly a rich man in the world who has not such a led friend of small consi- deration, who is a darling for his insignificancy. It is a great ease to have one in our own shape a species below us, and who, witliout being listed in our service, is by nature of our retinue. These dejiendents are of excellent use on a rainy day, or when a man has not a mind to dress ; or to exclude solitude, when one has neither a mind to that or to company. There are of this good-natured order who are so kind to divide themselves, and do these good offices to many. Five or six of them visit a whole quarter of the towni, and ex- clude the spleen, without fees, from the families they frequent. If they do not prescribe physic, they can be company when you take it. Very great benefactors to the rich, or those whom they call people at their ease, are your persons of no consequence. 1 have known some of them, by the help of a little cunning, make delicious flatterers. They know the course of tho town, and the general characters of persons ; by this means they will sometimes tell the most agreeable falsehoods imaginable. They will acquaint yon that such one of a quite contrary party said, that thouirh you were engaged in dirt'ercnt interests, yet he bad 606 ENGLISH LITERATURE. SIR RICHARD STEELS. the greatest respect for jour good sense and address. When one of these has a little cunning, he passes his time in the utmost satisfaction to himself and his friends ; for his position is never to report or speak a displeasing thing to his friend. As for letting him go on in an error, he knows advice against them is the office of persons of greater talents and less dis- cretion. The Latin word for a flatterer (assentator) implies no more than a person that barely consents ; and in- deed such a one, if a man were able to purchase or maintain him, cannot be bought too dear. Such a one never contradicts you, but gains upon you, not by a fulsome way of commending you in broad terms, but liking whatever you propose or utter ; at the same time is ready to beg your pardon, and gainsay yoM, if you chance to speak ill of yourself. An old lady is very seldom without such a companion as this, who can recite the names of all her lovers, and the matches refused by her in the days when she minded such vanities (as she is pleased to call them, though she so much approves the mention of them). It is to be noted, that a woman's flatterer is generally elder than herself, her years sen'ing to recommend her patroness's age, and to add weight to her complaisance in all other particulars. We gentlemen of small fortunes are extremely necessitous in this particular. I have, indeed, one who smokes with me often ; but his parts are so low, that all the incense he does me is to fill his pipe with me, and to be out at just as many whiffs as I take. This is all the praise or assent that he is capable of, yet there are more hours when I would rather be in his company than that of the brightest man I know. It would be a hard matter to give an account of this inclination to be flattered ; but if we go to the bottom of it, we shall find that the pleasure in it is something like that of receiving monev which lay out. Every man thinks he has an estate of reputation, and is glad to see one that will bring any of it home to him ; it is no matter how dirty a bag it is conveyed to him in, or by how clownish a messenger, so the money is good. All that we want to be pleased with flattery, is to believe that the man is sincere who gives it us. It is by this one accident that .absurd creatures often outrun the most skilful in this art. Their want of ability is here an advantage, and their bluntness, as it is the seeming effect of sincerity, is the best cover to artifice. Terence introduces a flatterer talking to a coxcomb, whom he cheats out of a livelihood, and a third per- son on the stage makes on him this pleasant remark, * This fellow has an art of making fools madmen.' The love of flatter}' is indeed sometimes the weakness of a great mind ; but you see it also in persons who otherwise discover no manner of relish of anything above mere sensuality. These latter it sometimes improves, but alway-s debases the former. A fool is in himself the object of pity till he is flattered. By the force of that, his stupidity is raised into affecta- tion, and he becomes of dignity enough to be ridi- culous. I remember a droll, that upon one's saying the times are so ticklish that there must great care be taken what one says in conversation, answered with an air of surliness and honesty. If people will be free, let them be so in the manner that I am, who never abuse a man but to his face. He had no repu- tation for saying dangerous truths ; therefore when it was repeated. You abuse a man but to Ms face ? Yes, says he, I flatter him. It is, indeed, the greatest of injuries to flatter any but the unhappy, or such as are displeased with them- selves for some infirmity. In this latter case we have a member of our club, that, when Sir Jeffrey falls asleep, wakens him with snoring. This makes Sir Jeffrey hold up for some moments the longer, to see there are men younger than himself among us, who are more lethargic than he is. When flattery is practised upon any other con- sideration, it is the most abject thing in nature ; nay, I caimot tliink of any character below the flatterer, except he that envies him. You meet with fellows prepared to be as mean as possible in their condescen- sions and expressions ; but they want persons and talents to rise up to such a baseness. As a coxcojcb is a fool of parts, so a flatterer is a knave of parts. The best of this order that I know, is one who dis- guises it under a spirit of contradiction or reproof. He told an arrant driveller the other day, that he did not care for being in company with him, because he heard he turned his absent friends into ridicule. And upon Lady Autumn's disputing with him about something that happened at the Revolution, he replied with a very angry tone, Pray, madam, give me leave to know more of a thing in which I was actually con- cerned, than you who were then in your nurse's arms. \^Quack Advertisements.'] It gives me much despair in the design of reforming the world by my speculations, when I find there always arise, from one generation to another, succes- sive cheats and bubbles, as naturally as beasts of prey and those which are to be their food. There is hardly a man in the world, one would think, so ignorant as not to know that the ordinary quack-doctors, who publish their abilities in little brown billets, distri- buted to all who pass by, are to a man impostoi-s and murderers ; yet such is the credulity of the vulsrar, and the irajiudence of these professors, that the affair still goes on, and new promises of what was never done before are made every day. 'What aggravates the jest is, that even this promise has been made aa long as the memory of man can trace it, and yet no- thing performed, and yet still prevails. As I was passing along to-day, a paper given into my hand by a fellow without a nose, tells us as follows what good news is come to to^vn, to wit, that there is now a cer- tain cure for the French disease, by a gentleman just come from his travels. ' In Russel Court, over against the Cannon Ball, at the Surgeons' Arms, in Drury Lane, is lately come from his travels a surgeon, who hath practised surgery and physic, both by sea and land, these twenty-four years. He, by the blessing, cures the yellow jaundice, green-sickness, scurvy, dropsy, surfeits, long sea voy- ages, campaigns, kc, as some people that has been lame these thirty j-ears can testify ; in short, he cureth all diseases incident to men, women, or children.' If a man could be so indolent as to look upon this havoc of the human species which is made by vico and ignorance, it would be a good ridiculous work ti comment upon the declaration of this accomplished traveller. There is something unaccountably taking among the vulgar in those who come from a great way otf. Ignorant people of quality, as many there are of such, dote excessively this way ; many instances of which every man will suggest to himself, without my enumeration of them. The ignorants of lowei order, who cannot, like the upper ones, be profuse of their money to those reconmiended by coming from a distance, are no less complaisant than the others ; foi they venture their lives for the same admiration. ' The doctor is lately come from his travels, and has practised both by sea and land, and therefore cures the green-sickness, long sea voyages, and cam paigns.' Both by sea and land! I will not answe' for the distempers called ' sea voyages and cam- paigns,' but I daresay that of green-sickness might be as well taken care of if tlie doctor stayed asliore. But the art of managing mankind is only to make them stare a little to keep up their astoni.shment ; 007 FROM 1689 CYCLOPEDIA OP TO 1727. to let nothing be familiar to them, but ever to have something in their sleeve, in which they must think you are deeper than they are. There is an ingenious fellow, a barber, of my acquaintance, who, besides his broken fiddle and a dried sea-monster, has a twine-cord, strained with two nails at each end, over hia window, and the words, ' rainy, dry, wet,' and so forth, ivritten to denote the weather, according to the rising or falling of the cord. We very great scho- lai-s are not apt to wonder at this ; but I observed a very honest fellow, a chance customer, who sat in the chair before me to be shaved, fix his eye upon this miraculous performance during the operation upon his .chin and face. When those and his head also were cleared of all incumbrances and excrescences, he looked at the fish, then at the fiddle, still grubling in his pockets, and casting his eye again at the twine, and the words writ on each side ; then altered his mind as to farthings, and gave my friend a silver six- pence. The business, as I said, is to keep up the amazement ; and if my friend had only the skeleton and kit, he must have been contented with a less payment. But the doctor we were talking of, adds to his long voyages the testimony of some people ' that has been thirty years lame.' When I received my paper, a sagacious fellow took one at the same time, and read until he came to the thirty years' confine- ment of his friends, and went off very well convinced of the doctor's sufficiency. You have many of these prodigious persons, who have had some extraordinary accident at their birth, or a great disaster in some part of their lives. Anything, however foreign from the business the people want of you, will convince them of your ability in that you- profess. There is a doctor in Mouse Alley, near Wapping, who sets up for curing cataracts upon the credit of having, as his bill sets forth, lost an eye in the emperor's service. His patients