4»
THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
LOS ANGELES
CASSELL'S
Library of English Literature.
ILLUSTRATIONS OF
English Religion
SELECTED ElJlTEI) AND ARRANGED
Henry Morley
PaorEssoR of English Literature at University College London.
'* Keugion, bichest favoce of the skies,
Stands most revealed before the fbeekan's eyes."
CowPER : TahJe Talk.
CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited
LONDON PARIS ^- NEW YORK.
[all rights RK9BBVBD.]
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
The FiEST English. — ^a.d. 670 to a.d. 1066 .
» K
PAGE
1-28-
CHAPTER U.
TeAXSITIOX ExGUSH : FKOM THE CoNQfEST TO WxCLIF.— A.D. 1066 TO A.D. 1360 .
28—71
CHAPTER III.
WiClIF, LAXGL.4M), AXD OTHERS.— A.D. 1360 TO A.D. 1400 .
71—112
CHAPTER IV.
The Fifteexth Cektttet
112— 12»
CHAPTER V.
Fisher, Ttsdale, More, Latimer, axd Others. — a.d. 1500 to a.d. 1558 ...... 129 — 169
CHAPTER VI.
The Reios of Elizabeth. — John Kkox, John Fox, John Jewel, Matthew Parker, Edmtjnd Grindal,
John Atliter, and Others. — a.d. 1558 to a.d. 1579 ....... 169 — ISO-
CHAPTER vn.
Reign of Elizabeth. — Francis Bacon, Edmtnd Spenser, Richard Hooker, and Others. — a.d. 1577 to
A.D. 1603 183—232
CHAPTER VIII.
Reign op James I. — Donne, Andbewes, Giles Fletcher, Quarles, "Wither, and Others. — a.d. 1603 to
A.D. 1625 .............
232—265
CHAPTER IX.
Under Charles I. and the Cosimonwealth. — George Herbert, Richard Sibbes, Thomas Fuller, John
Howe, George Fox, Richard Baxter, Jeremy Taylor, John Milton, and Others. — a.d. 1625 to
A.D. 1660 . 265—305
CHAPTER X.
Fhom the Commonwealth to the EETOLrxioN. — Richard Baxter, John Bcxtan, John Milton, Ralph
Ccdwobth, Robert Leighton, Thomas Ken, and Others. — a.d. 1660 to a.d. 1689
305—333
CONTENTS.
CHAPTEE XI.
From the English Revolvtion to the Death or Queen Anne. — Tillotson, Locke, Burnet, Steele,
Addison, Bl.\ckmoiie, Is.iac Watts, and Others. — a.d. 1G89 to a.d. 1714 ....
333—345
CHAPTER XU.
From the Death of Queen Anne to the Fiiench Revolution. — Joseph Butler, Whitefield, Wesley,
Samuel Johnson, C'o^TPER, AND Others. — a.d. 1714 to a. d. 1789 ......
34.1—385
CHAPTER XIU.
Fbom the French Revolution to the Accession of Queen Victoria. — Priestley, Paley, Heber, ChjU,mees,
Wordsworth, Keble, and Otuers. — a.d. 1789 to a.d. 1837 ......
385—411
CHAPTER XIV.
Forty Years linder Victoria. — Newman, Arnold, Maurice, Klngsley, Carlyle, Browning, Tennyson, and
Others.— A.D. 1837 TO A.D. 1877 .......... 411—433
llfDEXES : —
I. — Quoted Writers and Pieces .......... 434 437
n.— Notes ■.••.•-..... 438—440
lU. — Specimens of English .•....,..,. 440
Truth shaU P avail : From llu: First Folio of Bishop EaU's Works.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PABE
Stonehengo
Initial (from the MS. of Casdinon) . . • ■ 1
Lindisfame ...•'••••
The West Cliff at Whithy ^
Euins of Whitby Abbey ^
The Uprearing of the Firmament (from the MS. of
Caedmon)
The Fall of Lucifer (from the MS. of Ca;dmon) . . 7
Treasure of Wisdom (from the MS. of Ciedmon) . 12
The Psalmist (from a Psalter of the Tenth Century) . 16
Initial (from a MS. of Bede) 22
An Evangelist (from a MS.)
Death and Burial (from a MS. of ^Hric) . .27
A Courtly AVriter (from MS. Book of the Coronation
of Henry I.) ■^-
The Inscription over King Arthur's Coffin ... Si!
Chapel of St. Joseph of Arimathea, Glastonbury . 34
A Benedictine Nun ^^
Man's Peril and Safety (from a MS.) . . . ■ oO
A Domcmican
A Franciscan
Lost Souls (from a Fresco) ^^
Hell Mouth (from an Old German Print) ... 64
Wychffe, Yorkshire '^^
John Wiclif (from the Portrait in the Wycliffe
Rectory) ''
John Wiclif (from Bale's '-Centuries of British
Writers," 1348) "G
A Physician (from the Statues outside the Cloister of
Magdalene College, Oxford) .... 83
Suitors to Meed (from a Brass at King's L>Tm) . 83
Breaking the Head of Peace (from a Column in
WeUs Cathedi-al) 8G
The Knight (from the Abbey Church at Tewkesburj-) . 91
Eichard the Second (from the Picture in Westminster
Abbey) 102
Bas-relief from the Monastery Gate, Norwich . .103
The Living and the Dead (from the BIS. of " the
Pearl") 108
Initial Letter (from the Mazarin Bible) . . .112
The Lollards' Prison, Lambeth Palace . .113
Christ and the Cross (from R. Pj-nson's Edition of
Lydgate's Testament) HO
The Ship Religion (from a MS of " The Pilgrimage
of Man") 119
Thomey Abbey .122
The Tower of Doctrine (from Eeisch's " Margarita
Philosophica," 1512) 131
The Chamber of IMuslc (from the same) . • .132
PAGE
John Fisher (from the Portrait by Holbein) . .136
Emblematic Device (from a Treatise of Fisher's) . 137
Sir Thomas More (from the Portrait by Holbein) . 145
Hugh Latimer ^^^
Edward VI. (from the Portrait by Holbein) . . 151
Latimer preaching before Edward VI. (from a Wood-
cut in Fox's "Martyrs'') 152
John Bale presenting a Book to Edward VI. (from
his " Centuries of British Writers," 1548) . . 160
Second View of the same (from the same) . . .161
John Knox 100
Mary Tudor (from the Portrait by Holbein) . . 169
Preacher's Hour-glass and Stand .... 169
John Fox 1"0
Burning of an English Merchant in Seville (from
Fox's "Acts and Monuments") . . • -171
John Jewel 174
John Aylmor 177
Edmund Grindal 178
Initial Letter (from the First Edition of Spenser's
"Complaints") 183
Initial Letter (from a Monument) .... 193
The Red Cross Knight (from the First Edition of the
" Faerie Queene ") 19*
The Good Shepherd (from the Title-page of Sidney's
Translation of Du Plessis Momay) . - .213
Richard Hooker "-I'l
Old St. Paul's, with the Spire -^^
Old St. Paul's, after Loss of the Spire . . ■ 216
Church and State (from the Frontispiece of Hooker's
" Ecclesiastical PoUty," 1594) . . . .219
Initial Letter (from King James's Authorized Version
of the Bible, 1611) '-32
Head-piece from Donne's " Pseudo-Martyr " . . 234
Tail-piece from Donne's " Psoudo-MartjT" . . 235
Effigy of Dr. Donne in St. Paul's Cathedral . . 237
Lancelot Andrewes '-^^S
JohnSelden 250
James Usher -^^
George Wither 258
Sir Edward Herbert as Knight of the Bath . . 263
George Herbert's Church at Bemerton . . .266
George Herbert 267
The Preacher (from Withcr's Emblems, 1635) . . 275
Betwixt Two Worlds (from Quarles' Emblems, 1635) . 275
Westminster Abbey (from a Print by Hollar, 1641) . 279
Jeremy Taylor 286
Thomas Fuller ....--•• 291
John Howe 292
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
Richard Baxter
Williiun Liiud
Initial Letter (from Clarendon's Answer to Leviathan,
1673)
Baxter's Church at Kidderminster . . . .
John Bunyan
Christian and ApoDyon (from the 13th Edition of the
" Pilgrim's Progress," 1692) . . . .
John Milton
Isaac Barrow ........
Thomas Ken
John Tillotson . . . . .
John Locke ........
Isaac Watts
Ornament from Burnet's " History of His Own Time "
(1724)
Joseph Butler ........
The Charterhouse in Wesley's Time . . . .
John Wesley
George Whitefield .......
Euins of Kome (from the Illustration in Dyer's Poems,
1761)
PAGE
298
301
30.5
306
311
313
322
327
831
334
337
343
34.5
348
3.54
361
363
364
Sam.uel Johnson (from a Portrait by Sir Joshua
Reynolds, 1756) 370
Samuel Johnson (from the Bust by Nollekens, 1781) . 374
William Paley 386
Josejjh Priestley 388
The Statue of Priestley at Birmingham . . . 389
James Montgomery 391
Reginald Heber 397
Thomas Chalmers 400
The Nave and West Transept, Lincoln . . . 405
William Wordsworth (from the Tablet in Grasmere
Church) 405
John Keble 408
John Henry Newman 412
Charles Kingsley 423
Frederick Denison Maurice ..... 425
Arthur Penrhj-n Stanley 427
Durham Cathedral 433
Head-Piece to Index (from Leichius " De Origine
Tj-j)ographica3 Lipsionsis ") 434
Ornaments from Bishop Hall's Works, and Lodge's
" Josephus " vi., vui.
EmUcm from J.odjc's 'Josephus" (1602).
Cassell's Library of English Literature.
SlOSEHESOE. (Jroiii Edti-ard King's •' Monumcnta Anliqua." 1799.)
,11— RELIGION.
CHAPTER I.
The First English.— a.d. G70 to a.d. 10G6.
UEING the Fii-st-Englisli
time nearly our
whole Literature
had Religion fur
its theme. I mean
by Religion faith
in a beneficent
Creator, to wliom,
as supremely wise,
just, and merciful,
man ascribes the
Initial /rom the MS. of C<.dmon. ^^^^ qualities he Can
conceive, and to whose likeness he then seeks to
conform himself; loving and serving all that he
thinks highest in his God, who is the source of
every good, and the helper of all faithful efibrt to draw
near to Him. In most men this aspiration is asso-
ciated with belief that the immaterial ])art, which
yearns to be near God, survives to attain a heaven
of the happiness it rightly sought. In every age
and country, huuiau nature has been able to conceive
the excellence of God only by ascribing to Him all
that man thinks best, and to conceive the happiness
of an attained heaven only by associating it with
human experiences of the highest bliss. Even
though more be revealed by God himself, man's
character determines how he shall receive the revela-
tion, and we understand a people best when looking
at the form it gives to that conce])tion of the highest
life which is the special concern of Religion.
Of the strength of a religious feeling in this
country before Christian times, Stonehenge and
Avebury bear witness. No man knows when or
how those mighty stones, which defy time, were
lifted to their places; only the stones themsehes
tell us that in a day long jiast, of which we have no
other record, the people of this island gave their
chief strength to the service of religion. Their
bodies perished, their homes passed away, their- foi-m
of woi-ship is forgotten, but they left imperishable
record of a soul of worship that was in them.
Two Epistles to the Corinthians were ascribed to
Clement, who was called the tlurd bishop of Rome
after the apostles, and said to have been fellow-
labourer with St. Paul at Philippi. In the lirst of
these, Paul is said to have "travelled even to the
extreme boundaries of the West." This has been
taken to mean that he visited Britain. Jerome, at
the end of the fourth century, said that St. Paul
imitated the sun in going from one ocean to the
other, and that his labours extended to the West.
Theodoret, Bishop of Cyrus in the fifth century,
continuing the tradition, spoke of Paul as having
brought salvation to the islands of the Ocean, and
in his first discourse on Laws included the Britons
among converts of the apostles. There was sui-h a
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITEUATURE.
[i.n. 201
tradition : and tliei-e seems really to have been early
preacliing of Christianity here, if the remote Britain
were not used as a mere Hgure of rhetoric. Origen,
speaking in the earlier half of the third eenturv, said
that " tlic power of the Saviour's kingdom leached as
farius Britain, which seemed to l)e another division of
the worW." Old tradition ascribed to a King Lucius,
who died in tiie year 201, the building of our first
church on the site of St. Martin's at Canterbury.
Britons are said to have died for the Christian faith;
and Alban, said to have been beheaded a.d. 30.5 near
the town now named after him St. Alban's, is de-
scribed :us the tirst British martyr. Three British
bishops, one being from York and two fiom London,
wei-e at the first Comicil of Aries, a.d. 314. Some
of our bishops luid come to the remote west as pious
missionaries, others were Celtic converts. One of
these teachers, Morgan, who translated his name
station was in the Hebrides, upon the rocky island
of lona, which has an area of L300 Scotch acres,
and lies ofi' the south-western extremity of the
island of Mull. After him it was called (lona-
Columb-kill) Icolmkill; and the religious community
there gathered by him, at tii'st rudely housed, became
the head-ipiarters of religious energy for the conver-
sion of North Britain, the missionaries being devout
native Celts, gifted with all the bold enthusiasm of
their race, who were in relation rather with the
Eastern than the Western Church.
The English settlers in Northiimbria were Chiis-
tianised by a Celtic priest, said to have been a son
of Urien, who was educated at Rome, and took
the name of Paulinus. But he and his fellow-
missionaries promised temporal advantage to their
converts, and when in the year 633 they suffered a
serious defeat in battle, these fiercely cast off their
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^ixwsFiENE (1814). (Prom Scolfs - Bu.di,' AhIuhuUc^/ ' i
into Pelagius (meaning "born by the sea-shore").
and who was an old man in the year 404, ventured
on independent speculations that found not a few
followei-s, and gave for a long time afterwards much
trouble to the orthodox, to combat Pelagianism,
and add to the number of conveits from the heathen^
two bishops from Gaul, Germanus and Lupus, came
as successful missionaries into Britain in the year
429. Patricius, known as St. Patrick, is said to
have been born of a Christian family at Kilpatrick,
near Dumbarton, iji the year 372, and to have been
ordamed priest by Germanus before his preachiu'r
among the Irish Gaels. °
There were then scattered among the people of
Ireland and Scotland devoted men of their o\to
race, known as Culdees, servants and worshiiijiers of
God, who were engaged in diffusing Christianitv.
Patrick added to the energy of the work done I'.y
tliese men in Ireland. It was an Irish abbot,
Co umba, who in the year .563 passed into Scotland
and from the age of about forty to the a^e of
seventy-Hve worked as a Chiistian missionary on
the mamland and in tlie Hebrides. His chief
new creed, and Paulinus fled from them. Then
help was ask'ed from the followers of Columba. The
first man who was sent out from lona returned
hopeless ; but they were strenuous workers at lona,
who would not accept failure. Another, Aidan,
took the place of his more faint-hearted brother, and
formed in an island on the Northumbrian coast a
missionary station upon the pattern of that in the
Hebrides. This was at Lindisftirne, chief of the
Farn Islands, named from the Lindi, a rivulet there
entering the sea. Lindisfiirne is a little more than
two miles across from east to west, and scarcely a
mile and a half from north to south, attached at low
water as a peninsida to the coast, from which it is
about two miles distant. It belongs to Durham,
although really part of' Northumberland, and is
about nine miles from Ber%vick- on -Tweed. The
island is treeless, chiefly covered with sand, rising
to a rocky shore on the north and east. The fertile
ground in it is not more than enough for one farm.
Here the Culdees established themselves in such
force that the place came to be called Holy Island,
and from this point they worked effectually for the
lu A.D. 680.]
KELlcaON.
Christianising of the north of England. Tliey fed
and comforted the j)Oor, trusting instead of fearing
the wild men they sought to soften, went up into
their liills to live with them as comrades, and
taught religion in a form that blended itself with
the spiritual life of man, instead of depending for
an outward prosperity on smiles of Fortune. The
Culdees prospered in their work, an abbey rose in
Lindisfarne, and there w;is a bishoj)ric established
there, which about the year 900, when the Danes
ravaged the coast, was removed to Durham.
Aidan died at Lindisfarne in the year 6.51, and it
was lie who consecrated the first woman who in
Northumbria devoted herself wholly to religious life,
and wore the dress of a nun — Heia, who founded
the religious house at Herutea. In this she was
followed by the abbess Hilda, who is associated with
the history of Ciedmon's '• Paraphrase," the grand
religious poem with which our literature opens.
Hilda, daughter of Hereric, nephew to King
.iEduin, had been one of the converts made by the
preaching of Paulinus. Hilda's sister Heresuid, was
mother to the king of the East Angles. Hilda
went, therefore, into East Anglia, and then designed
to follow her sister when she took the religious vow
at a monastery in France. But Bishop Aidan sum-
moned Hilda back to the north, and gave her a site
for a religious house on the north side of the river
Wear. There she was called by Bishop Aidan, in
the year 6.50, a year before his death, to be abbess
in the religious house founded by Heia at Herutea,
now Hartlepool, Heia then going to another place,
probably Tadcaster. Eight yeai-s afterwards, when
Aidan's successor, Finan, was Bishoj) of Lindisfarne,
The West Cliff at Whitby.
HUda left Hartlepool to establish a religious house
as a new missionary station on the west cliff at
Whitby, then called Streoneshalh. Presided over
by a woman, its first founder, this was a house
establislied on the pattern of lona, in which men
and, before the Conquest, women also, studied and
were taught, as Bede says, " the strict observance of
justice, piety, chastity, and other virtues, and par-
ticularly of peace and love ; so that, after the
example of the jn-imitive Church, no person was
RniNS OF Whitby Abbey.
there rich, and none poor, all thinss being in common
to all, and none having any projierty. Her jiru-
dence was so great, that not only persons of the
middle rank, but e'ven kings and jirinces, sometimes
asked and received her advice. She obliged those
who were under her direction to attend so much to
the reading of the Holy Scriptures, and to exercise
themselves so much in works of justice, that many
might very easily be there found tit for ecclesiastical
duties, that is, to serve at the altar. In short, we
afterwards saw five bishops taken out of that
monastery, all of them men of singular merit and
sanctity. . . . Thus this handmaiden of Christ,
Abbess Hilda, whom all that knew her called Mother,
for her singidar ])iety and grace, was not only an
example of good life to those that lived in her
uionasteiy, but gave occasion of salvation and
amendment to many who li\ed at a distance, to
whom the happy fame was brought of her industry
and virtue." She died in the year 680, after six or
seven yeai-s of ill-Jiealth, at the age of sixtj'-six,
having spent the first half of her life to the age of
thirty-three in the secular habit, and devoted the
rest wholly to religion.
Cjedmon's poem was written in the Whitby
monastery during Hilda's rule over it, that is to
say, in the time between its foundation, a.d. 6.58,
and her death, a.d. 680. The fii-st buildings on
the Wliitby cliff were very simjile, but in course
of time a more substantial abbey took its ])lace.
It was destroyed bj^ the Northmen in the latter half
of the ninth century, rebuilt, and again destroyed.
The ruins now upon the site first occujjied by Abliess
Hilda are of a rebuilding in which the oldest part
is of the twelfth century.
OASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[i.u GSS
In Hilda's time the servants of God in the
Whithy mon;istory were actively engaged in the
couver-siou of the surrounding jieojile to Christianity,
and Canhnon, who seems to have been a tenant of
land under them, was one of their lirst converts.
As a contort zealous for the faith to which he
had been l>rouglit, he sat at a rustic feast one day
hearing the songs of heathen war and woi-ship pass
round the table. As tiie harp came towards him he
rose. The guests coming from distant jiarts among
a widely-scattered |)0|)ulation had the cattle that
brought them stalded, and in need of j)rotection
against raids for plundei'. The\' took turns to mount
jjuard over their proj)erty, and it being then Cicdmon's
turn, he made that an e.xcuse for leaving his place
among the guests before he .should be asked to sing.
In his mind, as a zealous Christian, would be the wi.sh
that songs of the mercy of the true God could be
made familiar iis these old strains to the lips of his
comnuies. He was a true j)oet, as his afterwork
])roved, and there might be an impulse in his mind
that presently shaped itself into a di-eam as he dozed
over his watch ; but if .so, to the simjile faith of those
times the dream would seem to be a revelation of the
wU of Heaven. Read in that way, the whole story
of Csedmon, as we have it from Bede, looks like the
record of a simple truth that passed for miracle.
This — written not more than si.xty years after the
))oet's death — is Bede's account of the manner of
CiBdmon's entrance into the monastery under Hilda's
rule.
BKDe's .VCCOINT OF t'.EDMON.
There w.is in tliis abbess's monasten,- a certain brother,
particularly n^markalile for the grace of tiod, who was wont
to make pious ami religious verses, so that whatever was
interpreted to him out of .Scripture, he soon after put the
same into poetical expressions of much sweetness and feeling,
in English, which was his native language. By his verses
the minds of many were often excited to despise the world,
and to aspire to heaven. Others of the English nation
attempted after him to compose religious poems, but none
could ever compare with him, for he did not leam the art of
poetry from man, but being assisted from above he freely
received the gift of C!od. For this reason he never could
compose any trivial or vain poem, but only those which
relate to religion suited his religious tongue ; for having
lived in a secular habit till he was well advanced in years,
he had never learned anything of versifying; for which
reason, being sometimes at entertainments, when it was
agreed for the sake of mirth that all present should sing in
their turns, when he saw the harp come towards him, he
rose up in the midst of the supper and went home.
Having done so at a certain time, and gone out of the
house where the entertainment was, to the stables of the
draught animals, of which the care was entrusted to him for
that night,' he there composed himself to rest at th(- proper
time : a person appeared to him in his sleep, and saluting him
by his name, said, " Ca-dmon, sing some song to me.'' He
answered, "I cannot sing: for that was the reason why I
left the entertainment, and retired to this place, because I
" Aa Btahula jumeutonim quorum ei custotlia nocte ilia erat
delejat.i." J,mcni,a are yoked animals-the cattle that had brought
the guests to the feast. Yet on this passage the notion has been
lounded that Ccedmen was a herdsman.
could not sing." The other who talked to him, replied,
" Yet you shall sing." " \\'hat .shall I sing ?" rejoined ho.
" Sing the beginning of created things," said the other.
Having received this answer, he presently began to sing
verses to the praise of God tlic Creator, which he had never
before heard, the purport whereof was thus: — "We now
ought to praise the Maker of the heavenly kingdom, the
power of the Creator and liis counsel, the deeds of the
Father of glory. How He, being the eternal (iod, became
the author of all miracles, who first, as almighty preserver
of the human race, created heaven for the sons of men as the
roof of the house, and next the earth." This is the sense,
but not the word.s in order as he .lang them in his sleej) ; for
verses, though never so well composed, caimot be literally
translated o\it of one language into another without losing
much of their beauty and loftiness. Awaking from his sleep,
he remembered all that he had .sung in his dream, and soon
added much more to the sami> effect in verse worthy of the
Deity.
In the morning he came to the steward, his superior, and
liuving told him of the gift he had received, was conductiil
to the abbess, by whom ho was bidden, in the presence of
many learned men, to tell his dream, and repeat the verses,
that they might all give then judgment what it was and
whence his verse proceeded. They all concluded, that
heavenly grace had been confi^rred on him by our Lord.
They explained to him a passage in holy writ, either histori-
cal or doctrinal, ordering him, if he could, to put the same
into verse. HaWng undertaken it, he went away, and
returning the next morning, gave it to them composed in
most excellent verse ; whereupon the abbess, embracing the
grace of God in the man, instructed him to quit the secular
habit, and take upon him the monastic life ; which being
accordingly done, she associated him -with the rest of the
brethren in her monastery, and ordered that he should be
taught the whole series of sacred history. Thus he, keeping
in mind all he heard, and as it were, like a clean animal,
chewing the eud, converted the same into most harmonious
verse ; and sweetly repeating the same, made his masters in
their turn his hearers. He sung the creation of the world,
the origin of man, and all the history of Genesis ; the depar-
ture of the children of Israel out of Egypt, and their entering
into the land of promise, with many other histories from
holy writ ; the incarnation, passion, and resurrection of our
Lord, and his ascension into heaven : the coming of the
Holy Ghost, and the preaching of the apostles : also the
terror of future judgment, the horror of the pains of hell,
and the delights of heaven ; besides much more of the divine
benefits and judgments: by all which he endeavoiued to
turn men from the love of vice, and to excite in them the
love and practice of good actions. For he was a very
religious man, humbly submissive to regular discipline, but
full of zeal against those who behaved themselves otherwise ;
for which reason he ended his lif(^ happily.
For when the time of his departure drew near, he labouri'd
for the space of fourteen days imder a bodily infinnitv
which seemed to prepare the way for him, yet wa.i sci
moderate that he could talk and walk the whole time. Near
at hand was the house into which those were carried who
were sick, and likely soon to die. In the evening, as the
night came on in which he was to depart this life, he desired
the person that attended him to make ready there a resting-
jflace for him. This person, wondering why he should desire
it, because there was as yet no sign of his dj-ing soon, yet
did what he had ordered. He accordingly was placed there,
and conversing pleasantly in a cheerful manner with the
others who were in the house before, when it was past mid-
I.J
RELIGION.
night, he asked them, whether they had the Eucharist there?
They answered, "What need of the Eucharist? for you are
not likely to die, since you talk as cheerily with us as if
you were in perfect health." — "Nevertheless," said he,
•• bring me the Eucharist." Having received the same into
his hand, he asked whether they were aU in charity with
him, and without any ill-will or rancour ? They answered,
that they were all in perfect charity, free from all anger ;
and in their turn asked him, whether he was in the same
mind towards them ? He at once answered, " I am in
charity, my children, with all the servants of God." Then
strengthening himself mth the heavenly viaticum, he pre-
pared for the entrance into another life, and asked how near
the hour was when the brethren were to be roused to sing
the nocturnal lauds of our Lord ? They answered, " It is
not far off." Then he said, "It is well, let us await that
hour : " and signing himself with the sign of the cross, he
laid his head on the pUlow, and falling into a slumber, so
■ended his life in silence.
Thus it came to pass, that as he had served God with
a simple and pure mind, and quiet devotion, so now he
■departed to His presence, leaving the world bj- a quiet death ;
and that tongue, which had composed so many holy words in
praise of the Creator, in like manner uttered its last words
while he was in the act of signing himself with the cross,
and recommending his spirit into the hands of God. From
what has been here said, he would seem to have foreknown
his own death.
There is only one known MS. of the metrical
Fii-st-Englisli Paraphrase of Bible story a.scribed to
Csedmon. It was discovered by James Ussher when
he was a young scholar commissioned to hnnt for
books wherewith to furnish the libraiy of Trinity
College, Dublin. The college was then newly founded,
and had Ussher among the fii-st three students who
put their names upon its books. Ussher gave the MS.
— for him iinreadable — to Francis Junius, a scholar
kno^vnto be active in study of the Northern lan-
guages, who was then resident in London as librarian
to the Earl of Arundel, and a familiar friend of
Milton's. Junius recognised in it a large part of
the lost work of Csedmon, and it was first jniiited by
him at Amsterdam in the year 16.55. The MS. is
a small folio of 229 pages, now in the Bodleian
Library among the collection of his manu.scripts
bequeathed by Francis Junius to the University of
Oxford. The firet 212 pages are in a handwriting
of the tenth century, and adorned with illustrative
pictures as far as page 96, with spaces for continuing
the illustrations. From page 213 there is the poem
of Christ and Satan in a later handwriting, with no
spaces left for illustrations.
Csedmon's poem begins with the stoi-y of Creation,
and joins with it the same legend of the fall of Satan
that was joined with it in mediseval times, and used
in his "Paradise Lost" by Milton. This was founded
on a passage in the fourteenth chajiter of Isaiah
(verses 12 — 1.5), where Israel is to take up the
proverb against the king of Babylon : " How art
thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the
morning ! how art thou cut down to the gi-ound,
which didst weaken the nations ! For thou hast said
in thine heart, I will ascend into heaven, I ^vill
exalt mv throne above the stars of God : I will sit
also upon the mount of the congregation, in the
sides of the north. I will ascend above the heights
of the clouds ; I will be like the ]\Iost High. Yet
thou shalt be brought down to hell, to the sides of
the pit." St. Jerome seems to have been the first
who applied this symbolical representation of the
king of Babylon, in his splendour and his fall, to
Satan in his fall from heaven ; probablj- because
Babylon is in Scriptiu-e a ty|ie of tp-annical self-
idolising power, and is connected in the Book of
Revelation with the empire of the Evil One.
Cfedmon represented Satan as the Angel of Pre-
sumption holding council with the fallen spirits, and
there are one or two fine thoughts in his poem which
are to be found afterwards in Milton's treatment of
the same theme. As the old work was in the hands
of Milton's friend Junius for yeai-s before " Paradise
Lost " appeared, and as Milton included in his epic
thoughts from old poets of Greece, it is not impro-
bable that he also consciously enshrined in it a
thought or two from our fii-st Christian bard, who
was also the greatest of the poets produced in First-
English times. I translate into blank vei-se veiy
literally the opening of Casdmon's Paraphrase : —
THE OPENING OF C.EDJIOX's PARAPHRASE.
I.
Most right it is that we praise with our words,
Love in our minds, the Warden of the Skies,
Glorious King of all the hosts of men.
He speeds the strong, and is the Head of all
His high Creation, the Almighty Lord.
None formed Him, no first was nor last shall be
Of the Eternal Ruler, but His sway
Is everlasting over thrones in heaven.
With powers oh high, soothfast and steadfast. He
Ruled the wide home of heaven's bosom spread 1(1
By God's might for the guardians of souls.
The Sons of Glorj-. Hosts of angels shone.
Glad with their Maker ; bright their bliss and rich
The fruitage of their lives ; their glorj- sure.
They served and praised their King, with joy gave praiso
To Him, their Life-Lord, in whose aiding care
They judged themselves most blessed. Sin unknown.
Offence unformed, still with their Parent Lord
They lived in peace, raising aloft in heaven
Right and truth only, ere the Angel Chief 20
Through Pride di-i-ided them and led astray.
Their own well-being they would bear no more.
But cast themselves out of the love of God.
Great in Presumption against the Most High
They would di^■ide the radiant throng far spread.
The resting-place of glory. Even there
Pain came to them, En\->- and Pride began
There first to weave iU counsel and to stir
The minds of angels. Then, athirst for strife,
He said that northward ' he would own in Heaven CO
' Northward . ... in Heaven. So also in "Paradise Lost," Bk. v.,
lines 688, 689, Satan says—
" We possess
TLe quarters of the north."
This, like the rest of the legend, has its source in the passagre of
Isaiah above referred to: "I will sit also upon the mount of the
congregation, in the sides of the north." In the same book of " Para-
dise Lost," lines 725, 726, it is said of him that he
" intends to erect his throne.
Equal to ours, throughout the spacious north."
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.b. 658
A homo and a high Throne. Then God was wroth,
And for the host He had mad(^ glorious,
For tlioso pledso-broakers, our souls' guardians.
The Lord made anguish a reward, a home
In hanishment, hell groans, hard pain, and hade
That torture-housu abide their joyless fall.
"\\Tien witli eternal night and sulphur jiains.
Fulness of fire, dread eold, reek and red flames
He knew it filled, then through that hopeless home
He hade the woful horror to inerease. 40
Banded in hlameful eounsel against God,
Their wrath had wrath for wages. In iierec mood
They said they would, and might with ease, possess
The kingdom. Him that lying hope betrayed.
After the Lord of Might, high King of Heaven,
Highest, upraised his hand against that host.
False and devoid of eounsel they might not
Share strength against their iilaker. He in wrath
Clave their bold mood, bowed utterly their boast,
Struek from the sinful seathers kingdom, power, 50
Glory and gladness ; from the opposcrs took
His joy. His peace, their bright suijremaey.
And, with sure mareh, by His own might poured down
Avenging anger on His enemies.
Stem in displeasure, with consuming wrath,
By hostile grasp he crushed them in His arms ;
Ireful He from their home, their glory scats
Bani.shed His foes ; and that proud angel tribe,
JIalieious host of spirits bowed with care.
He, the Creator, Lord of all Jlight, sent 60
Far journeying, with bruised pride and broken tlrreat,
Strength bent, and beauty blotted. They e.xiled
"Were bound on their swart ways. Loud laugh no more
Was theirs, but in hell pain they wailed accurst,
Knott-ing sore sorrow and the sulphur throes.
Hoofed in with darkness, the full recompense
Of those advancing battle against God.
But after as before was peace in Heaven,
Fair rule of love ; dear unto all, the Lord
Of Lords, the King of Hosts to all His own.
And glories of the good who possessed joy
In heaven, the Almighty Father still increased.
Then peace was among dwellers in the sky,
Blaming and lawless malice were gone out.
And angels feared no more, since plotting foes
Who cast off heaven were bereft of light.
Their glory seats behind them in God's realm, 10
Enlarged with gifts, stood happy, bright with bloom,
But o\vnerless since the eirrsed spirits went
Wretched to exile within bars of hell.
Then thought within His mind the Lord of Hosts
How He again might fix within His rule
The great creation, thrones of heavenly light
High in the heavens for a better band.
Since the proud seathers had relinquished them.
The lioly God, therefore, in His great might
Willed that there should be set beneath heaven's span 20
Earth, firmament, wide waves, created world.
Replacing foes cast headlong from their home.
Here yet was naught save darkness of the cave,
The broad abyss, whereon the steadfast king
Looked with his eyes and saw that space of gloom.
Saw the dark eloud lower in lasting night.
Was deep and dim, vain, useless, strange to God
Black under heaven, wan, waste, till through His word
The King of Glory had created life.
Here first the Eternal Father, guard of all, 30
Of heaven and earth, raised up the firmament.
The Almighty Lord set firm by His strong power
This roomy land ; grass greened not yet the plain,
Ocean far-spread hid the wan ways in gloom.
The Uprearing op the Firmament. {From the MS. oj C(Edmon.)
Then was the Spirit gloriously bright
Of Heaven's Keeper borne over the deep
Swiftly. The Life-giver, the Angel's Lord,
Over the ample ground bade come forth Light.
Quickly the High King's bidding was obeyed,
Over the waste there shone light's holy ray. 40
Then parted He, Lord of triumphant might,
Shadow from shining, darkness from the light.
Light, by the Word of God, was first named day.
[The story of Creation is continued nniil God's return to
Heaven, after instruction and counsel to Adam and Eve.
Then Ccedinon proceeds] : —
The Almighty had disposed ten Angel tribes.
The Holy Father by His strength of hand.
That they wham He well trusted should serve Him
And work His will. For that the holy God
Gave intellect, and shaped them with His hands.
In happiness He placed them, and to one
He added prevalence and might of thought.
Sway over much, next highest to Himself
In Heaven's realm. Him He had wrought so bright
That pure as starlight was in heaven the form lOi
\\'liich God the Lord of Hosts had given him.
Praise to the Lord his worlc, and cherishing
Of heavenly joy, and thankfulness to God
M
EELIGION.
For his share of that gift of light, which then
Had long heen his. But he perverted it,
Against Heaven's highest Lord he lifted war.
Against the Jlost High in His sanctuary.
Dear was he to our Lord, hut was not hid
From Him that in his Angel pride arose.
He raised himself against his Malcor, sought 20
Speech full of hate and bold presuming boast.
Refused God suit, said that his own form beamed
With radiance of light, shone bright of hue.
And in his mind he found not service due
To the Lord God, for to himself he seemed
In force and skill greater than all God's host.
Much spake the Angel of Presumption, thought
Through his own craft to make a stronger throne
Higher in Heaven. His mind urged him, he said,
'That north and south he should begin to
work, 30
Found buildings ; said he questioned
whether he
AVould serve God. Wherefore, he said,
shall I toil ?
^o need have I of master. 1 can work
With my own hands great marvels, and
have power
To build a throne more worthy of a God,
Higher in heaven. Why shall I for His
smile
Serve Him, bend to Him thus in vassalage ?
I may be God as He.
Stand by me, strong supporters firm in
strife.
Hard-mooded heroes, famous warriors, 40
Have chosen me for chief ; one may take
thought
"With such for counsel, and with such secure
Large following. My friends in earnest
they.
Faithful in all the shaping of their minds ;
I am their master, and may rule this realm.
Therefore it seems not right that I should
cringe
To God for any good, and I will bo
No more His servant.
\A'hen the Almighty heard
With how gxeat pride His angel raised
himself .50
Against his Lord, foolishly spake high words
Against the Supreme Father, he that deed
Must expiate, and in the work of strife
Receive his portion, take for punishment
TJtmost perdition. So doth every man
Who sets himself in battle against God,
In siaful strife against the Lord Most High.
Then was the Mighty wroth. Heaven's highest Lord
Cast liim from his high seat, for he had brought
His Master's hate on him. His favour lost, GO
The Good was angered against him, and ho
Must therefore seek the depth of Hell's fierce pains,
Because he strove against Heaven's highest Lord ;
Who shook him from His favour, cast him down
To the deep dales of Hell, where he became
Devil. The fiend with all his comrades feU
From Heaven, angels, for three nights and da}"S,
From Heaven to Hell, where the Lord changed them all
To Devils, because they His Deed and Word
Hefused to worship. Therefore in worse light 70
Under the Earth beneath, Almighty God
Had placed them triumphless in the swart Hell.
There evening, immeasui'ably long.
Brings to each fiend renewal of the fire ;
Then comes, at dawn, the east wind keen with frost ;
Its dart, or fire continual, torment sharp,
The punishment wrought for them, they must bear.
Their world was changed, and those first times filled Hell
With the Deniers. Still the Angels held.
They who fulfilled God's pleasure, Heaven's heights ; 80
Those others, hostile, who such strife had raised
Against their Lord, lie in the fire, bear pangs.
Fierce burning heat in midst of HeU, broad flames,
Fire and therewith also the bitter reek
Of smoke and darkness ; for they paid no heed
To service of their God ; their wantonness
The Fall of Lccifek. {From the MS. of Ciedtncn. )
Of Angel's pride deceived them, who refused
To worship the Almighty Word. Their pain
Was great, then were they fallen to the depth
Of fire in the hot hell for their loose thought 90
And pride unmeasured, sought another land
That was without light and was full of flame,'
Terror immense of fire. Then the fiends felt
That they unnumbered pains had in return.
Through might of God, for their great violence,
But most for pride. Then spoke the haughty king,
Once brightest among Angels, in the heavens
Whitest, and to his Master de;ir beloved
Of God until they lightly went astray.
And for that madness the Almighty God 100
' " Yet from those flames
No light, but rather darkness visible.
Served only to discover sights of woe."
(" Paradise Lost," L 62—04.)
8
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a. D. 6.'i8
Was wroth with him and into ruin cast
Him down to his new bed, and shaped him then
A name, said that the highest should be called
Satan thenceforth, and o'er Hell's swart abyss
Bade him have rule and avoid strife with Uod.
.Satan discoursed, he who henceforth ruled Hell
Spake sorrowing.
God's Angel erst, he had shone white in Heaven.
Till his soul urged, and most of all its Pride,
That of the Lord of Hosts he should no more 110
Bend to the Word. About his heart his soul
Tumultuously heaved, hot pains of wrath
Without him.
Then said he, •' Jlost unliUi.' this narrow place
To that which once we knew, high in Heaven's realm.
Which my Lord gave me, thougli therein no nioi'e
For the Almighty we hold royalties.
■i'ut right hath He nut done in striking us
Down to the fiery bottom of hot Hell,
Banished from Heaven's Idngdom, with decree 120
That He will set in it the race of JIan.
Worst of my sorrows this, that, wrought of Earth,
Adam shall sit in bliss on my strong throne,
WTiilst we these pangs endure, this grief in Hell.
Woe ! Woe ! had I the power of my hands,
And for a season, for one winter's space,
Might be without ; then with this Host I —
But iron binds me round ; this coil of chains
Rides me ; I rule no more : close bonds of Hell
Hem me their prisoner. Above, below, 130
Here is vast fire, and never have I seen
More loathly landscape ; never fade the flames.
Hot over Hell. Rings clasp me, smooth hard bands
Mar motion, stay my wandering, feet bound,
Hands fa.stened, and the ways of these Hell gates
Accurst so that I cannot free my limbs :
Great Lattice bars, hard iron hammered hot,
Lie round me, wherewith God hath bound me down
Fast by the neck. So know I that He knew
My mind, and that the Lord of Hosts perceived 1-10
That if between us two liy Adam came
Evil towards that royalty of Heaven.
I having power of my hands —
But now we suffer throes in Hell, gloom, heat.
Grim, bottomless; us God Himself hath swept
Into these mists of darkness, wherefore sin
Can He not lay against us that we pUnned
Evil against Him in the land. Of light
He hath shorn us, cast us into utmost pain.
May we not then plan vengeance, pay Him back loO
With any hurt, since shorn by Him of light.
Now He hath set the bounds of a mid earth
AVhcrc after His own image He hath wrought
Man, by whom He will people once again
Heaven's kingdom with pure souls. Therefore intent
Must be our thought that, if we ever may.
On Adam and his offspring we may wreak
Revenge, and, if we can devise a way,
Pervert his will. 1 trust no more the light
■Which he thinks long to enjoy with angel power. 160
Bliss we obtain no more, nor can attain
To weaken God's strong will ; but let us now
Turn from the race of Man that heavenly realm
^\^lich may no more be ours, contrive that they
Forfeit His favour, imdo wluit His Word
Ordained : then wroth of mind He from His grace
Will cast them, then shall they too seek this Hell
And these grim depths. Then may we for ourselves
Have them in this strong durance, sons of men,
For servants. Of the warfare let us now i 70-
Begin to take thought. If of old I gave
To any thane, while we in that good realm
Sat happy and had power of our thrones,
Gifts of a Prince, then at no dearer time
Could he reward my gift if any now
Among my followers would be my friend,
That he might pass forth upward from these bounds,
Had power with him that, winged, he might fly.
Borne on the clouds, to where stand Adam and Eve
Wrought on Earth's kingdom, girt with happiness, 180-
While we are cast down into this deep dale.
Now these are worthier to the Lord, may own
The blessing rightly ours in Heaven's realm,
This the design apportioned to mankind.
Sore is m}' mind and rue is in my thought
That ever henceforth they should possess Heaven ;
If ever any of you in any way
May turn them from the teaching of God's Word
They shall be evil to Him, and if they
Break His commandment, then will He be wroth 190
Against them, then will be withdrawn from them
Their happiness, and punishment prepared,
Some grievous share of harm. Tliink all of this.
How to deceive them. In these fetters then
I can take rest, if they that kingdom lose.
He who shall do this hath prompt recompense
Henceforth for ever of what may be won
(If gain within these fires. I let him sit
Beside myself "
[v/w incomplete sentence is then foUoiced by a gap in the
MS., which goes on'[ : —
Then God's antagonist arrayed himself
Swift in rich arms. He had a guileful mind.
The hero set the helmet on his head
And bound it fast, fixed it with clasps. He knew
Many a speech deceitful, turned him thence,
Hardy of mind, departed through Hell's doors.
Striking the flames in two with a fiend's power;'
Would secretly deceive with wicked deed
3Ien, the Lord's subjects, that misled, forlorn.
To God they became evil. So he fared,
Thi-ough his fiend's power, till on Earth he found
Adam, God's handiwork, with him his wife,
The fairest woman.
Having followed the narrative in the Book of
Genesis nntil it enabled him to dwell with all his
power upon the history of Abraham as a great lesson
of faith in God, Ciednion jnoceeded with the Book
of Exodus, for the sake of dwelling on the passage
of the Red Sea as a lesson of faith in the God who
can lead His people through deep waters. Then he
pa.ssed to the Book of Daniel, for the sake of adding
a lesson of faith in the God who can lead his people
nnluu-t, through the burning fiery furnace —
'■ In the hot oven all the pious three.
One was in sight with thera, an angel sent
* " On each hand the flames,
Driven backward, slope their pointing spires, and, roU'd
In billows, leave in the midst a horrid vale."
(" Paradise Lc6t," i. 222-224.)
TO A.D. G80.]
EELIGIOK
From the Almighty. Therein they unhurt
"Walked as in shining of the summer sun
VThen day breaks and the -winds disperse the devr,"
This part of the poem ends with Belshazzar s Feast.
The rest of the MS., added in another hand^ft-riting,
is founded on New Testament story, and has for its
theme Christ and Satan. It tells partly what was
known as the Harrowing of Hell from the apo-
cryphal Gospel of Nicodemus, and partly the Tempta-
tion in the Wilderness. As Ciedmon's Paraphrase
was produced during the rule of Abbess Hilda in
the Whitby monasteiy, its date is probably between
the years G70 and 680.^
Before the death of Csedmon, Aldhelm, another
poet, had begun his work. He was well l.»orn, and
entered young into a monastery founded by a poor
Scot named Meildulf, obtained a grant of the place
in the year 672, and gave his wealth and energy to
its development, till Meildulf 's settlement, Meildulfes-
burh (Malmesbury) became one of the cliief reli-
gious centres of its time. In 705 Aldhelm was
made the first bishop of Sherborne, and he died in
709. In that Benedictine house of Malmesbury
thei-e lived in the earlier half of the twelfth century
(he died probably in 1142) a monk named William,
whose History of the Kings of England gave him,
for genius as a historian, the tii-st place among old
' The whole of that part of Caedmon which relates the Creation
and the Fall of Man was translated into rhymed heroic couplets bj-
Mr. W. H. F. Bosanquet as "The Fall of Man. or Paradise Lost of
Csedmon," and published in 1860, joined to a theory that Cffidmon
wrote ten-syllabled iambic lines with an occasional unaccented
eleventh syllable, and that the English heroic line was of Csedmon's
invention. This is not a true theory, though it is true that the
rhythm of the First-English alliterative verse, set in cadences for
chanting to the thrum of a stringed instnunent. often accorded with
that of our own modem heroic measure ; and I think it is most fairly
represented in translation when that and kindred measures, which
tail smoothly on the English ear. underlie the music of its short
accented and alhterated hues. A full and excellent account of
Csedmon and his works was published in 1875 by Mr. Robert Spence
Watson, in a little book entitled *' Csedmon, the First English Poet."
which can be most heartily recommended to the reader. It is not
unworthy of note that in the same year 1875 the st^^rJ• of Csedmon
was made into a graceful little book of verse by a lady, as " A Dream
and the Song of Cgedmon. (A Legend of "\\'hitby.) By J. M. J." The
old i>oem, itself was edited for the Antiquarian Society in 18:i2 by Mr.
Benjamin Thorpe, with a literal English translation, and the same
society published a valuable series of fac-similes of the pictures
illustrating the one extant MS. of it in the Bodleian. K. "W.
Bouterwek published in 1849 a carefully edited text of Csedmon;
followed in 1851 by an ample glossary to the i>oem. in which Latin is
used for giving the meanings of words, and German for any comment
upon them. Csedmon is of course included in Dr. C. W. M. Grein's
" Bibliothek der Augelsachsischeu Poesie in kritisch bearbeiteten
Texten und mit vollstandigen Glossar." published at Gottingen in
1857, 1858. 1861, and 186i. This work contains the whole body of
First-English poetrj-. and its glossary ser\-es as a full and critical
concordance to it. It is a book that the more advanced student of
First English cannot do without. A beginning of the study of First
English might easily be made in schools with the help of a book
written for the purpose, an " Anglo-Saxon Delectus," by the Rev. W.
Barnes. This includes elements of grammar, graduated readings, and
sufficient glossary. Or use might at once be made of " A Grammar
of the Anglo-Saxon Tongue, from the Danish of Erasmus Eask, by
Benjamin Thoi-pe," which in its second and cheaper edition has
become a most convenient book for school and college use. In the
mere study of English grammar there can >>e no thoroughness until
its development is taught, as it can be taught most simply and easily,
by beginning at the beginning. This is not adding to, but lessening
the trouble given to a boy or girl who seeks to work with under-
standing.
66
English chroniclere. William of Malmesbury -ttrites
thus of Aldhelm. He has just mentioned a Leu-
therius, who was for seven yeai-s bishop of the West
Saxons, and goes on : —
WILLIAM OF MALSIESBURY's ACCOrXT OF ALDHELM.
This circumstance I hare thought proper to mention,
because Beda has left no account of the duration of his
episcopate, and to disguise a fact which I learn from the
Chronicles would be against my conscience", besides, if
affords an opportunity which ought to be embraced, of
making mention of a distinguished man, who by a clear and
di\'inely inspired mind advanced the monastery of Malmes-
bury, where I carrj- on my earthly warfare, to the highest
pitch. This monaster}' was so slenderly endowed by Meil-
dulf — a Scot, as they say, by nation, a philosopher by
erudition, a monk by profe.;3ion — that its members could
scarcely procure their daUy subsistence ; but Leuthcrius,
after long and due deliberation, gave it to Aldhelm, a monk
of the same pkce, to be by him governed with the authority
then possessed by bishops. Of which matter, that my rela-
tion may obviate every doubt, I shall subjoin his own
words.
" I, Leutherius, by divine permission bishop supreme of
the Saxon see, am requested by the abbots who, within the
jurisdiction of our diocese, preside over the conventual
assemblies of monks with pastoral an.xiety, to give and to
grant that portion of land called Meildulfesburh to Aldhelm
the priest, for the purpose of leading a life according to
strict rule : in which place, indeed, from his earliest infancy
and first initiation in the study of learning, he has been
instructed in the liberal arts, and passed his days, nurtured
in the bosom of the holy mother church; and on which
account fraternal love appears principally to have conceived
this request : wherefore assenting to the petition of the
aforesaid abbots, I -willingly grant that place to him and his
successors, who shall sedulously follow the laws of the holy
institution. Done publicly near the river Bladon, this
seventh of the kalends of September, in the year of our
Lord's incarnation si.x hundred and seventy-two."
But when the industrj- of the abbot was superadded to the
kindness of the bishop, then the affairs of the monastery
began to flourish exceedingly : then monks assembled on all
sides ; there was a general concourse to Aldhelm ; some
admiring the sanctity of his life, others the depth of his
leaminff. For he was a man as unsophisticated in religion
as multifarious in knowledge: whose piety surpassed even
his reputation ; and he had so fully imbibed the liberal arts,
that he was wonderful in each of them, and mirivaUed in
all. I greatly err, if his works written on the subject of
Yirginitj-, than which, in my opinion, nothing can be more
pleasing or more splendid, are not proofs of his immortal
genius ; although, such is the slothf ulness of our times, they
may excite disgust in some persons, not duly considering
how modes of expression differ according to the customs of
nations. The Greeks, for instance, express themselves in-
volvedly, the Romans clearly, the Gauls gorgeously, the
Angles turgidly. And truly, as it is pleasant to dwell on
the graces of our ancestors and to animate our minds by
their example, I would here, most willingly, unfold what
painful labours this holy man encountered for the privileges
of our church, and with what miracles he signalised his life,
did not my avocations lead me elsewhere ; and his noble acts
appear clearer even to the eye of the purblind, than they
can possibly be sketched by my pencil. The innumerable
miracles which at this time take place at his tomb, manifest
10
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.u (i:(l
to the present race the sanctity of the life he passed. He
has therefore his proper praise ; he has the fame acquired by
his merits : my history pursues its course.
William of Malme.sbury wrote a life of Aldhelm, in
wliich he says that lie was unequalled as an inventor
and singer of English verse, and that a song ascribed
to him, whicli was still familiar among the people in
King Alfred's days, luwl been sung by him on the
bridge between Malmesbury and the country, to
prevent people from running away after mass was
sung without waiting to hear the sermon. He began
the song as a gleeman, with matter to which they
listened for their pleasure, gi-adually Ijlended words
of Scripture \\-ith his jesting, and " so brought health,
to tlieir minds when he could have done nothing if
he had thouglit to manage them severely and by
excommunication." It is not improbable that among
•extant First-English poems are some of Aldhelm's
pieces, but there is no piece known to be his. HLs
Latin works remain, including the books in praise of
virginity, to which William of Malmesbui-y refen-ed.
■One Ls in prose, and after a long introduction in
praLse of purity proceeds to celebrate some holy men
said many holy women who were dLstinguished for
theii- exaltation of the soul over the flesh. In his
poem, " De Laudibus Virginitatis," there is a shoi-ter
introduction, and it consists of a series of little
celebrations, many of coiu'se honouring saints who
had already been celebrated in his prose. Aldlielm's
poem, " Of Maidens' Praise," begins thus with —
AN INVOC.A.TIOX.'
Almighty Maker, Master of the World,
Who shap'st the starry Heaven's shining dome.
And formest Earth's foundations hy thy Word ;
Paint' st the pale meadows with their purple bloom,
Hein'st the blue waters of the wave-roDed plain
Lest they have force to flood the dry land's hound
^\Tiere checks of cliff shatter the rising main ;
Thine the firm grasp of frost on tilth of ground.
Thou mak'st increase the seed in mists of rain ;
Thou takest away darkness with twin lights.
Titan day's comrade, Cj-nthia the night's ;
Thou hast adorned the waters and made fair
The scaly squadrons of the gray abyss ;
Through Thee swift hosts that soar in the clear air
Chirp and to echoes pipe resounding bliss.
* These are the lines themselves :—
" Omnipotens genitor, mimflum ditione jrubemans,
Lticida stelligeri qui condis culmina cceb.
Nee non telluris fonnaa fundamina verbo ;
Pallida purpureo pingis qui flore vireta,
Sic quoque fluctivagi refrenas coerula ponti,
Mergere ne valeant terrarum littora lymphis,
Sed tumidos frangant fluctus obstacnla rupis
Arrorum gelido qui cnltu3 fonte rigabis,
Et segetiim glumas uimbosis imbribus auges ;
Qui latcbras mundi geminate sidere demis,
Nempe diem Titan, et noctem Cynthia comit ;
Piscibus sequoreos qui campos pinguibus omas,
Sqnamisreras formans in glauco gurgite turmas ;
Limpida praepetibus sic comples aera catenris,
Gamila quae rostris resonantes cantica pipant,
Atqne Creatorem diversa voce fatentur :
Da pius anxilium, Clemens, nt carmine possim,
Incljta sanctorum modulari gesta priomm."
In differing notes their many voices raise
Ever one song to their Creator's praise :
Help me Thou, Merciful, my song to bring.
That I the famous deeds of saints of old may sing
Tlie central line of religious thought in the old
First-English times, traceable from Caedmon to
Aldhelm, whose work was commenced in Caedmon's
lifetime, passes on from Aldhelm to Bede, who
began his work in Aldhelm's lifetime, and was
thirty-six years old when Aldhelm died. Bede was
bom in, or within a few months of, the year 673,
about the time when Ciedmon's Paraphra.se was
written. Wh.en he was a child, Benedict Biscop
founded th.e twin monasteries of St. Peter and St.
Paul at Wearmouth and Jan-ow. St. Peter's at
Weai-mouth was first ready, and Bede entered it
when he was seven yeai-s old. St. Paul's, on a
bank of the Tyne about five miles from St. Peter's,
was ready for opening when Bede was ten, and he
was one of those inmates of St. Peter's who were
removed to it. From the age of ten for the next
fifty-two yeai-s, untU his death in the year 73.5,
Bede's home was in the JaiTow monastery, humbly
fulfilling all his duties as a monk, and giving to
useful studies all the time that was not spent in the
exercises of religion. He compiled clear Latin
treatises upon all branches of knowledge cultivated
in his day, and digested into manuals the essenc<^ of
the Scripture teaching of the Fathers. His labour
supplied the best text-books for the monastery schools,
wliich were the centres of education in all parts of
the country, and the readiest aids for elder men to
an exact study of the Bible. A book of his on
the Nature of Things was for centuries the accejited
manual for the learning of what was then known
of the laws Of nature ; and his Ecclesiastical History,
which ends with the year 731, is our first histoiy
of England. In it all information then to be
obtained wa-s collected and arranged with scholaily
care and clearness, and this book Ls in our own
day the chief source of information as to the events
of which it treats. The chapter of it in w-hicli
Csedmon's stoiy is told has been already quoted. '-
Bede's fame spread in his own day over the Christian
world, yet he refused to be made abbot at Jarrow,
because, he said, " the office demands household care,
and household care brings with it distraction of
mind, which hindei-s the pursuit of learning." At
the end of his Ecclesiastical History of England,
which he was finishing in the year 731, he wrote : —
Thus much of the ecclesiastical history of Britain, and
more especially of the English nation, as far as I could Icam
either from the writings of the ancients, or the tradition of
our ancestors, or of my own knowledge, has, with the hf.-lji of
God, been digested by me, Bede, the servant of God, and
priest of the monastery of the blessed apostles, Peter and
Paul, which is at Wearmouth and Jarrow ; who being bom
in the territory of that same monastery, was given, at seven
years of age, to be educated by the most reverend Abbot
Benedict, and afterwards by Ceolf rid ; and spending all the
remaining time of my life in that monastery, I wholly applied
myself to the study of Scripture, and amidst the observance of
* On page 4.
TO A.D. 735.]
RELIGION.
11
regular discipline, and the daily care of singing in the church,
I :ilways took delight in learning, teaching, and writing. In
the nineteenth year of my age, I received deacon's orders,
in the thirtieth, those of the priesthood, both of them by the
ministry of the most reverend Bishop John, and by order of
the Abbot Ceolfrid. From which time, till the fifty-ninth
year of my age, I have made it my business, for the use of
me and mine, to compile out of the works of the venerable
Fathers, and to interpret and explain according to their
meaning, these following pieces : —
The list of his works foUows, to which he adds —
And now, I beseech thee, good Jesus, that to whom thou
hast graciously granted sweetly to partake of the words of
thy wisdom and knowledge, thou wilt also vouchsafe that he
may some time or other come to thee, tlie fountain of all
wisdom, and always appear before thy face, who livest and
rcignest world without end. Amen !
Tradition explained the word "Venerable" joined
always to the name of Bede, by saying that after his
death one of his pupils sought to write his epitaph
in a line of metrical Latin, and left space for the
adjective he had not yet found to fit his verse while
it expressed his meaning. " In this grave are the
bones of Bede." " Hac sunt in fossa
Bedte ossa." The student slept over his
unfinished line, and when he awoke, found that an
angel had finished his verse with a word added in
lines of light — "Hac sunt in fossa Bedte Venerabilis
ossa."'
A pupil of Bede, named Cuthbert, described to a
fellow-student the death of their beloved master in a
letter that is extant. It faithfully paints to us the
religion of this humble, indefatigable scholar : —
cuthbert's letter on the death of \'ENERABLE
BEDE.
To his fellow-reader Cuthwin, beloved in Christ, Cuthbert,
hi.s schoolfellow ; health for ever in the Lord. I have
received with much pleasure the small present which you
sent me, and with much satisfaction read the letters of your
devout erudition; wherein I found that masses and holy
prayers are diligently celebrated by you for our father and
master, Bede, whom God loved : this was what I principally
ilesired. and therefore it is more pleasing, for the love of him
(according to my capacity), in a few words to relate in what
nianner he departed this world, understanding that you also
desire and ask the same. He was much troubled with short-
ness of breath, yet without pain, before the day of our Lord's
resurrection, that is, about a fortnight, and thus he after-
wards passed his life, cheerful and rejoicing, giving thanks
to Almighty God every day and night, nay, everj' hour, till
the day of our Lord's ascension, that is, the seventh before
the kalends of June [twenty-sixth of 3Iay], and daily read
lossons to us his disciples, and whatever remained of the day,
he spent in singing psalms ; he also passed all the night
awake, in joy and thanksgiving, unless a short sleep pre-
vented it ; in which case he no sooner awoke than he
presently repeated his wonted exercises, and ceased not to
give thanks to God with uplifted hands. I declare with
truth, that I have never seen with my eyes, nor heard with
my cars, any man so earnest in giving thanks to the li\-ing
God.
" In this gi-ave are tlie bones of the Venerable Bede."
O truly happy man I He chanted the sentence of St.
Paul the apostle, "It is fearful to fall into the hands of the
lii-ing God," and much more, out of Holy Writ; wherein also-
he admonished us to tliink of our last hour, and to shake off
the sleep of the soul; and being learned in our poetry, he
said some things also in our tongue, for he Siiid, putting the
same into English,
' For tham ueod-fere,
Nenij^ wyrtheth
Thances snottra
Thoune him tUearf sy
To gehiggene
Mt his heoueu-gange
Hw^t his gaste
Godes oththe yveles
.a^er deathe heoneu
Demed wiu-the."
which means this : —
" For the journey we must aU take no man becomes wiser
of thought than he needs be to consider before his going-
hence for what good or evil his soul shall be judged after
its departure."
He also sang antiphons according to our custom and his-
own, one of which is, " glorious King, Lord of all power,
who, triumphing this day, didst ascend above all the heavens;
do not forsake us orphans ; but send down upon us the Spirit
of truth which was promised to us by the Father. Hallelu-
jah." And when he came to that word, " do not forsake us,"
he burst into tears, and wept much, and an hour after he
began to repeat what he had commenced, and we, hearing it,
mourned with him. By turns we read, and by turns we
wept, nay, we wept always whilst we read. In such joy we
passed the days of Lent, till the aforesaid day; and he-
rejoiced much, and gave God thanks, because he had been
thought worthy to be so weakened. He often repeated,
"That God scourgeth every son whom he receiveth;" and
much more out of Holy Scripture ; as also this sentence from
St. Ambrose, " I have not lived so as to be ashamed to live
among you ; nor do I fear to die, because we have a gracious
God." During these days he laboured to compose two works
well worthy to be remembered, besides the lessons we had
from him, and singing of Psalms; viz., he translated the
Gospel of St. John as far as the words, " But what are they
among so many," &c. [St. John vi. 9], into our own tongue
for the benefit of the church ; and some collections out of the
Book of Notes of Bishop Isidorus, saying : " I will not have
my pupils read a falsehood, nor labour therein -n-ithout profit
after my death." WTien the Tuesday before the ascension of
our Lord came, he began to suffer still more in his breath,
and a small swelling appeared in his feet ; but ho passed all
that day and dictated cheerfully, and now and then among
other things, said, " Go on quickly, I know not how long I
shall hold out, and whether my Maker will not soon take me
away." But to us he seemed very well to know the time of
his departure. And so he spent the night, awake, in thanks-
giving ; and when the morning appeared, that is, "Wednesday,,
he ordered us to wTite ^-ith all speed what he had begun ;
and tliis done, we walked till the third hour with the relics of
saints, according to the custom of that day. There was one
of us -with him, who said to him, " Most dear master, there is
still one chapter wanting : do you think it troublesome to be
asked any more questions ?'' He answered, " It is no trouble.
Take your pen, and make ready, and write fast." Which he
did, but at the ninth hour he said to me, " I have some little
articles of value in my chest, such as pepper, napkins, and
incense : run quickly, and bring the priests of our monastery
to me, that I may distribute among them the gifts which
God has bestowed on me. The rich in this world are bent
on gi\-ing gold and silver and other precious things. But I,
in charity, will joyfully give my brothers what God has-
given unto me." He spoke to every one of them, admonish-
ing and entreating them that they would carefully say
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[A.D. 735
masses and prayers for him, which they readily promised :
but they all mourned and wept, especially because he said,
"They should no more see his face in this world." They
rejoiced for tliat ho said, " It is time that I rotura to Hini
who formed me out of nothing: I have lived long; my
merciful Judge well foresaw my life for me ; the time of my
dissolution draws nigh; for I desire to die and to be with
Ohrist." Having said much more, ho passed the day Joyfully
till the evening ; and the boy, above mentioned, said : " Dear
master, there is yet one sentence not written.'' He answered,
•' Write quickly.'' Soon after, the boy said, " The sentence
is now written." He replied, " It is well, you have said the
truth. It is ended. Receive my head into your hands, for
it is a great satisfaction to me to sit facing my holy place,
■where I was wont to pray, that I may also sitting call upon
my Father." And thus on the pavement of his little cell,
singing, " Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the
Holy Ghost," when he had named the Holy Ghost, he
hreathed his last, and so depai-tod to the heavenly kingdom.
AU who were present at the death of the blessed father, said
they had never seen any other person expii'O with so much
devotion, and in so tranquil a frame of mind. For as you
have heard, so long as the soul animated his body, he never
ceased to give thanks to the true and living God, with
e.xpandcd hands exclaiming, " Glory be to the Father, and
to the Son, and to the Holy (ihost!" with other spiritual
ejaculations. But know this, dearest brother, that I could
say much concerning him, if my want of learning did not cut
short my discourse. Nevertheless, by the grace of God, I
purpose shortly to write more concerning him; particularly of
those things which I saw with my own eyes, and heard with
my own ears.
The torch passed from Bede to Alciiin, horn,
probahly, in the year of the deatli of Bede, a.d. 735.
Alcuin, like Ciedmon and Bede, was a North countiy-
man. He was taken as an infant into tlie monastery
at York, there trained to the service of the Church,
and when his studious character had declared itself,
he acquired charge over tlie minster school and
the library, then one of the best in England. On
the library wall Alcuin caused four lines to this effect
to be inscribed in Latin verses of his own : —
ON A LIBRARY.
" Small is the .space which contains the gifts of heavenly
Wisdom
Wliich you. Reader, rejoice piously here to receive ;
Richer than richest gifts of the kings this treasure of
Wisdom ;
Light, for the seeker of this, shines on the road to
the Day."
Cliarlemagne was in those days establishing his rule ;
and looking to First-English civilisation for the
guidance of his own attempts to civilise his empire,
he drew to his side the learned Yorkshireman as
a sort of Minister of Public Instruction. Alcuin
established discipline in the monasteries under
Charlemagne's dominion, wrote text-books for their
schools, attacked what he believed to be heresies of
the time, was not less religious than Bede, though less
gentle, for he was stern of opinion and energetic in
administration, while recognising all the Cliristian
graces, and labouring to temper even Charlemagne's
delight in war with tlie spirit of mercy. His phrase
for himself was " the humble Levite." He was in
a position favourable in the highest degree to self-
seeking, but thei-e is not a trace in his life or writing
of any thought that set advantage of his own before
the well-being of humanity. He gathered to himself
no riches, but spent shrewd energies, that would
have enabled him to compass any low object of
worldly ambition, in strenuous labour to serve God
by establishing His kingdom in the hearts of men.
Alcuin died iii the year 801. One of his books
(written in Latin) is a short treatise " On the
Virtues and Vices," wi-itten for Wido, Margrave of
Brittany, governor, therefore, of the province that
contained the Abbey of Tours, in which Alcuin died.
This treatise, written at Wido's request to help him in
the government of his own life, began with Wisdom
V'^^
Treasure of Wisdom. (From the MS. of Cadinon.)
and the three great Christian virtues — Faith, Hope,
Charity — then in a series of short chapters gave the
chai'acters of the chief virtues and vices, with jirac-
tical counsel upon them, enforced by citations of
Scripture. There are six-and-thirty chapters in the
book, of which these are the last two : —
FROM ALCUIN S BOOK ON THE VIRTUES AND VICES.
Chapter XXXV. — The Four Virtues.^
First is to be known what Virtue is. Virtue is a state
of the sold, a grace of nature, a reason in life, a piety in
manners, the worship of the Deity, the honour of the man,
the deserving of eternal happiness. The parts of it, as wo
have said, ai-e four in chief — Prudence, Justice, Courage,
Temperance. Prudence is knowledge of divine and human
' The Four Virtues. He means the four Virtues called cardinal,
■which were Pmdeuce or Wisdom, Justice, Coura'^e, Temperance. lu
Plato's Republic the orders iu a state are said to be three — Guardians,
Auxiliaries, Producers; the virtues of a state three— Wisdom (quality
of the Guardians), Courai^e (of the Auxiliaries), Temperance (of the
Producers and of all) ; Justice, the fourth Virtue, beinj; the Harmony
of All. These virtues coiTespond also, said Plato, in the individual to
TO A.D. 804]
RELIGION.
things, as far as that is given to man ; by which is to be
understood what a man should avoid, or what ho should do :
and this is what is read in the Psalm, Depart from eril and
do good. Justice is a nobiUty of the mind, ascribing to
each thing its proper dignity. By thi.s, the study of divinity,
rights of humanity. Just judgments, and the equity of our
whole life may be preserved. Courage is a great patience of
the mind and long suffering, with perseverance in good
works, and victory over aU kinds of vices. Temperance is
the measure of the whole life, lest a man love or hate too
much, but that a considerate attention temper all varieties
of life. But to those who shall keep these in faith and
charity, are promised the rewards of eternal glory by the
truth itself in Christ Jesus. There is no better Prudence than
that by which God is understood and feared according- to
the measure of the human mind, and his future judgment is
believed. And what is more Just than to love God and keep
his commandments ? through whom, when we were not, we
were created, and when we wore lost we were created anew,
and freed from the bondage of sin ; who freely gave vis all
the good we have. And in this Coirrage what is better than
to overcome the devil, and triumph over all his suggestions,
to bear firmly in God's name all the troubles of the world r
A very noble i-irtue is Temperance, in which stands among
men all the honour of this life ; that a man shall, in what-
■ever cause, think, speak, and do all things with regard to his
well-being. But these things are light and sweet to the man
loving God, who says, Learn of me, for I am meek and lowly
■of heart, and ye shall find rest unto your souls ; for my
yoke is easy, and my burden is light. Is it not better and
iappier to love God, who is eternal beauty, eternal fra-
grance, eternal rapture, eternal harmony, eternal sweetness,
honour perpetual and happiness without an end, than to love
the vain shows and disquiets of this age — the fair appear-
ances, sweet savours, soft sounds, fragi-ant odours and things
pleasant to the touch, the passing delights and honours of
the world, that all recede and vanish as a flying shadow,
deceive the lover of himself, and send him to eternal misery ?
But he who faithfully loves God and the Lord, unceasingly
worships Him, and steadily fulfils His commandments, shall
he made worthy to possess eternal glory with His angels.
Ch.ipter XXXVI. — Peroration of the Work.
These things have I set down for you, my sweetest son, in
shoi-t discourse, as you requested ; that you may have them
always in youi- sight as a little handbook, in which you may
consider with yourself what you ought to avoid, or what to
do, and be exhorted in each prosperous or adverse accident
of this world how you should mount to the height of perfec-
tion. And do not let the quality of the lay habit or secular
companionship deter you, as if in that dress you could not
enter the gates of heaven. Since there are preached, equally
to all, the blessings of the kingdom of God, so to every se.x,
age, and jjerson equally, according to the height of merit,
does the way into the kingdom of God lie open. There it is
not distinguished who was in this world layman or clerk,
rich man or poor, youth or elder, master or .slave ; but each
one according to the merit of his deeds shall bo crowned
with eternal glory. Amen.
three qualities — Wisflom to the Rational, Courage to the SpLrited,
Temperance to the Appetitive ; while Injustice disturbs their Har-
mony. It is the Just aini alike of a Man and of a State to be Tem-
perate, Bn-ave, and Wi&e. lu his Protagora-s Plato added to these four
•cardinal virtues Holiness (oo-ioTfit) ; the ei-fft/Jtm frequently men-
tioned as a virtue by the Socrates of Xenopbou. Aristotle omitted
this, distifictly separating Ethics from Religion.
Apart from C'setlmon's Paraphrase, the religious
poetry of the First English is now chiefly in two
collections : the one known as the " Vercelli Book,"
because it was discovered in 1823 by Dr. Friedrich
Blunie, in a monastery at Vercelli ; the other known
as the " E.Keter Book," because it is in the Chapter
Library of Exeter Cathedral, to which it was given,
with other volumes, by Bishop Leofric between the
years 1046 and 1073. The " Exeter Book" begins
with a fine poem, in nearly 3,400 lines, on Christ, by
Cvnewulf, who is represented also in the "' Exeter
Book " by a long poem on the Legend of St.
Juliana, and in the "Vercelli Book" by neaily 3,000
lines on the Legend of St. Helen, or the Finding
of the Cross. Jacob Grimm was probably right in
suggesting that this poet was a Cynewulf, Bishop of
Lindisfarne, who died in the year 780. He asso-
ciated his name with his work by scattering the
letters of it conspicuously o^'er some short passage
in each of his longer poems. Other metrical legends
in these books are that of St. Andrew, in 3,444
lines, and a shorter legend of St. Guthlac. There
are also two poems of a form that survived First-
English times. Addresses of the Soul to tlie Body,
.several religious allegories, of the Phcenix, of the
Panther, concerning whom a fable is applied to the
ResuiTection, and the Whale, " cmel and tierce to
seafarers," who is described as a type of the Devil.
Of him the fable is that he draws his prey by send-
ing a sweet odour from his mouth. " Then suddenly
around the prey the grim gums crash together. So
it is to every man who often and negligently in this
stormy world lets himself be deceived by sweet
odour. . . . Hell's latticed doors have not return or
escape, or any outlet for those who enter, any more
than the fishes sporting in ocean can turn back
from the whale's grip." In the First-English artist's
illustration to Caedmon's Fall of the Angels ' and
other drawings of his, the open jaws of the whale
represent the mouth of hell. We shall find this
symbol retained in mediasval literature. Among the
•shorter poems is one called "The Sea-farer." This
builds an allegory upon our English desire towards
the sea, and represents under the figure of seafaring
the leaving earth behind and its unstable joys, for
lonely watching and striving, against all cold discou-
ragements and through all trial in the tumults of
the spiritual storm, uncared for by those who choose
earth and its pleasures. Let me try to translate
THE SEAFARER.
I may sing of myself now
A song that is true,
Can tell of wide travel.
Of hard days of toil ;
How oft through long seasons
I suffered and strove.
Abiding witliin my breast
Bitterest care ;
How I sailed among sorrows
In many a sea ; 10
The wild rise of the waves,
The close watch through the night
^ See page 7.
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CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 700
At the dark i^row in danger
Of dashing on rock,
Folded in by the frost,
5Iy feet bound liy the cold
In diill bands, in tlio breast
The heart burning with Ciire.
The soul of the sea wearj-
Hunger assailed.
Knows not ho who find^ happiest
Home upon earth
How I lived through long winters
In labour and care.
On the icy-cold ocean,
An exile from joy,
Cut off from dear kindi'ed,
Encompassed with ice.
Hail Hew in hard showers.
And nothing I heard
But the wrath of the waters,
The icy-cold way ;
At times the swan's song ;
In the scream of the gannet
I sought for my joy.
In the moan of the sea-whelp
For laughter of men.
In the song of the sea-mew
For drinking of mead.
8t;irlings answered the stoi-m
Beating stones on the cliff,
Icy-featliered, and often
The eagle would shriek,
Wet of wing.
Not one home-friend could feel
With th(^ desolate soul ;
For he little believes
To whom life's joy belongs
In the town, lightly troubled
AVith dangerous tracks.
Vain •nith high spirit
And wanton with wine,
How often I wearily
Held my sea-way.
The night shadows darkened.
It snowed from the north ;
The rime bound the rocks ;
The hail rolled upon earth.
Coldest of corn :
Therefore now is high heaving
In thoughts of my heart,
That my lot is, to learn
The wide joy of waters
The whirl of salt spray.
Often desire drives
lly soul to depart,
That the home of the strangers
Far hence I may seek.
There is no man among us
So proud in his mind,
Nor so good in his gifts.
Nor so gay in his youth.
Nor so daring in deeds,
Nor so dear to his lord,
That his soul never stirred
At the thought of seafaring,
Or what his great Master
Will do with him yet.
He hears not the harp,
Heeds not giving of rings, 80
Has to woman no wiU,
And no hope in the world,
20 Nor in aught there is else
But the wash of the waves.
He lives ever longing
WTio looks to the sea.
Groves bud with green,
The hills grow fair,
Gay shine the fields.
The world's astir : 90
All this but warns
The willing mind
30 To set the sail,
For so he thinks
Far on the waves
To win his way.
With woeful note
The cuckoo warns.
The simimer's warden sings.
And sorrow rules 100
The heart-store bitterly.
No man can know,
40 Nmsed in soft ease.
The bm-den borne
By those who fare
The farthest from their friends.
In the soul's secret chamber
My mind now is set ;
My heart's thought on wide waters.
The home of the whale, 110
It wanders away
50 Beyond limits of land :
Comes again to me, yearning
AVith eager desire ;
Loud erics the lone-flier,
And stii's the mind's longing
To travel the way that is trackless.
The death-way over the flood.
For my will to my JIaster's pleasui-e
Is warmer than tliis dead life 1 20
That is lent us on land.
60 I believe not
That earth-blessings ever abide.
Ever of three things one.
To each ere the severing hour ;
Old age, sickness, or slaughter.
Will force the doomed soid to depart.
Therefore for each of the earls,
Of those who shall afterwards name them.
This is best laud from the living 130
In last words spoken about him : —
He worked ere he went his way.
When on earth, against wiles of the foe.
With brave deeds overcoming the devil.
His memory cherished
By children of men.
His glory grows ever
TO i.D. 800.]
RELIGION.
13
140
150
160
With angels of God,
In life everlasting
Of bliss with the bold.
Passed are the days of the pride
Of the kingdoms of earth.
Kings are no more, and kaisers.
None count out,
As once they did, their gifts of gold
When that made them most great,
And 3Ian judged that they lived
As Lords most High.
That fame is all fallen.
Those joys are all fled;
The weak ones abiding
Lay hold on the world :
"By their labour they win.
High fortune is humbled ;
Earth's haughtiness ages
And wastes, — as now withers
Each JIan from the world :
Old Age is upon him
And bleaches his face ;
He is gray-haired and grieves,
Knows he now must give up
The old friends he cherished,
Chief children of eai"th.
The husk of flesh.
When life is fled,
Shall taste no sweetness.
Feel no sore ;
Is in its hand no touch :
Is in its brain no thought.
Though his bom brother
Strew gold in the grave.
Bury him pompously
Borne to the dead.
Entomb him with treasure.
The trouble is vain :
The soul of the sinful
His gold may not save
From the. awe before God,
Though he hoarded it heedfully
WTiile he lived here.
Oreat awe is in presence of God.'
The firm ground trembles before Him
■UTio strongly fixed its foundations.
The limits of earth and the heavens.
Fool is he without fear of the Lord ;
To him will come death unforeseen :
Happy he who is lowly of Ufo ;
To him wUl come honour from heaven :
The Creator will strengthen his soul
Because he put trust in Hia power.
Rude will shoidd be ruled
And restrained within bound
And clean in its ways with men.
1 Tliis line begins a new leaf, and although there is no sign of its
lemoval, Mr. Thorpe supposed that a leaf had been lost from the
book between the preceding line and this, which he believed to belong
to the close of another poem. But surely there is a clear sequence
«{ thought.
180
170
If every man
Kept measme in mind
With friend and with foe,-
More force is in fate,
In the Maker more might.
Than in thought of a man.
Let us look to the home
Where in truth we can live.
And then let us be thinking
How thither to come :
For then we too shall toil
That our travel may reach
To delight never ending,
When life is made free
In the love of the Lord
In the height of the heavens !
May we thank the All Holy
Who gave us this grace, —
The Wielder of glorj-,
The Lord everlasting, —
In time without end 1 Amen.
200
210
Cynewulf s " Christ," of which tLe original open-
ing is lost, begins for us wth praise of Chi-ist as
the conier-stone that the buildei-s rejected, and with
looking to Christ from the prison of this world. The
poet then dwells on the mystery of the pure bii-th of
the Savioiu', and pa.s.ses to a hymning of praise of the
Vii-gin, '• the delight of women among all the hosts
of heaven." The theme of the Nativity is ajv
proached with an imagined diakigiie between Joseph
and Mai-y, and passes again into a .strain of joyovLs
hymning. In the one measure common to all Fii-st-
English ]X)etiT, which I put into another form
•without change of hLs thoughts, Cj'newulf sings his
CALL FOK CHRIST.
Come now, thou Lord of Victor}-, Creator of Mankind,
Make manifest Thy tenderness in mercy to us here !
Need is there for us all in Thee thy ^lother's kin to find.
Though to thy Father's mystery we cannot yet come near.
Christ, Saviour, by Thy coming bless this earth of ours with
love;
The golden gates, so long fast barred, do Thou, O Heavenly
King,
Bid now unclose, that humbly Thou, descending from above.
Seek us on earth, for we have need of blessing Thou canst
190 bring.
With fangs of death the accursed woU hath scattered, Loid,
the flock
That with Thy blood, in time of old, O Master, thou hast
bought ;
He has us in fierce clutch ; we are his prey, his mock,
He scorns our soul's desire ; wherefore, to Thee is all our
thought.
- Though written without break, the original is here defective,
through some oversight of the copyist.
16
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 700'
Thee, our Preserver, earnestly we jiray that Thou devise
For sad exiles a speedy helj) ; let the dark spirit fall
To depths of hell : but let thy -work, Creator, let man rise
Justly to that high realm whence the Accursed ihew us all.
Through love of sin he drew us that, bereft of heaven's
light,
We siiftiT endless miseries, betrayed for evermore.
Unless Thou come to save us from the slayer. Lord of Might !
Shelter of 3Ian 1 Living God '. come soon, our need is
sore !
( 'niewiilf tlieu fontiniiinj; tlie theme of tlie Nativity
with renewed ]u'nise of the Virgin, pa.sses to the
lesiurection, the a.scensiou, tlie descent into hell,
:ind liljeration of the sonls who there tnvaited the
Ijord's coming; and he closes his poem with hymns
of ]H-aise and thanksgi\ing to Gotl wlio gives us food
ami all blessings of this life, the sun and moou, the
dew and rain, the increase of the earth, and the
salvation of the soul through Christ.
Outside the Exeter and Yercelli Books, the most
imjiortant First-English religious jioem is a fragment
on the story of Judith, which, although a fragment,
includes the part to whieli the poet gave his highest
enei-gy, the slaying of Iloloferues, and the welcoming
of Judith by the city she had saved. Tiiis jioem is
in the same MS. which contains the great poem of
Beowulf, not religious, but a record of the Northern
The PsAiMlST.
f ro.ii a Pmller oj Die Tenth Ccnlunj, CMInii MS. Tlhcriiis, C. vi.
life of oiu- forefathers before they had received Chris-
tianity. The place for some representation of
Beowulf will be in the section of this Library that
describes om- larger works in vei-se and prose. There
are also Fii'st-English hymns and prayers in various
MSS.,and a version of the Psalms, partly in prose,
partly in vei-se. which from Rsulm li. to cl. belongs
to the eighth century, and was, perhaps, by Aldhelm.
I five one of these versified Psalms of I)a\id — the
sixty-seventh — as an example of Fii-st English.
FIRST-EXULISH MET
URAL VERSION OF PSALM LXVII.^
Verse 1. Miltsa us, mihtig drihten,
and us on mode eac
gebletsa nu 1
beorhte leohte
thiime andwlitan and us
on ninde weorth
thunih thine mycelnesse
milde and blithe I
2. And we tha'S on enrthan
andgyt habbath
and I'ire wegaswide
geond this werthcodc
on thinre halo
healdan motan.
3. Folc the andctte '.
thvi cart fade tiod ;
and the andetten
calle theoda I
1 iVIilfsij, Be merciful. "Milts," mercy; " milts-ian," to pity, to-
be gracious. Allied to the word "mild." — Mi}iii<j, migbty; tbe h
baviug beeu strougly aspirated is uow reiireseuted by gli, the softeued
g by 1/. — Di-ihtcn, Lord; "dribt," a household; "drihten," lord,
as the sui>rerae father and ruler. — Ou vwde, in mind (mood). —
Gchhtsa nu, bless now. — Beorhte, brightly; e, a case-ending, passed
into adverbial sign. — Lc.'i/tfc, make shine. — Thinne andiditan, thy face
"andwlita" = German " autlitz." It is a masculine noun ending iu
a, and therefore of the first declension, which consists only of nouns-
ending iu the vowels a or e, and is thus inflected—
Silirj.
Pill.
Nom.
Gen. ^
Dat. & Abl. S
Ace. .
N.
-e
Nom. & Ace.
Gen. .
Dat. & AM.
-eua
-um
The 71C iu " thiunc " is the sign of the accusative masculine in
iudefiu te adjectives and pronouns. Adjectives used definitely ire
iuflectt I like the first declension of nouns, according to the form just
given. If used indefinitely, they are inflected thus —
Sinj.
Nom
„ (u)
,,
Gen.
-es
-re
-es
Bat.
-um
-re
-um
Ace.
-lie
-e
Abl.
-c
-re
-e
Nom
&Acc.
-e (ui
Geu.
-ra
Dat.
tAbl.
-um
Ph.
irt'oW/i J become; "weorthau." to become, be. Tbe word is used in
sucb P. phrase us "woe worth the day."— niurnh thine mycelnesse,
through thy ( niickleuess ) erreatuess.— Th(Fs ( adverb ) , for this. — .^1 ndgyt,
understandiug'.— TtV hahhath, we have, or shall have. There was no
future tense iu Fii-st English ; the present represented it. -nf/t
was the plui*al sig-n in tbe present indicative of verbs where the pro-
noun preceded the verb, c if tlie pronouu followed. The present
of *' habbau," to have, in which the r is formed by soft pronunciation
of the h, shows the original softening: of tbe h into an /, which has
since beeu softened out of existence altogether. Ic babbe or bcebbe
= have; thu hcefst— ha(f)st ; he hsefth— halfltb ; we, ge or hi hab-
bath, or habbe we, ge or hi. So iu the past " haefde " becomes
"ha(f)d." — Vrc wcgas, our ways. "Weg," way, a masculine noun
ending in a consonant, is of the second declensiou, which contains
TO A.D. 8M).]
EELIGION.
17
4. Hiebte thies gefein
folca oeghwylc
and blissicn
bealde thcoju.
thtcs the thu hi on rihtiun
rajdiim demest
and eoilhbuendi
ealle healdest !
5. Folc the andetten
fa."lna diihten
and the andetten
ealle theoda '.
6. Ge him eorthe syleth
icthele wa-stmc :
gebletsige us
blithe drihtcn
and usic God
eat bletsige I
ha'bbc his egesan
call eoithan gcma?iu !
The Gospels wei* read to the people in their own
tongue as part of the Church service in First-English
times, and we have seen that Bede, when he died,
was bu-sj- upon translation of the Gospel of St. John.
The First-EnglLsh Gospels ha\e come down to tis
in several MSS., and were lirst printed after the
iieformation, at the instance of Archbishop Matthew
Parker. They were i>iiblislied in the year 1571, -with
u'enerally all nouns eudiui; iu a consonant,
the second declension is —
Tlie form of inflexion for
Stiiy. Norn. ,, (e
Gen. -e^ -e -es
Dat. & Abl. -e .e -e
Ace. .. (e I -e ,,
Plu. Nom. &Acc. -as -a
Gen. -J -a -a
Dat. & Abl. -urn -urn -um
Tlie a.s in " wegas " is, it will he seen, the form of the nominative or
accusative plural only in masculines of this declension. It is the
.sole source of the modem English plural iu .s, though coincidence
with the Jforman-French plural iu .^ favoured its exteusiou in modem
Euslish to nouns of all classes. — ll'f'de, widely. The common use of
r as an adverbial eudiusr in First English, and the subsequent <lroi)-
Iiiug of the final e. causes many of the homely adverbs from the
Teutonic side of the hinguage to be now ahke iu spelling with the
adjectives from which the.v were made, as *' hit him hard," &c. —
Geond thas iccriheodc, among this people. " Geond " = " yond," the
;; being softened before the vowels. A g so modified was afterwards
represented by a modified letter, like a 5, and this is the origin of the
mistaken use of 2 in printing MS. so written. Nobody ever intended
to write "ze" or " zour." The modified letter rei>resented a 3,
softened sometimes to the sound of y, sometimes to a sound now
represented by gh. " Thas werthei->de ; " "wer" (= Latin "vir"),
man, is used in combination with " -theod," a people; "theod"
eu'iiug in a consonant is of the second declension, and it is feminine,
therefore (see the table given after the word "wegas"), it has an
accusative suigular iu e ; *' thas." agreeing with its noun, is the
accusative singular feminine of "this," a pronoun which was thus
inflected (the second .f iu " tbissf " and " thisjwi " being a modified r).
St II 3.
Nom
thes
theu.s
this
Geu.
thises
thUse
thises
Dat.
thisuni
thisse
tliisuin
Ace.
thisue
thu^
this
Abl.
Nom
i- Ace
thise
thisse
thise
Plu.
tbaa
Gen.
thissa
Dat.
& Abl.
thisum
On thinre hfflo
in thy health. '' HebIo," or "
liEeln," is indeclinable
Being feminine the pronoun — inflected like an adjective — takes the
67
a dedication to Queen Elizabeth. Tliere was another
edition of them by Dr. Marshall, rector of Lincoln
College, Oxford, published in 1G65, ^dth the Gotltic
version given by Francis Junius; and in 1842 they
were produced in a hand}- edition, carefully reedited
from the original manuscripts by Benjamin Thorpe,
who was in his day our most helpful worker at First
English. Here is from the sixth chapter of Matthew
THE lord's prayer IX FIRST ENGLISH :
Fa?der ure, thi the eart on heofenum, si thin nama
gehalgod. To-becunie thin riee. Geweorthe thin wiUa on
eorthan, swa swa on heofenum. I.' me cUcghwamliean hlaf
syle us to-dfeg. And forgj-f us ure gjltas, swa swa we
forgifuth uruni gj-ltendum. And ne gelcede thu us on
costnunge, ac alys us of ^-fle : Sothlice.