come in upon this, and he shows his muster-roll, which confirms that he was in his impe- rial majesty's troops ; and he puts out their eyes with great success. Who would believe that a man should be a doctor for the cure of bursten children, by declar- ing that his father and grandfather were born bursten ? But Charles Ingoltson, next door to the Harp in Bar- bican, has made a pretty penny by that asseveration. The generality go upon their first conception, and think no further ; all the rest is granted. They take it that there is something uncommon in you, and give you credit for the rest. You may be sure it is upon that I go, when, sometimes, let it be to the purpose or not, I keep a Latin sentence in my front ; and 1 was not a little pleased when I observed one of my readers say, casting his eye on my twentieth paper, ' More Latin still ? What a prodigious scholar is this man !' But as I have here taken much liberty with this learned doctor, I must make up all I have said by repeating what he seems to be in earnest in, and honestly promise to those who will not receive him as a great man, to wit, ' That from eight to twelve, and from two till six, he attends for the good of the public to bleed for threepence.' [Story-Telling.] Tom Lizard told us a story the other day, of some persons which our family know very well, with so much humour and life, that it caused a great deal of mirth at the tea-table. His brother Will, the Teni])lar, was highly delighted with it ; and the next day being with some of his Inns-of-court acquaintance, resolved (whether out of the benevolence or the pride of his heart, I will not detcnuine) to entertain them with what he called 'a pleasant humour enough.' I was in great pain for him when I heard him begin ; and wa.s not at all surprised to find the company very little novcd by it. Will blushed, looked round the room, and with a forced laugh, ' Faith, gentlemen,' said he, ' I do not know what makes you look so grave : it was an admirable story when I heard it.' When I came home, I fell into a profound contem- plation upon story-telling, and, as 1 have nothing so much at heart as the good of my country, I resolved to lay down some precautions upon this subject. I have often thought that a story-teller is bom, as well as a poet. It is, I think, certain that some men have such a peculiar cast of mind, that they see things in another light than men of grave dispositions. !Men of a lively imagination and a mirthful temper will represent things to their hearers in the same manner as they themselves were affected with them ; and whereas serious spirits might perhaps have been disgusted at the sight of some odd occurrences in life, yet the very same occurrences shall please them in a well-told story, where the disagreeable parts of the images are concealed, and those only which are pleasing exhibited to the fancy. Story-telling is therefore not an art, but what we call a ' knack ;' it doth not so much subsist upon wit as upon humour; and I will add, that it is not perfect without proper gesticulations of the body, which naturally attend such merry emotions of the mind. I know very well that a certain gra- vity of countenance sets some stories off to advantage, where the hearer is to be surprised in the end. But this is by no means a general rule ; for it is frequently convenient to aid and assist by cheerful looks and whimsical agitations. I will go yet further, and affirm that the success of a story very often depends upon the make of the body, and the formation of the fea- tures, of him who relates it. I have been of this opi- nion ever since I criticised upon the chin of Dick Dewlap. I very often had the weakness to repine at the prosperity of his conceits, which made him pass for a wit with the widow at the coffee-house, and the ordinary mechanics that frequent it ; nor could I myself forbear laughing at them most heartily, though upon examination 1 thought most of them very fiat and insipid. I found, after some time, that the merit of his wit was founded upon the shaking of a fat paunch, and the tossing up of a pair of rosy jowLs. Poor Dick had a fit of sickness, which robbed him of his fat and his fame at once ; and it was full three months before he regained his reputatipn, which rose in proportion to his floridity. He is now very jolly and ingenious, and hath a good constitution for wit. Those who are thus adorned with the gifts of nature, are apt to show their parts with too nmch ostentation. I would therefore advise all the professors of this art never to tell stories but as they seem to grow out of the subject-matter of the conversation, or as they serve to illustrate or enliven it. Stories that are very com- mon are generally irksome ; but may be aptly intro- duceil, provided they be only hinted at and mentioned by way of allusion. Those that are altogether new, should never be ushered in without a short and perti- nent character of the chief persons concerned, because, by that means, you may make the comj)any acquainted with them ; and it is a certain rule, that slight and trivial accounts of those who are familiar to us, ad- minister more mirth than the brightest points of wit in unknown characters. A little circumstance in the complexion or dress of the man you are talking of, sets his image before the hearer, if it be chosen aptly for the story. Thus, I remember Tom Lizard, after having made his sisters meiry with an account of a formal old man's way of complimenting, owned very frankly that his story would not have been worth one farthing, if he had made the hat of hini whom he represented one inch narrower. Besides the marl story, and very thankful that his memory did not fail him, I fiiirly nodded in the zlbow chair. He was much affronted at this, till I Lid him, 'Old friend, you have your infirmity, and I have mine.' But of all evils in story-telling, the humour of tell- ing tales one after another in great numbers, is the least supportable. Sir Harry Pandolf and his son gave my Lady Lizard great oifence in this particular. Sir Harry hath what they call a string of stories, which he tells over every Christmas. When our family visits there, we are constantly, after su iper, entertained with the Glastonburv Thorn. When we have wondered at that a little, 'Ay, but father,' saith the son, ' let us have the Spirit in the Wood.' After that hath been laughed at, ' Ay, but father,' cries the booby again, ' tell us how you served the robber.' ' Alack-a-day,' saith Sir Harry with a smile, and rubbing his fore- head, ' I have almost forgot that, but it is a plea- sant conceit to be. sure.' Accordingly he tells that and twenty more in the same independent order, and without the least variation, at this daj', as he hath done, to my knowledge, ever since the Revolution. I must not forget a very odd compliment that Sir Harry always makes my lady when he dines here. After dinner he says, with a feigned concern in his coun- tenance, ' Madam, I have lost by you to-day.' ' How so. Sir Harry V replies my lady. ' Madam,' says he, ' I have lost an excellent appetite.' At this his son and heir laughs immoderately, and winks upon Mrs Anna- bella. This is the thirty-third time that Sir Harry hath been thus arch, and I can bear it no longer. As the telling of stories is a great help and life to conversation, I always encourage them, if they are pertinent and innocent, in opposition to those gloomy mortals who disdain everything but matter of fact. Those grave fellows are my aversion, who sift every- thing with the utmost nicety, and find the malignity of a lie in a piece of humour pushed a little beyond exact truth. I likewise have a poor opinion of those who have got a trick of keeping a steadv countenance, th.at cock their hats and look glum when a ].leasant* thing is said, and ask, ' Well, and what then !' Men of wit and parts should treat one another with bene- volence ; and I will lay it down as a maxim, that if you seem to have a good opinion of another man's wit, he will allow you to have judgment. Having given these samples of Steele's composi- tion, we now add some of the best of Addison's pieces • — [T/ie Political Ujfhohterer.] There lived some years since, within my neighbour- hood, a very grave person, an ui)ho!sterer, who'seemed a man of more than ordinary ajiplication to business. He was a very early riser, and was often abroad two or three hours before any of his neighbours. He had a particular carefulness in the knitting of his brows, and a kind of impatience in all his motions, that plainly discovered he was always intent on matters of importance. Upon my inquiry into his life and con- versation, I found him to be the greatest newsmonger in our quarter ; that he rose before day to read The Postman ; and that he would take two or three turns to the other end of the to\vn before his neighboure were up, to see if there were any Dutch mails come in. He had a wife and several children ; but was much more inquisitive to know what passed in Poland than in his own family, and was in greater pain and anxiety of mind for King Augustus's welfare than that of his nearest relations. He looked extremely thin in a dearth of news, and never enjoyed himself in a westerly wind. This indefatigable kind of life was the ruin of his shop ; for about the time that his favourite prince left the crown of Poland, he broke and disappeared. This man and his affairs had been long out of mv mind, till about three days ago, as I was walking- iii St James's Park, I heard somebody at a distance hemming after me : and who should it be but my old neighbour the upholsterer ? I saw he was reduced to extreme i)overty, by certain shabby superfluities in his dress ; for notwithstanding that it was a very sultry day for the time of the year, he wore a loose greatcoat and a muff, with a long campaign wi" out of curl ; to which he had added the ornament of a pair of black garters buckled under the knee. TJpon his coming up to me, I was going to inquire into his present circumstances, but was prevented by his asking me, with a whisper, whether the last letters brought any accounts that one might rely upon from Bender 1 I told hiin, none that I heard of; and asked him whether he had yet married his eldest daughter ? He told me no : But pray, says he, tell me sincerely, what are your thoughts of the kin"- of Sweden ? for though his wife and children v.ere starving, I found his chief concern at present was for this great monarch. 1 told him, that I looked upon him as one of the first heroes of the .age. But pray, says he, do you think there is anj-lhing in the story of his wound I And finding me surj)rised at the ques- tion, Nay, says he, I only j)ropose it to you. I an- swered, that I thought there Mas no reason to doubt of it. But why in the heel, says he, more tha^i in any other part of the body? Because, said I, the bullet chanced to light there. This extraordinary dialogue was no sooner ended, but he began to launch out into a long dissertaiion upon the affairs of the north ; and after having spent some time on them, he told me lie was in a great j er- j)lexity how to reconcile tlie Supplement witli the English Post, and Jiad been just now examining what the other papers say upon the same subject. The GOD 40 FROM 1689 CYCLOPiEDIA OF TO 1727. Divily Courant, says he, has these words, We have ad- vices from very good hands, that a certain prince has some matters of great importance under consideration. This is very mysterious ; but the Postboy leaves us more in the dark, for he tells us that there are private in- timations of measures taken by a certain prince, which time ^vill bring to light. Now the Postman, says he, ■who used to be ver}' clear, refers to the same news in these words : The late conduct of a certain prince affords great matter of speculation. This certain prince, says the upholsterer, whom they are all so cautious of naming, I take to be . Upon which, though there was nobody near us, he whispered something in my ear, which I did not hear, or think worthy my while to make him repeat.* We were now got to the upper end of the Mall, where were three or four very odd fellows sitting to- gether upon the bench. These I found were all of them politicians, who used to sun themselves in that place every day about dinner time. Observing them to be curiosities in their kind, and my friend's ac- quaintance, 1 sat down among them. The chief politician of the bench was a great asserter of paradoxes. He told us, with a seeming concern, that by some news he had lately read from ^Muscovy, it appeared to him that there was a storm gathering in the Black Sea, which might in time do hurt to the naval forces of this nation. To this he added, that for his part he could not wish to see the Turk driven out of Europe, which he believed could not but be prejudicial to our woollen manufacture. He then told us, that he looked upon the extraordinary re- volutions which had lately happened in those parts of the world, to have risen chiefly from two persons who were not much talked of ; and those, says he, are Prince MenzikofF and the Duchess of Mirandola. He backed his assertions with so many broken hints, and such a show of depth and wisdom, that we gave our- selves up to his opinions. The discourse at length fell upon a point which seldom escapes a knot of true born Englishmen : Whether, in case of a religious war, the Protestants would not be too strong for the Papists ? This we unanimously determined on the Protestant side. One who sat on my right hand, and, as I found by his dis- course, had been in the West Indies, assured us, that it would be a very easy matter for the Protestants to beat the pope at sea ; and added, that whenever such a war does break out, it must turn to the good of the Leeward Islands. Upon this, one who sat at the end of the bench, and, as I afterwards found, was the geo- grapher of the company, said, that in case the Papists should drive the Protestants from these parts of Europe, when the worst came to the worst, it would be impossible to beat them out of Norway and Green- land, provided the northern crowns hold together, and the Czar of Muscovy stand neuter. He further told us for our comfort, that there were vast tracts of lands about the pole, inhabited neither by Protestants nor Papists, and of greater extent than all the Roman Catholic dominions in Europe. When we had fully discussed this point, my friend the upholsterer began to exert himself upon the pre- sent negotiations of peace, in which he deposed princes, settled the bounds of kingdoms, and balanced the power of Europe, with great justice and impartiality. I at length took my leave of the company, and was going away ; but had not gone thirty yards, before the upholsterer hemmed again after me. Upon his advancing towards me with a whisper, I expected to hear some secret piece of news, which he had not thought fit to communicate to the bench; but instead of that, he desired me in my ear to lend him half-a- ♦ The prince Inre alluded to so mysteriously was the 60-caUed •retender, Jamol Stuart, son of King Jaraes LL crown. In compassion to so needy a statesman, and to dissipate the confusion I found he was in, I told him, if he pleased I would give him five shillings, to receive five pounds of him when the great Turk was driven out of Constantinople ; which he very readily accepted, but not before he had laid down to me the impossibility of such an event, as the affairs of Europe now stand. [The Vision of MirzaJ] When I was at Grand Cairo, I picked up several oriental manuscripts, which I have still by me. Among others I met with one entitled ' The Visions of Mirza,' which I have read over with great pleasure. I intend to give it to the public when I have no other enter- tainment for them, and shall begin with the first vision, which I have translated word for word as fol- lows : — On the 5th day of the moon, which, according to the custom of my forefathers, I always keep holy, after having washed m3'self, and offered up my morn- ing devotions, I ascended the high hills of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer. As I was here airing myself on the tops of the mountains, I fell into a profound contemplation on the vanity of human life ; and passing from one thought to another, Surely, said I, man is but a sha- dow, and life a dream. Whilst I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the summit of a rock that was not far from me, where I discovered one in the habit of a shepherd, with a little musical instrument in his hand. As I looked upon him, he applied it to his lips, and began to play upon it. The sound of it was exceedingly sweet, and wrought into a variety of tunes that were inexpressibly melodious, and alto- gether different from anything I had ever heard. They put me in mind of those heavenly airs that are played to the departed souls of good men upon their tirst arrival in paradise, to wear out the im{)ressions of tlie last agonies, and qualify them for the pleasures of that happy place. ^ly heart melted away in secret raptures. I had been often told that the rock before me was the haunt of a genius, and that several had been en- tertained with music who had passed by it, but never heard that the musician had before made himself visible. When he had raised my thoughts by those transporting airs which he played, to taste the plea- sures of his conversation, as I looked upon him like one astonished, he beckoned to me, and by the waving of his hand, directed me to approach the place where he sat. I drew near with that reverence which is due to a superior nature ; and as my heart was entirely subdued by the captivating strains I had heard, I fell down at his feet and wept. The genius smiled upon me witli a look of compassion and affability that fami- liarised him to my imagination, and at once dis- pelled all the fears and apprehensions with which I approached him. He lifted me from the ground, and taking me by the hand, ' Mirza,' said he, * I have heard thee in thy soliloquies ; follow me.' He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and placing me on the top of it, ' Cast thine eyes e:ist- ward,' said he, ' and tell me what thou seest.' ' I see,' said I, ' a huge valley, and a prodigious tide of water rolling through it.' ' The valley that thou seest,' said he, ' is the vale of misery, and the tide of water that thou seest is part of the great tide of eternity.' ' What is the reason,' said I, ' that the tide I see rises out of a thick mist at one end, and again loses itself in a thick mist at the other ?' ' What thou seest,' said he, ' is that portion of eternity which is called Time, measured out by the sun, and reaching from the beginning of tlie world to its consummaiioii. Examine now,' said he, ' this 610 ENGLISH LITERATURE. sea that is bounded with darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in it.' 'I see a bridge,' said I, ' standing in the midst of the tide' * The bridge thou seest,' said he, ' is Human Life ; consider it attentively.' Upon a more leisurely sur- vey of it, I found that it consisted of threescore and ten entire arches, with several broken arches, which, added to those that were entire, made up the number to about a hundred. As I was counting the arches, the genius told me that this bridge consisted at first of a thousand arches, but that a great flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous condition I now beheld it. ' But tell me further,' said he, ' what thou discoverest on it.' ' I see multitudes of people passing over it,' said I, ' and a black clouyant leisure, opportunity, or faculties, to derive conclusions from their principles, and establish morality on a foundation of human science. True it is (as St Paul observes) that the ' invisible things of God, from the creation of the world, are clearly seen ;' and from thence the duties of natural religion may be dis- covered. But these things are seen and discovered by those alone who open their eyes and look narrowly for them. Now, if you look throughout the world, you shall find but few of these narrow inspectors and inquirers, very few who mako it their business to analyse opinions, and pursue them to their rational source, to examine whence truths spring, and how they are inferred. In short, you shall find all men full of opinions, but knowledge only in a few. It is impossible, from the nature and circumstances of human kind, that the multitude should be philo- sophers, or that they should know things in their causes. We see every day that the rules, or conclu- sions alone, are sufficient for the shopkeeper to state his account, the sailor to navigate his ship, or the carpenter to measure his timber ; none of which un- derstand the theory, that is to say, the grounds and reasons either of arithmetic or geometry. Even so in moral, political, and religious matters, it is manifest that the rules and opinions early imbibed at the first dawn of understanding, and without the least glimpse of science, may yet produce excellent effects, and be Tery useful to the world ; and that, in fact, they are so, will be very visible to every one who shall observe what passeth round about him. It may not be amiss to inculcate, that the differ- ence between prejudices and other opinions doth not consist in this, that the former are false and the lat- ter true ; but in this, that the former are taken upon trust, and the latter acquired by reasoning. He who hath been taught to believe the immortality of tlie soul, may be as right in his notion as he who hath reasoned himself into that opinion. It will then by no means follow, that because this or that notion is a prejudice, it must be therefore false. The not distin- guishing between prejudices and errors is a prevailing oversight among our modern free-thinkers. There may be, indeed, certain mere prejudices or opinions, which, having no reasons either assigned or assignable to support them, are nevertheless enter- tained by the mind, because they are intruded be- times into it. Such may be supposed false, not be- cause they were early learned, or learned without their reasons, but because there are in truth no rea- sons to be given for them. Cerfainly if a notion may be concluded false be- cause it was early imbibed, or because it is with most men an object of belief rather than of knowledge, one may by the same reasoning conclude several proposi- tions of Euclid to be false. A simple apprehension of conclusions, as taken in themselves, without the deductions of science, is what falls to the share of mankind in general. Religious awe, the precepts of parents and masters, the wisdom of legislators, and the accumulated experience of ages, supply the place of proofs and reasonings with the vulgar of all ranks ; I would say that discipline, national conetitution, and laws human or Divine, are so many plain land- marks which guide them into the paths wherein it is presumed they ought to tread. [From ' Maxiras Concerning Patr{otism,.''