Alcuin died in the year 801, and between the
yeai-s 800 and 815, or about the time of the death of
Alcuin, John Scotus Erigena was born. Whether
born in Ireland, as is probable, or in Ayrshii-e as
some say, he seems to have had in his veins some of
that mixture of Celtic blood which gave audacity to
thought. He found his way to the court of Charles
the Bald, one of the sons of Alcuin's fiiend Charle-
magne, and was there held in high esteem for wit.
wisdom, and learning. He translated from Greek
into Latin a book on the '• Hierarchies of Heaven,"
inflexion re. (See the form already given to explain "tliinne.") —
HeaJdan moton, may be able to hold firm, or abide. " Healdan," to
hold, fasten, &c. ; ** mot," meaning must, ought, can, was in fl ected
thos in the present ; " ic mot, thu most, he mot ; we moton." In the
past, " ic mdste, . . . wemoston." — Foic the andfffe, let the people (the
foUr= German *' Volk") acknowledge thee. " Andetan," to confess;
"andetues," a confession, a creed; " andettan," to confess, acknow-
ledge, thank. — Fa^l, true, pure. — Gt'fea, joy, gladness. — JCyhirylc.
every one. JEij- as a prefix means *' ever, always." (It is the word
in the phrase "ever aud aye"). -hv:ylc (Scottish " whilk ") means
which or what. — Folca, of the peoples (see form of the second declen-
sion, given to explain "wegas"). — Blissian, to rejoice, be glad, — Beald
and bald, bold, high-spirited. — Theod being feminine, its nominative
plm^l is in a. — Hugs the, for this that ; thu, hi, thou, them : " the "
here is indeclinable. ** He, she, it " was declined —
Ge-
Sing. Nom,
he
hed
hit
Gen
his
hire
his
Dat.
him
hire
him
Ace.
hine
heo
hit
V
Plu. Nom. i Ace
hi, lug
Gen.
hira (heora*
Dat. & Abl.
him (heom)
usic. These were inflexions of "
thou " and '
I"—
Sing. Nom.
ic
thu
Gen
miu
thin
Dat. & Abl.
me
the
Ace.
me (mec(
the (thee)
Dwal (used only in
First-English for these pronoim
Nom.
wit
git
Gen.
uncer
incer
Dat. & Abl.
unc
inc
Ace.
unc
inc
Pill. Nom.
we
ge
Gen.
ure
edwer
Dat. & Abl.
us
edw
Ace.
lis (usic)
edw
SyUan, to give; oethel, noble; actpstm. fmit : egesa, awe; gem<eTu,
boundaries.— As to verbs, it may be added that -lan or -an is the sign
of the infinitive present. That the three conjugations are marked
by the way of making the past tense, the first by addition of -ode, -de,
or 'te, with or without change of the root-vowel, the second and third
by change of the root-vowel always without addition of -de or -(*\
18
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.b. 840
ascribed to Dionysius the Areopagite, who was sup-
posed to liave been converted by St. Paul, and after-
wards to have become first bishop of the Christians
at Athens. Erigena had already incurred suspicion
of heresy when he produced his Latin work, in iive
]iarts, on "The Division of Nature," a dialogue
between pupil and master, which was the starting-
point of a new school of philosopliy. In this book
he gave mystical interpretations of Scriptui'e, and
otherwise excited a very warm antagonism. After
the death of Charles the Bald, John Scotus Erigena
is said to have come to England, allured by the
munificence of King Alfred, and at Malmesbury to
have been stabbed to death by the styles of his
pupils, about the year 875.
King Alfred liad succeeded Ethelred in the year
871, being then twenty -two years old. There was
confusion in the land from Lni-oads of the Danes ;
many monasteries and their schools were broken up,
and learning had decayed. When Alfred had cleared
the wa_v for labour towards the re-establishment of
knowledge and religion, he jn-oduced or caused to be
produced English versions of books suitable for his
])urpose. The History of Orosius, whicli had been
the Latin text-book for a history of the world in
the monastery schools, he restored to the schools in
English, with nnicli abridgment of its theological
element, and iiddition of fresli knowledge. There
was added an original detail of the geography of
Gemiany in Alfred's time, and the record of two
coasting voyages in the north of Europe. Alfred
])rovided also a translation into English of Bede's
History of England. For the instriiction of the
clergy, he issued an English version of tlie Pastoral
Care of Poi)e Gregory the Gi-eat.
The opening sentences of King Alfred's translation
of this book have an interest that has caused them
to be often (pioted.'
There is a single change of the root-vowel in the second declension,
and there is a double change iu the third. The past tenses are
formed iu the (irst coujugatiou ('i) hy adding -ode, lb) hy adding -de or
-(ti simply, (c) by adding -de or -te with a change also of the root- vowel.
In the second conjugation the root-vowel is changed — as in ** eat" to
*' ate" = '*ffi't " — iu one of three ways: to (a) o;', (h) c, (c) o. In the
third conjugation it is changed {'i) to a with a second change to k, {h)
to (I with a second change to i, (<;) to ca with a second change to u.
The second change occurs in the second persou singidar and whole
plural of the indicative and throughout tlie subjunctive. It is the
origin of snob double forms as " sang " and *' suug." In reading First
English aloiul pronounce a like the a in " path " or " father ; " ce like
the a in " pat " or " jiate ' ' (this mark over a vowel ' indicates longer
and broader sound) ; pronounce, therefore, Caedmon not Seedman, hut
Cadmon. and the vowels and letters generally more after the manner
of northern than of southern English as now spoken ; sUghtly roughen
the aspiration of the It, and sound the r.
' The standard edition of this work of King Alfred's has been pro-
duced by one of the best living First-English scholars, Mr. Henry
Sweet, for " the Early EugUsh Text Society :"— " King Alfred's West-
Saxon Version of Gregory's Pastoral Care. With an Enghsh Trans-
lation, the Latin Text, Notes, aud au Introduction." The passage
above quoted is given from the Trauslatiou added by Mr. Sweet to his
text. A word may here be said of " the Early English Text Society,"
to which English students are indebted for this and much other
valuable work. We owe its existence to the enthusiastic energy of
Mr. F. J. Furuivall, who set it up in the year 18fi4, and has himself
edited many interesting texts for it. The self-denial of the editors,
and fellowship of many in the work, has enabled this society to secure
an unusually large return of valuable publications for the annual
gmnea of each of its members. In the first ten years of its life the
society produced more than 16,000 pages of edited texts. Some of
KING Alfred's introduction to his tr.\nslation
OF POPE Gregory's "regula pastoralis."
Kins Alfred Lids greet bishop Wajrforth with his words
lovingly and with friendship ; and I let it be known to thee
that it has very often come into my mind, what wise men
there f'onnerly were throughout England, both of sacred
and secular orders ; and how happy times there were then
tlu-oughout England ; and how the kings who had power
over the nation in those days obeyed God and his ministers ;
and they preserved peace, morality, and order at home, and
at the same time enlarged their teiTitory abroad ; and how
they prospered both with war and with wisdom ; and also
the sacred orders how zealous they were both in teaching
and learning, and in all the services they owed God ; and
how foreigners came to this land in search of wisdom and
instruction, and how we should now have to get them from
abroad if we were to have them. So general was its decay
in England that there were very few on this side of the
Humber who could understand their rituals in English, or
translate a letter from Latin into English ; and I believe that
there were not many beyond the Humber. There were so
few of them that I cannot remember a single one south of
the Thames when I came to the throne. Thanks be to God
Almighty that we have .any teachers among us now. And
therefore I command thee to do as I believe thou art willing,
to disengage thyself from worldly matters as often as thou
canst, that thou maycst apply the wisdom which God has
given thee wherever thou canst. Consider what pimishments
would come upon us on account of this world, if we neither
loved it (wisdom) ourselves nor suflfered other men to obtain
it : we should love the name only of Christian, and very few
of the virtues. WTicn I considered all this I remembered
also how I saw, before it had been all ravaged and burnt,
how the churches throughout the whole of England stood
filled with treasures and Ijooks, and there was also a great
midtitudo of God's servants, but they had very little know-
ledge of the books, for they could not understand any-
thing of them, because they were not written in their own
language. As if they had said : " Our forefathers, who
foiTnerly held these places, loved wisdom, and thi'ough it
they obtained wealth and bequeathed it to us. In this wo
can still see their tracks, but we cannot follow them, and
therefore we have lost both the wealth and the wisdom,
because we would not incline our hearts after their example."
the publications, not iu themselves works of geuius, are Included in
the series for help they may give to philological research, some for
their lively illustration of manners aud customs, or of phases of
opinion, but not a few are the only printed editions of texts of the
highest literary interest. It is for this society that Mr. Skeat has
produced such an edition of several texts of "The Vision of Piers
Plowman " as we should have had otherwise no hope of possessing, a
study that no German could surpass in thoroughness, and very fruit-
ful indeed iu its results. Among other works edited by him are
Barbour's " Bruce " and " Havelok " and " William of Paleme." Dr.
Richard Morris has not only edited for the Early English Text
Society such important works as the thirteenth century poem on
the Story of Genesis and Exodus, the "Cursor Mundi," "The
Ayeubite of Inwit," &c., but he has been the first to develop in the
introductions to such works that more critical study of old English
Dialects which now has the attention of all studeuts. Mr. Fiu-nivall
has worked indefatigably, and has been particiUarly h;ippy iu his
lively illustration of old social conditions, by help of " The Book of
Curtasye," " The Book of Demeanour," Andrew Boorde's "Intro-
duction aud Dyetary," &c., besides contributing to a series of editions
of the old Arthurian Romances. There is an edition of the Works
of Sir David Lindsay, by Mr. J. A. H. Murray, who edits also an
interesting poem of the year 1549, " The Complaynt of Scotland,"
But a chronicle of good work done by "The Early English Text
Society " is more than can be here set down in a note. Its pub-
lishers are Messrs, TrUbner and Co., 57 and 59, Ludgate Hill.
TO A.D. 9O0.]
RELIGION.
19
When I remembered all this, I wondered extremely thut the
good and wise men who were formerly all over England, and
had perfectly learnt all the books, did not wish to translate
them into their own language. But again I soon answered
iny self and said : " They did not think that men would ever
be so careless, and that learning would so decay ; through
that desii-e they abstained from it, and they wTshed that the
msdom in this land might increase with our knowledge of
languages." Then I remembered how the law was first
kno\vn in Hebrew, and again, when the Greeks had learnt it,
they translated the whole of it into their o-n-n language, and
all other books besides. And again the Romans, when they
had learnt it, they translated the whole of it through learned
interpreters into theii' own language. And also all other
Christian nations translated a paii of them into their own
language. Therefore it seems bettor to me, if ye think so,
for us also to translate some books which are most needful
for all men to know into the language which we can all
understand, and for you to do as we very easily can if we
have tranquillity enough, that is, that all the youth now in
England of free men, who are rich enough to be able to
devote themselves to it, be set to leam as long as they are
not fit for any other occupation, until that they are well able
to read English writing : and let those be afterwards taught
more in the Latin language who are to continue learning and
be ijromoted to a higher rank. When I remembered how
the knowledge of Latin had formerly decayed throughout
England, and yet manj- could read English writing, I began,
among other various and manifold troubles of this kingdom,
to translate into English the book which is called in Latin
Pastoralis, and in English Shepherd's Book, sometimes word
by word and sometimes according to the sense, as I had
learnt it from Plegmund my archbishop, and Asser my
bishop, and Grimbold my mass-priest, and John my mass-
priest. And when I hail learnt it as I could best understand
it, and as I could most clearly interpret it, I translated it
into English ; and I will send a copy to every bishopric in
my kingdom ; and on each there is a clasp worth fifty
mancus.' And I command in God's name that no man take
the clasp from the book or the book from the minster : it is
uncertain how long there may be such learned bishops as
now, thanks be to God, there are nearly everj-where ; there-
fore I wish them always to remain in their place, unless the
bishop wish to take them with him, or they be lent out any-
where, or any one make a copy fi-om them.
BecatLse the monasteries liad used (on account
of its religions tone) the book on the " Consola-
tion of Philosophy," wTitten in prison by Anicius
Manlius Torqnatus Severinus Boethius, the last of
the old Latin philosophers, King Alfred translated
also that. Boethius, in the prison from -which
he was taken to execution, about the year 825,
imagined himself lamenting the worldly estate from
which he had fallen, and visited by Philosophy,
who held discourse with him upon the vanity
of such regrets, since all substantial good was
of the mind, and Ijeyond reach of fortune. The
book was philosophical, not Christian ; but was in
such wide request among the Christians, that they
made a saint of its author, by fabling that he died
a martyr. Small pieces of Latin versification — ■
" Metra " — were interspersed by Boethius, and
' Fifty mancna = 300 shillings. There were thirty pence in a mancus
and five pence in a shilliCf^.
these were not given in English verse when Alfred's
translation was produced, though extant renderings
of the " Metra " of Boethius into First-English verse
have been ascribed to Alfred. In one passage of the
prose translation Alfred expanded a short sentence
into contemplations of his o^vn upon the duty of a
king. The sentence in Boethius (lil). ii., prosa vii.)
is only this : — " Tum ego, Scis, inquam, ipsa mini-
mum nobis ambitionem mortalium rerum fuisse
dominatam : sed materiam gerendis rebus optavimus,
cjuo ne virtus tacita consenesceret." In Alfred's
version two sentences represent this passage, and
they are then amplified by original reflections that
seem to have arisen in the king's mind as he thought
of his own work and his ovni ambition in it : —
KING ALFRED ON KING-CRAFT.
The Mind then answered, and thus said; O Reason, indeed
thou knowest that covetousness and the greatness of this
earthly power never well pleased me, nor did I altogether very
much yearn after this earthly authority. But nevertheless
I was desii'ous of materials for the work which I was com-
manded to perform ; that was, that I might honourably and
fitly guide and exercise the power which was committed to me.
Moreover, thou knowest that no man can show any skill, nor
exercise or control any power, without tools and materials.
There are of eveiy craft the materials without which man
cannot exercise the craft. These, then, are a king's materials
and his tools to reign with ; that he have his land well
peopled ; he must have prayer-men, and soldiers, and work-
men.- Thou knowest that without these tools no king can
show his craft. This is also his materials which he must
have besides the tools ; provisions for the three classes. This
is, then, their provision ; land to inhabit, and gifts and
weapons, and meat, and ale, and clothes, and whatsoever is
necessary for the three classes. He cannot without these
preserve the tools, nor without the tools accomplish any of
those things which he is commanded to perform. Therefore
I was desirous of materials wherewith to exercise the power,
that my talents and power should not be forgotten and con-
cealed. For every craft and every power soon becomes old,
and is passed over in silence, if it be without wisdom : for no
man can accomplish any craft without wisdom. Because
whatsoever is done through folly, no one can ever reckon for
ci-aft. This is now especially to be said ; that I wished to
live honourably whilst I lived, and after my life, to leave to
the men who were after me, my memory in good works.
I translate the opening metre from Boethius into
modern English, giving the original belov/, and add
the version of the First-English translator as a last
example of that stage of the language : —
FIRST METRE OF BOETHIUS.^
I who once finished verse with happy toil
Am forced now to begin a mom-nful strain ;
See, the torn Muses tell me what to write.
Elegy sets their lips with a true pain.
= King Alfred's classification of a people con-esponds with that of
Plato, of whose Republic he assuredly knew nothing. Plato's three
orders in a State were the guardians, auxiliaries, and producers. See
Note 1. page 12.
3 Tills is the original : —
METRUM I.
Carmina qui quondam stiitlio florente peregi,
Flehilis, heu, maestos cogor inire modes.
20
CASSELL'S LIBKAEY OF ENGLISH LITERATUliE.
For these at least no terror could comijel
To tmn from being comrades on my way ;
The glory once of green and joyous youth,
They comfoi-t now my sad days of decay.
For hasting Age, unlooked for, comes with ills,
And Grief has claimed her turn of rule within ;
Oray hairs, too soon, are scattered on my head.
On the spent frame quivers the wrinkled skin.
Happy the Death that breaks not on man's years
Of joy, and hastens when the moui-ncr cries :
Alas, his ears are deaf to the distressed !
Cruel, he wiU not close the weeping eyes 1
AVhen fickle Fortune blessed me with light good.
Hardly a sad hoiu- passed over my head ;
Now that her cloud has changed its doubtful face
Unkindly life delays me from the dead.
Why did you, friends, so often boast my bliss 'i
He who has fallen, always stood amiss.
TliLs is the version in First English : —
Hwaet ic lioda fela
lustlice geo
sang on s;felum I
nu sceal siofigcnde
wope gewa'ged
wreccea giomor
singan siu'cwidas.
lie thios siccctung hafath
agieled, thcs geocsa,
tluct ic tha ged ne ma?g
gcfegean swa fa'grc,
theah ic fcla gio tha
sette sothewida,
thonne ic on sielum wa^s.
Oft ic nu miscjare
cuthe spra'ce
and theidi uncuthre
ier hwilum fond 1
Me thas woruld s.-feltha
welhwics blindno
on t,liis dimmc hoi
dysigne forla'ddon
and me berypton
ra;des and frofre
for heora untre6\vuni,
the ic him :efre betst
truwian sceolde :
hi me to wcndon
Ecce mihi lacerEe dictant scribenda Cameua;,
Et veris elesfi fletiljus oi-a ri^ut.
Has saltern niillus iiotait pervincere ten-or,
Ne nostrum coiuites prosequerentm- iter ;
Gloria felicis olini viridisque juveutffi !
Solautur niaesti nuuc mea fata senis.
Veuit enim pioiievata malis iuopiua senectus,
Et dolor ffitatem jussit inesse suam.
Intempestivi fuuduntur vertice cani,
Et tremit eti'eto coi-jiore lasa cutis.
Mors hominum felix, qua; se nee diUcibus anuis
Inserit, et masstis soepe vocata venit.
Ehen, quam surda miseros avertitur anre,
Et flenteis oculos clandere saeva negat !
Dum levibus malefida bonis fortuna faveret,
Pffin;- caput tristis merserat bora meum. '
Nunc, quia fallacem mutavit nubila vultum,
Proti-ahit iujratas impia vita moras.
Quid me felicem toties jactastis amici ?
Qui cecidit, stabUi non erat iUe giadu.
heora bacu biterc
and heora blissc from !
Forhwam wolde go
weoruldfrynd mine,
secgan oththe singan,
thaet ic gcsjellii' mon
wiere on wcoruldc 'i
Ne synt tha word soth,
nu tha gesifeltha ne magon
simle gewunigan.
King Alfred tlied at the beginning of the tenth
century, and not long after his time there was a
remarkable eflbrt for the revival of a strict mon;i,s-
ticism, led by two men of like age, bom Ln or about
the year 92.5 — ^i^thehvokl and Dunstan. Dunstau
in the year 947, twenty-two years old, became Abbot
of Glastonbury, and ^-Ethelwold joined his establish-
ment until he received chai'ge over the small ruined
Abbey of Aliingdon, with means for its re-establish-
ment. In the year 9.5;5. ^-Ethelwold was consecrated
Bishop of Winchester by Dunstan. who had become
Archbishop of Canterbury. ^-Ethelwold rebuilt liis
cathedral at Winchester, and Archbishop Dunstan
dedicated the new structure to St. Swithin, who
had been Bishop of Winchester between the years
8.52 and 862, and who had been Ijuried, liy his own
desire, outside his old church of St. Peter and St.
Paul, where '■ the feet of passengers and dropjjings
from tlie eaves " should beat upon his grave. The
removal of his relics into the cathedral consecrated
in his name was jn-eceded by miracles, of which an
account, written about the year 98.5, appears ujion
three old leaves preserved in the library of Glou-
cester Cathedral. These and three other old leaves of
Fii-.st English on the story of Saint Maria Egyptiaca,
which are also at Gloucester, have been copied by
photo-zincography, and p\iblished, with elaborate eluci-
dations and appendices, Ijy the Eev. John Earle,
under the name of " Gloucester Fragments." This
is the record on tlie leaves detailing
MIRACLES OF ST. SWITIIIX.
Thi'ee years before the saint was brought into the churcli
from the stone coffin, which now stands within the new
building, came the venerable Swithin to an aged smith, ap-
pearing in dream worthily apparelled, and spoke these words
to him : " Knowest thou the priest who is called Eadsigc,
who was driven out of the old minster with other priests
for their misconduct by Bishop Athelwold?" The smith
answered the venerable Swithin thus : ■' Sir, I knew him
long ago, but he went hence, and I am not quite siu-e wherr
he lives now." Then said again the holy man to the old
smith; "Verily, he is now settled at Wincheleombe, and 1
now entreat, in the Lord's name, that you quickly deliver tii
him my message, and say to him, forsooth, that Bishoji
Swithin bade him go to Bishop Athelwold and say that he is
himself to open my tomb and bring my bones within the
chm-ch, because it is gi-anted to him that in liis time I be
manifested to men." And the smith said to him, " 0, sir, he
will not believe my words." Then s:iid the bishop again,
" Let him go to my tomb, and pull a ring out of my coffin ;
and if the ring follow him at the first puU, then will he know
for truth that I send you to him : if the ring will not up
with his one pull, then shall he in no wise believe what you
TO A.D. 990.]
RELIGION.
21
tell him. Tell him, furthermore, to put himself right in his
acts and manners, according' to his Lord's will, and hasten
with a single mind towards eternal life. Also tell all men
that as soon as ever they open my tomb, they 'n-ill find there
such a previous hoard that their dear gold is worth naught
as against the foresaid treasures." The holy Swithin then
went up from the smith. And the smith durst not tell any
man the ^^sion, for he would not be known as a false-speak-
ing messenger, so that the holy man spoke to him again, and
yet the third time, and chid him severely, because he would
not actively obey his orders. The smith next went to liis
tomb, and took a ring, though but timidly; and called to God
speaking in words thus : " O thou Lord God, Creator of all
creatiu-es, grant to me sinful that I pull the ring up from
this lid, if he lie here -n-ithin who spoke to me thi-ee times in
dream." He then drew the ring up from the stone as easily
as if it were in sand, and he greatly wondered at that. He
then set it again in the same hole and pressed it with his feet,
and it stood so firm again that no man could pull it thence.
Then the smith went from that place in awe, and met Eadsigc's
man in the market-place, and told him e.xactly what Swithin
bade him, and earnestly begged that he would report it
to him. He said that he would tell it to his master, and
nevertheless durst not tell him at first, before he bethought
him that it was not necessary for him to hide from his master
the saint's command. He then told to the end what Switliin
commandsd him. At that time Eadsige shunned Bishop
Athclwold, and all the monks that had been in the minster,
because of the driving out that he had executed against
them; and he would not obey the saint's bidding, though
after the flesh he was related to him. Nevertheless, he turned
hack %vithin two years to that same minster, and became a
monk, by God's means, and dwelt there till he departed from
life. Blessed be the Almighty who humbles the proud, and
lifts up the lowly to high honours.
By report of tLis and otlier miracles honour was
added to the name of Swithin when it was proposed
to remove his bones and en-slirine them in the new
cathedral. The sick were said to be healed at the
rate of from tlu-ee to eighteen a day, and it was not
easy to get into the new minster for the press of
diseased people in the burial-ground.
^-Elfric, the son of a Kentish earl, was one of the
fii-st who had entered the monastic school at Abing-
don when ^'Ethelwold re-established it, and the i-e-
construction was complete, in the year 950. When
^thelwold went to Winchester, ^^Slfric, who from
pupil had become a teacher, went with him, managed
the cathedral school, and laid foundations of the
fame of the town as a place of education. He wrote
for use of his school and of other schools, a Latin-
English Dictionary and a book of Latin "Colloquies."
He also translated into First English most of the
books of the Old Testament. When the Abbey of
C'erne, in Dorsetshire, was founded, ^Ethelmer, its
founder, strongly desired the famous ^Elfric for its
abbot, and he left Winchester to become Abljot of
Cerne. In this office probably he died ; though some
have identified him with that .^Elfric who in the year
99.5 jiassed from the bishopric of Wilton to the
archbishopric of Canterbuiy, and died in the year
1006 ; while other.s make him the ^^Ifric who died
Archbishop of York in the year 1051, though Abbot
iElfric could hardly have been born later than
A.D. 930, if he was one of ^thelwold's fu-st monks
at Abingdon. Ceitain it is that when he produced
the work by which he is especially remembered — the
last important contribution to religious literature in
First-English times — vElfric was Abbot of C'erne.
He completed, in the year 990, a .series of forty
Homilies, forming a harmony of the doctrinal opinions
of the Fathers, as the English Church in his time
accepted them, set forth in sermons, addressed to the
understandings of the people. Sigeric, then Ai'ch-
bishop of Canterbmy, issued these Homilies for
general use, and ^Elfric compiled a second series of
forty Sermons on the Saints, whose days were kept
by the First-English Chin-ch.
One of the most interesting of the sermons in
the first series is that on Easter Day, for the great
prominence given to it early in Elizabeth's reign
as evidence that upon one main point then in dis-
pute, the ancient Church of England agreed yfith
the Eeformei'S. JElfric based the doctrinal part of
this sermon on a treatise by Eatramnus,' a monk of
the abbey of Corbie, who was contemporary with
John Scotus Erigena in the time of Charles the Bald.
The Queen's first archbishop, the learned Matthew
Parker, sought to revive the study of Fii-st English,
chiefly that men might find in iElfric's Homilies
what opinions were i-eally ancient in the English
Church. John Day, the printer through whom the
archbishop worked in such matters, had a fount of
1 Eatranmiis, or Bertram, a French monk of Corbie, who died soon
after the year 868, took active part in the discussions of his time, and
acquired great reputation for his leai-ning and his lively style. They
won from him no promotion iu the Church, and he had no very good
will either to his own abbot, Paschasius Kadbertus, or to Hincmar,
Archbishop of Rheinis. He argued aguiust Hincmar on the subject
of predestination, and against Radbert upon transubstantiation.
His argument, " De Coii>ore et Sanguine Domini," was in the form
of a letter to Charles the Bald, said in the first printed edition of the
work (at Cologne in 1532) to be Charlemagne, who had asked the
monk for his opinion on the mystery of the sacrament. The doctrine
of this little work is precisely followed by .Safric when he speaks of
the mystery of the housell, and in some parts the English Homilist
is little more than a translator ; but of that considerable part of the
English sermon which treats of the Paschal Lamb there is, of course,
nothing in the treatise of Eatramnus, and when .a;lfric comes to take
the argimient of Eatramnxis on the real presence he is repeating it in
his-own way more briefly, and with freshness of manner. Eatramnus
quoted authorities iu some detail — Augtistiue, Isidore, Ambrose,
Jerome ; thus sheltering liimself against attack on the ground of
heresy, and so effectuaUy, that— although afterwards assailed— he
was in his own time appointed by the French Church to reply to the
attacks of Photius upon the Catholic faith. ^If ric, exposed to no such
danger, simply adopted the view of the French monk, and gave iu a
homily the pith of the treatise of Eatramnus as the doctrine of the
English Chiu-ch upon the Euchai-ist. It may be added that this
treatise of Eatramnus, " De Corpore et Sanguine Domini," first
printed in 15.32, had attracted the attention of Enghsh refonuei-3
before Matthew Parker caused the translation of .EKric's Easter-
Day Sermon. An English translation of Eatraimius, by Sir Hiun-
phrey Lynde, was " Imprynted at London in sayut Andrewes paryshe
in the waredi-opt, by Thomas Eaynalde and Anthony Kyngstone,"
entitled " The Boke of Barthram Priest intreatinge of the bodye and
bloude of Christ, wr-yten to greate Charles the Emjierour, and set
forth vii.C. years agoo, and Imprinted An. dni. M.D.XLviii." ^Vhen
the argimient between the Churches was again pressing, iu the reign
of James II., two years before the English Eevolution, there was
produced by William Hopkins, Prebend of Worcester, "The Book of
Bertram, or Eatramnus. Priest and Monk of Corbey, concerning the
Body and Blood of the Lord, in Latine : With a New English Trans-
lation, more esact than the fonner. Also. An Historical Dissertation
concerning the Author and this Work ; wherein both ai'e vindicated
from the Exceptions of the Writers of the Church of Eome." Tlus
version was made by Hopkins in 1681. It was pubUshed m 1686.
The Dissertation was by Dr. Peter AUix.
OASSELL'S LIBRAEY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 990.
Sa.xon tjiie.s, and tliis Easter sei-mon of .^Ifiics
having been translated was printed by him, the
oi-iginal text and transhition upon opposite pages,
in the year 1567, wth a preface by J. Josseline,
wluch dwelt on the archbishop's reason for givmg it
piiblicitj-. The preface, in supplying some account
of iElfric, distinguishes the author of the Grammai-
and of the Houulies. whom he finds always caUed
" Abbot," from .■Elfric, Archbishop of Canterbury,
wliile admitting that they might be the same person.
He says—" Truly this ^-Elfric we here speak of w;xs
equal in time to -Elfrio, ArchbLshop of Canterbury,
as may certainly apj.ear to him that vnW j.ye\\ con-
sider, when Wulfstan. Archbishop of York, and
Wulfsine, Bishop of Sherborne, lived, unto whom
^Ifric m-iteth the Saxon epistles from which the
woi-ds concerning the Sacrament hereafter foUowmg
te taken.' And the certainty of this consideration
may well l->e had out of William of Jlalmesbmy 'De
Poiitihcibiis,' and out of the subscription of bishops
to the grants, lettere patents, and chartei-s of ^ilthel-
rede, who reigned king of England at this time. How-
beit whether this ,i:rfricke and .Elfricke Archbisho])
of Canterbury was but one and the same man, I
leave it to other men's judgments fiu-ther to consider:
for that, -m-iting liere to Wulfstane, he nameth him-
self but Abljot, and yet .^ilfricke, Archbishop of Can-
terbury, was promoted to his archbishop's stole six
yeai-s before that Wulfstane was made Archbishop
of York." It is evident that ArchbLshop Matthew
Parker separated Abbot ^Ifric, the author, gi-am-
marian, and homilist, from that ^Ifric who was in
the abbot's time ArchbLshop of Canterbury. The
prefoce to the translation of ^Ifric's "Sermon on
the Sacrament " was followed by a wan-anty for it,
signed by the two archbishops and thirteen bishops
of the English Church, " with divei-s other pei-son-
ages of honom- and credit subscribing their names,
the record whereof remains in the hands of the most
reverend father Matthew, Archbishop of Canter-
bury."
This is the sermon : —
E.\STER-D.\Y.
fiERMOX of the Paschal Lamb, and of the
fiaerdiiientiil Body and Blood of Christ our
Siirioar, uritten in the old Saxon Tongue
before the Conquest, and appointed in
the reign of the Saxons to be spoken
unto the People at Easter before they
should receive the Communion, and now
first translated into our common English speech.
Men beloved, it hath hcon often said unto you about our
Saviour's Resiurection, how he on this present day, after
his suffering, mightily rose from death. Now wOl we open
unto you through God's grace, of the holy housell,' which ye
' These passages, with " the Lord's Prayer, the Creed, and the Ten
Commandments, in the Sason and English Tongue," were given as an
appendix to the Sermon.
2 Initial from a SIS. of Bede's History. Cotton. MSB., Tiherins,
C.ii.
* K'niseU (First-English " hiisl ;" Icelandic " hiisl "), the sacrament.
The word was disnsed after the Reformation, but was familiar until
then, and although of Teutonic origin, had never been applied to
should now go unto, and instruct your understanding about
this mystorj", both after the old covenant, and also after the
new, that no doubting may trouble you about this lively
food. • ■ 1 1
The Almighty God bade Moses, his captam m the land
of Egj-pt. to command the people of Israel to take for every
family a lamb of one year old, the night they departed out
of the country to the Land of Promise, and to offer the lamb
to God, and'after to kiU it, and to make the sign of the
cross with the lamb's blood upon the side-posts and the
upper posts of their door, and afterwards to cat the lamb'*
flesh roasted, and unleavened bread -n-ith wild lettuce. God
saith unto Moses, Eat of the lamb nothing raw, nor sodden
in water, but roasted with fire. Eat the he.ad, and the feet,
and the inwards, and let nothing of it be left tUl the morn-
ing : if an>-thing thereof remain, that shall you bum with
fire. Eat it in this wise. Gird your loins, and do your
shoes on your feet, have your staves in your hands, and eat
it in haste. This time is the Lord's passover. And there
was slain on that night in every house throughout Pharaoh's
reign, the firstborn child : and God's people of Israel were
delivered from the sudden death through the Umb's offering,
and his blood's marking. Then said God unto Moses, Keep
this day in your remembrance, and hold it a great feast in
youi- kindreds with a perpetual observation, and eat un-
leavened bread always at this feast. After this deed God
led the people of Israel over the Ked Sea with drj- foot,
and drowned therein Pharaoh, and aU his army, together
with their possessions, and fed afterwards the Israelites forty
ve.ars with heavenly food, and gave them water out of the
hard rock, until they came to the promised hind. Part of
this story we have treated in another place, part we shall
now deckire, to wit, that which belongeth to the holy housell.
Christian men may not now keep that old law bodily; but
it beho veth them to know what it ghostly * signitieth. That
innocent lamb which the old IsraeUtes did then kill, had
signification .after ghostly understanding of Chinst's sufliering,
who unguilty shed his holy blood for our redemption. Hereof
sing God's servants at everj- ma.ss :
'• Agnus Dei, qxii tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis."
That is in our speech. Thou Lamb of God, that takest away
the sins of the world, have mercy upon us. Those Israelites
were delivered from that sudden death, and from Pharaoh's
bondage, by the lamb's offering, which signified Christ's suffer-
ing : through which we be delivered from everlasting death,
and from the deWl's cruel reign, if we rightlj' bcUevc in the
true redeemer of the whole world, Christ the Sa\-iour. That
lamb was offered in the evening, and our Sa\'iour suffered
in the si.xth age of this world. I'his age of this corruptible
world is reckoned unto the evening. They marked with
the lamb's blood upon the doors, and the upper po.sts Tau,"
that is the sign of the cross, and were so defended from the
angel that killed the Egyptians' fii-st-bom cliild. And we
ought to mark our foreheads and our bodies' with the token of
heathen sacrifices. The Mcesogothic in Uliilas is " hunsl," an offer-
ing; "hunsljan," to otfer; " hunslastaths," the altar. The word
"honsell" is used in "Hamlet," act i., sc. 5: —
" Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin,
rnhoxsel'ij. disappointed, imaneled."
♦ Gho^hj, spiritually ; First-English, " gdst," the breath, a spirit.
So the Holy Ghost = the Holy Spirit.
5 Here Matthew Parker's translator of .SUfric's sermon adds a side-
note — *' No such sign commanded by God in tliat place of Scripture,
but it was the blood that God did look upon."— Exod. sii. 23.
« " Understand this as that of St. Paul (Ephe. 2). Christ reconciled
both to God in one body through his cross." Side-note of the Eliza-
bethan translator.
A.D. 990.]
EELIGION.
23
Christ's rood, that we may he also delivered from destruction,
when we shall he marked hoth on forehead and also in heart
with the blood of our Lord's suffering. Those Israelites ate
the lamb's flesh at their Easter time, when they were deli-
vered, and we receive ghostly Christ's body, and diink his
blood, when we receive with true belief that holy housell.
That time they kept -n-ith them at Easter seven days with
great worship, when they were delivered from Pharaoh and
went from that land. So also Christian men keep Christ's
resurrection at the time of Easter these seven days, because
through his sullering and rising we be delivered, and be made
clean by going to this holy housell, as Chiist saith in his
gospel, Verily, verily, I say unto you, ye have no life in you
except ye eat my flesh and drink my blood. He that oattth
my flesh and drinketh my blood, abideth in me, and I in him,
and hath that everlasting life : and I shall raise him up in the
last day. I am the Hvely bread, that came down fiom
heaven, not so as your forefathers ate that heavenly bread
in the wilderness, and afterward died. He that eatcth this
bread, he liveth for ever. He blessed bread before his suffer-
ing, and divided it to his disciples, thus sa\Tng, Eat this
bread, it is my body, and do this in my remembrance. Also
he blessed wine in one cup, and said, Drink ye all of this.
This is my blood, that is shed for many, in forgiveness of
sins. The Apostles did as Christ commanded, that is, they
blessed bread and wine to housell again afterwards in his
remembi'ance. Even so also since their departure all priests
by Christ's commandment do bless bread and wine to housell
in his name with the Apostolic blessing.
Xow men have often searched, and do yet often search,
how bread that is gathered of com, and thi-ough tii'e's heat
baked, may be turned to Christ's body ; or how wine that is
pressed out of many grapes is turned through one blessing
to the Lord's blood.
Now say we to such men, that some things be spoken of
Christ by signification, some thing by thing certain. True
thing is and certain, that Christ was bom of a maid, and
suffered death of his own accord, and was buried, and on •
this day rose from death. He is said bread by signification,
and a lamb, and a Uon, and a mountain. He is caUed brejid,
because he is our life and angels' life. He is said to be a
lamb for his innocency, a lion for strength, wherewith he
overcame the strong de^-il. But Christ is not so, notwith-
standing, after true nature : neither bread, nor a lamb, nor a
lion. \\'hy is then that holy housell called Christ's body or
his blood, if it be not truly that it is called ? Truly the bread
and the wine, which by the mass of the priest is hallowed,
shew one thing without to human understanding, and another
tiling they call within to belie\-ing minds. Without they
be seen bread and wine, both in figure and in taste : and
they be truly after their hallowing, Christ's body, and his
blood through ghostly mystery. An heathen child is chris-
tened, yet he altereth not his shape without, though he be
changed within. He is brought to the font-stone sinful
through Adam's disobedience. Howbeit he is washed from
all sin within, though he hath not changed his shape \^■ithout.
Even so the holy font-water, that Is called the well-spring of
life, is like in .shape to other waters, and is subject to coiTup-
tion ; but the Holy Ghost's might cometh to the corrujrtible
water, through the priest's blessing, and it may after wash
the body and soul from all sin through ghostly might.
Behold now we see two things in this one creature. After
true nature that water is corruptible water, and after ghostly
mysterj-, hath hallowing might. So also if we behold that
holy housell after bodily undei-standing, then see we that
it is a creature corruptible and mutable ; if we acknowledge
therein ghostly might, then understand we that life is
therein, and that it giveth immortality to them that eat it
■with belief.
Much is betwixt the invisible might of the holy housell
and the visible shape of his proper nature. It is' natu-
rally corruptible bread and coiTuptible wine, and is by
might of God's word, truly Christ's body and his blood :
not so notwithstanding bodily, but ghostly. JIuch is
betwixt the body Christ suffered in, and the body that
is hallowed to housell. The body truly that Christ suffered
in was bom of the flesh of ilary, ^^ith blood and with bone,
with skin and with sinews, in human limbs, with a reason-
able soul li\ing ; and his ghostly body, which we call the
housell, is gathered of many corns : without blood and bone,
without limb, without soul. And therefore nothing is to be
understand therein bodily, but all is ghostly to be under-
stand." "Whatsoever is in that housell, wiiich giveth sub-
stance of life, that is of the ghostly might and invisible
doing. Therefore is that holy housell called a mystery,
because there is one thing in it seen, and another thing
understanded. That which is there seen hath bodily shape,
and that we do there understand hath ghostly might. Cer-
' tainly Christ's body, which suffered death and rose from
j death, never dieth henceforth, but is eternal and unpassible.
That housell is temporal, not eternal. Corruptible, and
dealed between sundry parts. Chewed between teeth, and
sent into the belly : howbeit nevertheless, after ghostly
might, it is all in every part. JIany receive that holy body :
and yet, notwithstanding, it is so all in every part after
ghostly mystery. Though some chew less deal,^ yet is there
no more might notwithstanding in the more pai't than in the
less : because it is in all men after the in\isible might. This
mystery is a pledge and a figui-e : Christ's body is truth
itself. This pledge we do keep mystically, until that we
be come to the truth it.self : and then is this pledge ended.
Truly it is so, as we have before s;iid, Christ's body and his
blood — not bodUy, but ghostly. -Vnd ye should not seai-eh
how it is done, but hold it in your belief that it is so done.
We read in another book called I'itrc Patrum* that two
monks desired of God some demonstration touching the holy
housell, and after as they stood to hear mass, they saw a
child hing on the altar, where the priest said mass, and
God's angel stood with a sword, and abode looking until
the priest brake the housell. Then the angel di\ided the
child upon the dish, and shed his blood into the chalice.
But when they did go to the housell, then it was turned to
bread and wine, and they did eat it, gi\ing God thanks for
that shewing. Also St. Gregory desii-ed of Christ that he
would shew to a cei-tain woman, doubting about his mysterj-,
some great affirmation. She went to housell with doubting
mind, and Gregory forthwith obtained of God, that to them
both was shewed that part of the housell which the woman
should receive, as if there lay in a dish a joint of a finger
all he-blooded, and so the woman's doubting was then forth-
with healed.
1 " No transnbstantiation." Side-note of the Elizabethan translator,
who to the foUowinsr sentences joins these side-notes: "Dilferences
hetwirt Christ's nattu-al body and the sacrament thereof." 1. " Dif-
ference. Not the body that suffered is in the housell." 2. "Differ-
ence." 3. "Difference." 4. "Difference." 5. ••Difference"
2 To l»c xuiti>:rstani. This is eqmvalent to Kiidt'rjrfrtudf J, the form
used four lines lower. Pinal cii in verbs eudius with a root-vowel in
d or t was commonly unpronouuced, and then often omitted in
writing. The translator uses also in a later passage the past form
" understood " (page H, just below the middle of col. 1.)
3 Less a«al = less part. First-English ••dse'l," a part, or portion,
as in " the deal " at cards, from •' daelan," to divide, or portion out.
* " These tales seem to be iuforced." Note of Elizabethan trans-
lator. (r7i/orccd = stuffed in; from French '• farcer," whence force-
meat— stuffing.)
24
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 900
But now hear the apostle's words about this mystery. Paul
the apostle spoakcth of the old IsraeUtes thus, writing in his
epistle to faithful men : .rUl om- forefathers were baptised in
the eloud and in the sea, and all they ate the same ghostly meat
and (hank the Siime ghostly di'ink. They drank truly of the
stone that followed them, and that stone was Clirist. Neither
was that stone then from which the water ran bodily Christ,
but it signified Christ, that ealleth thus to all believing and
faithful men : Whosoever thirsteth let hira come to me, and
drink : and from liis bowels iloweth living water. This he
said of the Holy Ghost, whom he rceeiveth which belicvcth
on him. The apostle Paul saith that the Israelites did eat
the same ghostly meat, and ih-ink the same ghostly di'ink :
because that heavenly meat that fed them forty years, and
that water which from the stime did flow, had signification of
Clmsfs body, and his blooxl, that now be offered daily in (iod's
Church. It was the same which we now offer ; not bodily,
but ghostly. We said unto you erewhile. that Christ hal-
lowed bread and wine to houscll before his suffering, and
sjiid : This is my body and my blood. Yet he had not tlien
suffered ; but so notwitlistanding he turned thi-ough invisible
might that bread to his own body, and that \\-ine to his blood,
as he before did in the wilderness before that he was born to
men, when he tui-ned that heavenly meat to his flesh, and the
flowing water from tliat stone to his own blood. Very many
ate of that heavenly meat in the wUderuess, and drank that
ghostly drink, and were nevertheless dead, as Christ said.
And Christ meant not that death which none can escape: but
tliat everlasting death, which some of that folk deserved for
their unbelief. Moses and Aaron, and many other of that
people which pleased God, ate of that heavenly bread, and
they died not that everlasting death, though they died the
common death. They saw that the heavenly meat was \'isible,
and corruptible, and they gho.stly understood by that visible
thing, and ghostly received it. The Saviour sayeth : He
that eateth my flesh, and drinketh my blood, hath everlasting-
life. And he bade them not eat that body which he was
going about with, nor that blood to drink whicli he shed for
us : but he meant with those words that holy housell, whicli
ghostly is his body and his blood : and he that tastcth it
witli believing heart, hath that eternal life. In the old law
faithful men offered to God divers sacrifices that liad fore-
signification of Christ's body, which for our sins he himself
to his heavenly Father hath since offered to sacrifice. Cer-
tiiinly this housell which we do now hallow at God's altar is a
remembrance of Chi-ist's body which he oft"ered for us, and of
his blood which he shed for us : so he himself commanded.
Do this in my rememliranee. Once suffered Christ by him-
self, but yet nevertheless his suifering is daily renewed at
the mass thi-ough mystery of the holy liousell. Therefore
that holy mass is profitable both to the living and to the dead,
as it hath been often declared.
M'e ought also to consider diligently how that this holy
houseU is both Christ's body and the body of all faithful men
after ghostly mystery.
As the wise Augustine sayeth of it. If ye will understand
of Christ's body, hear the apostle Paul thus speaking : Kow
is your mystery set on God's table, and ye receive your
mysteiy, which mystery ye yourselves be. Be that which ye
see on the altar, and receive that which ye yourselves be.
Again the apostle Paul saith by it : We many be one bread
and one body. Understand now and rejoice, many be one
bread and one body in Christ. He is our head, and we be his
limbs. And the bread is not of one corn, but of many. Nor
the vrine of one giape, but of many. .So also we all should
have one unity in our Lord, as it is mitten of the faithful
ai-niy, how that they were in so great an uuitv : as though .-ill
of them were one soul and one heart. Chi'ist hallowed on his
table the mystery of our peace, and of our unity : he whicli
receiveth that mystery of unity, and keepeth not the bond
of true peace, he receiveth no mystery for himself, but a
witness against himseU'. It is very good for Christian men
that they go often to housell, if they bring with them to
the altar miguiltiness and innocency of heart. To an evil
man it tuineth to no good, but to destruction, if he receive
unworthily tliat holy houseU. Holy books command that
water be mingled to that wine which shall be for housell :
because the water signifieth the people, and the wine Christ's
blood. And therefore shaU neither the one without the other
be offered at the holy mass : that Christ may be with us, and
we with Clu-ist : the head with the limbs, and the limbs with
the head.
We woidd before have intreated of the lamb which the old
Israehtes offered at their Easter time, but that we desired
first to declare unto you of this mystery, and after how wc
should receive it. That signifying lamb was offered at the
Easter. And the apostle Paul sayeth in the epistle of this
present day, that Chiist is oui- Easter, who was offered for
us, and on the third day rose from death. The Israelites did
cat the lamb's flesh as God commanded with unleavened bread
and wild lettuce : so we should receive that holy housell of
C'hrist's body and blood without the leaven of sin and
iniquity. As leaven tumeth the crcatiu'es from their nature : '
so doth sin also change the nature of man from innocency to
foul spots of guiltiness. The apostle hath taught how we
should feast not in the leaven of evilness, but in the sweet
dough of purity and truth. The herb which they should cat
with the unleavened bread is called lettuce, and is bitter in
taste. So we should with bitterness of unfeigned weeping
purify our mind, if we will eat Christ's body. Those
Israehtes were not wont to eat raw flesh, although God forbad
them to eat it raw, and sodden in water, but roasted in tire.
He shall receive the body of God raw that shall think without
reason that Christ was only man, like unto us, and was not
God. And he that wiU after man's wisdom search of the
mystery of Chi'ist's incarnation, doth like unto him that
doth seethe lamb's flesh in water : because that water in this
same pkice signifieth man's understanding : but we should
understand that all the mystery of Christ's humanity was
ordered by the power of the Holy Ghost. And then eat we
liis body roasted with fire ; because the Holy Ghost came in
fiery likeness to the apostles in diverse tongues. The
Israelites should cat the lamb's head, and the feet, and the
purtenance : and notliing thereof must be left overnight. If
anything thereof were left, they did burn that in the fire ;
and they brake not the bones. After ghostly understanding
we do then eat the lamb's head, when we take hold of
Christ's divinity in our belief. Again, when we take hold
of his humanity with love, then eat we the lamb's feet;
because that Christ is the beginning and end, God before
all world, and man in the end of this world. What be the
lamb's purtenance, but Christ's secret precepts, and these
wc eat when we receive with greediness the Word of Life.
There must nothing of the lamb be left unto the morning,
because that all God's sayings are to be searched with great
carefulness : so that all his precepts may be known in under-
standing and deed in the night of this present life, before
that the last day of the universal resurrection do appear. If
we cannot search out thoroughly all the mystery of Christ's
incarnation, then ought we to betake ' the rest unto the might
of the Holy Ghost with true humility : and not to search
' Bi'(u;.T (First-English, " Ijetffioau "), to commit, assign, i)ut in
trust.
TO «.D. 1000.]
RELIGION.
rashly of that deep seeretiiejs above the measure of our
understanding. They did eat the lamb"s flesh with their
loins gii-t. In the loins is the lust of the body. And he
which shall receive the housell, shall restrain that concupi-
scence and take -witli chastity that holy receipt. They were
also shod. Mliat hi- shoes but of the hides of dead beasts 'r
Wc be truly shod if we follow in our steps and deeds the life
of those pilgrims which please God with keeping- of his com-
mandments. They had staves in theu' hands when they ate.
This staff signifieth a carefulness and a diligent overseeing.
And all they that best know and can, should take care of
other men, and stay them up with their help. It was
enjoined to the eatere that they shoidd eat the lamb in
haste. For God ablioiTeth slothfulness in his servants. And
those he loveth that seek the joy of everlasting Ufe with
quickness and haste of mind. It is written : Prolong not to
turn unto God, lest the time pass away thi'ough thy slow
tarrying. The eaters mought not break the lamb's bones.
No more mought the soldiers that did hang Christ break his
holy legs, as they did of the two tliieves that hanged on
either side of him. And the Lord rose from death sound
without all corruption : and at the last judgment they shall
see him, whom they ilid most cruelly hang on the cross.
This time is called in the Hebrew tongue iVsrw, and in Latin
Traiisil/is, and in I^nglish I'a.isotvr : because that on this day
the pi'ople of Israel passed from the land of Egj-pt over the
Red Sea : from bonikige to the land of promise. So also did
An EviMiKLIST. (Frnm 111.' rnfloii. .".f S . Tihcvius, C. vi.)
our Lord at this time depart, as sayetli John the Evangelist,
from this world to his heavenly Father. Even so we ought
to follow our head, and to go from the dei-il to Christ ; from
tills unstable world to his stable kingdom. Howbeit we
should tirst in this present life depart from vice to holy
virtue, fi-om evil maimers to good manners, if we will after
this corruptible life go to that eternal life, and after our
68
resurrection to Christ. He brings us to his everlasting
Father, who gave him to death for our sins. To Him be
honour, and praise of well doing, world without end.
Amen 1 '
Of ^^SltVic's other .series of Homilies, written to
expliiLii wliiit was celebrated on the saints' daj's, one
of the most interesting is that for St. Gregory's Day,
the 12th of March, an old telling of the old tale of
the manner in which missionaries from Rome came
to convert the English. A translation of this sermon
was published in 1709, by EUzabeth Elstol), who,
at the suggestion of Dr. Hickes, began a complete
translation of the Homilies of ^Ifric, which was
stopped by private troubles. Unpublished sheets
of it are in the British Museum. She had become
learned that she might be companion in his studies
to her brother, who was of weak health, his com-
l)anion and helper even when he was student at
Oxford, and afterwards in his City parsonage. He
died in 1714, and in the same year she lost a
friend also in Queen Anne; but in the following
year .she published an Anglo-Saxon Gi-ammar. Miss
Elstob was very poor, and set up a little school at
Evesham. At last she became governess in the
family of the Duchess of Portland, who gave ease to
her old age. This is Elizabeth Elstob's version of
.ELFRIC'S HOMILY ON ST. GREGORY'S DAY.
Gregory the Holy Father, the apostle of the English
nation, on this present day, after manifold labours and
dirine studies, happily ascended to God's kingdom. He is
rightly called the apostle of the English people, inasmuch as
he thi-ough his counsel and commission rescued us from the
worship of the de-s-il, and converted us to the belief of God.
Many holy books speak of his illustrious conversation and
his pious life ; among these the History of England, which
King Alfred translated from the Latin into English. This
book speaketh plainly enough of this holy man. Neverthe-
less we wUl now say something in few words concerning
him ; because the aforesaid book is not known to you all,
although it is translated into English. This blessed" Father
Gregory was bom of noble and religious parents. His
ancestors were of the lioman nobility, his father called
Gordianus, and Felix that pious bishop was his fifth father.
He was, as we have said, in respect of the world, nobly
descended : but he adorned, and exceeded his high birth,
with a holy conversation and good works. Gregory is a
Greek name, which signifies in the Latin tongue VigUantius,
that is in English AVatchful. He was verj- diligent in God's
conunandments, whUe he himself lived mo.st devoutly, and he
was earnestly concerned for promoting the advantage of
many nations, and made known unto them the way of life.
He was from his childhood instructed in the knowledge of
books, and he so prosperously succeeded in his studies, that
in aU the city of Rome there was none esteemed to be like
him. He was most diligent in following the example of his
teachers, and not forgetful, but fixed his learning in a
retentive memory. He sucked in with a thirsty desire the
1 " This sermon is found in diverse bookes of sermon written in the
Olde Enslishe or Saxon touutre ; whereof two bookes bee nowe in the
liandes of the most reverend father the Archbishop of Cauterburye."
— Appended Note of the Elizabetlian Translator,
26
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. g*.*
flowing loaniing, which he often, after some time, with a
throat sweeter than lioney, and with an agreeable eloquence,
poureJ out. In his younger years, when his youth might
naturally make liini love the things of this world, then began
he to dedicate liimseLf to Uod, and with all his desires to
breathe after the ijiheritauce of a heavenly life. For after
his father's departure he erected six monasteries iu SicUy;
and the seventh he built in the city of Kome ; in which ho
himself lived as a regular, under the government of the
abbot. These seven monasteries lie adorned with his own
substance, and i)lentifidly endowed them for their daily
subsistence. The remainder of his estate he bestowed on
(lod's jjoor; and he exchanged liis nobility of birth for
heavenly glory, lie was used before his conversion to pass
ulong the city of Kome in gannents of silk, sparkling with
gems, and adorned with rich embroidery of gold and red.
But after his conversion' he ministered to God's poor, and
himself took upon him the profession of poverty in a mean
habit. So perfectly did he behave himself at the beginning
of his conversion, that ho might hereafter be reputed in the
number of perfect saints. He observed much abstinence in
meat and drink, in watching, and in frequent devotions. He
suffered, moreover, continual indisposition of body, and the
more severely he was oppressed with his present infirmities,
the more earnestly did he desire eternal life. Then the Pope
whicli at that time sat in the Apostolic See, when he per-
ceived that the holy Gregory was greatly increased in
spu'itual virtues, ho took liim from conversing with monks,
and ai)pointed liim to be his assistant, having ordained liim a
deacon.
It happened at some time, as it often doth, that some
Englisih merchants brought their merchandizes to Kome :
and Gregory passing along the street to the Englishmen
taking a view of theii- goods, he there beheld amongst their
merchandizes slaves set out to sale. They were white
complexioned, and men of fair countenance, having noble
heads of hair. And Gregor)-, when he saw the beauty
of the yoimg men, enquired from what country they were
brought ; and the men said from England, and that all the
men in that nation were as beautiful. Then Gregory asked
them whether the men of that land were Christians, or
heathens ; and the men said unto him they were heathens.
Gregory then fetching a long sigh from the very bottom of
his heart, said, Alas I alas ! that men of so fair a complexion
should bo' subject to the prince of darkness. After that,
Gregory enquired how they called the nation from whence
they came. To which he was answered, that they were
caUed Angle (that is, English). Then said he, Kightly they
are called Angle, because they have the beauty of angels, and
therefore it is very fit that they should be the companions of
angels in heaven. Yet stiU Gregory enquired what the
shire was named from which the young men were brought.
It was told him that the men of that shire were called Dciri.
Gregory answered. Well they are called Deiri, because they
are delivered from wrath and caUed to the mercy of Christ.
Yet again he enquired what was the name of the king of
their pro\-ince ; he was answered, that the king's name was
.a^lla. Therefore (Gregory playing upon the words in aUusion
to the name, said. It is fit that Hallelujah be sung in that
land in praise of the Almighty Creator. Gregory then went
1 Conversion from life in the world to life in the monastery. Con-
version simply means a change from one state to another. We can
convert (fold into paper; and here a Roman prsetor with money at
command is converted into a monk vowed to poverty. Conversion
from one tonn of relisrious belief to another, though the sense in
which the word is commonly used hy wxiters on reUgion, is by no
means the one sense to which the word is limited.
to the bishoi) of the apostolical see, and desired him that ho
would send some instructors to the English people, that they
might be converted to Christ by the grace of God : and sjiid
that he himself was ready to undertake that work, if the
Pope should think it fit. But the Pope could not consent to
it, although he altogether approved of it ; because the lioman
citizens would not suffer so worthy and learned a doctor to
leave the city quite, and take so long a pilgrimage.
After this it happened that a great plague came upon thi-
Konian people, and first of all seized upon Pope Pelagiua, and
without dchiy took him oft'. Moreover, after the death of
this Pope, the destruction was so great among the people,
that everywhere throughout the citj' the houses stood
desolate, and without inhabitants. Nevertheless it was not
fit that the Koman city should be without a bishop. But all
the people unanimously chose the holy Gregory to that
honour, although he with all his power opposed it. Then
Gregory sent an epistle to JIauricius the emperor, to whose
child he had stood godfather, and earnestly desired and
bcseeched him, that he woidd never suffer the people to exalt
him to the glory of that high promotion, because he feared
that he, through the greatness of the charge and the worldly
glory which he had some time before renounced, might again
be ensnared. But the emperor's high marshal Germanus
intercepted the letter and tore it in pieces, and afterwards
told the cmi)eror that all the people had chosen Gregorj- to
be Poi)c. Then JIauricius the emperor retume^d thanks to
Almighty God for this, and gave orders for his consecration.
But Gregory betook himself to flight, and lay hid in a cave.
Nevertheless they found him out, and canied him by force to
.St. Peter's Church, that he might there be consecrated to the
popedom. Then Gregory, before his consecration, by reason
of the increasing pestilence, exhorted the Roman people to
repentance in these words : " My most beloved brethren, it
bchoveth us, that that rod of God which we ought to have
dreaded, when wr only expected it would be laid upon us,
should now at least raise in us some concern when it is
present and we have felt it. Let our grief open us a way to
a true conversion, and let that punishment which we endure
break the hardness of our hearts. Behold now this people is
slain with the sword of heavenly anger, and each of them
one by one is destroyed by a sudden slaughter. Eor th(^
disease does not go before death, but you see that each man's
death prevents the lingering of a disease. The slain are
seized by death before they can have an opportunity of
sighing and lamentation, to express their sincere repentance.
AVhercfore let each man take care how he comes into the
presence of the mighty Judge, who wOl not bewail the evil
which he has perfonncd. (Almost) all the dwellers upon
earth are taken away, and their houses stand empty.
Fathers and mothers stand over the dead bodies of their
children, and their heirs step before them to death. Let us
earnestly betake ourselves to lamentation with true repent-
ance now while we may, before this dreadful slaughter strike
us. Let us call to mind whatever errors we have been guilty
of, and oh I let us do penance with tears for that which we
have done amiss. Let us reconcile God's favour to us by
confessing om- sins, as the prophet wameth us, ' Let us lift up
our hearts with our hands unto God ; ' that is, that we ought
to lift up [or present] the sincerity of om- devotions with an
eai-nost of good works. He givcth you confidence in your
fear, who speaks to you by his prophet : ' I have no pleasure
in the death of the wicked, but that the wicked should turn
from his way and live.' Let not any man despair of himself
for the greatness of his sin, forasmuch as the old guilt of the
people of Nineveh was expiated by their three days' repent-
ance : and the penitent thief by his dying words attained to
I
TO A.D. 1000.]
EELIGIOK
the reward of eternal life. let us then turn our hearts to
God ; speedily is the Judge inclined to our petitions, if we
from our perversenesa be set straight. let us stand with
earnest lamentations ai^inst the threatening sword of so
great a judgment. Certainly perseverance is pleasing to the
just Judge, although it is not gr.iteful to men : hecause the
righteous and merciful God will have us ^\-ith earnest petitions
to request his mercy, and he will not so much as we deser^-c
he angry with us. Of this he speaketh by his prophet :
' Call upon me in the day of thy trouble, and I will deliver
thee, and thou shalt glorify me.' God himself is his own
witness, that he vnR have compassion on him that calleth on
him; who admonishes us, that it is our duty to call upon him.
For this cause, my most dearly beloved brethren, let us come
together on the fourth day of this week early in the morning,
and with a devout mind, and with tears, sing seven Litanies,
that our angrj' Judge may spare us, when he seeth that we
ourselves take vengeance on our sins." So that whilst the
whole multitude, as well of the priestly order, and of the
monastic, as of the laity, according to the command of the
holy Gregory, were come on the Wednesday to the seven-
fold Litany, the aforesaid pestilence raged so fast, that four-
Death and Burial.*
From a MS. of £lfnc'& ParaphrasA oj the Pentateuch and Jof^hua.
Cotton. MSS., Claudius, B. iv.
score men departed this transitory life at the very instant the
people were singing the Litany. But the holy priest did not
cease to advise the people not to desist from their supplica-
tions, until that God's mercy should assuage the raging plague.
In the meantime Gregor)-, since he took upon him the
popedom, called to mind what he formerly had thought
of, concerning the English nation, and finished that most
beloved work. Nevertheless he might not on any ac-
count be altogether absent from the Roman bishop's see.
"Whereupon he sent other messengers, approved ser\-ants of
(iod, to this island, and he himself, by his manifold prayers
and e-vhortations, brought it to pass, that the preaching of
these messengers went abroad, and bore fruit to God.
The messengers were thus named: Augustinus, JleUitus,
Laurentius, Petrus, Johannes. Justus. These doctors the
holy pope Gregory sent, with many other monks, to the
' This sketch shows the mnnner amon^ the First English of
swathing the dead for burial. The face was left for a time uncovered,
then the fold was passed over it, and the body went down thus into
the prave.
English people, and he persuaded them to the voyage in
these words : " Be not ye afraid through the fatigue of so
long a journey, or through what wicked men may discourse
concerning it : but ^vith all stedfastness and zeal, and earnest
affection, by the grace of God, perfect the work ye have
begun; and be ye assured, that the recompense of your
eternal reward is so much greater, by how much the greater
difficulties you have undergone in fulfilling the wUl of God.
Be obedient mth all humility in all things to Augustine,
whom we have set over you to be your abbot. It -n-iU be
for your souls' health, so far as ye fulfil his admonitions.
Almighty God through his grace protect you, and grant that
I may behold the fruit of your labour in the eternal reward,
and that I nuiy be found together with you in the joy of
your reward. Because although I cannot labour with you,
yet I have a goodwill to share with you in your labour."
Augustine then with his companions, which are reckoned
to be about forty, that journeyed with him by Gregory's
command, proceeded on their journey until they arrived
prosperously in this island. In those days reigned king
JEthelbjTht in the city of Canterbury, whose kingdom was
stretched from the great river Humber to the south sea.
Augustine had taken interpreters in the kingdom of the
Franks, as Gregory had ordered him ; and he, by the mouths
of the interpreters, preached God's word to the king and his
people, ™., how our merciful Saviour by his own sufferings
redeemed this guilty world, and to all that believe hath
opened an entrance into the kingdom of heaven. Then king
.lEthelbjTht answered Augustine, and said, thjjt those were
fair words and promises which he gave him : but that he
could not so suddenly leave the ancient customs which he
and the English people had held. He said, he might freely
preach the heavenly doctrine to his people, and that he would
allow maintenance to him and his companions : and gave
him a dwelling in the city of Canterbury, which was the
head city in all his kingdom. Then began Augustine with
his monks to imitate the life of the apostles, ^rith frequent
prayers, watchings and fastings, ser\Tng God, and preaching
the word of life with all diligence; despising all e.arthly
things as unprofitable to them, pro\-iding only so much as
was necessary for theu- common subsistence, agreeable to
what they taught living themselves, and for the love of the
truth which they preached being ready to suffer persecution,
and death itself, if it were necessary. Therefore very many
believed, and were baptised in the name of God, admiring the
simplicity of their innocent course of life, and the sweetness of
their heavenly doctrine. Afterwards king iEthelbyrht was
much pleased with the purity of their lives, and their delightful
promises, which were indeed confirmed by many miracles.
And he belie^•ing was baptised, and he reverenced the
Christians, and looked upon them as men of a heavenly politj-.
Xevertheless he would not force any one to receive Chris-
tianity, because he had found upon enquirj- from the ministers
of his salvation, th.at the ser\-ice of Christ ought not to be
forced, but voluntan,-. Then began very many daily to
hearken to the divine preaching, and leave their heathenism,
and to join themselves to Christ's church, belie\-ing in him.
In the meantime Augustine went over sea to Etherius
Archbishop of Aries, by whom he was consecrated Archbishop
of the English, as Gregory before had given him direction.
Augustine being consecrated, returned to his bishopric, and
sent messengers to Rome, to assure the blessed Gregory, that
the English people had received Christianity : and he also in
writing made many enquiries, as touching the manner, how
he ought to behave himself towards the new converts.
"WTicreupon Gregorv" gave many thanks to Ciod with a joj-ful
mind, that that had happened to the Enghsh nation which
28
CASSELL'S LIBRAltY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.D. iOiM
himself had so earnestly desired. ^Vnd he sent ambassadors to
tlic belicvin;:; king v^ithelbyrht, with letters and many presents :
and otlKT letters he sent to Ausu.stine, with answers to all
the things after whieli lie had enquired, and advised him in
these words : " Jlost dearly beloved brother, I know that the
Almighty hath by you shown fortli many wonders to the
people whom he hath ehosen, for whieh you have reason both
to rejoiee and to be afraid. You may very prudently rejoiee
that the souls of this people by outward miracles are brouglit
to have inward graee. Nevertheless be afraid ; that your
mind be not lifted up with arrogance by reason of the
miracles whieh God liath wrought by you, and you then fall
into vain-glory within, when you are extolled with outward
respect.'" Gregory sent also to Augustine holy presents of
sacred vestments and of books, and the reliques of the apostles
and martyrs, and ordered that his successors should fetch the
pall of the archbishopric from the apostolical see of the
lioman Church.
After this Augustine placed bi.shops out of those that
had accompanied him, in each city of the English nation,
and they have remained promoting the Christian faith con-
tinually unto this day. The holy Gregory composed many
divine treatises, and with great diligence instructed God's
people in the way to eternal life, and wrought many miracles
in his lifetime, and behaved himself in a most glorious
manner upon the episcopal tlu'one thii-tcen years, and si.x
months, and ten days, and afterwards as on this day dei)arted
to the eternal tlirone of the heavenly Iringdom, in wliieh he
liveth with God Almighty world without end. Amen.
Here we may pas.s from tlie literature of Fii'st-
English times. The teachei's of religion were also
the teachers of all other le.irning, and formed the
main body of the educated class. To be of the
jieople, " leod," was to be unlearned, " lowed ; " the
educated man was clerk. From such a literary class
there came a liti^'ature almost exclusively religious.
The one great exception is the heathen poem of
"Beowulf" "Beowulf" was a tale brought into
the country, but we have it as told in the language
spoken only here. In its origin it is more ancient
than Ciedmon, and its ori.jinal character is well
])resei'ved ; but a few interspersed comments, and
the fact that it is in a form of speech proper to
this country, and doubtless produced here by the
fusion of tribes, shows that the old ])oem, as we
have it, was written by an English monk, who seems
even to have put local features of the coast near
Whitby into his suggestions of scenery, and who
could hardly have written before Ctedmon's time.
Except only a few short pieces, all other literature
of the Fir.st English was religious, and applied religion
very practically to the life of man.
CHAPTER IL
Transition English : From the Conquest to
WiCLIF.— A.D. 1066 to A.D. 1376.
After the Conquest the chief literary energy was
at first in the production of monastic chronicles.
Science was occupied with treatises on computation
of the time of Easter, until contact with the Arabs
quickened scientific thought. Osbern of Canterbury
wrote in the reign of William the Conqueror Latin
Lives of Saints ; Turgot wrote during tlie reign of
William IL a History of the Monastery of Durliam;
Eadmer wrote in the i-eign of Henry I. a Lite of
Anselni ; and Stewulf began the long series of
English records of travel and adventure, with an
account of that form of far travel to which religion
prompted men — travel in Palestine. The religious
houses being still the chief centres of intellectual
activity, and the sjiirit of adventure impelling
Englishmen then as now to foreign travel, men
looked with especial interest towards the Holy
Land. Not long after the death of C;edmon, Adam-
naii, Abbot of lona, had wiitten down an account
of the holy places from the dictation of Bishop
Ai'culf, a native of Gaul, who had spent nine
months at Jenisalem. Bede abridged this narrative
into a text-book, that was used for diflusing a more
lively knowledge of the topography of Palestine.
Another Englishman, early in First-English times,
Willibald, also visited the Holy Land, Ijefore he
became Bishop of Eichstadt, about tlie year 740.
He died in the latter j)ait of the eighth century, and
his life was written by a mm of Heidenlieim, who
also took down from his own mouth an account of
his travels.
After the Conquest, the English traveller who
first followed the Crusaders to Palestine was Ssewulf
His visit was paid in the years 1102 and 1103.
SiEwulf was a merchant who often had twinges of
conscience, confessed to Bishoj) Wulfstan at Wor-
cester, then was temj)ted back to the old tricks of
trade, and finally gave up active life in the world
to escape from its temptations, and joined the monks
at Malmesbury. His description of the storm at
Joppa — due allowance made for rhetoric — gives us a
lively sense of the energy of tJi.it religions move-
ment towards Palestine, which had Ijrouglit so many
pilgi-ims into the harbour. In the following account
of Siewulfs entrance into the Holy Land and his
going up to Jerusalem, then iit the hands of the
Crusaders, the Mosque of Omar is described as the
Temple of the Lord, with a minute identification of
sacred p1:ices that came of a determination to join
thoughts of heaven with as many sjiots of earth as
possible : —
s.favulf's visit to the holy places.'
After leaving the isli- of Cyprus, we were tossed about by
tempestuous weather for seven days and seven nights, being
forced back one night almost to the .spot from whieh we
^^ailed ; but after much suffering, by divine mercy, at simrise
on the eighth day, we saw before us the coast of the port of
Joppa, which tilled us with an unexpected and extraordinary
joy. Thus, after a eoiu-se of thirteen weeks, as we took ship
at Monopoli,- on a Sunday, having dwelt constantly on tlic
' From " Early Travels in Palestiue, comprising the naiTatives of
Arculf, Willil)fil<], Bernard. Sffiwulf, Sigrnvd. Benjamin of Tudela, Sir
John Mauntleville, De la Brocquiere, ami Maundvell. Edited, with
Notes, by Thomas Wright, Esq., M.A., F.S.A., &c." One of many
valuable books with which Mr. Thomas Wright has, during a long
career, quickened the general knowledge of oiu- past life and, litera-
ture, and earned the gratitude of students who can recognise the
worth of a busy life spent, with a definite aim, in sustained lahour
helping always towards the higher education of the people.
2 Monopoli. A seaport of South Italy, on the Adj-iatic.
TO A.D. 1103.]
RELIGION.
29
waves of the sea, or in islands, or in deserted cots and sheds
(for the Greeks are not hospitable), wo put into the port of
Joppa, with great rejoicings and thanksgivings, on a Sunday.
And now, my dear friends, aU join with me in thanking
God for liis mercy shown to me through tliis long voyage ;
lilcssed he his name now and evermore ! Listen now to a
now instance of his mercy shown to mo, although the lowest
of his servants, and to my companions. The very day wo
came in sight of the port, one said to me (I believe by divine
inspiration), " Sir, go on shore to-day, lest a storm come on
in the night, which will render it impossible to land to-
morrow." When I heard this, I was suddenly seized with a
great desire of landing, and, having hired a boat, went into it,
with all my companions; but, before I had reached the shore,
the sea was troubled, and became continually more tempestu-
ous. We landed, however, with God's grace, without h)ui,
and entering the city weary and hungry, we secured a lodging,
and reposed ourselves that night. But next morning, as we
wore retiuTiing from church, we heard the roaring of the sea,
.and the shouts of the people, and saw that everybody was in
confusion and astonishment. We were also di-agged along
with the crowd to the shore, where we saw the waves swell-
ing higher than moimtains, and innumerable bodies of di'owned
persons of both sexes scattered over the beach, while the
fragments of ships wore floating on every side. Nothing was
t'> be heard but the roaring of the sea and the dashing toge-
ther of the ships, which drowned entirely the .shouts and
clamour of the people. Our own ship, which was a very large
and strong one, and many others laden with corn and mer-
chandise, as well as with pilgrims coming and returning, still
held by their anchors, but how they were tossed by the waves !
how their crews were fiUed with terror ! how they east over-
board their merchandise I what eye of those who were looking
on could be so hard and stony as to refrain from tears ? We
had not looked at them long before the ships were driven
from their anchors by the \-iolence of the waves, which threw
them now up aloft, and now down, until they were run aground
or upon the rocks, and there they wei'e beaten backwards and
forwards until they were crushed to pieces. For the violence
of the wind would not allow them to put out to sea, and the
character of the coast would not allow them to put into shore
with safety. Of the sailors and pilgiinis who had lost all hope
of escape, some remained on the .ships, others laid hold of the
masts or beams of wood ; many remained in a state of stupor,
and were drowned in that condition without any attcm])t to save
Ihcmsolvcs ; some (although it may appear incredible) had in
my sight their heads knocked oft' by the very timliers of the
sliips to which they had attached themselves for safety ; othoi-s
were carried out to sea on the beams, instead of being brought
to land ; even those who knew how to swim had not strength
to struggle with the waves, and very few thus trusting to their
own strength reached the shore alive. Thus, out of thirty
very large ships, of which some were w'hat are commonly
called dromonds, some gulafres, and others cats,' all laden
with palmers and with merchandise, scarcely seven remained
safe when we left the shore. Of persons of both sexes, there
perished more than a thousand that day. Indeed, no eye
over behold a greater misfoi'tune in the space of a single day,
fi"om all which God snatched us by his grace ; to whom be
honour and glory for ever. Amen.
We went up from Joppa to the city of Jerusalem, a joimiey
1 Dromonds. . . tfidafres. . . caf.s. A dromouci, Greek dpofiav, fi'Olu
Tptxw (root ^pt^w), I ruu, is a lar^^e fast sailing vessel. Grdafir is the
Arabic " klialiyah," a low flat-built galley with one deck, sails and
oars, common in tbe Mediterranean. A cat is a very strong sliip,
witli a narrow stern, projecting quarters, a deei) waist, and no ligure
at the prow. The name is still used in the coal trade.
of two days, by a moimtainous road, very rougii, and danger-
ous on account of the Saracens, who lie in wait in the caves
of the mountains to surprise the Christians, watching both
day and night to surprise those less capable of resisting by
the smaUness of their company, or the weary, who may
chance to lag behind their companions. At one moment,
j'ou see them on every side ; at another, they are altogether
invisible, as may be witnessed by anybody travelling there.
Numbers of human bodies lie scattered in the way, and by the
way-side, torn to pieces by wild beasts. Some may, perhaps,
wonder that the bodies of Christians are allowed to remain
unburied, but it is not sui-pri.sing when we consider that there
is not much eaith on the hard rock to dig a grave : and if
earth were not wanting, who would be so simple as to leave
his comiany, and go alone to dig a grave for a companion ?
Indeed, if he did so, he would rather be digging a grave for
himself than for the dead man. For on that road, not only
the poor and weak, but the rich and strong, are surrounded
with perils : many are cut oft' by the Saracens, hut more by
heat and thirst ; many perish by the want of drink, hut more
by too much drinking. We, however, with all our company,
reached the end of oui' journey in safety. Blessed be the
Lord, who did not tuni away my prayer, and hath not tvuncd
his mercy from me. Amen.
The entrance to the city of Jerusalem is from the west,
under the citadel of king David, by the gate which is called
the gate of David. The iirst place to be visited is the church
of the Holy Sepulchre, which is called the Martyrdom, not
only because the streets lead most directly to it, but because
it is more celebrated than all the other churches ; and that
rightly and justly, for all the things which were foretold and
forewritten by the holy prophets of our Saviour Jesus C^hrist
were there actually fulfilled. The church itself was royally
and magnificently built, after the discovery of our Lord's
cross, by the archbishop JIaximus, with the patronage of the
emperor Constantino, and his mother Helena. In the middle
of this church is oui- Lord's Sepulchre, surroimded by a very
strong wall and roof, lest the r.ain should fall upon the
Holy Sepulchre, for the church above is open to the sky.
This church is situated, like the city, on the declivity of
Jlount Sion. The Roman emperors Titus and Vespasian,
to revenge our Lord, entirely destroyed the city of Jeru-
salem, that our Lord's prophecy might he fulfilled, which,
as he approached Jerusalem, seeing the city, he pronounced,
weeping over it, " If thou hadst known, even thou, for
the day shall come upon thee, that thine enemies shall
cast a trench about thee, and compass thee round, and keep
thee in on every side, and shall lay thoe oven with the
ground, and thy children with thee ; and they shall not
leave in thoo one stone upon another." We know that our
Lord suft'ered without the gate. But the emperor Hailrian,
who was called ^Elius, rebuilt the city of Jerusalem, and the
Temple of the Lord, and added to the city as far as the Tower
of David, which was previously a considerable distance from
the city, for any one may see from the Mount of Olivet where
the extreme western walls of the city stood originally, and
how much it is since increased. And the emperor called the
city after his own name ^Elia, which is interpreted, the House
of God. Some, however, say that tlu; citv was rebuilt by the
emperor Justinian, and also the Tomide of the Lord as it is
now ; but they say that according to supposition, and not ac-
cording to truth. For the Assyrians,'- whose fathers dwelt in
that country from the first persecution, say that the city was
taken and destroyed many times after our Lord's Passitin,
along with aU the churches, but not entirely defaced.
2 .t.s.si/rtrtjis is Seeuiuud's name for Syrians.
30
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1103
In the court of the church of our Lord's sepulchre are seen
some vcrj' holy places, niimt'ly, the prison in which our Lord
Jesus Christ was confined after he was betrayed, according to
the testimony of the Assj-rians ; then, a little ahove, appears
the pliice where the holy cross and the other crosses were
foimd, where afterwards a large church was built in honour
of queen Helena, but which has since been utterly destrcjyed
bv the Pagans ; and below, not far from the prison, stands
the marble column to which our Lord Jesus Clu-ist was bound
in the common hall, and scoui-ged with most cruel stripes.
Near this is the spot where our Lord was stripped of his
garments by the soldiers ; and next, the place where he was
clad in a purple vest by the soldiers, and crowned with the
crown of thorns, and they cast lots for his garments. Next
we ascend Mount Calvary, where the patriarch Abraham
raised an altar, and prepared, by God's command, to sacrifice
his own son ; there afterwards the Son of God, whom he pre-
figured, was offered up as a sacrifice to God the Father for
the redemption of the worid. The rock of that mountain
remains a witness of oui- Lord's passion, being much cracked
near the foss in which our Lord's cross was fLxcd, because it
could not suffer the death of its Maker without splitting, as
we read in the Passion, "and the rocks rent." Below is the
I>lacc called Golgotha, where Adam is said to have been raised
to life by the blood of our Lord which fell upon him, as is
siiid in the Passion, " And many bodies of the saints which
slept arose." But in the Sentences of St. Augustine, we read
that he was buried in Hebron, where also the three patriarchs
were afterwai-ds buried with their- wives; Abraham with
Sarah, Isaac with Rebecca, and Jacob with Leah ; as well as
the bones of Joseph, which the children of Israel carried with
them from Egypt. Near the place of Calvary is the church
of St. Slarv, on the spot where the body of oui- Lord, after
ha\Tng been taken down from the cross, was anointed before
it was buried, and wrapped in a linen cloth or shroud.
At the head of tlic church of the Holy Sepulchi-e, in the
wall outside, not far from the place of Calvary, is the place
called Compas, which our Lord Jesus C'hiist himself signified
and measured with his own hand as the middle of the world,
according to the words of the Psalmist, " For God is my king
of old, working salvation in the midst of the earth." But
some say that this is the place where our Lord Jesus Christ
first appeared to Mary Magdalene, while she sought him
weeping, and thought ho had been a gardener, as is related in
the Gospel. These most holy places of prayer are contained
in the court of our Lord's Sepulchre, on the east side. In the
sides of the church itscU are attached, on one side and the
other, two most beautiful chapels in honour of St. Mary and
St. John, as they, pai-ticipating in our Lord's sufferings, sta-
tioned themselves beside him here and there. On the west
wall of the chapel of St. Mary is seen the picture of our Lord's
Mother. ])ainted externally, who once, by speaking wonder-
fully tlirough the Holy Spirit, in the form in which she is
here painted, comforted JIary the Egj-ptian, when she re-
pented with her whole heart, and sought the help of the
Mother of our Lord, as we read in her life. On the other
side of the church of St. John is a very fair monastery of the
Holy Trinity, in which is the place of the baptistery, to
■which adjoins the Chapel of St. John the Ajjostle, who first
filled the pontifical see at Jerusalem. These are all so com-
posed and an-anged, that any one standing in the furthest
church may clearly perceive the five chui'ches from door to
door.
AVithout the gate of the Holy Sepulchre, to the south, is
the church of St. Mary, called the Latin, because the monks
there perform divine service in the Latin tongue; and the
Assyrians say that the blessed Mother of our Lord, at the
crucifixion of her Son, stood on the spot now occupied by the
altar of this church. Adjoining to this chui-ch is another
church of St. Mary, called the Little, occupied by nuns who
serve devoutly the Virgin and her Son. Near which is the
Hospital, where is a celebrated monastery founded in honour
of St. John the Baptist.
We descend from our Lord's sepulclire, about the distance
of two arbalist-shots, to the Temple of the Lord, which is to
the cast of the Holy Sepulchre, the court of which is of great
length and breadth, ha's-ing many gates ; but the principal
gate, which is in front of the Temple, is called the Bi'autiful,
on account of its elaborate workmanship and variety of
colours, and is the spot where Peter healed Claudius, when
he and John went up into the Temple at the ninth hour of
])rayer, as we read in the Acts of the Apostles. The place
where Solomon built the Temple was called anciently Bethel ;
whither Jacob repaired by God's command, and where he
dwelt, and saw the ladder whose summit touched heaven, and
the angels ascending and descending, and said, " Truly this
place is holy," as we read in Genesis. There he raised a
stone as a memorial, and constructed an altar, and poured oil
upon it; and in the same place afterwards, by God's will,
Solomon built a temple to the Lord of magnificent and in-
comparable work, and decorated it wonderfully with every
ornament, as we read in the Book of Kings. It exceeded all
the mountains around in height, and all walls and buildings
in brilUancy and glory. In the middle of which temple is
seen a high and large rock, hollowed beneath, in which was
the Holy of Holies. In this place Solomon placed the Ark of
the Covenant, ha\Tng the manna and the rod of Aaron, which
flourished and budded there and produced almonds, and the
two Tables of the Testament ; here our Lord Jesus Christ,
wearied with the insolence of the Jews, was accustomed to
repose ; here was the place of confession, where Ms disciples
confessed themselves to him ; here the angel Gabriel ap-
peared to Zachai'ias, saying, " Thou shalt receive a child in
thy old age ; " here Zacharias, the son of Barachias, was slain
between the temple and the altar ; here the child Jesus was
circumcised on the eighth day, and named Jesus, which is
interpreted Saviour ; here the Lord Jesus was offered by his
parents, with the Vii-giu Mary, on the day of her purification,
and received by the aged Simeon; here, also, when Jesus
was twelve years of age, ho was foimd sitting in the midst of
the doctors, hearing and interrogating them, as we read in the
Gosjiel ; here afterwards he cast out the oxen, and sheep, and
pigeons, saj"ing, " My house shall be a house of prayer ; " and
here he said to the Jews, " Destroy this temple, and in three
daj-s I will raise it up." There still arc seen in the rock the
footsteps of our Lord, when he concealed himself, and went
out from the Temple, as we read in the Gospel, lest the Jews
shoidd throw at him the stones they carried. Thither the
woman taken in adultery was brought before Jesus by the
Jews, that they might find some accusation against him.
There is the gate of the city on the eastern side of the
Temple, which is called the Golden, where Joachim, the
father of the Blessed Mary, by order of the Angel of the Lord,
met his wife Anne. By the same gate the Lord Jesus, coming
from Bethanj- on the day of olives, sitting on an ass, entered
the city of Jerusalem, while the chUtlren sang " Hosanna to
the son of David." By this gate the emperor Heraclius
entered Jerusalem, when he returned ^-ictorious from Persia,
with the cross of our Lord ; but the stones first fell down and
closed up the passage, so that the gate became one mass, until
himibling himself at the achnonition of an angel, he descended
from his horse, and so the entrance was opened to him. In
the court of the Temple of the Lord, to the south, is the
Temple of Solomon, of wonderful magnitude, on the east side
TO A.D. 1142.]
EELIGIOX.
31
of which, is an oratory containing the cradle of Christ, and
his bath, and the hed of the Virgin Mary, according to the
testimony of the Assviians.
From the Temple of the Lord you go to the chiu'ch of St.
Anne, the mother of the Blessed Mary, towai-ds the north,
where she lived with her husband, and she was there deUvered
of her daughter Mary. Xear it is the pool called in Hebrew
Bethsaida, having five porticoes, of which the Gospel speaks.
A little above is the place where the woman was healed by
our Lord, by touching the hem of his garment, while he was
surrounded by a crowd in the street.
From St. Anne we pass through the gate which leads to
the Valley of Jehoshaphat, to the church of St. Mary in the
same valley, where she was honourably buried by the apostles
after her death; her sepulchre, as is just and proper, is
revered with the greatest honours by the faithful, and monks
perform serWce there day and night. Here is the brook
C'edron; here also is Gothsemane, where our Lord came
mth his disciples from Mount Sion, over the brook C'edron,
before the hour of his betrayal ; there is a certain oratory
where he dismissed Peter, James, and John, saj-ing, " Tarry
ye here, and watch with me;" and going forward, he fell
on his face and prayed, and came to his disciples, and found
them sleeping : the jjlaces are still visible where the disciples
slept, apart from each other. Gethsemane is at the foot of
Mount Olivet, and the brook Cedi'on below, between Mount
Sion and Mount Olivet, as it were the division of the moim-
tains ; and the low ground between the mountains is the
Valley of Jehoshaphat. A little above, in Mount Olivet, is
an oratorj- in the place where our Lord prayed, as we read
in the Passion, " And he was withdrawn from them about
a stone's cast ; and being in an agony, he prayed more
earnestly, and his sweat was, as it were, great drops of blood
falling down to the ground." Xext we come to Aceldama,
the field bought with the price of the Lord, also at the foot of
Mount OUvet, near a valley about three or four arbaHst-shots
to the south of Gethsemane, where are seen innumerable
monuments. That field is near the sepulchres of the holy
fathei-s Simeon the Just and Joseph the foster-father of our
Lord. These two sepulchres are ancient structures, in the
manner of towers, cut into the foot of the mountain itself.
We next descend, by Aceldama, to the fountain which is
called the Pool of SUoah, where, by our Lord's command,
the man bom blind washed his eyes, after the Lord had
anointed them with clay and spittle.
From the chui'ch of St. Mary before mentioned, we go up
by a very steep jjath nearly to the summit of Mount Olivet,
towards the east, to the place whence our Lord ascended to
lieaven in the sight of his disciples. The place is surrounded
by a little tower, and honourably adorned, with an altar
raised on the spot within, and also surrounded on all sides
with a wall. On the spot where the apostles stood with his
mother, wondering at his ascension, is an altar of St. Mary ;
there the two men in white garments stood by them, saying,
"Ye men of GaUlee, why stand ye gazing into heaven f"
About a stone's throw from that place is the spot where,
according to the Assj-rians, our Lord vrrote the Lord's Prayer
in Hebrew, with his o^vn fingers, on marble ; and there a
very beautiful church was built, but it has since been cnth-ely
destroyed by the Pagans, as are all the cliiu-ches outside the
walls, except the church of the Holy Ghost on Mount Sion,
about an arrow-shot from the wall to the north, where the
apostles received the promise of the Father, namely, the
Paraclete Spirit, on the day of Pentecost ; there they made
the Creed. In that church is a chapel in the place where
the Blessed Mary died. On the other side of the church is
the chapel where our Lord Jesus Christ first appeared to the
apostles after his resurrection ; and it is called GalUee, as
he said to the apostles, " After I am risen again, I will go
before you unto Galilee." That i>lace was called Galilee,
because the apostles, who were called Galileans, frequently
rested there.
The gi-eat city of Galilee is by Mount Tabor, a journey
of three days from Jerusalem. On the other side of Mount
Tabor is the city called Tiberias, and after it Capei-namn and
Nazareth, on the sea of Galilee or sea of Tiberias, whither
Peter and the other apostles, after the resurrection, retm-ned
to their fishing, and where the Lord afterwards showed him-
self to them on the sea. Near the city of Tiberias is the
field where the Lord Je.sus blessed the five loaves and two
fishes, and afterwards fed four thousand men with them, as
we read in the Gosijel. But I will return to my immediate
subject.
In the Galilee of Mount Sion, where the apjostles were
concealed in an inner chamber, with dosed doors, for fear of
the Jews, Jesus stood in the middle of them and said, " Peace
be unto you;" and he again apijeared there when Thomas
put his finger into his side and into the place of the nails.
There he supped with his disciples before the Passion, and
washed their feet; and the maible table is still preserved
there on which he supped. There the relics of St. Stephen,
Nicodemus, Gamaliel, and Abido, were honourably deposited
by St. John the Patriarch after they were found. The stoning
of St. Stephen took place about two or three arbalist-shots
mthout the wall, to the north, where a ver)' handsome church
was built, which has been entirely destroyed by the Pagans.
The church of the Holy Cross, about a mile to the west of
Jerusalem, in the place where the holy cross was cut out, and
which was also a very handsome one, has been similaidy Laid'
waste bj' the Pagans ; but the destruction here fell chietiy on
the sunounding buildings and the ccUs of the monks, the
church itself not having suffered so much. L'nder the wall
of the cit)', outside, on the declivity of Jlount Sion, is the
church of St. Peter, which is called the Galilean, where, after
having denied his Lord, he hid himself in a veiy deep crj'pt,
as may still be seen there, and there wept bitterly for his
oft'ence. About three miles to the west of the church of the
Holy Cross is a very fine and large monasterj- in honour of
St. Saba, who was one of the seventy-two disciples of our
Lord Jesus Christ. There were above three bundled Greek
monks li\'ing there, in the service of the Lord and of the
saint, of whom the greater part have been slain by the
Saracens, and the few who remain have taken up their abode
in another monastery of the same saint, within the walls of
the city, near the tower of Da\-id, their other monastery
being left entirely desoLate.
William of Malmesbury, from wliose hi.story wi^
have taken a shoi-t account of Akllielm, was Sajwulf's
contemporary, but a younger num. He wrote his
" History of the Kings of Eughind " in the reigns
of Henry I. and Stephen. It ended with the year
1142, which seems to have been tlie date of its
autlior's death. This monk of Mahnesbury was an
enthusiast for books, and, like Bede, he refused to be
made an abbot, because he desired to give to study
all the time not occupied by the religious exercises
of the brethren. When John Milton was writing a
"Histoiy of Britain" by hel]) of monastic clironiclei-s,
and, having parted from Bede, he came in due time
to the record left us by this literary monk, he .said
that among our old chroniclers " William of ^lalmes-
biuy must be acknowledged, both for style and
32
CASSELL'S LlBltARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1112
judgment, to Ijc l>y far tlii' best writer of theiu all."
■William wrote at Malmesljury not only the " History
of English Kings," bnt also a " History of English
rrelate.s," and many other l)Ooks.
With the year 1 1 4l' ended not only William of
Malmesbury'.s' " History of the Kings of England,"
but also the " Ecclesiastical History of England and
Normandy," Ijy Orderiens ^'italis. Orderic, who was
sixty-seven year.s old when he Ijrought his naiTative
down to the end of his own working life, had in the
year 1085 been jilaced as an English boy in the
Norman abbey of St. Evroult, and had lived there
devoted to the conteuiiilative life, and iietive with
his ]ien. When fifty-three y<'ai-s old, he was in the
writing-room of his monastery, quietly at work upon
his history, and, falling into recollections of his
childhood, spoke thus of his position at St. E^•roult :
— " Then, being in my eleventh year, I was sejiarated
from my father, for the love of God. and sent, a
young exile, from England to Normandy, to enter
the ser\-ice of the King Eternal. Here I was re-
ceived by the ^•enerable father Maimer, and liaving
assumed the monastic habit, and become indissolubly
joineil to the comjiany of the monks by solenai vows,
liave now cheerfully borne the light yoke of the
Lord for forty-two yeai-s, and walking in the ways
of God with my fellow-monks, to the best of my
ability, according to the rules of our order, have
endeavoured to perfect myself in the service of the
Church and ecclesiastical duties, at the same time
that I ha^e always devoted my talents to some
useful employment."
William of Malmesbury and Ordericus Vitalis
ended their work in 1142, in Stephen's reign. In
the same reign, in the year 1147, Geofl'rey of Mon-
mouth produced his " History of British Kings."
Geofliey was a Welsh monk who was made Bishop
of St. Asajih not long before his death in 1154.
His History contained moie fable than chronicle.
By " British " kings he meant kings of Britain
before the coming of the English. Of English kuigs
there were trustworthy chronicles ; Geotl'rey pro-
vided a chronicle of British kings, not meant to
be particularly trustworthy, but distinctly meant to
be anuising. It was partly founded on Breton tra-
ditions, and it did obtain a wide attention. It was
the source of a new stream of poetry in English
literature, and it is this book that brought King
Arthur among us as our national hero. GeoftVey's
History does not itself belong to the subject of this
volume. The old romances of King Arthur are not
religious. They are pictin-esque stories of love and
war, and of each in nide animal form. But the way
in which the legends of this mythical hero have
been dealt with in our coimtry furnishes one of the
most marked illustrations of the religious tendency
of English thought. For while amongst Latin nations
the Charlemagne romances have given rise to fictions
which, however delightful, exjiress only jilay of the
imagination, the romances of which Arthur is the
hero h-dve been used by the English people in succes-
sive stages of their civilisation for expression of their
highest sense of spiritual life. In the veiT first yeai'S
of the re^'ived fame of Arthur, when Geoffrey of
Monmouth's " History of British Kings " was being
fashioned into French veree for courtly English
readers Ijy Gaimar and Wace, and into English ^erse
by Layamon. the change was made by Walter Map
that put a Christian soul into the flesh of the
Ai-tkurian romances. This he tlid by joining a
A CulTCTLY WkITKK.
From iho Boo); ofihc Coronation oj Henry J. Cotton. M.S8., Clautlu'.-<, A. iii .
separate legend of Josej)h of Arimathea to the stories
of King Arthur, and setting in the midst of their
ideals of a life according to the flesh tiie quest for
the Holy Graal. The Holy Graal was the dish used
by our Lord at the Last Supper, into which also his
wounds were washed after he had l)een taken from
the cross, a sacred dish visible only to the ))ure. It
could be used, therefore, as a ty[ie of the secret
things of God. Walter Map, who thus dealt with
the King Arthur legends, was a chapl.ain of the Court
of King Heniy II. He was born about the year
1143, and called the Welsh his countrymen, England
" our mother." He studied in the ITni'\ersity of
Paris, was in attendance at the Covirt of Henry II..
and in 1173 was presiding at Gloucester Assizes as
one of the King's Justices in Eyre. At Henry II. s
Court, IVIaji was a chai)lain; Heniy died in 118il, and
Ma]i was not an archdeacon imtil 1196, in the reign
of Richard I. He was then about fifty-three years
old, and after that date we hear no more of him.'
We must dwell now for a little whil(> upon the origin
of our religious treatment of Ai-thuriau romance.
^ See the Volume of this Library contaiuiner "Shorter English
Poems," pages 12—16, for iUustrattous of Walter Map's Golias
poetry.
TU A.V. 1171.]
RELIGION.
33
Mediseval tradition said that there were Nine
Worthies of the workl, three heathen, three Jewish,
and three Chiistiau : — namely, Hector, Alexander, and
Cajsar ; Joshua, David, and Judas JIaccaVjaJUS ; King
Aa-thur, Charlemagne, and that Godfrey of Boloine
who headed the crusadei's when the Holy City was
taken in the year 1099, w-ho was then elected the fii-st
Liitin King of Jerusalem, but chose the htnnbler title
of '■ Defender and Baron of the Holy Sepiulchre," and
woidd wear no earthly diadem where his Redeemer
had been crowned ^vith thorns. If our British
Worthy ever lived, his time was the earlier pai-t of
the sixth centuiy, when he led tribes of Celtic Britons
in their resLstance against the incoming of the English.
There is more record of a chieftain of the North,
named Urien, about whom were the liaids Taliesin,
Llywarch Hen, and Aneurin, who lamented for the
chiefs slain in the battle of Cattraeth.' To Gildas,
said by ti-adition to have been a brother of Aneurin,
there is ascribed an ancient histoiy of the disa.st«re
of the British (" De Calamitate, E.xcidio et Conquestu
Biitannife"), but it was written in no friendly spirit,
and is the work of an English monk, who probably
wTote in the seventh century. By him Arthur is
mentioned, and in another work, a " Histoiy of the
Britons," ascribed to Nennius, a disciple of Elbodus,
who may have lived in the latter part of the eighth
century, and whose work is really CVltie in feeling,
Arthur is more fully spoken of. Here there is record
of the twelve battles in Which he routed the Saxons —
namely, 1, at the mouth of the river Gleni ; 2, 3, 4,
3, by the river Dugla.s in the region Linuis ; 6, on
the river Ba.ssa.s ; 7, in the w^ood CeHdon ; 8, near
Gui-nion Ca-stle ; 9, at Caerleon ; 10, on the banks
of the river Ti-at Treuroit ; 11, on the mountain
Bregovin ; 12, when Arthur penetrated to the hill
of Badon, and 9-10 fell by his hand alone. There
was at any rate early tradition, mi.xed already with
fable, of the prowess of the chief who led his
followei's in a gi'eat war of independence.
Arthur's name is also a.ssociated from old time
with localities in many pai-ts of Britiiin. At
Caerleon-upon-Usk he is said to have held his court ;
that is the Isca Siluiiim of Antoninus, where the
second Augustan legion was long in garmon, the
ancient capital of Britannm Secunda (Wales), and a
place of importance in the twelfth century. Here
the remains of a Roman amphitheatre fomi an oval
bank, which is called " Arthur's Round Table." He
held court also at Camelot, which is identified with
Cadbui-y in Somei-setshire, three or foiu- miles from
Castle Gary. This place is called Camelot some-
times in old records, and near it ai-e the villages of
West Camel and Queen's Camel. John Selden, in
his notes to Di-ayton's " Polyolbion," spoke of Cadbuiy
as a hill, " a mile compass at the top, four trenches
encircling it, and twixt eveiy of them an earthen
wall ; the content of it within about twenty acres full
of ruins and relics of old buildings." There is also
TLntagel, on the coiist of Corawall, Arthur's birth-
place. At Camelford, about five miles from Tintagel,
the la.st battle is s;iid to have been fought with
' See the Tolmne of this Iiibraxy contaixiiiig " Shorter English
Poems," pni^e 5.
69
Mordred. In a convent at Amesbury, not far from
Stonehenge, Arthur's penitent wife, Guenevere, is .said
to have ended her days, and his body was taken to
Avalon, which is Glastonbury, on a peninsula formed
by the river Biiie, the Eoman Itm/la Avalonia,
or Isle of Apples. The Eoman name was only a
Liitinisiug of the Cymric, in which Afall is an ajjple-
tree. The great abbey at Glastonbuiy once covered
sixty acres, and the modem town h;is almost been
built out of its ruins. Here Joseph of Arimathea
was said to have been btnied. It was said also that
King Ai-thur was buried here between two pillare ;
and as the revival of King Arthur's fame took place
in Hemy II. 's time, that king, when on his way to
Ireland, in the year 1171, ordered Henry of Blois,
then Abbot of Glastonbmy, to make search. The
search was made, and care was no doubt taken to
make it successfid. Between two pillai-s, at a depth
of nine feet, a stone was found, with a leaden cross,
inscribed on its under side in Latin : — " Here lies
buried the renowned King Arthur, in the Isle of
The Inscription over Kino Arthur's Coffin.
Frfrm Warner's ** Riatory of Glastonbury."
Avalon ; " and seven feet lower down his body was
found in an oaken cofiin.
It must have been about this time — when Arthur
had become the hero of romance, and his bones were
found at Avalon, to plea.se the king — that Walter
Map, perhaps asked by the king for a connected
body of Arthurian romance, gave life to such a body
by jiutting into it the very soul of our mediseval
religion. Many in the world weve becoming better
studied in the animal life of the new stories about
Arthur than in Bible truth. Shakespeare long after-
wards indicated tliis in Dame Quickly 's confusion of
ideas between Arthur and Abmham, when of the
dead Falstafl" she said, " Nay, sure, he's not in hell ;
he's in Arthur's bosom, if ever man went to Arthur's
bosom. A made a tine end, and went away, an it
u
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[i.D. 1142
had been any chrissom child." Map took the legeml
of Joseph of Ai-imathea, who alHO was said to be
bui-ied at Ghistoiibury, and to wJioin the monastery
had a cliapel consecrated, by additions of Ins own
drew from it a symbol of the mystery of godliness,
and by his genius associated this for all time with
the animal romances. The simplest form of the
tradition of Joseph of Arimathea is that about sLxty-
three years after the birtii of Christ he was sent by
the Apostle Philip, with eleven more of Philip's
disciples, into Britain. The twelve, it was said,
obtained leave from Arviragus, the British king,
to settle in a small uncultivated island, afterwards
known as Avalon, and the king gave each of them
a liide of land for his subsistence, in a district long
afterwards known as the " Twelve Hides of Glaston."
By them the religious house was founded, St. Joseph
tlesli to tho birds of tlio air aud tlio beasts of the earth."
Joseph answered, " That speech is like the speech of proud
(Joliath, who reprouehed the living God in speaking against
David. But ye seribcs and doctors know that God suith by
the prophet. Vengeance is mine, aud I wUl repay to you evil
equal to that which ye have threatened to me. Tho God whom
you have hanged upon the cross, is able to deliver mo out of
your hands. AU your wickedness will return upon you.
For the governor, when he washed his hands, said, ' 1 am
clear from the blood of this just person.' But ye answered
and cried out, ' His blood be upon us and om- childi-cn : '
According as ye have said, may yc perish for ever." The
elders of the Jews hearing these words, were exceedingly
enraged ; and seizing Joseph, they put him into a chamber
where there was no window ; they fastened tho door, and put
a seal upon the lock; and Annas and Caiaphas placed a
guard upon it, and took counsel with the priests imd Levite.s,
that they should all meet after the sabbath, and they con-
CBiPEL OF St. JOSFTH nt Al IMATHFA ULi-Mi NBDRT
(from narntr s " Ui-^t n i o/ fi^istuitt ury.")
b(ung its first abbot, and great privileges were ob-
tained for it.
Of Jose]>h's history, after he had Ijegged the liody
of Christ for burial, as told by all the four Evan-
g(!lists, this was the account given in the apocryjihal
Gosi)el of Nioodemus, and familiarly known before
Map's time : —
JOSEPH OF ARI.M.\THEA.
Josepli, when he came to the Jews, said to thorn, " Why arc
ye iingTy with me for desiring the body of Jesus of Pilate ?
Behold, I have put him in my tomb, and wrapped him up in
cli;an linen, ami put a stone at the door of the sepidchre : I
have acted rightly towards him ; but yc have acted im j ustly
against that just person, in crucifying him, giving him vine-
gar to drink, crowning him with thorns, tearing his body
with whips, and prayed down the guilt of his blood upon
you." The Jews at the hearing of this were disquieted, and
troubled ; and they seized Jost^ph, and commanded him to bo
put in custody before the sabbath, and kept there till the
sabbath was over. And they said to him, " JIako confession ;
for at this time it is not lawful to do thee any hann, till the
first day of the week come, l^iut we know that thou wilt
not be thought worthy of a bui'ial ; but we will give thy
trivcd to what death they should put Joseph. WHien they
had done this, tlie rulers, Annas and (.'aiaphas, ordered Joseph
to be brought forth.
*S III t/iii place tliiyr is a portion of the nnrriitiiv lost or
Oiiilftt'fl, ivh'ivh cannot he sn/tjilicd.
When all the assembly heard this, they wondered and wen
astonished, because they found the same seal upon the lock el
the chamber, and could not find Joseph. Then Annas ami
Caiaphas went forth, and while they were all wondering a(
Joseph's being gone, behold one of the soldiers, who kept thi'
sepulchre of Jesus, spake in the assembly, that while they
were guarding the sepulchre of Jesus, there was an earth-
quake; "and we saw an angel of God roll away the stom-
of the sepulihi-e and sit upon it ; and his countenance was
like lightning and his gai-ment like snow; and we became
through fear like persons dead. And we hoard an angel
sajdng to the women at the sepulchre of Jesus, ' Do not fear :
I know that you seek Jesus who was crucified ; he is ris(m, as
he forc^told. Come ami see the place where he was laid ; aud
go presently, and tell his disciples that he is risen from thi
dead, and he will go before you into Galilee ; there ye shall
see him, as he told you.' " Then the Jew.s called together all
the soldiers who kept tho sepulchre of Jesus, and said to
them, " Who are those women, to whom the angel spoke Y
TO A.D. 1180.]
EELIGION.
35
A\Tiy did ye not seize them r " The soldiers answered and
said, "We know not who the women were ; besides, we became
as dead persons through fear, and how could we seize those
women ': " The Jews said to them, "As the Lord liveth, we do
not believe you." The soldiers answering said to the Jews,
" AATicn yo saw and heard Jesus working so many miracles,
and did not believe him, how should ye believe us ': Ye well
said, 'As the Lord Uveth,' for the Lord truly does live. We
liave heard that ye shut up Joseph, who buried the body of
.Tesus, in a chamber, under a lock which was sealed ; and
when ye opened it, found him not there. Do ye then pro-
I luce Joseph whom ye put under guard in the chamber, and
we will produce Jesus whom we guarded in the sepulchre."
The Jews answered and said, "We will produce Joseph, do ye
produce Jesus. For Joseph is in his o^\ti city of Arimatba^a."
The soldiers replied, " If Joseph be in Arimatha'a, Jesus also
is in Galileo ; we heard the angel tell the women." The
.Fews hearing this, were afraid, and said among themselves. If
by any means these things should become pubHc, then cvery-
liody will believe in Jesus. Then they gathered a large sum
of money, and gave it to the soldiers, saying, "Bo ye tell the
people that the disciples of Jesus came in the night when ye
were asleep, and stole away the body of Jesus ; and if Pilate
the governor should hear of this, we will satisfy him and
secure you." The soldiers accordingly took the money, and
.said as they were instructed by the Jews : and their report
was spread abroad among all the people. But a certain priest
I'hinees, Ada a schoolmaster, and a Le%-ite, named Ageus,
they three, came from Galilee to Jerusalem, and told the chief
priests and aU who were in the sj-nagogues, saying, "We have
seen Jesus, whom ye crucified, talking with his eleven
disciples, and sitting in the midst of them in Jlount Olivet,
and saWng to them, ' Go forth into the whole world, jireach
the Gospel to all nations, baptising them in the name of the
Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost ; and whosoever
shall believe and be baptised, shall be saved.' And when he
had said these things to his disciples, we saw him ascending
up to heaven." And they sent forth men, who sought for
Jesus, but could not find him : and they retui'ning, said, " We
went all about, but could not find Jesus, but we have found
.Joseph in his city of Arimatha'a." The rulers hearing this,
and all the people, were glad, and praised the God of Israel,
because Joseph was found, whom they had shut up in a
chamber, and could not find. And when they had formed a
large assembly, the chief priests said, " By what means shaU
we bring Joseph to us to speak with him ? " And taking a piece
of paper, they wrote to him, and said, " Peace be with thee,
;ind all thy family. We know that we have offended against
Cxod and thee. Be pleased to give a %-isit to us thy fathers,
for we were in utmost surprise at thine escape from prison.
We know that it was malicious counsel which we took against
thee, and that the Lord took care of thee, and the Lord him-
self delivered thee from our designs. Peace be unto thee,
Joseph, who art bonom-able among all the people." And they
chose seven of Joseph's friends, and said to them, " AVhon ye
come to Joseph, salute him in peace, and give him this letter."
Accordingly, when the men came to Joseph, they did salute
him in peace, and gave him the letter. And when Joseph
bad read it, he said, "Blessed be the Lord God, who didst
dcUver me from the Israelites, that they could not shed my
blood. Blessed be God, who hast protected nie under thy
wings." And Joseph kissed them, and took them into his
house. And on the morrow, Joseph mounted his ass, and
went along with them to Jerusalem. And when all the Jews
heard these things, they went out to meet him, and cried out,
saying, " Peace attend thy coming hither, father Joseph ! "
To which he answered, " Prosperity from the Lord attend all
the people !" And they all kissed him; and Nicodemus took
him to his house, haWng prepared a large entertainment. But
on the morrow, being a preparation-day, Annas, and Caiaphas,
and Nicodemus said to Joseph, " Make confession to the God
of Israel, and answer to us all those questions which we shall
ask thee ; for we have been very much troubled, that thou
didst bury the body of Jesus ; and that when we had locked
thee in a chamber, we could not find thee ; and we have been
afraid ever since, tiU this time of thy appearing among us.
Tell us therefore before God, all that came to pass." Then
Joseph answering, said, " Ye did indeed put me under confine-
ment, on the day of preparation, till the morning. But while
I was standing at prayer in the middle of the night, the
house was surrounded with four angels ; and I saw Jesus as
the brightness of the sun, and fell down upon the earth for
fear. But Jesus laying hold on my hand, lifted me from the
ground, and the dew was then sprinkled upon me ; but he,
griping my face, kissed me, and said imto me, ' Fear not,
Joseph ; look upon me, for it is I.' Then I looked upon him,
and said, Kabboni Elias ! He answered me, ' I am not Elias,
but Jesus of Nazareth, whose body thou didst bury.' I said
to him, ' Shew me the tomb in which I laid thee.' Then
Jesus, taking me by the hand, led me unto the place where I
laid him, and shewed me the linen clothes, and napkin which
I put round his head. Then I knew that it was Jesus, and
worshipped him, and said, ' Blessed be he who cometh in the
name of the Lord.' Jesus again taking me by the hand, led
me to Arimathfea, to my own house, and said to me, ' Peace
be to thee ; but go not out of thy house tiU the fortieth day ;
but I must go to my disciples.' "
There is nothing here of the Holy Graal, nor is
there evidence of any connection of that legend with
gi-owing traditions of St. Josejili, until Walter jWap
told of the ap|)earance of St. Joseph to a certain
hermit in the year 717, as a way of opening the
story which was to introduce a new element into
Arthurian romance : —
PRELUDE TO THE FIRST ROM.\NCE OF THE ST. GRAAL.
He who accounts himself the least and most sinful of all,
salutes, and begins this historj- to all those whose heart and
faith is in the Holy Trinity. The name of him who wrote
this history is not told at the beginning. But by the words
that foUow you may in a gi-eat measure perceive his name,
country, and a great part of his lineage. But he would not
disclose himself in the beginning. And he has three reasons
for that. The first is that if he named himself, and said that
God had revealed thi-ough him .so high a history, the felon
and envious would turn it into scoff. The second is that aU
who knew him, if they heard his name, would value the less
his history, for being written by so mean a person. The
third reason is. that if ho put his name to the history, and
any fault were found committed by him, or by a transcriber
from one book into another, all the blame would fall on his
name ; for there are so many more mouths that speak evil
than good, and a man gets more blame for a single fault than
praise for a hundi-ed merits. And however he may wish to
cover it, it would be more seen than he should like. But he
will tell quite openly how the History of the Saint Graal was
commanded to him to be made manifest. It happened 717
years after the passion of Jesus Christ that I, the most sinful
of all men, was in a place wilder than I can describe
And then the story begins ^vith the vision of Joseph,
who tells how the Holy Graal, or dish from which the
36
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. il+2
Last Supper was eaten, was taken by a Jew to Pilate,
who gave it to Joseph of Arimathea, whom he knew
to be one of tlie Saviour's devoted friends. When
Josepli took the body of tlie Lord down from the
cross he washed the wounds in the same dLsh. When
the Jews, angered at tlie Resurrection, imprisoned
Joseph, he is said to have been forty-two years in
a dungeon preserved by sight of the Holy Graal
miraculou.sly placed in his hands. Released by Ves-
pasian, Joseph quitted Jerusalem, and went with the
Graal through France into Britain. Here he taught,
and died at Glastonbury, and the Holy Graal was
preserved in the treasury of one of the kings of the
island, known as the Fisherman King. But it is so
sacred that it is not visible to the impure. Tliis
made tlie Quest of the Graal by Arthur's knights a
type of the striving to come near to God, the sight
of the Grtuvl an embodiment of the thought of the
Psalmist, " Who shall ascend into the hill of the
Lord, or who shall stand in his holy place 'I He that
hath clean hands and a pure heart : who hath not
lifted up his soul unto vanity, nor sworn deceitfully;"
or of the words of Christ himself, " Blessed are the
pure in heart, for they shall see God." Beginning
with this new legend of Josepli of Arimathea, Map
took next from Greoffrey of Monmouth the proj)liecies
of Merlin, then reproduced in a form of his o-\vii
the fleshly charm of Arthurian romance in the story
of Lancelot ; gave Lancelot a son Galahad, pure as
a maid ; and in the Quest of the Graal, which Galahad
especially accomplished, he caused men to find the
charm of romance in religious teaching ; then he
went on to the close of the series, with the death of
Arthur, adapting all to his design so perfectly that
the Graal stoiy became thenceforth inseparable fi'om
Arthurian legend. Although in conception and
detail it was essentially poetical, Map seems to have
workeil out liis scheme in Latin prose. Its several
parts were then turned into French prose, and versi-
fied by many. Chrestien of Troyes, who was born,
like Map, between the years 1140 and 1150, first
sang the romance of Erec and Enid. Kyot, a Pro-
vencal poet, gave new development to the Graal
story in his romance of Percival, and this was the
groundwork of the " Parzival" of Wolfram von
Eschenbach, in which the conception of the Graal
legend is developed with deep .spiritual feeling.
Wolfram von Eschenbach was a Bavarian knight of
good fiimily, who in and after the year 1204 was at
the court of the Thuringian landgrave, Hermann,
on the Wartburg, near Eisenach, then a centre of
intellectual life, such as Weimar became 600 years
later. Wolfram von Eschenbach had strength and
depth rather than surface grace. He wrote but few
lyrics, and was rather kniglit than scholar ; though a
poet Ijorn, having that large sense of the essentials
of life which may be said, perhaps, to belong to the
religious feeling of the Teuton, whether he be an
English Walter or a German Wolfram. But Map's
genius owed some of its vivacity to marriage of the
Teuton with the Celt. It was long after Map's time
that Sir Thomas Malory compiled his History of
King Arthur. He is said to have ended the work
in the ninth year of Edward IV. Fifteen years
later, in 1485, it was first printed by Caxton, at
Westminster. But Malory only reproduced in his
own English the old material, and an English reader
has no Ijook that vnU bring home to him the form
and spirit of Maji's " CJuest of the Graal" so well as
the chapters of Malory which reproduce its story.
From him I take, therefore, some illustrations of
THE QUEST OF THE GRAAL.'
The king and all estat(?.s went home unto Camclot, and
.so went to evensong to the Kxeat minster. And so after
upon that to supper, and every knight sat in his own place
as they were toforehand. Then anon they heard eracking
and crying of tlumder, that them thought the place should
all to-drive. In the midst of this blast entered a sun-hcain
more clearer by seven times than ever they saw day, and all
they were alighted of the grace of the Holy Ghost. Then
began every knight to behold other, and either saw other
by their seeming fairer than ever they saw afore. Xot for
then there was no knight might speak one word a great
while, and so they looked every man on other, as they
had been dumb. Then there entered into the hall the holy
Graile covered with white samite, but there was none might
see it, nor who bare it. And there was all the hall full
filled with good odoui-s, and every knight had such meats
and drinks as he best loved in this world ; and when the
holy Graile had been borne through the hall, then the holy
vessel departed suddenly, that they wist not where it became.
Then had they all breath to speak. And then the king
yielded thankings unto God of his good grace that he had
sent them. '• Cortes," said the king, " we ought to thank our
Lord Jesu gi-eatly, for that he hath shewed us this day at the
reverence of this high feast of Pentecost." " Now," said Sir
Gawaine, " we have been served this day of what meats and
drinks we thought on ; but one thing beguiled us, we might
not see the holy Graile, it was .so preciously cohered : where-
fore I will make here avow, that to-moni, without longer
abiding, I shall labour in the quest of the Sancgreal, that
I .shall hold me out a twelvemonth and a day, or more if
need be, and never shall I return again imto the coml till
I have seen it more openly than it hath been seen here :
and if I may not speed, I shall retm'n again as he that may
not be against the will of our Lord Jesu Christ." When
they of the Table Round heard Sir Gawaine say so, they
arose up the most party, and made such avows as Sir
Gawaine had made.
Anon as king Arthui- heard this he was greatly displeased,
for he wist well that they might not againsay their avows.
" Alas ! " said king Arthur unto Sir Gawaine, " ye have nigh
slain me with the avow and promise that ye have made. For
through you ye have bereft mo of the faii'est fellowship and
the truest of knighthood that ever were seen together in
any realm of the world. For when they depart from hence,
I am sure they all shall never meet more in this world, for
they shall die many in the Quest."
But Sir Launcelot rode ovcrthwart and endlong in a wild
forest, and held no path, but as wild adventure led him.
And at the last he came to a stony cross, which departed
> "The History of King Arthur and of the Knights of the Ronn<l
Table. Compile J by Sir Thomas Malory, Knt. Edited from the Test
of the Edition of 1634, with Introduction and Notes, by Thomas
Wright, MA., F.S.A.," in thi-ee volumes of the " Library of Old
Authors," published by J. R. Smith, is the most accessible edition of
Sir Thomas Malory. The same test, with some abridgments, to make
it suitable for general home use, is contained in one of the cheap
volumes of the " Globe Editions " of English authors, published by
Messrs. Macmilhui & Co.
TO A.D. libU.J
KELIGION.
37
two ways in waste land, and by the cross was a stonu that
was of marble, but it was so dark that Sir Launcelot might
not wit what it was. Then Sir Launcelot looked by him,
and saw an old chapel, and theiu he wend to have found
people. And Sir Launcelot tied his horse till a tree, and
there he did off his shield, and hung it upon a tree. And
then he went to the chapel door, and found it waste and
broken. And within he found a fair altar full richly arrayed
with cloth of clean silk, and there stood a fair clean candle-
.stick which bare six great candles, and the candles'tick was of
silver. And when Sir Launcelot saw this light, he had great
will for to enter the chapel, but he could find no place where
he might enter : then was he passing heavy and dismayed.
Then he returned and came to his horse, and did off his
saddle and bridle, and let him pasture ; and unlaced his
helm, and ungirded his sword, and laid him down to sleep
upon his shield tofore the cross.
And so he fell on sleep, and half waking and half sleeping,
he saw come by him two palfreys all fair and white, the
which bare a litter, therein IjTng a sick knight. ^\nd when
he was nigh the cross, he there abode still. -Ul this Sir
Launcelot saw and beheld, for he slept not verily ; and he
heard him say, " Oh, sweet Lord, when shall this sorrow leave
me ? and when shall the holy vessel come by me where
through I shall be blessed ? For I have endured thus long
for little trespass." A full great while complained the knight
thus, and always Sir Laimcelot he;ird it. With that Sir
I.^imcelot saw the candlestick with the six tapers come
before the cross, and he saw nobody that brought it. Also
there came a table of silver, and the holy vessel of the Sanc-
greal, which Sir Launcelot had seen aforetime in king
Poschour's house. And therewith the sick knight set bim
uj), and held up both his hands, and said, " Fair sweet Lord,
which is here within this holy vessel, take heed unto me,
that I may be whole of this malady." And therewith on his
hands and on his knees he went so nigh that he touched the
holy vcBsi?l, and kissed it, and anon he was whole, and then
he .said, "Lord God, I thank thee, for I am healed of this
sickness." So when the holy vessel had been there a great
while it went unto the chapel, with the chandelier and the
hght, so that Launcelot wist not where it was become, for he
was overtaken with sin that he had no power to arise against
the holy vessel ; wherefore after that many men said of him
shame, but he took repentance after that. Then the sick
knight dressed him up, and kissed the cross. Anon his
squire brought him his arms, and asked his lord how he did.
" Certes," said ho, " I thank God right well, through the holy
vessel I am hciled. But I have great marvel of this sleeping
knight, that had no power to awake when this holy vessel was
brought hither." " I dare right well say," said the squire,
'' that he dwcUeth in some deadly sin, whereof he was never
confessed." " By my faith," said the knight, " whatsoever he
be he is imhappy, for as I deem he is of the fellowship of the
Round Table, the which is entered into the Quest of the
Sanegreal." " Sir," said the squire, " here I have brought
you all your arms, save your helm and your sword, and
therefore by my assent now may ye take this knight's helm
and his sword." And so he did. And when he was clean
armed he took Sir Launcelot's horse, for he was better than
his own ; and so departed they from the cross.
Then anon Sir Launcelot waked, and set him up, and be-
thought him what he had seen there, and whether it were
dreams or not. Eight so heard he a voice that said, "Sir
Launcelot, more harder than is the stone, and more hitter
ihan is the wood, and more naked and barer than is the leaf
uf the fig-tree, therefore go thou from hcnccs and withdraw
tiiofe from this holy place." And when Sir Lsiuncelot heard
this he was passing heavy, and wist not what to do, and so
departed, sore weeping, and cursed the time that ho was born.
For then he deemed never to have had worship more. For
those words went to his heart, till that he knew wherefore he
was called so. Then Sir Launcelot went to the cross, and
formd his helm, his sword, and his horse taken away. And
then he called himself a very wretch, and most unhappy
of all knights : and there he said, " Jly sin and my wicked-
ness have brought me unto great dishonour. For when
I sought worldly adventui-es for worldly de.sii'es I ever
achieved them, and had the better in every place, and
never was I discomfit in no quarrel, were it right or
wi-ong. And now I take upon me the adventm-es of holy
things, and now I see and understand that mine old sin
hindcreth me, and shameth me, so that I had no power to
stir nor to speak when the holy blood appeared afore me."
So thus he sorrowed till it was day, and heard the fowls
sing; then somewhat he was comforted. But when Sir
Launcelot missed his horse and his harness, then he wist
well God was displeased with him. Then he departed from
the cross on foot into a forest. And so by prime he eame to
an high hill, and found an hermitage, and an hermit therein,
which was going unto mass. And then Launcelot kneeled
down and cried on oui- Lord mercy for his wicked works.
So when mass was done, Launcelot called him, and prayed
him for charity for to hear his lite. "With a good wUI,"
said the good man. ■ ' Sir," said he, " be ye of king Arthur's
court, and of the fellowship of the Round Table '■: " " Yea
forsooth, and my name is Sir Launcelot du Lake, that hath
been right well said of, and now my good fortune is changed,
for I am the most wretch of the world." The hermit beheld
him, and had marvel how he was so abashed. " Sir," said the
hermit, " ye ought to thank God more than any knight living ;
for He hath caused you to hiive more worldly wor'ship than
any knight that now liveth. And for your presumption to
take upon you in deadly sin for to be in His presence,
where His flesh and His Tilood was, that caused you ye
might not see it with worldly eyes, for He will not ajjpear
where such sinners be, but if it be imto their great hurt,
and imto their great shame. And there is no knight li\ing
now that ought to give God so great thanks as ye ; for He
hath given you beauty, seemliness, and great strength, above
all other knights, and therefore ye are the more beholding
unto God than any other man to love Him and dread Him ;
for your strength and manhood will little avail you and
God be against you."
And here is a later adventure,
entered a mystical sliip : —
Launcelot had
So dwelled Launcelot and Galahad within that ship half a
year, and served God daily and nightly with all their power.
And often they arrived in isles far from folk, where there
repaired none but wild beasts; and there they found many
strange adventures and perilous, which they brought to an
end. But because the adventures were with wild beasts, and
not in the quest of the Sanegreal, therefore the tale maketh
here no mention thereof, for it would be too long to tell of all
those adventures that befell them.
So after, on a Monday, it befell that they arrived in the edge
of a forest, tofore a cross, and then saw they a knight, armed
all in white, and was richly horsed, and led in his right hand
a white horse. And so he came to the ship, and saluted the
two knights on the high Lord's behalf, and said, "Galahad,
sir, ye have been long enough with your father, come out of the
ship, and start upon this horse, and go where the adventm-es
shall lead thee in the quest of the Sanegreal." Then he
38
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
LA.D. 1150
went to his fath.r, and ki-sscd him sweetly, and siud, " Fair
sweet father, I wot not when I shall see you more, till I
sec the body of .lesu Christ." " I pray you," said Launcelot,
pray vou to th.^ high Father that he hold me in His ser-
vice."' And so he took his horse ; and there they heard a
voice that said, " Think for to do well, for the one shaU never
see the other before the dreadful day of doom." " Now, son
Galahad," said Launcelot, " since we shall depart, and never
gee other, I pray to the hij^'h Father to preserve both me and
vou both." " Sir," said (ialahad, " no prayer availeth so much
as yoms." And therewith Galahad entered into the forest.
And the wind arose, and drove Launcelot more than a month
throughout the sea, whi-re he slept but little, but prayed to
God that he might see some tidings of the Sancgi-eal. So
it befell on a night, at midnight he anived afore a castle,
on the back side, which was rich and fair. And there was
a postem opened towards the sea, and was open without any
keejiing, .save two lions kept the entry : and the moon shone
clear. Anon Sir Launcelot heard a voice that said, " Launce-
lot, go out of this ship, and enter into the castle, where
thou shall see a great part of thy desire." Then he ran to
his arms, and so armed him, and so he went to the gate, and
saw the lions. Then set he hand to his sword, and drew it.
Then there came a dwarf suddenly, and smote him on the
arm so sore that the sword fell out of his hand. Then heard
he a voice say, "0 man of evil faith and poor belief, where-
fore trowest thou more on thy harness than in thy Maker ?
for He might more avail thee than thine armour, in whose
service thou art set." Then siiid Launcelot, " Fair Father Jesu
Christ, I thank thee of thy great mercy, that thou reprovest
me of my misdeed. Now see I well that ye hold me for
your seri-ant." Then took he again his sword, and put it up
in his sheath, and made a cross in his forehead, and came
to the lions, and they made semblant to do him harm. Not-
withstanding he pa-^vsed by them without hurt, and entered
into the castle to the chief fortress, and there were they
all at rest. Then Launcelot entered in so armed, for he
found no gate nor door but it was open. And at the last
he found a chamber whereof the door was shut, and he set his
hand thereto to have opened it, but he might not.
Then he enforced him mickle to undo the door. Then he
listened, and heard a voice which sang so sweetly that it
seemed none earthly thing ; and him thought the voice said,
"Joy and honour be to the Father of Heaven I" Then
Launcelot kneeled down tofore the chamber, for well wist he
that there was the Sanegreal within that chamber. Then said
he, " Fair sweet Father Jesu Christ, if ever I did thing that
pleased the Lord, for thy pity have me not in despite for
my sins done aforetime, and that thou shew me something
of that I seek ! " And with that he saw the chamber door
open, and there came out a great clearness, that the house
was as bright as all the torches of the world had been
there. So came he to the chamber door, and would have
entered. And anon a voice said to him, " Flee Launcelot,
and enter not, for thou oughtest not to do it : and if thou
enter thou shalt forthink it." Then he withdrew him aback
right heavy. Then looked he up in the midst of the chamber,
and saw a table of silver, and the holy vessel covered with
red s;imite, and many angels about it, whereof one held a
candle of wax burning, and the other held a cross, and the
ornaments of an altar. And before the holy vessel he saw
a good man clothed as a priest, and it seemed that he was
at the sacring of the mass, .-^nd it seemed to Launcelot
that above the priest's bands there were tlu-ee men, whereof
the two put the youngest by likeness between the priest's
hands, and so he lift it up right high, and it seemed to
show so to the people. And then Ltiuncelot marveUeil not
Early in the reign of Henry II. tliere was an
Englishman living in France named Hilarins. He
had gone to France that he might study under
Ahelard, and he was a jioet. From him we have
the earliest extant example of a Miracle Play or
Mystei-y. There were no such plays in this country
before the Conquest, but after the Conquest they
must have been soon introduced, for in the Chi'Onicle
of Matthew Paris there is chance reference to the
acting of a Miracle Play of St. Katherine at Dun-
stable, before the j'ear 1119, by the pupUs of a
learned Norman named Geoifrey, who afterwards
became abbot of St. Alban's. We know also that
the acting of Miracle Plays was established in
London by Henry II. 's time; for William Fitz-
stephen, a clerk of Becket's household, who wi-ote
the life of his patron, says in his Life of Becket that
London, instead of the ancient shows of the theatre,
" has entertainments of a more devout kind, either
representations of those miracles which were wi-ouglit
by holy confessoi-s, or those passions and sufTering.s in
which the martyrs so rigidly displayed their forti-
tude."
It will be observed that this description limits
the representation to the acts of the saints — Miracle
Plays. The Mystery Plays, which dealt with the
sacred history itself, and drew from the Bible story
representations of those incidents which are con-
nected with the mysteries of faith, seem to have
been acted abroad for some time before their in-
troduction into this country. After they had been
introduced, the old name of Miracle Play, which had
become familiar when all our plays were such as
Fitzstephen defined, remained common, and was
a little, for him thought that the priest was so greatly
charged of the figure, that him seemed that he should fall A
to the earth. And when he s;iw none about him that would I
help him, then came he to the door a great pace, and said,
" Fair Father Jesu Christ, ne take it for no sin though I help
the good man, which hath great need of help." Eight so
entered he into the chamber, and came toward the table of
silver; and when he came nigh he felt a breath that him
thought it was intermeddled with fire, whieh smote him so
sore in the i-isage that him thought it burnt his \-isage;
and therewith he fell to the earth, and had no power to
arise, as he that was so araged that had lost the power of
his body, and his hearing, and his saying. Then felt he ■
many hands about him, which took him up and bare him I
out of the chamber door, without any amending of his 1
swoon, and left him there seeming dead to all people. So
upon the morrow, when it was fair day, they within were
arisen, and found Launcelot Ij-ing afore the chamber door.
All they marvelled how that he came in. And so they
looked upon him, and felt his pulse, to wit whether there
were any life in him; and so they found life in him, but
he might neither stand, nor stir no member that he had ;
and so they took him by every part of the body, and bare
him into a chamber, and laid him in a rich bed, far from
all folk, and so he lay four days. Then the one said he wa*
on live, and the other said nay. " In the name of God," said
an old man, " for I do you verily to wit he is not dead, but he
is so full of life as the mightiest of you all, and therefore I
counsel you that he be well kept till God send him life
TO A.D. 1180. J
RELIGION.
39
I iplied still as a genei-al term to the Mystery Plays
so; but abroad the distinction made by use of
lie several terms Mystery and Miracle Play was well
iiTiilerstood.
At tii-st the plays, like the otiices of the Church,
were spoken in Latiu. Perhaps e^•erywhere the
Mii-acle Play was tii-st introduced. On the day of
the saint to whom a chm-eh was dedicatetl tliere would
111- high celebration, and a great desire to attract wor-
-hippei-s to the shrine. Tlie reading in the service
. .t' the day of a pertinent chapter from the "Acts of
rhe Siiints," instead of from the Gospel or the Acts of
lie Apostles, edified few. It occurred to somebody
lo act a chapter telling of some miracle of the saint,
. ir setting forth his undaunted faith in God, visibly
within the church, laefore the people's eyes, at that
]«rt of the service ; and then, going on with the psalms
or pi-ayers ordained by the rubric to succeed the
li'sson for the day, proceed to the completion of the
offices. This device succeeded, of course, in fixing
attention ; larger attendance was obtained ; there was
a more lively sense communicated to the untaught
crowd of the piety or power of the saint. Experience
would then justify bolder advance, and attempt
would be made to bring home in the same way to the
minds of the people incidents from the Bilile liistory
that involved vital truths of religion. In England,
certainly, the incidents in lives of s;unts were acted
for some time before men ventui'ed to deal in the
same way with incidents from Scripture history.
But when only Miracle Plays properly so called were
acted in England, we find HiJarius, an Englishman
in France, writing for the Chui'ch not only a Miracle
Play of St. Nicholas, but also a representation of the
story of Daniel, and enforcing the mystery of the
Resurrection by a play written to be represented
during the church service, at the time of the reading
from Scri))ture, when the eleventh chapter of the
Gospel of St. John happened to be the lesson of the
day. The .story wa,s so shown to the eye that it
would come home to the understanding of the people
although sung in Latin rhymes; and Hilarius ven-
tm-ed to quicken then- feelings by the addition of
little refrains in theii' mother-tongue. This is the
Mystery Play of Lazaras, designed, it will be seen,
to produce clear, homely realisation of the narrative
for which it stands. I simply translate the directions
to the actoi-s, but give the play exactly as it lias come
do^vn to us: —
THE RAISING OF LAZ.\RUS.
To which these persons are necessarti : the person of Lazarus^
of his ttvo sisters, of four Jews, of Jcshs Christ, of the
Twelve Apostles, or six at least.
At first, Lazarus being sick, his two sisters Mary mid Martha
shall come with four Jews afjlicting themselves greatly, ami
sittiny down hy his bed shall sing these rerses :
O sors tristis. O sors dura,
Cujus gravi.s est censura;
Nam por tua modo jura
Languet, fi-iter, nostra cura.
Languet f rater, et nos vere
Facit sibi condolere.
Sed tu, Deus, iniserLie,
Quiquo potes, tu medero.
[(-> sad lot, hard lot, of wliieh heavy is the thought ;
For even now by your ordinance fades away oui' brother, our
care. Our brother withers away, and makes us indeed to
share his pain. But thou, God, have pity, and heal him, for
thou canst.]
The Jews shall say fur their eo/i^olation :
Karissime, flere desinite,
Nee adstantes ad fletum cogite,
Immo preces ad Deum mittito
Lazaroque salutera poscite.
[Cease, dearest, to weep, nor compel those who stand by to
weeping ; nay, rather send up prayers to God and ask health
for Lazarus.]
To whom they shall say :
Ite, fratres, ad sununum medicum,
Ite citi regem ad unicum,
Fratrem nostrum nanate languidum,
Ut veniat et reddat validum.
[Go, brothers, to the highest physician, go quick to the
only king, tell that om- brother is witheiing, that he may
come and restore him to strength.]
li*ft they, irhen theg shall have eonie to Jtsus, shall say :
Quia tu diligis infinnatum grai-iter.
Ad te juxi (sie) fuimus venire celeriter.
Qui summus es medieus, egrum nostrum visita,
Ut tibi deser^•iat, sospitate reddita.
[Because thou hast strong love for him who is made infinn,
we have been commanded to come to thee quickly. Thou
who art the chief jihysieian, \-isit om- sick man, that he may
do service to you when his health has been restored.]
Jesits ripltt s .-
Morbus iste fratris mei
Non ad mortem crit ei,
Sed evenit ut per eimi
ilanifestem vobis Deum.
[That sickness of my brother shall not be for him unto
death ; but it happens that thi-ough him I may make God
manifest to you.]
//( the meantime, when theg shall have returned, Lazarus
being already dead, two from among them shall lead Mury
to him. To whom she shall sing :
En culpa veteri
Dannatvu-' posteri
Mortales fieri.
Sor ai dolor.
Mar est mis frere morz:
Por que gei plor
Per eibum vctitum
Nobis interitum
Constat imposituni.
Hor ai dolor,
Hor est mis frere jitorz:
For que gei plor.
1 Damnantur.
40
CASSELLS LlBRAllY OF ENGLISH LITERATUKE.
[i.n. H50
Fiiuta sum iniscra,
Et soror ultcni
Per fratris funt'i-i.
Hor ai dolor.
Hor est mix frnr mor: :
For gut- gti plor.
Cum (Ic to cof^iUi,
l'V:iter, ct mcrito.
Mortem afflagitu
Hor ai dolor,
Hor est mvs frvrc mnrz :
For que i/ri plor.
[For an ancient sin those who live aftoi' are doomed to ho
made mortid. Now I have griot, Now is my brother dead,
Wherefore I weep. Through the forbidden food death is
firndy laid upon us. Now I have -^nct. Now is my brother
dead, Wherefore I weep. I am made a wretched woman, and
my sister another by the burial of (jur brother. Now I have
f,'rief. Now is my brother dead, Wherefore I weep. Wlien I
think of thei', brother, and tliy wortli, I passionately caU for
dcv'ith. Now 1 have grief, Now is my brother dead. Where-
fore 1 weep.]
Tlieii two of the Jews coiisaliin/, .iliatl say to her :
Cosset talis gemitus.
Cesset merer penitus.
Ccssent que suspiria ;
Talis lamentaeio
Talis ejulaeio
Non est neccssaria.
Non pir tales lacrimas
Visum fuit animas
Redisse coq)oribus.
Ceescnt ergo laerimc
Que defunctis minimi'
I*rod<Timt hominibus.
[Lot eeasc such sobbing, let cease grief from the depths,
let cease the sighs; such lamenting, such wailing, is not
necessary. Never through such tears has it been seen that
souls have returned to their bodies. Let cease, therefore,
the teare which are of slightest scn'ice to dead men.]
After this .ihall come Martha, with tieo other .Jcies, siiH/i>ifi :
Slors c-xecrabilis !
Mors detestabilis I
Mors mihi flebilis !
lAise, chative .'
Lii que mis fre)-e eat nwrz
Porque siw eive ?
Pratris interitus
Gravis et subitus
Est causa gemitus.
iMse, ehativc!
Bis que mis frcrc est morz
Porqiie sue vive?
Pro fratre mortuo
Mori non abnuo.
Nee mortem metuo.
iMse, ehativc .'
Des que misfrcrc est morz
Torque sue rire ?
Ex fratris funere
Recuse vivere :
Ve mihi miscrc I
Lase, chatire !
Sis que misfrere est moi-z
Porque sue rive ?
[Death to lie execrated ! Death to be detested ! Death to be
wept by me 1 Unhappy, wretched one '. Since that my brother
is dead, why am I living ? The destruction of ray brother,
heavy and sudden, is a cause for sobbing. Unhappy, wretched
one ; Since that my brother is dead, why am I Hving I' For
my dead brother I do not refuse to die, nor do I fear death.
Unhappy, wretched one ! Since that my brother is dead, why
am I living > Because of the burial of my brother I refuse
to live. Woe to me, miserable ! Unhappy, wretched one 1
Since that my brother is dead, why am I living?]
Two of the Jews shall saij for her comfort :
ToUe fletum, quesumus,
Nichil enim possumus
Per fletum profiscere.
Insistendum fletibus
Esset si quia tahbus
Posset reviviscere.
Quare non consideras
Quia dum te macheras'
Nichil prodes mortuo ?
Quare tu non respicis,
(iuia nichil (proficis)
Ut jam vivat denuo P
[Put away weeping, wo entreat, for we can bring nothing
about by weeping. We might persist in lamentations if by
such any one could be brought back to life. Why do you not
consider, because while you torment yourself, you nothing
profit the dead 'i Why have you no regard, because you
can in no way biing about that now he should live once
more ?]
Jesus shall say to His I}iscijile,i : ^
In Judeam iterum
Nos oportet pergere,
Ubi quiddam paululum
Decrevi peragere.
[We must go again into Judca, where there is a certain
small work that I have determined to complete.]
To whom the Disciples shall say :
Te nuper lapidibus volebant obruere ;
Et vis tamen iterum in Judeam tenderc ?
[They of late sought to strike thee down with stones ; and
wilt thou, nevertheless, go again into Judea Y]
Ami Jesus to them :
Ecce dormit Lazarus, quem decet ut visitem :
Vadam illuc igitur, ut a somno excitem.
[Behold, Lazarus sleepeth, whom it is iit that I should
visit : I will go thither, therefore, that I may awake him out
of sleep.]
i
' Maceraa
TO A.D. IISO.]
RELIGION.
4t
The Disciples again :
Postquuni dorniit, salvus erit;
.Salus eiiim soumum querit.
[After he sleeps, lie shall lie well ; for health demands
sleep.]
Jesus again to t/tem :
Non est sieut tieditis : immo jam def unctus est ;
Sed in Patris nomine nobis suseitandus est.
[It is not as ye believe : on the contrary, he is aheady
dead ; but in the name of the Father he is to be raised up
to us.]
£i(t Thomas shall sag :
Ergo nos proficiscamus
Et cum illo moriamur.
[Therefore let us ijo and die with him.]
Afterwards Martha shall sag to Jes/is :
Si venisses primitus,
Uol en ai,
Kon esset hie gemitus.
ISais frere, perdu vos ai.
Quod in ^-ivum poteras,
l)ol en aij
Hoc defuncto conferas.
Mdis frere, perdu vos at.
Petis patrem quid libet ;
Dol en ai,
Statiin pater exibet.
Bais frere, perdu vos ai.
[If thou hadst come at first, Grief for it have I, There had
not been this sobbing. Darling brother, I have lost you.
\Vhat you had power for on the living, Grief for it have I,
This confer thou on the dead. Darling brother, I have lost
you. Ask of the Father what you will, Grief for it have I,
At once the Father -fdW. give it. Darling brother, I have lost
you.]
Jesus shall sag :
Nunc comprimas has lacrj-mas et luctum qui te urgct.
Frater tuus est mortuus, sed facile resurget.
[Restrain now these tears and this lament that presses upon
thee. Thy brother is dead, but readily will rise again.]
And she to him :
Kexiu'gere et vivere
Fratrem meum affirmo,
Tunc dcnique cum utique
Rexurget omnis homo.
[I know that my brother shall rise and live, then at last
when in any case everj- man shall rise.]
And Jesus again :
Immo, soror, non despera.
Nam sum ego vita vera ;
Et quioimque credet ita
Vivet in me, qui sum vita.
Et qui vivens in me credet,
Mors ad ilium non accedet .
Credis, Martha, fore verum
Quod sit talis ordo rerum 'r
[Nay, sister, do not despair, for I am the true way, and
whoever shall so believe shall live in me who am life. And
70
he who li\'ing shall believe in me, death shall not approach
to him. Do you beKeve, Martha, that it is true that such is
the order of things f ]
But Martha shall answer :
Te Christum, Dei filium.
Ad hoc nostrum exihuni
Venisse in auxUium
Ego credo.
[I believe thee Christ, the Son of God, to have come for
our help to this our plitce of exile.]
Martha, telling Mary that Jesus has come, shall sag :
Jesus adest, soror carissima ;
Cesset luctus et cesset lacrima.
Ipsum prece flectas humillima,
Ut redeat ad fratrem anima.
[Jesus is here, dearest sister. Let cease the grief, let cease
the tear. Bend thou himself by humblest prayer that the
soul may retui-n to our brother.]
Theu Marg shall sag to Jesus :
NulUus solaeio
Mea desolacio
Valet unquam auferri.
Sed credo consilium
Per te, Dei tilium,
Posse mi hi conferri.
Tu ergo qui potens es
Qui mittis {sic) et clemens es
Ad tumulum venito.
Fratrem meum suscita,
Qucm mors carni debita
Surripuit tam cito.
[By the solace of no man can my desolation ever be taken
away. But I beUeve that help can be brought to me
through thee, the Son of God. Come, therefore, to the tomb,
thou who art powerful, and merciful and mild, raise up my
brother, whom death due to the flesh seized so suddenly.]
And Jesus to her :
Volo, soror, volo multum
Mc deduci ad sepultum,
Ut in vitam revocetur
Qui a morte detinetur.
[I desire, sister, I desire greatly to he brought down to the
buried man, that he may be called back into life who is held
from you by death.]
But she, leading Jesus to the sepulchre, shall sag :
Hie cum posuimus,
Ecue locus, Domine.
Quem in patris poseimus
Suscitari nomine.
[Here we deposited him ; behold the place, O Lord. Him
whom we ask to be raised up in the name of the Father.]
Jesus to those standing around :
SustoUatis lapidcm qui superest tunuilo,
Ut rexurgat Lazarus coram omni poimlo.
[Lift ye up the stone which is upon the tomb, that
Lazarus may arise in presence of all the prople.]
42
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[k.i>. 1180
T/ici/ slmll sail :
Kptorem non poteris siistint'ii! moitni :
Nnmque ferens gravitiT fumis est quatriJui.
[Thou wilt not be able to bear tlin stench of the dead, for
bpjirins him lieavily the funeral was four days since.]
Then Jcsati, looHiir/ i(p >"to Ih-nvvii, xhiill pritij thii.i to the
Fiither :
Pater, verbum tuum clarifica,
Lazarumque, precor, vivifica.
8i(: ttliuin inundo notifica,
Pater, in hae hora.
Ncc hoc dixi in difidencia,
Sed pro j^'entis hujus presentia,
Ut do tua corti potcncia
Oredant abscjue mora.
[Father, make thy word manifest and, I pray thee, give
life unto I>:i/,arus, so deelant thy Son to the world, Father, in
this hour. Nor have I said this throush want of faith, but
because of the presence of this people, that, certain of thy
power, they may believe without delay.]
Then shall he mij to the chad :
O Ijazare, foras egi-edere,
Aurc dono vitalis uteris ;
In patemc virtutis munerc,
E.xi foras, et vita fruerc.
[0 Laz.arus, eoiue forth, I give thee to use vital air. By
thepiit of the Father's jjowor, come forth, and enjoy life.]
Then aftii Lazarus shall hai'c risni, Jesus shall sail :
Fjcce vivit ; nunc i;isuui solvite,
l''.t solutura abire sinite.
[liuhold hi' lives
him to KO hence.]
now loose him, and when loosened, siiii'er
Lazarus unbound shall say to the hijslanilrrs :
Ecce que sunt Dei mag-nalia.
Vos vidistis et hee et alia.
Ipse celum fecit et maria ;
Mors ad ejus tremit imperia.
^ behold what are the mighty things of God. You have
»een both these and others. He made the heaven and the
peas; death trembles at his command.]
And having turned to Jrsns he shall sag :
Tu magister, tu rex, tu Dominus.
Tu populi delcbis facinus.
Quod precipis, illud fit protinus.
Rcgni tui non erit terminus.
[Thou Miustcr, thou King, thou Lord, thou wilt wash away
the sin of the people. What thou orderest is straightway
done. Of thy kingdom there shall be no end.]
Tmeh being finished, if it was dene at Matins, Lazarus shall
befm Te Deum Laudamus. But if at Vespers, Magnifieat
anima mea Dominum.
Giraldus Cambrensi.s, wliieli means Gerald of Wales,
was Gerald de Barri, born m the castle of Manorbeer,
a little west of Tenliy. He A\-as the scholar of a.
liatriotic tightins family, as patriotic as any other of
Ills kindred, and combatant with spiritual weapons
for the Church of Wales. His ambition was to form
in Wales a national church, with its primate at St.
David's, and to make it a church free from the
corruption that had come of wealth and ease. He
was eager, as a strict Churchman, for church reform ;
became an archdeacon at si.\-and-twenty. and would
have been made Bishoi) of St. David's if the King of
Enghuid co>ild have trusted at the head of the Welsh
Church a man so able and uncompromising, and so
full of zeal for his own people. Henry II. liked
Gerald ])ersonally, made him one of his chaplains,
used him in the pacilication of Wales, and sent him
with Prince John upon his unsuccessful Irish expedi-
tion. Gerald's energy caused him to make much
use of hLs pen, and this visit of his to Ireland in
118.5 caused him to write a "To]iography of Ireland,"
and a. " History of the Coiiipiest of Ireland." The
zeal with which he sought to restore purity of life to
Cliurchmcn did not prevent Gei'ald from sharing the
ready faith of his timt.' in any marvel that ap])eared
to show the power of God, the full devotion to Him
of holy men, or Gotl's love to His faithful servants.
Simi)lest traditions of the country-side were in the
twelfth century accepted by a singularly shrewd,
vigorous, and earnest man with unquestioning faith,
when there was worship at the heart of them. Thus,
in his " Topography of Ireland," one book is upon its
geogi-aphy and natural history ; and here the chapter
on the eagle is developed into religious allegory
after the manner of the Bestiaries. The next Ijook
is on the " Wonders and Minicles of Ireland," and
the next on its '" Inhabitants." Here are, as told
by Giraldtis Cambreusis, a few miracles of a saint,
said to have been born in the year 498, and to
have founded an abbey in the wilderness of Glenda-
lough (the valley of the two lakes) in tlie Wicklow
Mountains : —
MIIl.%.CLES OF ST. KEVIN.
When St, Kevin had become celebrated for liis life and
sanctity at Ulendalough, a noble boy, one of his scholars,
happened to fall sick, and had a ei-aving for some apples.
The saint, talcing compassion on him, and having prayed to
the Lord, a %villow-troe, which stood near the church, bore
apples, to the relief of the Ijoy as well as of other sick
persons. And even to the present day that willow, and
other sets from it, planted in the neighbouring cemetery,
produce apples every year, as if it were an orchard, although
in other respects, such as their boughs and leaves, the trees
retain their natural properties. These apples are white, and
of an oblong shape, and 7iior(.' wholesome than pl,-^asant to
the taste. They are held in great reverence by the natives,
who call them St. Kevin's apples ; and many «irry them to
the most distant parts of Ireland, as remedies for various
diseases.
On the feast-day of the same saint, the ravens at Glenda-
lough, in consequence of his curse for his scholars haAang
accidentally spilt their milk, neither come on the ground
nor taste food; but, flying round the \'iUage and church,
and making a loud cawing, enjoy no rest or refreshment on
that day,
St, Kevin, upon some occasion, when, during the season of
TO A.D. 118H._1
RELIGION.
U
Lent, he had dod, as he was wont, from converse with men,
retired to a little cabin in the wilderness, where, sheltered
only from the sun and rain, he gave himself up to contem-
plation, and spent all his time in reading and prayer. One
morning, ha^-ing raised his hand to heaven, as was his custom,
through the window, it chanced that a blackbird pitched upon
it and laid her eggs in his palm, treating it as her nest. The
saint, taking pity on the bird, shewed so much gentleness
and patience that he neither drew in nor closed his hand, but
kept it extended and adapted it to the purpose of a nest,
without wcarj-ing, imtil the young brood was entii'ely hatched.
In pci'petiml memory of this wonderful ocouiTence, all the
images of St. Kc\-in throughout Ireland represent him with
a blackbird in his i xtended hand.
The next cliajrter tell.s some wondei-s about
.ST. uolman's teal.
There is in Lcinster a small pool frequented by the birds
of St. Colman, a species of small ducks, vulgarly called teal
(cerccllte). Since the time of the saint, these birds have
become so tame that they take food from the hand, and until
the present day exhibit no signs of alarm when approached
by men. They are always about thirteen in number, as if
they formed the society of a convent. As often as any evil
chances to befall the church or clergj', or the little birds
themselves, or any molestation is offered them, they directly
fly away, and, betaking themselves to some lake far removed
from thence, do not return to their former haunts until con-
tUgn puni.shment has overtaken the offenders. Meanwhile,
during their absence, the watere of the pond, which were
before very limpid and clear, become stinking and putrid,
imfit for the use either of men or cattle. It has happened
occasiomilly thiit some person fetching water from this pond
in the night-time, has drawn up with it one of the birds, not
purposely, but by chance, and having cooked his meat in the
water for a long time without being able to boil it, at kist he
has found the bird swimming in the pot, quite unhurt; and,
ha\Tng canicd,it back to the pond, his meat was boiled without
further delay.
It happened, also, in our time, that as Robert Fitz-Stephen,
with Dennot, king of Leinster, was passing through that
country, an archer .shot one of these birds with an arrow.
Oarrj'ing it with him to his quarters, he put it in a pot to be
cooked with liis meat, but after thrice suppljdng the fire with
wood, and waiting till midnight, he did not succeed in making
the pot boU, so that, after taking out the meat for the third
time, he found it as raw as when he first placed it in the pot.
At last, his host obs(;r\nng the little bird among the pieces
of meat, and he:iiing that it was taken out of this pond,
exclaimed, with tears — "Alas, me. that ever such a mis-
fortune should have befallen my house, and have happened
in it! For this is one of St. Colman's birds." Thereupon
the meat being put alone into the pot, was cooked ^Ndthout
further difficulty. 'ITie archer soon afterwards miserably
expired.
Jloreover, it chanceil that a kite, having can'ied off one of
these little birds, and perched with it in a neighbouring tree,
behold, all his limbs immediately stiffened in the .sisrht of
many persons, nor did the robber regard the prey which
he held in his claws. It also happened that one frosty
.season a fox carried off one of these birds, and when the
morning came, the beast w.as found in a little hut on the shore
of the lake, which was held in veneration from its having
been formerly the res<jrt of St. Colman. the bird being in the
fox's jaws, and ha\-ing choked him. In both cases the spoiler
suffered the penalty of death, while his prey was imhui-t, the
birds returning to the lake without the sUghtcst injury, under
the protection of their holy patron.
Gerald publislied lii.s •' Topography of Ii-elaud " by
reading it publicly at Oxford in 1187, gi\'ing a day
to the reading of each of its three books. On the
fii-st day of reading he entertained at his lodgings all
the poor of the town ; on the second day the teachers
of the diflerent faculties and the best students ; on
the third day the rest of the students, with the
soldiei-s, townsmen, and many biu-gesses. In the
latter pai-t of the same year Saladin took Jenisalein,
and in the next year, 1188, another ciiLsade was
preached. Archbishop Baldwin, followed by a train
of clergy, preached the crusade in Wales, and Gerald
went with him. This gave rise to another book of
his, " The Itinerary of Wales," from which we may
take a passage on the degeneracy of the monk.s. He
was speaking of the Al^bey of Llanthony, near which
he had a little house of his own at Llanddeu.
CORRUPTION' OF RELIGIOUS ORDERS.
The moimtains are full of herds and horses, the woods
well stored with swine and goats, the pastures with sheep,
the plains with cattle, the arable fields with ploughs; and,
although these things in verj- deed are in great abundance,
)'et each of them, from the insatiable natm-e of the minil,
seems too naiTOw and scanty. Therefore lands are seized,
landmarks removed, boundaries invaded, and the markets in
consequence abound with merchandise, the courts of justice
with law-suits, and the senate with comj)laints. Concerning
such things, we read in Isaiah, " Woe imto them that join
house to house, that lay field to field, till there be no place,
that they be jjlaced alone in the midst of the earth."
If, therefore, the prophet inveighs so much against those
who proceed to the boundaries, what would he say to those
who go far beyond them ? From these and other causes,
the true colour of religion was so converted into the dye
of falsehood, that manners intoraaUy black assumed a fair
exterior :
" Qui color albus erat, nunc est coutrarius albo."
[The colour that was white is now the contrary to white.]
So that the Scripture seems to he fulfilled concerning the.-.c
men, " Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep's
clothing, but inwardly they are ravenous wolves." But I
am inclined to think this avidity does not proceed from any
bad intention. Fur the monks of this Order (although them-
selves most abstemious) incessantly exercise, more than any
others, the acts of charity and beneficence towiirds the poor
and sti-angers ; and because they do not live as others upon
fixed incomes, but depend only on their labour and fore-
thought for subsistence, they are an-xious to obtain hands,
farms, and pastures, which may enable them to perform
these acts of hospitahty. However, to repress and remove
from this sacred Order the detestable stigma of ambition, I
xvish they would sometimes call to mind what is wntten in
Ecclesiasticus, " WTioso bringeth an offering of the goods of
the poor, doth as one that k-illeth the son before his father's
eyes :" and also the sentiment of Gregoiw, " A good use does
not justifv things badly acquired;" and also that of Ambrose,
" He who wrongfullv receives, that he may well dispense, is
rather burthened than assisted." Such men seem to say with
the Apostle, " Let us do evil that good may come." For it
is written, "Mercv ought to be of such a nature as may bi-
44
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.». 1180
received, not rejected, wliich may purge away sins, not make
a 7nan guilty before the Lord, arising from your own just
labours, not those of other men." Uear wliat t^olomon says :
"Honour tlu- Lord from your just labouis." What shall
they sav who have seized upon other mens possessions, and
exercised charity f "O Lord, in Thy name we have done
ehai-itable dreds, we have fed the poor, clothed the naked,
and hospitably received the stranger:" to whom the Lord
will answer, '"• Ye speak of what ye have given away, but
speak not of the rapine ye have committed : ye relate con-
ceming those ye have fed, and remember not those ye have
killed." I have judgi^d it proper to insert in this place an
instiincc of an answer which Kichard, king of the English,
made to Fulke, a good and holy man, by whom God in these
our days hiis wrought many signs in the kingdom of France.
This man had among other things Siiid to the king : " You
have three daughters, namely. Pride, Luxury, and Avarice :
and as long as they shall remain with you, you can never
expect to be in favour- with God." To which the Mng, after
a short pause, replied : " I have already given away those
daughters iii man-iage : " Pride to the Templars, Luxury to
the Black Monks, and Avarice to the White."
It is a remarkable eircmnstaneo, or rather a miracle,
concerning Llanthony, that, although it is on every side sur-
rounded by lofty mountains, not stony or rocky, but soft, and
covered with grass, Parian stones are frequently found there,
and are called free-stones, from the facility with which they
admit of being cut and polished ; and with these the church
is beautifully built. It is also wonderful, that when, after a
diligent seiirch, all the stones have been removed from the
mountains, and no more can be found ; upon another search,
u few days afterwards, they re-appear in greater quantities to
those who seek them.
With respect to the two Orders, the Cluniac and the
Cistercian, this may be reli<'d upon : although the latter
are ix)ssessed of fine buildings, with ample revenues and
estates, they will soon be reduced to poverty and destruction.
To the former, on the contrary, you would allot a barren
desert and a solitary wood; yet in a few years you will
find them in possession of sumptuous churches and houses,
and encircled with an extensive property. The difference of
manners (as it appears to me) causes this contrast. For as
without meaning offence to either party, I shall speak the
1 ruth : the one feels the benefits of sobriety, parsimony, and
imidence, wliilst the other suffers from the bad effects of
gluttony and intemperance : the one, like bees, collect their
stores into a heat, and unanimously agree in the disposal of
one well-regulated purse ; the others pillage and divert to
improper uses the largesses which have been collected by
divine assisttmce, and by the bounties of the faithful ; and,
whilst each individual consults solely his own interest, the
welfare of the community suffers ; since, as Sallust observes,
" Small things increase by concord, and the gi'eatest are
wasted by discord." Besides, sooner than lessen the number
of one of the thirteen or fourteen dishes which they claim
by right of custom, or even in a tune of scarcity or famine
recede in the smallest degree from their accustomed good
fare, they would suffer the richest lands and the best
buildings of the monastery to become a prey to usury, and
the numerous poor to perish before their gates.
The first of these Orders, at a time when there was a
deBciency in gi-aiu, Avith a laudable charity, not only gave
away their flocks and herds, but resigned to the poor one of
(he two dishes with which they were always contented. But
m these our days, in order to remove this stain, it is ordained
by the Cistercians, "That in future neither fanns nor pas-
tures shall be purchased : and that they shall be satisfied
with those alone wliich have been freely and tmconditionaUy
bestowed upon them." This Order, therefore, being satisfied
more than any other with humble mediocrity, and, if not
wholly, yet in"a great degree checking their ambition ; and
though placed in a worldly situation, yet avoiding, as much
as po'ssible, its contagion ; neither notorious for gluttony or
di-unkenness, for lu.\my or lust ; is feart'ul and ashamed of
incurring public scanAd, as will be more fully explained in
the book we mean (by the grace of God) to write concerning
the Ecclesiastical Orders.
Gii-aklus Cambrensis entered fully into Clmvcli
questions in his "Gemma Ece-lesiustica," ' iiroduced
ill the reign of Richard I. The subject of it fell,
he said, under the two heads, precept and example.
" For as Jerome tells us, ' Long and tedious is the
way that leads by precept ; commodious and brief Ls
the way that leads by example.' So from the legends
of tlie holy Fathers, of which very few copies are to
be found among you of Wales, and from the faithful
narratives of ancient and more recent times, I have
compiled, with a view to your imitation, some things
which will be not unserviceable to you." He begins
by answers to questions then dwelt upon. What
shall the priest do if by clumce he has spilt part
of the consecrated cup, or allowed mice to nibble at
the sacred bread? When may a layman ofBciatel
How are sins remitted? By the sacraments, by
martyrdom, by faith, by mercy, by charity, by prayer,
and — oliserve the doubt — "perhaps Ijy pontifical
indulgence." He describes minutely the manner
of cariying consecrated elements to the sick, and
discusses the mystery of tlie Eucharist, of which he
says it seems safer concerning that which is miracu-
loiis not to discuss every point to a hair's breadth, but
rather to leave to God what is unceitain. If we are
told on certiiin authority that the substance of the
bread and wine is converted into subsbuice of the body
and blood of the Lord, let us not blush to say that
Ave are ignorant as to tlie manner of the conversion.
Of the questioning in his time as to tlie way in
wliich men were to accept that doctrine, he tells that
he saw in Pans a learned Englishman, Richard de
Aubry, who lectured to a larj^e audience in interpre-
tation of the Eucharist. " He seemed to be the very
mirror of religion and morality among the clergy ; he
afflicted his body with watchings ami fastings, with
much abstinence and earnest prayers ; yet when he
took to his bed in his la-st sickness, and was offered
the Lord's body, lie could not receive it. Nay, he
even averted his face, exclaiming that this punish-
ment had happened to him through the just judgment
of God, because he never coidd prevail upon himself
' The "Gemma Ecclesiastica," never before printed, was edited,
with a valuable introduction, by Professor John Shen-en Brewer, in
1862, as one ot the collection of the works of Giraldus Cambrensis, in
the series of " Chronicles and Memci'ials of Great Britain and Irelajid
during the Middle Ages." published under the direction of the Master
of the Rolls. The preceding translations are from a volume of Bolin's
Lihi-aries that makes two notable works by Giraldus easily accessible
to the general reader. It is eddied "The Historical Works of
Giraldus Cambrensis, containing the Topography of Ireland, and the
History of the Conquest of Ireland, translated by Thomas Forester,
M.A. The Itinerary through Wales and the Description of Wales,"
tran.slated by Sir Eicbard Colt Hoare, Bart. Revised and Edited,
with Additional Notes, by Thomas Wright, M.A." (Boha, 1863.)
TO A.D. 1203.]
EELIGIOK
■io
to have a firm belief in this article of faith. Aiid so
he entered the way of all flesh without the \-iaticum."
From the Eucharist and the vessels and books used in
its celebration, Gei-ald passed to baptism, confession,
jjossession by evil spirits, and the power of the sigu
of the cross. Throughout, his teaching was enforced
by wonderful tales : fables taken as truth for love of
the truth they symbohsed. Thus, there was a noble
young lady possessed by a spiteful de\-il. A holy
man was brought to her, and she immediately slapped
his face. He bore the insult patiently, and turned
the other cheek. To that she gave a harder slap.
He turned his face to her the third time. Then said
the evil spirit withia her, " Yoiu- patience conquers
me," and so the girl was cm-ed. Gii-aldus in many
•ways dwelt ou the de%'ices of the clergy to enrich
themselves unfau-ly. Soldiers and laity were accu.s-
tomed to make offering at certain gospels for which
they had especial veneration in the s;ime way as they
offered at the mass. For that rea.son the reading of
a gospel at each mass was often multiplied into the
reading of thi-ee or four to win an offering for each.
He would have had fewer churches and altai-s, fewer
persons ordained, with more care in their selection,
and oblations only permitted three times a year, at
Christmas, Ea.ster, and Whitsuntide ; to which might
be added founder's day, a funei-al, each annivei-saiy,
and puiilication. He vehemently opposed the prac-
tice of bestowing benefices in revereion, and all multi-
plication of the fees of bishops. He tells of a bishop
who when he had consecrated a church immediately
anathematised it because the fee was not ready ; of
an archbishop who excused his simony by saying,
"I do not .sell the church, I only seU my fiivom-;
why should any one have my favour who has never
done anvthing to deserve it V of another who gave
benefices to his nephews while tliey were children,
that, under pretext of wardship, he might take the
profits to himself ; of another who gave church pro-
motion to his stupid relatives, and neglected the
d&ser%ing, for they, he .said, could take care of them-
selves. Thus, Gerald added, these prelates observe
the Apostle's precept, " Those membei's of the body
which we think to be less honourable, upon these we
bestow more abundant honour ; and our uncomely
pai-ts have more abundant comeliness."
As soon as a self-seeking worldliness is joined in
many with chai-ge over the spii-itual interests of men,
protest begins ; the most earnest Churchmen are
themselves the most devoted labourei-s for Church
refoi-m; the history of laboiu- towards leformation
covers as much time as the histoiy of human frailty.
There were very many Church reformer before
WicUf, each attacking those which seemed to him the
faults most hurtful to the spiritual life. Gii-aldus
spoke of the gi'owing hixury of eating and drinking.
He allowed licence in case of hospitality, as we read,
he said, in the lives of saints that they sometimes ex-
ceeded rides of temperance in honour of their guests.
" As is read," he says, " of Saint Philibert, to whom
when he had taken too much while sitting with
guests, the de\Tl came as he lay on his back, and
tapping at his belly, said, ' All's well within Philibert
toKlay.' To whom he answered, ' It will be ill for
him to-morrow.' On this account he fa.sted next day
upon bread and water. If therefore our enemy thus
scofied at that excusable excess, how can he mock
oiu- excesses that are inexcusable i"
Giraldus Cambrensis spoke of the degi-adation by
luxury of houses of the gi-eat order of the Benedic-
tines. Its foimder, Benedict of Nui-sia, had known
it difficult in the .sixth century to find men ready as
he himself was to deny the flesh. He kept it down
with thorns and nettles ; but when he was Abbot at
Vicovaro it is said that hi> monks tried to poison him
for his strictness. He retired into the wilderness
and founded twelve monasteries. Pei-secution of a
priest named Florentinus drove him to Cassino in
Campania. On Monte Cassino he is said to have
destroyed a heathen temple and gi-ove, and to have
founded on its site the tii'st and most famous monas-
tery of his order, there j)Linning a strict rale, which
he perfected in the year .'J29. His cloistered com-
munity was to dwell together in constant meditation
and laboiu-, and in strict obedience to the abbot,
ser\Tng as a ty[je of their obedience to God. Women
also afterwards joined themselves in such communi-
ties for holy contemplation and repression of the
flesh. The body of religious women to whom love of
A Beskdictute Num. (Prom DugdaWs " Monosticon.")
Christ was commendetl in a little discom-se on " The
Wooing of Oiu- Lord," may have been Benedictines.
I think, however, that Dr. Richard Morris, who has
edited this and other " Old English Homilies and
Homiletic Treatises of the Twelfth and Thirteenth
Centuries," shows good reason for identifying its
author with the writer of a piece called the ' Ancren
Pdwle," the Rule of the Anchores.ses. That author
46
CASSELL'S LIBRAE Y OF ENGLISH LITEKAT UKE.
[a.u. i:;oo
was prol)al>l.v Bislio]) Poor, who died in 1237, aud
lies Imiicd in his ciitluidral churcli at Salisbury.
His link? of the Anchoresses \\!is written for a small
coinuiunity consistinj; only of three i)ious ladies and
their domestics or lay sisters at Tarrant Kaines,
or Kinjjston, near Crayford Bridge, in Dorsetshire.
Tiie house remained a religious home, and was after-
wards incorporated with the Cistercian order ; but the
author of the " Kid(>" written for their instruction
said, " If any ignorant man ask you of what order ye
are, say that ye are of the Order of St. James. If
siu'h answer seem strange and singular to him, ask
him. What is Order, and where he can find in Scrij)-
ture Religion more plainly described than in the
canonical epistle of St. James ^ He saith what
Religion is, and right Order : ' Pure Religion and
without stain is to visit and assist widows and
orphans, and to keep oneself unsjjotted from the
world.' Thus doth St. James describe Religion aud
Order." The Rule written for the Anchoresses is in
eight parts, and treats (1) of Devotional Services, (2)
of th(! Government of the External Senses in keeping
the Heart, (3) Moral Lessons and Examples, Reasons
for Embracing a Monastic Life, (4) of Temptations
and the means of Avoiding and Resisting them,
(.')) of f!onfession, (fi) of Penance and Amendment,
(7) of Love or Gharity, (iS) of Domestic and Social
Duties. Probably fi>r the same community, possibly
for another convent of women who had turned
from earthly wooing to set all their love on Christ,
the writer of the "Ancren Riwle" wrote this piece
called —
THE WOOINO OF OUK LOIU).
Jcsii. .-iwoc't Jcsu, my love, my darling, my Lord, my
Saviour, my hoiiuy-dioi), niy balm I sweeter is the remeni-
Lraufi' of thuc than honey in the mouth. Who is there
that may not love thy lovely face ? what heart is there so
h.'ird that may not melt at the remembrance of thoe ? Ah !
wlio may not love thee, lovely Jesu ? For within thee alone
are all things joined that over may make any man wortliy
of love to anotlicr.
Beauty, and lovcsomc face, flesh white under clothing,
make many a man the ratlier and the more to be beloved.
Gold and Treasures and Wealth of this world cause some
to be beloved and imiist^d.
t)thers for theu' Generosity and Libirality, that prefer
gi-aeiously to give than niggardly to withhold.
Hume for their Wit and Wisdom and worldly prudence:
and others for Might and Strength, to be distinguished and
liravi' in tight to maintain their rights.
Soiue are loved for tlieir Nobility and higlmess of Birth :
others for Virtue, and Politeness, and their fuidtless
Manners.
Some for Kindness, and Meekness, and goodness of heart
.and d(;ed ; and yet, above all this, nature causes friends of
Kin to love one .another.
Jesu, my precious darling, my love, my life, my beloved,
my mo.st worthy of love, my heart's balm, my soul's sweet-
ness, thou art Lovesome in countenance, thou art altogether
l)riglit. All angel's life is to look upon thy face, for thy
cheer is so man-cUously lovesome and pleasant to look upon,
that if the damned that boil in hell might eternally see it, all
that torturing pitch would ai)pear but a soft warm bath ; for,
if iv might be so, they had rather boil evermore in woe and
evermore look upon that blissful beauty, than be in all Ijliss
and forego the sight of thee. Thou art so shining and so
white, that the sun would be pale if it were beside thy
blissful countenance. If I then will love any man for fair-
ness I will love thee, my dear life, mother's fairest son. Ah,
Jesu, my sweet Jesu, grant that the love of thee be all my
delight.
But now I will choose my beloved fur Wealth; for every-
where with chattels one may buy love. But is there any
one richer than thou, my beloved, that reignest in heaven,
thou that art the renowned kaiser that has created all this
world i for as the holy prophet David says, " The eartli is
the Lord's and all that tills it, the world and all that lives
therein;" heaven mth the mirths and the immeasui-abk-
blisses, all is thine, my .iweet one, and all thou wilt give me,
if I love thee aright. I cannot give my love to any man
for a sweeter possession. I will hold then to thee, my
beloved, and love thco for thyself, and for thy love forsake
all other things that might draw and turn my heart from
thy love. Ah ! Jesu, sweet Jesu, grant that the love of thee
be all my delight.
But what is wealth and world's weal worth without Liber-
ality ? And who is more free than thou, for first thou
didst make all this world and didst put it under my feet,
and diiist make me lady over aU thy creatures that thou
didst create on earth, but I miserably lost it tlu-ough my
sins. Ah 1 lest I should lose all, thou gavest thyself to mc,
to deliver mc from pain. If I will love then any one for
liberaUty, I wiU love thee, Jesu Christ, most free beyond
all othei-s ; for other libi :ral men give these outward things,
but thou didst give Thyself for mc, that thou eouldst not
withhold thy own heart's blood. A dearer love- token gave
never any beloved to .another. And thou that gavest me
tirst all thyself, thou hast promised me, my beloved, the
gift, all to myself, to reign on thy right hand, crowned with
thyself. Who is then more generous than thou j' who, for
largess, is better worthy of being beloved than thou, my dear
life ': Ah ! Jesu, sweet Jesu, gi-ant that the love of thee be
all my delight.
But largess is worth little when Wisdom is lacking. And
if that I will love any man for wisdom, there is none wiser
than thou, that art called the wisdom of thy Father in
heaven; for He through thee, that art wisdom, created all
this world, and ordereth it and divideth it, as it seemeth
best. Within thee, my dear love, is hidden the trcasm'e of
all wisdom, as the book bears witness. Ah ! Jesu, sweet
Jcsu, grant that the love of thco be all my delight.
But many a man through his Strength and Courage also
makes himself beloved and esteemed. And is any so hardy
as thou art ? Nay ; for tliou alone dreadcst not with thine
own dear body to tight against all the terrible devils of hell ;
that whichever of them is least loathsome and horrible, if
he might, such as he is, show himself to man, aU the world
would be afraid to behold him alone, for no man may see
him and remain in his wits, imless the grace and strength
of Christ embolden his heart. Thou art moreover herewith
so immensely mighty that, with thy precious hand nailed
on the rood, thou boundest the hell-dogs, and bereftest them
of their prey which they had greedily grasped and held
it fast on account of Adam's sin. Thou brave renowned
champion robbedst hell-house, and deliveredst thy prisoners,
and broughtest them out of the house of death, and leddest
them with thyself to thy jewelled bower, the abode of eternal
bliss: wherefore of thee, my beloved, was it truly said,
"The Lord is mighty, strong and keen in battle." And
therefore if a stalwart lemman please me, I will love thee,
Jesu, strongest over all, so that thou mayest fell the strong
TO A.D. 1237.]
RELIGION.
f , s of my soul ; and that the strength uf thee may help
luv great weakness, and thy boldness embolden my hciui.
All ! Jesu, sweet Jesu, grant that the love of thee be all
my delight.
But noble men and gentle and of high Birth often obtain
the love of women at a very small cost ; for oftentimes
m:iny a woman loses her honour thi-ough the love of a man
that is of high birth ; then, sweet Jesu, upon what higher
m.an may I set my love ':" where may I a more gentle man
choose than thou, that art the king's son, that wieldest this
world, and art king equal with thy father, king over kings,
and lord over lords ? and yet, with respect to thy manhood,
bom thou wast of Mary, a maiden meekest of mood ; child
of royal birth, of king Da%-id's kin, of Abraham's race. No
higher bii'th than this is there under the sun. I will love
thee, then, sweet Jesu, as the most noble life that ever lived
on earth, and also because in all thy life never was any
vice found, my dear faultless beloved one ; and that came
to thee of birth and of nurture, because thou didst ever
dwell in the com-t of heaven. Ah ! my precious lord ; so
noble and so gracious; suffer me never to settle my love
on churlish things, nor to desire earthly things nor fleshly
tilings in preference to thee, nor to love against thy will.
-Vh ! Jesu, sweet Jesu, grant that the love of thee be aU my
delight.
Meekness and Slildness make a man everywhere to be
beloved ; and thou, my dear Jesus, for thy great meekness
wast compaied to a lamb, because anent all the wrong and
the shame that thou sulteredst, and anent all the woe and
the painful wounds, thou never openedst thy mouth to
luumiur against it ; and yet the shame and the wrong, that
I he sinful each day do imto thee, thou sufilerest meekly;
nor dost thou take vengeance immediately after our sins, but
long awaitcst our repentance, through thy mercy. Since
thy goodness may cause thee everywhere to be beloved,
therefore is it right that I love thee and leave all others
for thee, for thou hast shown gi'eat mercy toward me. Ah !
Jesu, sweet Jesu, gi-ant that the love of thee be all my
dfihght.
But because friends of Kin naturally love one another, thou
clothest thyself with our ilesh; tookest man of her flesh,
bom of a woman. Thy flesh took of her flesh without
commerce of man; took fully, with that same flesh, man's
nature to suffer all that man may suft'er, to do all that
man doth, except sin alone ; for thou hadst neither sin nor
ignorance. Then against nature goes each man who loveth
not such a kinsman, and leaveth all others. Seeing that
truer love ought to be amongst brethren, thou becamegt
man's brother of one father, with all those that sing Pater
noster in purity ; but thou art a son through nature, and
we through gi-ace, and man of that same flesh that we bear
on earth. Ah ! whom may he love truly who loveth not
his brother : then whosoever loveth not thee is a most
ivicked man. Xow, my sweet Jesu, I have left for thy
love flesh's kinship, and yet born-brothers have cast mo
aside, but I reck of nothing whilst I hold thee, for in thee
;done may I find aU friends. Thou art to me more than
father, more than mother. Brother, sister, or friends, none
are to be esteemed as anj-thing in comparison with thee.
Ah ; Jesu, sweet Jesu, grant that the love of thee be aU my
delight.
Thou then with thy Beauty, thou with thy Kiches, thou
with thy Liberality, thou with Wit and Wisdom, thou with
thy Might and Strength, thou with nobleness of Birth and
graciousness, thou with Meekness and mildness and great
gentleness, thou with Kinship, thou with all the things that
one may purchase love with, hast bought my love : but above
all other things thou makest thyself worthy of love to me,
through those hard liorrible injuries, and those shamefid
wrongs that thou didst suffer for me. Thy bitter pain
and thy passion, thy sharp death on the rood, rightly tells
upon all my love, and challenges all my heart. Jesus, my
hfc's love, my heart's sweetness, three foes fight again.st
me, and yet may I sore di-ead for then- blows ; and it behovi'S
me, through thy grace, prudently to guard myself against
the world, my flesh, and the devil.
The homily then dwells tipon the peril of man and
ChrLst's suifering and death for his salvation. Tlien
it proceeds : —
Lady, mother, and maiden, thou didst .stand here fuU nigh,
and sawest all this sorrow upon thy precious son. Thou
wast inwardly martyred within thy motherly heart when
thou sawest his heart cloven asunder with the spear's point.
But, Lady, for the joy that thou hadst of his resurrection
the third day thereafter, grant me to understand thy son-ow
arid heartily to feel somewhat of the sori'ow that thou then
hadst ; and that I may help thee to weep because he so
bitterly redeemed me with his blood, so that I, with him
and with thee, may rejoice in my resurrection at doomsday,
and be with thee in bliss. Jesus, sweet Jesu, thus thou
foughtest for me against my soul's foes ; thou didst settle
the contest for me with thy liudy, and niadest of me. wretch,
thy beloved and spouse. Thou ha.st brought me from thi;
world into the bower of thy birth, enclosed me in thy cham-
ber wliere I may so sweetly kiss and embrace thee, and of
thy love have spiritual delight. Ah ! sweet Jesu, my life's
love, with tliy love hast thou redeemed me, and from the
world thou hast brought me. But I now may say with
the P.salmist, Quid retribitam Domino pro omnlbtis qua- rttrlhttd
iiilhl — Lord, what may I requite thee for aU that thou hast
given me ! What may I suffer for thee for all that thou
didst endure for me ! But it is nectltul for me that thou
be easy to satisfy. A wretched body and a weak I bear on
earth, and that, such as it is, I have given thee, and will
give to thy .service. Let my body hang with thy body nailed
on the rood, and enclosed transversely within four walls ; and
hang I will with thee, and never more come from my cross
until I die; for then .shall I leap from the rood into rest,
from woe to weal and into etemal bliss. Ah ! Jesus, so
sweet it is with thee to hang; for when I look on thee*
that hangest beside me, the great sweetness of thee bereaves
me of many pains. But, sweet Jesus, what is my body
worth in comparison with thine ? for if I might a thousand-
fold give thee myself, it would be nothing compared to thee
that gavest thyself for me ; and yet I have a heart, vili^
and unworthy, and destitute and poor of all good lii-tues ;
and that, such as it is, take to thyself now, dear life, with
true love, and suffer me never to love anything against thy
will, for I may not set my love better anywhere than on
thee, Jesu Clirist, that didst redeem it so dearly. There is
none so worthy to be loved as thou, sweet Jesu, that hast in
thyself all things for which a man ought to be love-worthy
to another. Thou art most worthy of my love, thou that
didst die for the love of me. Yet if I offered my love for
sale and set a value thereupon, as high as ever I will, yet
thou wilt have it, and moreover to what thou hast given
thou wilt add more ; and, if I love thee aright, wilt crown
me in heaven to reign with thyself, world without end.