\ A man who hath no sense of Cut:] cr conscience, would you make such a one guardian to your child? If not, why guardian to the state? A fop, or man of pleasure, makes but a scurvy patriot. He who says there is no such thing as an honest man, you may be sure is himself a knave. The patriot aims at his private good in the public. The knave makes the public subservient to his private interest. Tlie former considers himself as part of a whole, the latter considers himself as the whole. Moral evil is never to be committed ; physical evil may be incurred either to avoid a greater evil, or to procure a good. When the heart is right, there is true patriotism. The fawning courtier and the surly squire oftea mean the same thing — each his own interest. Ferments of the worst kind succeed to perfect in- action. HISTORICAL, CRITICAL, AND THEOLOGICAL AVRITERS. In these departments we have no very distin- guished names, unless it be tiiat of Bentley as a classical critic. LAWRENCE ECHARD. Lawrence Echard (1671-1730) was a volumi- nous writer and historian. After receiving educa- tion at the university of Cambridge, he entered into orders, and obtained the livings of Welton and Elk- ington in Lincolnshire. In 1712 he was preferred to the archdeaconry of Stowe, and became also a pre- bendary in the cathedral of Lincoln. His leisure was devoted to liistorical pursuits, and he published a History of England, a General Ecclesiastical Historp, a Histon/ of Home, a General Gazetteer, &c. His History of England was attacked by Calamy and Oldniixon ; but it long maintained its ground ; and his Ecclesiastical History has been often reprinted. Without aiming at philosojihical analysis or inves- tigation, Echard was a careful compiler, with com- petent learning and judgment. JOHN strype. John Strype (1643-1737) was a laboriou.- collec- tor and literary antiquary. His works afford ample illustrations of ecclesiastical history and biography at periods of strong national interest and importance, and they are now reckoned among the most valu- able of our standard memorials. The writings of Strype consist of a Life of Archbi.Jiop Cranmer (1694), a Life of Sir Thomas Smith (1698), a Life of Bishop Aylmer (1701), a Life of Sir John Chehe (1705), Annals of the Beformatioji, four volumes (1709-31), a Life of Archbishop Grindal {\710). Life and Letters (f Archbishop Purher (1711), Life of Archbishop Whitgft (1718), Ecclesiastical Memorials, three volumes (1721). He also edited Stow's Sur- vey of London, and part of Dr Lightfoot's works. Strype was the son of a foreign refugee, John Van Stryp, a native of Brabant, who fled to England on account of his religion, and followed tlie business of a silk merchant. The son received a classical edu- cation at Cambridge, and entering into holy orders, became successively curate of Theydon-Boys, in Esse.K, preacher in Low Leyton, rector of Terring, in Sussex, and lecturer at Hackney. He resigned his clerical cliarges in 1724, and frcnn this time till his death, which happened in liis ninety-fourth year, he resided at Hackney with Mr Harris, an apothe cary, wlio was married to his granddaughter. Faith- ful and laborious, Strj-pe was highly respected by the dignitaries of the chiircli of Kn.Ljhind. A correct and elegant reprint of his works has proceeded from the Clarendon press at Oxford. 659 FROM 1689 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 172>. POTTER AND KENNETT. Dr Potter (1674-1747), archbishop of Canter- bury, is known as autlior of a valuable work on the antiquities of Greece, in two volumes octavo. The researches of modern philologists, especially among the Germans, have greatly enriched this department of literature ; but Potter led the way. and supplied a groundwork for future scholars. He also edited the writings of Lycophron, and wrote several theo- logical treatises and discourses on church govern- ment, which were collected and printed at Oxford in 1753, in three volumes. With the learning of the English hierarchj', Dr Potter is said to have united too much of the.pomp and pride Avhich occa- sionally mark its dignitaries ; and it is related that he disinherited his son for marrying below his rank in life. BasilKennett (1674-1714) performed for Roman antiquities what Archbishop Potter did for Grecian. His liorncB AntiqucB Notitia, or the Antiquities of Rome, in one volume octavo, was a respectable con- tribution to historical literature, and for nearly a century held its place as the standard work upon the subject. It was then partly superseded' by the Roman Antiquities of Dr Adam; but recent times have seen both thrown into tlie background, in consequence of the vast additions which have been made to our knowledge of ancient Rome, its people, and their institutions, chiefly by German scholars, and partly by the investigations at Pom- peii and Herculaneum. Kennett was educated at Corpus Christi college, Oxford, and became chap- lain to the English factory at Leghorn, where he was in danger from the Inquisition. He was greatly esteemed by his contemporaries for his learning, piety, and modesty. Besides his Roman Antiqui- ties, he wrote Lives of the Grecian Poets, an Exposi- tion of the Creed, and a collection of sermons. RICHARD BENTLEY. Dr Richard Bentley (1662-1742) was perhaps the greatest classical scholar that England has pro- duced. He was educated at Cambridge, and became chaplain to Stillingfleet, bishop of Worcester. He was afterwards appointed preacher of the lecture instituted by Boyle for the defence of Christianity, and delivered a series of discourses against atheism. In these Bentley introduced the discoveries of New- ton as illustrations of his argument, and the lec- tures were highly popular. His next public ap- pearance was in the famous controversy with the Honourable Charles Boyle, Earl of Orrery, rela- tive to the genuineness of the Greek epistles of Phalaris. This controversy we have already spoken of in our section on Sir William Temple. ]\Iost of the wits and scholars of that period joined with Boyle against Bentley ; but he triumphantly esta- blished his position that the epistles are spurious, while the poignancy of his wit and sarcasm, and the sagacity evinced in his conjectural emendations, ■were unequalled among his Oxford opponents. Bentley was afterwards made master of Trinity college, Cambridge; and in 1716 he was also ap- pointed regius professor of divinity. His next literary performances were an edition of Horace, and editions of Terence and Phasdrus. The talent he had displayed in making emendations on the classics, tempted him, in an 'evil hour,' to edit Milton's Paradise Lost in the same spirit. The critic was then advanced in years, and had lost some portion of his critical sagacity and discernment, while it is doubtful if he could ever have entered into the loftier conceptions and sublime flights of the English poet. His edition was a decided failure. Bentley's Seat, in Trinity College Chapel. Some of his emendations destroy the happiest and choicest expressions of the poet. The sublime line, ' No light, but rather darkness visible,' Bentley renders, ' No light, but rather a transpicuous glooiu.' Another fine Miltonic passage — ' Our torments also may in length of time Become our elements,' is reduced into prose as follows : — ' Then, as 'twas well observed, our torments may Become our elements.' Such a critic could never have possessed poetical sensibility, however extensive and minute might be his verbal knowledge of the classics. Bentley died at Cambridge in 1742. He seems to have been the impersonation of a combative spirit. His college life was spent in continual war with all who were offi- cially connected with him. He is said one day, on finding his son reading a novel, to have remarked — ' Why read a book that you cannot quote ?' — a saying which aflTords an amusing illustration of the nature and object of his literary studies. [Authority of Reason in JReliffious Matters.'] We profess ourselves as much concerned, and aa truly as [the deists] themselves are, for the use and authority of reason in controversies of faith. We look upon right reason as the native lamp of the soul, placed and kindled there by our Creator, to conduct us in the whole course of our judgments and actions. True reason, like its divine Author, never is its'df deceived, nor ever deceives any man. Even revela- tion itself is not shy nor unwilling to ascribe its own ceo THEOLOGICAL WRITERS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. DR FRANCIS ATTERBURT. first credit and fundamental authority to the test and testimony of reason. Sound reason is the touchstone to distinguish that pure and genuine gold from baser metals ; revelation truly divine, from imposture and enthusiasm : so that the Christian religion is so far from declining or fearing the strictest trials of reason, that it everywhere appeals to it ; is defended and supported by it ; and indeed cannot continue, in the Apostle's description ("James i. 27), 'pure and unde- filed' without it. It is the benefit of reason alone, under the Providence and Spirit of God, that we our- selves are at this day a reformed orthodox church : that we departed from the errors of poperj', and that we knew, too, where to stop ; neither running into the extravagances of fanaticism, nor sliding into the in- difFerency of libertinism. Whatsoever, therefore, is inconsistent with natural reason, can never be justly imposed as an article of faith. That the same bod}' is in many places at once, that plain bread is not bread ; such things, though they be said with never so much pomp and claim to infallibility, we have still greater authority to reject them, as being con- trary to common sense and our natural faculties ; as subverting the foundations of all faith, even the grounds of their own credit, and all the principles of civil life. So far are we from contending with our adversaries about the dignity and authority of reason ; but then we differ with them about the exercise of it, and the extent of its province. For the deists there stop, and set bounds to tlieir faith, where reason, their only guide, does not lead th<^ waj' further, and walk along before them. We, on the contrary, as (Deut. xsxiv.) Moses wa,s shown by divine power a true sight of the promised land, though himself could not pass over to it, so we think reason may receive from revelation some further discoveries and new prospects of things, and be fully convinced of the reality of them ; though itself cannot pass on, nor travel those regions ; cannot penetrate the fund of those truths, nor advance to the utmost bounds of them. For there is certainly a wide difference between what is contrary to reason, and what is superior to it, and out of its reach. DR FRANCIS ATTERB17RY. Dr Fr.