Ah ! Jesu, sweet Jesu, my love, my beloved, mj- Hfe. my
dearest love, that didst love me so much that thou didst
die for the love of me, and hast separated me from the
world, and hast made me thy spouse, and all thy bliss
48
CASSELL'8 LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[i.D. 1200
hast promised mo, gr.int that the love of thee he all my
delight.
Pniy for me, my dear sister. This have I written thee
because that words often please the heart to think on our
liord. And therefore, when thoti art in ease, speak to Jesii,
and sjiy these words; and think as though he hung beside
thee bloody on the rood ; and may he, through his grace,
open thine heart to the love of him, and to ruth of his
pain.'
The English poem by Layamon, " The Brut," in
more than .'Jl',000 lines, which, at the beginning
of the thirteenth century, developed Geoffrey of
Monmouth's " History of the British Kings " into
national poetry with enlargement of its Arthurian
traditions, will be described in the volume of this
Library which treats of larger works not sjjecially
religious. Produced, perhaps, a few yeai-s later than
Layamon's " Brut " (which was finished about the
year 1205), and of about the same date as the
" Ancren Riwle," and " The Wooing of Our Lord,"
was a long religious woi'k in verse, " The Ormulum."
This is named after its author, who calls himself at
the opening of his work, Orm —
"This hook is nemned Ormulum,
Forthi that Orm it wrote."
But he evidently there writes only Orm to account
for the first syllable of Ormulum, since, at the close
of the dedication, the lines immediately preceding
those which open the poem itself were —
" I that this English have set
English men to hire,
I was there there I christened was
Ormin by name nemned.
And 1 Oniiin full inwardly
AV^ith mouth, and eke with heart"
Beg Christians who hear the book read or who read
it, to pray for my soul.
What we know of Ormin we learn from himself;
and as his work is not of a kind to yield internal
evidence of date, there is only the language from
which to infer the time when it was written. He
was a canon regidar of the order of St. Augustine,
and at the request of Brother Walter, also an
Augustinian canon, he planned and executed his
work, of which the object was — as fiir as the Church
allowed — to brijig the Gospel story, and the teaching
founded on it, straight home, Lii their own tongue,
to the undersfcmding of the people. The English
conscience never was at ease with a mere reading
of the Bible to the people in an unknown tongue.
If that Book was the foundation of theii- faith, it
was felt that they should luive it to build on. The
honest fear of the Church was that if ignorant men
read the Bible for themselves they would interpret
It bhndly for themselves, and there would lie ruin
of souls by the diffusion of heresies ; therefore in
Ormin's time, and long after, the Book of Psalms
' This translation is substantially that given by Dr. Morris, with
the original test, in his excellent edition of " Old English Homilies,"
already mentioned.
was the only part of Scripture which it was per-
mitted to translate. In Fii-st-English days, not
only was there a translation of the Psalms ascribed
to Aldhelm, but there was translation by ^Ifric of
the Pentateuch, and the books of Joshua, Judges,
part of the books of Kings, Esther, Job, Judith,
and the Maccabees. Also, as we have seen, the
Gospels were translated for the people and divided
into sections, that they uught every year be read
through in the churches. And now that they were
being read still, although in Latin, Brother Ormin's
care was to provide for the people in a sort of
rhythm, through which pleasant tales might be
told to them by the wayside and " on ember-eves
and holy-ales," the whole series of those portions
of the New Testament that were read in the daily
offices of the Church, each Gospel being associated
with a little homily of explanation, doctrinal and
practical, often containing ideas borrowed from Bede
or vElfric.
There is only one MS. of the " Ormulum," and
that is in the collection given by Francis Junius
to the Bodleian Library at Oxford. Though of con-
siderable extent, it is but a fragment. Homilies
weie ^vl■itten by Ormin for all, or nearly all, the
daily services of the year, and of these there are
left us only thirty-two. Oraiin's vei-se is seldom
rhymed, and is without alliteration, imitating a
mediaeval Latin rhythm in verses of fifteen syllables
in t\vo sections, the metrical point being placed at
the end of the eighth syllable, or fourth foot, and the
fifteenth syllable unaccented, almost always a syllable
of inflection, e, en, or ed. In his writing Ormin used
a device which was perhaps meant to heljj a Nor-
man-English reader of his lines to such pronuncia-
tion of them as would be underetood by the jieople
for whose benefit they were written. He always
doubled the consonant after a short vowel in the
same word, and avoided doubling it after a long
vowel. This duplication is, in fact, a special charac-
teristic of the written English of the " Ormulum."
OrniLn's work was, then, a putting of the entire
Gospel history into verse, with a running com-
mentary of doctiine and exhortation, in a form that
would be welcome to the people's ears, and with
provision that whoever recited any part of it foi'
their mstruction should, as far as he could contrive,
not make a dead language of its English, or take the
pleasantness out of his rhythm by pronouncing it
amiss. "And whoso," he says to the copyists, "shall
will to write this book again another time, I bid
him that he write it rightly, so as this book teacheth
him entirely as it Ls upon this first pattern, with
all such rhyme a.s is here set, mth just as many
words, and that he look well that he write a letter
twice where it upon this Ijook is written in that
wse."
Here is the whole of one of Ormin's metrical
Homilies. It is upon Christ's Teaching of Nicodemus
(St. John, chapter iii.). Tlie opening of the homily I
give in Ormin's English, with interlinear translation,
and then modernise the rest, but without attempting
to reproduce, in our nninflected language, the weak
fifteentli syllable once formed by an inflection, and
of which the nntsic was often imitated bj- adding
TO i.D. 1250.]
RELIGION.
10
an "O" or an " a " ' to a line after the inflections dis-
appeared : —
" Sic Dous dilexit mundum ut filium sumn unigenitum
daiet." — John iii. 16.
Christ's teaching of mcodemus.
Thurrh thatt te Laferrd se^jrde - thuss
Ih that the Lord saitl thus
Till Xicodein withth worde :
To y'tcotU'tnus with word :
Swa lufede the Laferrd Godd
So lovid the Lord God
The weielld tatt he senndr-
The World that he sent
His az/henn sune Allmahhtiy Godd
His own Son Almighty God
To wurrthcn maun onn ci-the
To become man on earth
To lesenn manukinn thurrh hiss death
To release mankind through his death
Vt off the defless walde.
Out of the dt viCs power,
Thatt whase trowwenn shall onn himrii
7'hat whosoever shall believe in him
Wei mu(?he wiirrthenn borri/heim :
Surely^ may beeome sared ;
Tha!r thunh he dide Nicodem
By that he caused Nicodemus
To sen and unnderrstanndenn,
To see and understand
Thatt he wass Godd himm sellf, oft Godd.
That he was God himself, from God.
And Godess Sune ankcnncdd.
And God's Son acknowledged.
And wurrthenn munn o moder h:illf
And become man on mother s side
Thurrh sothfasst herrsumnmesse,
Through faithful obedience,
Thurr-thatt his Faderr haffdc himm sennd
Because his Father had sent him
And gifenn himm to manne,
And given him for man.
To tholenn death o rode tre
To suffer death on the cross
Forr all mannkinne nede,
For all mankind's need, 20
All thurrh thatt lufe, and thurrh thatt lusst
All through that lore and through that desire
That teyjr till mannkinn haifdemi,
That they hud towards mankind.
Forth withth thatt Hall.,?he Frofre frast
Also the Holy Ghost, the Conforter
Thatt cumethth off hemm bathe,
That Cometh of them both,
AU thurrh thatt lufe and tliurrh thatt lusst
All through that love and through that desire
49
' The measure is (though without rhyme) that of the old song
from which Autolyciis sings in the " Winter's Tale " —
" A merrj heart goes all the day
Your sad tires in a mile-a."
' Sejjde. The it ilic q stands for the g softened to y or j/i sound,
and represented at one time hy a letter like 3.
' The old common use of the word mXl as an intensive, still found
in idiomatic phrase? as " ireXl on in years," or " icc!!-nigh dead," or
"you may ircll say that," is so far weakened that its sense is some-
times better given by another word.
71
30
That Xugg till mannkinn haffden,
That they had towards mankind,
To lesenn menn oft deUess band
To release men from bonds of the devil.
And ut off helle pine.
And out of he pum of hell.
That whase trowwenn sholldn o Crist
That whoso should bcieee on Christ
Wei shoUde wunthen borr^heu.
Surely should be saved.
Whi seggi.fi Crist to Nicodem
Why said Christ to Nieodemus
That Drihhtin Godd off heffne
That the Lord God of Heaven
Swa lufede thiss middell lerd,
-So loved this mid-earth,
Thiss werelld, tatt he sennde
This world, that he sent
Hiss ai7henn Sune Allmahhtijr Godd,
His own Son, Almighty God,
To tholenn dieth o rode.
To suffer death on the cross,
AIs iff he shoUde lesenn ut
So that he should deliver
The middell a;rd off heUe '
The mid-earth from hcllf
Thurrh whatt wass heffness whel fon-guirt
For xehat leas heaven s wheel {the firmament) coin-
To drei/hen helle pine ? [pelled
To suffer pain of hell ? 4(1
And lifft, and land, and watenflod,
And air, and land, and waterjlood.
Hu waerenn i'higg forrwrohhte
How were they condemned
To drei/henn wa withth mikeU rihht
To suffer woe with much right
Inn helle withth the defeU ?
In hell with the devil ?
Off thise fowre shaftte iss all
Of these four created things [elements) is all
Thiss middell werelld timmbrcdd,
This middle world built, —
Of heffness whel and off the lilft.
Of the firmament and of the air,
Off waterr, and off erthe ;
Of water and of earth ;
And i tha fowre shafftess niss
And in these four elements is {not)
Nowwtherr, — ne lif ne sawle
Neither — nor life, nor soul 50
That mihhte gilltenn ani^ gillt
That might be guilty of any guilt
And addlenn helle pine.
And deserve pain of hell.
We ought to know now that for ut
The World hero signities
Created thing that was condemned
To suffer pain of hell.
The World here signifies for us
The race of man alone ;
^^d since man's body is mndi/ up
Of what is in the world : SO
Of heaven's fire, and of the air
Of water, and of earth :
And since man's Soul is tluough the world
Here surely sigm£ed,
50
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1200
For both of them full into om^
After the Grcokish speech,
For Cosmos ' all the world is ealled,
So as the Greeks explain,
Because it worthily is clothed
With sun and moon and stars
.■Ul round about the tirmament,
Through tJod that wrought it so ;
And eke it worthily is clothed,
That know'st thou well for sooth,
With air and land and watcr-iiood
With creatures manifold,
Th(! Soul, too, worthily is clothed
By t4od, after its kind.
With immortality, also
With wit and will and mind ;
And therefore saith the Lord om- God
The Soul is his likeness,
For that they both, the Soul and God,
Arc ever without end.
And they have mind, and will and wit,
But not upon one wise :
For always God hath it in Him,
Aud over and aye it had ;
The Soul receives her excellence
All from the hand of God,
AVHun-e'cr he shapeth Soul from nought
All as himself shall please.
And the World therefore in this place
But signities mankind,
For both of them fall into one
Even as I have shown :
For either worthily is clothed,
But not upon one wise,
.Vnd yet the clothing of them both .
(_'o9mos will signify.
.\nd Man therefore thou mayest CiiU
After the (ireekish speech,
Microcosmos, the which we call
After thi^ English speech.
The little World, and all for this :
Because tlie Soul of man
God has clothed worthily and well
With God and righteousness.
.Vnd even as this World is clothed
With creatures beautiful.
The World also may signify
JIankind therefore the better.
Because man's body is made up
And wrought of creatures four, —
Of heaven's fire, and of the air.
Of water, aud of earth.
-Vud therefore hero the World must mean
< Inly the race of ilan
That Word of God was sent by God
To loosen out of hell.
And of the Son of Man, and Son
Also of God, of both.
70
80
90
Chi-ist here hath told to Nicodeme
The one truth in these words :
That whoso shall believe on him
He surely shall be saved.
And that was said as if he thus
With open speech had said :
For this I have come down from Heaven
To be a man on earth,
That whoso shall believe in me
And shall obey my laws,
AVorthy .shall he be with me
To have eternal bliss.
But this Christ said to Nicodeme
That he might understand
That he himself was God and Slan,
One person, that should save
Mankind from hell and give to men
To win the bliss of heaven.
130
140
100
110
120
' Cosmos. The Greek Kutr^a? means in the first instance order (from
Ko^ittj, I take care of), that which depends ou thouglit aud care;
order (if dress, clothes (the sense ou which Onuin here dwells);
order of liehaviour ; order of private life ; order of a state ; order or
system of the universe. The range of the word is from the divine
order that fills the world with beauty down to Livia's cosmetic—
" A li<;lit fucus
To touch you o'er withal."
(Ben Jonson's " Sejanus.")
Man's Peril ani» Safety.
From Cotton. MS., Tiberias, B. v.
And that the Lord hath there declared
With words to Nicodeme,
That the Almighty hath not sent
His Son that he .should Judge
This world, but that he should redeem
It from the Devil's power ; —
That said he then to cause him so
To see and understand
That ho was sent and made as man
To rescue men from hell.
Through love he bore himself, and through
Love of his Father too
And Holy Ghost, the Comforter,
Proceeding from them both.
Through that he was not come down then
To judge the people all,
But in humiUty to save
The world ^)y his own grace.
And that he there to Nicodeme
Yet spake thus of himself :
"Whoso beheveth upon him
That man is not condemned ; —
1.50
160
TO A.D. 1250.]
RELIGION.
5i
That was as if he had thus said
To him with open speech :
The man that shall believe on me
And shall obey my laws,
That same man will not be condemned
To suffer pain of hell.
And that he there to Nicodeme
Yet spake thus of himself : 1 70
And whoso believes not in him
With full and willing truth
Already is condemned by God
To suffer pain of hell ; —
That was as if he had thus said
To him with open speech :
The man that believes not on me
"With full and willing truth,
But shall through haughtiness and hate
Reject all that I teach, 180
Already is condemned by me
To suffer pain of hell :
For since that I am truly God
Full easily I know
All those in whom I shall be pleased
A\Tio earn the bliss of heaven.
And those by whom I shall be ^corucd
Who earn the pain of hell,
Of all the folk that from this day
To Doomsday shall be bom. 190
For all the folk that ever was.
And all that yet shall be,
It is already judged and set
In book, told, measm'ed out.
By God, and now he secth all
That each one man shall find.
"What meed shall be the recompense
Of each one for his deeds.
The Highest how the doom shall go
All knows, and ever knew, 200
For eye of God and wit of God
All sees, all learns, all knows.
Both that that was, and that that is.
And that that yet shall be ;
And if thou art redeemed that is
All through the Lord God's grace.
And through thy labour to win that.
Strong with the Lord God's help.
And if that thou art not redeemed.
That is all through thy sin, 210
And through right doom thou'rt then condemned
To suffer pain of hell
According to what thou hast earned.
And neither less nor more.
And that he there to Kicodeme
Yet spake thus of himself :
And he that shall not upon him
Believe, is now condemned
Because that he believeth not
As he ought to believe 220
Upon that one appointed name
Of God's Son upon earth.
On him that is of God the Lord
Only begotten Son ; —
That was as if he had said thus
To him with open speech :
That man who wliolly shall refuse
To trust and to believe
That I am by my Father sent,
Made Saviour on earth,
And whoso shall thiough hate and scorn,
And thi-ough his pride of heart,
iUy name all utterly despise
That calls me Saviour, —
The name that shall bring health to all
Who ever shall be healed,
The name that shall redeem all who
ShaU ever be redeemed
Through me that am of God the Lord
Only begotten Son,
Son so begotten that I am
All one in Deity
With Father and "with Holy Ghost
Withouten ord and end,'
That am come to choose many for
My brethren upon earth
That cheerfully shall persevere
And do my Father's will.
So tliat he shall hold aU of them
For childi'on of His own
And give them to abide with me
Heirs of the heavenly realm.
That am the only son of Him
All one with him in kind, —
The man who wholly shall refuse
To trust this and believe,
That man is now condemned and set
To suffer pain of hell,
Unless he can escape therefrom
Before he come to die,
Beb'eving that I am true God,
True Saviour on earth.
And that he there to Nicodem^
Yet spake thus of himself :
That is the doom, that light and gleam
Is come upon the earth,
And men have no love for the light,
But love the darkness more.
Because that their own deed is all
EvU and all imclean ; —
That was as if he had said thus
To him with other words :
All that that any man shall be
Condemned to bear in hell,
AH that shall be for that he shall
Neglect, scorn, and refuse
To come imto the Christendom
And to the right belief,
To know me and to follow me.
And in me to believe
That am true light of truth and right
And of the right belief.
And, therefore, shall all those who are
Known by the name of men
Because they follow their own flesh
In all its foul desires.
230
no
250
2C0
270
280
1 Ord and end, begmning and end. This is the original of our
phrase "odds and ends." "Ord" was a First-English noun that
meant "beginning." When it became obsolete, and the old phrase
"ords and ends" still held its ground, the obsolete word was at
last confounded with the nearest known word that resembled it.
That is a not unusual process, to which we owe such phnises as
" under the rose," " set the Tliames on fire," &c.
52
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITE RATURE.
[A.D. 1210
.\nd wholly put away and scorn
To do Ihi) Sijirit's will ;
And huto all that is dear to God
jVnd love all evil ways,
Are over lying deep in sin
In many kinds of way
That arc all openly enough
Bv darkness signiKed,
lieeause that sins will ever draw
Towards the gloom of hcU,
Away from heaven's light and gleam,
The so'-ils that follow them, —
Even as he that evil doth
Aye flies from light of ilay.
For him is loth that man him see
Employed in his foul deeds, —
Therefore, shall all that wicked flock
Be sentenced to hell pain,
Because that all their life on earth
With darkness is beset
In all the evil that man doth
Through heathendom and wrong.
Before that our Lord Christ was come
To he a man on eartli,
This middle world was wholly filled
With gloomy shades of sin.
Because that Christ, the world's true light.
Was then not yet come down
With his rebuke for all mankind
Of heathendom and wrong.
And with his showing what was good
And what was evil deed,
.\nd how a man might please his (iud
And earn the bliss of heaven,
And stand against the evil one.
And turn himself from hell.
.\nd after our Lord Christ was come
To bo a man on earth.
Thereafter was this middle earth
Filled full of heaven's light.
Because that our Lord Christ himself
And his Disciples too.
Both what w:is right aiul what was wrong
Made kno'vn in all the lands,
And how a man might please his God
And earn tlio bliss of heaven.
And many peoples haughtily
Withstood and stiU denied.
And turned them from the light of heaven
And from the heavenly lore.
Because they rather chose to be
In darkness that they loved,
To follow lusts of their own flesh
In every kind of sin.
Because they rather hated light
That brought rebuke of sin.
And other peoples woll received
The gift of heavenly lore,
-Vnd turned them to the Chi-i,stendom
And to the right belief ;
That is that very light and gleam
That leadeth man to heaven ;
And it received full inwardly
By shrift and penitence,
Accusing all their own misdeed
And punishing themselves.
290
300
310
320
330
340
3o0
That they so long in heathendom
Had angered the trui; Lord.
And 80 they came into the Ught,
Into the right belief
In Jesus Christ our Saviour,
^^^lose name is Faitlii'ulness :
For all that's ever true and right
And good, and pleases God,
Salvation for His handiwurl:,
All comes by gi-ace of t'luist.
And so they come into the light
To shew and to make known
That their deeds have been done aright
By pattern of oui- Lord ;
For all together did one thing
Botli Christ and they themselves, —
Christ has rebuked tncm for their wrong
By teaching righteousness.
And they also rebuke their wrong
By shrift and penitence, — •
So all together did one thing
Both Christ and they themselves.
And so through that was plainly seen
That any good they did
Was aU in God and all through God,
Efltected by His help.
And God Almighty grant us here
To please Christ while we live.
All pure in thought and pure in word.
Pure mannered, pure in deed,
So that we may be worthy found
To win the grace of Clirist. Amen.
360
370
380
Side by side with this faitliful work tliere was
umcli darkness gathering where light shouhl liave
been brightest. At the beginning of the thirteentli
century both the Dominican and the Franciscan
brotlierhoods were founded to meet needs of the
time with liigher spiritual efl'ort tha)i hatl come of
late from the chief teachers in a church weakened
by wealth and luxury. The founder of the Domini-
cans was a Sjianiard, Dontingo, of the noble family of
Guzmans, in the valley of the Douro. He jjitied the
poor. In a famine year he sold even his cherished
books to relieve them. But he had learnt in his
books that the way to heaven was along one narrow
line of orthodox opinion ; and when, after nine year.s
of study at Osma, he travelled with his prior across
a region of France cursed with the jiersecution of
pure-minded heretics by orthodox priests who had
neither knowledge wherewith to set forth, nor lives
that would recommend, the o])inions of which they
sought brutally to compel acceptance, Dominic felt
the need of a right power to convince of error
thoughtful and well-meaning men whom he devoutly
believed to be astray on a path leading to eternal
punishment. Most of tis now believe with Milton
that there is more light in the world than shines in at
our own windows. Few thought so then, and Dominic
was profoundly .sincere, true also in deeds of life to
his own deepest convictions, when he fotmded the
order of Preaching Friars called after him Domini-
cans. They were not to be monks, named from a
Greek word that implied life in seclusion, but Fratres
TO A.D. 1250.]
RELIGION.
53
Friai-s, Brothers of men going amongst them, putting
aside all workllv ambitions, and devoting themselves
wholly to ditfusion of what they held to be the vital
truths of God. They were to be practised in a profound
stud}- of the .Scri[)tures, armed with knowledge, and
trained to skill in its use that they might detect
heresy in its beginnings, and triumph over it when at
its strongest. The followei-s of Dominic, in the Black
ix)be which gave them their name of Black Friars,
were to be devoted guardians of the faith. Dominic's
first foUowers adopted the rule of St. Augustine.
They were first embodied with Pap;il assent in 1215
and 121(5 as Predicants or Preachi:ig Friars, after-
wards called Dominicans trom their founder, and
Black Friais from their dress. ThLs order also
degenerated in the coui-se of time. It had a gi-eat
house in the part of London still known as Black
Friai-s, and from this house came, as we shall find,
from the custodians of oi-thodoxy condemnation of
what were regarded as the heresies of Wiclif.
A DoniKlCAS. (From LhigdaJe's " yionastkort.")
The Franciscan Order of Gray Friars or Minorites
was founded nearly at the same time as the Domini-
can, and represented another form of effbi-t to put
truer life into the ministrations of the Church.
Francis, son of a wealthy merchant, was bom in
1182 at Assisi, in LTmbria. He was twelve yeai-s
yoimger than Dominic, whose birth year was 1170.
Francis of Assisi, bred as a merchant, became deeply
devout, pitied the ]POor, abandoned his own worldly
wealth, and made it the work of his life to bring
home to the poor the comforts of religion, as one
* Eepresentations of the several religious orders that first appeared
in the " Monasticon " were used airain for the " History of Warwiok-
ehirc."
who was separated from them by no worldly rank
or wealth, and was drawn very close to them in
brotherhood liy Christian love. Others who shared
his enthusiasm gathered about him, all devoting
themsehes to poverty ; and they formed an order of
brothers, Fratres, Friai-s, for whom a rule was drawn
up that had Papal approval in 1210, and was ap-
proved by the Lateran Council in 1215. The
enthu.siasm of Francis, and the reaction of many a
pure heart from the worldliness that had crippled
A Franciscan, (/■'-ok. l^>l'J'hll^:'s " Mottosticon,']
the Church, gathered so many to his ranks, that at
a chapter of the order held m 1219, 5,000 Franciscan
Friai's were present. The Franciscans m theii- early
days would not allow great houses to be built for
them. When a house of stone was built for them
at Oxford, they had it pulled down and replaced by
a building with mud walls, and it was jilaced in
the lowest haunts of the })Oor. In London they
lived by the shambles in a place called " Stinking
Lane." They put aside the pride of knowledge,
left book-leaming to the Dominicans, called tliem-
selves the Lesser Friars, Fratres I\Iinores, Minorites,
and tnisted to humilitj' of love. This order ahso
degenerated as the days of the pure enthusiasm that
established it were left more and more in the past.
But it is a significant fact that the putting away
of books in which science lay as petrified, and
from which people took forms of opinion to be
exactly reproduced, caused the Franciscans presently
to become leaders of knowledge. They went among
the poor, and sought to win from them goodwill and
confidence. Tliey syini)athised with their troubles,
sought to jjacify their quarrels, and heal their in-
firmities of body or of mind. In seeking means to
54
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[i.u. 12C4
heal till- liodily iutiniiitks the Franciscans were Ictl
to observe nature, to draw knowledge from expe-
rience ; and minds of active, intellectusil men thus
trained in a forced contact with Nature alone as
their cliief teacher, were soon on the way to many a
truth that was not written in the books they might
not read. After some years Franciscans were
teacliing in the universities, and di-ew the largest
audiences to their lecture-rooms. As the order lost
its singleness of iiur])Ose, the positions fairly won
were weakly held ; and Wiclif, in his earlier years
at Oxford, earned much goodwill in the university by
opposing what was then undue predominance of the
Franciscans, and of the Dominicans who arrogated
to themselves the teacliing of theology.
In the eai-lier half of the thirteenth centuiy, not
very long after the establishment of the Franciscan
order, its first rector in Oxford was Robert Grosse-
teste, who was appointed to that office in 1224,
when he was about fifty years old. Grosseteste —
only aboiit five years younger than Dominic, and
.seven years older than Francis of Assisi — was a
great scholar, born of poor parents in Suffolk. He
studied at Paris and Oxford, gi-aduated in Divinity,
was rector at one time of St. Margaret's, Leicester,
became aftei-wards Archdeacon of Leicester, and had
otlier preferment when tlie corruption of self-seeking
among churchmen caused him to liegin his own
efibrts towards reform by resigning all that he held
himself except one office, a prebend at Lincoln. In
12.'?.5 he was made Bishop of Lincoln, but caused
violent agitation among the monks and clergy of his
diocese by liold punishment and re])ression of cor-
ruption. A monk tried to jioisou him ; the canons
preached against him in his own cathedra] ; the
king's power was used to clieck the strictness with
wiiich he enforced their duties on his clergy. He
opi)Osed the l>estowal of English benefices, as mere
pieces of income, ujion Italians nominated by the
Pope ; and in the last year of his life boldly refused
to induct a nephew of the Pope himself into a
canonry at Lincoln. Grosseteste died in 12.53,
leaving to the Fi-anciscans his library, and to his
country a memory of which the good fame might
rest u])ou his patriotic and religious zeal in the
contest for Ghurch reform ; but he was also one of
the j)rofoundest scholars and teachers of his age —
Roger Bacon was among his jiupils — and he had a
keen sense of the graces of life, a love of music
and of old romance. Tliis caused him to put in the
form of French romance a religious poem upon the
Virgin. It was written in French and called the
"Chiisteau d' Amour." There was more than one
early version of it translated into English.'
' One early trauslation was eiUte'l very thoroughly with notes and
glossary by Dr. E. V. Weymoutli, (or the Philolosfical Society, in
186-1. Another version had been piinted in 1849 by Mr. J. O. Halli-
well-Philhpps for in-ivate circulation. This is the beginning :—
" He that good thinketh, good may do,
And God mil helpen him thereto ;
For there was never good work wrought
Without beginning of good thought,
Nor ever was wrought evil thing
But e\il thought was beginning."
Grosseteste's pupil, the famous Franciscan, Roger
Bacon, was bom in 1214, and died in 1292. In the
year 12G7 he was pouring out his knowledge for the
Pope in a spirit of philosophy, kindred in some
respects to that of the Francis Bacon who was bom
three centui-ies later. Roger Bacon dwelt upon the
need of exact knowledge by Churchmen. He con-
tlenined the ignorance that propagated false trans-
lations for want of right training in language, and
when he spoke emphatically of mathematics as a
most essential study, he argued that it was essential
to divines if they would read and explain the Bible
with intelligence, and hel}) men rightly to admire the
works of the Creator.
Roger Bacon had spent a little fortiuie ujion study
before he became a Franciscan at Oxford, denied the
use of books, and of jiens, ink, and paper. The fame
of his knowledge reached Pope Clement IV., who
asked him to write tlown what he knew. The result
was a sequence of writings, poured out with wonder-
ful rapidity, in which he went the round of all the
knowledge of his day, with additions of liis own, and
]>hilosoj)hial suggestions of the highest interest. Even
the fotu- " Idols " condemned by Francis Bacon were
almost anticijiated in the assertion of Roger Bacon
that there are four grounds of human ignorance-
trust in inadequate authority, the force of custom,
the opinion of the inex])erienced crowd, and the
hiding of one's own ignorance wth the jiarading of
a superficial wisdom. When in passing through the
sciences he comes to music, we have these notes from
Roger Bacon on
Then follows prayer that God will grant us to think and work as we
should, before statement of the subject of the ])oem, which is first
the happiness of Adam in Paradise till uU was lost ; and then how all
was redeemed by the High King's Son.
The High King had four daughters— Mercy, Ti-uth, Right, and
Peace. He had also a thrall, who having done amiss was set in
prison and deUvered to his foes. Mercy pleaded for him, but Right
had called for his punishment, and this Trath urged. Right then
judged in accordance with the words of Tnith. Then Peace— who
was banished by the execution of the Righteous dooms— joined in the
plea of Mercy. The King's Son, when he had heard the pleading,
offered in wear the clothing of the thrall, and sutler for him all that
Truth and Right required, so that Peace might come back into the
land, and Righteousness and Peace might kiss each other. The
panible is then applied to the sacred story, and through praise of
the love of God the poem panse^ to the birth of Chi-ist. When
God came to bless us he chose to alight
•' In a castel wel comeliche
Muche and feir and loveliche :
That is the castel of alle flour.
Of solas and of socour."
Then follows a description of the castls wherein God "chose his
inn" —
" This is the castel of love and lisse,
Of solace, of socour, of joye, and blisse,
Of hope, of hele, of sikernesse,
And fid of allt^ sweteuesse ;
This is the Mayden bodi so freo
Thei never nas non but heo.
That with so fele thewes iwarned wes,
So that swete Mayden Marie wes."
Every detail of an elaborate description of the castle is thei t^
exiJ.ained into alleirory, with praise of the Vij-gin. The coming of
Christ to earth, his birth, his resistance of temptation, his death and
passion, and the paiji of Mary in the agony he suffered for the sins
of man. his resui-rection, descent into hell. Godhead, power, are the
nest themes ; then follows judgment, and a prayer for salvation.
10 A.D. 1267.J
RELIGION.
5.")
CHURCH MUSIC AND PREACHING.'
[He had siid that there were thi'ee kinds of haiinony,
diatonic, ehromatic, and enharmonic, the last-named adopted
by the Church ; had dwelt on the importance of music, and
complained that church singing in his time had lost gravity,
and slipped into a voluptuous softness ; that the old manly
tone was in some of om- greatest cathedrals spoilt by falsetto
voices and the womanish singing of hoys. He then dwelt
on music as an aid to devotion, as allayer of evil passions,
and as healer of disease, and spoke of its power over irrational
creatures. But, he went on, besides all this]
The force of music is very agreeable and useful in the
Church. It has been said that one kind of music is by metre,
another by rhj-thm. But hymns, and histories, and prose
narratives of thi' saints ought to be made according to the
true art of metre and rhythm, as the s;iints made them from
the beginning. Common metres are of hexameter and
pentameter verses, which are alone now used by the com-
munity of the Latins. But hymns and ihythmical prose-
writings, and pieces of that kind, do not follow common laws
of metre and rhythm, but have special methods ; as, when it
is said :
Ut queaut lasis J^t^sonare fibris
Ifi'-m gestorum f ii-muli tuoram,
Sol-ve pollutos Xa-bii reutus
Sancte Johannes. =^
Here is a beautiful metre with distinct verses, but of
fewer feet, five and si.x ; and so of the hjTnns, &c. And
these metres are not only used with the tliree recognised
feet, dactyl, spondee, and trochee, but \vith otliers which
mount up to twenty-eight, of which Augustine teaches in his
books of music, and other musical writers. When, therefore,
hj-mns, &c., of this kind resound sweetly in the Chuixh
of God, and excite the souls of the faithful to devotion,
and this, chiefly, because of the charm of metre and rhythm,
it is necessary that the Chm-ch should have knowledge of
this metrical and rhjlbmical science for church use, that
when saints ai"e canonised, or churches dedicated, or other
solemnities appointed, which for special devotion require
hymns and rhythms of their own in the divine offices, the
devout handmaid of the church, called llusic, may be ready
to do her aptest service.
But if it may be said that these things can bo done, and
are done, without the science of music ; that its grammar is
sufficient. Clearly that is not so, for reasons already given,
because it is the business of the musician to give cause and
reason of these things that they may rightly produce rh\-thmic
and metrical work ; but grammar is only mechanical in this
respect, ignorant of these causes and reasons. And if it may
be said that no great art is required for this, because men
easily produce such things in the offices of the saints and
others whenever they please, it is to be said of them that
they do nothing rightly nor truly, but it is a mockery of
divine service. For all that has been done during the last
thirty years is false to art and truth, Ijccause composers of
this kind know neither what feet they ought to use, nor how-
many feet, nor what kind of metre, nor how they are to be
put together according to the wavs of iirt; but after the
' Chapter Isxiv. and part of chapter Ixxv. of the " Opus Tcrliiim,"
first edited by Professor Brewer iu the importaut series of " Chronicles
aud Memorials of Great Britain and Ireland during the Middle Aires,"
published under direction of the Master of the Rolls. Roger Bacon
\Prote, of course, in Latin.
^ The verses are an appeal to St. John to loosen lips that they may
sound his praise, so worded as to introduce the syllables of the scale
— Ut, Ee, Mi, Fa, Sol, La.
pattern of other hymns and such pieces so made, they count
syllables at haphazard, and do not in anything observe metrical
law. And, therefore, this is a mockery before God and the
holy angels, and all who have any real knowledge of this art.
For the saints who first composed in this way, as St. Ambrose,
and Augustine, and Beda, and others, knew perfectly the
laws and principles of metre and rhythm : and wrote accord-
ing to the ways of art as having the power of science, and
not working at haphazard as the modems do, who fashion as
they please.
The next thing in which the philosophy of JIusic caji
powerfully serve the Chui-ch is in the office of preachiug,
although at first sight that may seem absurd. But this office
does not belong to study, because it consists in reading and
disputation. But preaching is to the faithful and to the
faithless, to laity and clergy.
Now, some cannot preach unless they are sent by the
authority of prelates. ^Vhence this is the office proper to
prelates, and conceded by them to others, who exercise it in
their place ; and, therefore, it does not pertain to study aliso-
lutoly, but to the Church. But that philosophy wiU minister
to a gi-eat power of persuasion is patent enough from what I
have said when speaking of lloral Philosophy ; for there I
have traced the roots of persuasion, according to the doctrines
both of the saints and of the philosophers, aud because of
the ignorance of these roots, the whole method of preaching
to the people comes to nothing, and the art itself is unknown.
And since the infidels have proper methods of persuasion in
those things which concern them, therefore this manner of
persuasion is philosophical, because it is common to Christian
and Pagan. And, therefore, there descends from the spiings
of philosophy one method special for this purpose, though
also another method may be taken from the teaching of the
saints. But the method of philosophy is first, and leads
us towards the higher way, and is necessary to it as the
servant to the master. Wherefore, if philosophy in other
things is necessary to the Church, it is most so in this, seeing
that the first intention of the Church and its last end is the
work of preaching; that infidels may be converted to the
faith, and that believers be maintained in faith and honesty
of living. But because the crowd knows nothing of either
way, it tui-ns all to supreme and unending curiousness, as by
Porphyrian divisions, by foolish consonances of words and
little clauses, and by vocal concords, in which is nothing but
a wordy I'anity, wanting in every ornament of rhetoric and
power of persuasion. .Some phantasm is displayed in puerile
fashion, invented by boys void of all wisdom and power of
elocjuence, as is plain to any one who looks at it ; such as I
have set forth in my second work, and this my third, among
the .sins of theology. Nevertheless, over all this there is
the greatest consimiption of time. For on account of the
superfluity of curiousness they labour ten times more over the
construction of this sort of spider's web than over the thought
of the sermon. Since the books of Aristotle's Logic on these
matters, and the commentaries of Aricenna, are not to be
had in Latin, and the few things that are translated arc not
brought into use or read, it is not easy to express what ought
to be done. But that Aristotle did write two books of Logic
on this kind of persuasion, concerning sects and morals, I have
shown in the third part of the "Opus JIajus," and in the
seventh ; and there can be no doubt that they were excellent
books, though the Latin writers are ignorant of them, as they
were ignorant of the new logic when they only had the old.
For in them would be taught how sublime discourses shoulil
be made, as well in the utterance as in the thought, with all
true ornaments of speech, in metre, rhythm, or prose ; that the
soul may be hurried unexpectedly towards that for which the
56
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
Ta.d. 1250
persuader puts forth all his power, and suddenly faU in love
with good, and into hate of evil, as teaches Alpharabius in
his book I)e ScUnUis. And these arguments of preaching do
not consist only in the beauty of the speech, or greatness of
the wisdom touching things divine ; but in the feelings, in the
gesture and titly-proportioued movement of the body and the
limbs, to which the instruction of the saints comes near when
they teach the preacher to implore in his opening the grace
of the Holy Spirit, and abundantly to shed tears of devotion
while he is persuading. For thus Augustine teaches the way
to preach the Gospel in his fourth book upon Christian
Doctrine, and so he confesses that he preached himself. . .
. . But some one may say, WTiat has all tliis to do with
the properties of Music? Sui-ely much; indeed they have a
chief relation to it : and this I will show, that we may see
what is proper to one science, what to another. For I cannot
deny that many sciences tiike this into account. The moral
philosopher knows the use of pleasant speech and fit gestures
suited to an agreeable utterance. So docs the logician and
grammarian. But it is the part of none of those to assign
the causes and reasons, for they are of another science. And
this is JIusic.
The man wlio.se scientific mind wa.s tlius applied to
all sulijects of human study in his time is the same
Friar Bacon whose learning won for him a place
in mediieval fable. His teaclier, Robert Grosse-
teste, Grosthead, or Greathead, called also Robert of
fjincoln, w;is ranked with the conjurors, but Friar
Bacon became especially a hero of legend. Samuel
Butler, in his " Hudibras," paired " Old Hodge
Bacon and Bob Grostead;" and we tiiul from the
fourth book of the " Confessio A mantis" that Grosse-
teste, as well as Bacon, was once associated with a
story of a brazen head.
" For of the great clerk Grosseteste
I rede how busy that he was
Upon the clergie, an head of bras
To forge and make it for to telle
Of suche thinges as befelle.
And seven yeres besinesse
He laide, but for the lachesse
Of half a minute of an hom-c
Fro tirste he began hiboflre
He loste all that he haddc do."
Let us next take, in brief, the substance of a
■Scsriarg which turned into religious allegory the
su|)|)i)sed attributes of divers animals. It was
deri\ed from the Latin verse of an Italian bishoj),
Theoliald, whose book, called " Physiologus," was of
a class so ancient tliat Ej)iphanius, an opponent of
Origen, at the close of the fourth century, referred to
the two natures of the serjient with the i)hrase, " as
the Physiologues say." In this thirteenth-century
version of the " Physiologus" of Theobald we read
that
When the Lion heai-s or scents from a hill the
hunter approaching, he flies and wipes out his traces
^vitll his tail as he is running to his den. The hill is
the kingilom of heaven, Christ the Lion, the Devil
the cunning hunter, who never knew whence the
Lord came or how he housed himself in INIary. The
Lion's cub is not called to stir till the sun has shone
three times upon it. This is an image of the resur-
rection. The Lion sleeps with his eyes open. So
watchful over us is Christ.
When the Eaole is old be regains eyesight by
hovering over a well in the light of the sun, drops
then into the weU, and comes out renewed, except
his beak, which he puts right by pecking at a stone.
Man not yet Christian is old in sins. He goes to
church and regains sight in the siuishine of God's
love, he falls naked into the font and comes out
renewed, save that his mouth has not yet uttered -
creed or paternoster. But he may soon set his
mouth right upon that rock which is Christ, and
obtain bread for his soul in Christ, who is the bread
of life.
The old Serpent fasts for teu days, and when his
skin is slack creeps through a stone with a hole in
it, so scrapes it oS; then drinks at a spring, casts j
out the venom bred in his breast since his birth, and
drinks again from the pure stream until he is renewed.
The Christian needs renewal when he has broken the
laws to which he was pledged ; avoidance of pride is
the fast, repentance the hole in the stone through
which he must pass, iti the temple of God he wUl
find the healing stream. The serjtent represents also
the devil, in tlie fact that he will attack a clothed
man, and flee from the naked. The devil attacks the
man who is clothed in his sins, and Mies from him
who has put them otf.
The Ant lays up store for the winter; prefers
wheat, and avoids barley ; bites each grain of corn
in two to save it from perishing before it is used.
Death is our winter-time, and if we have not made
provision here, we shall sutler after that has come.
Like the ant, let us avoid barley, the old law, and
take to us wheat, the new. The divided grain .shows
that the law is one, its ways are two, earthly and
heavenly. It feeds the bodj' and the sold.
The Hart draws the stone out of the seiijent,
swallows it and burns with its poison, till he drinks
greedily of water that makes it harmless. Then he
sheds his horns and renews himself. We draw the
poison from our forefathers, who have sinned through
the serpent ; but in our rage let us run to the living
waters, and drink of the teaching of the Lord that
quenches sin. Let us cast off pride as the hart casts
his horns, and be renewed imto salvation. Harts
keep together. If they cross a river, each lays his
shin-bone on another's loin-bone ; if the foremost
become tired, the others helj) him. So Christians
shoidd draw together, and lighten one another's
burdens.
The Fox seizes poultry, and entraps birds by lying
in a hole as dead, till they alight on him fearlessly
and peck at him as carrion food, then with his sharp
teeth he tears them. The devU looks as if he would
not harm us, and tempts us to do our carnal will.
Whoso indulges in sin pecks at the fox's skin, and
has his reward. So also, he who hides evil under a
fair show is a fox and a fiend.
The Spider who spreads his web, is the man who
deceives another and brings him to ruin.
The Whale looks like an island when afloat.
When he is hungry he ojiens his wide jaws, ami .
sweet scent comes from them which draws to him
the fishes. Only the little fish ;u'e swallowed; ho
TO A.D. lax).]
EELIGION.
57
cannot seize the great ones. 80 the devil tempts
man In' pleasures that lead to iiiin, but he beguiles
only the weak in faith. In fair weather he is at the
bottom of the sea, in storm he comes to the siu'face.
Sailore, ^nistaking him for an island, anchor upon
him, and light a tire on him to warm themselves.
Feeling the heat, he dives and drowns them all. So
is it with all who trust in the fiend for shelter and
couifoit.
!Many men are like the Siren when they speak
fail- words and do evil, destioving another in his
goods and in his soul by treachery.
The Elei'Haxt is carefid not to fall, because he
can with difficulty raise himself. He rests by lean-
ing against a tree. The hunter, marking his haiuit,
saws the tree, then when he leans he falls, and sets
up a loud cry for help. Many of the herd labour in
vain to raise him, tjien they all set up a loud cry,
till a youngling comes who helps him up with his
trunk, and so he is saved. Adam, through that
hunter the devil, so fell by a tree. Moses and the
prophets sought in vain to restore man. A gi'eat
cry went up to heaven, and Christ came, who went,
as it were, by death, under Adam, and so lifted him
out of hell.
The Christian should be true to Christ as the
Turtle, who will ne\er leave her luate or take a
second love.
The Panther is beautiful. When he has eaten
he sleeps in his cave for tliree days, then rises, cries
aloud, anil out of his mouth comes a smell sweeter
than balsam. This draws to him many animals,
but not the dragon, who lies trembling in his den.
Christ is the fair panther, who, when he had lain
thi-ee days, rose and ascended to heaven. The sweet
smell is his holy teaching to which men are drawn,
but the de\il hides and trembles when he hears the
word of God.
Seven good qualities of the Dove are to be
imitated b_v the Christian. She luis no gall. She
does not live by plunder. She picks up seed only,
and avoids worms ; ho let lis feed only on Clii-ist's
teaching. She is as a mother to the young of other
bii'ds ; let us help one another. Her song is a
plaint ; let us bewail our sins. In water she sees
when the hawk comes ; in the Word of God we
leani to shun the devil. She makes her nest in
a hole of the rock ; our best shelter is in that rock
which is the mercy of our Lord.
That is the whole substance of the Bestiary, versi-
fied in the thirteenth century from Bishop Theobald.'
In the oiiiiiion of Dr. Eichanl Morris, who has
edited them both, an English religious poem of the
thii-teentli century, which tells the story of Genesis
and Exodus in free octosyllabic rhymes, is by
the author of the rhymed vei-sion of this Bestiary;
^ It will be found, as well as the Latin original, in one of the publica-
tions of the Early English Text Society, "An Old Enslish Miscellany,
eontainiui; a Bestiary, Kentish Sermons, Proverbs of Alfred, Keli^oiis
Poems of the Thirteenth Century, from Manuscripts in the British
Mnsenm, Bodleian Library. Jesus College Library*, &c. Edited, with
introduction and ludex of Words, by tlie Rev. Richard Mon-is, LL.D."
Tile Bestiarj' has also been printed by Mr. Thomas Wright in the
" Relifiuiie Antiiiute."
because there are in the MSS. of them not only
similar verbal and grammatical forms, but similar
peculiarities of spelling. The manner of this poem
may be illustrated by the part of it which ends the
story of Genesis.
THE DEATH OF JOSEPH.
Hise brethere cornea him thanne xo
Sis brethren then came to him
And gunnen him bistken alle so ;
And began all to beseech him thus :
" Vre fader," he seiden, " or he was dead,
" Oar father," they said, " before he was dead,
Vs he this bodeward seigen bead,
Se bade us say this message,
Hure sinne thee him forgiue
Tliat thou for him ottr sin forgive
With-thanne-that we vnder the Uvea."
So that tee under thee may live."
Alio he fellen him thor to fot
All they fell there at his feet
To beden mede and beddcn oth,
To beg mercy and offer oath,
And he it forgaf hem mildelike
And he forgave it them mildly
And luvede hem alle kinde-like.
And loved them all according to nature. 10
Osej) an hunched ger was hold
Joseph was a hundred years old
And his kin wexen manige fold ;
And his kindred increased manifold ;
He bad sibbe cumeu liim biforen
He bade relations come before him
Or he was ut of werlde boren
Ere he was borne out of the world :
" It sal," quath he, " ben soth, biforen
" It shall," quoth he, " be true, before
That god hath ure eldere sworen
That God hath suorn to our elders.
Ho sal gu leden in his bond
Ife shall lead you in his hand
Hethen to that hotcne lond
JFrom hence to the promised land ;
For godes luue get bid io gu
For God's lore yet pray I you
Lesteth- it thanne, hoteth it nu.
Perform it then, promise it now. 20
That mine bene ne be forloren.
That my prayers may not be lost.
With gu ben mine bones boren."
Let my bones be carried with you."
He it him gatten and wurth he dead,
They granted it him and he died {became dead),
God do the soulo sell red!
God cause to the soul a happy gain .'
His liche was spice-like maked
His body was embalmed
And longe cgipte-like waked.
And long watched after the manner of Egypt,
And tho birind hem biforen
And then buried before them
And sithen late of londe boren.
And some time afterwards borne out of the land.
2 Lestethisnot listen, from "hlystan;" but observe, execute, per.
form, from " laa'stan,"
72
68
CASSELL'S
J.IBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[4.D. 1300
30
40
His othro brothurc on aud on
Hie ol/ur bnthren one by one
Woron ybiried at ebron,
Were biti'ud at Hebron,
And here onduJi; to ful in wis
And lure fully ended in nooth
The boc the is hoten Genesis
The book that ix ealted Genesis,
The moyscs, thurg godes red,
That .Uosea, by the counsel of God,
AVrot for lofful soules ned
m-oaijhtfor the need of faithful souls.
God sihiido his soule fi-o helle bale
God shield his soul from hale of hell
The mad it thus on en^i'l tale,
Who made it thus in English speech.
And he that thise h^ttres wrot
And he that icrotc these letters
God him helpe weli mot
May God effeetnally help him,
And berge is soule fro sorge and grot
And protect his soul from sorrow and weeping
Of helle pine, eold and liot I
Of hell pains, cold and hot !
And alle men the it heren wilcss
And all men that will to hear it
God I('ve hem in his blisse spilen
God give them to have pleasure in His bliss
Among cngelos and seli men
Among angels and blessed men
Withuten ende in reste ben !
To be in rest without end!
And luue and pais us bitwen,
And love and peace be us between,
And ( iod so graunte. jVnien, amen !
We now pass out of the tliii-teentli century with
only a reiniuder that in tlie year 130(J Dante w;is in
mid-life — thu-ty-tive years old — and that it is the date
of the action of liis " Divine Comedy." Petrarch was
liom in 1304, and Boccaccio in 1313. Not many
years later there were horn in England, Chaucer,
Gower, Langland, and Wiclif.
Robert JIannyng, who was born at Bourn, in
Lincolnshire, and is also known, therefore, as Robert
of Brunne, was a canon of the Gilbertine order, in
which devout persons of both sexes lived togethei'.
He turned into Englisli rhyme, for the instruction
of the people, a Chronicle of England that had been
written Ijy an Englishman, Peter Langtoft. It had
licen written in French verse for the few; and Robert
turned also into English verse a religious book
written in French verse by another Englishman,
William of Waddington (a Yorkshire town near
Clitheroe), and called the " Manuel des Peclies."
The original poem in French has been ascribed also
to Grosseteste. Robert of Bninne called his trans-
lation " The Handlynge Synne ;" for he said —
" In Frenshe ther a clerk hyt sees
He clcpyth it ' Manuel de Pecches.'
' Manuel ' ys Handlyng with honde ;
Pecches ys synne, y undcrstonde :
These twey wurdys that beyn atwynne,
Do hem togedjT ys ' Handlyng Synne.' "
He omitted from the original' what appeared to
him to be uninterestijig, and increased the proportion
of illustrative stories ; for he said —
" For many ben of such manero
That tales and rhymes will blithely hear.
In games and feasts and at the ale,
Love men to listen trotevale ; -
That may fall oft to viUanie
To deadly sin or other folic ;
For such men have I made this rhyme.
That they may well dispcnd their time."
Accordingly the poem tirst illustrates with doc-
trine and anecdote the Ten Commandments, and the
sins against them ; then the Seven Deadly Sins —
Pride, Anger, Envy, Sloth, Covetousness, Gluttony,
and Lechery — witli stories about each ; then in like
manner the sin of sacrilege. Then follow rhymes
and stories on the Seven Sacraments — Baptism, Con-
iirmation. Sacrament of the Altar, Penance, Holy
Oulers, Marriage, Extreme Unction. Then come
illustrations of the twelve requisites and the twelve
graces of thrift. Among sins against the tirst Com-
mandment, Robert of Bruime reckoned many of the
suiierstitions of the people, which put suine kind of
charm in the place of cpiiet trust in God.
[If] any man gave thee m.eed
For to raise the devil ^ indeed
For to tell or for to wrey ■*
Thinge that was done away ;
If thou have do any of this
Thou hast sinned and do amiss,
And thou ai-t worthy to be slient »
Through this each ^ commandement.
If thou in sword or in basin
Any child mad'st look therein, in
Or in thumli, or in crystal,
Witchecraft men clepen '' it all :
Believe not in the jjie's chattering,
It is no truth but false believing ;
Many believcn in tlie pie
When she ('ometh low or high
Chattering, and hath no rest.
Then, say they, we shall have gestc' ; "
Many are trowen ' on their wiles
And many times the pie them guiles. 20
Also is meeting in the moiTow '"
When thou shalt go to buy or to borrow ;
> The " Handlyng Syivne " and the " Manjie! des Prches." carefully
edited by Frederick J. Furnivall, M.A., were tirst priuted iu a
vohime published by the Roxbui'ghe Club in 1862.
2 Trolerale, a trifling thinff.
3 Dli-iI. Prouounced as one syllable, "de'il." So "over" is read
" o'er." and " evil " has become " ill."
* Wrcii aud trrtc, bewray, discover. Fii*st-En£rlish " wrdffau."
^ Sheuf, blamed, shamed. First-English " scsendau," to shame.
^ Tliis each (" ielc "), this same.
" C/ci)cii, call. First-English " clypian. "
^ Have gente, hear news. The French original is —
" Si il oieut la pie iangler
Qnideut sanz dute noneles uuer."
Tlie English saying is, " When the pie chatters we shall iiave
strangers."
^ TronTH, to trust, believe. Fii-st-English "treowiajl."
I'J Morrow ("morwe "1, morning.
TO A.D. 1307.]
RELIGION.
59
If then thy eri'and speed no sot
Then wilt thou curse him thcit thou met.
It is the ticemeut of the de\-il
To curse them that thought thee no evil.
Of hansel I can no skill ' also
It is nought to believe thereto,
Methiuketh it is false every dele,"
I believe it not, ne ne'er shall wele. 30
For many have glad hansel at the morrow
And to them ere even com'th mochel sorrow.
And many one have in the day great noy ■■
And yet ere even com'th to them mochel joy.
So may'st thou wit, if thou good can,
That hansel is no belief to man.
Believe not much in no dreams,
For many be naught but glittering gleams.
These clerks say that is vanity.
Such sensible counsel as this comes under the
heail of turning aside from God by making to oneself
idols of the imagination, and putting trust in them.
I add two of Robert of Brunne's illustrative tales.
This is in illustration of the fourth Commandment :
THE FOND FATHER.
Of a man that some time was
I shall you tell a little pas.^
Of his son he was jealous^
And gave him all his Lmd and house,
And all his catel ' in town and tield
That he should keep him well in his eld.
This young man wax fast and was jolife,
His counsel was to take a wife ;
He wedded one and brought her home
'V\^th all the mirth that thereto come : 10
He badde her first loud and still
To serve his father well at 'nis ' will.
Soon afterward, this yonge man
His heart, his thoughte, change began ;
Tendrer he was of wife and child
Than to his father meek or mild.
Of one day he thoughte five.
Long him thought his father alive ;
And everj- day, both the tone and the tother,
Sened him well worse than other. 20
I trow this man, when he gan moan
For thought that he gave so much his sone,
This olde man, was brought so low
That he lav full cold beside a wow.''
' I can no skill, I know no reason ; for the belief in lucfe that comes
with the first coin taken as hansel. A liajisel is that which is ^ven
into the hand, from " hand " and First-Enf?lish " syUan," to ^ve.
Mr. Hensleigh Wedgwood says it does not mean the coin given, but
the hand itself inveii in striking a bargain. This is the root of the
name of the Hanse Towns, a confederation bound by agreement for
common security of trade.
^ Dele, part ; from ** dae'lan," to divide, deal out.
* JToy, hurt. French " nuire," Latin " nocere."
* Pas, a setting forth ; from " pandere," to spread out, as when
.^hieas "ordine singula pandit." Each division of a long poem, as
a spreading forth of a distinct section, was sometimes called a
"Passus."
* Jealous. The French text has "geluz." The word is of the root
of " zeal," and used here in the same sense as in the phrase " jaloux
de lui plaire," anxious to please him.
' Catel, possessions, chattels.
' At his, pronounced " at's." So line 6. in hi.<, " in's."
^ H ow, wall. The spelling in the original is " loghe " and '* woghe."
This olde man ufjon a day
Plained him that he colde lay : —
"Son," he said, "for Goddes love
"Wrie' me with some clothe above."
The son that was the husband
To whom was given all the land, 30
Cleped his son, and bade him take
A sack, of those that he did make,
And bade him turn it twej'fold
And lay it on his father '" for cold.
The child, as he bade him do.
Took a sack and carve 't in two.
His father spake to him yom,"
" See ! \\Tiy hast thou the sack shorn :-"
The child answered him in haste, —
It was through the Holy Ghast,'- — • 40
" This deed have I done for thee.
Good example giv'st thou me
How I shall serve thee in thy eld,
AVTien thou, thyself, may'st not weld.'*
This half sack '■* shiill lie thy father above :
And keep the tother part to thy behove.
Unkindly thou teachest me the goo J :
Of unkind cometh unkind blood."
This example were good to con,
Both to the father and eke to the son. 50
God is not payed, '^ here we find
That the son to the father is not kind.
Among warnings against the seven sins, tinder the
head of Covetousuess comes, in Robert of Brunne's
" Handlyng Synne " —
THE TALE OF PIERS THE USURER.
Saint John the Almoner '*
Saith Piers was an okerer,'"
First-English *' wah." In Piers Plowman, 2£ede promises that she
shaU
" Towre cloystre do maken,
Wowes do whiten, and windowes glaaen."
' Wrie, cover, clothe. First-English " wrigan," to cover or clotne.
"Whence the phrase " to rig out."
1" Father used to be pronoimced rapidly, /a'r; so also "other," o";-,
whence " or."
" Torn, eagerly, anxionsly. First-English " geom," desirous, eager,
anxious.
12 Ghast (First-English " gist "), spirit.
IS Weld, have power, rule. First-English " wealdan."
I* The verse often seems irregular where it is not so. We have to
remember the old ways of contraction and running together of iden-
tical letters, as here : —
" This half sack sh'IUie thy fa'r above :
And keep the to'r part-t-thy behove."
1= Payed, "pacatus," pleased.
>5 St. John the Almoner, to whom this story is ascribed, was a famous
Patriarch of Alexandria. He was bom at Amathonte in the island of
Cyprus, and was made Patriarch A.D. 610 against his will, after the
death of his wife and children. The zeal of his charity and love for
the poor obtained for him the title of "The Almouer." Though his
revenues were very great he lived poorly, and slept on a small pallet
under a wretched blanket. A rich Alexandrian presented him "ith
a good one. The saint slept under it one night, reproached himself
for luxury, and sold it the next day. Tlie rich man bought it. and
presented it again : the saint sold it again. It was bought and given
again, and sold asain ; the saint saying good-humouredly to his friend,
"We shaU see which of us first tires." His exertions for the p-.or
during the famine of A.D. 615 and the plague that foUowed were "1 f
last famous incidents of the Almoner's life. He died at his birth-
place in the year 616.
1" Okerer, usurer ; from First-English " eacan," to eka or increase.
GO
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 130O
10
20
30
Ajui was swithe ' covetous
And a nigan- and avarous,
And jiathci-cd pciico unto store
As okcrers doen aywlioi'c'
Befi'l it SI iijion a day
That poore men sat in the way
And sjiread tlu-ir liatrcn^ on their barm*
Against the sunnc that was warai,
And reckoni'd the eustoni-house caeh one
At which they had good, and at which none ;
MHiere they had good they praised well,
And where they had nought never a dele.'^
As they spake of many wliat
Come Piers forth in that i;atJ
Then said each one that sat and stood,
" Here com'th Piers, that ne'er did good;"
Each one said other janglimd*
They took ne'er good at Piers' hand;
Ne none poor man ne'er shall have,
Coud he never so well crave.
One of them began to say,
" A wager dare I with you lay
That I shall have some good of him.
Be he ne'er so grylP ne grim."
To that wager they granted all,
To give him a gift if so might befal.
This man up stert and took the gate
Till he came to Piers' gate.
As he stood still and bode the qued '"
One come with an ass charged with bread :
That cache breadc Piers had bought,
And to his house should it be brought.
This saw Piers come therewithal.
The poore thought, " Now ask I shall:" —
" I ask thee some gooil, for charity.
Piers, if thy wille be ! "
Piers stood and looked on him,
Felounly, with eyes grim.
He stooped down to seek a stone
But, as hap was, then found he none.
For the stone he took a loaf
And at the poore man it drove.
The poor man hent it up belive"
And was thereof full f erly ''^ blithe.
To his fellows fast he ran
With the loaf, this poore man,
" Lo," ho saide, " what I have !
Of Piers' gift, so God me save ! " —
Nay, they swore by their thrift.
Piers gave never such a gift.
He said, " Ye shall well understand
That I it had at Piers' hand ;
That dare I swear on the halidom.
Here before vou each one."
' StcitM, greatly. First-Euglish " swith," strong, great.
* Nigtin, niggard.
' Aywhorc, everywhere. First-English "cegbwar."
* Hatrcn, clothes. First-Eughsh " haeter," clothing.
* Barm (First-English " heami "), lap.
8 Never a dele, never a bit.
' Gat, road, Icelandic " gata."
^ Jangland, prating, chattering.
* GrylU stem, cruel, hideous, causing fear.
'» Bode the ijiica, waited for the sbvewish or ill-disposed person.
There was First-English "cwead," filth,
" Hcnt it up bclire, snatched it up quickly. First-English " hentan,"
to pursue, seize.
" Fmly, wonderfully.
40
50
60
70
80
Grcatc marvel had they all
That such a chance might him befal.
The thirdc day, thus writ it is,
Piers fell in a great sickness ;
And as he lay in his bed
Him thoughte well tliat he was led
With one that after him was sent
To come unto his Judgement.
Before the Judge was he brought.
To yield account how he had wrought.
Piers stood full sore adrade
And was abashed as maid :
He saw a fiend on the to party '^
Bewraying " him full felonly ;
All it was shewed him before
How lie had Uved since he was bore ;
And namely '* every wicked deed
Sin first he coude himself lead.
Why he them did and for what chesun,"'
Of all behovcth him yield a reason.
On the tother party stood men full bright
That would have saved him at their might,
But they mighte no good find
That might him save or unbind.
The fair men said, " What is to rede,'?
Of him find we no good deed
That God is payed of— but of a loaf
The which Piers at the poor man drove.
Yet gave he it with no good will
But east it after him with ill ;
For Goddes love he gave it not
Ne for almsdecd he it had thought :
Natheless the poore man
Had th<! loaf of Piers than." '«
The fiend had laid in balance
His wicked deeds and liis mischance :
They laid the loaf against his deeds —
That had nought else, they mote needs —
The holy man teUeth us and says
That the loaf made even peise."
Then said these fairc men to Piers,
" If thou be wise, now thou leres-"
How this loaf thee helpeth at need
To till-' thy soul with almcs deed."
Piers of his sleep gan blink
And greatly on his dream gan think,
Sighing with a moaning cheer
As man that was in great were,--
How that he aeoupcd"' was
With fiendes fele^* for his trespas,
And how they would have damned him there
If mercy of Jesus Christ ne were.
" On the to party, on the one side. In line 77 are the angels "on
the tother party." ^* L't'ici-rtiiui;/, accusing.
•5 NiDudii, especially. '^ Chcsnn, motive. Norman-French.
1' Rede, counsel. First-English " rfe'd." ^^ Tlian, then.
^' Pcise, weight, balance. French " peser," to weigh.
2" Tltou Urcs, you learn, take the lessou home.
-' Till, prop up. The root "til" meaning fit or good in Teutonic
languiiges, the verb from it meaus to make tit or good. To till the
soil is to make it fit or good for fruit-bearing. To till the soul is to
make it fit to stand in the day of trial. The same root yields a pro-
vincial use of the word " tQl" as " to prep up," m.ake fit to stand; and
that is the sense here.
22 Were, uncertainty, confusion.
23 jdcouped, inculpated, accused. 24 Pclr, many.
90
100
TO A.D. 1307.]
RELIGION.
61
A 11 this in his heart he cast,
And to himself he spake at last : 110
" That for a loaf in evil ■n'ill
Halp me in so great peril,
Muche would it help at need
With good -niU do abnes deed."
From that time then wex Piers
A man of so faire maneres
That no man might in him find
Bui to the poor both meek and kind,
A milder man ne might not be,
JNe to the poor more of alms free, 120
And ruefiil of heart also he was
That mayst thou here learn in this pas.
And said it was an cv-il sign
And that himself was not digne*
For to be in his prayer,
Therefore nold^ he the kii-tle wear.
AVhen he hadde full long grete
And a party began thereof lete, '
For* commonly after weep
Falle men soone on sleep, —
As Piers lay in his sleeping
Him thought a faire swevening.'
Him thought he was in heaven light,
And of God he had a sight,
Sitting in his kirtle clad
That the poor man of him had,
And spake to him full mildcly :
150
Lost Souls.
From a Fresco of the Day o) Judriment, discOKfed in 1804 over the great arch separating nave and chancel in the Chapel of Bohi Crosf:.
6tratJord-on-Avon. Engraved in TlLomas Sharp's " Covcntrn Miisterics."
" Why weepest thou and art soiTy ?
Lo, Piers," he said, ■' this is thy clothe.
For he sold it were thou wroth ?
Know it well, if that thou can, —
For me thou gave it the poor man.
That thou gave him in charity
Everydcal thou gave it me."
Piers of sleepe out abraid'"
And thought great wonder and sethen " said,
" Blessed be alle poorc men.
For God Almighty loveth them !
And well is them that poor are here.
They are with God both Uef and dear !
And I shall fonde'- both night and day
To be poor, if that I may."
Piers mot upon a day
A poor man by the way
As naked as he was bore
That in the sea had alle lore.'
He came to Piers where he stood
And asked him some of his good.
Somewhat of his clothing
For the love of Heaven's king. 130
Piers was of rueful heart,
He took his kirtle off, as smart.
And did it on the man above
And bade him wear it for his love.
The man it took and was full blithe ;
He yede- and solde it as swithe.'
Piers stood and did behold
How the man the kirtle sold.
And was therewith ferly wroth.
That he sold so soon his clothe ; HO
He might no longer for sorrow stand.
But yede home full sore greetand,*
• Lore, lost. 2 Tedc. went.
^ As sicitue, at once ; as soon as be could.
* Grcctand, weeping
160
170
! 5 Kjnc, worthy. ° Nold. would not.
7 Began in some degree to slacken or cease from it.
s For, because.
s Smvcnimj I Fil-st-English " swefen " ) , dream.
i« Out ahraid, started out. So after Phar.aoh's di-eam in the metrical
story of Genesis and Exodus, " The king abraid and woe in thoft."
Icelandic "brestha," to move swiftly. " SMcn, afterwards.
12 Fonde, seek. First-Ent'lish " faudlan," to try to find.
6-:
CASSELL'S LIBRAKY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[i.u. 1300
Hastily liu tuok his catel
Ana ^ave it lu poor muu euuli dual.
Piers callud to him liis ckik,
Th;it was liis notary ;.nd badu him hark,
"1 shall thto show a privity,
A thins that thou slialt do to mu,
I will that thou no man it tell.
My body 1 take ' thee here to atiU.
To some man as in bondage,
To live in povert and in servage.
But - thou do this, I will be wroth,
And thou and thine shall be me loth.^
If thou do it, I shall thee give
Ten pound of gold, well with to live.
Those ten pound I take thee here,
And me to sell in bond manere.
I ne reeke unto whom.
But only he have the C'lu'istendoni.
The ransom thou shalt for me take.
Therefore thou shalt siekerness make *
For to give it blithely and well
To poore men every deal.
And withhold thereof no thing
The mountenance of a farthing."
His elerk was woe to do that deed,
But only for menace and for diead,
For dread Piers made liim it do,
And did him plight his troth thereto.
When his elerk had made his oath
Piers did on him a foul cloth,
"Unto a churche both they yede-^
For to fulfil his will indeed.
When that they to the churche come,
" Lord," thoughte the clerk, " now whom
Might I find this cache sele''
To whom I might sell Piers well."
The clerk looked everywhere
And at the laste he knew where.
A rich man that ere had be
Special knowledge ever betwe,
But through mischance at a cas
AH his good y-lore was .
" Yole," thus that man hight.
And knew the clerk well by sight.
They spake of old acquaintance
And Yole told him of his chance.
"Yea," said the clerk, " I rede' thou buy
A man to do thy marchaundye.
That thou mayst hold in servage
To restore well thy damage."
Then said Y'ole, ' ' In such chaffare
Would I fain my silver ware." "
The clerke said, •' Lo ! one here
A true man and a debonere
That will serve thee to pay'
Peynible '" all that he may.
180
190
200
210
22(1
I Takti (iu the sense of betake), coutide, entrust.
* But, unless. ^ Loth, liuteful.
* Siekerness make. Kive your assurance. ^ Yede. went.
* SeU, tinie, season. Fii*st-Eui?lisU "SEel," good oi>portumty.
' Rede, advise.
® Ware, lay out in bargaining. From First-English •' webt," a cau-
tion, agreement, warranty.
' To jiiiii, to your satisfaction. — Debonere (French " debonnaire "), of
good manners, easy, kind.
*■* Feynibie (French "peuible"), taking pains.
Piers shalt thou call his name.
For him shalt thou have much frame ; " 230
He is a man fuU gracious
Good to win unto thine house,
And God shall give thee his blessing
And foison'- hi alle thing."
The clerk gave all his ransoun
To the poor men of the town,
Plenerly " all that he took,
Withheld he not a farthing nook.
The Emperor sent his messengers
All about for to seek Piers, 240
But they ne mighte never hear
Of rich Piers the toUere,"
In what steade he was nome '*
Nor whitherward he was become ;
Nor the clerk woidd tell to none
WTiitherward that Piers was gone.
Now is Piers become bryche ">
That ere was both stout and rich.
All that ever any man him do bade
Piers did it with hearte glad, 250
He wex " so mild and so meek
A milder man thurt " no man seek,
For he meeked himself o'er skill '"
Pots and dishes for to swill ;
To great penance he gan him take.
And muche for to fast and wake ;
And much he loved tholniodness'^"
To rich, to poor, to more, to less.
Of aUe men he would have dout,'-'
And to their bidding meekly lout ;-■' 260
Would they bid him sit or stand
Ever he woulde be bowand.
And, for he hare him so meek and soft,
Shrewes misdid him-^ full oft
And held him folted or wood,-*
For he was so nuld of mood.
And they that were his felaws
Missaid him most in theire saws ;
And all he suffered theu' upbraid
And never naught against them s;iid. 270
Y'ole, his lord, well understood
That all his grace and all his goou
Came for the love of Piers
That was so holy maneres.
And when he wist of his oounty
He called Piers in privity.
" Piers," he said, " thou were worthy
For to be worshipped more than I,
For thou ail well with Jesu,
He sheweth for thee great virtu, 280
1* Frame, profit, advantage. First-English ** freme," profit, gain.
12 Foison, abundance. '3 pienerbj, fully.
1* Tollere, farmer of public tolls The " publican " of the New
Testament. '= To what place he had taken himself.
*^ Bryche, a servant. First-English " biyce," useful, serviceable.
1' T^ei, ffrew. First-English " weasan. "
18 niurt. needed. First-Englisli " theartiau," to need.
IS Skill, knowledge.
■•^ Tdoliiiodiicss, long-s«ifering. First-English " tholiaii." to endure;
" mod," mood or temper. -i Dout, fear. French " douter."
22 Loot. bow. First-English "lilutau."
2* Misdid him, misbehaved to him.
2* Folted or wood, foolish or mau.
TO A.r. 1350.]
RELIGION.
63
Therefore I shall make thee free :
I win that my fellow thou he."
Thereto Piers granted not
To he freeman as he hesought,
He wolde he as he was ore, '
In that servage for evermore ;
He thanked the lord mildely
For his greate courtesy.
Sithen Jesu, through his might,
Shewed him to Piers sight, 290
For to be stalworth in his fonding -
And to him to have longing :
" Be not sorrowful to do penance,
I am with thee in every chance ;
Piers, I have mind of thee, —
Lo here the kirtle that thou gave for me :
Therefore grace 1 shall thee send.
In all goodness well to end."
Befel that serjeaunts and squiers
That were wont to serve Piers 300
Went in pilgrimage, as in case,^
To that countiy where Piers was.
Yole full fair gan them call
And prayed them home to his hall ;
Piers was there, that eachc sele,''
And, ever}' one, he knew them wele.
All he served them as a knave,
That was wont their service to have.
But Piers not yet they knew.
For penance changed was his hue. 310
Not forthe they beheld him fast"
And often to him their eyes they cast,
And saide, " He that standeth here
Is like to Piers toUere."
He hid his %nsage all that he might
Out of knowledge of their sight ;
Natheless they beheld him more
And knew him well, all that were thore.
And said, " YoIc, is yon thy page ■"
A rich man is in thy servage ! 320
The Emperor, both far and near,
Hath do him seek *■ that we find here."
Piers listened and heard them speaking
And that they had of him knowing ;
And privily away he name '
Till he to the porter came.
The porter had his speeche lore,"
And hearing also, since he was bore ;
But through the crace of sweet Jesu
Was shewed for Piers fair \Trtli. 330
Piers said, " Let me forth go ! "
The porter spake, and saide, " Yo." '
He that was deaf and dvimb also
Spake, when Piers spake him to.
Piers out at the gate went
And thither vede where Grod him .sent.
* Ore, ere, before.
^ Fondimi, endeavour. From " fandian," to try to tind.
3 In case, by chance.
* That each,' fde, jnst tit that time. (See line 207.)
Nevertheless they looked fixedly at him.
*"■ De him iu'ek. caused him to be souerht.
" Nam*, took himself . First-English "niman," to take. (See line
243.)
' Lore, lost. 9 To, foa. First -English " irea."
The porter yede up to the hall,
And this merveil told them all,
How the squier of the kitchen.
Piers, that had woned'" here in.
He asked leave, right now late,''
And went forth out at the gate.
" I rede you all, give good tent '-
Whitherward that Piers is went.
With Jesu Chiist he is prive.
And that is shewed well on me :
For what time he to me spake
Out of his mouth me thoughte break
A flame of fire, bright and clear,
The flame made me both speak and hear ;
Speak and hear, now both I may.
Blessed be God and Piers to-day."
The lord and the guestes aU,
One and other that were in hall.
Had merveil that it was so.
That he might such miracle do.
Then as swithe Piers the}' sought.
But all their seeking was for nought ;
Never Piers they ne found
Night nor day, in ne stound.''''
For he that took Enoch and Ely
He took Piers, through his mercy.
To rest withouten end to lede.
For his meekness and his good deed.
340
3.50
360
Robei-t of Brunnne, in one part of hi.s poem,
reproduced objections to the miracle play.s, excejrt
when acted in church by the clergy at Easter and
Christma.s. But the taste for them was spreading,
and in the fourteenth century they attained to a
development in tliis country, sti-ongly illustrative of
the national desire to bring the Bible ^oiy and what
were held to be the essentials of its teaching liome to
all. We have seen the early form of such jilays in
the "Raising of Lazarus." That was a single play,
not one of a series, and was acted by the persons
employed usually in the services of the Church. An
early sequence of three plays from the Bible story,
in a MS. of the twelfth century, was found in the
Library of Tours. The first play set forth tlie Fall of
Adam and Eve ; after which, said the stage directions,
" devils shall take them, and put them into hell, and
they shaU make a great smoke to rise in it, and cry
aloud." The second play was of the death of Abel,
after which, "devils coming, Cain is led to hell,
being often struck, but they shall take Abel more
mildly ; then the Prophets shaU be ready each in
a convenient place of concealment." The tlm-d play
consisted in theii- coming forward to prophesy of
Christ, and when each had prophesied, devils took
him also into hell. This sequence was evidently
meant a,s a short stunmary from the Old Testament,
showing man's need of Christ through the Fall, and
the looking of the old world to his coming. The hell
in such plays was always represented by the type of
the whale's open jaws. A hell-mouth of painted
'" Woned, dvrelt. First-English " wunian," to dwell,
u Late, lately. '^ Tmt, heed.
1' Stound, space of time. First-English "stund;
* Stnnde." .in hour.
German
64
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1328
puite-board, with a fire lighted behind the lower Jaw,
so that it might seem to breathe fianie, was a common
property of the niiraele play; and through this mouth
tliose wlio played tlie devil's parts would, by passing
behind it, have their apparent entrances and exits.
Hell Moctb.
From an old German Print copied m Thomas Sharp's '
the Coventry Mysteyies."
Dissertation on
The acting was at first within the church, in ser-
vice time. The crowds attracted became greater
than the church would hold. The acting was then
specially arranged on a stage, built outside the church
door, so that a large audience might be assembled in
the sipiare in front. There were, for representation
of the Fall, an u])per stage representing heaven, ap-
proached by inhabitants of heaven from within the
church ; below that a stage representing Pai'adise on
earth ; anil below that an enclosed open space, within
whicii there was clanking of chains, and a burning
of wet straw to produce smoke. A door from this
enabled demons to come out and, as they were in-
structed to do, mix sometimes among the audience.
This made them too familiar ; and they seem really
to have sometimes degenerated in France into comic
characters. In England there was usually but one
stage, with hell-mouth in a corner of it, and demons
only apjieared when they were to do demons' work.
Very remarkable also was, in this country, the de-
velopment of sequences of plays, and these were acted
after the year 1328. or thereabout, in the language
of the people. In 1264, Pope Urban IV. founded
the feast of Corpus Christi, in honour of the conse-
crated Host. The institution was confirmed hj
Clement IV., in the year 1311. The grand proces-
sion of this day was the only one of the year in
wjiich laity and clergy marched together. The guilds
were o>it, not only carrying pictures, liut walking
in procession as living representatives of the saints
and apostles. Then the guilds dined at their halls,
and it has been suggested that the acting of Scrip-
ture incidents before them by the characters they
had exhibited may have led to what followed.
This was the combination of guilds, re]5resenting
the religious laity of England, to produce at the
festival of Corpus Christi, or at Whitsuntide, or on
other fit occasions, complete representations of the
leading facts in Bible History from the Creation
to the Day of Judgment. By dividing the several
parts of the great history among themselves, and
taking the requisite time — three or more successii'e
days — they })roduced, in ftict, before the multitude
a Living Biljle in the streets. A wide difliisiou
of this very thorough use of the miracle play, by
clergy and laity, as a me;uis of religious instruction,
was characteristic of English religious feeling, a.
good monk would write a sequence of two or three
dozen plays, which might be acted by the guilds of
any town in whicli they chose to combine for the
purpose. Each guild would then take a play for
its own, provide properties, train actors, and under-
take to jiut out corporate strength for its etiicient
annual j)erformance in the streets of the town.
Corpus Christi day was the first Thursday after
Trinity, and as Trinity Sunday is eight weeks after
Easter, Cor])us Christi was, like Whitsuntide, a
summer holiday time, convenient for out-of-door
[lerformances. It is said that Randal Higgenet, or
Ralph Higden, a monk of Chester Abbey, having
obtained leave of the Pope to put Latin aside, and
write these plays in English, the first English series
— which was of twenty-four plays — was acted at
Chester, in the year 1327 or 1328, the performance
occupying tln-ee days. The Tanners first set forth
the Fall of Lucifer ; then came the Drapers with the
Creation and Fall and the Death of Abel ; then the
Water-carriers and Drawers of Dee represented the
pageant of Noah's Flood and the Ark. Then the
histories of Lot and Abraham were played by the
guilds of the Barbers and Waxchandlers. Such
sequences of Scripture stories are known to have
been acted at Chester, Coventry, Wakefield, York,
Newcastle, Lancaster, Preston, Kendal, Wymond-
ham, Dublin, and other places. Three whole sets
have come down to us and form part of our literatvni ;
— the Chester sei-ies of twenty-four plays ; a series ot
forty-two said to have been acted at C'oventry (these
add to the Scripture story legenilary incidents in the
life of the Virgin); and the Wakefield Mysteries, a
series of thirty-two, known also as the Towneley
Mysteries, because the MS. containing them belonged
to the Towneley family in Lancashire. The Wake-
field series is much the best. The several plays are
not plays in the sense in which we use the word in
the modern drama, and though we ai'e often told that
it did,' the modern drama most certainly did not arise
' This mistake is peculiar to English text-hooks, and to foreiir"
writers wbose kuowleclge of our literature is chiefly ilerived from
them. It originated in a tew lines of Warton's " History of English
Poetry " which threw out the passin;? suggestion of a neat little
theory ot the development of the Miracle Play into the Morality, and
of the Morality into the true dr.ania. Mr. Collier, in his valuable
"History of English Dramatic Poetry," developed Warton's specula-
'I
TO A.D. liOJ/
EELIGION.
65
out of the miracle play. It arose iii the Universities
;iuil among men bred as scholars, who had long been
ill the habit of acting plays of Seneca, Terence, or
Plautus, or Latin plays of their own written upon
the classical models. When it began to occur to
them to -\\Tite such plays in English instead of
Latin, the first English dramas were produced. The
Italian drama began a little before the English in
exactly the same way, and the mii-acle plays had
nothing whatever to do ■s\-ith the matter in one
comitry or another. Miracle plays went through no
transition stages after the manner of the caterpillars
till they were transformed to something altogether
different. They survived unchanged long after they
had passed their prime ; indeed, till the time of the
youth of Shakespeare ; and they disappeared then
altogether because the use for them had passed away.
The Bible in their own tongue had been given to the
people. Inasmuch as these sequences of incidents
from Scripture, always chosen for their- bearing upon
cardinal points of Christian faith, imposed a more
continued strain on powers of serious attention than
it would be possible to maintain, places of relaxation
were provided by the interpolation of jest, and this
was drawn always in England from incidents not
in themselves Scriptural. Noah would be provided
with an obstinate wife to provide comic business,
and so forth. Between the Old Testament and New
Testament series there was an Interlude, the Shep-
herd's Play, that led up to the birth of Christ. The
shepherds supposed to be keeping then- flocks at
Bethlehem were presented as common shephei-ds
talking, jesting, wrestling, one of them pla3dng
especially the part of the country clown, till the song
of the angels was heard. At first they mimicked
it rudely, afterwards they became impressed, they
were led to the infant Christ in the manger, knelt,
offered their rustic gifts, and arose prophets. There
is reason to believe that this Shepherd's Play had
its independent origin in rustic sports outside a
town, arranged by the clergy, who concealed a choir
ari-ayed as angels to raise the Gloria in Excelds at
the jjroper time, and then lead the rude actors
and their audience into the lighted church. Here
there had been set up a representation of the
new-born Sa\-iour; and as the shepherds knelt by
the manger the organ pealed, the Gloria resounded
through the church, and the people, realising the
occasion, had their hearts stin-ed with emotion. The
Magi too, in Eastern robes, would ride into the
town and bring their offerings. So also when Easter
was at hand, persons in Oriental dress entered the
market-place selling sjiices, spices to be bought for
the anointment of the Lord. It happens that in the
Wakefield series there are two Shepherd's Plays jiro-
vided, either of which might be chosen by the guilds
who acted the whole series. One of these furnishes
the usual dialogue and sport, but the other happens
to develope a short farcical stoiy which accidentally
fulfils the requisite conditions, and so becomes our
tion ; treating the fancy as a fact ; and English compilers, payin? ju5t
respect to the authority of so good a student of dramatic literature.
have followed one another in the steady reproduction of a very great
miitalse.
73
eai-Uest known piece of acted drama. It is so by
accident ; it was not imitated or developed, and has
no relation to the origin of the true drama. Still,
out of a form of literature that has many points
in common with the drama, something which in a
rude way fulfilled all its conditions waa by chance
produced. It will be, therefore, the fir.st piece in
the volume of this Library which has been planned
to illustrate the coui-se of our English Dramatic
Literature.
At Coventiy there are .still preserved account-
books of the guilds, which show in what way money
was paid for the production of the miracle plays.
The reheai-sals, the fees to actors, the provision or
repaii- of stage appointments, are so recorded, that
it is not difficult to construct from the entries a
somewhat full detail of the method of procedm-e.
This was done by Mr. Thomas Sharp when he pub-
lished in 1825 by jirivate subscription his valuable
" Dissertation on the Pageants or Dramatic Mysteries
anciently performed at Coventry by the 'Trading
Companies of that City ; chiefly with reference to
the Vehicles, Characters, and Dresses of the Actors."
The entries of expenses for the Drapers' Pageant of
Doomsday, include, among machinery, hell-mouth
and the keeping of the fire at it, " an earthquake "
and '■ barrel for the same," " three worlds, painted,"
and " a link to set the world on fire." Among
dresses are the black and white suits for souls lost
and saved, " gold skins " for the angels, and three
pounds of hah" for the demon's coat and hose ; also a
" Hat for the Pharisee." Among payments to actors
are sixteenpence to " Worms of Conscience," three
shillings to two demons, and only two shillings to
four angels ; the demons being better paid, because
they had more stage business to go through efliciently.
One entry is of a payment of two shillings for a
demon's face, and another of ten shillings " for
making the ij devells facys." There are frequent
entries for souls' coats. One entry is " payd to Crowe
for makyng of iij worldys, ij*"," and another is of
fivepence " for settyng tlie world of fyer." These
are enti'ies of the sixteenth century, into which the
practice of acting these plays at Coventry was con-
tinued. They were acted at Chester as late as 1577,
and at Coventry as late as 1580. Let us take from
the Wakefield series the Mystery Play of
ABRAHAM.
Abraham. Adonay,' thou God veray,^
Thou hear us when we to thee call !
As thou art he that host may.
Thou art most succour and help of all !
Mightful Lord ! to thee I pray.
Let once the oil of mercy fall !
Shall I ne'er' ahide that day P
Truly yet I hope I shall.
Mercy, Lord omnipotent !
Long since He this world has wrought :
Whither are all our elders went ?
' Adonay. The Hebrew AAoi\ai, for Lord, was used to avoid
repetition of the sacred name, Jehovah.
2 Vcray (French " vrai "), true : so '* very God of very God."
66
CASSELL'S LIBEARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1328
This muses inickle in my thought.
From Adam unto Eve assent,'
Eat of that apple spared he nought,
For all the wisdom that he ment-
FuU dear that bargain has he bought
From paradise that bade him gang;
He went mourning with simple cheer,
And after lived he here full lang,
Jlore than three hundred year,
In sorrow and in travail Strang ;
And every day he was in were,^
His children angered him among.
Cain slew Abel was him full dear.
Sithen Noe, that was true and good,
He and his ehildien three.
Was saved when all was flood ;
That was a wonder thing to see.
And Lot from Sodom when he yede.
Three cities brent yet escaped he.
Thus, for they menged my Lord's mede,
He vengcd sin through his pauste.*
When I think of our elders all,
And of the marvels that has been,
No gladness in my heart may fall,
Jly comfort goes away full clean.
Lord, when shall dede * make me his thrall ?
An hundred years, certcs,*" have I seen :
JIa fay ! soon — I hope he shall.
For it weri! right high time, I ween.
Yet Adam is to helle gone.
And there has ligcn many a day ;
And all our elders everyehon.
They are gone the same way ;
Unto ' God will hear their moan.
Now help. Lord, Adonay !
For, certes, I can no better wone,^
And there is none that better may.
Dots. I will help Adam and his kind,
flight I love and hiwtc ' find ;
Would they to me be true, and bUn '"
Of their pride and of theu' sin :
ily servant I will found and frast,"
Abraham, if he be trast.'-
On certain wise I will him prove
\i he to me be true of love.
Abraham ! Abraham I
Abraham. AVho is that ? ware, let me see,
I heard one neven '-^ my name.
Dens. It is I, take tent '■* to me
That foi-med thy father Adam,
And everything in it '^ degree.
' From the time when Adam assented to Eve.
2 Mcnt, Lad iu mind.
s 111 m'.i, iu strife and confusion. See line 104 of " Piers the
Usurer," page 60, Note 22. « Pamti, power (" potestas").
^ Dedc, death. « Certes, surely ; pronounced as one syllable.
~ Vnlo, until. « I can »io better u-oiic, I know no better stay.
' tciriJ. loyalty. lo Bliii, cease.
n found and frast, prove and ti-y. Found (First-English " fandian "),
to ti-y, tempt, prove. Frast (Icehindic " freista"), to tempt, make
trial of. 12 Trast, trasty.
» J^eoeii, name. First-English " nemnan ; " Icelandic " nefna" and
"nemna."
'* Take tent, take heed.
« II for its, which was not used till the time of Elizabeth.
Alirahaiii. To hear thy will ready 1 am,
And to fulfil whate'er it be.
Beus. Of mercy have I heard thy cry,
Thy devout prayers have me bun."
If thou me love, look that thou hie
Unto the land of Vision ;
And the third day be there bid I
And take with thee Isaac, thy son,
As a beast to sacrify :
To slay him look thou not shun,
And bren '? him there to thine offerand.
Abrahaiit. Ah, loved be thou. Lord in thi'one !
Hold o'er me, Lord, thy holy hand ;
For certes thy bidding shall be done.
Blessed be that Lord in every land
Would visit his servant thus so soyn.'*
Fain would I this thing ordand.
For it perfects nought to hoyne " ;
This commandment -" must I needs fulfil
If that my heart wax heavy as lead.
Should I offend my Lordcs will 'i
Nay, yet were I liever my child were dead !
Whatso he bids me, good or ill,
That shall be done in every stede ;
Both wife and child, if ho bid spill,^'
I will not do against his rede.
Wist Isaac," whereso he were,
He would be abashed now.
How that he is in dangere.
Isaac, son, where art thou ?
Isaac. All ready, father ; lo me here ;
Now was I coming unto you.
I love you mickle, father dear.
Abraham. And docs thou so ? I would wit how
Loves thou me, son, as thou has said.
Isaac. Yea, father, with aU mine heart ;
Jlore than all that ever was made.
God hold me long your life in quart I -■'
Abraham. Now, who would not be glad that had
A child so loving as thou art ?
Thy lovely cheer makes my heart glad,
And many a time so has it gart."^
Go home, son, come soon again.
And tell thy mother I come full fast ;
\_Hic trnnsiet Isaac a patre,^
So now, God thee save and sajTie ! ^^
Now well is me that he is past.
Alone, right here in this plain.
Might I speak to mine heart brast.=?
I would that all were well, full fain,
But it must needs be done at last.
's Bun, made ready. 17 Bren. bum. is Soijii, soon. \
" Hoi,ne, think ansiously, lament. First-English " hogian."
'"> Comnmnduitnt. pronounced " c'mmandmeut," in two syllables.
The B in " heavy " unites, in the next line, with the a of " as."
»J Sj.ai, destroy. First-English " spilian," to spoil, destroy, kill.
" Wist Isaac, if Isaac knew.
=3 In ,iwrt, in safe keeping. First-English " cweart-era," a place
for safe keeping, guai-d-house, prison.
2* Gart, made.
^'' Here Isaac shall pass away from his father.
=« Sa«iie, bless. First-English " segnian " and " seniau," to bless.
'• Till my heart broke.
TO A.D. 140 J. J
RELIGION.
67
And it is good that I be ware ;
To be avised full good it were.
The land of Vision is full far,
The third day end must I be there.
Mine ass shall with us, if it thar,'
To bear our harness less and more,
For my son may be slain no nar,^
A sword must with us yet therefore.
And I shall found - to make me j-are.*
This night will I begin my way.
Though Isaac be ne'er so fair,
And mine own son, the sooth to say,
And though he be mine righte heir.
And aU should wield after my day,
Goddes bidding shall I not spare :
Should I that gainstand I-" We ! ■'' nay , my fay ! Isaac!
Isaac. Sir !
Abraham. Look thou be boun ; ^
For certain, son, thyself and I,
We two must now wend forth of town,
In far country to sacrify.
For certain skillis'^ and encheson;'
Take wood and fire with thee, in hy,'
By hills and dales, both up and down,
Son, thou shall ride and I will go by.
Look thou miss nought that thou should need,
Do make thee ready, my darling !
Isaac. I am ready to do this deed.
And ever to fulfil your bidding.
Abraham. My dear son, look thou have no drede,
We shall come home with great lo\'ing ;
Both to and fro I shall us lead,
Come now, son, in my blessing.
Ye two here with this ass abide.
For Isaac and I will to yond hill.
It is so high we may not ride.
Therefore ye two shall abide here stiU.
Primus Piier.^" Sir, ye owe not to be denied ;
We are ready your bidding to fulfil.
Secundus Puer. ^\^latsoever to us betide
To do your bidding ay we will.
Abraham. God's blessing have you both in fere ; "
I shall not tarrj- long you fro.'-
PrimusPuer. Sir, we shall abide you here.
Out of this stede '^ shall we not go.
Abraham. Childre, ye are ay to me full dear,
I pray God keep ever fro woe.
Secundus Puer. We will do, sir, as ye us lere.'*
^ If it fhar, if need is. First-English " thearfian," Icelandic
"tharfa," to need.
* No nar, no nearer than the place wliich is a three days' journey
distant.
5 Found, try. ♦ Tare, ready. ^ ^^f an exclamation.
* BoMn, ready. Icelandic "biia," to make ready.
' SkilXis, reasons.
* flncheson, occasion or cause. Norman-French " chaison."
^ In hy, in haste. First-Enfi:lisli " hi^n." to hie or make haste.
'° The journey just proposed is supposed to have been taken when
Abraham and Isaac leave with their attendants the " First Boy " and
" Second Boy," the ass upon which Isaac rode, while Abraham walked
beside his darling.
" 7n /ere, together. '^ Fro, from. '^ Stede, place.
'* Lere, teach. There is a touch of pathos here, drawn not only
from the love of Abraham towards the son whom his faith causes bim
to sacriiice, but from his tenderness towards the boys not his whom
he prays that God may ever keep from woe. When Shakespeare's
Bmtus, with his soul wrong by the death of Portia and a great
duty before him, is made grand throughout the latter part of the play
of "Julius Cfiesar," with indication of suppressed emotion, one of its
Abraham. Isaac, now are we but we two,
We must go a full good pace.
For it is farther than I wend ; '^
We shall make mirth and great solace.
By this thing be brought to end.
Lo, my son, here is the place.
Isaac. Wood and fire are in my hend ;
Tell me now, if ye have space.
Where is the beast that should be breud r
Abraham. Now, son, I may no longer layn,'^
Such will is into mine heart went ;
Thou was ever tome full baj-n '"
Ever to fuliU mine intent.
But certainly thou must be slain,
And it may be as I have ment.
Isaac. I am heavy and nothing fain,
Thus hastily that shall be shent.
Abraham. Isaac !
Isaac. Sir ?
Abraham. Come hither bid I ;
Thou shall be dead whatsoever betide.
Isaac. Ah, father, mercy 1 mercy I
Abraham. That I say, may not be denied ;
Take thy dede " therefore meekly.
Isaac. Ah, good sir, abide ;
Father !
Abraham. '\Miat, son ':
Isaac. To do your will I am ready.
Wheresoever ye go or ride.
If I may ought overtake your will,
Syn I have trespas.sed I would be bet."
Abraham. Isaac I
Isaac. What, sir 'r
Abraham. Good son, be still.
Isaac. Father !
Abraham. ^\Tiat, son ?
Isaac. Think on thy get ;™
Wbat have I done ?
Abraham. Truly, none ill.
Isaac. And shall be slain ?
Abraham. So have I bet.-'
Isaac. Sir, what may help ?
Abraham. Certes, no skill.
Isaac. I ask mercy.
Abraham. That may not let.
Isaac. When I am dead, and closed in clay.
Who shall then be your son ?
Abraham. Ah, Lord, that I should abide this day!
Isaac. Sir, who shall do that I was won !---
Abraham. Speak no such words, son, I thee pray.
signs is his womanly tenderness towards the boy who waits upon him
in his tent. Abraham's tender words to the two lads whom he leaves
with the ass while, with heroic faith in the word of God, however
hard it may be to him, he is prepared to offer his beloved son as
sacrifice, have a touch in them of the finest human truth.
'5 Wend, thought, weened. First-English " wffi'nan," to suppose.
ifi Layn, deceive. First-English "leogan."
Icelandic " beini," help.
Compare Dunbar's *' Lament for the Makars,"
' Shorter Poems :" —
Good Master "Walter Kennedy
In point of deid lies verily."
Bay», helpfuL
18 Dede, death,
line 89, page 112 of '
" Bef, beaten.
^ Thy get, thy child, thy begotten.
21 Hef, promised. First-English " hatan," to command, ordain,
promise.
^ Won, wont. First-English " wuua," a custom; " wuniau," to
dwell, to be accustomed.
68
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1328
Isaac. Shall yo me slo ? '
Abraham. I trow I mou : —
Lie still, I smite.
Isaac. Sir, let me say.
Abraham. Now, my dear child, thou may not
shon.
Isaac. The shining of your bright hlade
It gars me quake for ford to dcc.-
Abraham. Therefore gi-oflynges* thou shall be
laid,
Then when I strike thou shall not see.
Isaac. Wliat have I done, father 'i wliat have I
said ?
Abraham. Truly, nokyns'' ill to mo.
Isaac. Ard thus guiltle.ss shall be arayde.
Abraham. Now, good son, let such words be.
Isaac. I love you ay.
Abraham. So do I thee.
Isaac. Father !
Abraham. Wliat, son ?
Isaac. Let now be seyn '
For my mother love.
Abraham. Let be, let be !
It will not help that thou would meyn ;"
But lie still till I come to thee,
I miss a little thing I ween.
lie speaks so ruefully to me
That water shoots in both mine een,
I were lievcr than all worldly win,
That I had fou him once unkind,
But no default I found him in ;
I would be dead for him or pined,'
To slo him thus I think great sin,
So rueful words I with him iind ;
I am full wo that we should twyn,'
For lie will never out of my mind.
Wliat shall F to his mother say ?
For where he is, ty to will she spyr ; '
If I tell her, " Run away,"
Her answer is belifo '" — " Nay, sir ! "
And I am feared her for to flay,"
I no wot what I shall say till her.'-
He hes full still there as he lay.
For to I come " dare he not stir.
Dciis. Angel hie with all thy main.
To Abraham thou shall bo sent :
Say, Isaac shall not be slain,
lie shall live and not be brent.
My bidding stands he not again,
Go, put him out of his intent :
Bid him go home again,
I kmow well how he ment.
- Forjerd to dee, for fear to die.
flat with the fuce to the ground. Icelandic
' Slo, slay.
' Gro/lyiujc.s, lyinj
"Bmfl."
• Nokyns, of no kind. There was also "alkyn" and "alkyns," of
every kind. Lower down also " thiskyn," of this kind.
' Seyn, seen. Let your love for my mother now be seen.
« Meyn, complain. 7 pi„cd, put to pain.
» Twyn, be parted.
..LT"'" '"'" *' ■'*■"■• 1"''^'''.v will she ask. Tile and tit (Icelandic
titta and "titf), frequent. Sj.vr (First-English "spirian"), to
search out, inquire, i.e., follow the spiir, spoor, or track
r.« her. to her. la To I come, till I come.
Amjcliis. Gladly, Lord, I am ready.
Thy bidding shall be magnified ;
I shall me speed full hastily.
Thee to obey at every tide ; '■*
Thy will. Thy name, to glorify,
Over all this world so wide.
And to Thy servant now in hy.
Good, true, Abraham, will I glide.
Abraham. But might I yet of weeping cease,
Till I had done this sacrifice !
It must needs be, withouten lesse,'*
Though all I carp on thiskyn -wise,
The more my sorrow it will increase ;
When I look to him I gi-yse ; '^
I wiU run on a res,''
And slo him here, right as he lies.
Angelas. Abraham ! Abraham !
Abraham. Who is there now 'i
Ware, let thee go.
Angclus. Stand up, now, stand ;
Thy good will come I to allow.
Therefore I bid thee hold thy hand.
Abraham. Say, who bade so ? any but thou ':
Angclus. Yea, God ; and sends this beast to thine
oft'erand.
Abraham. I speak with God later, I tiow,
And doing he me command.
Aiigeliis. He has perceived thy meekness
And thy goodwill also, iwis ;
He will thou do thy son no distress.
For he has grant to thee his bliss.
Abraham. But wot thou well that it is
As thou has said ?
Aiiffi/iis. I say thee yis.
Abraham. I thank Thee, Lord, well of goodness,
That all thus has i-eleased me this 1
To speak with thee have I no space
With my dear son till I have sjioken ;
My good son, thou shall have grace,
On thee now will I not be wroken,
Kise up now, with thy f rely '' face.
Isaac. Sir, shall I live ?
Abraham. Yea, this to token.
[Et osculalur <■«)«."
Son, thou has scaped a full hard grace,
Thou should have been both brent and broken.
Isaac. But, father, shall I not be slain?
Abraham. No, certes, son.
Isaac. Then am I glad ;
Good sir, put up your sword again.
Abraham. Nay, hardly, son, be thou not adrad.
Isaac. Is all forgeyn ?
Abraham. Yea, son, certain.
Isaac. For ferd, sir, was I near hand mad.
While in this way the English peoi)le, forbidden to
hear the whole Bible read to them in their native
tongue, were bringing it home as closely as they
'» Tide, time.
'= H'iOioufeii \esse, without lease, or lie.
" (Jr!/,«. feel horror and dread.
" Res (Pirst-Enfrlish " rtes "1, rush.
" Frely, beautiful, causing delight.
'^ And kisses him.
TO A.D. 1360.]
RELIGION.
could to tlieii" daily lives, John Wiclif, the first who,
after the Conquest, was to give the Bible itself to the
peojile, was ripening for the great work of his life.
John Wiclif was born about the year 1324, of a
family that derived its name from the small village
of Wycliti'e, which is about six miles from Barnard
Castle, in Yorkshire. He was born, jjrobably, at
the village of Hipswell, near Richmond. He was
educated at the University of Oxford, and became
eminent for his acquirements in theology and in
philosophy. A contemporary, William Knighton,
who wa.s his opponent, says tliat he was " most
eminent " as a teacher of theology, in philosophy
" second to none," and " incomparable in scholastic
studies." In 1350 Wiclif produced a tract on the
" Last Age of the Church," suggested by the deso-
lating plague of 1348-9, which occuiTed when he was
received from that College the rectory of Fylingham,
in Lincolnshire.
Langland, Cower, and Chaucer were also duiing
these years advancing to the fulness of their power,
and among other religious literature three books were
produced — " The Ayenbite of Inwit," the " Cursor
Mundi," and the Hermit of Hampole's " Prick of
Conscience," of a kind that has been already illus-
trated.
The Ayenbite (Again-bite, Ee-morse) of Inwit
(Con-science) was a version by Dan (which means
Dominus or Master) Michel, of Northgate, Kent,
from a French treatise called " La Somme des Vices
et des Vertues," composed in 1279 for Philip II. of
France by a French Dominican, Friar Laurence. It
is a work of the type illustrated by Robert of
Brunne's " Handlyng Synne'" from the French of
Wycliffe. {From Hailam'
torij of RtclunoiuWiirc." )
about twenty-four years old, Thomas Bradwardine,
newly become Archbishop of Canterbury, and the
author of the most acute theological book of his
time, the " Summa Theologise," died of that plague.
Wiclif thought that the plagues which scourged the
nations indicated that the second coming of Christ
was near, and that the fourteenth century would be
the Last Age of the World. Among signs of the
end were the corruptions of the Church. " Both
vengeance of sword," he said, " and mischiefs un-
known before, by which men in those days shall be
punished, shall befall them, because of the sins of the
priests. Hence men shall fall u[X)n them and cast
them out of their fat benefices, and shall say, ' He
came into his benefice by his kindred ; and this by a
covenant made before. He, for his worldly service,
came into the church ; and this for money.' Then
eveiy such pi-iest shall cry, ' Alas, alas, that no good
spii-it dwelt with me at my coming into the Church
of God.'" In 1360 Wiclif was energetic in resistance
to the undue influence acquired in Universities by
the Dominicans and the Franciscans. This added to
his reputation at Oxford, and in the followng year,
1361, he was made Warden of Baliol Collecce, and
an Englishman, but it is in jnose, and it is not
made lively with illustrative tales. The heads of
its dissertation are the Ten C'ommandments, the
twelve articles of the Creed, the Seven Deadly Sins,
Learning to Die, Knowledge of Good and Evil, the
petitions of the Lord's Prayer, the four Cardinal
Vii-tues, each elaborated with subdivisions. Penance,
Almsgiving, Seven Steps and Seven Boughs of
Chastity, the Seven Steps of Sobriety, and so forth.
The " Cursor Mundi," or Course of the Workl, is a
long and important poem in Northumbrian English,
which begins by setting forth the delight men take
in romances of Alexander, Cajsar, and King Arthur.
But
" The wise man will of wisdom hear,
The fool him draws to foUy near.''
Delight in the folse love of the world leads to a
bitter end, and soft begun-will end in smart,
love of the Vii-gin Mary there is trust : —
" For though I sometime he untrue.
Her love is ever alike new."
In the
See pages 58 — 63.
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[i.D. 1360
In her honour, tlie poet says, he writes.
•• In Ivcr worship bcprin would I
A work tliiit should bo lastingly
For to do men know her kin
That much worship did us win."
He will ti-U of that in the Old Testament story
which jioints chiefly to Christ's coming, and then
he will ti-11 of the salvation of the world by Christ
who tlied for it, of Antichrist, and of the Day of
Jndgment ; he will do it, not in French rhymes,
wliich are of no use to the Englishman ignorant of
French, but in their own tongue to the English, and
especially to those who need the knowledge most, and
who go most astraj'.
" Xow of this prologue will I blin,'
In Christes mime my book begin ;
' Cursor of the World ' I will it call,
For almost it overrunnys aU.
Take we our beginning than
Of Him that all this world began."
Then the poet begins with Creation, commenting
and moralising ; tells of the three orders of angels,
and how Michael fought against Lucifer. Of the dis-
tance that Lucifer fell from heaven to hell, none can
tell:
" But Bede said fro Earth to Heaven
Is seven thousand year and hundreds seven ;
By journeys whoso go it may
Forty mile everyche day."
Man was made of the four elements, and has
seven holes in his head, just as there are seven
master stars in heaven. The poet dilates thus on
the structure of man, and on the union of soul and
body. Then he turns to Adam in Paradise, still
blending touches of legend and speculation with his
sketch of the Fall of Man. The story goes on
through the lives of Cain and Abel to the Flood,
and dwells on tlie history of Noah. Then he comes
to the division of the world among Noah's sons, and
looks to the different quarters of the world and its
i-aces of men. From the Tower of Babel he passes
to the third age of the world, with the history of
Abraham, and proceeds at length through the lives
of the patriarchs to Josejih in Egypt. Jacob's reason
for sending to Egypt in the time of famine is thus
given : —
" Soon after, in a little while
Jacob yode- by the water of Nile,
He saw upon the water gleam
Chaff lome tieting^ with the stream.
Of that sight wex-" he full blithe
And to his sons he told it swithe,'
' Childer,' he said, ' ye list and lete :*
I saw chaff on the water flete ;
1 BUn, cease.
2 Tode (First-Englisli "eode"), went.
3 Fleting, floating.
• ITcr, grew. First-English " weasan ;" past '
^ Su'ifhf, quickly.
^ List rtiid letc, listen and tliiuk.
Wbethen' it comes can I not rede.
But down it fleteth full good speed.
If it be comen fro far land.
Look which of you will take on hand
For us all do this travail.
Thereof is good we take counsail,
Again the flum' to follow the chaff.
Corn there shall we find to haf.' "
Tlie poem goes on in like manner, often suggest-
ing tigures of Christ's coming, through the Exodus,
and the histories of Moses and Joshua, to the Land
of Promise ; tells the histories of Samson, of Saul,
David, and Solomon at length, is brought through
the later history of the Jews to the chief proj)hecies
of Christ, and then proceeds to a full dwelling on
the life of Christ.
The Hermit of Hampole's " Prick of Conscience "
is also a Northumbrian poem. Its author, Richard
RoUe, was born at Thornton, in Yorkshii-e, about
the year 1290, and educated at Oxford. When he
was but nineteen years old he was seized with reli-
gious enthusiasm for the life of a hei'init, and obtained
from Sii' John de Dalton a cell, with daily suste-
nance, at Hampole, about four miles from Doncaster.
There he lived until his death in 1349, and he was
one of the busiest religious writers of his day. He
translated, as we shall presently see, the Psalms into
English prose. He wi'ote many prose treatises, and
he produced tliis poem of "The Prick" (that is, the
Goad) " of Conscience " (" Stimulus Conscientias ").
Its seven parts tell — 1. Of the Beginning of Man's
Life ; 2. Of the Unstableness of tliis World ; 3. Of
Death, and why it is to be dreaded ; i. Of Purga-
tory ; 5. Of Doomsday ; 6. Of the Pains of Hell ;
7. Of the Joys of Heaven. Mediaeval foncies blend
with the teaching. Thus the feebleness of man
at birth is associated with memories of our fii'st
parents : —
" For imnethes ' es a child born fully
That it ne bygynnes to youle and cry ;
And by that cry men knaw than '"
Whether it be man or weman.
For when it es born it cryes swa : '^
If it be man it says, 'A, a ! '
That the first letter es of the nam
Of oiu- forme-fader Adam.
And if the child a woman be,
When it is born it says, ' E, e ! '
£ es the first letter and the hede
Of the name of Eve that bygan our dede.
Tharfor a clerk made on this manere
This vers of metre that es nroten here :
Dicentcs E rel A quotqnot nriseuntiir ah Era.
' Alle thas,' he says, ' that comes of Eve
(That es aU men that here byhoves Icvc '-),
7 Whetlien, whence ; formed like ftefhen, hence.
8 Again ihe Hum, against the course of the river.
' VnncUics, scarcely. First-English "eathe," easily; " uneathe,"
uneasily, with difficulty, scai'cely.
'0 T?«i7i (First-English "thannc"). then.
" Sma, so, thus. The First-English fonn of the word.
12 Byhoves levc, have to live. First-English " behofian," to behove.
be fit, have need of.
necessary.
In impersonal form, the meaning is fit or
10 i.D. 1380.]
RELIGION.
71
■\Vhen thai er bom what-swa thai he,
Thai say outher A, a I or E, e I ' "
This is Richard Rolle's reason for the title he
gives to his book : —
•' Therefore this treatise draw I would
In English tongue that may be called
' Prick of Conscience,' as men may feel,
For if a man it read and understand wele
And the matters therein to heart will tiike,
It may his conscience tender make ;
And to right way of rule bring it belive '
And his heart to dread and meekness diive,
And to love, and yearning of heaven's bliss,
And to amend all that he has done amiss."
CHAPTER III.
-A.D. 1360 TO
WiCLiF, Laxgland, and Others.-
A.D. 1400.
Ix the year 1.360 the Psalter was the only book
of Scripture of which there was a translation into
English of a date later than the Conquest. Within
twentv-five years from that date John Wiclif had
secured by his own work and that of true-hearted
companions a translation of the whole Bible into
English, including the Apocrypha. In the year
1365, Simon of Islip, Archbishoji of Canterbury, made
John Wiclif.
From the Porlyait in the Kectorij at Wycliffe,
John Wiclif Warden of Canterbury Hall at Oxford,
which stood where there is now the Canterbury
Quadrangle of ChrLstchurch. Canterbitry Hall had
on its foundation a Warden and eleven Scholai-s, of
whom eight wei-e to be secular clergy, but the other
three and the Warden were to be monks of Cluist
1 Belive, quickly. First-English "hi life," with life.
Church, Canterbury. Simon of Islip removed the
four monks, including the Warden, in 1 36.5 ; and he
put Wiclif and three other secular clergy in their
place. In 1366 Islip died, and his successor enter-
tained an appeal against his dealing in the ca.se of
Canterbury Hall. Tlie new Archbishop pronounced
Wiclif 's election void. Wiclif resisted, and appealed
to Rome. After three or four years of uncertainty,
the Pope supported the monks, and con tinned Wiclif 's
ejection. It was in 1 365, the year of Wiclif 's appoint-
ment to the Warden's office at Canterbury College,
that the Pope revived a claim on England for homage
and tribute which had remained unpaid for the last
three-and-thirty years. In 1366, Edward III. laid
the demand before Parliament, which answered that,
forasmuch as neither King John, nor any other
king, could bring tliis realm into such thraldom but
by common consent of Parliament, which was not
given ; therefore what John did was against his oath
at his coronation. The Pojie liad threatened that
if Edward III. failed to pay tiibute and arrears, he
should be cited by process to appear at Rome, and
answer for liimself before his ci^■il and spiiitual
sovereign. The English Pai-liament replied that if
the Pope sliould attempt am-thing against the king by
process or otherwise, tlie king with all his subjects
should resist with all tlieir might. A monk then
wrote in vindication of tlie Papal claims, and chal-
lenged Wiclif, by name, to reply to them, and justify
the decision of the English Parliament. Wiclif at
once replied vdth a defence of the king and Par-
liament, in a Latin tract or "Determination" on
Dominion, " De Dominio." The king had made
Wiclif one of his chaplains, and his argument against
the claims of Papal sovereignty procured him friends
at court. In 1372, when he was about forty-eight
yeare old, John AViclif became Professor of Divinity
at Oxford. Man}- were drawn to liis lectures and
.sermons, and we also may now liear Dr. Wiclif
preach : —
THE HEALIXG OF THE XOBLEMAX's SOX."
Erat qiiidem regulus. Joh. i%'. [46].
There was a ceiiain [little king] nobleman.
This Gospel telleth how a king, that some men say was a
heathen man, beiieved in Christ and deserved to have a
miracle of his son. The story saith, how in Galilee was
dwelling a little king, in the city of Capernaum, that had a
son full sick of the fever. And when he heard teU that Jesus
came from Juda>a to Galilee, he came and.met him on the way.
= This sermon is one of those published iu " Select English Works
of John Wycliff, edited from original MSS. by Thomas Arnold, M.4.,
of Uiiiversity College, Osfoid. In three volumes. Published for the
University of Oxford by the Clai-endou Press in 1869 and 1871." This
issue was undertaken by the Delegates of the University Press at the
suggestion of Canon Shirley, who had devoted many years to the
study of Wiclif, and issued in 1865 a "Catalogue of the Original
Works of John Wycliff," as an aid to study of the Eeformer. Very
many of his works remained unpriuted. Dr. Shirley did not live to
enrich these volumes with the full Introduction he proposed to write,
but they were carefully produced by an editor of his own choice, and
have helped greatly to remove the discredit of a neglect of Wiclif s
English writings under which England had lain for many years. Mr.
Arnold has taken much pains to distinguish Wiclif's work from that
of hi; followers.
CAi^SELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1360
and prayed him come down and heal his son, for he was in
point of death. And Christ said to this king, to amend his
belief. Ye beUeve not in Jesus hut if ye see signs and wonders;
as this man believed not in the Godhead of Clirist, for if he
had, he should have trowed that Christ might have saved his
son 'if he had not bodily come to this sick man and touched
him. But this king had more heart of health of his son than
he had to be healed of untruth that lie was in, and therefore
he told not hereby but ask.'d eft ' Christ to heal his son ; and
in this form of words, in which he shewed his untruth,
" Lord," he said, " come down before that my son die." But
Jesus as wise Lord and merciful healed his son in such
manner that he might wite^ that he was both God and man ;
"Go," he said, '-thy son liveth." And therewith Clirist
taught his soul both of his manhood and Ciodhead, and else
had not this king trowed:' but this Gospel saith that he
trowed and all his house. And upon this truth "he went
homeward and met his men upon the way, that toldtin him
that his son should live, for he is covered'' of his eWl. And
he asked when his son fared better, and they sniden that
yesterdicy the seventh horn- the fevers forsook the child. And
the father knew, by his mind, that it was the same horn-
that Christ said, " Thy son liveth," and herefore believed he
and all his house in Jesus Christ. And therefore Jesus said
sooth tliat he and men like to him trowcn not but if they se(>
both signs and wonders. It was a sign of the sick child that
he did works of an whole man, but it was a great wonder th.-it
by virtue of the word of Cluist a man so far .should ben
whole, for so Christ shewed that he is -virtue of Godhead,
that is everywhere ; and this virtue must be God, that did
thus this miracle.
This story saith us this second wit" that God giveth to holy
writ, that this little king betokeneth a man's wit by sin
slidden from God, that is but a little king in regard of his
Maker ; and bis son was sick on the fevers, as weren these
heathen folk and their affections that comen of their souls ;
but they hadden a kindly^ will to wite the truth and stand
therein. This king came from Capei-naimi, that is, a field of
fatness ; for man fatted and alarded wendeth away from God.
This man's wit when he heard that Jesus came to heathen
men, and that betokeneth Galilee, that is ti-ansmigration, met
with Jesus in plain way, and left his heathen possession, and
prayed (iod to heal his folk that weren sick by ghostly fever.
But Christ sharped these men's behef, for faith is first needful
to men, but understanding of man prayed Christ come down
by gi-iice befoi-e man's affections die about earthly goods.
But, for men troweden the Godhead of Christ, they weren
whole of this fever when they forsoken this world and put
their hope in heavenly goods. These servants ben low
virtues of the soiJ, which, working jo)-fully, tellen man's
wit and his will that this son is whole of fever. This
fever betokeneth shaking of man by imkindly distemper of
abundance of worldly goods, that ben unstable as the w-ater ;
and herefore saith 8t. James that he that doubteth in belief
is like to a flood of the sea that with wind is borne about.
That these servants toldin this king that in the seventh hour
fever forsook this child, betokeneth a great wit as Robert of
Lincoln? sheweth. First it betokeneth that this fever goeth
away from man's kind by seven gifts of the Holy Ghost that
ben understondeii by these hours. And this clerk dindeth
the dixy in two halves by six hours, so that all the day
• Eft, asain. 2 wite, know.
' Troircii. )ielieve.l. » Covered, recovered, cured.
' Second nit, secoud or under sense ; a mystical reading added to
the plain one. 6 Kindly, natural.
'' Eobert of Lincoln. Robert Grosseteste. (See page 54.1
betokeneth light of grace that man is in. The first six hours
betokenen joy that man hath of worldly thing, and this is
before spiritual joy, as utter man is before spiritual. But in
the first hour of the second halt leaveth ghostly fever man,
for whosoever have worldly joy, if he have grace on some
manner, yet he trembleth in some fever about goods of the
world : but anon in the seventh hour, that is the first of the
second half, when will of worldly things is left, and spiritual
things beginnen to be loved, then this shaking passeth from
man, and ghostly health cometh to the spirit. And so
shadows of light of sim from the seventh hour in to the night
ever waxen more and more, and that betokeneth ghostly, that
vanity of this world seemeth aye more to man's spirit till he
come to the end of this life, to life that aye shall last. And
so this man troweth in God, both with understanding and
will, with all the mayue^ of his house, when all his wits and
all his strength ben obeshing' to reason, when this fever is
thus passed. Of this understanding men may take moral wit
how men shall live, and large the matter as them liketh.
Tins little ftmcy drawn from Grosseteste of the
healing of the fever in the seventh hour is a pleasant
example of that allegorical method of interpreting
the Bible, that finding of -what Wiclif here calls
the "second wit" of a passage, that spread chiefly
from the example of the Greek Fathers of the
Church. Such a second meaning, or mystical read-
ing, was often added by interpreters of any passage
from the Bible to what was held to be the doctrinal
truth it contained, the essential truth first to be
expounded Wiclif's preaching shows that while
his first care was to deal -with what appeared to him
the plain doctrines and duties set forth by the Gospel,
he delighted in the exercise of wit for the develop-
ment of spiritual imder-senses in this way of parable.
Thus, for example, in a sermon on the fifth chapter
of Luke's Gospel, which tells how Christ in Simon
Peter's boat bjide him cast his net again into the sea,
Wiclif spoke thus of
THE TWO FISHINGS OF PETER.
Two fishings that Peter fished betokeneth two takings of
men unto Christ's religion, and from the fiend to God. In
this first fishing was the net broken, to token that many
men ben converted, and after breaken Christ's religion ; but
at the second fishing, after the resurrection, when the net
was full of many great fishes, was not the net broken, as the
Gospel saith ; for that betokeneth saints that God chooseth
to heaven. And so these nets that fishers fishen with be-
tokeneth Cxod's Law, in whieh \-irtues and truths ben knitted;
and other properties of nets tellen properties of Ciod's Law ;
and void places between knots betokeneth Ufe of kind,'" that
men have beside virtues. And four cardinal virtues ben
figured by knitting of the net. The net is broad in the
beginning, and after strait in end, to teach that men, when
they ben turned first, liven a broad worldly life ; but after-
ward when they ben deeped in Ciod's Law, they kccpen hem
straitlier from sins. These fishers of God shulden wash their
nets in this river, for Christ's preachers shulden clearly teUen
God's Law, and not meddle with man's law, that is troubly
8 Mayii^ (Frencli " mesnie " ) , oricjinally the people upon the estab-
lishment of a manse, which was a home with as much groimd about it
as two oxen could till.
^ Ohe^hiu'i (French " obeiasant"), obedient.
10 Kind, natiu-e.
1J7S.1
EELIGION.
■water ; tor man's law containeth sharp stones and trees, by
which the net of CJod is broken and fishes wenden out to the
world. And this betokeneth Gennesareth, that is, a wonder-
ful birth, for the birth by whieh a man is born of water and
of the Holy Ghost is much more wonderful than man's
kindly ' birth. Some nets ben rotten, some han holes, and
some ben unclean for default of washing ; and thus on three
manners faQeth the word of jjreaching. ^Vnd matter of this
net and breaking thereof given men great matter to speak
God's word, for virtues and vices and truths of the Gospel
ben matter enow to preach to the people.
All Wiclif's preaching was true to this definition
of what ought to be the matter of the preacher,
'•■virtues and vices, and truths of the Gospel;" but
among vices that most hindered religion were those
of the professed teachers of religion, and an essential
part of Wiclif's service to the peoi)le was his labour
to check the corruptions of the Church. His chief
service -was the giving of the Bible itself to common
Englishmen. He was at -work upon this in 1374
when an inquiry into the number and value of English
benefices given to Italians and Frenchmen caused a
commission, of which Wiclif was a member, to be
appointed for negotiation at Bruges with the Court
of Rome. In November, 1375, Wiclif was presented
to the prebend of Aust, in the collegiate chm-ch of
Westbury, in the diocese of Worcester, and not long
afterwards he was appointed by the Crown to the
rectory of Lutterworth, in Leicestei-shire. In 1376,
a Parliament, cidled l)y the i>eople " the Good Parlia-
ment," which opposed usurpations and t}Taniues both
of the Pope and of the King — expelling and imprLson-
iug some of John of Gaunt's adherents — presented a
remonstrance to the Crown upon the extortions of the
Court of Rome. In this it urged that the tax paid
to the Pope of Rome for ecclesiiistical dignities doth
amomit to five-fold as much as the tax of all the
profits that ai)pertain to the king, by the year, of
this whole realm ; and for some one bishopric or
other dignity the Pope, by -way of translation and
death, hath three, four, or five several taxes : that
the brokers of that sinful city for money promote
many caititts. Ijeing altogether unlearned and un-
worthy, to a thousand marks living yearly ; whereas
the learned and worthy can hardly obtain twenty
marks ; whereby learning decayeth. That aliens,
enemies to this land, who never saw, nor care to see,
their parishioners, Imve those livings, whereby they
despise God's service and convey away the treasure
of the realm. There was much more that explicitly
set forth e^"ils of Church cori-uption. It was in June
of the same year that the death of the Black Prince
deprived England of a popidar heir to the throne.
In the next year, 1377, when the protest of Parlia-
ment was continued, the Poi)e's collector, resident in
London, a Frenchman in the time of English wai-s
with France, who sent annually 20,000 marks to the
i'ope, was gathering first-fru' ; throughout England.
The Parliament advised th no such collector or
proctor for the Pope Ije suffered to remain in England,
upon pain of life or liml) ; and that, on tlie like pain,
no EnglLshman become any such collector or proctor,
74
1 Ktndhj, according to natiu-e.
or remain at the Court of Rome. While this was
the political side of the reform movement, Wiclif for
the support he gave it on spiritual grounds was cited
to appear before Convocation at St. Paul's, on the
19th of February, 1377. The Court, then in fuU
heat of political conflict with the Pope, supported
Wiclif, and he was escorted to St. Paul's by John of
Gaunt himself and Lord Henry Percy, the Earl-
Marshal. The result was a brawl in the church, and
a brawl following it in the town. The people con-
founded the cause of Wiclif with the character of
John of Gaunt, whom they had no reason to coimt
among their friends, and judging by his companions
the pure spiritual reformer who was the test friend
they had, they took jjart, naturally, with the bishop
whose authority the overbearing courtiers had in
their own fashion defied. Four months afterwards
— on the 21st of June, 1377 — Edward III. died,
and his grandson Richard, son of the Black Prince,
became king, at the age of eleven, as Richard II.
Wiclif was then past fifty, and his work on the trans-
lation of the Bible was within two or three years of
completion.
England was then sulTering much by war. The
French and S})aniards committed unchecked ravages
upon our coast, destroyed the town of Rye, burnt
Hastings, Poole, Portsmouth, and other jilaces. Sore
need of the means of self-defence quickened desire to
check the Pope's drain on the treasures of the king
dom. The Pope, upon change of reign, revived the
claim of Peter's pence which Edward III. had resisted.
AViclif was asked as to the lawfidness of withholding
payments to the Po]*, and justified it by the law of
nature, self-preservation, which God has imposed on
nations as on indiWduals. He justified it also by the
Gospel, since the Pope could claim English money
only under the name of alms, and consequently under
the title of works of mercy, according to the rules
of charity ; but, he said, it would be madness, not
charity, while i)ressed by taxation at home and facing
the prospect of ruin, to give our goods to foreigner
already wallowing in luxury. Bulls against Dr.
John Wiclif, Professor of Divinity and Rector of
Lutterworth, had been issued by the Pope before the
death of Edward III. They were addressed to the
King, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Bishop of
London, and the University of Oxford. Private
inquiry was first to be made as to Wiclif's heresies,
and if this showed them to be as represented, he was
to be imprisoned, and dealt with according to the
instructions of his Holiness. Early in the year 1378,
Wiclif api?eared before a Synod of Papal Commis-
sioners, held in the Archbishop's Chajiel at Lambeth
Palace. But the Londoners were now with the
Reformer, a crowd broke into the chapel to protect
him, and the commissioners were daunted also by a
message from the ■s^ido^w of the Black Prince, for-
bidding them to pass any sentence against Wiclif.
He was dismissed with an admonition.
It was at this time that the increasing move-
ment for reform was aided by the schism in the
Papacy. The removal of the Papal see to Avignon,
early in the fourteenth century, by making the Pope
dependent on the King of France, whose interests
were held to be opposite to those of the King of
74
CASSELL'S LIBKARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[i.D. 1327
England, had greatly w(!akened the Pope's inflnence
in this couiitiy. Upon the death of Gregory XL, in
1378, the Romans, W((ary of French Popes, elected an
Itjilian, wlio Ijeciiuie Pope as Urlian VI. Against
him W!us jir(?scntly set up a Frenchman as Clement
VII. ; an<l so there were two discordant heads of
the Church — one at Rome and one at Avignon —
each claiming infallibility. Wiclif's conflict with
the Papacy now jjas.sed to open war. " Trust we,"
he said, " in the help of Christ, for He hath begun
idready to help us graciou.sly, in that He hath cloven
(he head of Antichrist and made the two parts tight
,'igainst each other ; for it cannot be doubtful that
the sin of the Popes, which hath .so long continued,
hath brought in the division." This he wrote in a
treatise on the schism, called the " Schisma Papa',"
and about the same time he j)roduced a treatise on the
" Truth and Meaning of Scripture," in which he
maintained the I'iglit of private judgment, asserted
the supreme authority and the sufficiency of Scrip-
ture, and the need of a Bible in English.
While the supreme authority maintained that an
admitted right of private judgment would lead many
to heresy and ])eril of their souls, and that Holy
Scripture in the language of the people, open to
interpretation by the ignorant, would diffuse the
error from which men were saved by the interven-
tion of well-taught interpreters, the jieople of this
countiy had, as we have seen, made fullest use of
all permitted means of access to the Bible. Since it
was lawful to translate the l)Ook of Psalms, that
book had several translators. Of a metrical Psalter
in Transition English of the North of England, in
the thirteenth century, which was edited in 184.5 by
Mr. Joseph Stevenson, for the Surtees Society, in
the same volume with a First-English Psaltei-, this
will serve as a sjiecimen : —
PSALM LXVII.
God milthe ' of us, and blis us thus ;
Light over us his face, and milthe us.
That wo knowe in ertho thi wai,
In alio gengc- thi holing ai.^
Schriven to the, God, folko bo ;
Schrivon alio folke be to the.
Faino and glade genge, mare and lesse,
For thou demos'* folke in evennesse;
And genge in ertho with thi might
Stores^ thou, that thai do right.
Schriven to the, (rod, be folke ; al folke to the
solu'ive.
The ertho gaf his fruite bilive.
Blisse us, (rod , our God us blisse
And drede him all endes of erthe thisse.
Tlie first prose version of the Psalms in Transition
English was made about the year 1327, by William of
Shoreham, who was Vicar of Chart Sutton, in Kent,
' Milthe. First-English " milts," mercy; "miltsian," to pity, to he
gracious.
= Gennc nations, congregations of people. Pirst-Englisli " genge,"
a fiock.
' Ai, ever. « Dcmes. judgest.
' Steres, rulest. Pirst-Englisli " steoran," to steer, rule, govern.
and wrote Southern English. I take the 22nd
Psalm in tliis version as an example : —
PS.\LM XXIII.
Our Lord govemeth me, and nothing shall defailen to me;
in the stede of pasture he sett me ther.
He norissed me up water of fyllynge ; he turned my soule
from the fende.
He lad^ me up the bistiyes' of rii/tf nines; for his name.
For ffii that ich have gon amiddes of the shadowe of deth ;
Y shal nouiit douten iuels, for thou art wyth me.
Thy discipline and thyn amend)'ng ; conforted me. Thou
mildest radi grace in my sight ; ogayns hem that trublen me.
Thou makest fatt myn heued wyth mercy ; and my drynke
makand drunken ys ful clere.
And thy merci shal folwen mo ; alio dales of mi lif :
And that ich wonne' in the hous of our Lord, in lengthe of
dales.
The next English prose version of the Psalms was
that of Richard RoUe, the Hermit of Hampole,
author of " The Prick of Conscience," already men-
tioned. He made his translation at the request of
Dame Margaret Kirkby, of the Nunnery at Hampole.
Of Richard Rolle's translation this is a specimen : —
PSALM LXXIX.
(rod, folkis come in to thyn heritage, thei defouledyn thin
llpoli temple ; thei setten Jerusalem in to kepyng of applis.
Thei settyn the deede bodies of thi seruauntis meete to the
foulis of heueno ; fleische of thyn halowis ' to beestis of erthe.
Thei heeld '" out the bloode of hem as watir in the eumpas
fo Jerusalem ; and there was not to birj-e hem.
We ben maad repri^ef to our neiyboris ; scoornynge and
hethyng" to alio that ben in oure eumpas.
Hon longe. Lord, schal thou be wroth in to the eende; thi
loue as lijr schal be kyndlid.
Heeld out tliyn yi-e in to folkis that knowen thee not ; and
in to rcwmys that han not incleijid thi name.
There are many variations in the manuscripts of
Richard Rolle's translation of the I'salms.
In the I'eligious house of IJanthony, in Mon-
mouthshire, there was in the twelfth century a monk
named Clement, who wrote in Latin a Monotessaron,
or " Harmony of the Gospels." Wiclif's eaidier
work on what seemed to him signs of the coming
end of the world, " The Last Age of the Church,"
jierhaps suggested to him the Commentary on the
Ajiocalypse, with which his work upon the Bible-text
may have begun. He may then liave written Com-
mentaries on the Gospels of Matthew, Luke, and
'' Lad, led.
■ Bistiges, paths. First-English " stig," a path. An italic 3 stands
here for the softened 17, represented in Transition English by a modi-
fied letter like 3. Such a 5 disappears or becomes <j or <jh m modem
Eiigligh.
" iroHHc, dwell. First-English " wunian."
'J HalomU, saints. First-English " lialga," from "halig," holy.
>" Hedd, poiu-ed. Icelandic " hella," to pour out. So in Wiclif's
translation of Mark's Gospel, " No man sendith uewe wyn in-to oold
botelis, ellis the wyn shal berste the wyu-vesselis, and the wj-n shall
be helt^oiit.^'
o Hcihiiiig, scolf. Icelandic "hajtha," to scotf at; " hajthiug," ri
scoifin"*.
!;:
I
TO A.D. 1400.]
RELIGION.
75
John ; but Lis authorship of these is doubtful. In
the Prologue to the Commentary upon Matthew's
Gospel, their compiler strongly urged that the whole
Scriptures ought to Ije translated into English. His
Commentaries included the text they explained, and
their method is set forth by liimself in this passage
of his Prologue to the Commentary upon Luke : —
" Hereforc a poor caitiff ' letted from preaching for a time
for causes known of God, writeth the Gospel of Luke in
English, with a short exposition of old and holy doctors, to
the poor men of his nation which cunnen little Latin either
none, and hen poor of wit and of worldly catel, and natheless
rich of goodwill to please God. First this poor caitiff setteth
a full sentence of the text together, that it may well be known
from the exposition ; afterwards he setteth a sentence of a
doctor declaring the te.xt ; and in the end of the sentence he
setteth the doctor's name, that men moweu know verily how
far his sentence goeth. Only the text of the Holy Writ, and
sentence of old doctors and approved, ben set in this ex-
position."
Wliile Wiclif was at work, another wi'iter, whose
name is unknown, but whose English is of the North
of England, produced Commentaries upon Matthew,
Mark, and Luke, executed upon the same principle.
ThLs writer said in his preface to the Commentary
on Matthew : —
" Here begins the exposition of St. Matthew after the
chapters that ben set in the Bible, the chapters of which
Gospel ben eight-and-twenty.
" This work some time I was stirred to begin of one that I
suppose verily was God's servant, and ofttimes prayed me
this work to begin ; sayand to me, that scthin the Gospel is
rule, by the whilk e;ich Cliristian man owes to life,- divers
has drawen it into Latin, the whilk tongue is not knowen
to ilk man, but only to the lered, and many lewd men are
that gladly would con the Gospel if it were di'awen into
English tongue, and .so it should do great profit to man soul,
about the whilk profit ilk man that is in the grace of God,
and to whom God has sent conning, owes heartily to busy him.
Wherefore I that thi-ough the grace of God began this work,
so stirred, as I have said before, by such word, thought in my
heart that I was holden by charity this work to begin ; and
so this work I began at the suggestion of God's servant.
And greatly in this doing I was comforted of other of God's
servants divot's, to such time that through the grace of God I
brought this to an end. In the whilk outdrawing I set not
of mine head, nor of mine own fantasy, but as I found in
other expositors."
Another unknown worker made a version of St.
Paul's Epistles into Latin and English. To Wiclif
is ascribed a translation into English of Clement of
Llanthony's " Harmony of the Gospels," and then,
by separating the text from the annotation in his
Commentaries, he is said to have produced complete
English versions of the separate Gospels. Wiclif
himself is believed to have been also tlie translator of
^ Mr. Tliomas Aruold arj^iies, among other things in opposition to
Wiclif 's authorship of the Commentary, that he could hardly have
called himself a *' poor caitiff," and that he was never " letted from
preaching."
' Owes to life, ought to- live.
the Acts of the Apostles, and of the Epistles, as well
as of the Apocalypse.
The chief translator in Wiclif 's time of the books of
the Old Testament was Nicholas of Hereford. The
oiiginal copy of his English version of the Old Testa-
ment is in the Bodleian Library at Oxford, corrected
throughout by a contemporary hand. A second copy
in the Bodleian is a transcript made from the first
before it was corrected, and it is in this eai'ly tran-
script that the translation is said to have been made
by Nicholas de Hei-eford. This Nicholas was a
Doctor of Di\inity in Queen's College, Oxford, and
was in 1382 — two years before Wiclif s death — one
of the Lollard leaders in the University. On Ascen-
sion Day in that year he preached at St. Frideswide's
by order of the Chancellor. A few days later, on the
18th of May, he was cited before a synod of Domi-
nicans at London, and on the 20th he delivered a
paper containing his opinions. On the 1st of July,
at an adjourned meeting in Canterbury, he was ex-
communicated. He appealed to the Pope, went, it is
said, to Rome, and was there imprisoned. Released
with other prisonei's during an insurrection, he came
to England, where, in January, 1386, he was com-
mitted to prison for life by the Archbishop of Can-
terbury. In August, 1387, he was free, and aiding
Reformation. In October, 1393, he was present
when Walter Brute, of Hereford, was charged with
here.sy. In Feljruary, 1394, he was made Chan-
cellor of the Cathedral at Hereford, and in March,
1397, he became Treasiu-er of the Cathedral. He
was an old man when he resigned that office, in 1417,
and joined the Carthusians of St. Anne's, at Coventry,
among whom he died. This is a piece of his Old
Teistament translation : —
PSALM LXVII.
God have merci of vs, and blisse to vs, li,(7te to his ehere
vpon vs ; and haue mercy of vs. That wee kuowe in the
eithe thi weie : in aUe jcntilis thi helthe g'wcre. Knouleche
to thee puplis, God ; knouleche to thee alle puplis. Gladen
and ful out ioye jentilis, for thou demest pupils in equite ;
and jentihs in the erthc thou dressist. Knouleche to thee
puplis, God, knouleche to thee alle puphs ; the orthe ^af liis
frut. Blesse vs God, oure God, blesse us God ; and di'cde
him alle the coostus of erthe.
And here is a specimen of Wiclif 's New Testament
translation. It is from
Matthew's gospel — chapter vi.
Take 3ee ' hede, lest 3e don 3our ri3twisnesse before men,
that 3ee be seen of hem, ellis 30 shule nat han meed at 3oiure
fadir that is in heuenes. Thorfore when thou dost almesse,
nyle thou synge bj-fore thee in a trumpe, as j-pocritis don in
s>-nagogis and strectis, that thei ben maad worshipful of men ;
forsothe Y saye to 30U, thei han resceyued her meede. But
thee doj-nge almesse, knowe nat the left bond what tin ri3t
' 3CC The character at the begiuiiing of this word is here used
tliroughout for the soft >j, which it resemble3. It is not z. (See
Note 2, page 49.)
7G
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1360
hond doth, that thi almes he in hidlis,' and thi fadir that sceth
in hidlis, shal soldo to thoo. And when 3c shuhi prcyc, 300
shnln nat be as ypocriti.s, tho whiolio stondj-ngc loucn to preyo
in svnaRogis and con.ors of streetis, that thoi be seen ot men;
trewly Y siiv to 30U, thoi ban resseyuod her mcede. But whan
thou Shalt preye, ontro in to thi couoho, and the dore schet,
preye thi fadir in hidlis, and thi fadii- that seoth m hidhs,
shal 3eelde to thoe. Sotholy prcyin-e nyle 300 speko mochc,
as hothcn men don, for thei gesson that theibenherd m theire
moche speohe. Thcrfore nyl 30 be niaad liche to hem, for
30ure fadir woot what is need to 30u, before that 30 axen
hym. Forsothc thus 30 shulen prcyen, Oure fadir that art
in houcnes, halwid be thi name ; thi kyngdom cumme to ; be
thi wiUc don as in heuen and= in crthe ; 3if to va this day
oure breed ouro other substaunce ; and forseuo to vs ourc
dettis, as wo forsoue to oure dcttours ; and leede vs nat in to
temptaoioun, but dolyucre vs fro yuol. Amen. Forsothe 3if
3ce shulen for3cuc to men her synns, and- 30ure heuenly fadir
shal for3cuc to 30U 30ure trcspassis. Sothely 3if 300 shulen
for3cue not to men, neither 30ure fadir shal for3eue to
30U 3ourc .sj-nncs. But when 300 fasten, nyl 30 he maad as
ypocritis sorweful, for thoi putten her faeis out of kyndlij
termys, that thoi seme fastynge to men ; trewly Y say to 30U,
thei han resscyued her moede. But whan thou fastist, anoynte
thin hedc, and washe thi faec, that thou be nat seen fastynge
to men, but to thi fadir that is in hidlis, and thi fadir that seeth
in hidlis, shal 3eold(! to thee. Nyle 30 tresoure to 30U trcsours
in ertho, whcr rust and mou3the distruyeth, and .wher theeucs
deluen out and stolen; but tresoure 300 to 30U tresouris in
heuene, whor neither rust ne mou3the distruyeth, and wher
theues dolurn nat out, ne stolen. Forsothe wher thi tresour is
there and- thin horto is. The lantenie of thi body is thin 030;
3if thin ei3e be s>nn])le, al thi body shal be listful; hot 3if
thvn ei3o be weyward, al thi body shal be derkful. Thcrfore
3if tho list that is in thee be dcrlmessis, how grete shulen
thilk dorloK'Ssis be 'i No man may seruc to two lordis,
forsothe ethir he shal haat the toon, and loue the tother;
other he shal susteyn the toon, and dispise the tothir. 30
mown nat eeruo to God and richessis. Thcrfore Y say to 30U,
that 36 ben nat bcsio to 3ourc lijf, what 30 shulen etc ; othir
to 3oure body, with what 30 shuln be clothid. \Vlier' 30ui-o
lijf is nat more than mete, and the body more than clothe ?
Beholde 30 the Heesinge foiilis of the eir, for thei sowen nat,
ne rcpyn, neither gadrcn in to bemys ; and soure fadir of
heuen fedith hem. WTier 30 ben nat more worthi than thei?
Sothely who of 30U thenkinge may putte to to his stature 00
cubite 'i And of clothing what ben 36 besye P Beholde 30
the lilies of the feeldc, how thei we.xen. Thei traueUen nat,
nether spj-nncn. Trewly I say to 30U, for whi neither
Salamon in al his gloric was kouerid as oon of thes. For sif
God clothith thus the heye of the feeld, that to day is, and to
morwe is sentc in to tho foui'neyse, how moobe more 30U of
litil foith ? Thcrfore nyl 30 be bisie, saj-inge, What shulen
we ote 'i or, What shulen we drynkc 'i or, With what thing
shulen we be kcucrcd 'i Forsothe heitheu men soohcn alio
fheso thingis ; trewly soure fadir wote that 30 han need to
alio these thingis. Thcrfore seke 300 tirst the kyngdam of God
and his ristwisnesse, and alle these thingis shulen be cast to
30U. Thcrfore nyle 30 be besie in to the morwe, for the
morew dity shal be besie to it self ; sothely it sufficith to the
day his malice.
1 }lid\i% a secret place. First-Eiiijlisli ** bydels." So Wiclif
translates " Esultatio eonim .'^ioiit ejus qui lievorat pauperem in
abscondito," '* The ffludnes of hem, as of byui that devoureth the
pore in hi,llis."
2 And, also. « Whor, whether.
Ill the last yeai-s of his lile, after he had secured
a translation of the whole Bible iiito English by
liinisflf and his fellow-workers,^ Wiclif wrote many
Eii."lish tracts on the religious questions of the day ;
aiKfliis labour for Reformation, that had begun with
the corrujitions of Church dLscipliiie, included more
argument against what he held to be corruptions of
Church doctrine, especially upon the old question
of the real presence of Christ in the bread and wine
of the Sacrament. In 1 38 1 he issued twelve pro-
positions against the doctrine of transubstantiation.
In 1382, the London Dominicans, or Black Friars,
as custodians of orthodox opinion, condemned as
lieretical tv\renty-four conclusions dra\vii from Dr.
Wiclif's writings. Apparently in reply to this came
the triict setting forth " Fifty Heresies and Errors
of Friars," ascribed to Wiclif, and probably liis, but
perhai)s by one of his followers. Wiclif was then
banished from the University, and in 1384 was
summoned to appear before the Pope; but on the
last day of that year he died.
Of the personal appearance of the fii'st great Eng-
lish Church Reformer there are only two records. '^ '
One
From Bale'
John Wiclif.
* Centuries of British Wriicr&
(1548).
is the portrait, said to have been by Sir Antonio
More, which Dr. Thomas Zouch, Rector of Wycliffe,
in Yorkshire, gave to the rectory in 1796, to be pre-
served by the rectors who should succeed him, as an
heirloom of the rectory house. A copy of it is at the
commencement of this chapter. The other record,
])erliaps more trustworthy, is a woodcut portrait
which appeared in the first edition, published in 1548,
and only in that first edition, of John Bale's " Cen-
turies of the Illustrious Writers of Great Britain."
* A noble edition of Wiclif's Bible was published by the University
of Oiford in 1850 : " The Holy Bible, containing the Old and New
Testaments, with the Apocryphal Books, in the Earliest Enghsh
Version made from the Latin Vulgate, by John Wycliffe and his
Followers. Edited by the Rev. Josiah Forshall, F.E.S., &c., late
Fellow of Exeter College, and Sir Frederick Madden, K.H., F.R.S.,
fcc. Keeper of the MSS. in the British Museum. Oxford University
Press."
TO A.D. 1400.]
RELIGION.
77
This is well executed, and except woodcuts of Bale
himself jiresenting his book to Edward VI., it is the
only portrait in the volume. The jiulilisher of that
edition must, therefore, have valued it as a copy from
some trustwoithy original which is not now to be
found. The picture ascribed to Sir Antonio More
must also have been copied from a portrait now lost,
and there is likeness enough between the two.
Fellow- worker and contemporaiy with John W'iclif
was AVilliam Langland. His religious poem called
" The Vision of Piers Plowman " was addressed to
the whole body of the English people, and dealt
earnestly with the material condition of the country,
so far ;is that concerned its spiritual life. It was
in the old English form of alliterative verse, and
had a vocabulary rich, not only by the acqtiisition of
new words from the Norman-French, but by the
retention of old English words which had already
become obsolete in the cultivated English of the
towns, though still familiar among the people. Its
popular English — English rather of the country than
of the town — includes, in fact, so many woi'ds of
which the disuse has, by this time, become general,
that " The Vision of Piers Plo\vman " is now to be
rejid less easily than contemporary verse of Chaucer's,
■ and to modern eyes looks older for that which gave
it, in the ears of those for whom it was written, the
ease of homeliness. It was not the homeliness of an
ill-taught iiisticity, but of an educated man of genius
who loved God and his countiy, and laboui'ed to litt
many eyes from amidst the troubles of those times
to Christ, typilied by the Plowman of whom he told
his Vision. " The Vision of Piers Plowman " de-
serves European fame as one of the great poems of
the fourteenth century ; but it is enough for Lang-
land if, after many years, his own comitrymen shall
.still hold him Lii memory, and honour him because
they share the spuit of his work.
William Langland' may have been bom, as John
Bale says that he was, at Cleobuiy Mortimer, in
Shropshu-e, or, as a fifteenth-century note on one
MS. of his poems says that he was, at Shipton-
under-Wychwood, four miles from Burford, in O.xlord-
shire, the son of a freeman named Stacy de Rokayle,
who lived there ;vs a tenant under Lord le Spenser.
Upon one MS. he is called William W., which may
possibly mean William de Wychwood. In a part of
liis poem which contains a reference to the accession
of Richard II. in 1377, Langland seems to speak of
his own age as forty-five : —
" Cove)-tise-of-eyghcs confortod me anon after
And folwed me foui-ty wj-nter and a fj-fte more."
If we take this a.s direct evidence, the earliest pos-
sible date of Langland's birth would be 1332. He
was well educated, perhaps in the Priory School at
* Bale, in his Latin "Centuries of the Illustrious Writers of Great
Britain," called him Rohert Langland, boni at Cleobury Mortimer, in
the clayland, and within eight miles of Malvern Mills. But earlier
than this sixteeuth-centnry evidence of a writer who abounds in errors,
B the evidence of the titles of MSS. which always call him William,
of the author's own use of " Will " when he speaks of himself, and
of a record on a Dublin MS. in a hand of the fifteenth century,
■which describes him as William of Langland, son of Stacy de Eokayle.
Malvern, and then seems to have been engaged in
that house upon olfices of the Church. His Vision
was represented as occurring to him while ho slept
from time to time on jNIahern Hills. The opening
lines may be variously interpreted : —
" In a somer suson whan soft was the sonne
I shope me in shroudes as I a shcpe were.
In habit as an heremite unholy of workes,
Went wyde in this world wondres to here."
Shepe hei-e is said to mean shepherd, and William
is supposed to have imt on a shepherd's dress, which
resembled that of a hermit. Hermit "unholy of
works " was paraphrased by lir. Whitaker as mean-
ing " not like an anchonte who keeps his cell, but
like one of those unholy hermits who wander about
the world to see and hear wondei-s," and some such
sense of depreciation is usually given to the phrase.
I thulk that " shepe" means sheep, as the opposite to
shepherd ; and that William on a summer's day j)ut
otT the clerical dress that marked his place among
the pastors, made himself as one of the flock, in
habit of a heremite, a man given to contemplation
in the wilderness, — for Malvem Hills were then
a famous wilderness ; and so to William's mind was
the witle woild. He took the foi'm of a man devoting
himself to lonely thought, who was " unholy of
works," because he made himself as one of the flock,
not of the ])astors, thinking and feeling as one of the
people of England, and as if he were not vowed to
the sole contemplation of God. I do not suppose
imholy to have any bad sen.se, but to mean only that
William made himself, for the purpose of tlie poem,
as one of the people, and put aside for a time his
work as of one in holy orders. That he was incor-
porated in some way with the gi'eat religious house
at Malvern is made the more probable by the account
he gave in later life of his means of subsistence when
living in Cornhill with Kit his wife : —
" And iuh lyue in London and on London both
The lomes- that ich laboure with and lyflodo'* deserve
Ys pntcr-nosler and my prymer, placebo and rlirir/i',
And my sauter som tyme and my seuene psalmes.
Thus ich sj'nge for hure soules of suche as me hclpen
And tho * that fynden me my fode."
The fi-eedom with which William Ljingland entered
into the new spii-it of refoi-mation stayed, no doubt,
his advancement in the Church. Such a man as a
married priest, with a wife Kit and Calot a daughter,
might li\e in London and on London by the heljj of
those who shared his aspirations and could lighten
the burden of his daily life; but he had entirely
turned his back upon the race for Church preferment,
and had indeed, in the eyes of the Church superiors,
" shope himself in shroudes as he a shepe w(ire, Ln
habit as an heremite unholy of workes." He had
gone out into the \vildenies.s that he might tell us of
» lomes, utensils. First-English " Itima " and " geldma," household
stuff, utensils, furniture, stock, store.
3 Ltjjiodt (First-English " liflide "), maintenance, livelihood.
* Tho, those.
78
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1362
the solemn voices that he heard through all the noise
and liablile of the world.
Langlaud's poem ro.se out of almost his whole life
as a man. He began it about the year 1362, when
he was not older than thii-ty. He was thoroughly
revising it about the year 1.377, when his age was
forty-five, and he continued to revise and enlarge it
during the next twenty yeai'S. The numerous MSS.
which attest the gi-eat popularity of the poem repre-
sent it in three forms, corresponding to these stages
of its development — first in eleven passus, or divi-
sions ; then in twent}' ; then in twenty-three. It
was from a MS. of the second form that Robert
Crowley, dwelling in Ely Rents in Holborn (he
was Vicar of St. Giles's, Cripplegate), first printed
"The Vision of Piei-s Plowman," in 1550, in a
quarto volume of 250 pages. It was published
to assist, by its tiiie voice, the gi-eat effort made
towards reformation in the reign of Edward VI.,
and so heartily welcomed that there were tlii-ee
editions of the poem at this date. It was again
printed by Reginald Wolfe in 1553 : and, after the
interval of Mary's reign, again l)y Owen Rogers in
1561. But Langland's work was known to -^-ery
few when, in 1813, Dr. Thomas Dunham Whitaker
printed an eilition of it from a JVIS. of the third and
latest type. It was edited again by IMr. Thomas
Wri'tht," in 1842 and 185G, the latter edition being
a most convenient and accessible one, forming two
volumes of a " Library of Old English Authoi's." '
Mr. Wright's edition was from a MS. giving a form
of the poem similar to that published by Robert
Crowley ; and in 1867, 1869, and 1873, each of the
three forms of the MSS. of " Piera Plowman " was
represented, with collation of all the best of the three
dozen MS. texts, in editions prepared by the Re^•.
W. W. Skeat, for the Early-English Text' Society.^
Wandering over jVIalvern Hills on a May morning,
William became weary. He lay down and slept
upon the grass. Then he saw in a dream — first of
the series of dreams that form his Vision — " all the
wealth of this world, and the woe both." Between
the sunrise, where rose in the east the Tower of
Truth, and the sunset, where Death dwelt in a deep
dale,
" A fair field full of folk found I there between.
All manner of men, the mean and the rich.
Working and wandering as the world asketh."
> The " Library of Old English Authors," published by J. E. Smith.
Soho Square, has already beeu referred to as contaiumg iu three of its
five-shilliug volumes Sir Thomas Malory's " History of King Arthur."
It is a series of ^ood handy editions of books of real wortli.
2 Mr. Skeat's work iipon Langland's great poem is singularly
thorough. He i>ublishes, with a si)ecial introduction, each of its
three forms separately, from collation of the MSS., with various
readings and reference to the MS. containing each. A fourth section
is assigned to the General Introduction, Notes and ludes. Besides
this work ou the whole poem, Mr. Skeat has contributed to the
Clarendon Press Series the fu-st seven passus — " The Vision of
■William concerning Piers the Plowman, by William Langland, accord-
ing to the version revised and eidarged by the author about a.d.
1377," with Introduction, Notes, and Glossary, as ,an aid to the right
study of Early English in colleges and schools, and also as a most
efficient guide to the reading of the whole poem by those to whom its
Euglish, without such help, would be obscure. IVIr. Skeat's thorough
study of the x>oem from all points of view makes him our chief
anthority in auy question concerning it.
Some put themselves to the plough, took little rest,
and earned that which the wastei-s destroy by their
gluttony. Some put themselves to pride, and clothed
themselves thereafter in many a guise. Many put
themselves to prayer and penance, living hard lives
for the love of our Lord, in hope to liave a good end,
and bliss in heaven. Some lived by trade ; and some
by minstrelsy, avoiding labour, swearing great oaths,
and inventors of foul fancies, making themselves
fools, though they have wit at will to work if they
would. Beggai-s were there with full bags, brawling
and gluttonous ; pilgrims and palmers who went to
St. James of Compostella and the saints of Rome,
and had leave to tell lies all their lives after. Long
lubbers made pilgrimages to our Lady of Walsing-
ham,'" clothed themselves in copes to be known from
other men,
" And made themselves Hermits, their ease to h.'xve.
I found there Friars, aU the four orders,''
Preaching the pcoiJe for profit of the warn*
And glosing^ the Gospel as them good liked.
There preached a Pardoner, as he a Priest were.
And brought forth a bull with, bishop's seals.
And said that himself might assoil them all
Of falseness of fastings, of vows to-broke.
Le'sved men Ueved^ him wcU, and likeden his words,
Comen and kneleden, to kissen his bulls.*
He lilessed' them -n-ith his brevet,'" and bleared " theii' eyne
3 Our Lady of WaUingham. The shrine of the Virgin Mary in the
monastery of the Augustinian Canons at Walsingham, in Norfolk
(twenty-seven miles N.W. of Noi"wich), attracted very many pilgrims,
Norfolk people said that the Milky-way pointed to it, and was Wal-
siugham-way. The monastery was founded in the eleventh century
by Geoffrey de Taverche. Henry VIII. in the second year of his
reign walked barefoot from the village of Barsham to the shrine at
Walslngham, but afterwards he caused the image of Our Lady to be
burnt at Chelsea. The i-uins are now a lofty arch, sixty feet high,
some cloister and another arch, a stone bath, and the two Wishing
Wells. Any pilgi-im allowed to drink of their water had his wi.sh.
* Friors, all the /out- ordcra. Grey Friars (Franciscans or Minorites) ;
Black Friars (Dominicans) ; "White Friars (Cai-melites) ; Austin
Friars (Augustines). The foundation of the Grey and Black Friars
has been described (see pages 52, 53). The Cai-melites claimed Elijah
for their founder. They were estabhshed iu the twelfth century by
Berthold, a Calabrian, who went to the Holy Land and formed a
hermit community on Mount Carmel, the traditional abode of Elijah.
Pressed out by the Saracens in 12;J8, they spread over Europe, and
had in Langland's time about forty houses in England and Wales.
The Austin Friars followed the EiUe of St. Augustine, prescribed by
Pope Alexander IV. in 1256.
5 iram, womb. Fust English " wamb." the belly.
^ Glosiitff, commenting on, inter^jreting.
' Lieiied, beheved. First-English " lytan," to allow.
8 Bulls were so called from the seals attached. The round official
seal of stamped lead attached to the document was called bulla from
its roundness. This is one of a class of mimetic words said to origi-
nate in the roundness, or of the motion of the bubbles in a boiling
pot. BiiU or hnn, from the roundness of the bubble. BnUot. a little
ball ; balfoon, a great one. Ballare, to dance from the movement of
boiling, whence hull, a dance ; hallct, a little dance. So ballads were
probably named from the old custom of swaj-ing to and fro m various
ways, accordant to the mood expressed by the reciter.
' Blessed. Another MS. has !.onch«!, hammered at. Icelandic
"banga,"to hammer, whence the common English form " to bang,"
and a provincial form " to bunch," meaning to strike.
1" Brcrel, letter of indulgence. A short official letter. Old French
" brie%-et," from Latin " breve," like English and German " brief." So
also in IceUndic " href " meant a letter and a written deed, or official
despatch, in which last sense ( according to Cleasby and Vigfusson) the
word first occurs in the negotiation between Norway and Sweden,
A.D. 1018.
" Bleared, made dim. This is not the word bleared applied to eyes
TO A.D. 14^C).]
EELIGION.
79
And rdught -n-ith his rageman' rings and brooches.
Thus ye giveth your gold gluttons to help."
But, says the poet, though the bishop were a saint
and worth both his eai-s, his seals should not be sent
to deceive the people. Parsons and parish piie.sts, in
this field full of folk that stood for the English
world, complained in Will's dream to the bishop
that theii- parishioners were jwor since the jjcstilence
time, and asked licence to live in London — ■
" And sing there for simony : silver is sweet.
Bishops and bachelors, both masters and doctors.
That have cure under Christ, and crowning in token,
Ben charged with Holy-Church Charity to till.
That is leal love and life among learned and lewed ; -
They lien in London in Lentene and elles.
Some serveu the King, and his silver teUen,'
In the chequer and the chancelrj-, challenging his debts,
Of wards and of wardmotes, waifs and strays.
Seme aren as seneschals and serven other lords.
And ben in stead of stewards, and sitten and dcmen.*
Conscience accused such men, and the people heard,
and the world was made woi-se by their covetousnes.s.
The Cardinals to whom St. Peter entrusted his power
to bind and to unbind were not the Cardinals at
court, who take that name and presume power in
themselves to make a Pope ; they were the four Cardi-
nal Virtues. So Will, in his Vision, looked upon the
world till a King came into the field led by Knight-
hood — " the much might of the men made him to
reign." And then came Kind-wit, the knowledge of
the natui-dl man, and he made Clerks; and Conscience,
Kind-wit, and Knighthood together agreed that the
Commons should support them. Kind-wit and the
Commons contrived between them all the crafts, and
for chief profit of the people made a plough, whereby
men may live tlu'ough loyal labour while there
remains life and huid. Here Langland applies the
media; val fable of the rats and mice who wished to
bell the cat that they might know when to get out
of his way ; but when the bell was bought and
fastened to a collar, there was no rat of all the rout,
for all the realm of France, that dui-st have bound
the bell about the cat's neck. Then stood forth a
wise little mou.se, who said —
red after crying — a word said to be formed from blear ; but bleared
allied to blurred. See pa?e 137, note 13 of tbe volume of this Library
containing " Shorter English Poems."
' Raught y:ith his rageirum. Riught^ reached, got to himself. First-
English "rse'can." — Rageman. In the Chronicle of Lanercost (edited
by Stevenson, page 261), we read that an instrument or charter of
subjection and homage to the kings of England is called by the Scots
ragman, because of the many seals hunging from it. " Unum instru-
mentum sive cartam subjectionis et homagii faciendi regibus Angliie
. . . . a Scottis propter multa sigilla dependentia ragman voca-
tnr." That is the sense in which Langland uses the word. After-
wards in Wyntoun's Chronicle, Douglas and Dunbar, "ragman"
and "ragment" mean a long piece of writing, a rhapsody, or an
account. la course of time, it is said, " ragman's roll " became
** rigmarole. '
* Leved, the unlearned moss of the people. First-English " leode,"
people.
' Tellen, count. First-English " tellan,"
* Dcnun, give judgment.
" Though we had ykilled the cat, yet should then- come
another
To cratchen us and all our kind, though we creep under
benches,
For-thi* 1 counsel, for common profit, let the cat be,
And never be we so bold the bell him to shew.
For I heard my sire saj-n, seven year past,
' There ^ the cat nis but a kitten the court is full aOing;'
Witness of Holy Writ, who so can read —
J'te tiriee ubi puer est rex Salamon,"
" Woe to thee, O Land, when thy king is a cluld!"
(Ecclesiastes x, 16), There is here one of the
pathetic echoes of this cry which blended with the
voice of England in our literature after young
Eichard II, became king. Langland apfilied his
fable of the belling of the cat to the power of
Edward III.'s son, John of Gaunt, the richest
noble in England, the \nelder of royal power in
the last yeare of his father's weakness, and one who
was believed to be looking forward to possession
of the thi'one. Detested by the commonalty, he
was the cat whom the rats and mice desiied to
bell. Langland's pai-able was a veiled suggestion
that no substantial gain was to be hoped Though
we might bell the cat, what of the kitten ? CoiUd
the misery of the land with John of Gaunt foiemcst
at court be less when it hiwl a cliild for king and its
princes ate in the morning ? What his dream of the
cat and the rats meant he said to his readers "divnne
ye, for I ne dare."
The misery of the land ! We have referred to the
burning and ravage of our coast towns at the close
of Edward III.'s reign. Langland has represented
country pi'iests pleading that they could not di-aw
livings out of congregations wasted and impoverished
by plague. Later reference to these pestilences, as
well as to a memorable high Avind, and to the treaty
of Bretigny, fix the year 1362 as about the time when
Langland began to write his Vision. The first two
of the great jjestilences of the fourteenth centiuy
were suffered by England in the yeai-s 1318-49
and 1360-Gl. The earlier of these, known as "the
Black Death " or " the Great Mortality," was, of all
plagues, the most desolating ever known in Eiuope.
It was said that the plague entered Italy ^vith a thick
foul mist from the east. Unseasonable weather had
caused general failure of crops. In the spring of
1347, before the plague, bread was being distributed
to the poor in Italian cities ; 94,000 twelve-oimce
loaves were given away daily from large public
bakehouses erected in Florence alone. Famine pre-
ceded pestilence; and of the famine many died. The
" Black Death " had raged on the northern .shores of
the Black Sea before it was brought thence to Con-
stantinople, Thence it passed, in 1347, to Cypnis,
Sicily, Mai-seiUes, and some of the seaports of Italy.
It spread over the Mediterranean islands, and reached
Avignon in Januaiy, 1348. Petrarch's Laura was
there among its victims. It spread through Italy
and France, was in Florence by April, passed into
Germany, entered England in August, but three
months then passed before it had reached London.
2 For-thi, therefore.
6 There, where.
80
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1362
In 1349 it v,'i\s sweeping over northern Europe, bnt
it did not reach Russia till 1351. Those were not
days of accurate statistics, and we may say nothing
of" the 23,S-t(),000 said to have died by this plague
in the East ; but of Western towns, civilised enougli
to have some notion of the number of their inhabi-
tants, Venice said that there perished 100,000 of her
people, or three-fourths of the whole population ;
Florence said she had lost 00,000 ; Avignon, 60,000;
Paris, .")0,000; London, 100,000; Norwich, 51,100;
Yarmouth, 7,052. In many places half the popula-
tion died ; some little towns and villages lost all by
death and flight. Of the Franciscan Friai-s in Ger-
many there were said to liave perished 124,434, and
iji Italy 30,000. Merchants sought favour of God
by laying down their treasiu'es at the altar ; monks
shunned the gifts for the contagion that they brought,
and closed their gates, and still had the vain riches
of this world throwai by despairing men over their
convent walls. In the Hotel Dieu at Paris, when
five hundred were dying daily, pious women. Sisters
of Charity, were about them with human ministra-
tions and woixls of divine consolation. These nurses
were perishing themselves daily of the disease from
which they would not flinch in the performance of
theii' duty ; and as they fell at theii- posts there
never was a want of other gentlewomen to press in
and carry on their sacred work. The Black Death
was followed in England by a murrain among cattle.
It has been estimated by a modern writer that this
great pestilence destroyed a fourth part of the in-
habitants of Europe.' The terror of this was fresh
when pestilence, which broke out again at Avignon
in 1360, was again scourging us in 1361. Of the
second pestilence it was observed that the richer
classes suffered bj' it in larger proportion than before.
We return to William's Vision of " all the wealth
of this world and the woe both." What means the
mountain and the murky dale and the field full of
folk, he will go on to show. From the Castle on the
hill came down to him a fair lady who called him by
his name,
" And said, ' Will, sleepest thou ? Seest thou this people
How Imsy they ben about the mase.'-
The most part of the people that passeth on this earth
Have they worship in this world they willon no better.
Of other heaven than here they holden no tale.' '
I was afeared of her face, though she fair were.
And said, ' Merci, madame ; ' what may this be to mean?'
' The tower upon toft,' ' quoth she. • Truth is therein.
And would that ye wrought as His word teaeheth.
For He is Father of Faith, and Former of All.
To be faithful to Him He gave you five wits
For to worshipen Him therewith while ye liven here.' "
He bade the elements sen^e man, and yield all that
man needed : three things only, clothing, and food, and
1 " The Black Death iu the Fourteenth Centiu-y." From the German
of I. F. C. Hecker, M.D., Professor at Frederick William's University
at Berlin. Translated by B. G, Babington, M.D. London, 1833.
- Masc, bewildemieut. ^ Xo (a If, no account.
* Mcrcit nindame. Pardon me, madame. — Courteous introduction
to the putting of a question.
5 Toft, a green knoll, a site on a hill cleared for building.
drink, without excess. Though you desu-e much.
Measure is medicine. All is not good for the spirit
that the body asks, nor is the flesh fed by that in
which the soul delights. Believe not thy body, for
the beguiling worfd speaks through it. Hear tlie
soid's warning when the flesh leagues with the fieiuL
"Ah, nm dame, merci," quoth I, "me Uketh weU your
words.
But the money of this mold that men so fast keepeth,
TeU ye me now to whom that treasure belongeth:-"
"Goto the Gospel," quoth she, "and see what God said
When the people apposed" him of a penny in the temple.
And (Jod asked of them what was the coin.
' Keddite C^sari,' said God, 'that to Caisar befalleth,
Et quie sunt Dei Deo," or else ye don iU.'
For rightfully Reason should rule you all
And Kind-wit be Warden yoiu- wealth to keep.
And tutor of your treasiure and take it you at need,
For husbandry and he holdeth together."
Then the di-eamer asked what was meant by the deep
dale and dark. That, he was told,
" That is the Castle of Care; whoso cometh therein
May ban that he bom was in body and in soul ;
Therein woneth'* a -wight, that Wrong is his name,
Father of Falsehood, found it tirst of all."
It was he wlio urged Eve to do ill ; who was the
counsellor of Cain; who tricked Judas with the silver
of the Jews, and hung him afterwards upon an elder-
tree. He is the hinderer of love, and lieth always ; he
betrayeth soonest tliem who trust in earthly treasure,
to encumber men vrith covetousness. That is his
nature. The dreamer next wondered who she was
that showed him such ^vise words of Holy Writ, and
asked her name. She said, "I am Holy-Church;.
tliou oughtest to know me. I received thee at the
fii-st, and made tliee a free man. Thou broughte.st
me siu-eties to fulfil my liidding, to believe in me and
love me all thy lifetime." Then he kneeled and a.sked
gi-ace of her, and sought her jirayei-s for liis amend-
ment, and that she would teach him to believe on
Christ. He sought to know of her no treasure but
that slie would only tell him how to save liis soul.
" ' ^^■^len all treasiu'es hen tried,' quoth she, ' Truth is the
best ;
I do it on Deus Caritas' to deem the sooth.
It is as dereworthy a druery '" as dear God himself.
For he that is true of his tongue and of his two hands
And doth the works therewith, and wilneth no man Ul,
He is a god by the Gospel, aground and aloft.
And like Our Lord also, by Saint Luke's words."
^ Apposed him, put to him.
' " Bender unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's, and unto God
the things that are God's." (Matthew iiii. 21.)
«' Woneth. dwelleth. First-Eusrlish " wimian," to dwell.
* Dci(j! Cai-itd.^, God is Love.
1" As dereirorlhti n dnirri;, as precious an object of affection. Dert.
vorthy, First-English " deo-wxu-the. Druery (Old French " druerie ").
love.
" Itwastold Jesus, "Thy mother and thy brethren stand without,
desiring to see thee. And he answered and said unto them. My
mother and my brethren are these which hear the word of God .an-)'
do it." (Luke viii. 20, 21.)
•to A.D. 1400.]
RELIGION.
81
Clerkes thnt knowcn, this should keimen it' about.
For Christian and Umhristian claimeu it each one.' "
Kings should rule for the maintenance of Tr\ith,
and knights be as those whom David swore to serve
Truth e\ er. The fair lady told the dreamer of the
faithful angels and the pride that laid Liicifer lowest
of all, with whom they that work evil shall dwell
after their death day. But all that have wrought
well shall go eastward to abide ever iti heaven, where
Truth is God's throne.
" ' Lere- it these lewcd men, for lettered it knoweth,
Than Truth and True Love is no treasure better.'
' I have no kind knowing,' quoth I, ' ye mote ken me
better
By what way it waxetb, and whether out of my meaning.'
' Thou doted dafi,' quoth she, ' dull aren thy wits.
I lieve thou leamedst too lite' Latia in thy youth.
Sen mi/ii, qnml sterihm dnxi vitum jurcnilem .' *
It is a kind knowing that kenncth in thine heart
For to love they Lord Uefest of all
And die rather than do any deadly sin.
Mi/iifs I'st mori t^itom )n(ile vivereJ*
And this I trow be Truth, whoso can teach thee better
Look thou suffer hiui to .say, and so thou might learn.
For Truth telleth that Love is triacle* for sin
And most sovereign siilve for soul and for bod)'.
Love is the plant of ])eace and most precious of virtues,
For Heaven might not holden it, so heavy it seemed.
Till it had of the earth eaten his fiU.
And when it had of this fold flesh and blood taken
Was never leaf upon lind'' lighter thereafter.' "
Love led thenceforth the angels ; Love was mediator
between God and Man. God the Father made us,
loved us, and suifei'ed His Son to die meekly for our
misdeeds to amend us all. He willed no woe to
his pei-secutors, but mildly with mouth he besought
Mercy to have pity on that people that pained him
to death.
" Forthi I ri 'de * you rich have pity on the poor.
Though ye be mighty to mote ' be meek in youi' works ;
The same measure that ye meteth, amiss or else.
Ye shall be weighed herewith when ye wenden hence.
Endem moisura qiin mc»si fneritis^ renieclefur voOis.^^
Though ye be true of yoiu- tongue, and truly win,
And be as cha.ste as a child that neither chides nor fighteth.
But if" ye love loyally and lend'- the poor
Of such good as God sent a goodly part,
Ye have no more merit in mass ne in hours "
' Kennen it, make it known. 2 2,ere, teach.
* Lite, little. First-Eniclisli " lyt," from which *' Ijrtel " was
formed by a diminutive suffix.
* Alas for me, that I have led a barren life in my youth.
5 It is better to die than to hve ill.
^ Triach, Theriaca, a very famous ancient antidote to poison. See
the volume of this Library- containing *' Shorter English Poems,"
page 21, Note 11,
' Linii, Hnden or lime-tree, applied also generally to a tree.
^ Ride, counsel.
^ Mighty to mote, powerful when you cite poorer men, or plead
against them in the law courts.
10 •' With what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you
again." (Matthew vii. 2 ; Luke vi. .38.)
u But if, unless. '- Lend, give.
'^ Hours, religious services for particular times of the day.
75
Than Malkin of her maidenhood, whom no man desireth.
For James the gentle judged in his books
That faith ^\-ithout fait ''' is feebler than nought,
And dead as a door naU but if the deeds foUow.
Fides sine operlbus mortua t's^.'^"
Many chaplains are chaste, but fail in charity. There
ai-e none harder and hungrier than men 01 Holy-
Church, more hard and avaricious when advanced,
and mikind to their kin and to all Cliristians. They
eat up what is theu's for charity, and chide for more.
Encumbered with covetousness they cannot creep out
of it, so closely has avarice hasped them together.
This is ill example to the unlearned people,
" For these aren wordes written in the Evangile
Date et daiitur robis^^ (for I deal " you all),
And that is the lock of Love that unlooseth Grace,
That comforteth all Christians encumbered with sin.
So Love is leech of life, and lysse "* of all pain,
And the graft of grace, and graythest " way to Heaven.
Forthi I may say as I said, by sight of the text,
^Mien all treasures ben tried, Truth is the best.
' Love it, ' quoth that Lady, ' let may I '-" no longer
To lere -' thee what Love is. Now loke thee -- Our Lord ! ' "
Then the dreamer knelt to the Lady, prajdng that
she yet would teach him to know Falsehood from
Truth. " Look on thy left hand," she said. " Lo,
■where he standeth ; both Falseness and Favel
(flattei-y) and fickle-tongued Liar, and many of theii-
mannere, both men and women." I looked, says Will,
on my left hand as the Lady taught me, and saw
there as it were a woman richly clothed and crowned.
On all her five fingere were rings with red nibies
and other precious stones. His heart was ravished by
her riches, and he asked her name. " That maiden,"
said Holy-Church, "is Meed" (earthly reward), "who
before kings and commons thwarts my teaching.
In the Pojie's palace she is privy as myself. Her
father is Favel, who has a fickle tongue that never
spoke truth since he came to earth ; and Meed is
mannered after him. I," Holy-Church went on,
"ought to be higher than she; my Father is the great
God and Ground of all Graces, One God, without
beginning, and I his good daughter. The man who
loveth me and followeth my will shall have grace and
a good end ; but he who loves Meed, I dare pledge my
life, shall lose for her love a lap full of charity. That
mo.st helps men to heaven; Meed most hinders: I rest
upon David's words, ' Lord, who shall abide in thy
tabernacle? He that walketh uprightly,' ifec, 'nor
taketh reward against the innocent.' 'lo-morrow is
this Meed to be married to the wretch Falseness, kin
to the Fiend ; Favel's tongue has enchanted her, and
1* Fait, something done.
1^ •■ Faith without works is dead." (James ii. 20.)
16 " Give, and it shall be given tmto you." (Luke vi. 38.)
■' De<il, distribute.
19 Lijsse, dismissal. First-English " liss," forgiveness, dismis.;ul,
grace, favour, comfort.
■' Grni/fhcsf, straightest. Icelandic " greitha," to make ready,
speed, further. " Greithit Drottins gotur," make straight the way of
the Lord" (Luke iii. 4).
-^ Let mau I. I may delay.
21 Lere, teach. '^ Loke thee, guard thee.
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[i.n. 1362
it is Liar's work that the Lady is thus wedded. Wait
now, and thou wilt see whom it pleases that Meed
should be thus married. Know, if thou canst, these
lovers of lordships, and avoid them all. Leave them
alone till Loyalty be judge, and have power to punish
them, then put thy reason forth." So the Lady left
"Will to his study of the life that was now crowding
upon his dream, commending him to Christ before she
left, nm\ bidding him never burden his conscience
for desire of Meed. He was left sleeping, and saw
in his dream how Meed was to be married, and saw
the rich folk, her relations, that were bidden to the
bridal — as sisours' and summoners,-' sherifis and their
clerks, beadles and bailiffs and brokers of ware,
victuallers, advocates of the Arches,^ a rout past
reckoning. But Simony and Civil Law and sisours
of counties seemed to be most intimate with Meed.
It was Favel who first brought her from her chamber
to be joined with Falseness ; Simony and Civil Law
assenting thereto at the prayer of Silver. Then Liar
leapt forth with a deed that had been given by Guile
to Falseness ; Simony and Civil Law unfolded it, and
thus it ran : —
" Seimit preseiites et fiitiiri: et cetera.
" Witen * iill and witnessen that wonen hero on earth
That Meed is y-mamed more for her richesse
Than for holiness or hendeness,* or for high kind.
Falseness is fain^ of her, for he wot' her rich.
And Favel hath with false speech feoffed' them by
this letter
To be Princes of Pride, and poverty to despise,
To backbiten and to boasten and bear false witness
To sconiie and to scolde, slanders to make
Both unbuxom' and bold, to break the ten bests.'"
The Earldom of Envy and Ire he them granteth
"With the Castle of Chest" and Chattering - out-of-
Eeason ;
The County of Covetise he consenteth unto both,
"With usury and avarice and other false sleithes '-
In bargains and in brokagcs,'^ with the borough of Theft
1 Si&o\irs, persons appointed to hold assizes.
2 Summoiier.?, sompuoiii's, apparitors. Persons who summoned
offenders befoi-e the ecclesiastical courts, and, as Chaucer shows, used
their position as means of estortion.
' Advocates of the Arches. The Archbishop of Canterbury's Co>u-t of
Appeal was called the Court of Arches because in ancient times it was
held in the church of St. Mary-le-Bow, Saucta Maria de -ircubus.
* Witen, know. " Know all and witness that dwell here on earth,"
&c.
5 Kendeness, urbanity. The word in its first sense is equivalent to
handiness. Handiness is ojjposed to clumsiness of the untauftht,
and implies therefore the civilised ways and courtesies of social life ;
urbanity as opposed to clownishness.
6 Fain (First-Ensrlish "feegen"), filad.
' VCot, knows. First-English "wat," from "witan."
8 Feoffed, endowed with property.
9 Uiibii-voni, unyielding. Buxom (First-English " buhsora "), from
"bugau," to bow — bowsorae — means pliant, the reverse of stiff and
obstinate. A busom woman is a woman without perversity, and I
suppose the modern notion that to be buxom is to be plump comes of
a popular association of fat with good temper.
" Hests, commandments. First-English "hatau," to command;
*' hae's," a command.
11 Chest (First-English " ceast "), strife, enmity.
" S!cit)i». slippery ways. First-English "slith," slippery, evil;
" slithan " ' and " slidan," to slide.
1^ Brokages, commissions. First-English " bruoan," to use, enjoy,
drnw nrofit.