\kcis Atterbury (1662-1731), .in Oxford divine and zealous high churchman, was one of the combatants in the critical warfare with Bentley about the epistles of Phalaris. Originally tutor to Lord Orrery, he was, in 1713, rewarded for his Tory zeal by being named Bishop of Rochester. Under the new dynasty and Whig government, his zeal carried him into treasonable practices, and, in 1722, he was apprehended on suspicion of being concerned in a plot to restore the Pretender, and was committed to the Tower. A bill of pains and penalties was preferred against him, and he was deposed and outlawed. Atterbury now went into exile, and resided first at Brussels and afterwards at Paris, continuing to correspond with Pope, Boling- broke, and his other Jacobite friends, till his death. The works of this accomplished, but restless and aspiring prelate, consist of four volumes of sermons, Bome visitation charges, and his epistolary corre- spondence, which was extensive. His style is easy and elegant, and he was a very impressive preacher. The good taste of Atterbury is seen in his admira- tion of Milton, before fashion had sanctioned the applause of the great poet. His letters to Pope breathe the utmost affection and tenderness. The following farewell letter to the poet was sent from the Tower, April 10, 1723:— 'Dear Sir — I thank you for all the instances of your friendship, both before and since my misfor- tunes. A little time will complete them, and sepa- rate you and me for ever. But in wliat part of the world soever I am, I will live mindful of your sincere kindness to me; and will please myself with the thought that I still live in your esteem and affection as much as ever I did ; and that no accident of life, no distance of time or place, will alter 3-ou in that respect. It never can me, who liave loved and valued }ou ever since I knew you, and shall not fail to do it when I am not allowed to tell you so, as the case will soon be. Give my faithful services to Dr Ar- buthnot, and thanks for what he sent me, wliich was inucli to tlie purpose, if anything can be said to be to the purpose in a case that is already determined. Let him know my defence will be sucli, that neither my friends need blush for me, nor will my enemies have great occasion to triumpli, though sure of the victory. I shall want his advice before I go abroai in many things. But I question whether I shall be permitted to see him or anybody, but such as are absolutely necessary towards the despatch of my private affairs. If so, God bless you both ! and may no part of the ill fortune that attends me ever pur- sue either of you. I know not but I may call upon you at my hearing, to say somewhat about my way of spending my time at the deanery, which did not seem calculated towards managing plots and conspi- racies. But of that I shall consider. You and I havfe spent many hours together upon much pleasanter subjects ; and, that I may preserve the old custom, I shall not part with you now till I have closed this letter with three lines of Milton, Miiich you wiU, I know, readily, and not without some degree of con- cern, apply to your ever affectionate, &c. Some natural tears he dropped, but wiped them soon J The world was all before him where to choose His place of rest, and Providence his guide.' \_Usef Illness of Church Mmic.'] The use of vocal and instrumental harmony in divine worship I shall recommend and justify from this consideration : that they do, wlien wisely em- ployed and managed, contribute extremely to awaken the attention and enliven the devotion of all serious and sincere Christians ; and their usefulness to this end will appear on a double account, as they remove the ordinary hindrances of devotion, and as they supply us further with sjjeclal helps and advantages towards quickening and improving it. By the melodious harmony of the church, the ordi- nary hindrances of devotion are removed, particu- larly these three ; that engagement of thought which we often bring with us into the church from what we last converse with ; those accidental distractions that may happen to us during the course of divine serv-ice; and that weariness and flatness of mind which s^me weak tempers may labour under, by reason even of the length of it. When we come into the sanctuary immediately from any worldly affair, as our very condition of life does, alas ! force many of us to do, we come usually with divided and alienated minds. The business, the pleasure, or the amusement we left, sticks f.ist to us, and perhaps engrosses that heart for a time, which should then be taken up altogether in spiritual addresses. But as soon as the sound of the sacred hymns strikes us, all that busy swarm of thoughts presently disperses: by a grateful violence we are forced into the duty that is going forward, and, as indevout and backward as we were before, find our- selves on the sudden seized with a sacred warmth, ready to cry out, with holy David, ' My heart is fixed, God, my heart is fixed ; I will sing and give praise.' Our misapplication of mind at such times is often so great, and we so deeply immersed 661 FROM 1689 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 1727 in it, that there needs some verj' strong and powerful charm to rouse us from it ; and perhaps nothing is of greater force to this purpose than the solemn and awakening airs of church music. For the same reason, those accidental distractions that may happen to us are also best cured by it. The strongest minds, and best practised in holy duties, may sometimes be surprised into a forgetfulness of what they are about by some violent outward im- pressions ; and every slight occasion will serve to call off the thoughts of no less willing though much weaker worshippers. Those that come to see, and to be seen here, will often gain their point ; will draw and detain for awhile the eyes of the curious and unwary. A passage in the sacred story read, an expression used in the common forms of devotion, shall raise a foreign reflection, perhaps, in musing and speculative minds, and lead them on from thought to thought, and point to point, till they are bewildered in their own imagi- nations. These, and a hundred other avocations, will arise and prevail ; but when the instruments of praise begin to sound, our scattered thoughts pre- sently take the alarm, return to their post and to their duty, preparing and arming themselves against their spiritual assailants. Lastly, even the length of the service itself becomes a hindrance sometimes to the devotion which it was meant to feed and raise ; for, alas ! we quickly tire in the performance of holy duties ; and as eager and unwearied as we are in attending upon secular business and trifling concerns, yet in divine oflSces, I fear, the expostulation of our Saviour is applicable to most of us, ' \\'hat ! can ye not watch with me one hour!' Tills infirmity is relieved, this hindrance prevented or removed, by the sweet har- mony that accompanies several parts of the service, and returning upon us at lit intervals, keeps our at- tention up to the duties when we begin to flag, and makes us insensible of the length of it. Happily, therefore, and wisely is it so ordered, that the morn- ing devotions of the church, which are much the longest, should share also a greater proportion of the harmony which is useful to enliven them. But its use stops not here, at a bare removal of the ordinary impediments to devotion ; it supplies us also with special helps and advantages towards furthering and improving it. For it adds dignity and solemnity to public worship ; it sweetly influences and raises our passions whilst we assist at it, and makes us do our duty with the greatest pleasure and cheerfulness ; all which are very proper and powerful means towards creating in us that holy attention and erection of mind, the most reasonable part of this our reasonable service. Such is our nature, that even the best things, and most worthy of our esteem, do not always employ and detain our thoughts in proportion to their real value, unless they be set otf and greatened by some outward circumstances, which are fitted to raise admiration and surprise in the breasts of those who hear or behold them. And this good effect is wrought in us by the power of eacred music. To it we, in good measure, owe the dignity and solemnity of our public worship ; which else, I fear, in its natural simplicity and plainness, would not so strongly strike, or so deeply aflPect the minds, as it ought to do, of the slug- gish and inattentive, that is, of the far greatest part of mankind. But when voice and instruments are skilfully adapted to it, it appears to us in a majestic air and shape, and gives us very awful and reverent impressions, which while they are upon us, it is im- possible for us not to be fixed and composed to the utmost. We are then in the same state of mind that the devout patriarch was when he awoke from his holy dream, and ready with him to say to ourselves, ' Surely the Lord is in this place, aud I knew it not ! How dreadful is this place ! This is none other but the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.' Further, the availableness of hivrmony to promote a pious disposition of mind will appear from the great influence it naturally has on the passions, which, when well directed, are the wings and sails of the mind, that speed its passage to perfection, and are of particular and remarkable use in the offices of devo- tion ; for devotion consists in an ascent of the mind towards God, attended with holy breathings of soul, and a divine exercise of all the passions and powers of the mind. These passions the melody of sounds serves only to guide and elevate towards their proper object ; these it first calls forth and encourages, and then gradually raises and inflames. This it does to all of them, as the matter of the hymns sung gives an occasion for the employment of them ; but the power of it is cMefly seen in advancing that most heavenly passion of love, which reigns always in pious breasts, and is the surest and most inseparable mark of true devotion ; which recommends what we do in virtue of it to God, and makes it relishing to ourselves ; and without which all our spiritual offerings, our prayers, and our praises, are both insipid and unacceptable. At this our religion begins, and at this it ends ; it is the sweetest companion and improvement of it here upon earth, and the very earnest and foretaste of heaven ; of the pleasures of which nothing further is revealed to us, than that they consist in the practice of holy music and holy love, the joint enjoyment of which, we are told, is to be the happy lot of all pious souls to endless ages. Now, it naturally follows from hence, which was the last advantage from whence I proposed to recommend church music, that it makes our duty a pleasure, and enables us, by that means, to perform it with the utmost vigour and cheerfulness. It is certain, that the more pleasing an action is to us, the more keenly and eagerly are we used to employ ourselves in it ; the less liable are we, while it is going forward, to tire, and droop, and be dispirited. So that whatever contributes to make our devotion taking, within such a degree as not at the same time to dissipate and dis- tract it, does, for that very reason, contribute to our attention and holy warmth of mind in performing it. What we take delight in, we no longer look upon as a task, but return to always with desire, dwell upon with satisfaction, and quit with uneasiness. And this it was which made holy David express himself in so pathetical a manner concerning the service of the sanctuary: 'As the hart panteth after the water- brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, God. When, oh when, shall I come to appear before the presence of God r The ancients do sometimes use the metaphor of an army when they are speaking of the joint devo- tions put up to God in the assembly of his saints. They say we there meet together in troops to do vio- lence to heaven ; we encompass, we besiege the throne of God, and bring such a united force, as is not to be withstood. And I suppose we may as innocently carry on the metaphor as they have begun it, and say, that church music, when decently ordered, may have as great uses in this army of supplicants, as the sound of the trumpet has among the host of the mighty men. It equally rouses the courage, equally gives life, and vigour, and resolution, and unani- mity, to these holy assailants. DB SAMUEL CLARKE. Dr Samuel Clarke, a distinguished divine, scholar, and metaphysician, was born at Norwich (whicli his father represented in parliament) on the 11th of October, 1675. His powers of reflection and abstraction are said to have been developed when a mere boy. His biographer, Winston, relntes 662 THEOLOGICAL WRITF.RS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. DR SAMUEL CLARK.S. that 'one of his parents asked him, when he was yery J'oung, Whether God could do every thinij? He answered, Yes ! He was asked again, 'Whether God could tell a lie? He answered, No ! And he understood the question to suppose tliat tliis was the only thing that God could not do; nor durst he say, so young was he then, that he thought there wiis anything else which God could not do ; while yet he well rememhered, that he had even then a clear conviction in his own mind, that there was one thing which God could not do — that he could not annihilate that space v.liieh was in the room where they were.' This opinion concerning the necessary existence of space hecanie a leading feature in the mind of the future philosopher. At Caius' college, Cambridge, Clarke cultivated natural philosophy with such success, that in his twenty-second year he published an excellent translation of Hohault's Physics, with notes, in which he advocated the Newtonian system, although that of Descartes was taught by Rohault, wliose work was at that time the text-book in tlie university. ' And this certainh',' says Bishop Iloadly, ' was a more prudent method of introducing trutli imknown before, than to at- tempt to throw aside tliis treatise entirely, and write a new one instead of it. The success answered exceedingly well to his hopes ; and he may justly be styled a great benefactor to the university in this attempt. For by this means the true philosojihy has, without any noise, prevailed ; and to tliis day the translation of Rohault is, generally speaking, the standard text for lectures, and his notes the first direction to those who are willing to receive the reality and truth of things in the place of inven- tion and romance.' Four editions of Clarke's trans- lation of Rohault were required before it ceased to be used in the university ; but at length it was superseded by treatises in which the Newtonian philosophy was avowedly adopted. Having entered the church, Clarke found a patron and friend in I)r Moore, bishop of Norwich, and was appointed his chaplain. Between the years 1699 and 1702, he published several theological essays on baptism, repentance, &c., and executed paraphrases of the four evangelists, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. These tracts were afterwards published in two volumes. The bishop next gave him a living at Norwich ; and his reputation stood so high, that in 1704 he was appointed to preach the Boyle lecture. His boyish musings on eternity and space were now revived. He selected as the subject of his first course of lectures, the Being and AUrilmtes of God ; and the second year he chose the Evidences of Natural and Revealed Religion. The lectures were published in two volumes, and attracted notice and controversy, from their containing Clarke's cele- brated, argument a priori for the existence of God, the germ of which is comprised in a Scholium an- nexed to Newton's Principia. According to Sir Isaac and his scholar, as immensity and eternity are not substances, but attributes, the immense and eternal Being, whose attributes they are, must exist of necessity also. The existence of God, therefore, is a truth that follows with demonstrative evidence from those conceptions of space and time which are inse- parable from the human mind. Professor Dugald Stewart, though considering that Clarke, in pursu- ing this lofty argument, soared into regions where he was lost in the clouds, admits the grandncss of the conception, and its connexion with the prin- ciples of natural religion. ' For when once we have established, from the evidences of design everywhere manifested around us, the existence of an intelligent ftnd powerful cnuse, we are unavoidably led to ajjply to tills cause our conceptions of immensity and etei'ity. and to conceive Him as filling the infinite extent of both with his presence and with his power. Hence we associate with the idea of God those awful im- pressions which are naturally produced by tlie idea of infinite sj)ace, and jierhaps still more by the idea of endless duration. Nor is this all. It is from the innnensity of space that the notion of infinity is originally derived ; and it is hence that we transfer the expression, by a sort of metaphor, to other sub- jects. When we speak, therefore, of infinite power, wisdom, and goodness, our notions, if not wholly borrowed from space, are at least greatly aided by this analogy ; so that the conceptions of immensity and eternity, if they do not of themselves demon- strate tlie existence of God, yet necessarily enter into the ideas we form of his nature and attributes.'* How beautifullj' has Pope clothed this magnificent conception in verse ! — ' All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose body nature is, and God the sold ; That, changed tlirough all, and yet in all the same ; Great in the earth as in the ethereal frame ; Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, Glows in the stars, and hlossonis in the trees; Lives through all life, extends through all extent, Spreads undivided, operates unspent.' f The followers of Sjiinoza built their pernicious theory upon the same argument of endless space; but Pope has spiritualised the idea by placing God as the soul of all, and Clarke's express object was to show that the subtleties they had advanced against religion, might he better emjiloyed in its favour. Such a mode of argument, however, is beyond the faculties of man ; and Winston only repeated a com- mon and obvious truth, when he told Clarke that in the commonest weed in his garden were contained better arguments for the being and attributes of the Deity than in all his metaphysics. The next subject that engaged the studies of Clarke was a Defence of the Immateriality and Immor- tality of the Soul, in reply to Mr Henry Dodwell and Collins. He also translated Newton's Ojitics into Latin, and was rewarded by his guide, philosopher, and friend, with a present of L.. 500. In 1709 he ob- tained the rectory of St James's, Westminster, took his degree of D.D., and was made chajilain in ordi- nary to the queen. In 1712 he edited a splendid edition of Crosar's Commentaries, with corrections and emendations, and also gave to the world an ela- borate treatise on the Scrij)ture iJoctrine of the Tri- nity. The latter involved him in considerable trouble with the church authorities; for Clarke espoused the Arian doctrine, wliieh he also advocated in a series of sermons. He next appeared as a controversialist with Leibnitz, the German philosopher, who had represented to the Princess of Wales, afterwards the queen consort of George If., that the Newtonian philosophy was not only physically false, but inju- rious to religion. Sir Isaac Newton, at the request of the princess, entered the lists on the mathemati- cal part of the controversy, and left the philosophi- cal part of it to Dr Clarke. The result was trium- phant for the English system ; and Clarke, in 1717, collected and published the jiajiers which had [mssed between him and Leibnitz. In 1724, he put to jness a series of sermons, seventeen in number. Many of them are excellent, but others are tinctured with his metajihysical jirodilections. He aimed at ren- dering scriptural jirinciple a iireci'pt conformabh> to what he calls eternal reason and the fitness of things, and hence his sermons have failed in becoming popu- * Stewart's Dissertation, Encyclopiudia Britanuioa. t Essay on Man. — Kp. I. 663 FROM 1689 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 172/ lar or useful. ' He wlio aspires,' says Robert Hall, ' to a reputation that shall survive the vicissitudes of opinion