And all the Lordship of Lechery in length and in
breadth,
As in works and in words and in waitings of eyes,
In weeds" and in wishings, and with idle thoughts
Where that will would and workmanship faileth.
Gluttony he givcth them, and Great Oaths together.
All day to di'ink at diverse tavernes
There to jangle and to jape and judge their em-
Cliristian, '°
And in fasting days to frete " ere full time were,
And then to sitten and soupen tiU sleep them assail,
And awake with wanhope," and no wiU to amend,
For they lieveth be'** lost, this is their last end;
And they to have and to hold, and their heirs after,
A Dwelling with the Devil and damned be for ever.
With all the purtenance of Purgatory and the pain
of Hell."
"Wrong was the name of the first witness to this
Deed, then followed Piers the Pardoner, Bette the
Beadle of Buckinghamshire, Raynold the Reve of
Rutland soken,'" Mund the Miller, and many more.
When Theology heard this, he was vexed and said to
Civil Law, " Now sorrow come to thee for contracting
marriages that anger Truth. Meed is the daughter
of Amends, and God grants her to Truth, but thou
hast given her to a beguiler. Thy text telleth thee
not so. Truth saith ' the Labourer is woithy of his
hire.' Yet thou hast bound her to Falseness. Fie
on thy law ! Thou livest all by leasings. Thou and
Simony shame Holy-Church. The notaries and ye
trouble the people. Ye shall pay for it, both of you.
Ye know well that Falseness is faithless and of
Beelzebub's kin ; but Meed is a well-born maiden who
might kiss the King for cousin if she would. Be wise
then. Take her to London where the law is taught,
and see whether any law will suffer them to come
together. But though the Justices adjudge her to
Falseness, yet beware of the wedding. Truth has
good wit, and Conscience is of his counsel and knows
each one of you, and if he find you wanting and in
league with Falseness it shall in the end be bitter to
your souls."
Civil Law agreed to this appeal to London ; but
Simony and the Notaries could agree to nothing until
they saw silver for it. Then Favel brought out
florins enough, and bade Guile give gold all about, and
s])ecially to the notaries that none of them might fail,
and fee False-Witness with florins enough, "For he
may master IMeed and make her subject to my will."
When the gold was gi\-en there was a great thanking
of Falseness and Favel, and many came to comfort
Falseness, saying to him softly, ""We shall ne\er rest
'* W'cfds, attire. Fu-st-Euglish " wae'd," clothing.
'■■ Em-Christian. In First-English "em." in composition meant
even or equal.
'« Frete, eat gi-eedily. First-English " fretan," eat up, devour, gnaw.
GeiTnan "fressen."
" Wanhope, despair. The First-English prefix "wau" meant de-
liciency, as in "waning" of light, in the word "wan" meaning
deficiency of colour, and in " want."
i« Lieveth he, believe themselves to be.
" Sol-en. First-English " socn," a lordship privileged by the king
to hold a " sue " or soke ; which was a court of the king's tenants or
suc-men autborised to minister justice or have jurisdiction, and whose
tenure w is tl erefore called " socagium " or socage-tenure
TO A.D. 1400.]
RELIGION.
83
luitil Meed be thy -wediled wife. For we have
mastered Meed with our smootli tongues, and slie
agrees to go to London, and has agreed to be married
for money, if Law so will judge." Then Favel was ghid
and Falseness was of good cheer, and the people on
all sides were summoned to be ready to go with them
to Westminster and honour the wedding. But they
had no horses. Then Guile set !Meed on a sheritf
newly shod. Falseness rode on a soft trotting sisour,
and Favel on a tinely-adorned flatterer. Frovisors'
were saddled as palfreys for Simony. Deans and sub-
deans. Archdeacons and other officials, were saddled
with silver to sufl'er all sins of the rout and carry
bishops; Liar was to be a long cart to carry friai's,
swindlei-s, and the rest who usually go afoot. So
they went forth together with GuUe for theii- guide,
and having Meed amongst them. Soothness saw
them on the way and .said nothing, but sjied before
to the King's court, where he told Conscience, and
Conscience told the King. The King swore that if he
caught Falseness or Fa\el, no man should bail them,
but they should be hanged. He bade a constable go
fetter Falseness and cut oft' Guile's head; put Liar in
pillory, if lie could catch him ; and bring Meed into
liis presence. Dread, who stood at the door, heaid
this doom, went nimbly to Falseness, and bade him
and liis fellows flee for fear. Falseness fled then to
the friai-s ; antl Guile was luu'rying ofl", when the
A Physician.
From the Statues outside thu Cloister of Majdalenc College, O-iford.
Merchants met him and kept him and took him into
theii- shops, where he was dressed as an apprentice
^ Provisors were persons whom the Pope nominated to livings that
were not yet vacant.
and displayed their wares. Liar leapt off" and found
no friends till the Pardoners took pity on him, brought
him into their house, washed him and clothed him,
and sent him on Sundays into the churches to sell
pardons by the pound. Then the physicians were
displeased, and wiote for Liar's help as an examiner of
watei-s. Spicers sought aid from his cunning in gums.
Minstrels met with him and kept him by them half a
year and eleven days. But the Friars by smooth
words got him amongst themselves. He may go
abroad in the world as much as he pleases, but is
sure always of a welcome home when he returns to
them.
Simony and Civil Law appealed to Eonie for grace.
But Conscience accused both to the King, and told him
that if the clergy did not amend, their covetousness
would pervert his kingdom and harm Holy-Church
for ever. So they all fled for fear, except the maiden
INIeed, who trembled, wept, and wrung her hands at
finding herself prisoner. The King bade a clerk take
charge of her and make her at ease. He would him-
self ask her whom she chose to wed, and if she
•answered wisely lie would forgive all her misdeeds.
The clerk took her courteously into a bower of bliss,
and sat down by her. There was mirth and min-
strelsy for her pleasure, and many woi'shipped her
who came to Westminster. Justices made haste to
the bower of this bride, and, by the clerk's leave,
comforted her, bidding her not mourn, for they would
manage the King and shape a way for her to go
whither she would, iu spite of all that Conscience
could do. Meed thanked them mildly, gave them
Suitors to Meed.
From a Brass at St. Margaret's, King's Lynn, A.D. 1364.
gold and silver cups, rubies and treasure. When
these were gone there came the clerks bidding her be
blithe, for they were her own to work her will while
their li^■es lasted. Meed promised her love to them,
said she would make them lords and Imy them
benefices, to have plurality, and those she loved should
be advanced where the most able limped behind.
Then came to her a Confessor coped as a Friar, and
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CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1362
offered, whatever her sins might be, to absolve her
for a load of wlieat, to hohl by her himself and put
down Conscience, if she liked, among kings, knights,
and clergy. Then Meed knelt to be shriven by him,
tohl liim a shameless tale, and gave him a noble that
he might be her bedesman, and might do her bidding
among knights and clerks to thwart Conscience. He
absolved her at once and said, " We ha^-e a window
in hand that will stand us iir a good sum : if you
will glaze the gable and set your name in it, we shall
sing for Meed solemnly at msiss and at matins as for
a sister of our order." Meed laughed and said,
" Friar, I shall be your friend, and never fail you as
long as you aid lords and ladies in their worldly
delights and do not rebuke them. Do that, and I
will roof your church and build your cloister, and
both windows and walls I will so mend and glaze
and paint and portray, that every man may see I am
a sister of your order." But, says the poet here in
his own person —
"Ac' God tj all good folk such graving defendeth,"
To writen in windows of any well-deeds.
Lest pride be painted there, and pomp of the world.
For God knoweth thy conscience and thy kind will,
Thy cost and their covetise, and who the eatel ought ^
For thy lief Lordes love, leaveth such writings,
God in the Gospel such graving not alloweth,
Ncsciat siitistra quid facial di-xtera.
Let not thy left half, Our Lord teacheth,
Ywif* what thou dealest with thy right .side."
Meed then pleaded with may ore, sheriffs, and Serjeants
against the putting in the pillory of bakers, brewers,
butchere, cooks and othere, who build themselves
high houses upon gains made by dishonesty in selling
by retail. Against such wrongers of the people the
poet, in his own pereon, speaks earnestly, but Meed
advises the mayor to take bribes from them and let
them cheat. To this the poet adds his reminder of
Solomon's threat against those who receive such gifts.
Fire shall devour their dwellings."
Then the King called Meed before him, gently
reproved her for following Guile and desiring to be
wedded wthout his consent, but forgave her on con-
dition of amendment. She must not again vex him
and Truth, lest she be imprisoned in Corfe Castle
or in a worse place.
" I have a knight," said the King, " named Con-
science, lately come from beyond the sea-s. If he be
willing to wed you, will you have him?"
" Yea, lord," said the Lady ; " Heaven forbid that
I should not be wholly at your command."
Then Conscience wa-s sunmioned to appear before
the King and his Council. He knelt and bowed
before the King, to know his will and what he was
to do.
" Wilt thou wed this maid, if I assent, for she is
fain of thy fellowship, and to be thy mate?"
' Ac, tut. 2 Dcfendeth, forWddeth.
3 WJio itie catel ought, who owns the property, to whom the goods
seized by the covetous really beloug.
* Twit, know.
* " For the con^egation of hypocrites shall be desolate, and fire
3haU consume the tabernacles of bribery." (Job xv. 34.)
Quoth Conscience to the King, "Christ forbid!
Woe betide me ere I wed such a wife. She is fraU
of her faitli and tickle of her speech, and niaketh men
misdo many score times. She misleads wives and
widows. She and Falseness caused your father's'^ fall.
She has poisoned Popes, she hurteth Holy-Church,"
and -^-ery many more of the great evils of the world
were charged, in his reply to the King, liy Conscience
against Meed.
" Nay, lord," quoth that Lady, " the \vi-ong lies
with him. Where mischief is greatest, Meed can
help. Thou, Conscience, well knowest that thou hast
hung on my neck eleven times for gold to give as
thee liked. Even now I might make thee more of
a man than thou knowest. Thou hast defamed me
foully here Ijefore the King. / never killed a king or
counselled a king's death, but saved myself and sixty
thousand lives here and in many laiuls. But thou
hast slackened many a man's will to burn and destroy
and beat down strength. Thou, Conscience, gavest
wretched counsel to the King to leave his heritage
of France in the enemy's hand.'^ A conquered king-
dom or duchy is not to be parted with, when so many
who fought to win it, and followed the king's will,
ask their shares. The least lad in the king's service,
when the land is won, looks after Lordship or other
large meed, whereby he may live as a man for ever-
more. That is the nature of a king who overcomes
his enemies; thus to helj> all his host, or else to grant
all that his men may win, for them to do their best
with. Therefore I advise no king to admit Con-
science to his counsels, if he wish to be a conqueror.
Were I a crowned king. Conscience should never be
my constable or marshal of my men when I must
tight. Had I, Meed, been his marshal in France, I
dare lay my life he would have been lord of the land
in length and breadth, and the least brat of his blood
a baron's peer.
" Unkindly thou. Conscience, counselled'st him thence
To let so his Lordship for a little money.
It becometh for a king that shall keep a realm
To give men meed that meekly him serveth.
To ahens, to all men, to honour them with gifts ;
Meed maketh him beloved, and for a man y-hold.
Emperors and earls and all manner lords
Through gifts have yeomen to run and to lide ;
The Pope and all prelates presents underfongen'
And give meed to men to maintain their laws ;
Serjeants for their serWce meed they ask
And take meed of their masters as they may accord ;
Beggars and bedesmen crave meed for their prayers ;
Minstrels for their minstrelsy, a meed thev ask ";
Jlasters that teach clerks crave for their meed ; '
Priests that preach and the people teach
Ask meed and mass-pence and their meat both ;
« Edward II.'s.
' \l\^ Treaty of Bretis-iiy, May 8th, 1360, Edward III -who. ir.
the w. hdrawal or retreat of his famiue-striken am.y from Paris, had
tZ Z '" ''l\^°"^f'='"^<' I'y ^ .?^eat thuuderstonn, and vowed n
^LmJstsfn ,"■'"'" '" *''" ^■■^'^'^ *''™"«=- -«^'''-<"i -11 tis
Poufht,, f ?r =""^ ^"'^'"'^ <"^«'-""" P™to"- Guieune, and
three r." " ' "" *''' ''''""' ^'"" "^ ^"'"<=« '<>' » ""^0- of
tnree million crowns.
8 Vnderfoiifien, receive.
TO i.D. 1400.1
RELIGION.
85
All k\Tie crafty men crave meed for their apprentices,
Jlerchandise and meed must needs go together
Is no lede' that liveth that he ne loveth meed,
And glad for to gripe her, great lord or poor.''
Then quoth the King to Conscience, " Meed deserves
mastery." But, " Nay," quoth Conscience to the
King, " clerks know the truth, thiit ]\Ieed is ever-
more a maintainer of Guile, as the Psalter sheweth.
There is besides Meed, Mercede, which is the just
hire for work done, but men give meed many a time
■where there is nothing earned. Payment for work
done is mercede, not meed. There is no meed in
merchandise, that is but exchange of a penny for a
pennyworth ; and if the King give lordship to his
liegeman, he does that for love, and may revoke the
gift." Conscience discussed more fully the difference
between Mercede and Meed who lirought Absalom
to hanging, and who caused Saul's kingdom to pass
from liiui. " The speaker of truth," said Conscience,
" is now blamed ; but I, Con.science, know this, that
Reason shall reign and Agag .shall suffer. Saul shall
be blamed and David diademed ; and each of us shall
be in the keejiing of a ChrLstian king.
" Shall no Meed be master never more after,
But love and lowness and loyalty together
Shall be masters on mold,'- true men to help."
Meed hinders the law by her large gifts,
" But Kind Love shall come yet and Conscience together.
And make of law a labourer, such love shall arise
And such peace among the people ; and a perfect truth.
That Jews shall ween in their wit and wax so glad
That their King be ycomc from the court of heaven,
Jloses or Jlessias, that men ben so true.
For all that boareth baselards, ' bright sword, or lance.
Axe or hatc'net, or any kynne weapon.
Shall be doomed to the death but if he do it smithie''
Into sickle or into scrthe, to share or to coulter.
Co)iJiabunt gladios .sues in vomt-rcs^ ct lanceas
sf«rs in fulixa.^
Each man to play with a plough, a pickaxo, or a spade,
Spinnen and speak of God, and spill no time."
To more prophesy from Isaiah of the day when war
shall cea.se on eai-th and God be truly kno^vn, Meed
replied with half a text from the Proverbs of Solomon,
and was confuted by the other half, with a comment
that she was like the woman who justified doing as
she pleased with the text, " Prove all things " at the
bottom of a leaf, and omitted to turn over the page
and read " Hold fast that which is good."
After all this argument the King Inule Conscience
kiss Meed. Conscience replied that he would rather
die than do so, unless Reason counselled him. " Then,"
' Is no leic, there is no man. First-Eut^lisb " leod."
2 On mold, on eartli.
* Baselards were Ions da2per3 worn in the ^dle. It was with a
baselard that Sir William Walworth stabbed Wat Tyler. The weapon
WQs worn by ci\ilian3 in Richard II. 's time.
* Bat if he do it smithie, unless he cause it to be forged.
' " They shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears
into pruning-hooks." (Isaiah ii. 4.)
said the King, " ride away quickly, and fetch Reason.
He shall rule my realm, and advise me concerning
jMeed and other things, tell me to whom she is to be
wedded, and take account with you, Conscience, as
to your dealings with my people, learned and un-
learned." Conscience then rode off gladly to Reason
and gave the King's message.
" ' I shall array me to ride," quoth Reason, ' rest thou
awhile': —
And called Cato his knave, courteous of speech.
And also Tom True-Tongue-tell-mo-no-tales-
Ne-leasings-to-laugh-of-for-I-loved-it-never,
And set my saddle upon Suifcr-till-I-see-my-time
Let warroke^ him well with Advise-thee-before,
For it is the wone'' of Will t'o wince and to kick.''
Then Conscience and Reason rode together, talking
of the mastery of Meed at court, ^yaryll Wiseman
and his fellow Wilyman were fain to follow that they
might take counsel of Reason for record before the
King and Conscience in case they had a plaint against
Wilyman and Wittiman and Waryn Wringlaw. But
Conscience knew them well, and said to Reason,
" Hither come servants of Covetise. Ride forth. Sir
Reason, and reck not of their tales ; for they will
abide where wrath and wrangling is, but love and
loyalty are not after then- hearts. They wU do more
for a dinner or a dozen capons than for our Lord's
love. Then Reason rode forth, and did not look
back till he met the King. Then came the King,
says the poet, and gi'eeted Sir Reason courteously,
and set him between himself and his son.
When the poem was begun, in 1.362 or 13G3,
Edward III.'s son and heir, the Black Prince, still
lived, and the imajre of the sovereign enthroning
Reason between himself and his heir was, of coui-se,
not altered when change, caused by the death of the
King's son, led to the covert reference to tjranny of
John of Gaunt and danger from Richard's youth, in
the inserted fable about Ijelling the cat. To have
then written in this part of the jwem gi-andson for
son would have implied a direct identifying of the
King in the allegory with the King of England,
which would have been equally bad in art and
policy.
The King, then, set Sir Reason between himself
and his son, and for a long while they spoke wise
words together. Then came Peiice into parliament,
and put up a bill showing all the \-iolent misdeeds of
Wrong. " No women are safe from him, he takes my
geese, my pigs, my grass. Because of his fellowsliip,"
said Peace, " I dare not carry silver to the feir upon
St. Giles's do\vn. He is bold to borrow, bad to pay.
He borrowed my horse Bayard, which never was
returned or paid for. He maintains men to murder
my sei-vants, breaks my barn-dooi-s, and carries ofl
my wheat. Because of him, I scarcely ventui-e to
look up."
The King knew this to be true, for Conscience told
him that Wrong was a wicked man who worked much
woe. Then Wrong besought help of Wisdom, looked
6 Warroke, girth. First-English " wear " and " wearh," a knot.
' Wone, custom.
86
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1362
to Men of Law, and offered them large pay for their
lielp. " With your help," he said, " I should care
little for Peace, though he complained for ever."
Then Wisdom and Wit went together, and took
Meed with them to win mercy.
" Yet Peace put forth liis head, and his pan • bloody ;
' Without guilt, God wot. got I this scathe ;
Conscience knoweth it well and all the true commons.' "
Bkeaeino the Head of Peace.
From tlie Capital to a Ciiistur of Columns iti Wdls Cathedral.
Wiles and Wit went about to bribe the King, if
they could ; but the King swore that Wrong should
suffer, and eommaniled a constable to cast him in
irons where he should not for seven years see feet or
hands. A wise one said, " That is not best. Let
him have bail if lie can make amends." Wit seconded
this. Meed meekly sought mercy,
' ' And proffered Peace a present all of pure gold ;
' Have this, man, of me,' quoth she, ' to amend thy
scathe ;
For I will wage - for Wrong he will do so no more.'
Piteously Peace then prayedc the King
To have mercy on that man that many times grieved him —
' For he hath waged me well, as Wisdom him taught :
Meed hath made mine amends ; I may no more aslcen.
So all my claims ben quit, by so the King assent.' "
The King answered that if Wrong escaped so lightly,
be would laugh and be bolder. " He shall lie in the
stocks so long as I live, unless Reason have ruth of
Mm."
Then some besought Reason to take pity on Wrong,
proWded jNIeed were bail for him. Reason bade them
not counsel him to pity — until lords and ladies all
loved truth, Pernel locked up her iinery, spoilt
^ Pan, crown. Sweedish "panna," tlie skull, head.
2 Wage, enarage, be surety.
children were chastised, the poor were clothed out of
the luxury of the clergy, monks and friai-s kept to
their strict rule, and learned men lived as they
taught ; till the King's coimsel is all for the profit
of the Commons; till liishops become bakers, brewei-s,
tailors for all manner of men as they find need, and
Saint James is sought not in pilgrimages to Gallicia,
Init where the sick poor lie in their prison.s and their
wretched homes ; till the Rome-runners carry no
more of the King's silver over sea, coined or un-
coined : and yet, he said, I will have no ruth upon
Wrong, while Meed masters the pleadings. " Were
I," said Reason, " a crowned king, never wrong that
I knew of shoidd go unpunished if within my power,
upon peril of my soul ; nor should it get my grace by
any gift or glosing speech. By Mary of Heaven, I
would do no mercy for Meed. For nullum nudum
should be impunitum, and ntdliim boniim irremiine-
ratum? Let your confessor. Sir King, construe thi-<
into English, 'and if you work it out into deeds, Law
may turn labourer and cast dung to the field, while
Love shall lead thy land as thee lief liketh."
Confessors coupled themselves together to translate
this Latin. Meed winked at the lawyers that by
subtle speech they miglit put down Reason, of whom
all ju.st men said that he spoke truth, while Conscience
and Kind- Wit courteously thanked him. Love made
light of Meed and Loyalty less. Whoever wedded
her, they said, would be betrayed. Meed mourned
when she was scorned, and a sisour and a summoner
led her away softly from the judgment-hall. A
sherift'.s clerk proclaimed that she was to be taken
into safe custody, but not imprisoned. The King
then took counsel with Conscience and Reason,
looked with anger on Meed, frowned on the Men of
Law as hiuderers of truth, and declared that, if he
reigned any while. Reason should reckon with them,
and judge them as they deserved. .He would have
loyalty for his law, and an end of jangling. His law
should be administered V)y leal men, who were holy
of their lives.
Conscience said it would be hard to bring mattere
to that without help of the Commons.
Reason declared that all realms could be brought
under his rule.
"I would it were well about," said the King,
" and, therefore. Reason, you shall not ride hence. I
make thee my chief Chancellor in the E.xchequer
and the Parliament, and Conscience shall be as the
King's Judge in all the courts." "I assent," said
Reason, " if thou thyself hear both sides between
Lords and Commons, and send no avpersedeas, or seal
no private letters with unfitting sufferance ; I assent,
and I dare lay my life that Lo^■e will furnish you
with more silver than all the Lombards." The King
was commanding Conscience to discharge all his
officers, and appoint those whom Reason loved, when
William awoke from the fii-st dream of his Vision.
■ In the first form of the earlier part of the Vision
the poet grieved when awake that he had not slept
lietter and seen more, walked a furlong on over the
Malvern Hills, sat down, babbled on his beads, and
^ No evil sLould go imijuaished, and no good uurewarded.
TO A.D. 1400.]
RELIGIOISr.
87
slept again. That when he began the poem he was
;it home on Malvern Hills may be inferred from his
change in the manner of prefacing the second dream
when in after yeais he recast his work. He went to
slee|i on Malvern Hills, and awoke, he then said, to
find himself li'sdng on Cornhill, Kit and he in a cot.
He was clothed as an idler, and yet not much of an
idler, for he wrote about such men as Eeason taught
him. For as he came by Conscience he met Eeason,
ill a hot harvest time when he had health and limbs
lor labour but loved to fare well and do nothing but
tlrink and sleep. Then he represents Reason asking
him what work he did in the world ; and the lesson
of Duty which allows no true man to be " a loller "
is assocuited with those answers from Will, already
referred to, which indicate what was his work in
London. Reason then bade him begin at once a life
that should be loyal to the soul. " Yea, and con-
tinue," quoth Conscience. And to the kiik. Will
says, he went to honour God, weeping and wailing
for his sins, until he slept.
These new incidents served as a natural mtroduc-
tion to the second dream. In this there was again
seen the field full of folk from end to end, and
Eeason and Conscience, by whom he himself had
just been counselled, were there among the stir of
men. Eeason clothed as a Pope, with Conscience
for cross-bearer, stood before the King, and before
all the realm
" Preached and proved that these pestilences
Was for pure sin, to punish the people ;
And the south-west wind on Saturday at eve
Was pertehch ' for pride, and for no point else.
Pines- and plum-trees were puffed to the earth
In ensample to syggen ' us we should do better ;
Beeches and broad oaks were blown to the ground
And turned upward their tiiil in tokening of dread
That deadly sin ere doomsday should foredo us all.'
The south-west wind here spoken of blew, in pestilence
time, on Saturday, the 15th of January, 1362 (new
style), and among other things that it blew down
was the spLre of Xoi-wdch Cathedi'al. The gale must
have been fresh in the minds of the people when it
was joined with the pestilence in Reason's warning to
the jaeople to flee from the ^^■l■ath of God, and the
allusion to it helps to determine the time when Lang-
land began his poem.
Reason, thus preaching, bade Wasters go work for
their food and lose no time, prayed Pernel (Petronilla)
to lock up her embroideiy, taught Thomas Stow to
fetch liis wife out of disgrace, and warned Wat that
his wife was to blame, for her head-gear was worth
half a mark and his hood not a groat. He charged
Bet to cut a bough or two and beat Betty her maid
if she would not work, and merchants as they became
rich not to withhold from their children due correc-
tion ; for the wise man wrote '• Spare the rod and spoil
the child." Then he prayed prelates and priests to
prove in themselves their preaching to the people:
^ Pertdich, apertly, openly, nmnifestly. Latin *' apertus," open,
* Piries, pear-trees. Latin " pyrus."
' Syggen, say to. First-En^lisli " secgan," to say.
" Live ye as ye lereth ■* us, we shalleth lieve you the
bettei'." And then he bade Religion hold her rule;
for Gregory the Great had said that a monk out of
ride is a tish out of water.
•' For if heaven be on this earth or any ease for soul.
It is in cloister or in school, by many skills * 1 find.
For in cloister cometh no man to chide ne to fight,
In school is love and lowness and liking to learn.
As many day men tellcth, both monks and canons
Han ride out of array, their nile evil y-hold,
And pricked about on palfreys from places to manors,
An heap of hounds at his [back] as he a lord were ;
And but his knave kneel that shall his cup hold
He looketh all louring and • Lurdane I ' ^ him caUeth.
Little had lords ado to give land from their heirs
To rehgious that han no ruth though it rain on their
altars.
In places where these persons be by themselves at ease
Of the poor han they no pity, that is their pure charity."
Then foUows a passage that, in the years next follow-
ing the reign of Henry VIII., was looked upon by
the reformer as giving to Langlaud's poem almost
the dignity of prophecy. I give it without change
of spelling : —
"Ac 3ut shal come a k}-ng and confesse 30W aUe
And bete 30W, as the byble telleth for brekyng of 30ure
reule,
And amende 30W monkes, moniales, and chanons.
And put 30W to 3oure penaunce ad pristiniim station ire J
And barons and here barnes blame 30W and reprove ;
Mil in cun'ibus ^ hi in t-qnis : ipai obligati annt^ et
etcidcrunt.^
Freres in here freitom'' shulle fynde that t^nne
Bred withoute begg\-nge to lyue by euere after.
And C'onstantjTi shal be here cook and couerer of here
churche.
For the Abbot of Engelande '" and the abbesse hys neee
Shullen bane a knok on here crounes and incurable the
wounde.
Contrivit dominus baculum impiortim, virgam domi-
naneiitm, plaga inmnabiti}^
Ac er that kyng come, as cronycles me tolde,
Clerkus and holy chui-che shal be clothed newe."
Reason went on in his sei-mon to counsel the King
to love his Commons : —
" ' For the comune ys the Kj-nges tresour. Conscience
wot wel ;
And also,' quath Eeson, 'ich rede'^ 30W riche
And comuners to a-corden in aUe kynne treuthe.
Let no kj-nne consail ne couetyse 30W depai'te
• lerrtJi, teach. ' S'n'Js, reasons.
e LurdMne, worthless fellow. Frencli " lourdin."
■ To go to your former state : be as you were at your foundation.
8 "Some trust in chariots and some in horses. . . . They are
brought do*n and fallen." (Psalm xx. 7, 8.)
9 Hci-e/reif&ur, their convent. Here, their.
10 In an earlier version it was the "Abbot of Abingdon," who
should have " a knock of a king."
11 " The Lord hath broken the staff of the wicked, and the sceptre
of the rulers . . . with a continual sti-oke " (Isaiah liv. 5, 6).
Langland's quotations are from the Vulgate, then in use.
12 Rcie^ counsel.
88
CASSKLL'S LIBEARY OF ENGLISH LITEKATURE.
[a.d. 13C2
That on wit and on wil alli- 30uru wardes kurp.
Lol in htucne an hy' was an holy comune
Til Lucifir the lyoro leyuid- th;it hi,-m-selue
"Were wittyour and woi-thioui- than he th;it was hns
niaistcr.
Hold 30W in vnito, and he that other wolde
Ys eauBc of alle combraunee to cont'ounde a reame.'
And siththen' he prcide the Tope haue pite of Holy-
ehnrehe,
And no ^-ue to graunte til good loue were
Amoni; alle kynne kyngcs oner cristene puple.
'Comaunde that alle eonfessours that eny kynge
shvyueth,
Enio\"ne hem j)ees for here penaunce and perpetual
for3euenei*se
Of alle manere aeciouns, and eche man loue other.
And 3e that seeheth Seint lame and seyntes of Rome,
Secheth seinte Treuthe in siiuaeion of 3oure saules:
Qui cum piihf I'l Jiliu that fain- hem by-faUe
Thiit suweth^ m\' Kinuon.' And thus ended Reason."
Wlien Reason Lad done preaching, Repentance went
among the throng, and made Will weep and Pernel
Prondheart stretch lierself Hat on the earth. It
was long ere she looked np and cried npon the Lord
for mercy. Pernel |iersonifying Pride, with her
Ijegan the repentant confessions of the Seven Deadly
Sins, which classify homely suggestions of the evil
that is in the world. After Pride came Envy to con-
fession, after En\'y Wrath, dweller with men who
delight in harming one another. Prelates and friara
are at war, and .so Wnith keeps them in dispute.
One of Wrath's aunts is a nun, another an abbess ;
he has been cook in their kitchen and made their
pottage of jangles. The sistei's sit and dispute initil
" Thou liest ! " and "Thou liest I " be lady over them all.
Wrath sits in the wives' pews. " The parson knows
how little I lo^e Lettice at the Stile, my heart was
changed towards her from the time when she was
before me at sacrament to take the holy bread. I
don't care to live among monks, for they eat more fish
than flesh, and drink weak ale ; but otherwhile when
wme cometh and when I drink late I have a flux of
a foul mouth well tive days after." " Now repent
thee !" quoth Repentance, ''and be sober; "and absolved
him, and bade him i)ray to God by His help to amend.
Luxury next came to confession and repentance ;
then Avarice in a torn tabard of twelve years old,
who was once apprentice to Sim at the StUe,-' where
he learned to lie and to use false weights. He went
with his master's gooils to the fair at Winchester or
Weyliill, and his wares would have gone unsold for
seven years had Guile not heljied hinr. A\arice told
of tricks of trade learnt from the drapers ; how his
\vife, Rose the Regrater, wo^ e, and paid the .spinsters
by false weight for their work uiwn the wool ; how
1 .fin hy, on high.
* Leinud, helieved.
3 SitWien, after that.
* Thai su\ceth, that follow, or act according to. French ** suivre."
5 Sim at the StUe. In another version he is " Sim atte noke,"
equivalent to " atteu oke," at the oak : here use happens to be made
of the answerini^ phrase for a hypothetical dweUing-place " at the
stile." Both forms remain in the phrase "Jack Nokes and Tom
Stiles." See. just before. " Letfice at the Stile."
she was brewster too, and played tricks with her
ales.
"Didst thou never make restitution f quoth Re-
pentance.
" Yes," said Avarice ; " I w;is lodged once with a
company of chajtmen, and when they were asleep, I
got up and rifled their bags."
" That was a rueful restitution," quoth Repent-
ance, "forsooth. Thou wilt hang high for it, here
or in hell. Usedst thou ever usury in all thy
lifetime V
" Nay, oidy in my youth, when I learned among
the Lombards to clii> coin, and took pledges of more
worth than the money lent. I lent to those who
would lose their money ; they bought time. I have
lent to lords and ladies that loved me never after.
I have made a knight of many a mercer."
" By the rood," said Repentance, " thine heLrs
shall have no joy in the silver thou leavest. The
Pope and all his pardonere cannot absolve thee of
thy sins unless thou make restitution."
" I won my goods," Avarice went on, " by false
words and false devices. I am rich through Guile
and Glosing. If my neighbour had anything more
profitable than mine, I used all my wit to find
how I might have it. And if it could be had no
other way, at last I stole it, or shook liis purse
privily, unpicked his locks. And if I went to the
plough, I j)inched on his half acre, so that I got a
foot of land or a furrow of my neighbour's eai-th ;
and if I reaped, I bade my reaper's put their sickle
into that I never sowed. On holy days when I went
to church, I mourned not for my sins, but for any
worldly good that I had lost. Though I did deadly
sin, it less troubled me than money lent and lost, or
long in being paid. And if a servant was at Bniges
to await my profit and trade with my money, neither
matins nor mass, nor penance performed, nor pater-
noster said, could comfort the mind that was more in
my goods than in God's grace and His great might."
"Now," quoth Repentance, "ti-uly I "have ruth of
your way of li\-ing. Were I a fiiar, "in good faith, for
all the gold on earth, I would not clothe me or take a
meal's meat of thy goods, if my heart knew thee to be
as thou sayest. I would rather live on water-cresses
than be fed and kept on false men's ^\-iintings. Thou
art an unnatural creature. I cannot absolve thee
until thou have made, according to thy might, to all
men restitution. All that have of tliy goods are
bound at the high day of doom to help thee to
restore. The priest that takes thy tithe shall take
his part with thee in purgatoiy and help pay thy
debt, if he knew thee to be a thief when he received
thine oSering."
Then there was a Welshman named Evan Yield-
agam, who said in great sorrow that though he
were left without livehhood, he would restore to
every one, before he went thence, all that he had
won from lum wickedly. Robert the Rifler looked
on Medchfe " and wept sorely, because he had not
wherewith to make restitution ; and he prayed with
tears to Chi-ist, who pitied Dismas his brother,
« BtddiU, Eestore ! Seddere, to restore.
TO A.D. 1400.
RELIGION.
89
the repentant tliief upon the cross, to rue on ]iim,
Robert, who had not Beddere, and never hoped to
come by it tlirough any craft he knew. " By the
rood," said Repentance, " thou art on the way to
heaven if that be in thy heart which I hear upon
thy tongue —
" ' Trust in his mochel mercy and 3et might thou be saved.
For all the \\Tetchedness of this world, and wicked deeds,
Fareth as a fork of fire that fell emid Temese
And died for a drop of water ; so doth all sins
Of all manner men that with good will
Couf essen hem and crien mercy : shullen never come in heU.'
Omnia iniquitds fjiiond miserkordiam dei est quasi
»eiiifilla in medio maris?-
' Repent thee anon ! ' quoth Repentance, right so to the
usurer,
' And have His Mercy in mind.' ''
After Avaiice came Ghittony in like manner to
Repentance, and confessed his e\"il ways. On his
way to church on a Friday fiist-<lay, when he passed
tlie house of Betty the brewster, she bade him good
morrow, and asked whither he went.
" To holy church," he said, '■ to hear mass, and
then sit and be shiiven, and sin no more."
" I have good ale, gossip Glutton, wilt thou
assay V
" Wliat hast thou ?" quoth he. "Any hot spices V
" I have pepper and peony-seed, and a pound of
garlic, a fai-thing's worth of fennel-seed for fasting
days."
Then goeth Glutton in, and Great-oaths after. Ciss
the sem]).stress sat on the bench, Wat the warrener
and his wife di'unk, Tom the tinker and two of his
boys. Hick the haekneyman and Hugh the needier,
Clarice of Cock Lane, the Clerk of the church. Sir
Piercy Pridie and Pernel of Flanders, Daw the
ditcher, with a dozen idle lads of portere and of
pick-pur.ses and of i>Ll]ed tooth-<lra\\ei-s. A ribiboiu-^
and a ratcatcher, a raker and his boy, a roper and a
riding-king, and Rose the disher, Godfrey the garlic-
monger, Gi-iffith the Welshman, and a heap of
upholdei-s early in the morning gave Glutton with
glad clieer good ale for hansel. Clement the colibler
cast ofl' his cloak and put it up at New Fail'. ' Hick
the haekneyman threw his hood after, and bade Bet
the butcher be on his side. Chapmen were chosen to
appraise the goods. Then arose gi-eat disputing and
a heap of oaths, each seeking to get the better of
the other, till Robin the roper was named umpii-e to
end the dispute. Hick the haekneyman had the
* All Tuiquity in relation to tlie Mercy of God is as a spark iu tlie
midst of tlie sea.
* RUjihoHY, player on the relteek. or mde country fiddle.
^ There was in 1297 a mart called the New Fair in Soper Lane.
Cheapside, and others like it were called " ETe-chepings." They
were for the sort of barter still jiopular amon^ schoolboys as "swap-
ping." Something is offered in exchange against some other thing.
and if necessar,v something else mnst be thrown in to make the
exchange equal. New Fair is iu our day carried on through papers
devoted to the satisfaction of a taste for " swapping " among grown-up
boys and girls. Clement the cobbler has many descendants who
coutribute to them, and manage exchanges more politely than their
ancestor, by inserting and answering advertisements like this : —
"Wanted, lady's large new dark brown soft felt hat, broad biim.
Zichaiige swausdown mnff and collarette. — 7116 P."
76
cloak, in covenant that Clement should fiU the cup
and liave the hackne}Tnan's hood, and hold himself
satisfied ; and whoever fii-st repented should arise
after and greet Sir Glutton with a gallon of ale.
Then follows a lively picture of Glutton's druiiken-
ness, and his being helped home by Clement the
cobbler. His wife put him to bed, where he slept all
Saturday and Sunday, and the fii-st words he said
when he woke were, '• Who holds the bowl ]" His
wife and his conscience rebuked him of sin; he
became ashamed, shrove himself to Repentance, and
cried, " Have mercy on me, thou Lord that art on
high. To thee, God, I Glutton, yield me guilty
of my tresjia-ss with the tongue, swearing, I cannot
tell how often, by ' thy Soul ' and by ' thy Sides,'
and ' so help me God Almighty !' where no need was,
many times falsely ; I have over-supped myself at
supj)er, and sometimes eaten at dinner more than
nature could digest, I cannot speak for shame of
my filthiness. Before noon on fast-days I fed me
with ale out of reason, among ribalds to hear their
ribaldry. Hereof, good God, gi-ant me forgiveness of
all my ill li\-ing in all my lifetime,"
Sloth, deserilied with the same homely truth as
really ,seen and known among the people, came to
Repentance after Gluttony, and completed the em-
bodiment of the chief misdeeds of the world in the
confessions of the Seven Deadly Sins, Then Repent-
ance prayed for all the penitents, and after the prayer
of Repentance, Hope blew on a horn " Blessed is he
whose transgi'ession is forgiven," till all the saints
joined with the sinnei'S in the song of David, " O
Lord, Thou preservest man and beast. How excel-
lent is Thy loving-kindness, O God !"
Then thronged a thousand men together, crying
upward to Christ and to his pure mother, that they
misht have inace to find Ti-iith. But there was none
who knew the way, Thej- went astray like beasts
over the brooks and hills.
They met a Palmer^ in his pilgrim's weeds, with
bowl and bag and vernicle, and asked liim "Whence
he came V " From Sinai," he said, " and from the
Sepulchre, I have been to Bethlehem and Babylon,
to Annenia, Alexandria, Damascus, You may see
by the tokens in my cap that I have been to shrines
of good saints for my soul's health, and walked full
■widely in wet and in dry,"
" Knowest thou," they asked him, " of a saint
that men call Tiiith ; and could'st thou show us the
way to where he dwells,"
" Nay," said the man then, " I never knew of
palmer with staff and scrip, who ever asked after
him before, until now in this place."
" 'Peter!'* quoth a Plowman, and put forth his head
• I know- him as kindly' as clerks don their books,
* The Palmer was one who visited the shrines of many saints.
Living upon the way by charity, his bowl was for what he found to
drink, his bag for bread and meat that might be given to him. The
vernicle, worn with other tokens in the cap, was a little cop.v of the
miraculous transfer of the face of Christ to the handkerchief offered
him by St. Veronica when lie was bearing his own cross to Calvary.
5 " Peter I " was a coininon exclamation in the fourteenth century.
It has perhaps a designed fitness in the iutroducingof Piers Plowman.
Peter being the rock on whom Christ built his Church.
' Kinilx), naturally. " Kind," nature.
90
CASSELL'S LIBRAEY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1362
1
Conscifncc and Kind- wit ' kenned me to his place
And maked me sykeren him- siththcn to serve him for
ever,
Both to sowo and to settcn, the while I swink^ might,
Within and without to wayten'' his profit.
I have been his follower all these forty winter.
And served Truth soothly, somdel to payc.'
In all kj-nne craftes that he couth devise
Profitable to the plough, he put me to learn ;
And though I say it myself I served him to paye.
I have mine hire of him well, and otherwhile more ;
He is most prest" payer that any poor man knoweth.
He withholds non hcwe ' his hire over even ;
He is low as a Iamb, and leal of his tongiii',
And whoso wilncth to wite'' where that Truth woneth'
I will wissen'" you well light to his place."
In tliis maimer Piers the Plowman first appears
in tlie Vision. In tlie field full of folk " working
and wandering as the world asketh," rejientant men
turn from the ills of life, look uj) to God, and seek for
Truth. Those who toil in the mere form of search,
but want its soul, know nothing of theLr need and
cannot help. But what is hidden from the wise of this
world God has revealed to the humble. " Whosoever
would be chief among you let him be your servant,
even as the Son of Man came not to be ministered
luito, but to minister." Under the figure, therefore,
of the Plowman, faithful to his day's labour, the
poet first introduces the humility that becomes ser-
vant to Truth. Once introduced, the Plo\vman pre-
sently rises to his place in the poem as a type of
Christ himself
The pilgrims to Truth offered meed to Piers for
showing them the way; but he set that aside and
freely told them that they mnst all go through Meek-
ness, till they came to Conscience, known to God
Himself, and loyally" love him as their lord; that
is, they must rather die than do any deadly sin, and
must in nowise hurt their neighbours or do otherwise
to them than they would have them do to themselves.
Then as they followed the brook they would find the
ford Honour-your-fathers ; therein they should wade
and wash them well. Then they would come to
Swear-not-but-for-need, and by the croft Covet-not,
from which they must be careful to take notliing away.
Near by it are two stocks, Steal-not and Slay-not,
but do not stay there; strike on to the hill Bear-no-
false-witness, through a forest of florins. Pluck there
no plant, on peril of thy soul ! Next they would
see Say-sooth, and by that way come to a court
clear as the sun ; the moat is of Mercy, and the
walls are of Wit that Will cannot win ; the battle-
ments are of Christendom, the buttresses are of
Believe-so-or-thou-be'st-uot-saved. The houses are
1 Kind-Kit, natural knowledge. 2 Si.ilcercn him. give him surety.
^ Siiiiifc, labour. * Wayten, watcli after.
^ Somdet (o paijc, in some part to Lis content. To pai/c, to his plea-
siire. Latin " pacare," to satisfy.
« Pi-cst, ready. French " pret."
' Hcwe, servant. First-English "hiwan," domestics.
8 Wiic, know. 9 iro?if(;i, dwells.
"> Wissen (First-English " ivissian "), to show the way.
" The word Ual or loyal qualifying love throughout Piers Plowman
and otherwise used, has always its first sense o£ obedience to or
accordance with just law.
roofed, not with lead, but all with love and loyalty ;
the bars are of buxomness as brethren of one body,
the bridge is Pray-well-and-the-better-speed. Each
jiillar is of penance and prayers to saints; alms-
deeds are the hinges of the gates, which are kept by
Grace and his man Amend-you. " Say to him this for
token, ' I am sorry for my sins, so shall I e\'er be, and
I perform the penance that the priest commanded.'
Ride to Amend-you, humble youi-selves to his master
Grace to open the liigh gate of Heaven that Adam
and Eve shut against us all. Through Eve that
gate was closed, and through the Virgin Mary it is
opened. She hath a latchkey, and can lead in whom
she loveth. If Grace grant thee to enter in this wise,
thou shalt see Truth where he sits in thine o-svn heart,
and solaces tiij soul and saves thee from pain. Also
charge Charity to build a temple within thine whole
heart, to lodge therein all Truth and find all manner
of folk food for their souls, if Love and Loyalty and
Our Law be true. Beware then of Wrath, for he
has envy against him who sitteth in thine heai-t and
urges Pride in thee to praise thyself If thy well-
being make thee bold and blind, thou wilt be driven
out and the gate locked and latched against thee, so
that thou maye.st not enter again for a hundred yeare.
To that place belong Seven Sisters, who serve Truth
ever, and are porters at the postern. They are
Abstuience, Humility, Charity, Chastity, Patience,
Peace, and Liberality. Unless one be sib'- to these
seven it is hard to enter in at the gate unless Grace
be the more."
"I have no kin among them," said a cut>purse;
" Nor I," said an ape-ward ; " Nor I," said a wafer
maker. "Yes," said Piers Plowman, and urged
them all to good: "Mercy is a maid there who
hath might over them all, and she and her Son are
sib to all the sinful. Through the help of these two
ye may get grace there, if ye go betimes." " Yea,"
quoth one, " I have bought a piece of gronnd, and
now must I thither to see how I like it," and took
leave of Piers. Another said, " I have bought five
yoke of oxen, and therefore I must go with a good
will at once to drive them ; therefore, I pray you.
Piers, if peradventure you meet Truth, so tell him,
that I may be excused." Then there was one named
Active, who said, " I have married a wife who is
changeable of mood, and if I were out of her sight for
a fortnight she would lour on me and say I loved
another. Therefore, Piers Plowman, I pray thee
tell Truth I cannot come, because my Kit so cleaves
to me. Uxorem duxi et. ideo non jjossum venire." ^^
Quoth Contemjilation, " Though I suffer care, famine,
and want, yet will I follow Piers. But the way is so
difiicult that, without a guide to go with us, we may
take a wrong turning."
Then saitl Piers Plowman, " I have a half acre to
plough by the highway. Had I ploughed that half-
acre and sowed seed in it, I would goNvith you and
teach the way."
;' That will delay us a long time," said a lady in a
veil. " Wliat shall we women do meanwhile %"
■ " Sf^'.f^'^tf'- I'iist-EngHsh" sib," peace, relationship: so Gossip
IS God-sib, related in God, sponsor in baptism
'■' See Luke liv. 18—20.
A.D. 1400.]
RELIGION.
91
" I pray you," said Piere, " for your own profit,
that some sew the sack to pi-event shedding of the
wheat; and ye worthy women who work on fiiae silk
witli your long fingers, work at tit times chasubles
for chaplains to do honour to the church ; wives and
widows spin wool and flax, Conscience bids you
make cloth for profit of the poor and pleasaunce of
yourselves. For I shall feed them, unless the earth
fail, as long as I live, for our Lord's love in heaven.
And all manner of men whom this earth sustains,
help me, your food-winner, to work vigorously."
Quoth a knight, " He counsels the best. I never
was taught to drive a team. I wish I could. I
should like to try some time, as it were, for
pleasure."
" Surely, Sii- Knight," said Piere then, " I shall toil
and sow for us both, and labour for thee wliile thou
livest, on condition that thou keep Holy-Chui-ch and
myself from wasters and wicked men who destroy
this woi-ld. Go boldly to hunt the be:ists that break
my hedges, and fly falcons at the wild fowl that
defile my corn."
Tlien said the Knight, " According to my power,
Piei-s ; I plight my troth fiiithfully to defend thee,
and fight for thee if need be."
The Knight.
From the Ahhmj Church at Teiekeshury.
Then the Knight was warned also to respect his
bondmen, and remember that before God it was hard
to distinguish knight from kiaave or queen from
quean. Ranks might be reversed, when to the lowly
it would be said, " Friend, go up higher." The
knight is bound to be com-teous and avoid the com-
pany of idle chatterers who help the devil to draw
men to sin. The Knight promised for himself and
his wife to obey his conscience and work as Piers
directed.
Then Piers apparelled himself to go as a pilgrim
with those who sought Truth; he liung his seed-
basket on his neck instead of a scrip, and a bushel
of bread-corn was within, " For I will sow it myself,"
he said, " and then we will go upon our joiiruey.
My plough-foot shall be my staff to help my coidter
to cut and cleanse the furrows, and all who help me
to plough and to weed shall have leave, by our Lord,
to go and glean after, and Ije merry therewith, grudge
who may. And I shall feed all true men who live
faithfully ; not Jack the juggler, Daniel the dice-
player, Robin Ribakl, Friar "Paitour,' and folk of
that order."
Piers had a wife, Dame Work-when-time-is, and
the names of his son and daughter mean Obedience.
Piere made a ^\•ill, leaving his body to the Church,
to his wife and children all that he had truly earned.
Debts he had none. He always bare home what he
borrowed ere he went to bed.
Then Piers went to the ploughing of his half-acre
by the roadside, and had many to help. At high
prime Piers let the plough stand to see who wrought
best ; he should be hii-ed thereafter when harvest-
time came. Some sat and sang at the ale, helping
to iJough the half-acre with " Hoy, trolly lolly ! "
When urged to work with the threat that not a
grain should gladden them in time of need, they
pleaded that they were blind, or lame, and could not
work : " But we pray for you. Piers, and for your
plough too, that God of his grace will multiply
your grain and reward you for yoiu- almesse that j'e
give us here. We have no limbs to labour with, we
thank the Lord."
" Your prayers would help, I hope, if ye were
true," said Piere, " but Truth wills that there be no
feigning among those who beg. I fear ye are wastere,
who devour what loyal toil has raised out of the
land. But the halt, the blind, the prisonere .shall
eat my corn and share my cloth."
Then one of the Wasters offered to fight with
Piere Plo\vman, and spoke to him contemptuously.
Another came bragging, and said, " Will thou or
nill thou, we will have our will, and fetch thy meat
and flour whenever we like to make us merry."
Piere looked to the Knight for lielp. The Knight
warned Waster courteously that if he did not amend
liis way he must be beaten, and set in the stocks.
" I was never used to work," said Waster, " and
I will not begin now." So he took little heed of
the law, and less of the Knight, and set Piers at
defiance.
Then Piers fetched Hunger to punish these mis-
doers. Hunger soon seized Waster by the throat,
^v^^lng him by the lielly till his eyes watei-ed, and
buffeted him about the cheeks till he looked like a
lanthona all his life after. Piers had to pray off
Hunger with a loaf of jiease-bread. " Hunger, have
mercy on him," said Piers, " and let me give him
1 Faitonr, Make-believe.
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[A.D. 1362
beans. What was baked for tlie horse may sa\e
him." Tlicn tlie feigner.s were afeared, and How to
Piers's barns, and threslied with their flails so stoutly
from morning to evening that Hunger was afraid to
look on them. Hermits eut tiieir eojies into short
coats, took si)ad(^s, s|>read dung, weeded, for dread of
their death, such strokes gave Hungtjr. Friars of all
five orders worked, for fear of Hunger. Piers was
glad, and was sending Hunger away, but asked
counsel of him first ; since many were at work for
fear of famine, not for love.
" Tiiith," said Piers, " taught me once to love
them all ; teach me, Sir Hunger, how to master
them, and make them love the labour for their
living."
Hunger advised that tlie able-bodied who avoided
work should be fed only with the bread of dogs and
horses. " Give them beans. If any oliject, bid him
Go, work ; and he shall sup the sweeter when he
hath deserved."
Hvmger (juoted many words of Scri]itm-e in su])port
of his argmnent that men were born to work. They
should not eat till Hunger sent hLs sauce, or let Sir
Surfeit sit by them at table. If men did thus,
Physic should sell his furred hood for his fbod,
"And Icrac labore with londo lostc lyf^odo hym f;iile.
Ther arcn meny luthero ' loeches, and Icle lechos fcwe ;
Thci don men dpye - thorgh here ' drjTikes er destinye hit
wolde."
PieJ-s said that Hunger was right, and bade fare-
well; but Hunger would not go till he had dined. It
was not yet harvest, and there was nothing to be
had but a little curds and cream, an oat-cake, a few
loaves of beans and j)ease, parsley, onions, half-red
cherries, a cow and her calf, and a cart^mare. But
the poor people l)rouglit what they could to feed
Hiuiger, who ate all in haste, and asked for more.
But when it was harvest-time, and the new corn was
in, Hunger ate and was satisfied, and went away.
And then the beggars would eat only the tiuest bread,
they would take no halfpenny ale — only the best and
brownest that the brewstei-s .sell. Labourers, who
had only their hands to live by, would not dine
upon worts more than one night old, or penny ale
and a piece of bacon, but niust have fresh meat and
fish, hot, and hotter, because their stomachs were
a-cold. Tli(!y would chide if they had not high
wages, and curse the laws ; but they strove not so
when Hunger frowned upon them. Here the poet,
reading signs of tiie stars according to the astrology
tliat formed part of the undoubted science of his day,
warned his countrymen, by the aspect of Saturn,
that Hunger was coming back ; for famine and pesti-
lence were on the way to them again. It was a sad
prediction which, in those days, must needs be ful-
filled. Tlie next of the great pestilences followed a
sore famine in 1.S82.
Truth iieard of these things, and sent to bid Piei's
till the earth ; granting a full pardon to him and all
1 Liithere, bad. Fir.st-Eugl'Bh "latli," evil, whence oitr *
2 Dofi ifwu fleijc, cause men to die.
3 Hen; their.
loathe."
who in any way helped at his ploughing : to kings
and knights who defended him ; to bishops if they
were loyal and full of love, merciful to the meek,
mild to the good, severe to the bad men of whatever
rank when they would not amend; to merchants
who earned honestly and made a right use of tlieii-
gain, repairing the Iiospitals, mending the highways,
helping the fatherless, the poor, the prisoner, helping
also to bring the young to school. " Do this," said
Truth, " and I myself shall send you Michael, mine
angel, that no fiend shall hurt you, and your souls
shall come to where I dwell, and there abide in bliss
for ever and ever." Then the merchants wept for
joy, and prayed for Piers Plowman. It was ill with
lawyers who would not plead unpaid, but well -with
them if they would plead for the innocent poor and
comfort them, and maintain their cause against in-
justice of the strong. There follows upon Truth's
message a tender picture of the sorrows of the poor
mother of many children, whose spinning barely pays
the rent of the low cot, the cost of milk and meal
to feed the little ones who hunger as she is hunger-
ing herself : —
" And woe in winter-time with waking a-nights
To rise to the rucl,' to rock the cradle.
Both to card and to comb, to clouten ° and to wash,
To nil) and to rely,'' rushes to pilie,'
That ruth is to read other' in rymo shewi>
The woe of these women that woneth in cotes."
Still dwelling upon love as the Cfnupaiiion of
labour, the po(^t touches on the secret sorrows of poor
men, who will not beg or complain or make their
need known to their neighbours ; whose craft is all
tlieii- substance, bringing in few pence to clothe and
feed those whom they love ; to whom a farthing's
worth of mussels is a fast-day feast. To help and
comfort such as these, and crooked men and blind, is
charity indeed. But beggars with their bags, whose
church is the brewhouse ; if they be not halt, or blind,
or sick, if they be idlers who deceive ; leave them to
work or starve. And those who wander wanting wit,
— the lunatics and lepers, to whom cold and heat are
as one, and who walk moneyless far and wide, as
Peter and Paul did, though they preach not nor work
miracles,— to my conscience, it is as if God, giver of
wit and health, had sent forth these also as His
apostles, without bread and bag and begging of no
nian, reverencing no man more than another for his
dignity, to draw from us love and mercy. They are
heaven's minstrels : men give gold to all manner of
minstrels in the name of great lords. Rather, ye rich,
should ye help with your goods these minstrels of
God, whose sins are hid under His secret seal, than
the idlers and unlearned eremites who come into the
house to rest them and to roa.st them with their
backs to the fire, and leave when they will, to go
next where they are most likely to find a round of
bacon. These eremites worked till they found out
* Rud, the spiuning-wheel.
^ Cioiifon, patch.
* Rdy^ reel.
' Pilic, peel.
* Other, or.
TO A.D. 1400.]
RELIGION.
93
that feigners in friar's clothing liad fat cheeks,
men may truly be called lollers.
Such
"As by English of our elders, of old men teaching,
He that lolleth is lame, or his leg is out of joint,
Or maimed in some member, for to mischief it soimdeth.
And right so soothly such manner eremites
LoUen agen the Belief and Law of Holy -Church."
Because be is a friar, lie sits at meat with the first
wlio once sat at a side-bench and second table, tasted
no wine all the week, had neither blanket on his bed
nor white bread before him. The fault is witli
bishops who allow such sins to reign. " Simon, why
sleepcst thou ? To watch were better, for thou hast
gieat charge. For many strong wolves are broken
into the fold ; thy dogs are all blind, thy sheep are
scattered, thy dogs dare not bark. They have an ill
tar, their salve is of stipersedeas in the Summoner's
boxes. Thy sheep are nearly all scabbed ; the wolf
teal's away theii' wool. Ho, shepherd ! Where is
thy dog r'
To such exhortation a priest answered by calling
upon Piers to show the form of the Pardon Truth
had sent him. Piers unfolded it, and showed it to
them all. There were but two lines in it :
** Qui bona egerunt ibtint In vitam cternam;
Qui vero mala. In It^iiein (CternHin." *
"Peter!" cpioth a priest then, "I can find no
pai'don here ! Nothing but
" Do well and Have well, and God shall have thy soul ,
Do ill and have ill, and hope thou none other
But he that iU Uveth shall have an ill end."
Thus the prie.st disputed with Piei-s about the
Pardon, and with their words, says the Dreamer, I
awoke, and saw the sun far in the south, and wan-
dered a mile over Malvern Hills musing upon this
(h-eam. Wliat meant Piers Plowman by the Pardon
where%vith he would gladden the peojjle t what meant
the priest by his contention that it was no pardon
at all 1 and the dream seemed to him to mean
" that Do-weU Indulgences passede,
Bionnals and triennals and bishops' letters.
For whoso doth well here, at the day of doom
Worth faire underfong before God that time.
So Do-wel passeth Pardon and Pilgrimages to Rome.
Yet hath the Pope power pardon to gi-ant
As lettered men us lereth - and Law of Holy-Chui'ch.
And so I beheve loyally, lords forbid else.
That pardon and penance and prayers do save
Souls that hare sinned seven siths^ deadly.
Ac< to triLsten upon triennals, truly me thinketh.
Is not so sicker for the Soul certes as is Dowel.
Forthi ich rede you renkes^ that rich ben on this earth
Up trist' of your treasure triennals to have
Be ye never the bolder to break the ten bests.
' The reference is to Matthew xjv. H — *6. ^ Lereth, teach.
3 Siths, times. * Ac, but.
' Therefore I counsel you men. ' Up irust, upon trust.
And namclii'he' yc mai,stres, mayors, and judges
That ban the wealth of this world, and wise men ben hold,"
To purchase you pardon and the Pope's bulls,
At the dreadful day of doom when dead men shullen rise,
And comeu all before Christ accounts to yield
How we had our life here and his laws kept,
And how we did day by day, the doom will rehearse :
A poke' full of pardon there, ne provincials' letter.s,
Though we be foimd in fraternity of all five orders.
And have indulgences doublefold, but '" Do-wel us help,
I set by pardon not a pea nother a pye-heel.
Forthi ich counsel all Christians to cry God mercy
And llary his mother be our mene" to Him,
That God give us grace here, ere we go hence,
Such works to work while we ben here
That after oui- death day Do-wel rehearse
At the day of doom, we did as he taught. Amen."
Thus ends, with the second dream, the tirst part of
the Vision of Piers Plowman, which I am dwelling
on the more fully because the book is not yet read
and known as widely as it ought to be, and because
there is no other work of the fourteenth centuiy that
shows so vividly the life of England in those days,
and in the midst of all its ills, the i-ising spirit of a
Reformation that sought grace of God in calling eveiy
man — king, knight, jjiiest, merchant, peasant — to his
Duty. Langland opposed no doctiines then accepted
by bis Church. He joins in testimony to the general
cori-uptioii of the friars, but finds many monks true
to their vows ; the place held by the Virgin jNIary in
the mediaeval Church he gave her without question,
and he did not contradict what the Church taught
concerning the Pope's power to gi-ant indulgences.
Obey Holy-Church, he says, but trast not in what
money can buy. A bagfull of pardons wUl surely
help you less at the Last Day, than grace of God
obtained by prayer to Him with tme penitence
shown by undoing of the evil done, and labom- to
do well all one's life after. He has no faith in the
religion of Say-well who turns bis back upon well-
doing, or in a love of God that does not show itself
by love of man and deeds of mercy. He looks to
Christ, and bids men strive to read their duty in the
pure light of our Saviour's teaching.
The second part of bis poem— styled in MSS.
the vision concerning Dowel — Langland began by
representing himself thus robed iii itisset, roaming
about all a summer season in search of Dowel. He
asked of many where be might be found, and met on
a Friday two Franciscan friars.
"You travel much about," he said, "in princes'
palaces and poor men's cots. TeU me where Dowel
dwells."
" He is one of us friai-s," said one ; " always has
been, and I bojie always ^vill be."
" Nay," said Will, " even the just sins seven times
a day. He cannot always be at home with you."
"I will explain to you, my son," said a friar,
"how we sin seven times a day and have Dowel.
If a man be in a boat on the wild sea of the world,
7 Nameliche, especially. ' Ben hoU, are esteemed.
9 Folic, hag. First-English " pocca," ijocket, a little bag.
10 jjut unless. " Our nune, our mediator.
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CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1362
and stumLle and fall seven times a day, if his
fall be within the boat he is safe and sound. Man
has also free will and free wit to row out of sin."
" I cannot follow tliat," said Will. " We acknow-
ledge Christ wlio died upon the cross," said the friar ;
and Will said, "May he save you from mischance,
and wive nie !,'i-ace to die with a good end."
Then he went farther in a wilderness by a wood-
side, and pleasure of the bii-ds' songs caused him to
lie under a tree and listen to theii- lays and lovely
notes until he slept, and dreamt. In this his thii-d
dream came to liim a man like to himself and called
him by Ids name.
" ' What art thou f ' quoth I, ' that my name knowest ? '
'That wotst thou, AViU,' quoth he, ' and no wight bettor.'
' Wot I ? ' quoth I ; ' Who art thou ?' ' Thought,' said he
then,
'I have thee sewed' this seven year. Seih- thou me no
rather ■■ '
'Art thou Thought?' quoth I then, 'thou couthest me
wisse '
Where that Dowel dwelleth, and do'' me to know.'
' Dowel and Debet,' quoth he, ' and Dobest the third,
Beeth thi-ee fair vii-tues, and beeth not far to find.
■WTioso is true of his tongue and of liis two hands,
And through leal laboiu- liveth and loveth his emchristian.*
And thereto is true of his tale iind halt* well his hands,
Not dronkolewe ne deynous,' Dowel him folweth.
Dobet doth all tliis, ac yet he doth more :
He is low as a lamb and lovely of speech,
And hclpeth heartily all men of that he may spare.
The bags and the by-girdles he hath to-broke them all
That the Earl Avarous held and his heii-s,
And of JIammon's money made him many friends,
And is run into religion, and rendreth his Bible,
And preacheth to the people Saint Paul's words :
Libeiifer siijfirtis uis'ipieiites, cum sitis ipsi snpientes.^
" Ye worldliche wise unwise that ye suffer,
Lene them' and love them," this Latin is to mean.
Dobest bear should the bishop's cross
And hale with the hooked end ill men to good.
And with the point put down prevaricnfores hyls,'"
Lords that liven as them lust and no law acountcn.
For their muck and their meublo " such men thinken
That no bishop .should their bidding withsit.'-
But Dobest should not dreaden them, but do as God
highte,i3
Nolite timcre cos qui possunt occidere corpus}* ' "
And these three have crowned a king with sole
power over the lives of those who vriW not do as
• ScircJ, followed. ' Seih . . . rather, sawest . . . sooner.
> Wisse, direct. ' Do. make, cause.
5 Emchristian, even or equal Christian : tellow-Clmstian.
^ Half, holds. " Bcttnous, disdainful.
8 "Ye sulfer fools gladly, seeing ye yourselves are ^^-ise." (2 Cor.
xi. 19.)
5 Lene them, give to them ; that is, give to them of yoiu: knowledge.
10 Prevaricators of the law. " JfcuMc, furniture.
1-' Withstt, withstand ; set himself against.
'3 Hiijhte, commanded.
" •' Fear not them which kill the body." (Matthew s. 28.J
Dobest taught ; have crowned one to be king and
rule all realms according to then- teaching, but no
otherwise than as those three assented.' The Dreamer
thanked Thought for liis teaching, but w;i.s not yet
satisfied. He would go farther and learn more about
Dowel, Dobet, and Dobest. Thought directed hiin to
Wit (knowledge). None in the kingdom could tell
him better than Wit where those three dwelt. So
Thought and the Dreamer went together until they
met wth Wit.
" He was long and lean, like to none other,
Was no pride in his apparel, nor poverty neither,
Sad of his semblant, with a soft speech."
The Dreamer, afraid to address him, caused Thought
to inquire for him where Dowel, Dobet, and Dobest
dwell, what lives they live, what laws they use, and
what they dread and fear.
" ' Sir- Dowel dwelleth,' quoth Wit, ' not a day hence
In a castle that Kind made of fom- kyne things ;
Of Earth of Air it is made, medled '* together,
With Wind and AVater wittily en-joined.
Kind hath closed therein craftily withal
A leman that he loveth well, like to himself,
Aiiimn she hatte,'* to her hath envy
A proud pricker of France, rrinnps li iijus Miiiidi,^''
And wo\dd win her away with wiles if he might.
And Kind knoweth this well, and keepeth her the better,
And dooth her with >Sir Dowel, Duke of these JIarches.
Dobet is her damsel, Sir Dowel's daughter.
To serve that Lady leally both late and rathe.'^
Dobest is above both, a bishop's peer.
And by his lering '" is led that ilk Lady Anima.
The constable of that castle that keepeth them all
Is a wise knight withal, Su- Inwit -" he hatte.
And hath five fair sons by his first wife.
Sir Seewell, Sir Saywell, Sir Hearwell the hcnde.
Sir Work-well -wth-thine-hand, a wight-' man of
strength,
And Sir Goodfaith Gowell, great lords all.
These five ben ysett for to sauye Aiiiina--
Till Kind come or send and keep her himself.' "
"And who is Kindl" asked Will. Wit then
descrilied him as the Creator of all things, Lord of
Light and Life, who made man in His image, that
sin hides from us as clouds obscure the sun. In%vit
(Conscience) lives in the head ; Anima lives in the
heart. Wit added in new fonii the direct lessons of
human love and duty, and dwelt on the relations
between husband and wife that should be founded
upon higher love than that of money, and have issue
in peace, not in contention. But Wit himself had
Study for his wife, and she contended with him for
giving his wisdom to fools,
".Vnd said, XoH miftere, ye men, margerie-pearU
Amonge hogges that haven haws at will."
1= milei, mixed. is Amrm she halte, the Soul she is called.
>■ The Prince of this World. i» K„()if early
" ^'•"■"S- teaching. jo j-„„.;,_ conscience. '
Wight, vigorous. 22 Appomted to keep Anima safe.
TO A.D. 1400.]
RELIGION.
95
The woi'ld, she said, loves land and loidship more
than all the saints can teach. Thvough her the poet
paints contempt of trae leanmig in clerks who argue
lilindly of the Trinity and send the poor shivering
;ind stanTng from theu- gates. Were not the poor
more merciful to one another, many would go unfed.
Pride is so much enhanced that men's prayei-s have
no power to stay these pestUences. Men now want
cli;u-ity, are gay and gluttonous. Beware, Dame
Study said to Wit her husliand, beware of showing
Holy Writ to swine. Wit laughed and bowed to his
wife, and looked at the Dreamer as inviting Mm to
will her gi'ace. The Dreamer bowed, and very cour-
teously prayed that she would teach him to know
what Dowel is. For his meekness, she said, and his
mild sjieech, she would introduce him to her cousin
Clergy, who has Study's sister Scriptm-e (wiitten
knowledge) for his vnSe. By their undei-staucUng
and coimsel he should come to know Dowel. The
Dreamer asked the way to Clergy's home, and was
bidden to go by the highway to Sufler-both-weal-and-
much-woe, and then ride on through Riches ^^■ithout
tarrying. " WTien you come to Clergy, say it was
I who taught his Avife. Many men," said Dame
Study, " have been tiught by me, but Theology has
vexed me ten-score times.
" The more I muse thereon the mistier it seemeth.
And the deeper I dive the darker mcthinketh it.
It is no science soothly, but a soothfast belief,
Ac for it lereth' men to love, I believe thereon the
better."
"WHien Clergy was foimd, he told the Dreamer that
if he coveted Dowel he must keep the Ten Com-
mandments and believe in Christ. If man's -nit
coidd not doubt e^-idence of the revealed mysteries
of God, there would be no merit in Faith. Belief
and Loyalty and Love make Dowel, Dobet, and
Dobest. "
Then Clergy's wife. Scripture (written knowledge)
scorned the questioner, and looked to Clergy to get
rid of him ; saying ia Latin, " !Maiiy know many
things, and not themselves."
The Dreamer wept for woe and awoke, and slept
again, and passed into another — the fouilli — ckeam
of the Vision.
He dreamt that Fortime took him to the Land of
Longing and Love, and bade him look into a MiiTor
of the World. " Here," she said, " thou may'st see
wondere, and know that which thou covetest to
know." Fortime had two fair maidens following her,
named Lust^of-Flesh and Covetise-of-Eyes. Pride-of-
Perfect-living also followed him fast, and bade him
make light of Clergy's teaching. The two maidens
offered him their comfort, but there w;us one named
Eld (old age), hea^y of cheer, who warned hini that
he should find Fortune fail him at his need, and that
he would then be forsaken by her daughtei-s.
"Tea, never reck thee," said Recklessness, who
stood forth in ragged clothes, "it is a for way yet
to Eld."
Sii- Wanhope (Despair) was sib to Recklessness,
J Ac for it lereth, but because it teachetli.
and said, " Go I to hell or heaven, I shall not go
alone. If all be tiaie that Clergy and ScrijJture say,
there's not a lord or lady on earth who shall see God
in his bliss. The Church says that Solomon and
Aiistotle are in hell ; that Mary Magdalene and the
repentant thief are in heaven. A little of God's
grace is better than much learning of Clergy and
Sci-ipture. Clerks who are most learned can forfeit
the heaven that poor loyal labourers and tillers of
the soil reach with a Pater Noster. God disposes."
Then chUdish Recklessness drew the Dreamer to-
wards the daughtei-s of Fortune ; he thought no more
of Dowel and Dobet ; he cared no more for Clergy
and his counsel.
"Alas!" said Eld and Holiness both, " that Wit
should become wi-etchedness, when Wealth has all
his will!"
But Covetise-of-Eyes solaced the Dreamer, and
said, " So thou be rich, have no conscience how thou
come to good. Confess to a friar, and tliou'rt soon
absolved."
He did so ; but Fortune presently became his
foe, and Poverty pui-sued him. Then he went to
the friar, and could get no absolution without
silver. "Why frown'st thou at this friar]" a-sked
Loyalty. "Because he flattered me when I was rich,
and will not look upon me now." Here Loyalty
gave counsel, and Scripture enforced it ^vith texts,
setting forth the grace of God to those who faith-
fully bear poverty and trials upon earth. Poverty
walks in peace, um-obbed among the ijlimderere.
Poverty Jesus chose. The poor may be as having
nothing, yet possessing all things. The poet dwells
at length upon the consolations of the mieucum-
bered poor. Recklessness argued against Clergy
imtU Nature came to Clergy's help, and showed how
the beasts follow Reason, while men alone ride away
from Reason recklessly. The bii-ds patiently build
theii- nests, and hatch theii- yomig ; the flowei-s
yield their tit colour and perfume. The Dreamer
asked of Reason why he did not rather govern
man than beasts. "Ask not," said Reason, '• what I
suffer from those who sin against me. Who is more
long-suffering than God ? Be patient. Rule thy
tongue. Pi-aise God, and know that none lives with-
out crime."
The Dreamer then awoke, and gi-ieved that he had
slept no more. " Sleeping," he said, " I might have
found Dowel. Waking, I never shall."
After this fourth dream of the Vision, while Will
mourned, there came to him one who told him that
if he had been patient, even though but in a dream,
he would have heard Reason contii-m the teaching of
Clergy. For his pride and presumption of perfect
lining, Reason refused to sfciy with him. He had
been brought to shame for rea.soning against Reason.
The new counsellor was Imaginative, who said he
had followed him these forty yeai-s, and often taught
him about Dowel; coimselling that to beguile no man,
neither to he, nor to waste time, nor to hurt any
ti-ue thing, to live humbly, and obey the Church is
Dowel ; but to love and to give, living a good life in
faith, is called Caritas, Kind Love in English, that
is Dobet. In different forms, in short, there is one
lesson : Dowel is the life of truth and justice that
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[A.D. 1362
shoukl be natural to man ; Dobet rises within him-
self above simple equity, to the ,-i-ace of a trae
Chi-istian charity and self-denial ; Dobest multiplies
in others these blessinss, represses evil in the world,
calls forth its good, is the human head of the Churcli
when he fulfils his duty, and is, above all, the divme
Head of the Church, who wipes out the sins ot the
peoijle, and brings many to salvation.
Imi.crinative tells the Dreamer of the giaee oi God,
of the right use of learning, and of the attention due
from the unlearned to those who bring them know-
ledo-e It is well with the lowly who seek heaven.
The peacock's taU hindei-s his flying, and he is harsh
of voice. Many a man's riches are as the peacocks
taU. The lark is a smaller bird, but he is sweeter of
song, sweeter of savour, and swifter of wing :
" To low livin<? men the lark is resembled.
And to leal and to life-holy that loven aU truth."
To heathen men who had loved all truth they knew
or could discover, Langland makes Imaginative apply
the sayintr of the lord to the steward in Christ s
parable of the talents, "Thou hast been faithful
over a few tilings, I will make thee ruler over
laiiy
thiucrs."
" And that is love and large hire, if the lord be true.
And courtesy more than covenant was, what so clerks
ciu-pcn.
For all worth' as (k)d will— and therewith he vanished.'
The Dreamer awoke, and mused upon his dreaming
till he slept again. In this, his sixth dream, Con-
science and Clergy came to him and bade him rise
and roam, for he should dine with Reason. To the
allegorical dinner
"Patience as a poor thing came and prayed meat for
charity,
Ylike to Piers I'lowm.in."
The Dreamer sat with Patience at a side table,
served with the sour bread of Penitence and the
drink of Long Perseverance. Will was grieved at
the gluttony of a doctor at the high dais, whom
he luid heard preach three days ago at St. Paul's,
of the penance through which Paul and all who
sought heaven attained its joy. He wondered why
the^ doctor never preached of "perils among false
brethren." But (ac), he says,
"Ac me is loth, tliough I I.iitin know, to lacky^ any sect.
For all we ben brethren, though wi: be diversely clothed."
Yet this doctor with the great cheeks hath no pity
on the poor. Let him be asked, when he is full,
said Patience, what penance is ; and whether Dobet
do any penance. Presently this doctor, ruddy as a
rose betran to cough and convei-se. " What is Dowel,
Sir Doctor 1" quoth I. "Is Dobet any penance i"
« Dowel!" quoth this Doctor, and he drank after,
"Do thy neighbour no harm nor thyself neither.
then dost thou well and wisely." " Certes, sii-," then
said I " in that ye divide not with the poor ye pass
not do well, and do not live as our Lord would,
who hath visiteil and redeemed his people. ihen
Conscience courteously asked the Doctor concerning
Dowel and Dobet. " Do well," he replied, " is do
as the doctors tell you ; Dobet is travail to teach
others ; and he that doth as he teacheth I hokl it
for a Dobest." Then Conscience asked Clergy also,
"What is Dowel?" "Have me excused," quoth
Clercy; "for me that shall remain a question of
the schools, for love of Piers the Plowman, who has
rejected all kinds of learning and craft—
" Save love and loyalty and lowness of heart.
And no te.xt taketh to prove this for true
But Dt/it/e Diiim ct 2)roxwiim^and Bomiiie /iiiis hahitahit in
lubentiieiilo, kc.,*
And proveth by pure skill imperfect all things,
Kciiio l)o)ius,^
But leal Love and Truth, that loth is to be yfound."
Quoth Piers the Plowman, " P(ilieiite.t< viuaint..""
Suddenly here breaks in the voice of Piers the Plow-
man, "Bisce, doce, dilige. Leam, teach, and love
God and thine enemy; help him with all thy might;
heap coals of gentle words upon his head ; give to
him again and again in the day of his need ; lay on
him thus with love until he laughs, and if he do not
yield him to this beating, blind he must be." And
when he had said thus no man knew what was
become of Piers the Plowman, so privily he went.
Reason ran after and went with him, l)ut no others
except Conscience and Clergy. Then Patience saiil,
when Piers had passed from them, " They who love
loyally covet but little. I could win all France if I
would, without any bloodshedding. Fatteuten vincunt.
Neither poverty nor malice, heat nor hail, can hurt
the man who has taken Patience to his bosom. Per-
fect love casteth out fear. Live as thou teachest,
and the world is at thy feet." " This is all dido,"
said the Doctor. "All the -wit of this world and
strength of the strong cannot make a Peace between
the Pope and his enemies that shall be profitable to
both parties." Will noticed that Conscience soon
([uitted this doctor and said to Clergy, " I would
liever, if I shotild live, have patience perfectly than
half thy pack of books. I ^vill depart, therefore,
with Patience to find Perfectness." So they went
their way, and, with great will, the Dreamer followed.
They talked by the way of Dowel and met Hawkiii
the Active man, a baker of wafer-bread, who said he
was prentice to Piers Plowman, for the comfort of
all people. He was very poor, and wished the I'o]>e
might bear in his mouth mercy and amend us all ;
since he hath the power that Saint Peter had, why
shall he not lay hands on the sick and they recover ;
why did he not give health to the sickly air, and
stay the pestilence! Is it that men are no longer
worthy of such grace % There would be less jn-idu
' ^1! n-or(?i, all is, all becomes.
- iacfciy, find fault with.
' Love God and thy Neighbor. (Matthew xxii. 37, 39.)
♦ Psalm IV.
^ "There is none good." (Mark x. 18.)
« The patient conquer. " If we sutler we shall also reigu with hi;u '
(2 Timothy ii. 12).
TO A.D. 14U).]
RELIGION.
among men if tliere were bread for all. But Patience
said that though there were no bread, plough, or
pottage in existence, yet Pride would shoot forth.
Hawkin's own coat was soiled with sins, and he was
so busy that he had not time to clean it. But Con-
science taught him, and Patience satisfied his hunger
with a piece of the Paternoster called " Thy-Will-be
Done."
Then they met one who was named Free- Will,
and well kno^vll to both Conscience and Clergy.
He said he was Christ's creature, to whom neither
Peter nor Paid would deny admission into heaven.
He went about in man's body and had many names
— Menu, Mf'inoria, llatio, Sensus, ite.
"You would like to know what tliey all mean?"
" I should," said the Dreamer.
" Then ycu are one of the kuights of Pride.
God alone can know everything. The j)riestliood
should leave fallacies and insoluble problems that
cause men to doubt their own belief, and show the
way of holiness by walking in it a.s guides of the
people. Unsound priests get with guile and spend
ungraciously ; but there is an ill end to those who
live against holy love and the love of Chaiity."
" Charity I " said the Dreamer. " I ha\e often heard
that praised, but never met mth it. I have lived in
London many long years and ha-ie never found, as
the friars say. Charity that seeketh not her own, is
not ea.sily pi-ovoked, thinketh no e^il. I never
found layman or clerk who would not ask after his
own, and covet besides what he could do without, and
get it if he could."
The reply pictures Charity as child-like in glad-
ness wth tlie glad and sadness with the sorry, child-
like in ftiith that what a man declares for truth he
holds for truth, and for reverence to God wlio is so
good, unable to beguile or grieve another. Charity
has no laugh of scorn, and takes all griefs of life as
ministries trom heaven.
" And who," the Dreamer asked, " feeds Charity ?
What friends hath he, what rents or riches to relieve
him at his need .'"
" For rents and liches," was the reply, " he never
cares. He hath a friend that faileth never. He
can find all in Thou-ojjenest-thine-hand,' and Thy-
Will-be-Done feasteth him each day. He visits the
prisoners ; he tells men of the suflerings of Christ ;
he takes all the a|)))arel of Pride into his laundry,
and it is washed white with his tears."
" Were I -with him I wovdd never leave him," said
the Dreamer. " But they know him not, who keep
the church."
" Piers Plo\\anan," it was answered, " knowetli
him most perfectly. By clothing and talking thou
slialt know him never, but by works thou mightest
I'lme into his way. He is pleasant of speech and
'iiiupanionable, as Christ himself teacheth. Be not
IS the hypocrites of a sad countenance.'- I have
seen him myself sometimes in russet and some-
times in gold. He was found once in a friar's
tVock, but that was long since in the far days of
' " That thou givest them they gather ; thou openest thine hand,
tliey are filled with good." (Psalm civ. 28.) ■
- Matthew vi 16.
77
Francis.^ He seldom comes to court, because of
the brawling and backbiting there, or to the con-
sistory, for law there is too slow, except when .silver
is wanting. He woidd live with bishops for the
sake of the poor, but Avarice keeps him outside
their gates. Whoso coveteth to follow Charity must
be of such kind as I told you not long ago. He
holds it a shame to beg or borrow but of God only,
Give us this day our daily bread."
At this point in the narrative the MSS. mark the
close of the Vision as far as it concerns Dowel, and
the beginning of Dobet. There is no man, says the
Dreamer, who does not sometimes borrow or beg,
and who is not at times wrathful without any sin.
'• Whoso is wroth and desii-es vengeance," he is
told, " puts aside Charity, if Holy-Church be time.
Charity suffers all things. Holy men have lived
also without borrowing or begging. Paid, the firet
hermit, if Augustine be true, was fed by the birds;
Paul the Apostle made baskets after his preaching,
and earned what he needed with his hands ; Peter
and Ancb-ew fished. To Mary of Egypt three little
loaves sufliced for thirty years. But now no prayers
bring us jieace ; the learned err so much that the
unlearned lose belief. The sea and the earth fail,
though sea and seed and sun and moon daily and
nightly do their duty.^ If we did the same our
peace would be perpetual. Weatherwise shipmen
have now lost their- faith in the air and in the lode-
star. Clerks say that faith alone suflices. It would
be better for us if they did their duty. Saracens
might so be saved, if they believed in Holy-Church."
"What is Holy Church, friend ?" asked the
Dreamer.
" Charity," was the answer. " Life and love and
loyalty in one belief and law, a love-knot of loyalty
and leal belief All kinds of Christians joined
together by one will, without guile and gabbing give
and sell and lend. Jews, Gentiles, and Saracens
judge themselves that they believe loyally (that is,
according to law), and yet their law ditfereth ; and
with good heart they honour one God, who is soui'ce
of all. But our Lord loveth no love unless law be
the cause. For dissolute men love against the law, and
at the last ai'e damned ; thieves love against loyalty,
and at the last are hanged ; and leal men love as tlie
law teacheth, and love thereof ariseth which is heatl
of charity and health of man's S(5ul. Love God, for
he is good and ground of all truth. Love thine
enemy entirely, God's best to fulfil. Love thy friend
that followeth thy will, that is thy fair soul."
When Free Will had said much more upon this
head, " Dear Free Will," quoth I, " I believe as
I hope that thou couldst tell me the way to Charity."
Then he smiled, and led me forth with tales till we
came into a garden land, its name was Cor Hominis
(the Heart of Man). In the midst was a tree called
Imago Dei (the Image of God). This was the tree
of 'True-Love, which shot forth blossoms named
Benign Speech, and thereof cometh a good fruit
which men call Works of Holiness, of Gentleness, of
Help-him-that-needeth, the which is called Caritas,
' Francis of Assisi, founder of the Franciscan order. See page 53.
* " Dever " (" devoir " 1 is the word here representing dut.v.
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[a.d. 1362
ChrLst's own foi)<l. The ti-ee is shored up with three
props agiiinst the wind of Covetise, that shakes the
tree and nips its fniit. The tii-st ])ro]) is tlie Miglit
of Gotl the Father ; tlie secon<l is the Wisdom of the
Father in the [jassion and penance and jjerfectness
of the Son. Tlie Devil comes with a ladder, of which
the nings are lies, to shake the tree ; but Free Will
then biings down the evil spirit with the third
shorer, which is Sjnritun ScDictus, and that firm Vjelief
which is giace of the Holy Ghost. The Dreamer
gazed intently on the fruit, and saw that it was
wondrous fair, and asked if it were all of the same
kind. Yes, he was told, hut, as in an apple-tree, some
are sounder and some sweeter than others. Then
the tree was Adam ; the fniit in different positions on
the tree, some getting more light to ripen the love in
them, were men in ditierent positions of life. Tlie
contemplative life has more light than the active.
Widowhood is above matrimony, maidenhood aVjove
them lioth. The Dreamer, wishing to ta.ste this fair
fruit, asked that the tree might be shaken. Eld
((Jld Age) shook it, but as the fruit fell, the Devil
picked it up. Then Free Will of God struck at the
fiend with the middle prop, and the Son, with the
Father's will, Hew with the Holy Spirit to recover
the fruit from that accuser.' Then spake the Holy
Ghost, through Gabriel's mouth, to a meek maid
named Mary. Here the narrative proceeds from the
Annunciation to the Birth and Life of Chinst, and to
the betraying kiss of Judas, and the noLse of the
caiTying of Christ by the Jews to judgment. With
that William awoke from his sixth dream.
He awoke and knew not whither Free Will was
gone, but waited for him till, on Mid-Lent Sunday,
he met a man hoar as a hawthorn, and Abraham he
hight. "Whence came you V the jjoet a.sked. " I am
with Faith," he said, " who wa.s a herald before there
was any law." "What is his cognisance !" " Three
pei-soiis in one pennon ;" and the allegory goes on to
set forth a Triune God as the mark of faith. Abra-
ham bare in his lx)som a thing that he often bles.sed.
It was a le])er. The fiend claimed Abraham and the
leper too. Chri.st only could ransom them Viy giving
life for life. The ]K)et wept at hearing, but presently
there came one who ran swiftly.
" ' I am Spes,' - quoth he, ' and sjieer after a knij^ht
That took me a mandement npon the Jlount of .Simii
To rule all realms therewith in right and in reason.
Lo here the Letter,' quoth he, ' in Latin and in Ebrew
That I say is sooth, see whoso liketh.'
' Is it a-sealcd J' I said. ' Jlay men see the letters ?'
' Xay,' he said, ' I seek him that hath the seal to keep.
The whirh is Chiist and Christendoni, and a Cross thereon
to hiing.
Were it therewith a-sealed, I wot well the truth.
That Lucifer's lord.ship lie should full low.'
' Let see thy letters,' quoth I ; ' we might the Law know.'
He plight forth a patent, a piece of an hard rock,
WTiereon was writ two words in this wise glosed :
DUige Leum et Frozimum timm.^
' Raoaman Is the imme here given to Satan, from Icelandic " rse^'a,"
to slander or defame; First-English "WTdgean," to accuse. The
word is not related to the " rageman " of page 79, Note 1.
' SpM, Hope. s Love God and thy neighbour.
This was the text truly I took full good gome,*
The glose gloriously was writ with a gilt pen :
III his limbics mandatie pendH tola lex et proptteta.'"^
of
During the talk that arose from the words
Faith (for whom Abraham spoke) and Hope, a
Samaritan, travelling their own way, came by them
quickly on a mule. He was on his way from Jericho
to joustings at Jerusalem. Aljraham, Hope, and He
came together in a wild wilderness where thieves had
fast bound a man wlio was naked, and who seemed to
be half dead. Faith and Hoiie .saw and pa.s.sed him
at a distance ; the Samaritan at once drew near, di.s-
mounted and led liLs mule, jioured wine and oU into
the stranger's wounds, bandaged them, .set him on
Bayard, and led him to a gi-ange called Lex Dei (the
law of God), where he left him to be healed, giving
two jjence to the hosteler, and saying that he would
make good to him what more was spent on medicine;
for I may not stay, he said, and re-niounted and .sped
on towards Jerusalem. Then the Dreamer hun-ied
after that Samaritan, and was taught by him, of the
Trinity upon which Faith (Abraham) had dwelt ;
and of Love, the theme of Hojie. " Every man can
love his neighbour if he will," said the Samaritan,
and ha-sted on.
Here ended the seventh dream of the A^'ision,
but the poet slept again and dreamt much of Palm
Sunday, of the Palm Sunday hymn, the Gloria,
laus (sung a.s the procession halts liefore re-entering
the church), and of Hosanna sung by old folk to
the organ. One who was like the Samaritan, and
some part like Piers Plowman, came barefoot on an
a.ss's back, without spurs or spear, as a knight on
liis way to be dubbed. Then was Faith in a window,
and cried, "0 Son of David!" as a herald crie.s
when adventurei-s come to the jousts. Old Jews of
Jei-u.salem sang for joy, " Blessed is he who cometh
in the name of the Lord !" Then the Dreamer a.sked
of Faith what this meant.
" 'And who should jousten at .Terusalem :-'— ' Jesus,' he said;
'.\nd fetch that the fiend claimeth. Piers' fruit, the Plow-
man.'
' Is Piers in this place :-' quoth I."
Then he was told that Free Will of God had under-
taken for love that Jesus should joast in the anus of i
Piers the Plowman ; in his helm and habergeon of
human nature. He a.sked who should joust with i
Jesus, Jews or scribes ? None, he was told, but the
Fiend, and the false doom of Death. Death claims |
and threatens all, but Life hath laid his life to pledge j
that witliin three days he will recover from the Fiend I
the fruit of Piers the Plowman.
Then came Pilate to the judgment-seat, and Jesus i
was condemned and suffered on the cross, and saidJ
" It is finished." And the day became dark, and the]
dead rose, and one of the dead told of the battle inl
darkness between Life and Deatli. The side of the!
Saviour was pierced by Longeus, who, in doing so
* Gomt, heed. First-English "g^me" and "gftnen." care, heedi
gj-man," to take care of. j
/J *?" ^""^^ *^° commandmenu hang all the law and the prophets.' j
(Matthew xni. 40.J I
ro A.B. 1400.1
RELIGION.
99
against liLs will, begged Mercy of Jesus. Pi-esently
there came Mercy as a mild maiden walking from
the west, and looking hell-wai'd.' Forth from the
east, came softly walking, clean and comely, one who
seemed to be her sister, and her name was Truth.
They spoke of what they saw and what shoidd follow,
and Truth doubted the high promises of Merc}', that
Ijy this death Death should be destroyed. Then out
of the north came to them Righteousness (Justice),
and Peace out of tlie south. Righteousness paid
re'serence to Peace, who said she was come forth to
welcome the redeemed. They shall sing, she said —
" ' And I shall dimcc thereto ; do also thou, sister.
For Jesus jousted well ; joy beginneth to dawn.' "
So Mercy and Truth and Peace and Righteousness
spoke of Sahation.
Then is set forth in lively narrative the Descent
into Hell. A spirit bade unbar the gates.
" A voice loud in that liglit to Lucifer said,
' Princes of this palace, prest undo the gates,
For here cometh with coroune the King of all Glory !' "
Then Satan liade the tiends bar out the coming light
and hold the gate, but, owning presently that they
had not power against Christ, he woidd aj)peal, he
said, to his justice. Here also Christ cnicified pre-
vailed. Satan was boiuid ; the angels sang in Heaven,
and Peiice piped a poet's note that when the dark
cloud disappears, much brighter for that is the sun-
shine ; so when the Hatreds are gone, brighter for
that is the Love.
'■ ' After sharpest showers,' quoth Peace, ' most sheen is the
sun;
Is no weather warmer than after watery clouds
Neither love liever, ne liever friendes
Than after war and wrack, when Love and Peace ben
masters.' "
Tlien Truth and Peace embraced ; Righteousness and
Peace kissed each other ; Truth trumjieted and sang,
" We praise Thee, O God !" and then Love sang in a
loud note, " Behold how good and how pleasant it is
for brethren to dwell together in unity." Till the day
dawned these damsels danced. Then men rang to
the Resurrection, and the Dreamer awoke, and called
to Kit his wife and Calot his daughter, " Arise, and
go revei'ence God's Resurrection, and creep on knees
to the cross."
Here the eighth dream ends, and the rest of the
poem is said to be Vision of Dobest. The awakened
Dreamer went to mass and sacrament, and, sleeping
in the midst of the mass, he dreamt again —
" That Piers the Plowman was painted all bloody,
And came in with a cross before the common people.
And right like in all limlis to Our Lord Jesu ;
And then called I Conscience to ken me the sooth.
'Is this Jesus the j ouster,' quoth I, 'that Jews duden
to death,
Other is it Piers Plowman ? Who painted him so red ? '
Quoth Conscience, and kneeled then, ' These aren Christ's
arms,
His colours and his coat-armour, and he that cometh so
bloody
It is Christ with his cross, conqueror of Christine.' ''
Then Conscience tells the Dreamer of Our Lord
as Jesus and as Christ. In his youth he was Dowel.
When he was older, and gave eyes to the blind and
food to the hungry, he got a greater name, and was
Dobet. When he had died for man, and .said to
doubting Thomas, " Blessed are they that see not as
thou hast seen, and yet believe," and gave Piers
power and might to show mercy to all manner of
men, and power to absolve the penitent who seek to
pay that which they owe, and power to bind and to
unbind ; then he became Dobest, and ascended into
heaven, whence he shall come to judge the cjuick
and the dead. Then, says the poet, methought the
Holy Spirit descended in lilceness of lightning upon
Piers and his fellows, and made them to know all
kinds of languages. I wondered, and asked Con-
science what that was, and feared the lii'e with which
the Holy Spirit o\erspread them all. Quoth Con-
science, then, and kneeled, "This is Christ's messenger,
and cometh from the great God; Grace is his name.
Welcome him, and worship him with Veni, Creator
Spiritiis." And I sang then that song, and so did
many hundreds, and cried with Conscience, " Help
us, God of gi-ace."
Then began Grace to go with Piers Plowman, and
counselled him and Conscience to smumon the Com-
mons, to take weajions for the battle against Anti-
christ. Antichrist and his kind were coming to
grieve the \\ orld ; false prophets and flatterers would
have the ears ot King and Earl ; Pride would be
Pope, with Covetise and Unkindness for his cardi-
nals. " Therefore," said Grace, " ere I go I will give
you treasure, and weapons for the conflict."
Here follows an enumeration of the gifts of the
Spirit, followed by the Holy Spirit's counsel to all
to be loyal, and each one craft to love others with-
out boast, or debate, or envy. All crafts are given
to men variously by the Grace of God. Let men not
blame one another, but love as brethren, and crown
Conscience for their king. Piers Plowman is ap-
pointed steward of God's Grace, and registrar to
receive Redde-quod-debes (pay that which is due),
the duty done by each. Piers also was api)ointed
to be God's Plowman on earth, to till Truth with
a team of four great oxen named Matthew, I\Iark,
Luke, and John the most gentle of all, the prize
neat of Piers' Plough, passing all other. Also four
.stots — Austin, Ambrose, Gregory, and Jerome — to
draw the harrow over all those oxen ploughed. Also
four seeds, the four Cardinal Virtues — Pradence,
Temperance, Fortitude, and Justice. "Against thy
grains begin to gi-ow," said Grace, "prepare thee
a house, Piei-s, for garnering thy corn." " Give me
timber for it," said'Piers, "ere ye go henca" And
Grace gave him the cross vnth the crown of thorns,
and Mercy was the name of the mortar made with
the blood shed for man.
Then Grace laid a good foundation, and Piers
budt a house, and called that house Unity, in
English Holy-Church. Then he devised a cart,
called Christendom, to carry home the sheaves, and
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put two horses to it — Contrition and Confession —
and made Priesthood work with him in tilling
Ti-uth.
But Pride espied Piei-s at the plough, and gathered
a great host for assault upon his ground, and sent
forth his serjeants-of-arnis and his spy Spill-love on
Si)eak-evil-behind, who came to Conscience and all
Christians, preparing for the destruction of all Piers's
work, and for Ijringing men out of the house Unity.
Pride and Lust then came in arms to waste the
world. (Conscience counselled all Christians to take
refuge in the house Unity, Holy-Church, and defend
it, seeking Grace for helper. Kindwit (natural
sense) joined Conscience in urging upon Christian
men to dig a _gi-eat moat about Unity, that might be
a strength to defend Holy-Chnrch. Then most re-
pented of their sins. The cleanness of the people,
and clean-living of clerks, made Unity, Holy-Church,
to stand in holiness. Conscience called all Christians
to eat together, for help of their health as partakers of
the Lord's Supper, once a month, or as often as those
needed who had paid to Piers Plowman Redde-quod-
debes.'
"How?" quoth all the Commons; "counsellest
thou us to give to every one his due ere we go to
honsel?"
"That," said Conscience, "is my counsel."
" Yea, bah !" quoth a brewer ; " I will not be ruled.
It is my business to sell dregs and draff, and draw at
one hole thick and thin ale, and not to hack after
lioliness. Hold thy tongue. Conscience."
Conscience warned him that he could not be saved
unless he lived as the spii-it of justice taught.
"Then," said a Vicar, " many men are lost. I never
heard talk in the church of cardinal \ irtues, or knew
a man who cared a cock's feather for Conscience.
The only Cardinals I know are those sent by the
Pope, and it costs us much, when. they come, to pay
for their fui-s and their commons, and to feed their
palfreys and the thieves that follow them. There-
fore," said this Vicar, " I wonld that no Cardinals
came among the common people, but tliat they stayed
at Avignon among the Jews, or at Rome, if tliey
plea.sed, to take care of the relics ; and that, thou,
Conscience, wert in the King's Court, never to come
thence ; and that Grace, of whom thou criest aloud so
much, were the guide of all clergy ; and that Piers,
with his new plough and his old, were Emperor of
all the World ; that all men were Christian ' "
A Lord said, as to Redde-quod-debes, that he held
it right and reason to take of his reeve whatever his
auditor or steward and the writing of his clerks
made to be his. With a spirit of LTnderstanding they
make out the rent-roll, and with a spirit of Fortitude
they gather it in, -will-lie, nill-he. A King said that
as he was head of the law, crowned to rule Commons
and defend the Church, law wonld that if he wanted
■anything, he should take it wherever it could most
readUy be had. "Whatever I take, I take by the
spirit of Justice, for I judge you all ; so 1 may be
houseled."
1 Rcddc-quod-dfhe^. Render to oil their dues Owe no man
anythinif, but to love one another : for he that loveth another hath
fulfilled the law. (Eonmns liii. 7, 8.)
" Yes," said Conscience, " on condition that thou
learn to rule thy realm right well in reason and in
truth, and that thou have thine asking as the law
asks. All things are thine to defend, but not to
seize."
Here the Vicar, who was far from home, departed,
and the ninth dream ended.
Then William went by the way heavy of cheer, not
knowing where to eat, and he met Need, who re-
buked him for not excusing himself as the King and
others had done. He might have pleaded that as to
food, water, and clothing, a man who has them not
cannot be forbidden to take them without reference
to Conscience or the Cardinal Virtues, if only he
obey the Spirit of Temperance, which is a virtue
greater than Justice or Fortitude, or even Prudence,
for Prudence may fail in many points. God himself
taking the shape of man, was so needy that he said,
" The" foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have
nests, but the Son of Man hath not where to lay his
head."- Be not ashamed of poverty. And then
Will slept again, and there came to him the tenth
and last of the dreams that form the Vision of Pier.";
Plowman.
He saw Antichrist, in the form of man, spoiling
the crop of Truth, and causing Guile and Falsehood
to spring and spread in its place in each country that
he entered. Friars followed that fiend, for he gave
them copes. Whole convents, except only the fools
more ready to die than live while lo3'alty wa.s so
rebuked, came out to welcome him, and rang bells in
his honour. A false fiend Antichrist ruled over all,
and cursed all mild and holy men, and kings who com-
forted them. So many gathered about Antichrist's
banner, and Pride was its bearer.
Conscience counselled men to fortifj' themselves in
Unity, Holy-Church, and call Kind (nature) to theii'
help for love of Piers the Plowman. Then Kind came
out of the planets, and sent forth his forayers ; fevers
and fluxes, coughs and cramps and frenzies, and foul
ills. Death came, with liLs banner borne before him
by Old Age, who claimed thit oftice as his right.
There was wUd battle. Death dashed into dust
kings and knights, kaisers and popes, learned and
unlearned.
Conscience besought Kind then to stay his wrath,
and see whether the people would amend and turn
from Pride. But when the punishment was stayed,
then Fortune flattered those who were alive, and
promised them long life ; and the sins warred still
against Conscience and his company. Simony fol-
lowed Avarice, and they pressed on the Pope, and
made prelates who held with Antichrist to save
their pockets. Avarice came into the King's council
as a bold baron, and struck Conscience in the court
before them all, compelled Good Faith to fly, held
Falseness there, and boldly bare down with many a
bright noble nnich of the wit and wisdom of West-
minster Hall. He jogged to a justice, and jousted
m his ear, and o\ertilted all his truth ; hied then to
the Arches, and turned Civil Law to Simony.
"Alas !" said Conscience, " I would that Covetise,
so keen in battle, were a Christian ! "
' Mattheir Tui. 20.
TO A.D. 1«0.]
EELIGION.
101
Tlien Life laughed loudlj', and held Holiness a jest,
and Loyalty a churl, and Liar a free man. Conscience
a folly. Life took for his mate Fortune, who said,
" Health and I and Highness of Heart shall save
thee from all dread of Eld and Death." Life and
Fortime became parents of Sloth, who soon came of
age, and mated w-ith Despair-. Sloth used his sling
against Conscience, who called Ehl (old ;ige) to battle,
and Eld fought with Life, who fled to Physic for
protection. Life thought leechcraft able to stay the
coiu-se of Eld. Eld struck a phj-sician in a furred
hood, so that he fell into a palsy, and was dead in
three days.
" Now I see," said Life, " that Physic cannot help
me to stay the coui-se of Eld;" so he took heart and
rode to Revel, a rich place and a merry. Eld hastened
after liim, the Dreamer says, and on his way passed
over mv head so closely that he left it bald before
and bare upon the ci'own.
" Su- illtaught Eld," I cried, " since when was there
a higliway over men's heads I Hadst thou been ci\-il,
thou wouldst have asked leave."
" Yea, dear dolt," he said, and so hit me under
the eai", that I am hard of hearing. He buffeted me
about the mouth, and beat out my gi-mders, and
gyved me with gout so that I may not go at large.
Then Death drew near me, and I quaked for fear,
and cried to Kind, "A wreak me, if your will be, for
I would be hence."
Kind counselled him to go into Unity, hold himself
there till Kind summoned him, and see that he had
learnt some craft ere he went thence.
" Counsel me. Kind," quoth I ; " what craft is best
to learn 1 "
" Leam to love," quoth Kind, " and leave all otlier
things. If thou love loyally, thou shalt lack nothing
while life lasteth."
The Dreamer, therefore, went through Contrition
and Confession, tUl he found his way to Unity,
where Conscience was constable, to save Christians
besieged by seven gi'eat giants, wlio held with Anti-
christ. Sloth and Avarice led the attack. " By
the Mai-y," said a priest from the Irish border, " so
I catch sUver, I mind Conscience no more than
the drinking of a draught of ale." And so said
sixty of that coimtry, and shot against him many
a sheaf of oaths and broad-hooked arrows, God's
Heart, and His nails, and almost had Holy-Church
Jown, when Conscience cried, " Help, Clergy, or I
fall." Friars came to the cry ; but as they did not
undei-stand their work, Conscience foreook them,
but offered to be theii- helper if they learnt to lo^e.
Annies under their officei-s, monks in their houses,
have their numbei-s known ; only the friars, like the
hosts of hell, are numberless. Envy bade Friars
leam logic, and prove the falsehood that all things
under heaven ought to be in common. But God
made a law that Moses taught, "Thou shalt not covet
thv neighboui-'s goods."
En\-y, Covetise, L^nkindness assailed Conscience,
who held him within Unity, Holy-Church, and
bade Peace, Ids porter, bar the gate. Hypocrisy
■with all the tale-tellers and idle titterers made
ehai-p assault upon the gate, and wounded many
a wise teacher who held \>y Conscience and the
four Viitue.s. Conscience called Shrift, a good
leech, who used the shaip salve of penance and
duty. Many asked for a surgeon who would handle
them more softly, and give milder plastei-s. Then
one who loved ease, and lay groaning in fear that
he should be killed by fasting on a Friday, told
of a friar named Flatterer, who was both surgeon
and physician. Quoth Contrition to Conscience,
" Bring him to Unity, for hei'e are many men hurt
through hypocrisy." " We have no need," quoth
Conscience ; '■ I know no better leech than pareon or
parish priest, save Piers the Plowman, that hath
power over all." Nevertheless, Conscience did not
prevent them from calling on that friar Flatterer.
Peace questioned him at the gate, and denied him
entrance, but Fair-Speech pleaded for him, and the
gates were opened. " Here," quotli Conscience, "Ls
my cousin Contrition wounded. The plastere and
powders of the parson are too sore, and he lets them
lie too long, and is loth to change them. From Lent
to Lent he lets his plastei-s bite."
" That is overlong," saith this limitour; "I think I
shaU amend it." He gave him a plaster of Privy-
payment-and-I-shaU-pray-for-you. Conti'ition quickly
ceased to weep for his wicked woiks. When Sloth
and Pride saw that, they came with a keen will to
the attack on Conscience. Conscience again cried,
" Clergy, come lielp me I" and bade Contrition help
to keep the gate. " He lies drowned," said Peace.
" This friar with his physic hath enchanted folk and
drenches men with error till they fear no sin."
Then Conscience vowed that he would become a
pilgrim over the wide world to seek Piers the Plow-
man. " Now Kind, avenge me, and send me hap
and hele till I have Piers Plowman!" ' And after
that he cried aloud upon Grace till, says the poet, I
awoke.
So ends the Vision, with no \-ictory attained, a
world at war, and a renewed ciy for the grace of
God, a new yearning to find Christ, and brmg with
him the day when wrongs and hatreds are no more.
Though in" its latest form so-mewliat encumbered by
reiteration of truths deeply felt, the fourteenth ceutmy
yielded no more fervent expression of the purest
Christian labour to bring men to God. And while
the poet dwells on love as the fulfilment of the law —
a loyal not a lawless love — he is throughout uncom-
promising in requirement of a life spent in fit labour,
a life of Duty. The sin that he makes Pride's com-
panion in leading the assault on Conscience is Sloth.
Every man has his work to do, that should be fruit
of love to God and to his neighbotu-. For omitted
duties or committed wrongs there is in Langland's
system no valid repentance that does not make a
man do all he can to rejjair the omission, right the
-sNTong. Langland lays fast hold of all the words of
Christ, and reads them into a Divine Law of Love
and Duty. He is a Church Reformer in the tniest
sense, seeking to strengthen the liands of the clergy
by amendment of the li\es and charactei-s of those
who are untrue to theii- holy calling. The ideal of
a Christian Life shines through liis poem, while it
paints with homely force tlie e\ils against which it
is directed. On jioints of theology he never dis-
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pates; but an ill liff for liiui is an ill life, whether in
Poi>e or peasant.
If John Gower's " Speculum ISIeiUtantis," (the
Mirror of one ^Meditating), which he wrote in French,
were not a lost woik, we should luue had from Gower
also a liook exclusively religious. His Latin and his
English jioem, "Vox C'laniantis" and " Confessio
Amantis," deal one with the ills of English life in
Richard II. 's reign, the other with the Seven Sins, in
stories illustrating them, and again also with the ills
of England and the duties of a king. The Latin
poem "Vox Clamantis " (the A'oice of one Crj-ing) was
s\iggested to him by the tumults of the Wat Tyler
and Jack Straw Rebellion, in the year 1381. He
said there was no blind Fortune who ruled events,
no misery without a cause ; the ills sufl'ered by man
were caused by man. Whence then the misery of
England ? He went in his poem through all orders
of society, and found each failing in duty. Like
Langland, he called ujion men to live true lives, and
he prayed in his poem that his verse might not be
turgid, that there nught be in it no word of luitruth ;
that each word might answer to the thing it sjioke of
pleasantly and fitly ; that he might flatter in it no
RlCHAKD THE SeCONI*.
from the Picture in Westminster Ahhctj.
one, and seek in it no praise above the praise of
God. " Give me," he said, " that there shall be less
vice and more virtue for my speaking." But while
the .same true voice was rising from both Langland
and Gower, Gower's two poems are of a kind that
may be left for description in the volume of this
Libraiy set apart for larger works that do not foil
necessarily into the present section. The king him-
self was answeralile for many of the miseries of Eng-
land in Richard II. 's reign; and after the coup d'etat
of 13'J7, and the murder of his uncle Gloucester,
both Langland and Gower turned their backs on him.
John Gower wrote a Latin metrical "Tripartite
Chronicle," in which he treated as human work the
endeavour to keep Richard within bounds of law, and
abate courtly corruption ; as hellish work his violent
breaking of bounds in 1397, after his marriage
with an eight-year-old French princess had given
him, as he believed, support of the King of France
against his people ; as heavenly work his deposition.
William Langland wrote also in 1399 a poem on
the deposition of Richard II., which Mr. Skeat
has edited imder the well-chosen title of " Richard
the Redeless."
Without taking part as a writer in the political
questions of his time, but with a faith in God and
a goodwill to man that kept him cheerful in days
of adversity, Geoffrey Chaucer painted life in his
" Canterbury Tales " with a spirit of religion that
usually animated pictures of human conduct in
which the skill of the artist caused his teaching
to be felt rather than seen. He also contrasted
the spirit of the poor prie.st true to his calling
with the self-seeking that corrupted many ordere
of the Church. Although no comVjatant with bitter-
ness, but calm in the strength of goodwill towards
man and faith in God's rule of the world, Chaucer
.shows always the .sympathy of a high poet's nature
with the purest aspirations of his time. In his own
genial way he joins issue with the corniptions of the
Church in pictures of the lordlj' Monk who loved no
text that said hunters were not holy men, and the
jingling of whose bridle might be heard in a wliistling
wind as clear and loud as the chapel bell ; of the
Friar who knew all the innkeepei-s and tapstere
better than the lepers and beggars, who were no
acquaintances for such a worthy man as he ; of the
summoner who went shares in plunder with the
devil, and himself became the de^■i^s share ; and
he not only paints with, a tender enthusiasm, in
the poor Tovra Parson, a minister of religion such
as men like Wiclif and Langland were conceiving
him, but he makes him also brother to the Plough-
man who lo\ed God with all his heart and his neigh-
bour as himself At the close of the " Canterbury
Tales," as they come dovni to us with their plan
unfinished, is the " Pai-son's Tale." This is in prose,
and is simply a sermon, apt to the theme of a
Canterbury Pilgrimage, upon the pilgrimage of life.
Its text is from the sixth chapter of Jeremiah,
" Stand ye in the old ways, and see, and ask for the
old paths, where is the good way, and walk therein,
and y-e shall find rest for your souls." It dwells, as
the A^ision of Piers Plowman dwells, on true repent-
ance and the battle with the se^en deadly sins. In
the course of the treatise, each of the seven sins is
described, and the description of each is followed by
Its Remedy. Thus, for example, the religious mind
of Chaucer makes his Parson tell of An-rer.
TO A.D. 1-WO.J
KELIGION.
103
Bas-relief from the
After ervry will I declare of the sin of Ire : for soothly who
so hath envy upon his neighbour, anon commonly wiU find
him matter of wTdth in word or in deed against him to whom
he hath envy. And as well cometh Ire of pride as of envy,
for soothly he that is proud or envious is lightly wroth.
The sin of Ire, after the describing of Saint Augustine, is
wicked will to be avenged by word or bj' deed. Ire, after the
philosopher, is the fervent blood of man yquicked in his heart,
through which he would hann to him that he hateth : for
eertes the heart of man enchafing and moving of his blood
waxeth so troubled, that it is out of all manner judgment
of reason.
But ye shall understand that Ire is in two manners, that
one of them is good, and that other is wicked. The good ire
is by jealousy of goodness, through the which man is wroth
with wickedness, and against wickedness. And therefore Siiith
the wise man, that ire is better than play. This Ire is with
debonairtec, and it is -vvroth without bitterness : not wroth
against the man, but wroth with the misdeed of the man :
as.saith the Prophet Da\-id ; Irasciniiiii, and tioitte pcccare.^
Now understand that wicked Ire is in two manners, that is
to say, sudden ire or hasty ire without avisement and
consenting of reason ; the meaning and the sense of this is,
that the reason of a man ne eonsenteth not to that sudden
ire, and that it is venial. Another Ire is that is full wicked,
that cometh of felony of heart, avised and cast before, with
wicked will to do vengeance, and thereto his reason eon-
senteth : and soothly this is deadl}' sin. This Ire is so dis-
pleasant to God, that it troubleth His house, and chaseth the
Holy Ghost out of man's soul, and wasteth and destroyeth
that likeness of God, that is to say, the virtue that is in
man's soul and putteth in him the likeness of the devil,
and benimeth- the man from God, that is his rightful Lord.
This lie is a full great pleasance to the de^^l, for it is the
de^•i^s furnace that he enchafeth with the fire of hell. For
eertes right so as fire is more mighty to destroy earthly things
than any other element, right so Ire is mighty to destroy all
spiritual things. Look how that fire of small gledes,^ that ben
almost dead under ashen, will quicken again when they ben
touched with brimstone, right so ire will evermore qvdcken
again when it is touched with pride that is covered in man's
heart. For eertes fire ne may not come out of no thing, but if
it were first in the ^me thing naturally ; as fire is drawn out
* •' Be ye angry aud sin not " (Ephesians iv, 26). " Cease from
anger and forsake wrath ; fret not thyself in any wise to do evil "
{Psalm m\'ii. 8).
= Benimeth, taketh away. First-Enplish "beniman."
' Gicdes, red-hot embers. First-English " gl^d."
Honastcfy Gate, Sortrieh,
of flint with steel. -\nd right so as pride is many times matter
of Ire, right so is rancour nourice and keeper of ire. There is
a manner tree saith Saint Isidore, that when men make a fire
of the said tree, and cover the coals of it with ashen, soothly
the fire thereof will last all a year or more : and right so
fareth it of i-ancour when it is once conceived in the heart of
some men, eertes it will kistcn peraventure from one Easter
day until another Easter day, or more. But eertes the same
man is full far from the mercy of God all this while.
In this foresaid devil's furnace there forgen three shrews : *
Pride, that aye bloweth and encreaseth the fire by chiding and
wicked words : then standeth En'v'y, and holdeth the hot iron
upon the heart of man, with a pair of long tongs of long
rancoui': and then standeth the sin of Contumely or Strife
and Chest,' and battereth and forgeth by villainous reprov-
ings. Certes this cursed sin annoyeth both to man himself,
and eke his neighbour. For soothly almost all the harm or
damage that any man doth to his neighbour cometh of wrath:
for certes, outrageous wrath doth all that ever the foul fiend
willeth or conunandeth him ; for he ne spareth neither for our
Lord Jesu Christ, ne his sweet mother ; and in his outrageous
anger and ire, alas ! alas 1 full many one at that time, feeleth
in his heart fuU wickedly, both of Christ, and also of all his
halwes.' Is this not a cursed ^iee 'r Yes certes. Alas ! it
benimeth from man his wit and his reason, and aU his de-
bonaiie life spiritual that shoidd keep his soul. Certes it
benimeth also God's due lordship (and that is man's soul)
and the love of his neighbom-s : it striveth also aU day
against truth; it reaveth him the quiet of his heart, and
subverteth his soul.
Of Ire comen these stinking engendrures : first. Hate, that
is old wTath ; Discord, through which a man forsaketh his old
friend that he hath loved full long : and then cometh war and
everv manner of wrong that a man doth to his neighbour in
body or in catel.
Of this cursed sin of Ire cometh eke manslaughter. And
understand well that homicide (that is, manslaughter) is in
divers wise. Some manner of homicide is spiritual, and some
is bodily.
Spiritual manslaughter is in sLx things. First, by Hate, as
saith St. John : He that hateth his brother is an homicide.
Homicide is also by Backbiting: of which backbiters saith
Solomon, that they have two swords, with which they slay
their neighbours : for soothly as wicked it is to benime of
♦ Shrcics, evil betrayers.
5 CheM, contention, battle, enmity. First-English "ceast."
^ Bahees, saints. First-English " halga," a holy one, a saint;
'halig," holy.'
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[a.d. 1380
Aim liis good name as }ii.s litV. Homicide is also in giving of
wicked counsel by fraud, as for to give counsel to raise -n-rong-
iul customs and tallages ; of which saith Solomon :^ A lion
roaring, and a hear hungry, hen like to cruel Lords ; in with-
holding or abridging of the hire or of the wages of servants ;
or else in usury; or in withdrawing of tlio alms of poor
folk. For which the wise man saith : Feed him that abnost
dieth for hunger ; for soothly but if ' thou feed him thou
slayest him. And all those ben deadly sins.
isodily manslaughter is when thou slayest him with thy
tongue in otlier manner, as when thou commandest to slay a
man, or else givest counsel to slay a man. JIanslaughter in
deed is in fom- manners. That one is by law, right as a
justice damneth him that is culpable to the death: but let
the justice beware that he do it rightfully, and that he do it
not for delight to spill blood, but for keeping of righteous-
ness. Another homicide is done for necessity, as when a
man slayeth another in his defence, and that he ne may none
other wise escape from his own death : but certain, an he
may escape without slaughter of his adversary, ho doth sin,
and he shall bear penance as for deadly sin. Also if a man
by cas or aventui-c shoot an an-ow or cast a stone, with
which he slayeth a man, he is an homicide.
Yet come there of ire nmny more sins, as well in word, as
in thought and in deed : as he that arretteth upon God, or
blameth God of the thing of which he is himseU guilty ; or
despiseth God and all his halwes, as do these cursed hasardours-
in divers countries. This cm-sed sin do they, when they feel
in their heart full wickedly of God and of his halwes : also
when they treat unroverently the sacrament of the altar, this
sin is so gTcat, that unneth^ it may be released, but that the
mercy of God passeth all his works, it is so great, and He so
benign.
Then comcth also of Ire attry * anger, when a man is sharply
admonished in his shrift to leave his sin, then will he be angry,
and answer hokerly' and angorly, to defend or excuse his sin
by unstcadfastness of liis tlcsh; or else he did it for to hold
company with liis fellows ; or else he sayeth the fiend cntici'd
him ; or else he did it for his youtli ; or else his complexion
is so coui'ageous that he may not forbear: or else it is his
destiny, he saith, unto certain age : or else he saith it cometh
him of gentleness of his ancestors, and scmblable things. XO.
these manner of folk so wrap them in their sins, that they
ne will not deliver themselves : for soothly no wight that
excuscth him.selt wilfully of his sin, may not be delivered of
his sin, till that ho meekly beknoweth his sin.
After this then cometh swearing, that is express against the
commandment of God : and that befalleth often of Anger and
of Ire. God ssiith : Thou shalt not take the name of thy Lord
God in idel. Also our Lord Jesu Christ saith by the word of
Saint Matthew : No shall ye not swear in all manner, neither
by heaven, for it is God's thi-one : ne by earth, for it is the
bench of his feet : ne by Jerusalem, for it is the city of a
great King : ne by thine head, for thou no mayst not make
an hair white no black : but He saith, be your word, yea, yea,
nay, nay ; and what that is more, it is of e%-il. Thus saith
Christ. For Chiist's sake swear not so sinfully, in dismcm-
bring of Christ, by soul, heart, bones, and body : for certes
it seemcth, that ye think that the cursed Jews dismembered
him not enough, but ye disnu^mbor him more.
And if so be that the law compel you to swear, then rulcth
1 But if, uuless.
~ Hasaydoiti'!^, f^amesters.
3 Viinctli, hardly, not easily. First-English " eathe," easily.
* Attrij, poisonous. First-English "attre," with poison; "attor,"
poison.
5 HoliLi-lj, frowardly. First-English " hocer," a mocking, a reproach.
you after the law of God in yom- swearing, as saith Jcremie ;«
Thou shalt keep three conditions ; thou shalt swear in truth,
in doom, and in righteousness. This is to say, thou shalt
swear sooth; for everj- leasing is against Christ; for Chnst
is very truth : and thiik well this, that ever)- great swearer,
not compelled lawfidly to swear, the plague shall not depart
from his house whUe he useth unlawful swearing. Thou
shalt swear also in doom, when thou art constrained by the
doomsman to witness a truth. Also thou shalt not swear
for envy, neither for favour, ne for meed, but only for
righteousness, and for declaring of truth to the honour and
worship of God, and to the aiding and helping of thine
even Christian.
And therefore every man that taketh God's name in idel, or
falsely sweareth with his mouth, or else taketh on him the name
of Christ, to be called a Christian man, and liveth against
Christ's living and his teaching : all they take God's name in
idel. Look also what saith Saint Peter ; AHuum iv. Xon eat
(iliiid imiiiin sub cce/o, &c. There is none other name (saith
Saint Peter) under heaven given to men, in which they may
be saved ; that is to say, but the name of Jesu Christ. Take
keep eke how precious is the name of Jesu Christ, as saith
Saint Paul, ml I'/ii/ipiiisis ii. Jii nomine Je.iii, kc. That in the
name of Jesu every knee of heavenly creature, or earthly, or
of hell, should bow ; for it is so high and so worshipful, that
the cursed fiend in hell should tremble for to hear it named.
Then seemcth it, that men that swear so horribly by his
bles,sed name, that the)' despise it more boldly than did the
cursed Jews, or else the devil, that trembleth when he heareth
his name.
Now certes, sith that swearing, (but if it be lawfully done) ,
is so highly defended," much worse is for to swear falsely, and
eke needless.
WTiat say we eke of them that delight them in swearing,
and hold it a genterie or manly deed to swear great oaths?
Anxl what of them that of very usage ne cease not to swear
these great oaths, all be the cause not worth a straw ? Certes
is honible sin. Swearing suddenly without aviscment is
also a great sin. But let us go now to that horrible swearing
of adjuration and conjuration, as do these false enchaunters
and necromancers in basins full of water, or in a bright sword,
in a circle, or in a fire, or in a shoulder bone of a sheei) : I
cannot say, but that they do cursedly and damnably against
Christ, ;ind all the faith of holy church.
What say we of them that believe on divinales, as by flight
or by noise of birds or of beasts, or by sort of geomancy, by
dreams, by chirking of doors, or of creaking of houses, by
gnawing of rats, and such manner wretchedness ? Certes, all
these things ben defended by God and holy church, for which
they ben accursed, till they come to amendment, that on
such filth set their belief. Charms for wounds, or for mala-
dies of men or of beasts, if they take any eft'ect, it may bo
peraventure that God sufEereth it, for folk should give the
more faith and reverence to his name.
Now will I speak of leasings, which generally is false
signifiance of word, in intent to deceive his even Cliristian.
Some leasing is, of which there cometh none avantage to no
wight ; and some leasing turneth to the profit and ease of a
man, and to the damage of another man. Another lea.sing is,
for to save his life or his catel. Another leasing cometh of
delight for to lie, in which delight, they will forge a long
tale, and paint it with all circum.stances, where all the ground
of the tale is false. Some leasing cometh, for he vriXl sustain
5 "And thou shalt swear, The Lord liveth, in truth, in judgment,
and righteousness." (Jeremiah iv. 2.)
' Defended, forbidden. French " detendu,"
TO A.D. 1400.J
RELIGION.
105
his word : and some leasing comcth of recklessness withouten
aWsement, and semblable things.
Let us now touch the vice of Flatterj-, which ne cometh not
gladly, but for dread, or for covetise. Flattery is generally
wrongful praising. Flatterers ben the de\'il's nourices, that
nourish his children with milk of losengcrie.' Forsooth
Solomon siiith. That flattery is worse than detraction : for
some time detraction maketh an hautcin- man be more
humble, for he dreadeth detraction, but certes flattery
maketh a man to enhance his heart and his countenance.
Flatterers ben the de\-il's enchaunters, for they make a man
to ween himself be Uke that he is not like. They be like to
Judas, that betrayed God ; and these flatterers betray man to
sell him to his enem}-, that is the deyil. Flatterers ben the
deWl's chaplains, that ever sing Placebo. I reckon flattery
in the vices of Ii'e, for oft time if a man be wroth \vith
another, than will he flatter some wight to sustain him in his
quarrel.
Speak we now of such cui-sing as comcth of irons heart.
Malison^ generally may be said every manner power of harm :
such cursing bereaveth man the regno of God, as saith Saint
Paul. And oft time such cursing wrongfully retumeth
again to him that curseth, as a bird retui-neth again to his
own nest. And over all thing men ought eschew to cui-se
their children, and to give to the de\'il their engendrure,
as far forth as in them is : certes it is a great peril and a
great sin.
Let us then speak of Chiding and Repro's'ing, which ben
full great wounds in man's heart, for they unsew the seams
of friendship in man's heart ; for certes, imnethe may a man
be plainly accorded with him, that he hath openly re%'iled,
reproved, and disclaundercd : this is a full grisly sin, as Christ
saith in the Gospel. And take ye keep now, that he that
reprovcth his neighbour, either he reproveth him by some
harm of pain, that he hath ujion his body, as, " Mesel I ■* crooked
harlot 1 " ■' or by some sin that he doth. Now if he reprove
him by harm of pain, than tumeth the reproof to Jesu Christ :
for pain is sent by the righteous sonde of God, and by his
suffrance, be it meselrie, or maim, or maladie : and if he
reprove him uncharitably of sin, as, " Thou holour 1" " Thou
dronkelewe harlot," and so forth ; then appertaineth that to
the rejoicing of the devil, which ever hath joy that men do sin.
.\nd certes, chiding ma)- not come but out of a villain' s heart,
for after the abund;ince of the heart .speaketh the mouth full
oft. And ye shall understand, that look by any way, when
any man chastiseth' another, that he beware from chiding or
reproving : for truly, but he beware, he may full lightly
quicken the fire of anger and of wrath, which he should
([uench : and peraventure slayeth him that he may chastise
with benignity. For, as saith Solomon, amiable tongue is
the tree of life ; that is to say, of life spiritual. And soothly,
a dissolute tongue slayeth the spirit of him that reproveth,
and also of him which is reproved. Lo, what saith Saint
Augustine : There is nothing so like the de-s-il's child, as he
which oft chideth. A servant of God behoveth not to chide.
And though that chiding be a villainous thing betwix all
' lo.scji<jem', flattery. Old French ** l03 " and " losange," praise.
- Hiuteiu, haughty. French "hautain."
2 3f(jh'.soji, cursing. (French.) The reverse of "benison," blessing.
* Head, leper. French "mesel" and **meseau." Old German
" maser," a spot.
^ Harlot was a word of contempt applied to either sex, as here to
:iny one with crooked back or hmbs. The word is of like origin with
"churl" f First -English "ceorl"), from "carl." male. Old High-
Oennan " harl " for " karl," man, husband, with the meaner sense in
Modem German " kerl."
' Chastisdh. seeks to free from fault.
manner folk, yet it is certes most uncovenable between a
man and his wife, for there is never rest. And therefore
saith Solomon ; an house that is uncovered in rain and drop-
ping, and a chiding wife, ben like. A man, which is in a
dropping house in many places, though he eschew the
dropping in one place, it di-oppeth on him in another place :
so fareth it by a chiding wife; if she chide not in one
place, she will chide him in another : and therefore, better
is a morsel of bread with joy, than a house filled full with
delices with chiding, saith Solomon. And Saint Paul s<aith ;
O ye women, be ye subject to your husbands, as you behoveth
in God ; and ye men love your wives.
Afterward speak we of Scorning, which is a wicked sin,
and namely,'' when he scometh a man for his good works :
for certes, such scorners fare like the foul toad, that may
not endure to smell the sweet savour of the vine, when it
flourisheth. These scorners ben parting fellows -with thit
de%'il, for they have joy when the de\-il winneth, and sorrow
if he loseth. They ben adversaries to Jesu Christ, for they
hate that he loveth ; that is to say, salvation of soul.
Speak we now of Wicked Counsel, for he that wicked counsel
giveth is a traitor, for he deceiveth him that trusteth in him.
But natheless, yet is wicked counsel first against himself : for,
as saith the wise man, every false liWng hath this property
in himself, that he that will annoy another man, he annoyeth
first himself. And men shall imderstand, that man shall not
take his counsel of false folk, ne of angry folk, or grievous
folk, ne of folk that love specially their o-nii profit, ne of too
much worldly folk, namely, in counselling of man's soul.
Kow cometh the sin of them that make Discord among folk,
which is a sin that Christ hateth utterly ; and no wonder is :
for he died for to make concord. And more shame do they
to Christ, than did they that him crucified : for God loveth
better that friendship be amongst folk, than he did his own
body, which that he gave for unity. Therefore they be
likened to the deril, that ever is about to make discord.
Now cometh the sin of Double Tongue, such as speak fair
before folk, and wickedly behind ; or else they make sem-
blaunt as though they spake of good intention, or else in
game and play, and yet they speak of wicked intent.
Now cometh Bewraj-ing of Coimsel, through which a
man is defamed : certes unncthe may he restore the damage.
Now cometh Menace, that is an open folic : for he that oft
menaceth, he threateth more than he may perform, full oft
time. Now come Ii-lle words, that be without profit of him
that speaketh the words, and eke of him that hearkeneth the
words : or else idle words be those that be needless, or without
intent of natural profit. And albeit that idle words be some-
time venial sin, yet should men doubt them, for we shall give
reckoning of them before God. Now cometh jangUng, that
may not come without sin : and as saith Solomon, it is a sign
of apert folly. -And therefore a philosopher said, when a man
asked him how that he should please the people, he answered ;
Do many good works, and speak few janglings.' After this
cometh the sin of japcrs,^ that ben the devil's apes, for they
make folic to laugh at their japerie, as folk do at the gauds
of an ape : such japes defendeth Saint Paul. Look how that
1-irtuous words and holy comfort them that travail in the
service of Christ, right so comfort the \Tllain's words and the
knakkes'" of japers them that travail in the serriee of the
deril. These be the sins of the tongue, that come of Ire. and
other sins many more.
" Kamchj, especially; as in modem German " uamentlich."
s JangUn'), vain talk.
5 J.ijicrs, tricking jesters.
1" Knakkes, tricks.
7fi
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Jlcmidiioii Inc.
The remedy against Ivc, is a virtue that clcped is mansue-
tudo, that is Debonairtec : and eke another vii'tue, that men
clopen Patience or suft'ei'ance.
Debonairtee withdraweth and refraineth the stii-rings and
movings of man's courage in his heart, In such manner, that
they ne skip not out by anger ne Ire. Sufferance suffereth
sweetly all the annoyance and the wrong that is done to man
outward. Saint Jerome saith this of debonairtee, That it
doth no harm to no wight, ne saith : ne for no hann that men
do ne say, he ne ehafeth not against reason. This virtue
sometime cometh of nature, for, as saith the Philosopher, a
man is a quick thing, l)y nature debonaire, and tretable to
goodness : but when debonairtee is inforced of grace than it
is the more worth.
Patience is another remedy against Ire, and is a virtue
that suifereth sweetly every man's goodness, and is not wroth
for none harm that is done to him. The philosopher saith,
that patience is the virtue that suft'ereth debunaii-ly all the
outrage of adversity, and every wicked word. This vii'tue
maketh a man Uko to God, and makcth him God's own child:
as s;tith Christ. This virtue discomfiteth thine enemies.
And therefore saith the wise man: if thou wilt vanipiish
thine enemy, see thou he patient. And thou shalt under-
stand, that a man suffereth four manner of grievances in
outward things, against the which four ho must have four
manner of patiences.
The first grievance is of •wicked words. This grievance
suffered Jesu Christ, without grudging, full patiently, when
the Jews despised him and reproved him full oft. Suffer
thou therefore patiently, for the -wise man saith: if thou
strive with a fool, though the fool be wroth, or though he
laugh, algate thou shalt have no rest. That other grievance
outward is to have damage of thy chattel. Thereagainst
suffered Chi-ist full patiently, when he was despoiled of all
that he had in this life, and that nas but his clothes.' The
third grievance is a man to have harm in his body. That
suffered Christ full patiently in all his passion. The fourth
grievance is in outrageous labour in works : wherefore I say
that folk that make their servants to travail too grievously,
or out of time, as in holy days, soothly they do great sin.
Hereagainst suffered Christ full patiently, and taught us
patience, when he bare upon his blessed shoulders the cross
upon which he should suffer despitous- death. Here may
men learn to ho patient ; for certes, not only Chi-istian
men be patient for love of Jesu Christ, and for guerdon of
the blissful life that is perdurable, but certes the old Pag.ans,
that never were christened, commended and used the virtue
of patience.
A philosopher upon a time, that would have beaten his
disciple for his gi-eat trespass, for which he was greatly
moved, brought a yerde^ to heat the child; and when this
child saw the yerde, he said to his master, " 'Wliat think ye
to do ':" " I \vill beat thee," said the master, "for thy cor-
rection." " Forsooth," said the child, " ye ought first coiTect
yourself, that have lost all youi' patience for the offence of a
child." "Forsooth," said the master all weeping, "thou
sayest sooth : have thou the yerde, my dear son, and correct
me for mine impatience."
Of patience cometh obedience, through which a man is
obedient to Christ, and to all them to which he ought to he
1 Was, was not. " Eora," I am, hod its negative " neoiii," I am not ;
as "willon" had its negative "uyllan," &c.
^ Des/>ito«.s, malicious.
3 YerdZj stick, rod. First-English " gyrd."
obedient in Christ. And understand well, that obedience is
perfect, when that a man doth gladly and hastily, with good
heart entii-oly, all that he should do. Obedience generally,
is to perform" hastily the doctrine of God, and of his sovereign,
to which him ought to be oheisant in aU righteousness.
I
Another religious work of the fourteenth century
is a series of three poems in West-MitUand dialect,
perhaps of Lancashire, and written, like the "Vision
of Piers Plowman," in alliterative verse. They are
the work of a poet who had true feeling, and pro-
bably were all suggested to him by the grief which
is the theme of the" first poem in the series — the death
of an innocent child, his own two-year-old daughter,
his darliiif Pearl. Out of his home afiliction and out
of his Bible study he drew always the one lesson,
that we owe to God pure lives in patient resignation
to His will.^
The unknown author of these poems begins the
first of them, which Dr. Morris, its editor, has fitly
named "The Pearl," with a father's outijouring of
love over the grave of his lost little one, his precious
pearl without a spot. Never, the mourner says,
was song so sweet as that which steals to him in
the stillness there ; sweet flowers cover her earth-
dwelling. And there, when the August reapers
put the sickle in the corn, he sleeps in heaviness
of grief as he laments the loss of her whom he ten-
derly calls again and again " My precious Pearl,
withouten spot."
Then comes the dream. His body lies upon the
grave, his " ghost is gone in Godes grace " to a
strange land of light and beauty, where the cliffs are
clear as crystal, the leaves upon the trees as burnished
silver, the small stones of the ground as orient
pearl. There in a glorious wood he followed the
sweet music of a stream in which pebbles glittei'ed
as the stars that shine through winter night over
the sleepei'S. Eaithly heart cannot contain such
gladness as this gave ; and Paradise, he thought,
must be upon the other bank.
" But the water was deep, I durst not wade.
And ever me longed a more and more.
" More and more, and yet well more,
Me lest* to see the brook beyond;
For if it was fair there I con fare,''
Well lovelokcr' was the fj-n-e* lond."
* These poems are in the same MS. of the Cotton coUectiou (Nero
A. X.), which also coutaius, in the same haudimtin^ and dialect, the
metrical romance of " Sir Gawaj-n aud the Green Knight," first edited
by Sb Frederic Madden. Dr. Eichard Mon-is edited them in 186i
for the Early English Text Society, as " Early English Alliterative
Poems in the West-Midland Dialect of the Fourteenth Century.
Copied and Edited from a Unique Manuscript in the Library of the
British Museum, Cotton, Nero A. x., with an Introduction, Notes,
and Glossarial Index." Students of literature have to thank Dr.
Morris not only for his carefnl editing, but for making known to
them a work of so much intrinsic value.
=• JHc lest, I desired. First-English "me lyste," it pleases me, I
wish ; " lystan," to wish, being used generally with a dative or accu-
sative impersonally.
'' There I con fare, where I could go.
' Lowloker, lovelier. First-EngUsh "luflice," lovely.
« Pl/iTc, farther. First-English "fyr," far; "fyrre," farther;
" fyrrest," farthest.
TO A.D. 1400.]
RELIGION.
11)7
In vain he sought to tind a foi'd, and presently he
^aw new mai'V'el. A crystal clifl' poured out many
a i-oyal I'ay, and at its foot there sat a child, a gentle
maiden, shining white. " I knew her well, I had
seen her ere." And long he looked towards her.
" The longer, I knew her more and more." He
would call, and feared to call to her in that strange
place. She lifted \ip her face, white as pure ivory ;
that went to liis heart, '-And ever the longer, more
and more " —
" More than me list my dread arose,
I stood full still and durst not eall ;
With even open and mouth full i-lose
I stood as hend as hawk in hall."
He feared lest he should lose her if he broke the
silence. Then fresh as a lily she came down the
bank towards him ; and he dwells upon her purity of
beauty, and her bright array ; a wondrous pearl, with-
out a spot, in midst her breast was set so sure. She
advanced to him, bent low to him in woman's wise ;
with a faint sound she greeted him from beyond the
stream.
" Pearl, adorned ^vith pearls," he said, " art thou
my Pearl that I have plained' l What fite hath
brought my jewel hither, and caused me this gi-ief !
for since we two were parted I have been a joyless
jeweller." Then comes to him the voice of consola-
tion. The Pearl is not lost, but is in that gi-acious
garden where no sin comes near her — is become
indeed a jiearl of price.
'" And thou has called thy w)-rd- a thief
That aught of naught has made thee clear,
Thou blames the bote of thy mischief ^
Thou art uo kinde Jewelere.'
" A Jewel to me then was this geste
And jewels wem her gentle saws,
I wis, quoth I, my blissful best,
My great distress thou all to-di-aws."-*
Henceforth, says the glad father, I will live in
joy—
" ' And love my Lord and all His laws
That has me brought this bHsse near ;
Kow were I at you beyond these wawes^'
I were a joyful Jewelere."
But his Pearl teaches him that he errs in thinking
that she is with him because his eyes behold her ;
that he errs in thinking he can be with her ; that he
eiTs in thinking he can freely pass this water that
flows between. He must abide God's time ; and he
can cross only through death. Then rises again the
note of despair for the child's loss. She replies with
the lesson of Christian Patience. He must not strive
against God. He answers sadly and humbly to her
1 Pltiiiied, bewailed, lamented. From Latin " i>lango."
' TTiyrd, fate.
3 The bote ofihy iiLischief, the remedy of thy misfortune.
* Tlwii <iU io-drawfi, thou comj^letely drawest from me.
5 Wawes, waves.
gentle rebuke, and asks her of the life she is now
leading. He may know her bliss, for now his meek-
ness, she says, is dear to her —
" ' My Lord, the Lamb, loves aye such cheer,
That is the ground of all my bliss.
A blissful life thou says I lead,
Thou wouldest know thereof the stage ,
Thou wost well when thy Pearl con schede^
I was full young and tender of age ;
But my Lord, the Lamb, through His God-hede,
He took myself to his marriage,
Corouned me Queen in bliss to bredc,"
In length of days that e'er shall wage,'
And seised in all His heritage
His lief ' is, I am wholly His.
His praise, his price,'" and his parage"
Is root and ground of all my bliss.' ' '
But says the Father, "Art thou the Queen to whom
all tliis world shall do honour ? Can any take the
cro^vn from Mary?" Tlien the child vision kneels
in worship to the Virgin before telling of the many
mansions in Heaven, and of the crowns of glory
that make kings and cjueens of all who enter, each
delighting in the lionour of the other. Still the
Father asks to be taught. She lived but two year's
upon earth, was too 3'oung to have learned Pater or
Creed — and Queen made on the first day ! The
cliild-angel answers.
" ' There is no date of God's goodness,'
Then said to me that worthy wight,
' For all is truth that He con dress. '-
And He may do no thing but right." "
She tells him our Lord's parable of the vineyard.
She too was in the vineyai-d but a little -while, and
" was paid anon of all and some." The dialogue
then dwells upon God's taking to himself the little
ones, who have been baptized to Him, and have not
lived till they could sin. They who live longer are
tempted more, but let them pray and strive to keep
their innocence — to be as the children whom Christ
blessed and would have come to him, for of such is
the kingdom of Heaven. Forsake the mad ways of
the world, and seek the kingdom that is like a pearl
^vithout a spot.
" ' maskclless" Pearl, in pearlcs pure.
That bears,' quoth I, ' the pearl of price,
"V\Tio formed thee thy fair figure f
That wrought thy weed he was full wise.' "
She is adorned, she answers, by the Lamb, whose
bride she is ; the Lamb without spot who patiently
suflered, and whose l)rides are the souls of the inno-
cent and patient. She recalls the Vision of John.
" I, John, saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming
<- mien thy Pearl eon schedc, at the time of thy Pearl's departiu-e.
' Jiredc, broaden, increase. ^ M'C'je, endure.
9 His lief, his dear one. his bnde. ^^ Price, worth,
u Payntn', kindred, exalted nature. '- Drcs.-J. direct, order.
13 Mdstcllcss, spotless.
lOS
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1392
i\o-m\ from God out of heaven, prepared as a bride
adorned for her husband." Can there be castles
enougli in Jerusalem for many brides? the Father
asks. In the Old Jerusalem, he is told, men sinned
and the Saviour suffered : l->ut in the New Jerusalem
is peace only. There the Lamlj gathers his own, there
we seek home after our flesh is laid in earth. Then
the Father begs of his spotless maid so meek and
The Living and the Dead.'
f rofrt Cotton MS., Nero A. x.
mild that she will bring him to see that blissful
bower. He can see only its outside, she says, but
if he will ti'ace the stream up to its source he will
find a hill from which he can look out upon the
distant glory of that city. Eagerly he seeks the hill,
and sees from it the New Jerusalem. When he has
dwelt upon its glories, the moon rises, and white-robed
vii-gins issue from the city, each having bound on her
bi-ea.st the blissfid pearl. They come forth in love
and delight. The Lamb is before, and before the
Lamb the elders bow. Legions of angels fill the
air with a sweet incense, and a sweet song rises in
praise of the Lamb that was slain. The Father
looks among the shining company of those whose
home is with the Lamb, and there he sees his
Little Queen in peace and joy, and yearns towards
her with love-longing in gi-eat delight. His delight
urges him to seek to cross the stream and be with
1 This is one of four pictures wliicli in the original MS. of the poem
are acUed as illustrations, each of them upon one of its small 4to
her. By the vain struggle his dream is broken, and
he awakes to grief, with his head upon the little hill
over his buried Pearl.
The next poem in the series illustrates Purity and
Patience, by dwelling upon Scripture incidents that
enforce such viitues ; the Paralile of the Marriage
Feast ; the Fall of the Angels ; the sins of the world
before the Deluge, and the Deluge itself; the Destruc-
tion of Sodom and Gomorrah ; the Captivity of
Judah ; the Stories of Belshazzar and of Nebuchad-
nezzar ; and the other poem is a lesson of patience
enforced by the story of Jonah. The pieces show
not only a poetical mind in their author, but variety
of power. Tliis poet, whose name is lost, can paint
a storm with vigour, and look tenderly upon a vision
of his little chifd among the angels worshijiping the
Lamb.
Another poet, whose name is forgotten, produced
at the close of the fourteenth century, probably in
1394 and 1.39.5, two pieces which he associated with
the two greatest poetical works of his day. One was
in alliterative verse, after the manner of " The Vision
of Piers Plowman," and was called " Pierce the
Plowman's Crede." The other was in rhyming ballad
.stanzas, and professed to be a story by the Plowman
whom Chaucer had reckoned as one of his Canter-
bury Pil.gi'ims— " The Plowman's Tale." Mr. Skeat
has been the first to show that these two poems are
from the same hand. When the Pelican in the
Plowman's Tale says — ■
" Of frcrcs I have told before
In a making of- a Crede,"
he refere certainly to the previously written " Pierce
the Plowman's Crede." As the Pelican stands for
every good Christian who was called a Lollard for
endeavouring to check pride and worldliness among
the clergy, it is not necessary to believe that the poet
means himself by his Pelican when he says, " I
have told before." But it is not improbable that he
does ; and when Mr. Skeat adds to the resemblance
in tone of thought, good evidence of the frequent
occurrence in both poems of such words and terms
of speech as may more fairly be accounted proper to
an individual writer than common to two, he adds
all argument necessary to convince us that the author
of " The Plowman's Tale " (which was first printed in
Chaucer's works in the edition of 1542), did mean
himself when he wi-ote that he had told before of
the Friars " in a making of a Crede."
The Ploughman of the Creed is simply a plough-
man. The poet supposes himself to know his Pater-
noster and his Ave Maria, but not yet his C'reed.
He mu.st learn it before Easter, and would like to
have it from a man, learned or unlearned,
" that liveth thereafter
And f ullj' foUoweth the faith and feigncth none other ;
That no worldly weal wilneth no time,
But Hveth in loving of God, and his law holdeth.
' A moKii,; of, a poem about. " Maker" was the Old English name
for poet, and " poet " in Greek means " maker."
TO A.D. IJOO.]
RELIGION.
109
And for no getting of good never his God grieveth,
But followeth Him the full way, as He the folk taught."
Where shall he find such a man to teach him his
Creed properly I He asks the Friars ; meets one
morning a Minorite (Franciscan), and asks of him
■where he shall get tlie knowledge he needs. A Car-
melite, he says, had offered to teach him. " But,"
he says to the Minorite — " but, for thou knowest
Carmes well, thy covmsel I ask." The iSIinorite
laughs at the questioner, and holds him mad for sup-
posing that the Carmelites can teacli anything of
God, whom they know not. So the narrow feuds
between order and order are suggested while the
jugglings and backslidiiigs of the Carmelites are
dwelt ujjon by a Franciscan —
" ' Alas, frere,' quoth I then, ' my purpose is ifailed.
Now is my comfort cast! Canst thou no bote'
"VNTicre I might meten with a man that might me wissen"
For to con my Creed, Christ for to follow.'
' Certaine, feUow,' quoth the frere, ' withouten any fails,
Of all men upon mold we Minors most sheweth
The true Apostles life.' "
The Franciscan glorifies his order in a way that does
not exalt it, boasts of his gi-eat buildings and painted
■windows —
" And mightest thou amenden us with money of thine own ,
Thou shouldest kneel before Christ in compass of gold
In the -wide window westward, well nigh in the middle,
And Saint Francis himself shall folden thee in his cope
And present thee to the Trinity, and pray for thy sins.
Thy name shall nobly be written and wrought for the nonce,
And in remembrance of thee y-read there for over.
And, brother, be thou not afeard ! Bethink in thine heart !
Though thou con not thy Creed, care thou no more.
I shall assoilen thee, sir, and setten it on my soul
An thou may maken this good, think thou no other."
When the seeker had applied Chiist's words to this
manner of well-doing, he went farther in search of a
man to teach him, and came next to the Dominicans,
whom he found housed in royal splendour. After
he has painted in verse one of their great convents,
lie says —
" And yet these builders ■will beg a bag fuU of wheat
Of a pure poor man that may unnethe pay
Half his rent in a year and half ben behind !
Then turned I again when I had all y-toted^
And found in a freitour'' a frere on a bench,
A great churl and a grim, growen as a tun,
With a face as fat as a full bladder
Blowen bret full* of breath, and as a bag hanged
1 Bote, help. ' JTi.'iscii, teach.
' T-toted, carefully observed. " Toten " is to look narrowly around
—a watch-tower was a"totyiiff place"— or to peep ont ill a derived
Beuse, as when it is said in this poem of Pierce's broken shoes, *' His
ton" (toes) "toteden out as he the lond treddede."
* Freitour, refectory.
5 Bret full, so over-full that some of it must escape. " Standing
corn so ripe that the s^ain falls out is said to hret out " (Halliwell's
" Diet, of Archaic and Provincial ■Words " ) . The notion of breaking
up and falling associates the word "bret" also with fading and
On bothen his cheeks and his chin, with a jowl loUede
As great as a goose egg, growen all of grease,
That all wagged his tlesh as a quick mire.^
His cope that beclipped him well clene •was it folden.
Of double worsted ydight do-wn to the heel ;
His kirtle of clean white cleanly y-sewed,
It was good enow of ground grain for to beren." '
To this Dominican the seeker told his want, and
said that an Austin Friar had ofi'ered to help him.
Thereupon the Dominican abused the Austin Friar,
and said that his own order w;is greatest of degree,
as Gosjiels tell.
" ' Ah, sir,' quoth I then, ' thou say'st a great wonder,
Sithen Christ said himsoU to all his disciples,
Which of you that is most, most shall he work,
And who is goer before, first shall he serven.
And said he saw Satan sitten full high
And full low ben y-laid. In likeness he told
That in poorness of spirit is speedfullest heal.
And hearts of highness hai'meth the soul.
And therefore, frere, farewell ; here find I but pride ;
I preise* not thy preaching but as a pure mite."
He tried next an Austin Friar, and opened upon
him wth talk of a Minorite. This brought abuse of
the Minorites from the lips of one of a rival order,
followed by the Austin Friar's picture of himsel£
Then visit was paid to a Carmelite, and to him a
Dominican was cited, which brought down the con-
tempt of the white friar upon the black. The
Carmelite dwelt on the value of his prayers and
masses, and wanted value for them —
" 'A mass of us mean men is of more meed
And passeth all prayers of these proud freres.
An thou wUt given us any good, I would thee here granteu
To taken aU thy penance in peril of my soul,
And though thou con not the Creed, clean thee assoU ;
So that thou mowe amenden our house with money, or else
With some catel, or com, or cups of silver.' "
But as the searcher said that he had not a penny,
the friar left him in scorn to hie to a housewife,
who had bequeathed to his house ten pounds in her
testament.
" Then turned I me forth and talked to myself
Of the falsehood of this folk, how faithless they weren.
And as I ■svent by the way, weeping for sorrow,
I saw a sely' man me by upon the plough hangen,
His coat was of a clout that cary '" was y-caUed,
His hood was full of holes, and his hair out.
With his knopped shoon clouted fuU thick.
altering. The root is, probably, First-English " breotan," to bmiso
or break.
' Quick mire, living, palpitating, mire ; quagmire.
' Good cnoic o/;/i-oiind grain /or (o derm, of texture good enough to
be dyed scarlet. Grain was a name for scarlet or purple dye, because
the dried cochineal insects from which dye was made resemble seeds.
Scarlet and purple were associated with the finest textures in robes of
state, and one born to empire was said to be bom in the purple.
s Prcise, value, prize ; value your preaching at a mere mite.
9 Schj, simple.
-0 Carij, the name of a coarse kind of cloth,
110
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
La.d. 1392
His toon totciden out as he the land treaded,
His hosen overhungen his hockshins' on everich a side
AU beslobbered in fcn as he the plough foUowed ;
Two mittens as mete,- made all of clouts.
The fingers ■n-eron for-wiTd,' and full of fen hanged.
This wight wascled-" in the fen almost to the ankle,
Four rotheren* him before, that feeble were worthen,"
Blen might reckon each a rib,? so rueful they weren.
His wife walked him with, with a long goad
In a cutted eoat, cutted full high,
Wrapped in a winnow sheet, to weren >* her from weathers.
Barefoot on the bare ice that the blood followed.
And at the land's end lay a little crumb bowl,
And thereon lay a little child hqjped in clouts,
And twain of two years old upon another side,
And all they sungen one song, that sorrow was to hearen,
They crieden all one cry, a careful note.
The sely man sighed sore, and said, ' Children, be'th still!'
This man looked upon me ami let the plough standen,
And saide, ' 8cly man, why sighest thou so hard ?
If thee lack livelihood lend thee I will
Such good as God hath sent : — go we, lief brother.'
I said then, ' Nay, sii-, my sorrow is well more ;
For I con not my Creed. I care well harde,'
For I can findcn no man that fully believeth
To teachen me the highway, and therefore I weep.' "
Then comes from Pierce the Plowman warning
against hyi)Ocrisy and priile of tho.se by wliom God's
word was overhiid with glosses. Witness, he says —
" ' Witness on Wiclif that warned them with truth.
For he in goodness of ghost graithly '" them warned
To waiven their wickedness and works of sin.
How soon these sorry men servedcn his soul
And over all lolled him " with heretic's works ! ' "
1 HoclisMns, liosekins, small hose, gaiters.
2 Mcte/scunty, Fii-st-Eii^'lish " uite'te," moderate, small.
3 For-iverd, woru out. Fii'st-EuyUsb " forwered," from " weran,"
to wear.
* irospled, bemired himself. First-English " wase," dirt, mire.
5 Roiheren, oxen. First-Englisli "lu-yther,"
® WoHhcn, become.
' Each a rit)j each cue rib. So before, " Everich a side," every one
side.
8 IfVren, defend. First-English "wte'ran."
^ I care ifcH hardc, I trouble very greatly. "Well*' was a common
intensive jn-efix. The c in "harde" is an adverbial ending. First-
English " hearde," severely, greatly, above all things.
w araithly, straightly.
n Lolled him, called him *' Lollard." There are varioiis reasons
given for the name. I believe it to be an application to heretics of the
word held to represent what was meant by the Greek zizania in the
13th chapter of Matthew, the tares sown by the enemy among the
wheat. The Latin V\dgate version kept the Greek word 3;2a7itri, and
a collection of heretical wi-itings was entitled " Fasciculi Zizaniorum."
But the zizania were held to be darnel, lolimn, then often spelt
•* lollium," which grows among good corn, having much resemblance
to it, and is very poisonous. In the old Latin rendering of the Persian
version of the Gospels, the passage nms : " Quin tu, Domine, semen
bonum in agro tuo seminasti, Loliuni igitur inter illud uiide provenit ?
Die resiKintlit, Quispiam per inimicitiam injecit. Servi dixerunt, Per-
mitte itaque nobis ut LoUum exinde secemamus." Christ's answer
by no means justified Church practice in dealing with the tares.
William Langhmd, m the Vision of Piers Plowman, describing himself
on Comhill, played on the analogy of this word to Loller or idler, and
so easily returned it on the friars. Chaucer seems to have had in mind
the reliition of the word to Lolium. when the Host having with an idle
oath caUed on the Parson for a tale, is gently rebuked: "I smell a
loller in the wmd, quoth he. . . . This loller here wol precheu us
Tlie Ploughman points to tlie likeness between friars
and the Pharisees, and shows how far they were gone
from the teaching of tlie Sermon on the Mount—
" ' Behold upon Wat Bi-utc,'- how busily they pursueden
For he said them the sooth : and yet, sir, further
They may no more marren him, but men teUeth
That he is an heretic and evil believeth,
And proachcth it in pulpit to blinden the people.
They wolden awyricn" that wight for his welldeeds,
And so they chewen Charity as chcwen schaf " hounds,
And they pursucth the poor and passcth pursuits ;
Both they wiln and they wolden yworthen so great
To passcn any man's might, to murthcrcn the souls,
First to bume the body in a bale of fire
And sithen the sely soul slay en, and sendcn her to hell.' "
The Ploughman spoke his mind also of the monks,
and ended by the utterance of truth in simple
words. As God hath chosen the foolish things of
the world to confound the wise, and base things of
the world, and things which are despised hath God
chosen, the poor ploughman whose first impulse was ^
of Charity towards a sufferer, became the teacher of i
the Christian's Creed.'''
" The Plowman's Tale," by the same author, puts
into another form the common protest of the time
against the worldliness that had coiTupted those who
should be guardians of faith, encouivagers of hope,
embodiments of the charity without which, though
the Christian teacher speak witli tongues of men
and angels, he is nothing worth. It beguis with
du'ect reference to the rising controversy between
those who were called Lollards and tlieii- persecu-
tors : — •
" A stemc strife is stirred new
In many stedcs in a stound ;
somewhat ; " and the Shipman, who stops him by interposing a tale,
says of the good town Parson —
** He wokle soweu some difficultee,
Or sj^fingcn cochlv in ony dene corn,"
Such accusation levelled ag-aiust the man whom he clothes with
apostolic virtue, and whom he afterwards does make to preach, shows
the goodwill of Chaucer to these persecuted Churchmen.
'- Wat Bride. Walter Biiite was a learned private gentleman in the
diocese of Hereford, who, though a lajTnau, was lu'ged by religious
feehng to teach oi>enly and privately, assisted by two intimate friends,
William Swinderby and Stephen Ball. They sought reform of church
disciphne, and held the opinions of Wiclif. In 1392 Richard II. issued
a commission, addressed to the Mayor of Hereford and noblemen and
gentlemen of the county, authorising them to investigate charges
against Walter Bi-ute of heresy and keeping of conventicles. Walter
Brute defended hinisalf, and withdrew into private life ; but Wilham
Swinderby and others, quitting the diocese of Hereford, continued
their work in Wales. The persecution was continued, and in IkH
Swinderby was burnt in Smithfleld.
1^ AKijrien, curse. First-English "awjn-ian" and "awyrgian."
'* Sella/. This is said to mean " chatl," and Mr. Skeat inten>rets
the line " They gobble down their charity as hounds do bran." But
may not the sense be, " They champ at their charity as dogs do over
food they will not swallow ? '" " Skaf," from " skafa," to scrape, wa~
the Scandinavian name for peeled bark used as fodder for goats ami
cattle, and " schaf" was probably our name, derived from the Scan-
dinavian, for some such cattle fodder as a dog might take into his
mouth and try his teeth on, but coiUd hardly be got to swallow.
'^ " Pierce the Ploughman's Crede " has been edited from collation
of two MSS. «-ith the old printed text of 1553, and fuUy supplied with
notes and glossary by the Rev. Walter W. Skeat. who adds to it in
the same two-shilling book a poem of about a.d. 1500, " God spede the
Plough." It is published for the Early English Text Society by
Triibner and Co,
1400. n
RELIGION.
Ill
Of sundiy suedes that ben sewe
It scemeth that some ben unsound.
For some be great growen on ground,
8ome ben souble,' sirbple and small ;
Whether of them is falser found,
The falser, foul mote him befal !
" That one side is that I of tell
Popes, cardiiuils, and prelates.
Parsons, monks, and friars fell.
Priors, abbots of great estates ;
Of heaven and hell they keep the gates,
And Peter's suecessors they ben all.
This is deemed by olde dates,
But falsehood, foul mought it befal !
"The other side ben poor and pale
And people put out of prease,*
And seeme euitiifes sore aeale,'
And ever in one without increase,
I-clepcd loUers and landlesse,
"Who toteth'' on them they ben untaU,=
They ben arrayed aU for the peace,
But falsehood, foul mought it befal.
"Many a country have I sought
To know the falser of these two ;
But ever my travaU was for nought
All so far as I have go.
But as I wandered in a wro,''
In a wood beside a wall.
Two foules saw I sitte tho.
The falser, foul mote him befal.
"That one did plead on the Pope's side
A Griffon of a grim stature ;
A Pelican withouten piide
To these LoUers laid his lure.
He mused his matter in measure
To counsel Christ e'er gan he call,
The Griffon shewed sharp as f\Te,
But falsehood, foul mote it befal.
" The Pelican began to preach
Both of mercy and of meek-ness.
And s;ud that Christ so gan us teach
And meek and merciable gan bless.
The Evangely beareth witness
A Lamb he Ukeneth Christ o'er all,
In tokening that he meekest was
Sith Pride was out of heaven fall.
" And so .should every Christned be,
Priestes, Peter's suceessours,
Beth lowly and of low degree,
And usen none earthly honours ;
Neither crown no curious covetours,
Ne pilloui-e " ne other proud paU,
1 Soubk (French " souple "), supple, yielding ; not able to stand firm
avuinst pressure.
2 Out ofjncasc, out of the crowd, expelled from the social herd.
^ Sore (icale, sore acold,
* Totdli, looks narrowly.
' Tlici) bcii untall, they are not the " high society" o£ this world.
'■' Wro, enclosed or sheltered place.
7 Pniowrc, or "pelure," costly fur.
Ne nought to cofren up gi-eat treasours ;
For falsehood, foul mote it befal."
The gi-eed, pride, and intolerance of the offending
clergy are dwelt upon —
" Who sayeth that some of them may sin
He shall be done to be dead."
They claim to bind and loose, they stir up .strife,
and many a man is now slain to determine which of
them shall have lordship ; but Christ said, " He who
takes the sword shall die by the sword."
" They usen no simonye,
But sellen churches and prioiycs ;
Ne they usen no envye.
But cursen all them eontraiyes ;
And hireth men by days and years
With strength to hold them in their stall,
And killeth all their advers'rics ;
Therefore, falsehood, foul thou fall.
" With purse they pm-chase parsonage ;
With pui-se they painen them to plede ;
And men of warre they will wage
To bring their enemies to the dede ;
And lordes lives they will lead,
And muchc take and give but small.
But he it so get, from it shall shedc,*
And make such false right foul fall."
" They take on them royal powere
And saye they have swordes two.
One Cui-se-to-hell, one Slay-men-here ;
For at his taking Christ had no mo,
Yet Peter had one of tho.
But Chi-ist to Peter smite gan defend,'
And into the sheath bade put it tho ;
And aU such mischiefs God amend 1
" Christ bade Peter keep his sheath.
And with his sword forbade him smite ;
Sword is no tool with sheep to keep.
But to shepherds that sheep woll bite :
Me thinketh such shepherds ben to wite,'"
Ayen their sheep ^\ith sword that contend;
They drive their sheep with great despite ;
But all this God may well amend."
At the close of his argument ^vith tlie Pelican,
" The Giift'on grinned as he were wood"
And looked lovely as an owl.
And swore by cockcs heai-tes blood
He would him tear everj' doule.'-
Holy-Church thou disclaunderest foul !
For thy reasons I woll thee all to-rase.
And make thy flesh to rot and moul '.
Losel, thou shalt have hard grace '.
8 Shcdc, depart. He who so gains shall pai-t from his gain.
9 Christ forhade Peter to smite.
10 To uitc, to hlame.
11 Wood, mad.
12 Evcyij doKle, every hit, every deal or dole.
112
CASSELUS LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1392
" Tho Cii-ift'oii Jlcw forth on his way.
Th(.' I'eliL-m did sit and weep,
And to liiinsi'lte he gan say,
God would that any of Christ's sheej)
Had heard and ytake keep
Eaeh a word that here said was.
And would it write and well it keep,
God would it were, all for his gi-ace."
" F/oirmini. I answered and s;iid ' I wolde
If for my travail any man would pay.'
r,licii>i. He said, ' Yes, these that God hath sold,
For they han store of money.'
IViiirmmi. I said, ' TeU mc and ' thou may
Wliy tellest thou menncs trespace?'
Pilicnit. He said, ' To amend them in good fay
If God will give me any grace.
" ' For Christ himself is likened to mo,
That for his people died on rood ;
As fare I right so farcth he,
He feedeth his bii-ds with his blood.
But these doen c%-il against God,
And hen his fone under friendes face.
I told them how their Uving stood :
God amend them for this grace.' "
After telling how the Phcenix was brought to de-
stroy the Griffin, and liow with the fall of the Griffin
vanished all his following of " ravens, rooks, crows,
and pie," the poet ends thus ; —
"Therefore I pray every man
Of my wyting - have me excused.
This writing writeth the Pelican
That thus these people hath despysed.
I?or I am fresh fully advysed
I will not maintain his manace.
For the devil is often disguised
To bring a man to evil grace.
" Wyteth the Pelican and not me.
For hereof I will not avow,
In high ne in low ne in no degree,
But as a fable take it ye mow.
To Holy Church I will me bow.
Eaeh man to amend him Christ send space ;
And for my waiting me allow
He that is Almighty for His Grace."
In these poems — written in 1394 and 1395 — there
is direct reference to the burning as well as the
ctirsing of men charged with heresy. There was
already pei"secution to the death ; and the fifteenth
century opened with a feeling widely spread among
tlie English jjeople, that many devout men, who in
no particular swerved from the faith taught by the
Church, were persecuted for a zeal that sought only
to make teachers, more than they were, like Chaucer's
poor Parson : —
Chaucer's town parson.
A good man was ther of religioun.
And was a pore Persoun of a toun ;
But riche he was of holy thought and work.
He was also a lemed man, a clerk
' And, if.
2 WytiTxq, blaming.
That Cristes gospel gladly wolde preche ;
His parischcns devoutly wolde he teche.
Benigne he was, and wondur diligent.
And in adversitc ful pacicnt ;
And such he was i-provcd ofte sithes.
Ful loth were him to cm-se for his tythes.
But rather wolde he yeven out of dowte,
Unto his pore parisschens aboute,
Of his offrynge, and eek of his substaunce.
He eowde in litel thing han suffisance.
Wyd was his parisch, and houses fer asondui-.
But he ne lafte not for rcyne ne thondur.
In siknesse ne in mesehief to visite
The ferrest in his parissche, moch and lite,
Ilppon his feet, and in his bond a staf. .
This noble ensample unto his scheep he yaf, •
That ferst he wroughte, and after that he taughte.
Out of the gospel he tho wordes caughte.
And this figljre he addide )-it thcrto.
That if gold ruste, what sehulde yren doo ?
For if a prest be foul, on whom we truste,
No wondur is a lewid man to ruste ;
And schame it is, if that a prcst take kepe,
A [tiled] schepperd and a clenc schepe ;
AVel oughte a prest ensample for to yive.
By his clennesse, how that his scheep sehulde lyve.
He settc not liis benefice to huyre,
And lefte his scheep encombred in the myre,
And ran to Londone, imto seynte Poules,
To scckcn him a chaunterie for soides.
Or with a brethurhede be withholde ;
But dwelte at hooni, and kepte wel his foldc,
>So that the wolf ne made it not myscaiye.
He was a schepperde and no mereenarie :
And though he holy were, and vertuous.
He was to senful man nought dispitous,
Ke of his spechc daungerous ne digne.
But in his teching discret and benigne.
To di-awe folk to hevcn by clennesse.
By good ensample, was his bus^Tiessc :
But it were eny persone obstinat,
■WTiat-so he were of high or lowe estat,
Him wolde he snybbe seharjily for the nones.
A bettre preest I trowe ther nowhcr non is.
He waytud after no pompe ne reverence,
Ne maked him a spiced conscience.
But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve.
He taught, and ferst he folwed it himselve.
CHAPTER IX.
The Fifteenth Century.
-XITY of the spirit, how-
' ever hardly to be at-
jjijivv. tained by men, did
certainly exist between
many of those whose zeal
„ ,„, ..,^__^_j_^_„^,„oj-, for reformation caused
ff^' —•'^•<S5ft^" tiiem to be contemned
From the MazmnBiWe, the first aS Lolhirds, aiul COn-
FrMai Book. demned as heretics, and
the i)ious men, from whom Chaucer might have
painted his " poor Parson of a town," who q\uetly
TO A.D. 1430.]
RELIGION.
113
obeyed authority, and trusted in the gi'ace of God to
amend those bj- ^vhose evil Uve-s it wa.s discredited.
From the beginning of the world there lia^e been the
two gi-eat tyjjes of human character wliich produce
the forward movement.s of society by action and re-
action on each other. Both desire good. Both know
that we inherit every social gootl that we are bom to
fi'om the labour, in successive generations, of the
wisest of our forefathei-s. Both know that good
institutions may, thi-ough human imjjeifection, and
thi-ough change in the conditions of society, decay,
and require renovation or even removal ; and that
we have in our turn to build for oureelves and after-
comei-s what the conditions of our later time may
neecL But some men are born to dwell especially uj)on
the danger of rash change ; othei-s to dwell especially
upon the importance of removing what has become
useless, repauing or recoustiiicting what has fallen
tion infinitely higher. But there were religious
men who dreaded Lollards, believed that they en-
dangered souls, and shared the opinion of the time
that — heresy bemg an evil which brought many to
eternal tii-e — if the temporal death of a few could
check it, it should so be checked. They were doing
the work of the enemy of man in sowing tares among
the wheat, whatever their intentions ; and such men,
all the more danijerous when their good lives recom-
mended them to thousands of souls, must be driven out
of God's harvest^tield. So good men might reason,
and did rea.son, m those times. There were also
disorderly men, who scorned religion itself, swelling
the cry of Lollards who sought only Christian life
■n-ithin the Church ; there were angiy men who ex-
tended the denunciation of hypociisy and pride in
many Churchmen into scoff at all that represented
the religious life of England. And as must happen
The LoLLiKDs' Pkisox,
,tOi-j oj Laiithdk.")
to decay, and finding new means to new ends. Some
men are in religion, politi&s, daily business, in action
and opinion on all things — even to the arranging of
the chaira and tables in their houses — by nature
conservative ; as othei-s are by nature disposed for
reform. Both are alike liberal ; both have the same
range of human V)elief and opinion, with diflerence
only in the part of it on which most emphasis is laid ;
both seek to do their duty ; and there are as many
good and earnest men upon one side as on the other.
From the stniggle of the Lollards for refoim of evUs
in the Chiuxh, there has come do'ivn to us chiefly a
remembrance, ujx)n one side, of the noble pleading
for pure Chiistian life by Churchmen who were
the true sold of the movement, and by poets who
kid hold on its essential tmths ; and, on the other
side, of the comiption that had spread with wealth
and idleness tlu'ough the religious ordei-s, of the
hard fight of the worldly man for material advance-
ment, ilLsplayed by the Churchman to whom liLs
religion was not real enough to save him from the
smaii ambitions of the world and give him an ambi-
79
in all human controvei-sies, often among the Ijest
men on both sides, mists of human pa.ssion and emo-
tion changed to sight the proportions of the matter
m dispute. But still the story is the stoiy of an
English struggle to find out the right, and do it foi'
the love of God The question is all of Duty; and
from a quiet, orthodox monk, who was no gi-eat
genius, though he wrote veree, but was a good natural
Englishman, we may learn how thousands of honest
folic, who took no violent i)art in the strife, looked
at each side of it.
John Audelay or Awdlay, living in a Shropshire
mona-steiy at the begiiuiing of the fifteenth century,
^^Tote religious vei-se.' He vei-sified religious duty
in short poems u])on Bible texts, aird, while piously
orthodox, he discriminated between men who, seek-
ino- the advancement of the Church, objected to self-
1 Printed in l&M for the Percy Society as " The Poems of John
Audelay. A Specimen of the Shropshire Dialect in the Fifteenth
Centiiiy. Edited by James Orchard HaUiwell."
lU
CASS ELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d, 1400
seeking of the clei-y, and were corruptly stigmatised
as Lollards, and tlie men who withdrew from the
Church, set aside their duties, and deserved the name.
Thus he wi-ote on the text
EGO .SU.M PASTOR liONUS.'
The ground of all goodness curates should be the cause,
And knit them kindly together all the clergy,
And leave their lewdness and their lust and learn Uudys
laws
With their cunning and dcanncs deadly sinners destroy.
Both tlic flesh and the fiend, false covctise defy,
Witli mercy and with meekness the truth for to teach.
The commandmentis of Christ to keep kindly
Tofore the People ajiert thus should ho preach.
For ye ben shepherds all one ;
Then Christ to Peter, what .said he 'i
" Jly key is I lietake- to thee.
Keep my sheep for love of me,
That they perish never one."
The prophecy of the prophctus all now it doth appear.
That sometime was said by the clergy,
That lewd men, the Law of Godtha; should love and Icre,
For curates, for their covctise, would count not thereby,
But to talk of their tithys I tell you truly ;
And if the secular say a sooth, anon they ben y-shent.
And lien upon the lewdmen, and sayu It is LoUere ;
Thus the people and the priestis bi-n of one assent.
They dare none other do :
For dread of the clergy
Would danmen them unlawfully
To preach upon the pillory
And burn them after too.
DE VOBIS QUI Dicms M.4LUJI BOXUJI, ET BONUM
MALUJI.^
Lef thou me, a Loller, his deeds they will him deem : ■•
If he withdraw his duties from Holy Church away,
And will not worship the cross, on him take good rme.
And hear his matins and his ma.ss upon the haliday,
And believes not in the Sacrament, that it is God veray.
And will not shrive him to a priest, on what deatli he die,
And 8<'ttis nought by the Sacramentis soothly to say, —
Take him for a L(jller I tell you truly
And false in his fay ;
Deem him after his saw.
But he will him with(h-aw.
Never for him pray.
This, of course, is not the doctrine of Langland,
whose charity wotdd seek to win the sinnerliack,
hut Audelay simply follows ojiiniou of Churchmen at
the lieginning of the fifteenth century. With these
lines he closes his little series of admonitory poems
based on Scripture texts : —
' "I am the Good buepuerd."
* Bctflfcc, entrust.
' " Of you wlio rail evil good, and pood evil."
' " Believe ujc, a Lollard can be known by liis deeds."
PLAIN' TRUTH.
'• Si treritatem dko rjiiarc non cm/Uin mihi ; qui ex Deo est,
verba Dei aiidit ; iileo non aiielitis quia ex Deo non estis." '
For I have touched the truth, I trow I shall be shent,
And said sadly" tlie truth witliout tlatt(.'ring ;
Hold me for no party that bcth here present,
I have no liking ne lust to make no leasing.
For Favel, with his fair words and his flattering,
He will preach the people apert them for to pay,''
I will not wrath my God, at my weeting,"
As God have mercy of me. Sir John Audlay,
At my most need.
I reck never who it hear,
Whether piiest or frere.
For at a fool ye may lere.
If ye will take heed.
To a poem of Ids on the nine virtues he thus adds
his name :
" I made this with good intent.
In hope tlie rather ye would repent,
Prayes for me that beth present.
My name it is the blind Awdelay."
Let us turn now to John Lydgate. the good monk
of Bury, who supplied tlie generation living after
C'haucer's death with the best English jioetry tliat
time jiroduced. The following poem ascribed to liini,
but jierhaps liy one of his contemjioraries," is that
upon which Robert Henrvson founded his "Abbey
Walk:"—
THANK GOD FOR ALL.
By a wa}- wandering as I went
Well sore I son-owed, for sighing sad,
Of harde haps that I had hent.
Mourning me made almost mad
TiU a letter all one mo had
That weU was written on a wall,
A bhssful word that on I rad.
That alway said " Thank God for '" all ! "
And yet I read furthermore.
Full good intent I took theretill,
Christ may well yoiu- .state restore.
Nought is to strive against liis wiU ;
He may us spare and also spill.
Think right well we ben his thrall,
What sorrow wc suffer, loud or still,
Alway thank God for all.
lU
* " If I speak tnitli, why do ye not believe me ? He who is of God
lieareth God's words ; ye, therefore, hear them not because ye are
not of God." (John viii. 47.)
^ Sadlij, seriously.
■ Avert them for to pa./, openly in the way that pleases them.
" At 1111/ mcrfiii.;, to my knowledge.
' •• Thonke God of all " is on leaf C8 of a collection of Old English
Poems made in a handwriting of the 15th century (Cotton. MSS.,
Ualig.,la A. u.l, which includes Lydgate's "Churl and the Bird." with
other of his pieces, and the old poems of Eglau.or „f Artois, Ypotis,
Isuinbras, Chevaher Assigns, The Stations of Rome, &c. Mr.
Halhwell-Philhpps ha^ included it in his volume edited for the Percv
fei .ciety of the Select Minor Poems of John Lydgate.
'" For; 0/ in original, throughout.
TO A.D. 14W.;
EELIGION.
115
Though thou lie both blind and hmie,
Or any sickness be on thee set.
Thou think right well it is no shame,
The grace of God it hath the gret ; 20
In sorrow or care though ye be knit,
And worldes weal be fro thee faU,
I cannot say thou myst do bet.
But alway thank God for all.
Though thou wield this AVorldes good,
And royally lead thy life in rest,
Well ishape of bone and blood,
None thee like by east ne west ;
Think God thee sent as Him lest,
Riches tumeth as a ball, 30
In all manner it is the best
Alway to thank God for all.
If thy good beginneth. to pass,
And thou wax a poore man.
Take good comfort and bear good face.
And think on Him that all good wan ;
Chi'ist himself for sooth began,
He may rene both bower and hall.
No better counsel I ne can
But alway thank God for all. 40
Think on Job that was so rich,
He wex poor from day to day,
His beastis dieden in each ditch,
His cattle vanished all away ;
He was put in poor array,
Xeither in purple neither in pall,
But in simple weed, as clerkes say.
And alway he thanked God for all.
For Christes love so do we.
He may bothe give and take, 50
In what mischief that we in be.
He is mighty enow oiu' sonow to slake ;
Full good amends he will us make
And ' we to him cry or call
Mliat gi-ief or woe that do thei! thi-aU,
Yet alway thank God for all.
Though thou be in prison cast,
Or any distress men do thee bede.
For Chi-istes love yet be stedfast
And ever have mind on thy creed ; 60
Think He faileth us never at need,
The dereworth duke that deem us shall ;
WTien thou art soiTy thereof take heed.
And alway thank God for all.
Though thy fiiendcs fro thee fail
And Death by rene hcnd their life,
AVhy should' st thou then weep or wail,
It is nought again God to strive ;
Himself maked both man and wife.
To His bliss He bring us aU, 70
How ever thou thole or thrive.
Yet alway thank God for all.
A\Tiat divers sonde that God thee send.
Here or in any other place.
Take it with good intent
The sooner God will send His grace ;
Though thy body be brought full bas.
Let not thy heart adovvn fall.
But think thee God is where he was.
And alway thank God for all. 80
TTiough thy neighbour have world at wiU
And thou far'st not so well as he.
Be not so mad to think him ill.
For his wealth envious to be ;
The King of Heaven himseU can see
Who takes his sonde great or small.
Thus cache man in his degree,
I rede thank God for all.
For Christes love be not so wild,
But rule thee by reason within and without, 90
And take in good heart and mild
The sonde that God sent all about ;
Then dare I say withouten doubt.
That in Heaven is made thy stall.
Rich and poor that low will lout,
Alway thank God for all.
Of Lyclgate's larger works account will be given
in another volume. The thought of his long English
poem on the '-Falls of Princes," taken from a French
metrical version of a Latin prose book by Boccaccio
— " De Casibus illustrium Virorum "— Lydgate ex-
pressed in this short poem : —
ALL STANDS IX CHANGE.
Let no man boast of cunning nor virtue.
Of treasure, riches, nor of sapience.
Of worldly support ; for all com'th of Jcsu
Counsel, comfort, discretion, and prudence.
Provision for sight and Providence,
Like as the Lord of Grace list dispose ;
Some man hath wisdom, some man eloquence ; —
All stant in change Hke a midsummer rose.
1 And, if.
"SATiolesome in smelling be the swete flowrcs
Full delectable outward to the sight ;
The thorn is sharp, covered with fresh colours.
All is not gold that outward sheweth bright :
A stockfish bone in darkness giveth light ;
Tween fair and foul as God list to dispose ;
A difference betwix day and night :—
All stant in change like a midsummer rose.