and of time, must aim at some other cha- racter than that of a metaphysician.' In his prac- tical sermons, however, there is much sound and admirable precept. In 1727, Dr Clarke was offered, but declined, the appointment of Master of the ISIint, vacant by the death of his illustrious friend, Newton. The situation was worth £1500 a-year, and the dis- interestedness and integrity of Clarke were strik- ingly evinced by his declining to accept an office of Buch honour and emoluments, because he could not reconcile himself to a secular employment. His conduct and character must liave excited the admi- ration of the queen, for we learn from a satirical allusion in Pope's Moral Epistle on the Use of Riches (first published in 1731), that her majesty had placed a bust of Dr Clarke in her hermitage in the royal grounds. ' The doctor duly frequented the court,' saj-s Pope in a note ; ' but he should have added,' rejoins Warburton, ' with the inno- cence and disinterestedness of a hermit.' In 1729, Clarke published the first twelve books of the Iliad, with a Latin version and copious annotations ; and Homer has never had a more judicious or acute commentator. The last literary efforts of this inde- fatigable scholar were devoted to drawing up an Exposition of the Church Catechism, and preparing several volumes of sermons for the press. These were not published till after his death, which took place on the 17th of May 1729. The various talents and learning of Dr Clarke, and his easy cheerful disposition, earned for him the highest admiration and esteem of his contemporaries. As a metaphy- Bician, he was inferior to Locke in comprehensive- ness and originality, but possessed more skill and logical foresight (the natural result of his habits of mathematical study); and he has been justly celebrated for the baldness and ability with which he placed himself in the breach against the Neces- sitarians and Fatalists of his times. His moral doctrine (which supposes virtue to consist in the regulation of our conduct according to certain fit- nesses which we perceive in things, or a peculiar congruity of certain relations to each other) being inconsequential unless we have previously distin- guished the ends which are morally good from those that are evil, and limited the conformity to one of these classes, has been condemned by Dr Thomas Brown and Sir James Mackintosh.* His specula- tions were over-refined, and seem to have been co- loured by his fondness for mathematical studies, in forgetfulness that mental philosophy cannot, like physical, be demonstrated by a.xioms and definitions m the manner of the exact sciences. On the whole, we may say, in the emphatic language of IMackin- * See Brow-n's Philosophy and the Dissertations of Stewart and Mackintosh. Warburton, in his notes on Pope, thus sums up the moral doctrine : ' Dr Clarke and WoUaston considered moral obligation as arising from the essential difTerences and relations of things ; Shaftesbury iind Ilutcheson, as arising from the moral sense ; and the generality of divines, as arising solely from the will of God. On these three principles practi- cal morality has been built by tliese different writers." ' Thus has God been pleased,' adds Warburton, ' to give three differ- ent excitements to the practice of virtue ; that men of all ranks, constitutions, and educations, might find their account in one or other of them; something tliat would hit their palate, satisfy their reason, or subdue their will. But this admirable provision for the support of virtue hath been in some measure defeated by its pretended advocates, who iiave sacrilegiously untwisted this threefold cord, and each running away with the part he esteemed the strongest, hath affixed that to the tLrone of God, as the golden chain that is to unite and draw all Jo it.'^Divine Legation, book L tosh, that Dr Clarke was a man 'eminent at once as a divine, a mathematician, a metajihysical ])hilo- sopher, and a j)hik)loger ; and, as the interpreter of Homer and Cfesar, the scholar of Newton, and the antagonist of Leibnitz, approved himself not unworthy of correspondence with the highest order of human spirits.' [Natural and Essential Difference of Right and WrongJ] The principal thing that can, with any colour of reason, seem to countenance the opinion of those who deny the natural and eternal difference of good and evil, is the difficulty there may sometimes he to de- fine exactly the bounds of right and wrong ; the variety of opinions that have obtained even among understanding and learned men, concerning certain questions of just and unjust, especially in political matters ; and the many contrary laws that have been made in divers ages and in different countries con- cerning these matters. But as, in painting, two very different colours, by diluting each other very slowly and gradually, may, from the highest intenseness in either extreme, terminate in the midst insensibly, and so run one into the other, that it shall not be possible even for a skilful eye to determine exactly where the one ends and the other begins ; and yet the colours may really differ as much as can be, not in degree only, but entirely in kind, as red and blue, or white and black : so, though it may perhaps be very difficult in some nice and perplexed cases (which yet are very far from oc- curring frequently) to define exactly the bounds of right and wrong, just and unjust (and there may be some latitude in thejudgment of different men, and the laws of divers nations), yet right and wrong are never- theless in themselves totally and essentially different ; even altogether as much as white and black, light and darkness. The Spartan law, perhaps, which permitted their youth to steal, may, as absurd as it was, bear much dispute whether it was absolutely unjust or no, because every man, having an absolute right in his own goods, it may seem that the members of any society may agree to transfer or alter their own pro- perties upon what conditions they shall think fit. But if it could be supposed that a law had been made at Sparta, or at Rome, or in India, or in any other part of the world, whereby it had been commanded or allowed that every man might rob by violence, and murder whomsoever he met with, or that no faith should be kept with any man, nor any equitable com- pacts performed, no man, with any tolerable use of his reason, whatever diversity of judgment might be among them in other matters, would have thought that such a law could have authorised or excused, much less have justified such actions, and have made them become good : because 'tis plainly not in men's power to make falsehood be truth, though they may alter the property of their goods as they please. Now if, in flagrant cases, the natural and essential differ- ence between good and evil, right and wrong, cannot but be confessed to be plainly and undeniably evident, the difference between them must be also essential and unalterable in all, even the smallest, and nicest and most intricate cases, though it be not so easy to be discerned and accurately distinguished. For if, from the difficulty of determining exactly the bounds of right and wrong in many perplexed cases, it could truly be concluded that just and unjust were not essentially different by nature, but only by positive constitution and custom, it would follow equally, that they were not really, essentially, and unalterably different, even iu the most flagrant cases that can be supposed ; which is an assertion so very absurd, that Mr llobbcs himself could hardly vent it without blushing, and discovering plainly, by his shifting expressioi\s, his secret self-condemnation. There are therefore certain 664 i THEOLOGICAL WRITERS. ENGLISH LITP:RATURE. DR BENJAMIN HOADLT. necessary and eternal dift'erences of things, and cer- tain fitnesses or unfitnesses of the application of dif- ferent things, or different relations one to another, not depending on any positive constitutions, but founded unchangeably in the nature and reason of things, and unavoidably arising from the differences of the things themselves. DR "WILLIAM LOWTH. Dr "William Lowth (1661-1732) was distin- guished for his classical and theological attainments, and the liberality with which he conununicated his stores to others. He publislied a Vindication of the Divine Authority and Inspiration of the Ohl and Netv j Testaments (1692), Directions for the Profitable JRcad- I ing of the Holy Scriptures, Commentaries on the Pro- \ phets, &c. He furnished notes on Clemens Alex- I andriiius for Potter's edition of that ancient autlior, remarks on Josephus for Hudson's edition, and an- notations on the ecclesiastical historians for Ilead- I ing's Cambridge edition of those authors. He also j assisted Dr Chandler in his Defence of Christianity ] from the Prophecies. His learning is said to have I been equally extensive and profound, and he accom- panied all his reading with critical and philological remarks. Born in London, Dr Lowth took his de- grees at Oxford, and experiencing the countenance and supjiort of the bishop of Winchester, became the chaplain of that prelate, a prebend of the cathedral of Winchester, and rector of Buriton. DR BENJAMIN HOADLY. Dr Benjamin Hoadly, successively bishop of Bangor, Hereford, Salisbury, and Wincliester, was a prelate of great controversial ability, who threw the weight of his talents and learning into the scale of Whig politics, at that time fiercely attacked by the Tory and Jacobite parties. Hoadly was born in 1676. In KOe,"* while rector of St Peter's-le-Poor, London, he attacked a sermon by Atterbury, and thus incurred the enmity and ridicule of Swift and Pope. He defended the revolution of 1688, and attacked the doctrines of divine right and passive obedience with such vigour and perse- verance, that, in 1709, the House of Commons re- commended him to the favour of tlie queen. Her majesty does not appear to have complied with this request ; but her successor, George I., elevated him to the see of Bangor. Shortly after his elevation to the bench, Hoadly published a work against the nonjurors, and a sermon preached before the king at St James's, on the Nature of the Kingdom or Church of Christ. The latter excited a long and vehement dispute, known by the name of the Ban- gorian Controversy, in which forty or fifty tracts were published. The Lower House of Convocation * Hoadly printed, in 1702, ' A Letter to the Rev. Mr Fleet- wood, occasioned by his Essay on Miracles.' In the preface to a volume of tracts published in 1715, in which that letter was reprinted, the eminent author spealis of Fleetwood in the fol- lowing terms: — 'This contains some points, relating to the subject of miracles, in which I differed long ago from an ex- cellent person, now advanced, by his merits, to one of the highest stations in the church. When it first appeared in the world, he had too great a soul to make the common return of resentment or contempt, or to esteem a difference of opinion, expressed with civility, to be an unpardonable afl'ront. So far from it, tliat he not only was pleased to e.xpre.-is some good liking of the manner of it, but laid hold on an opportunity, which then immediately ottered itself, of doing the writer a very considerable pit^e of service. I tliink myself obliged, upon this occasion, to acknowledge this in a public manner, wisliing tliat such a procedure way at length cease to be un- common and singular." took up Iloadly's works with warnitli, ami [lassed a censure upon them, as calculated to subvert the government and discipline of the church, and to imiiugn and inipcach the regal supremacy in mat- tiTs ecclesiastical. Tlie controversy was conducted with unbecoming violence, and several bisliops and other grave divines (the excellent Sherlock among the number) forgot the dignity of tlieir station and tlie spirit of Christian charity in tlie heat of i)arty warfare. Pope alludes sarcastically to Hoadly 's sermon in the ' Dunciad' — Toland and Tindal, prompt at priests to jeer, Yet silent bowed to Chrisfs no kingdom here. The truth, however, is, that there was ' nothing whatever in Iloadly's sermon injurious to tlie esta- blished endowments and privileges, nor to the dis- cipline and government of the Englisli eliurch, even in theory. If this had been the case, he niiglit have been reproached with some inconsistency in becom- ing so large a partaker of her honours and emolu- ments. He even admitted the usefulness of censures for open immoralities, though denying all church authority to oblige any one to external conununion, or to pass any sentence which should determine the condition of men with respect to the favour or dis- pleasure of God. Another great questiMi in this controversy was that of religious liberty as a civil riglit, which the convocation explicitly denied. And anotlier related to the nnich debated exercise of private judgment in religion, which, as one jiarty meant virtually to take away, so the other perhaps unreasonably exaggerated.'* The style of Hoadly's controversial treatises is strong and logical, but without any of the graces of composition, and hence they have fallen into comparative oblivion. He was author of several other works, as Terms of Accep- tance, lieasonableness of Conformity, Treatise on the Sacrament, &c. A complete edition of his works was published by his son in three folio volumes ; his sermons are now considered the most valuable portion of his writings. There can be no doubt that the independent and liberal mind of Iloadly, aided by his station in the church, tended materially to stem the torrent of slavish submission which then prevailed in the church of P^ngland. The first extract is from Hoadly "s sermon on The Nature of the Kingdom or Church of Christ, preaclied before the king on 31st March, 1717, and which, as already mentioned, gave rise to the celebrated Bangorian controversy. [Tlie Kingdom of Christ not of this World.l If, therefore, the church of Christ be the kingdom of Christ, it is essential to it that Christ himself be the sole lawgiver and sole judge of his subjects, in all points relating to the favour or displeasure of Almighty God ; and that all his subjects, in what station soever they may be, are equally subjects to him ; and that no one of them, any more than another, hath autho- rity either to make new laws for Christ's subjects, or to imi)0se a sense upon the old ones, which is the same thing; or to judge, censure, or punish the ser- vants of another master, in nnitters relating i)urely to conscience or salvation. If any person hath any other notion, either through a long use of words with incon- sistent meanings, or through a negligence of thought, let him but ask himself whether the church of Christ be the kingdom of Christ or not ; and if it be, whether tiiis notion of it doth not absolutely exclude all other legislators and j\nlges in matters relating to conscience or the favour of Cod, or whether it can be his king* * IIiUlanr« Constitutional History of England. 665 FROM 1689 CYCLOPEDIA OF TO 172< doin if any mortal men have such a power of legisla- tion and judgment in it. This inquiry will bring us back to the first, which ia the only true account of the church of Christ, or the kingdom of Christ, in the mouth of a Christian ; that it is the number of men, whether small or great, whether dispersed or united, who truly and sincerely are subjects to Jesus Christ alone as their lawgiver and judge in matters relating to the favour of God and their eternal salvation. The next principal point is, that, if the church be the kingdom of Christ, and this 'kingdom be not of this world,' this must appear from the nature and end of the laws of Christ, and of tliose rewards and punish- ments which ar« the sanctions of his laws. Now, his laws are declarations relating to the favour of God in another state after this. They are declarations of those conditions to be performed in this world on our part, without which God will not make us happy in that to come. And they are almost all general ap- peals to the will of that God ; to his nature, known by the common reason of mankind, and to the imita- tion of tliat nature, which must be our perfection. The keeping his commandments is declared the w.ay to life, and the doing his will the entrance into the kingdom of heaven. The being subjects to Christ, is to this very end, that we may tlie better and more effectually perform the will of God. The laws of this kingdom, therefore, as Christ left thcra, have nothing of this world in their view ; no tendency either to the exaltation of some in worldly pomp and dignity, or to their absolute dominion over the faith and religious conduct of others of his subjects, or to the erecting of any sort of temporal kingdom under the covert and name of a spiritual one. The sanctions of Christ's law are rewards and punish- ments. But of what sort ? Not the rewards of this world ; not the offices or glories of this state ; not the pains of prisons, banishments, fines, or any lesser and more moderate penalties ; nay, not the much lesser negative discouragements that belong to human so- ciety. He was far from thinking that these could be the instruments of such a persuasion as he thought acceptable to God. But, as the great end of his king- dom was to guide men to happiness after the short images of it were over here below, so he took his motives from that place where his kingdom first be- gan, and where it was at last to end ; from those re- wards and punishments in a future state, which had no relation to this world ; and to show that his ' king- dom was not of this world,' all the sanctions which he thought fit to give to his laws were not of this world at all. St Paul understood this so well, that he gives an account of his own conduct, and that of others in the same station, in these words : ' Knowing the terrors of the Lord, we persuade men :' whereas, in too many Christian countries since his days, if some who profess to succeed hira were to give an account of their own conduct, it must be in a quite contrary strain : ' Know- ing the terrors of this world, and having them in our •power, we do not persuade men, but force their out- ward profession against their inward persuasion.' Now, wherever this is practised, whether in a great degree or a small, in that place there is so far a change from a kingdom which is not of this world, to a king- dom which ifl of this world. As soon as ever you hear of any of the engines of this world, whether of the greater or the lesser sort, you must immediately think that then, and so far, the kingdom of this world takes place. For, if the very essence of God's worship be spirit and truth, if religion be virtue and charity, under the belief of a Supreme Governor and Judge, if true real faith cannot be the effect of force, and if there can be no reward where there is no willing choice — then, in all or any of these casep, to apply force or flattery, worldly pleasure or pain, in to act contrary to the interests of true religion, as it is j)lainly opposite to the maxims upon which Christ j founded his kingdom ; who chose the motives which | are not of this world, to support a kingdom which is not of this world. And indeed it is too visible to be hid, that wherever the rewards and punishments are changed from future to present, from the world to come to the world now in possession, there the king- dom founded by our Saviour is, in the nature of it, so far changed, that it is become, in such a degree, what he professed his kingdom was not — that is, of this world ; of the same sort with other common earthly kingdoms, in wliich the rewards are worldly honours, jiosts, offices, pomp, attendt.nce, dominion ; and the punishments are prisons, fines, banishments, galleys and racks, or something less of the same sort. [Ironical View of Protestant InfallihilityJ] [From the ' Pedication to Pope Clement XI., prefixed to Sir R. Steele's Account of the State of the Roman Catholic Re- ligion throughout the 'World.'] Your holiness is not perhaps aware how near the churches of us Protestants have at length come to those privileges and perfections which you boast of as peculiar to your own : so near, that many of the most quick-sighted and sagacious persons have not been able to discover any other diflcrence between us, as to the main principle of all doctrine, government, worship, and discipline, but tliis one, namely, that you cannot err in anything you determine, and we never do : that is, in other words, that you are infixl- lible, and we always in the right. We cannot but esteem the advantage to be exceedingly on our side in this case ; because we have all the benefits of in- fallibility without the absurdity of pretending to it, and without the uneasy task of maintaining a point so shocking to the understanding of mankind. And you must pardon us if we cannot help thinking it to be as great and as glorious a privilege in iw to be always in the right, without the pretence to infalli- bility, as it can be in you to be always in the wrong with it. Thus, the synod of Dort (for whose unerring deci- sions public thanks to Almighty God are every three years offered up with the greatest solemnity by the magistrates in that country), the councils of the re- formed in France, the assembly of the kirk of Scot- land, and (if I may presume to name it) the convoca- tion of England, have been all found to have the very same unquestionable authority which your church claims, solely upon the infallibility which resides in it ; and the people to be under the very same strict obligation of obedience to their determinations, which with you is the consequence only of an absolute in- fallibility. The reason, ther