Flowers open upon everiche green
When the lauerok messenger of day
Salu'th the uprist of the sonne sheen
Most amorously in April and Slay.
And Aurora again the morrow gray
Causeth the daisy her cro«-n to unclose,
Worldly gladness is meUcd with affray : —
All stant in change like a midsummer rose.
Atween cuckowe and the nightingale
There is a manner of strange difference ;
On freshe branches singeth the woodwale,
•Tays in music have small experience ;
Chattering pies when they couie in presence
Jlost malapert their verdit to purpose ;
All thing hath favour, briefly in sentence.
Of soft or sharp, like a midsummer rose.
10
20 •
30
no
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1430
The royal Lion let call a parlcmcnt
All beast about him cveiyche one ;
The Wolf of malice, beinp; there present,
T'lmn the Lamb complained af,'ainst reason, —
Saidc he made his water unwholesome
His tender stomach to liinder and indispose,—
Kavoncrs reign, the innocent is borne down —
All stant in change like a midsummer rose. 40
All worldly thing braidcth upon time :
The Sonne changeth, so doth the pale moon ;
Th" aureate number in calendars set for prime ;
Fortune is double, doth favour for no boon;
And who that hath with that queen to doon
C'ontrariously she will his change dispose,
Who sitteth highest most like to fall soon, —
All stant in change like a midsummer rose.
The golden chair of Phiebus in the air
Chascth mistis black that they dare not appear, .50
At whose uprist mountains be made so fair
As they were newly gilt with his beams clear ;
The night doth foUow, apiiaUeth all his cheer,
^Vhen Western waves his streamcs overdose.
Reckon all beauty, all freshness that is here, —
AU stant in change like a midsunmier rose.
Constraint of coldc makcth flowres dare,'
With winter frosts that they dare not appear ;
All clad in russet the soil of green is bare,
TeUus and Jove be dulled of their cheer. GO
By revolution and turning of the year
A gery- March his stondis doth disclose:
Now rain, now stomi. now Phcebus bright and clear, —
All stant in change like a mids\immer rose.
Where is now David the most worthy king
Of .Tuda and Lsrael most famous and not&blc ?
And where is Salamon most sovereign of cunning.
Richest of building, of treasure incom]iariible,
Face of Absolon, most faire, most aimiiblc ':"
Keckon up each one, of truth make no glose ; 70
Reckon of Jonathas of friendship immutable, —
All stant in change like a midsummer rose.
Wliero is .Tullus, proudest in his empire
With his triumphes most imperial ''
Where is Pyn-hus, that was lord and sire
( If Ind in his estate royal 'i
And where is Alexander that conquered all,
Failed laiser his testament to dispose \
Nabigodonoser or Sardanapal ': —
All stant in change like a midsummer rose. 80
Where is Tullius with his sugared tongue ?
Or Chrysostemus with his golden mouth ?
The aureate ditties that be read and sung,
Of Omerus in Greece, both north and south,
The tragedies divers and uncouth
Of moral Senec the misteries to unclose,
By many an example is full couth —
All stant on change like a midsummer rose.
1 Jfflfccf7i ^(otci-t's Hat'c, makes them unatle to stir. Bii-d-catcliers
were said to '* dare larks " by use of a min-or.
2 Gci'y, changeable. From Frencb *'girer," to turn.
Wliere ben of France all the douzc piere^
Which in Gaule had the governance :
Vowcs of peacock, with all their proud cheer,
The Worthy Nine with all their high bobbaunce
Trojan knightes greatest of alliance ;
The Fleece of Gold, conquered in Colehos ;
Rome and Carthage most sovereig-n of puissance-
All stant on change Uke a midsummer rose.
Put in a sum all martial policy !
Complete in Afric and bounds of Carthage,
The Theban Legion example of chivalry,
At Rodomus river was expert their courage ;
Ten thousand knightes bom of great parage,
The martyrdom read in metre and prose ;
The golden crowncs made in the heavenly stage,
Fresher than lilies or any summer rose.
The remembrance of every famous knight,
Ciround considered built on righteousness,
Rase out each quan-el that's not built on right :
AVithoute truth what vaileth high noblesse ?
90
I
100
CuiaST AND THE CrOSS.
Fi'Offt JK. Pyjison's EHiiimx of " Lydgate's Testament " (1515?).
Lam-ear of martyrs foimded on holiness 110
White was made red their triumphs to disclose ; ■*
The white lilye was their chaste cleanness
Their bloody sufferance was no sunamer rose.
^ The doiue iiiere. The twelve peers of Charlema^e, set forth in
old romauce.
* Sir Jolin Mandeville tells us that m the field Floridus, near Beth-
lehem, a fair maiden falsely accused was to be burat. As the fire rose
about her she prayed to God, and immediately the buniing fagots
became red rose-bushes, and the imkindled fasfots became white
rose-bushes. And thus came the first roses into the world.
TO A.D. 14ol>
RELIGION.
U'l
It was the rose of the bloody tield
Kose of Jericho that grew in Bethlem,
The fine roses pourtrayed in the shield
'Splayed in the banner at Jerusalem.
The sun was clipsc and dark in every reme
When Christ Jesu lire welHs list unclose,
Toward Paradise, called the red stream.
Of whose five wounds print in your heart a rose. 120
The religious verse of John Lydgate incUules a
transhition of the first part of a French j)oem by
Guilhiuine de Guilevile, who was born at Paris about
the year 129.5, became prior of the Bernardine Abbey
of C'halis, and died about the j'ear 1360. Guilevile
says that the jjopularity of the "Roman de la Rose"
suffjrested to him the writins; of his " Romauut des
Trois Pelerinages " ("Romance of the Three Pil-
grimages "), namely, of Man in this Life; of the Soul
severed from the Body ; and of Our Saviour Jesus
Christ, in the form of a Monotessaron. Lydgate
translated into English verse the ." Pilgrimage of
Man in this World " for Thomas Montacute, Earl of
Salisbury, in the year 1426. GuilevOe's work was
well known in England in the fifteenth century, and
its sections of the " Pilgrimage of Man " and " Pil-
grimage of the Soul " had more than one translator
between 141.3, the date of the earliest MS. trans-
lation of the " Pilgrimage of Man," and 1 483, the
date of Caxton's printed English version of the " Pil-
grimage of the Soul." Le Peleriiiage de I'Homme
liegins by saying, that in the year 1330 the writer,
then a monk at Chalis, dreamed that he saw, as in a
mirror, the reflection of the Heavenly Jerusalem.
He was stirred to become a pilgi-im to it, and to seek
to enter by the narrow wicket-gate, of which Lydgate
thus translated his description : —
" For such as died for his love
By wickets entered in above,
Up the gate high aloft.
Though there the passage was not soft ;
The porter list them not to let,'
And there pencillis - up the)- set
On corners where them thoughte good,
All stained with theii' owne blood.
And when that I perceived it,
I conceived in my wit
That who should there within
Enter by force, he must it win
By manhood only and by virtu :
For by record of Saint llatthew
The heaven, as by his sentence,
Wonncn is by violence ;
Chiysostom reeordeth eke also,
Who list taken heed thereto.
That great violence and might
It is, who that look aright,
A man be bom in Earth here down
And raWsh like a champioun
The noble high heavenly place
By virtue only and by gi-ace.
For virtue doth to a man assure
Things denied by nature.
^ Ld, hinder.
2 Pencillis, pennons.
This to seyne who list lere '
That vii'tue mak'th a man conquere
The high heaven in many wise
To which kind ■* may not suffice
To claim there possession
But she be guided by reason.
Which to virtue is maistress
To lead her also and to dress *
In her Pilgrimage right
Above the staiTes clear and bright :
For other way could I not see
To enter by in that citee."
Guilevile then sought staff and scrip, and rushed out
of his house, weeping and lamenting, to know where
he should find them. Then came to him a lady of
great beauty, who seemed to be the daughter of an
Emperor, and asked him why he wept. This is
Gracedieu, the Grace of God. She learns his desii-e,
and says that she is sent by the Lord of the Way to
guide the weak but willing pilgrims, and ojien the
eyes of the blind. She warns him of the dangers
of the road, and bids him fix his eyes on the strait
gate, which none enter until they have ]jut ofi" their
clothing. "Homme vestu n'y pouvait jiasser;" the
soul must put off its garment of the flesh. Gracedieu
then takes the pilgrim to her House — the Church —
built 1330 years ago, where Scripttire is interpreted.
But the pilgrim comes to a stream without ferry or
bridge, before the entrance of the Church, which repre-
sents the water of baptism. Why, he asks, must
he bathe in this water 1 He is told ; he is helped
out on the other side; enters the House, where
Moses represents the Law, and Reason, Prudence,
Nature, Sapience, Rejientance, Love, are personified.
It is here that the scrip and staff for his j)ilgrimage
are given to him : the name of the scrip is Faith ;
the staff is Hope, on which he is told that he may
lean in all slippery places.
And yet he must not go until he has been armed.
He Ls then girt with a girdle of righteousness, a
writing is given him, which is the Creed in rhyme.
And, as Lydgate translates —
" ' Come near,' quoth she, ' and ha no cb-eed,
Look up on high, and take good heed :
Upon this perch the harness see
^\'herewith that thou wilt anncd bf
Pertinent to thy \-iage
And needful to thy pilgrimage.'
Then saw I helms and habergeons,""
Plate and mail for champions,
Gorgets again all violence.
And jackes stuff cs ' of defence.
Targets and shieldes large and long,
And pavys' also that were strong
For folk to make resistence
To all that would them don offence."
3 Lere, learn. * Kind, nature. ^ Dress, dii'eet.
« Hobcrgcoiis, breast plates; from"hals," the neck, and " bergen,"
to protect.
" Jack's s(ii/cs, stutfs for the jack or horseman's upper gai-menti
quilted and covered with strong leather.
8 Pavijs, bucklers. French " pavois."
118
CASSELL'S LIBEARY OF ENGLISH LITERATUEE.
[i.D. 1430
The coat of mail is Patience, tlie helmet Temperance,
the gorget is Sobriety, the gauntlets are named
Continence ; tlie sword is Justice, and the true name
of its scabbard is Humility. The pilgrim tinds the
amis too heavy for him, and asks to go forth like
David. He does finally go forth with a sling only,
bearing the pebbles Da\-id had in his scrip when
lie went forth to meet Goliath, and ha^■ing Memory
as armour-bearer, to equij) him in the time of need.
The pilgrim, when Memory first comes to him, is
surprised to find her without eyes, and is told that
her eyes are behind. But again he is told that he
must wear his amiour. Why then, he asks, did I
]iut it off, only to put it on again I He put it off
because he was too fat. He carries about and
nourishes an enemy. It was hLs body that reljelled
against the armour's weight. After teaching him
of the light of the soul seen dimly through the
cloud of flesh, Graceilieu says to the pilgi'im, in
Lydgate's version of the jioem —
" ' I5ut fur thy sake, anon right,
I shall assayun and |ir(n'ide
Thy body for to loyu ;iside.
Fro tlieo tiike it, if I uan.
That thou mays't concuivc' than
Of him wholly the governance
And what he is as in substance.
But thou mustest in eertain
After soon resort again
To thine oldc dwelling place
Till that death a certain space
Shall thee despoil and make tw\Tine
Fro the bod}- that thou art inne.'
And Gracedieu anon me took
I n'ot whe'r that I sli^pt or wook,
And made, for short conelusioun,
Jly body for to fall adoun.
And after that, anon right,
Jle sempte that I took my flight,
And was ravished into the air,
A place deUtible and fair.
And methought eke in my sight
I was not heavy hut very light.
And my beholding was .so clear
That I saw both far and near,
High and low and over all,
And I was right glad withal.
All was well to my pleasiiunce
Save a manner displeasaunco
I had of ' thing in certain
That I must go dwell again
AVithin my body which that lay
Like an heavy lump of clay,
^^^lieh to me was no furth'ring
But pertiu-bance and great letting.
Thither to resort of new.
Tho - wist I well that all was true
That Gracedieu had said to me ;
And thanne I went for to see
■UTie'r the body slept or nought.
And whan I hadde longc sought,
Tasted his power in ceitCTOe
And groped cvcrj- nerve and vcj-ne,
' 0, one
* Tho, then.
I iind in him no breath at all,
But dead and cold as a stone wall.
And when I did all this espy,
His governance I gan defy."
The Pilgrim proceeds on his way till he comes
to a place where the road divides into two ]jaths.
Industry, making nets, sits by the one. Idleness l>y
the other. He is taught that iji the way of Idle-
ness perils are gi-eatest ; the way of Industry is safe
to those who persevere in it, but many break through
the hedge into the other road. Idleness describes her
way, — the Idler's way of life, — and her enemy Re-
pentance is said to ha\-e set the hedge, so that if any
wished to turn from the other road into here, they
could not do so without being j)ierced \\dth thorns.
The Pilgrim takes the way of Industry; has encoun-
ters with Gluttony, Wrath, who carries a hawk calleil
Murder ; descends a hill, and is met by Tiibulation,
but he leans upon his staff, Faith, and escapes the
danger. He meets afterwards -n-ith Heresy, Satan,
Dame Fortune, and Gladness-of-the- World, a syren
by a wild square tower, whence issued smoke and
flame, while the whole tower
' ' Turned about as a wheel
Upon the floodcs enviroun,
"With the waves up ami down.
Somewhile as I coude know
The highest party was most low,
And also eke I saw full oft
The lowest party set aloft ;
And thus by transmutacyoun
It tiu-ned alway up so down.
And in this while ever among
I heard a melodious song " —
That was the voice of Worldly-Gladness, by whom,
after dialogue, the Pilgi-im was seized, and cast
into the midst of the great sea. He reached the
shore of the perilous island, foi-saken by Youth, who
hail been his companion, and i)ursued no more l>y
Worldly-Gladness, who had gone off with Youth for
her comrade. Then
" Even amid of all my pain
I saw amiddes of the sea
A shippe sail towardes mc ;
And even above upon the mast —
Wherefore I was the less aghast —
I saw a cross stand and not flit.
And thereupon a dove sit.
White as any milk or snow,
Whereof I had joy enow.
And in this ship, again all showers
There were castles and eke towers
Wonder diverse mansiouns
And sundry habitaciouns
By resemblance and seeming
Like the lodging of a King.
And as I took good heed thereat,
All my soiTows I forgat."
Gracedieu comes out of the ship to the Pilgrim's
aid, and he learns that the name of the ship is ^
Religion. The allegory of the " Pilcrimage of JNIau's
ri^
ro A.D. i4o(;».'
RELIGION.
119
Life " is continued in this manner till Old Age and
Death have laid the Pilgrim gently on his couch,
there to await Death's coming. Mercy takes him
to her infirmary, which h;is Fear of God for porter,
and where there are two messengei-s — Prayer and
Alm.sgiving — whom he may send before him to the
Heavenly Jerusalem. At la.st Death mounts upon
his becL Gracedieu reassures him. Death rans him
through the body with her scythe.
He staited and awoke, dead or alive he knew not
till he heard a cock crow and tlie i-inging of the con-
vent bell, and saw that he was awake in the morning
in his own bed in the monastery of ChalLs.
The popularity of GiiUevile's " Eomaunt of the
Three Pilgrimages " in England during the fifteenth
century indicates the growth of the tendency to
spu-itual allegory, which had its source far back in
regular canons of 8t. Augustine — made a collection
of "Sermons for the Greater Festivals of the Church,"
and in the middle of the fifteenth century put into
English verse a Latin book of " Instructions for
Parish Priests." - It began by admonishing priests
to know their duties and live as they preach. It
then explained in detail how a parishioner was to be
dealt with froni the cradle to the gi-ave. Beginning
at earliest, with birth and baptism, by tjiking the
religdous duties of the mother when the child is yet
unborn, and the baptism of a child that is half-bom
to a dying mother, it proceeded to general rules that
concern christening, confirmation, marriage, teaching
of cliildren, confession, how the people were to be
taught as to the Commimion, and trained to the right
maimer of recei\-ing it : also how they were to be
made to behave in church : —
The Ship Beligiox. (Fi-oni" The Pilgrimage of Man " in Cotton. JIs'., Ti't n ■■-, A. vii.i
the writings of Greek fathei-s of the Churcli and the
-Spiritualizing of the love-conceits of trouliadours by
lettered monks, who shared the accomplishments of
then- time, but were restrained by their vows from
rhjTning of love, like the noblemen and gentle-
men who were their neighboui-s. From English
tran.slations of Guile%Tle we pass, by natural transi-
tion, through an English poem of the same character,
to Sjjenser's " Faerie Queene," and Bunyan's " Pil-
giim's Prosrress."'
John Mirk, who was a canon of Lilleshall, in
Shropshu-e — a house associated with the order of the
' Much interesting detail on the snbject of Guilevile's allegory and
its English versions will he found in these two volumes: — "The
Ancient Poem of Guillaume de GuileriUe, entitled ' Le Pelerinage de
I'Homme,' compared with the Pilirrim's Progress of John Bunyan,
■edited from notes collected by the late Mr. Xathaniel Hill, of the
Koyal Society of Literature, with illustrations and an Appendix."
Pickering, 1858.— "The Booke of the Pylgremage of the Sowle, Trans-
lated from the French of Guillaume de Guileville, and Printed hy
Wilham Caxton An. IIKJ, with Illuminations taken from the MS.
Copy in the British Museum : edited by Katberiue Isabella Cnst."
Pickering. 1859.
OF BEHAVIOUR IX CHfRCH.
Yet thou moste teach them mare
That when they doth to ehurche fare.
Then bid them leave their many wordes
Their idle speech and nice bordes,^
And put away all vanitye
And siiy their Pater noster and their Ave.
Ne none in chiu'che stondc shall,
Xe lean to pillar ne to wall,
But faire on knees they shall them set,
Kneeling down upon the fiet,^
And pray to God with hertc meke
To give them grace and mercy eke.
Suffer them to make no here '
But aye to be in their prayere,
And when the Gospel read be shall
Teach them then to stand up all,
* '* Instructions for Parish Priests, by John Myrc," was first printed
in 1868 for the Early-English Text Society : edited fi'om the Cotton.
MS, Claudius, A. ii., by Mr. Edward Peacock, F.S.A.
3 Bordcfi. jests. "* Bord ' is abridged," says Jamiesou. "from Old
French 'behoardir' and ' bohorder,' to joust with lanccs."
* Tlicfid, the flat, the floor.
5 Bcye, noise.
ua
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1450
And Ucss them fairc as they con
When Gloria tiln is lu'gon ;
And when the Gospel is i-done,
Teach them eft to kneel down sone ;
And when they hear the belli- rin,!,'
To that lioly sakering, '
Teaeh them kneel both young- and old
And both their handes up to hold,
And say thcnne in this manere,
Fair and softly, without here,
" Jesu, TiOrd, welcome thou be
In fonn of bread as I thee sec ;
Jesu ! for thy holy name.
Shield me to-day fro sin and shame.
Shrift and houscl, Lord, -thou grant me bo,
Ere that I shall hennes go
And vray contrition of my sin
That I, Lord, ne'er die therein:
And, as thou were of a maid i-horc,
Suffer me ne' er to be f orlore,
But when that I shall hennis wend
Grant me the bliss withouten end. Amen."
Whenever and wherever the sacred host was seen
the people were to kneel ; and a li.st was given of the
evils from which any one was protected for the day
on which he .should ha\-e seen it.
" Also within church and sejTitwary
Do right thus as I thec^ say ;
Song and cry and suche fare
For to stint thou .shalt not spare ;
Casting of axtrce and eke of stone ^
Suffer them there to use none ;
Ball and bars,' and suche play.
Out of churchyard \>\\t away ;
Court-holding and such manner ehost *
Out of seyntwary put thou most ;
For Chri.st himself tcacheth us
That Holy Church is His house.
That is made for nothing elles
Than for to pray in, as the book tells ;
There the people shall gather within
To prayen and to weepen for their sin."
Witchcraft was to Ije forbidden the people ; also
tisnry. Husbands and -svives were to lie taught that
both must consent before either could undertake a
penance, or a vow of chastity, or a pilgrimage —
" Save the vow to Jerusalem,
That is lawfid to either of them."
Twice or thrice in the year occasion must be taken
to teach the whole parish the Pater iwster, Ave, and
1 Sitet-itijj, consecpatiou of the host.
2 Tlirowin^ the hatchet and putting the stone. A.xiree may he axle-
tree, which is said to have been used for throwing by the rustics.
3 Bays, Ciisting the bar wa.s another of the athletic 8iK>rts of the
people ; and Heury VIII., after he came to the throne, is said by Hall
and Holinshed to have retained '* casting the bar " among his anuise-
luents. In a paper of the Sjircdifor, written by Eustace Budgell {No.
161), a country fair of the year 1711 is described; and the describer
says : " Upon my asking a fanner's son, of my own parish, what
he was gazing at with so mnch attention, he told me that he was
seeing Betty Welch, whom I knew to be his sweetheart, pitch a
bar."
* Chost, chest, " ceast," strife.
Creed English rhymed forms of these were given,
and tiien foflowed instruction as to the teaching and
e.Kplainin- of the Articles of Faith, and the Heven
Sacraments of the Church:—!. Baptism; 2. Confir-
nirttion; 3. The Eucharist ; 4. Penance; b. Priests
orders ; 6. Matiimony ; 7. Extreme Unction :—
" Lo 1 here the seven and no mo ;
Look thou prechc ofte tho.
The usage of the Church in the fifteenth century
was set forth upon all these heads, and an Penance was
as.sociated with Confession, this gave rise to a section
upon admonition against, and forms of penance for,
the seven deadly sins. The seventh sacrament being
extreme unction, the book ended with the last offices
of the priest to his parishioner. Then added the
author —
" Now, dear priest, I pray thee,
For Goddcs love, thoti pray for me,
Jlore f pray that thou me myng^
In thy mass when thou do.st sing ;
And yet, I jiray thee, leve' brother,
Head this oft, and so let other ;
Hide it not in hod^-moke,'
Let other mo rcadc this boke :
The mo therein doth read and learn
The mo to meed it shale turn ;
It is i-made them to shown
That have no bookes of their own,
And other that beth of mean lore
That wolde fain eonnc more :
And thou that herein learnest most
Thanke 3eme' the Holy Ghost,
That giveth wit to cache mon
To do the gode that he con,
And by his travail and his deed
Giveth him heaven to his meed.
The meed and the joy of heaven light
God us grantc for His might." Aiiieii.
At the time when this was written, in the middle
of the fifteenth century, for the instruction of the
humbler clergy, the battle against neglect of duty
by those who should be leaders of the Church was
steadily continued. Followere of Wielif were uphold-
ing strenuously the Bible as the only rule of faith ;
were battling against what they believed to be tradi-
tions of men, injurious to discipline and doctrine;
were contrasting the pride of the Court of Rome, of
cardinals, and of lordly prelates, with the life and
teaching of Christ, and mth the unworldly zeal of
the Apostles ; were desiring in the Church pure
^ Myiig, remember.
'' XciT, dear.
^ Hodymoke, equivalent to "hugger mugger,'* in conceahnent. So in
S(if iro-mnsti.r, •* One word. Sir Qiiintiliau, in hiigger mugger ; " and of
Polonius in Hamlet, '* We have done but greenly in hugger-mugger to
inter him." In Icelandic " hugr," the mind, genitive ** hugar."
enters into such comi>ounds as " hugar-angr " and " hugar-ekki," for
grief and distress of mind, " hngar-gloggr," &c. '* Mngga " means
mistiness, and, formed m the same way, " hugar-mugga " would be
muggine.s8 or mistiness of mind, a mind obscured in haze.
8 r^L-rnt:, earnestly.
TO A.D. 1457.]
RELIGION.
121
liible teaching from men who strove religiously
themselves to follow it, with frequent instruction of
the people, by preaching and explaining to them the
Word of God.
Reginald Pecock, who was born not long before
the death of Chaucer, was a Welshman, who studied
at Oxford, and became Fellow of Oriel in l-tlT. In
1421 he was admitted to prie.st's orders; and a few
veal's later was thriving in London, because his learn-
ing won him the goodwill of a friend of literature
who was then protector of the kingdom, Humphrey,
Duke of Gloucester. Pecock was made Rector of
Whittington College, founded by the Sir Richard
Whittington who was thrice Lord Mayor of London
(in 1397, H06, and U19). The College, dedicated
to the Holy Ghost, was in the Church of St. Michael
Royal, rebuilt by liim, and finished by his executors
in 1424. It consisted of a Master and foiu- Fellows,
clerks, choristers, ifec, and near it was an almshouse
for thirteen poor people. The office of Master of
this College was associated with that of Rector of the
Church to which it belonged ; and Pecock became
Master of Whittington College and Rector of St.
Michael Royal in 1431. Here he was resident for
the next thirteen years, in the midst of the Lollard
controversy, still active in study, and writing Eng-
lish tracts upon the religious questions of his time.
In 1440 he published a " Donet," or Introduction to
the Chief Truths of the Christian Religion. In 1444
his friend Hmnphrey, Duke of Gloucester, gave
Pecock the bishojn-ic of St. Asaph. In this office his
liusy mind was still active, and there were many
critics of the opinions he expressed.
When Thomas Arundel was Archbishop of Can-
terbuiy, from 1396 to 1413, the action against the
Lollards had been quickened, new provision had been
made for the burning of heretics, and freedom of
pi'eaching had been checked throughout the Church.
The reason for this was that, as preaching consisted
in interpretation of the Scripture, the much inter-
pretmg by many minds would lead to diversities of
explanation, encourage laymen to apply their reason
to Church matters, spread confusion of opinion, and
break up the oneness of the Church. Arundel's
battle was for unity in Christendom. He died of a
swellmg of the tongue; and men said that was a
judgment ujion him for silencing the preachers.
Three or four years after Arundel's death, Sir John
Oldca-stle (Lord Cobham), who had been a successful
general in the French wars, but at home was a friend
and sujiporter of the Lollards, was, on Christmas
Day, 1417, suspended over a tire, and roasted alive
as a Lollard. Such acts were meant to daunt the
spirit of the Lollards, and tlid silence some, while it
confirmed in them the spirit of opposition. But to the
braver minds it gave new enei'gy of resistance to the
action of the bishops. Then Reginald Pecock began
a defence of the bishops, which could not please the
Lollards because it was directed against them, and
displeased many of those whose champion he made
himself, because he brought their case into court
before the body of the laity, by writing in English,
addressing himself to them, appealing to their judg-
ment %vith such arguments as then jjassed for reason
amoiig scholastic men ; and was led by the deeper sense
80
of right in his impulsive nature, to make what those
whom he defended looked upon as dangerous con-
cessions. About the middle of the fifteenth century,
perhaps in 1449, Reginald Pecock produced, on the
religious struggle of his day, a long English book,
entitled " The Repressor of Overmuch Blaming of
the Clergy." About the same time, in 1450, he was
made Bishop of Chichester. In 1456 he was follow-
ing up his "Repressor" with another English treatise
designed to piomote peace by the persuasion of the
Lollai-ds. It w;is called a " 'Treatise on Faith;" and
Pecock, admitting it be vain to attempt to over-nile
the Lollards by telling them that " the church of the
clergy may not err in matters of faith," trusted to
argument, and said; "The clergy shall be condemned
at the last day if, by clear wit, they draw not men
into consent of true faith otherwise than by fire and
sword and hangment ; although," he said, " I will
not deny these second means to be lawful, provided
the former be fii-st used." He upheld the Bible as
the only rule of faith, was accused of mider-rating
the authority of the Fathers, even of the four great
fathers and doctors of the Church — Ambrose, Augus-
tine, Jerome, and Gregory — the four stots ' of the
allegory of Piers Plowman, who drew the harrow
after the plough of the Gospel. It was urged that
when the Fathers had been quoted to rebut an argu-
ment of Pecock's he had even been known to say,
"Pooh, pooh!" In 1457, when, as Bishop of Chi-
chester, Reginald Pecock took his place in a Council
at Westminstei', many tenqwral lords refused to take
part in the business unless he were ejected. The
divines called on the Ai'chbishop of Canterbury to
submit to them Pecock's books for scrutiny. He
was required to come with his books to Lambeth on
the eleventh of the next month, November. He was
then ordered to quit the Council chamber. Twenty-
foiu- doctors, to whom Pecock's books were submitted,
found heresies in them. John of Bury, an Austin
friar, replied to the "Repressor" with a " Gladius
Salomonis " (" Sword of Solomon "), attacking him
for his appeal to reason, and opposing the conclusions
which he held to be heretical. Finally, the Arch-
bishop of Canterbury, Thomas Bourchier (Ai-chbishop
from A.D. 1454 to a.d. 1486) pronounced a sentence
which is thus reported : —
"Dear brother, Master Reginald, since all heretics are
blinded by the light of theh- own understandings, and wiU
not own the perverse obstinacy of their own conclusions, we
shaU not dispute with you in many words (for we see that
you abound more in talk than in reasoning), hut briefly show
you that you have manifestly presumed to contravene the
sayings of the more authentic doctors. For as regards the
descent of Christ into hell, the Tarentine doctor, in an inquiry
of his into the thi-ee creeds, says that it was left out of the
Nicene and Athanasian creeds, because no heresy had then
arisen against it, nor was any great question made about it.
As to the authority of the Catholic Church, the doctor
Augustine says, Z'li/css the authority of the Church moved me,
I should not helierc the Gospel. As to the power of councils,
the doctor Gregory says (and his words are placed in the
Canon, Distinct, xv.), that the four sacred Councils of Kice,
Constantinople, Ephesus, and Chalcedon are not less to be
1 TJie four Rtots. See page 99, col. ;
122
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1150
honoured and reverenced than the four holy Gospels. For in
them (as he asserts), as on a square corner-stone, the struc-
ture of sacred faith is raised : and in them the rule of good
life and manners consists. The other doctors also say with
one mouth that although the sacred councils may err in
matters of fact, yet they may not err in matters of faith,
because in everj- general council, where two or thi-ee are
gathered together in Christ's name, His Holy Spirit is there
in the midst of them, who does not suffer them to err in faith
or to depart from the way of truth. As regards the sense
and understanding of Scripture, the doctor Jerome says, that
whoever understands or expounds it otherwise than the
meaning of the Holy Spirit requires, is an undoubted heretic.
With whom agrees the Lincoln doctor (Grosteste), thus
saying : Whoever excogitates an_v opinion contrary to Scrip-
ture, if he publicly teach it and obstinately adhere to it, is to
be counted for a heretic." The archbishop having then
enlarged on the necessity of removing a sickly sheep from
the fold, lest the whole flock should be infected, offered
Pecoek his choice between making a public abjuration of his
errors, and being delivered, after degradation, to the secular
arm "as the food of fire and fuel for the burning." " Choose
one of these two" (he added), " for the alternative is imme-
diate in the coercion of heretics.''
Pecock luul ailmitted tlie right of the Church to
compel subiiiis.sion, though he thought it was the
Church's duty to persuade by reason ; and it was in
absohite accord with his own teaching that he should
now submit to the force used against himself He
abjured the condemned opinions; and on the 4th of
Decemlier, 1457, was brought in his robes as Bishop
of Chichester to St. Paul's Cross, where he recanted
pulilicly, in presence of twenty thousand people, and
then delivered with his own hand three folios of his
writing and eleven cpiartos to the inililic executioner,
who cast tlieni as publicly into a tire lighted for the
purpose.
A fortnight later, the authorities of the University
of O.xford went in procession to Carfax, and there
burnt every copy of a book of Pecock's that could lie
found in the town. In March, 1 459, Reginald Pecock
was dei]rived of his bishopric, and sent by the Arch-
bishop of Canterbury to Thorney Abbey, in Cam-
bridgeshire, with these instructions for Ids safe-
keeping addressed to William Ryall, who was Abbot
of Thorney between the years 1457 and 14G4 : —
" He .shall have a secret closed chamber (having a chim-
ney), and convenience within the abbey, where he may have
sight to some altar to hear mass ; and that he jDass not the
said chamber. To have but one person that is sad (grave)
and well-disposed to make his bed, and to make him fire, as
it shall need. That he have no books to look on, but only a
portuous (breviary), a mass-book, a psalter, a legend, and a
Bible. That he have nothing to write with ; no stuff to write
upon. That he have competent fuel according to his age,
and as his necessity shall require. That he be served daily
of meat and drink as a brother of the abbey is served when
he is excused from the freytour {i.e., from dining in hall),
and somewhat better after the first quarter, as his disposi-
tion and reasonable appetite shall desire, conveniently after
the good discretion of the said abbot."
MSS. differ as to the amount paid to the abbey
for the maintenance of Reynold (Reginald) Pecock,
"for his tinding;" one account says forty pounds,
another eleven. A fuller copy of the instructions,
in which the sum named is eleven pounds, adds to
the clause about the prisoner's bed-maker, " that lio
one else shall speak to liim without leave, and in
the presence of the abbot, miless the King or the
Archbishop send to the abbey any man with writing
specially in that behalf;" and another copy, which
gives forty pounds as the sum paid — and xi. seems to
have been only a clerical error for xl. — shows that
part of the money was to be considered by the abbey
payment do itself for its troulile and responsibility;
for concerning " the said Reynold " there was a
" Provided in all wise that all the forty pounds
above \viitten be not expended about his tinding,
but a competent part thereof, as his necessity shall
require ; and that the remanent thereof Ije disposed
to the connnon weal of the behoof of the said place."'
TuuKSLi .\iiijiiv. [From Dutjdale\
We turn now to Pecock's "Repressor" for some
knowledge of that defence of the Chui-ch against the
Lollards which brought down upon its author the
condemnation of the Church. He began with a text
from the fourth chapter of St. Paul's '^Second Epistle
These insti-uctions are quoted in the introductiou to the valuable
edition of Pecock's '• Repressor," by Mr. Cbm-chill Bahin?toii, which
IS lucluded among ■• The Chronicles and Memorials of Great Britain
and Ireland during: the Middle Ages," published under the direction
of the Master of the Rolls,
' Thorney Abbey, completed in 1108, covered five times as much
ground as this part, left standing after the Reformation,
TO A.l). liS4.]
RELIGION.
123
to Timothy : " Undernyme thou, biseche thou, and
blame thou, in all pacience and doctrme." — "Re-
prove, rebuke, exhort, with all long-sufleruig and
doctiine." And thu.s he opened his case w-ith a com-
ment that, at the outset, gi-anted the right of the laity
to question, and made it the duty of the higher
clergy to reply to questions, and with patience to set
forth the doctrine that would satisfy the doubter's
mind.
REGINALD PECOCK's PROLOGUE TO " THE REPRESSOR."
'• Uiuleiitijiiw^ tliou, bisecht:- thou, and blame thuii, in all
patience and doctrine.^*
Though these words were written by Saint Paul to Timothy,
being a bishop, and not a lay person of the common people,
yet Ln these -n-ords Saint Paul giveth not to Timothy instruc-
tion of any higher governance than that which also he might
have given to a lay person of the common people, because
that in these words Paul giveth instruction, not of correction
(or of correcting by thi'eatening and punishing), which
longcth only to the overer anentis his netherer, and not to
the netherer anentis his overer ; but he giveth instruction of
correption' and of correpting, which not only longeth to an
overer anentis his netherer, but also to a netherer anentis his
overer, as it is open ; 2 Thessalonians, ch. iii., and Matthew,
eh. x\'iii., and as reason also it well confirmeth, so that it be
do with honesty and reverence and with other thereto by
reason due circumstances. Of which correption first opening
or doing to wite, then next blaming, and afterward biseching,
ben parties : and therefore these same words speaking only
of correption, so by St. Paul dressed to Timothy, bishop, to
whom longeth both to corrept and correct, mowe well enough
be taken and di'essed farther to each layperson, for to therein
give to him instruction how he should rule him whenever he
taketh upon him for to, in neighbourly or brotherly manner,
cori-ept his Christian neighbour or brother, namelich, being
in otherwise to him his overer. In which words (as it is
open enough for to see) each man which taketh upon him
the deeds of brotherly correption is infomied that the parties
of thilk coiTeption (which ben undcmyming, biseching and
blaming) he do "in patience and in doctrine;" that is to
say, over this, that for the while of his correpting he have
patience, that he have also there\vith such doctrine, knowing,
or cunning whereby he can show and prove it to be a default
for which he undemi|-meth and blameth, and the person so
undemome and blamed to be guilty in the s;ime default and
sin.
And forasmuch as after it what is written (Romans, ch. x.)
many have zeal of good will, but not after cunning, and have
therewith taken upon them for to undemjTne and blame
openly and sharply, both in speech and in writing, the clergy
of God's whole Church in earth, and for to bear an hand
upon the said clergy that he is guilty in some governances
as in defaults, which governances those blamers cunnen not
to show, teach, and prove to be defaults and sins : and have
thereby made fuU much indignation, disturbance, schism,
and other evils for to rise and be continued in many persons
by long time of many years : therefore, to each such un-
grounded, and unready, and overhasty imdemymer and
blamer I sav the before i-ehearsed words of St. Paul : Under-
* Vndefnymc (First-English "undemiman," undertake), take in
tand, reprehend.
* Biseciie, contend against. First-English " bisEB'ce," disputable,
litigious.
3 Correption {Latin " correptio," a laying hold oft, reproof, rebuke.
n)-me thou, biseche thou, and blame thou, in al pacience and
doctrine : as though I should say thus : If thou canst teach,
shew, and prove that the deed of which thou undemymest
and blamest the person or persons is a default and a trespass,
and then that he is guilty thereof, undemjine then and
blame thou in thUk cunning, or doctrine, and in patience;
and if thou canst not so shew, teach, and prove, thou oughtest
be still, and not so undernyme and blame.
For else Saint Paul should not have said thus : lTndem\-me
thou, blame thou, in all patience and doctrine ; yea, and else
thou oughtest undemj-me and blame tirst thyself of this
default that thou undemj-mest and blamest not, having the
doctrine which thou oughtest have, ere than thou take upon
thee for to undernyme and blame ; and so to each such over-
hasty and unwise blamer might be said what is written,
Luke, ch. iv., thus : O leech, heal thyself. Yea, peradven-
ture, to some such blamers, and for somewhiles, might be said
what is written, Luke, the vi. ch.,thus : Hypocrite, take first
the beam out of thine own eye, and then thou shalt see for
to take the mote out of thin neighbour's eye. And further-
more, sithen it is so, that such unwise, undiscreet, and over-
hasty undernj-mers letten'' the effect of their wise and discreet
and well-avised undernymings which they in other times
maken or mowe make to the clergj-, and so given occasion
that both they themself and their just undernymings ben
despised and ben not set b)-, and so maken thereby themsilf
to be letters of much good and causers of much evil, it is
right great need that all those which taken upon them to be
undemymers and blamers of the clergy keep well what is
said to be the meaning of Saint Paul in the before-rehearsed
words : Undernyme thou, biseche thou, blame thou, in all
patience and doctrine.
Now that God, for His goodness and charity, cease the
sooner in the common people such unwise, untrue, and over-
hasty undemj-ming and blaming made upon the clergy, and
that for the hai-m and eWls thereby coming now said : I shall
do thereto somewhat of my part in this, that I shall justify
eleven governances of the clergy, which some of the common
people unwisely and untruly judgen and condemnen to be
ei-il — of which eleven governances, one is the having and
using of images in churches, and another is pOgilmage in
going to the memorials or the mind-places of saints, and
that pQgrimages and offerings mowe be done well, not only
priWly, but also openly, and not only so of laymen, but
rather of priests and of bishops. And this I shall do by
writing of this present book in the common people's lan-
guage, plainly, and openly, and shortly, and to be cleped The
Beprcssing of oner mic/ie teijiing'' the Clergie: and he shall have
five principal parties. In the first of which parties shall be
made in general manner the said repressing, and in general
manner proof to the eleven said governances. And in the
second, third, fourth, and fifth principal parties shall be made
in special manner the said repressing, and in special manner
the proofs to the same eleven governances ; though all other
governances of the clergy, for which the clergy is worthy to
be blamed in brotherly or neighbourly correption, I shaU not
be about to excuse, neither defend; but pray, speak, and
write, in all patience and doctrine, that the clergy forsake
them, leave, and amend.
After this prologue, Pecock began his first part by
finding the ground of much blame of the clergy by
the laity ru "three trowings," holdings, or opinions, of
which the first was : That no governance is to be held
■• letfen, hinder. ^ Wytinj, blaming. First-English "witan."
124
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 14S0
by Cliristian men as jiai-t of the service or the law of
God, except tliat wliich is grounded in Holy Scrip-
ture of tlie New Testament, as some say, or as others
say, ill the New Testament and in that jiart of the
Old Testament which the New has not revoked.
Tliey who hold this trowing, said Pecock, " if any
clerk affirmeth to them any governance, being con-
trary to theii- wit or pleasance, though it lie full open
and full surely in doom of reason, and therefore surely
in moral law of kind, which is law of God, for to be
done, yet they anon asken, ' Where groundest thou
it in the New Testament 1 ' or " Where groundest
thou it in Holy Stu-ijiture in such place which is not
by the New Testament revokedf"
The second trowing, oro])Lnion, from wliieh Pecock
traced much undue blame of the clergy, was tliis:
"That whatever Christian man or woman be meek
in sjjirit and willy for to understand truly and duly
Holy Scrijiture, shall, without fail and default, hiid
the true understanding of Holy Scripture in whatever
place he or she shall read and study, though it be in
the Apocalyi)se or oughwhere else, and the more
meek he or she be, the sooner he or she shall come
into the very true and due understanding of it which
in Holy Scrii)ture he or she studieth. This second
ojiinion tliey we^'iien to be grounded in Holy Scrip-
ture." Here Pecock cpioted some of the passages on
which it was based, adding that, " in other divers
places of Scripture mention is made that God givetli
good things to meek men more than if they were not
so meek."
The third trowing, Pecock explained to be the
opinion that no Christian should let reason of man
overthrow the view of Scrijiture teaching that he or
she had arrived at by such meek and faithful study.
This trowing was founded upon atlmouitions of St.
Paul, in the second chapter of the Ei)istle to the
Colossians, anil in the tirst chapter of the Epistle
to the Corinthians. As Pecock quoted one of the
warnings to tlie Colossians that was relied upon,
the warning relied upon was, " See ye that no man
beguile you Ijy philosophy and vain falseness after
the traditions of men and after the elements of the
world, and not after Christ."
Against the first of these three trowings, Pecock
proceeded to argue for thii-teen conclusions. The first
was that " It longeth not to Holy Scrii)ture, neither
it is his office into which God hath him' ordained,
■tteither it is his part, for to ground any governance
or deed or service of God, or any law of God, or any
truth which man's reason by nature may find, learn
and know." After setting forth six arguments to
jirove this conclusion he drew from it as a corollary,
" that wlienever and wherever in Holy Scripture or
out of Holy Scripture be written any point or any
governance of the said law of kind, it is more vei-ily
■wiitten in the book of man's soul than in the outward
book of parchment or of vellum ; and if any seeming
discord be betwixt the words wi-itten in the outward
book of Holy Scrijrture and the doom of reason
* His and Mm are not of necessity masculine. They were also
neuters in First Entrlisli and in Pecock's time. "Hit" or "it" was
only used in the nominative and accusative, and '* its " was a form
not yet invented. But Pecock does make " Scripture '* masculine.
wi-itten in man's soul and heart, the words so written
without forth oughten to be expowned and be inter-
preted and brought for to accord with the doom
of reason in thiik matter, and the doom of reason
ought not for to be expowned, glosed, interjireted
and brought for to accord with the said outward
writing in Holy Scripture of the Bible or oughwhere
else out of the Bible." Pecock referred to a previous
book of his own on "The just apprising of Holy
Scripture " in which he had dwelt on that law of
natm-e which it is not the work of Scripture to
reveal, and he drew an illustration from the country
people who came into London on Midsummer eve
with carts full of branches of trees from Bishop's
Wood, and flowers from the fields, for decoration of
the houses of the citizens in remembrance of Jolm
the Baptist and of the prophecy that many should
joy in his birth. Did they think that the branches
and flowers grew from the hands of the country
folk by which they were given, or from the carts in
which they were brought 'I Though Christ himself
and his Apostles were the bringers, " yet the men of
London, receiving so those branches and flowers,
ougliten not say and feel that those branches and
flowers greweu out of Christ's hands and out of the
Apostles' hands. For why- in this deed Christ and
the Apostles diden none otherwise than as other men
mighten and couthen do. But the said I'eceivers
oughten see and hold that the branches grewen out
of the boughs ujioii which they in Bishop's Wood
.stooden, and tho.se lioughs grewen out of stocks or
tnincheons, and the truncheons or shafts grewen out
of the root, and the root out of the next eartli thereto
upon which and in which the root is buried, so that
neither the cart, neither the hands of the liringers,
neitlier those bringers, ben the grounds or fundaments
of the branches ; and in like manner the field is the
fundament of those flowers, and not the hands of
the gatherers, neither those bringers. Certes, liut if
each man wole thus feel in this matter, he is duller
than any man ought to be." So it is, said Pecock,
with whatever we find of the natural law brought to
us by Scripture. It is not the pur])ose of Scripture
to bring us those truths which we should have still
though all the Scriptui-es were burned. These belong
to the Law of Nature ; " they ben grounded in thilk
forest of Law of Kind which God planteth in man's
soul when he maketh him to His ima<'e and likeness."'^
^ For wJiij, because.
2 In the first book of Richard Hooker's " Ecclesiastical Polity,"
published in 1593, is a like argument. "As the actions of men are
of sundry distinct kinds, so the laws thereof must aceordiu(,'ly be
distinguished As that first en-or sheweth wherein oiu- op-
ixjsites in this cause have gi'ounded themselves. For as they rightly
maintain that God must be gloi-ilied in all thiugs, and that the actions
of men cannot tend unto His glory unless they be framed after His
Law ; so it is their error to think that the only Law whicli God hath
appointed unto man in that belief is the Sacred Scripture. By that
which we work naturally, as when we breathe, sleep, move, we set
forth the glory of God as natural agents do, albeit we have no express
pun'ose to make that our end, nor any advised determination therein
to follow a law, but do that we do (for the most part) not as much as
thinking thereon. In reasonable and moral actions another law
taketh place; law by the observation whereof we glorify God in
such sort as no creature else under man is able to do ; because other
creatures have not judgment to examine the quality of that which
is done by them, and therefore in that they do they neither can accuse
TO AD. 1464.]
RELIGIOK
125
The second of Peeoek's thirteen conchisions against
i;he first trowing of the blamers of the clergy, was
that although Holy Scripture be not the ground of
moral truths at which man's natural reason must
-anive, " yet it may pertain well enough to Holy
•Scripture that he reheai-se such now said governances
.and truths, and that he witness them as grounded
.somewhere else in the law of kind or doom of man's
rea.son. And so he doth (as to each reader therein
it may be open) that by thilk reheai'sing and wit-
nessing so done by Holy Scripture to men, those
men shoulden be both remembered, stirred, provoked,
and exhorted for to the rather perfonn and fulfil
those same so rehearsed and witnessed governances
and truths." The third principal conclusion was that
" the whole oflice and work into which God ordained
Holy Scripture, is for to ground articles of ftiith, and
for to reheai-se and witness moral truths of law of
kind gi-ounded in moral philosojiliy, that is to say, in
doom of reason." Of the articles of faith groimded
in Scri])ture, some — as, that in the beginning God
made Heaven and Earth — are not laws; and some
— as, that each man ought to be baptized in water
• — are laws. The next point in the argument —
the fourth conclusion — was that, as it is not the
part of Scripture to groimd laws of nature, so it is
no part of the law of nature to gi-ound articles of
faith. Nevertheless — fifth conclusion — as Scripture
rehearses and enforces the moral law of nature,
so treatises on natural religion may rehearse and
enforce articles of faith which are not groimded
in them. The whole office and work of the books
of moral philosophy is to express outwardly, by jjen
and ink, the truth, gi-ounded on the inward book
of law of kind, buried in man's soul and heart,
and to rehearse some truths and conclusions of
ftiith, grounded in Holy Scripture, that the readers
be the more and oft<.'u stirred and exhorted by the
recital of them. That was the sixth conclusion ;
and the seventh went on to maintain that the greater
part of God's whole law to man on earth is grounded
outside Holy Scripture in the inward book of law
of kind. Therefore Peeoek's next conclusion was —
his eighth — that no man can know the whole law of
God to which a Christian is bound, without know-
ledge of moral philosophy ; and, ninth, no man
without such knowledge could surely and sufficiently
understand those parts of Holy Scripture which
rehearse moral virtues not being positive law of
faith. From these followed the tenth conclusion,
that the learning of the said law of nature, and of
the said moral philosophy, is necessai-y to Christian
men if they will serve God aright. The articles of
nor approve themselves. Hen do both, as the Apostle teacheth ;
yea, those men which have no written Law of God to show what is
good or evil carry written in their hearts the universal law of man-
kind, the Law of Reason, whereby they judj;e as by a riile which God
hath ^veu unto all men for that purpose. The Law of Reason doth
somewhat direct men how to honour God as their Creator ; but how
to glorify God in such sort as is required to the end he may be an
everlasting Saviour, this we are taught by Diviae Law, which law
both ascertaineth the truth and supplieth unto us the want of that
other law. So that in moral actions. Divine law helpeth exceedingly
the Law of Reason to guide man's life ; but in supernatural it alone
guideth."
faith themselves rest upon reason as well as Scripture ;
and the Sacraments of the Church, Pecock urged,
would not be giounded on Scripture for our gover-
nance without the help of reason, and unless the
law of God in nature were joined to the law of God
in Holy "Writ. Peeoek's eleventh conclusion was,
therefore, tliat the laity ought to make much of
clerks who had well studied that moral jihilosophy ;
and, twelfth conclusion, they should prize and study
books based upon such assay and experience, which
distinguished between those parts of the law of God
which are and are not grounded in Scripture, and
between those truths of faith which are and those
which are not laws. His thirteenth and last con-
clusion, against the fii-st of the three trowings of the
laity, came then straight to the point that the question
— " Where findest thou it grounded in Scripture?"
— is only applicable to those governances or truths
iuvoh-ing articles of faith. To ajjply such a question
to the statement of governance or truth grounded in
law of nature or moral philosophy is, he said, as un-
reasonable as to ask Scrijrture authority for a truth in
grammar, or to ask of a conclusion in saddlery —
" Where findest thou it grounded in tailor-craft 'I "
"And," said Pecock, "if any man be feared lest he
trespass to God if he make over little of Holy Scrip-
ture, which is the outward writing of the Old Testa-
ment and the New, I ask why is he not afeaied lest
he make over little, and appiise over little, the inward
Scripture of the before-sjioken law of kind, written
by God Himself in man's soul, when he made man's
soul to His image and likeness ? "
Pecock next jiroceeded to the discussion of texts
usually cpioted in relation to his argimient. He
dwelt, also, on the efl'ect produced upon those of
the laity who had been enabled, by "Wiclif and his
fellow-workers, to read the Bible in theii- mother
tongue. They had found it " miche delectable and
sweete, and draweth the reders into a devocion and
a love to God, and fro love and deiute of the world ;
as y have had herof experience upon such reders,
and ujion her' now seid disjsocioun. " The delight and
]irofit, and the lifting of their souls, led them to find
all they needed in their Bibles, and to forget that
there are truths of God written elsewhere, and rei\son
given to man wherewith to find them, and apply
them to his use. But reason is fallible — Scripture
infallible ; to those who said, for that cause. Let not
reason be our guide, the next part of the argument
was addressed. This led to ai-gument on the necessity
of an instructed clergy, on the errors introduced by
jirivate exposition that destroyed Church unity. Here
Pecock, in a passage that I give without change of
spelling, spoke thus of
DIVISIONS IN THE CHURCH.
' ' Certis in this wise and in this now scid maner and hi this
now seid cause bifille the rewful and wcpeable destmccioun of
the worthi citee and vniuersite of Prage,^ and of the hool
' Her, their.
^ Reference is to the taking of Prague in 1419 by Ziska, who led
the Hussites after the bui-ning of John Huss and Jerome of Prague
in 1415 and 1416. In 1418, John de Troezuow, called Ziska,
12C
CASSELL'S LIBKARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
Li.D. liSO
II
rewmo of Beomc, as y haue hiid ther of cnformacioun ynouj.
And now, aftir the dostruccioun of the rcwme, the peple ben
glad for to resorte and tume a3en into the catholic and.
general feith and loore of the chirehc, and in her poueite
bildith up a3cn wliat was brent and throwun doun, and noon
of her holdingis can thriue. But for that Crist in his pro-
pheciyng muste ncedis be trewe, that ech kiiigdom dctiidid in
hem silf schal be rlrstnii/crl, therfore to hem bifille the now
seid wi-ecchid mys ehauuce. God for his nierci and pitee
kepe Ynglond, that he come not into lijk daunce. But forto
tume here fro a3en vnto oure Bible men, y preic 30 scie 30 to
me, whanne among you is rise a strijf in holdingis and
opiniouns, (hi cause that ech of you trustith to his owne
studio in the Bible aloon, and wole haue alle treuthis of
mcnnys moral conuersacioun there groundid,) what iuge mai
therto be assigned in ertlic, saue resoun and the bifore seid
doom of resoun ? For thou3 men schulden be iugis, 3it so
muste thei be bi vce of tlie seid resoun and doom of resoun ;
and if this be trowe, who schulde thanne better or so weel
vse, demene, and execute this resoun and the seid doom, as
schulde tho men whiehe han spende so miehe labour aboute
thilk craft ? A^i these ben tho now bifore said elerkis.
And therfore, 30 Bible men, bi this here now seid which 3e
muste needis graunte, for experience which 36 han of the
disturblaunce in Bceme, and also of the disturblaunce and
dyuerse fcelLngis had among 30U silf now in Ynglond, so
that summe of 30U ben clcpid Dovtoitr-mongers, and summe
ben elepid Opinioioi-liolih-rs, and summe ben Ncntralis, that of
so presumptuose a eisme abhominacioun to othere men and
schamc to 30U it is to heere ; rebuke now 30U silf, for as
micho as 30 wolden not bifore this tyme allowe, that resoun
and his doom schulde haue such and so greet interesse in the
lawe of God and in expownjTig of Holi Scriptm-e, as y haue
seid and prouod hem to haue.
" And also herbi take 30 a sufficient mark, that 30 haue
node forto haue 3oure rccours and conseil with suche now
biforeseid elerkis, thou3 30 wolden labore, and powre, and
dote alle the dales of 3oure lijf in the Bible aloon. And
drcdo 30 of th(! effect which bifille to Bohemers for lijk cause,
and mys gouemaunce in holding the first seid opinioun ; and
bi so miche the more ili'cde 30 thilk effect, bi how miche bi
Crist it is pronouncid foi-to falle, where euer cysme and
dyrisyoun is contynued ; for he seith [Matth. xij.] c., that
I'lter)/ kUiffdoni or comoimte dyvidid in him silf schal be deS'
triiyed. But thanne a3enward 30 must be waar her of, that
euen as oon sterre is different from an other sterre in deernes.
or the one-eyed, who after the burning of linss deeply i-esented
what he called " tho bloody affront suffered by Bohemians at
Constance," 2>laced himself at the head of an armed people against
the ag^-essioua of Rome on the liberty of the Bohemian Church.
King Weuzel die{l, and his brother, the Emperor Sigismund, who
acted with the Pope, and had dishonoured fiis pledge of safe-conduct
by which Huss had been decoyed to Constance, claimed succession
in Bohemia. This threatened the Bohemians ^vith forfeiture alike of
civil and religions liberty. Ziska then raised national war against
both Pope and Emperor. He became master of Prague, was victorious
over Sigismund on Mount Wittkow, rudely maintained the work of
Refonnation sword in hand, and, when au an-ow from the wall of
Rubi pierced his one sound eye and left him wholly blind, talked
still of joining battle. "I have yet," he said, "my blood to shed.
Let me be gone." He still battled, suffering defeat once, until
Sigismund submitted to the claim of the Bohemians for liberty of
worship, and gave them Ziska for their governor. But Ziska died of
plague while, in U24, this treaty was in progi-ess, and the war con-
tinued for eleven years after his death. The Bohemians buried their
hero in the church at Czaslow, and wrote over his grave, " Here lies
•John Ziska, who having defended his country against the encroach-
ments of Papal tyranny, rests in this hallowed place in despite of
the Pope."
so oon clerk is different from an other in kunn)-ng. And
ther fore, brother, take heede to doom of cleer resoun in this
mater, which also is remembrid to vs bi the wise man,
Ecclesiastiei vj". e., thus : Manie be to thee pesible, but of a
thottsind ooit be thi eoanseiler. And in special be waar that
thou not accepte, chese, and take a clerk forto be sufficient to
thee into the now seid purijos bi this aloon, that he mai were
a pilioun' on his heed ; neither bi this, that he is a famoso and
a plestiunt precher to peple in a pulpit ; neither bi this, that
he is a greet and thikke rateler out of textis of Holi Scripture
or of Doctouris in feestis or in othere cumpanyiiigis : for
certis experience hath ofte tau3t and mai here teche surely
ynou3, that summe werers of piliouns in scole of dyuynyte
han scantli be worthi for to be in the same scole a good seoler;
and ful manye of the ij'. and iij". soortis appeering ful
gloriose to the heering of the lay parti, and also summe of
othere manor of elerkis, whanne thei schulden come forto
dispute and examyne and trie and iuge in harde doutis of
Goddis lawe, were not worthi forto therto vnnethis opcne her
mouth. I detecte here no man in special ; who euer can proue
him silf to be noon such as y haue here now spoken of, he
therbi schewith weel him to be noon of hem."
From what seemed to him the first mistaken
trowing of those who for their devotion to the
.Scripture as a rule of life were called the Bible men,
Pecock jiassed to a lirief discussion of the second and
third trowing, for which his reply to the first had
prepared the ground. Then he went on to the eleven
iinjiugned ordinances of the Church which he had
undertaken to defend, and the first of these, occupy-
ing the second ])art of his book, was the use of
images, the going on pilgrimages, and veneration of
relics. Then came, in the third part, his vindication
of wealth of the clergy. The fourth part defended
the Church government by bishojJS, archbishops,
patriarchs, ancl popes, and replied to the complaint
of the Lollards that ecclesiastical laws, made by the
high clergy, were set over divine laws. The fifth
part of the "Repressor" replied to the complaints
against the religious orders — their existence, their
dress, their stately houses, wealth in land — and
ended with brief reference to the other five occasions
of question : namely, invocation of saints ; church
ornaments, as bells, banners, and relics ; superstitious
use of the sacraments ; the use of oaths ; ancl the
approval of war by the clergy. Pecock here i-eferred
also to the jilaces iir other works of his in which
he had more fully vindicated the Church usage of
his time.
The point of view in Pecock's " Rejiressor" was
that of a busy-minded man, essentially religious, who
maintained the ecclesiastical forms of his day by
looking at what seemed to him to be their founda-
tion in nature and reason. He wrote with Christian
charity, desiring to abate the bitterness of strife. He
endeavoured to start from first principles, and to shaw
reason for change of opinion by that party in the
Church which was intolerant of usages for which
there was no direct warrant of Scripture, or which,
like the custom of demandino- oaths and the .snnctifi-
> Pilioini, the headdress of a priest or graduate. The Latin " pileus"
was a close-fitting felt cop like the half of an egg, worn at festivals,
aud given to a slave on his enfraLcliisement as a sign of freedom.
TO A.D. 1*74.]
EELIGION.
12T
cation of war, were condemned as contrary to the
fxpress commands of Christ. Pecock's design was
to do for the English Church of his own day what
was done by Kichard Hooker, at a hiter stage of
tlie same controversy, for the Church in the time
<_if Elizabeth, with equal charity and greater power.
Hooker wi-ote -with more vigour in a time more
\'igorous, wliich needed argiunents more valid than
many which jiassed current among Churchmen and
sclioolmen of the fifteenth century. Pecock's reason-
ing was above the standard of his day, though it
could not approach the energy of English thought in
tlit' latter years of Queen Elizabeth. He was de-
fending also many usages and institutions against
wliich, already in Elizabeth's day, time had proved
the attack to be more powei-fid than the defence.
Pecock's appeal to reason in aid of a right study of
the Bible was, in the fifteenth century, when the
balance of culture was largely on the .side of the
'If rgy, an appeal to the less educated laity to secure
mity of the Church by abandoning the right of
|>rivate interpretation until they were as well quali-
tied for it as the most cultivated Churchmen. The
desire for a Church that should be a stronghold of
(Christian unity, was strong in him and strong also in
J^hose for whom the author of Piers Plowman spoke.
Perhaps the best of the Lollards or Biblemen, those
afterwards called Puritans, admitting differences of
interpretation that must follow upon the claim of
every man to draw from his Bible what he himself
felt to lie its truths, looked rather to unity of Chris-
tian life : wliile on the opposite side it was felt that a
necessary safeguard to the unity of Christian life lay
in the unity of doctrine. It is the purpose of this
volume not to set forth the arguments produced on
either side, but, so far as it touches the gi-eat contro-
versy in its successive stages and the sub-divisions
of opinion, to show in men of the most opposite
opinions the same search for conditions that will
help a peo]>le to come near to God, the same aspira-
tion of the sovd of man toward the source of light
and life. In the quotations here given from Reginald
Pecock it is noticeable that while he reasoned with
the Lollards, he did not look at the worst men of
the party he opposed, but at the best ; seeking to
imderstand their highest view of duty; and set forth
the grounds of difierence between himself and them.
Nowhere is there a better witness to tlie powerful
effect produced upon the English ]ieople Ijy Wiclif's
work on the translation of the Bilale, than when
Pecock traces the enthusiasm against which he I'ea-
sons, to the sweetness men found in the words of
the Gospel coming to them in their mother-tongue,
the cliarm that bound them to it, and that fervent
yearning towards the ideal of a Christian life that it
had suddenly awakened in their souls.
While men were tlms contending in opinion, and
the fiery zeal of many was ine^^tably blended with
the ]iassions of the world, two events happened tliat
gi-eatly aflected the course of thought in the next
generations. About tlie time when Pecock's rnind
was occupied with his " Eeivressor," and he was
falling into utmost peril for the free use of his reason,
there occun-ed — on the 29th of May, 145.3 — the fiiU
of all that remained of the Eastern Roman Empire,
the taking of Constantinople by the Turks ; and in
145.5 the production of the first printed book, a
Bible (called, from its later discovery in the librai-y
of Cardinal Mazarin, the Mazarin Bible), was com-
pleted. The Fall of Constantinople scattered learned
Gi-eeks, who tauglit their language in Florence and
elsewhei-e, introduced into Europe the study of Plato
— in whom the most cultivated Church reformers
found a strong ally — and gave impulse to the revival
of learning. The Invention of Printing, by quicken-
ing and cheapening the reproduction of books, enabled
every energetic thinker to touch with his mind many
other men where he had before touched only one.
True voices that had reached only a few were to be
heard thenceforth by thousands ; and the force of
every strong mind, as leader of opinion in the warfare
for a higher life, was to be as the force of an army,
in which every copy of his printed book was as a
private soldier combatant with all the genius and
courage of his chief.
During the rest of the fifteenth century the new
powers were coming into jilay. It was not until
about 1474 that William Caxton brought the printing
press to England, and set it up in Westminster
Abbey. The difiusion of manuscript books had lieen
from the writing-rooms of the monasteries, and when
the demand upon a monastery exceeded the powers
of supplj- by the brotherhood, professional copyists
came in aid of the work of the scriptorium, and
housed themselves conveniently within or near the
precincts of the minster. Thus, when Caxton intro-
duced the new method of copying manuscripts by
machinery, he sought custom by setting up his busi-
ness among the copyists at W^estminster. It was not
until 1508 that Walter Chepman set up the first
printing press in Scotland.
The civil wars of York and Lancaster, stirring no
high thought in the hearts of combatants, stayed the
advance of English literature. In the reign of Henry
VII. its old voice began to be heard again, although
not yet with its old vigour. But in Scotland — where
our northern English still cherished the spirit of
independence, held a kingdom of their own, and
battled, not in vain, against rulers of England who
desired by conquest to make them sul.iject to their
crown — men were free to feel the impulse of the time.
A few years before the close of the fifteenth century,
Robert' Henryson ' had taken his place as one of a
new group of our northern poets, and, in accordance
with the taste of his time for religious allegory, wrote
this poem — founded on a tale in the " Gesta Ro-
manorum,"- of
1 Eobci-t Jfeiiri/soii. See the volume of this Libiaiy illustratiug
" Shorter English Poems," pages 74 — 81.
= The Gcsta ifoiiiaiioi-Kiii was a collection of tales current in Eui-ope
in the Middle Ages, so written that they might be used, by help of an
" application " added to each, as spiritual allegories for the enliven-
ment of sermons or otherwise in aid of the religious life. Some of
the tales were old stories ingeniously applied, and others manifestly
written for the pui^poses to which they are addressed. The collection,
which is of uncertain ori-jin, was widely used, and of course the MSS.
of it differ much in substance and arrangement. The name "Gesta
128
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D-. UT-t
THE BLUDY SERK.'
This hindir yeir I hard be tald,
Thiiir w;is ii worthy King ;
Dukis, Erlis, and Barronis Ijald,
He had at his bidding.
The Lord was anccanc,- and aid,
And scxty yriris cowth ring ; ''
He had a Doehter, fair to fald,
A lusty lady ying.*
Off all fairhcid scho bur* the flour;
And oik hii- fiidoris air* ;
Off lusty laitis,' and he* honour ;
Jleik, bot and debonair.
Scho wj-nnit' in a bigly'" hour,
On fold" wes none so fair;
Trincis luvit hir paramour,'-
In cuntreia our all quhair.'-'*
10
Eomanorum" (Acts of the Romans) was griven to it, because a real
or imaginary Roman Emperor generally floured in each tale, the
Emperor representing in the allegory God or Christ. One form of
the story given with original variations as " The Bludy Serk " stands
thus in a translation of the " Gesta," published in 1821 by the Rev.
Charles Swan :—
OF INGRATITUDE.
"A certain noble lady sutfered many injm-ies from a tyrannical king,
who laid waste her domains. When the particulars of it were com-
municated to her, her tears flowed fast, and her heart was oppressed
with bitterness. It liappened that a pilgrim visited her, and remained
there for some time. Observing the jioverty to which she had been
reduced, and feeling compassion for her distresses, he ottered to
make war in her defence ; on condition that, if he fell in battle, his
staff and scrip should be retained in her private chamber, as a
memorial of his valour, and of her gratitude. She faithfully promised
compliance ^vith his wishes ; and the pilgi-im, hastening to attack the
tjTant, obtained a splendid victory. But iu the heat of the contest,
he was transfixed by an arrow, which occasioned his death. The lady,
aware of tliis, did as she promised : the staff and scrip were suspended
iu her chamber. Now. when it was known that she had recovered all
her lost possessions, three kings made large pi-eparations to address,
and, as they hoped, incline her to become the wife of one of them.
The lady, forewarned of the intended honom-, adorned herself with
great care, and walked forth to meet them. They were received
according to their dignity ; and whilst they remained vrith her, she
fell into some peri)lexity, and said to herself, ' If these three kings
enter my chamber, it will disgrace me to suiter the pilgrim's staff
and scrip to remain there.' She conmianded them to be taken
away ; and thus forgot her vows, and plainly evinced her iugratitude.
APPLICATION.
•*My beloved, the lady is the human soul, and the tyrant is the
devil, who siwils us of our heavenly inheritance. The pilgrim is
Christ, who fights for and redeems us ; but, forgetful of his services,
we receive the devil, the world, and the flesh, into the chamber of our
souls, and xiut away the memorials of our Saviour's love."
I Scrfe, sark or shirt. First-English " syrce," and " serce ; " Danish
"sEerk;" Icelandic '*serkr." The Norse "berserkr" was probably
so called from the old days of clothing in skins, as one who had a
bear's hide for his covering. In this poem I leave the old spelling
unchanged.
8 Anceane (French " ancien") ancient, old.
3 Ring, reign. , * Ting, young.
5 Scho bur, she bore. ^ Air, heir.
7 Lusty laitis, pleasant manners. Icelandic " lat"=English " let,'* as
in " outlet," means in the plural manners.
» He, high. First-English " heah."
9 Sc}m u-tjnnit, she dwelt. First-English "wanian," to dwelL
10 Bi^hj, commodious, pleasant to dwell in. Icelandic " byggja,"
to inhabit.
II On fold, on earth.
1* Paramour, French "par amour," by or with love. Paramour
represented either man or woman boimd by love to another, and was
used in a good sense.
13 Our aU quhair, over all where, everywhere. Qiih in Scottish
is equivalent to vh in English. See notes in pages 265 and 78 of
the volume of this Librai-y containing " Shorter English Poems."
i*
30
40
Thair dwelt a lyt '^ besyde the King
Afowll Gyane'* of ane;
Stollin he hes the Lady j-ing.
Away -n-ith hir is gane :
And kest hir in his dungering,'*
(iuhair licht scho micht sc nane :
Hungir and cauld, and grit thristing,
,Scho fand in to hir waine.
He wes the laithliest on to luk
That on the grund myoht gang :
His nailis wes lyk ane hellis cruk,
Thairwith fyve quarterns lang.
Thair wes nane that he our-tuk,''
In rycht or yit in wrang,
Bot all" in schondii- " he thame schuke ;
The Gyane wes so Strang.
He held the Lady day and nycht,
Within his deip dungeoun ;
He wald noeht gif of hir a sicht
For gold nor yit ransoun,
Bot gife" the King mycht get a Knycht,
To focht with his persoun,
To fccht with him, both day and nyoht,
Quhill ane wcr dungin doun.-"
The King gart scik-' baith for and neir,
Beth be so and land,
Oft' ony Knycht gife ho micht heir,
AVal'd fecht with that Gyand.
A worthy Pi-ince, that had no peir,
Hes tane the deid on hand.
For the luve of the Lady cloir ;
And held full trew cunnand.''''^
That Prince come prowdly to the toun,
Of that Gyane to heir ;
And fawcht with him, his awin persoun,
And tuke him presoneir ;
And kest him in his a\\'in dungeoun,
AUane withouttin feir,
With hungir, cauld, and confusioun,
As full Weill worthy weir.
SjTie brak the hour, had hame the bricht,^^
Unto hir Fadir deir.
Sa evill wondit^* was the Knycht,
That he behuvit -* to dc.
Unlusuni was his likame dicht,-"
His sark was all bludy ;
In all the warld was thair a wicht
So peteouss for to se !
" Lyt, little. 's Qyane, giant.
•^ Cast her in his dungeon, where light she might see none ; hunger
and cold and great thirsting she found in to her iraiue, in her abode.
" Our-fiil-, overtook. i' In schondir schitkc, in sunder shook.
19 Bot tfife, but if, unless.
^ Till one was beaten down.
-1 Gart seik, caused search to he made.
22 Cunitand, engagement, promise.
23 Then broke open the prison chamber, brought home the fau" one.
2* Wondit, wounded.
25 Behuvit to de, must needs die.
2fi Uulovesome was his body dight. First-English ** dihtan," to
dispose, set forth, arrange.
•50
60
TC A.D. 1500.T
RELIGION.
129
The Lady mumj-t, and maid grit mone,
With all hir mekle micht :
" I lui-it nevir lufe bot one.
That dulf ully now is dicht I
God sen my Ij-fe wer fra me tone,'
Or I had sene yone sicht ; 70
Or ellis in begging e^-ir to gone
Furth with yone curtass Knycht."
He said, " Fair Lady, now mone I
De,- trestly ye me trow :
Tak }'e my sark that is bludy,
And hing it forrow yow.'
First think on it, and sj-ne on me,
Quhen men cumis'* yow to wow."
The lady said, " Be Marj- h:e,'
Thairto I mak a vow." 80
Qnhen that scho lukit to the serk,
Scho thocht on the persoiin ;
And pra_\-it for him with all hir haile,
That lowsd hir of bandoun : ^
Quhair scho was wont to sit full merk'
In that deip dungeoun :
And evir quhill seho wes in quert,^
That wass hir a lesseun.
So weUl the Lady luvit the Knycht,
That no man wald scho tak. 90
Sa suld we do our God of micht
That did all for us mak ;
Quhilk fullely to deid wes dicht,
For sinfull manis saik.
Sa suld we do, both day and nycht,
With prayaris to him mak.
M0R.1LITAS.
This King is lyk the Trinitie
Baith in he\-in and heir.'
The iL-inis saule to the Lady :
The Gyane to Lucefeir. 100
The Knycht to Chryst, that dcit on tre,
And cost our sj-nnis deir :
The i>it to hell, with pauis fell ;
The syn to the woweir.
The Lady was wowd, but seho said Nay,
With men that wald hii- wed ;
Sa suld we wrrth all s5ti away,
That in our breist is bred.
1 God send my life had beea takeu from me ere I had seen yon
si^ht.
2 A'oic mone / de, now must I die; tresthj ye me froir, surely believe
me.
' Hing it forroir: yoic, hang it before you, within sight.
* Qnhen men cumis, when nieu come you to woo. The Northern
plural in s. See note in this Library on page 166 of " Shorter English
Poems."
^ By Mary free.
^ And prayed with all her htart for him who released her of
bandoun, from thraldom.
7 Merk, dark. First-English "mire," dark, mxu*ky, troubled.
**Mirc," darkness, meant also a prison. Compare Lady Maebeth's
"Hell is murky," when, in tormented sleep, her mind is carried back
Jlto the darkness of the night when Glamis murdered sleep.
8 In <iiieri. in gay spilits. 9 Heir, here.
81
I pray to Jesu Chryst verrey '"
For us his blud that bled, 110
To be our help on Domysday,
Quhair lawis ar straitly ltd.
The saule is Godis dochtii' deir.
And eik his handewerk.
That was betrasit with" Lucifeir,
Quha sittis in hell, full merk.
Borrowit with '- Chrj-stis angeU cleir,
Hend men I wiU ye nocht berk F
For his lufe that bocht us deir,
Think on the Bludy Serk ! 120
CHAPTEE V.
Fisher, Tyxdale, More, Latimer, asd Others. —
A.D. L500 to A.D. 1558.
The stream of allegorical literature flows, broaden-
ing upon its ^yay to Spenser, and in the reign of
Henry YIII. ^ye have a religious allegory of life from
Stephen Hawes, "groom of King Heiuy the Seventh
his chamber." Stephen Hawes was a Suffolk man
who studied at the University of Oxford, travelled
in France, and became skilled in French and Italian
poetiy before he was established in fa^"0ur at the
court of Henry VII. A payment to " ^Ir. Hawse"
for a play in the twelfth year of Henry VIII. may
indicate that Stephen Hawes was then still living.
The most important of his books was an allegorical
poem in Troilus ^■el•se or Chaucer's measure, entitled
" The Histoiy of Graund Amom-e and La Bel Pucell,
called The Pastime of Pleasure, containing the Know-
ledge of the Seven Sciences, and the Course of Man's
Life in tliis World." To Henry VII. he writes in
the opening
DEDIC.\TIOX OF THE PASTIME OF PLEASURE.
Eight mighty Prince and redoubted sov'raj-ne,
Sailinge forth weU in the ship of grace.
Over the waves of this life uncertaj-ne
Eight towards heaven to have dweUing place,
Grace doth you guide in every doubtful case ;
Your governance doth evermore eschew
The sin of sloth, enemy to lirtue.
Grace steereth well, the gi-ace of God is grete
"UTiich you hath broughtc to yoiu- royal see,'^
And in yoiu- right it hath you smely sette
Above us all to have the sov'rayntie ;
Whose worthy power and regal dignitie
All our rancour and our debate gan cease,
Hath to us brought both wealthe reste and peace.
10 Ycrrey (" vrai"), true,
u Betrasit with, betrayed by.
12 Borromt with, redeemed by.
13 See, seat.
First-Euglish ' borh," a surety.
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La.d. 1500
From whom descendcth hy the rightful line
Noble Prince Henry to succeed tlie crown ; '
That in his youthe doth so clcrely shine,
In - every virtue ciisting the vice adown.
He shallof fame attain the high renown ;
No douht but grace shall him well enclose,
AVhich by true right sprang of the red rose.
Your noble grace and excellent highness
For to accept I beseech right humbly
This little book, opprest with rudeness
Without rhetoric or coloOr crafty ;
Nothing I am expert in poetry,
As th' Monk of Kury,^ flower of eloquence,
AX'hich was in the time of great excellence
Of your predecessor ^ the fifth King Henry
Unto whose [sovereign] grace he did present
Eiglit famous books of perfect memory.
Of his higli feigning with terms eloquent,
Whose fatal ■'• fictions are yet permanent ;
Grounded on reason with cloudy figures
He cloked the trutli of all his [wise] ecriptdres.
The Light of Truth I lack cunning to doke,
To draw a curtain I dare not presume,
Nor hide my matter with a misty smoke,
Jly rudeness cunning doth so sore consume ;
Yet as 1 may I sliall Idow out a fume
To hide my mind underneath a fable,
By coverit colour well and probable.
Beseeching your grace to pardon mine ign'rimce
Which this feigned fable t' eschew idleness
Have so compiled now without doubtance
For to present to your high worthiness :
To follow the trace and all the perfectness
Of my master ^ Lydgate w-ith due exercise.
Such feigned tales I do find and dev-ise.
For under a colour a truth may rise.
As was the guise in old antiquitie
Of the poctes old a tale to surmise
To eloke the truth of their infirmitie
Or yet on joy to have mortalitie.
I me excuse if by negligence
That I do offend for lack of science.'
The i)oem then begins by telling how Graundamoure,
who speaks in his own person, walked in sjiring-time
into a flowery meadow. He went forth in a fair
path that he found, not knowing whither it would
' As Henry VIII.
^ In seems to be lost as a syllable in the precedinjr sound of
" shine," as cd was commonly left unprouounced when added to
verbs ending in d or t.
3 The Monl; o/Bitry, John Lydgate.
'The short e iu the second syllable of "predecessor" is not
sounded.
s Fatal, dealing with the destinies of men ; " The Falls of Princes,"
&c.
" My is sluiTed in pronunciation before masier, as in the preceding
line (he before trace.
' These two lines are evidently corrupt in the 1555 edition, from
which " The Pastime of Pleasiore " was reprinted, in 1845, for the
Percy Society. As negligence and lack of knowledge are separate
causes of offence, possibly " tliat " has slipped out of its place after
" if " in the first line, and " or " is omitted before " for " in the second.
lead luitil he saw an image with hands pointing
towards two highways ; and in tlie right hand was
this description : —
" ' This is the straight way of contcmidacion
Unto the joyful tower perdurable :
Whoso that will unto that mansion
He must forsake all thinges variable.
With the vain glory so much deceivable,
And though the Wiiy be hard and dangerous
The last end thereof shall be right previous.'
"And in the other ^ hand right faire written was
' This is the way of worldly dignitie
Of the active life : who will in it pass
Unto the Tower of fair dame Beautie,
Fame shall him tell the way of certaintie
Unto La Bell Pucell, the fair lady excellent,''
Above all other in clear beauty splendent.''"
Graiuidanioure took the way of Active Life, and,
noticing the cliarm of i)leasaut byway.s, went sti-aight
on, until at evening he came to a figure which had
inscribed in its breast,
" This is the way and the situation
Unto the Tower of famous Doctrine ;
Who that will learn must be ruled by Reason,
And with all diligence he must incline
Sloth to eschew, and for to determine
And set his heart to be intelligible ; '"
To a willing heart is nought impossible."
As he rested by this image. Sloth caught his head
in a net, and while he yet slept there came a royal
blast of a great horn that awoke him. There were
the red clouds of dayln-eak in the sky, and he saw
riding from a far valley a goodly lady — Fame —
environed with tongues of fire as bright as any star,
on a palfrey swift as the wind, with two white grey-
hounds before her. Espying Graundamoure, the grey-
hounds ran to him, and leapt and fawned ujion him ;
their names, written in diamond on their gold collars,
were Governance and Grace. The lady who followed
mar\'elled that her greyhounds were so friendly with
him, and asked his name. He was Graundamoure,
who sought her direction to the Tower of Doctrine,
and she ! — She was Fame, who.se horn had blown
after the death of many a champion :
" And after this. Fame gan to express
Of jeopardous way to the Tower Perilous,
And of the beauty and the secmliness
Of La Bell Pucell, so gay and glorious
That dwcdied in the tower so marvellous ;
To which might come no manner of creature
But by great labour and liard adventure."
* In the other, pronounced " i' th' o'l- " (see Note 1£'. page 84, of
" Shorter English Poems ").
' The ij in " lady " blends as one syllabic with the e in " excellent,"
and the verse runs; | 'nto L' Bell | Pucell | the fair | lady- ex | cellent | .
This running of a final y into an initial vowel is natimil and common
in the poets. So in " Paradise Lost," I. 141, " Though all oiu: glory
extinct .and happy state."
'» Intellhjibh, sensible, intellectual,
1
TO A.D. 1506.]
RELIGION.
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Fame told the perils of the way, but promised
Graundamoure the victory if he followed her direc-
tion.
" To the Tower of Docti-ine yc shall take your way.
You are now witliin a day's journay ;
Both these greyhounds shall keep you company ;
Look that you cherish them full gcntely.
And Countenance, the goodly portress,
Shall let you in full well and nobly,'
And also shew you of the perfcctncss
( If all the seven sciences right notably.
These in your mind you may ententively
the youth to begin, and undergo his years of educa-
tion ill the Tower of Doctrine, whose seven stages
rise from Grammar with her A B C to heavenly
contemplations of Theology. Countenance was the
portress who admitted Graundamoure, and showed
him on the arras of the entrance-hall an image of
the career before him, setting forth how in the labour
towards La Bel Pucell " a noble knight should win
the victory." Then the portress introduced the
adventurer to the lady Grammar, into whose cham-
ber " the right noble Dame Congruity " admitted
him. Dame Grammar told him how to the wise of
old it was their whole delight, for common profit of
The Tower of Doctrine. (From Reisch's "Margarita Philosophica" 1512.)
Unto Dame Doctrine give perfect audience,
"^Tiich shall inform you in ev'ry science."
Fame left Graundamoure with the greyhounds. He
travelled on, again rested till morning, and then saw
set on a rock " the royal tower of moral document,"
made of line copper, with turrets that shone against
the sun. It is the pilgrimage of man, whose way
was first over the flowery fields of childhood till a
path in life had to be chosen ; the path of Active Life
being chosen, fame of the prize to be won nerved
1 Nohhj. Pronounced noh-J-y, as three syllables. See Dr. Abbot's
••Shakespearian Grammar," section -^77, "Liquids in dissyllables are
frequently pronounced as though an estra vowel were introduced
between them and the preceding consonant." So in " Comedy of
Errors," act v., scene 1, " And these two Dromios, one in semh-1-aitce ; "
*'Coriolamis," act iii., scene 2, "Be thus to them. You do the
nob.Z-cr." Two lines farther on " sciences " is pronounced " science,'*
the s being merged in the similar final sound of the word.
humanity, to study the seven sciences man}' a long
wnter's night. After this she taught Graundamoure
right well, first his Donet,- and then his accidence.
When he had been taught by Grammar, he went up
to the bright chamber of Logic ; and when that fair
lady had instructed him, " then above Logic up we
went a stair," and there was the star of famous
eloquence, the Lady Rhetoric to kneel to. Rhetoric
explained to him at length the five parts of her
science, which was founded by Reason —
" Iilan for to govern well and prudently ;
His words to order, his speech to purify."
2 His Donef. .ffilius Donatus, born about a.b. 333, was the teacher
of St. Jerome. He wrote an elementary book on the eight parts of
speech applied to Latin, and the long-continued use of this in elemen-
tary teaching caused a Donatus, or a Donet, to become the common
name for a grammar, or a first book of instruction upon any subject.
Wehaveseen (page 121) Reginald Pecock giving the name of "Donet"
to a book on the First Principles of Faith.
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The poet, dwelling lieve on liis own art, expatiates
upon these five parts of fair speaking, Invention,
Disposition, Elocution with colouring of sentences,
Pronunciation, Memory, and in so doing sets forth
how the poets feigned no fable without reason : —
" So famous poets did us rndoctnne
Of the right way to be iutollectifc ;
Their fables they did right so imagine
That by example we may void the strife.
And without mischief for to lead our life,
By the advertence of their stories old.
The fruit whereof we may full well behold."
Cymphans, doussemers, -n-ith clavi-cimbales glorious.
Kebeckes, clavicordes, each in their degree
Did sit about their lady's majesty."-
After setting forth the use and need of music to
the world, —
" She commanded her minstrels right anon to play
Mamoui-s, the sweet and the gentle dance ;
With La Bell Pucell that was fair and gay
She me recommended, with aU pleasance,
To dance true measures without variance."
Then came the throbbings of delight, the turning
The Chamber of Music. (From, Reisch's "Margarita Piiilosojjiiica," 1512.)
This section of the poem closes with loving lines
to the memory of Chaucer and of Lydgate, whom
Stephen Hawes honoured more especially as the
master upon whose trace he would seek to follow.
Graundamoure next passed to the chamber of Arith-
metic,
" With gold depainted, every perfect number,
To add, detray,' and to divide asunder."
The ne.vt stage led Graundamoure to the tower of
Music, and in her chamber, advanced by knowledge
to a sense of the harmonies of life, he first saw La
Bell Pucell.
" There sat Dame Music with all her minstrelsy.
As tabors, trumpet.s with pipes melodious,
Sackbuts, organs and the recorder swetely.
Harps, lutes, and crowdes right delicious,
1 Deiray (" detraliere"), to draw away, subtract.
aside to conceal, in a temple, hope, doubt, and despair ;
the coming again of Graundamoure, led by Good
Counsel, to declare his love to the lady in a long
^ The Tabor was a small drum usually played with accompaniment
of fife. The Sackbut was a baas-trumpet with stops, and as its name
" sambuca" was derived from the elder-tree, it was probably formed
of wood, a sort of bassoon. The Recorder was a flageolet or bird-
pipe, so named from the word " record " once commonly applied to
the singing of birds, as in an eclogue by Dx-ayton ; —
" Fair Philomel, night music of the spring,
Sweetly records her tuneful harmony."
The Crowd, "crwth" of the Cymi-y, was the old British fiddle;
"chrolfa Britamia canat," wrote Veniintius Fortunatus at the end
of the sixth century. Invented in Britain, and returned to us with
improvements by the Arabs, the iiddle in a simple tonn, still called a
"crowd," and the tiddler a " crowder," remained familiar among
the people. Cymphans were " symphonies," or " chyfonies ; " named
in the " Eoman de Bnit "—
" Symphomes, salterions,
Monocordes, tymbres, corrons."
They were large stringed instruments, a sort of harp. Donssemer
TO A.D. 1503.1
RELIGION.
133
dialogue of alternate stanzas which ended in her
acceptance of his suit. But he must seek her by a
long and dangerous way, for now she is withdrawn
from him to a far country : — •
" To me to come is hard and dangerous
When I am there, for giautes ugly,
Two ' monsters also, black and tedious,
That by the way await full cruelly
For to destroy you all and utterly,
When you that way do take the passage
To attaine my love by high advantage."
So Graundamoure was parted from the fail- ideal of
life which he had touched, and with which he had
kept step when his heart was yotmg and he had
been trained tip to a perception of true harmony.
His friend Good Counsel bade him never flinch, but
complete his training by the Seven Sciences, and then
go forward to the tower of Chivalry, and be armed
for the battles of the life before him. Forth he
went, therefore, to the tower of Geometry, and from
her to the gi-een meadow whence Astronomy looks
heavenward, and where he learnt from her that
" God himself is chief astronomer
That made all things according to His will ;
The sun, the moon, and every little star.
To a good intent and for no manner of ill.
Withouten vain he did aU things fulfil ;
As Astronomy doth make apparaunce,
By reason he weighed all things in balaunce."
More is taught by Astronomy of the works of
Nature and the wits of man, of the high influence
of stars and planets as the instruments to Nature's
working in every degree.
Instructed in the seven sciences, the Quadrivium
of Grammar, Logic, Rhetoric, Arithmetic, and the
Trivium of Music, Geometry, Astronomy,'- Graund-
amoure with a varlet called Attendance and his grey-
hounds Grace and Governance, proceeded over a hill
and down a dale to the Tower of Chivalry, where a
hom hung by a shield and helmet at the entry. The
loud blast of the horn brought to the tower door its
gentle porter. Steadfastness, who admitted him into
the base-court.' There he saw four images of armed
knights on horseback, contrived to meet in shock of
arms by craft of Geometry, with wheels, and cogs, and
cords. Beside this tower was a tem]ile which Graund-
amoure entered. It was the temple of Mars, whose
image he saw therein on a wheel-top in the embrace
(dulcimer) was a stringed instrament, usually triangular, with atout
fifty wires, cast over a bridge at each end, struck with little iron rods.
The dulcimer was laid on a table and played with a small rod in each
hand. The Clavi-cimbal w£is a kind of spinet, which the French
called clavecin, and the Italian cembalo. Some of Bach's concertos
were written " a due cembali." Like the clavichord, it was played
with keys, and ranks with the ancestors of the pianoforte. The
Eebeck is another form of rustic fiddle, taking a corruption of the
name rebab, or rebebbe, by which the British crwth or crowd, played
with a bow, was returned to Europe from the East by the Cnisaders.
Use of the fiddle-bow is said to have had its origin in ancient Britain.
1 Tiro. In the original " With two," the first syllable being dropped
in the scanning.
2 Trivium and Quadrimum. (See " Shorter English Poems," Note 2,
page 12.)
3 Base-cond, outer or lower court.
of Lady Fortune, who had two faces under one hood.
Of Mars Graundamoure prayed for grace to secure
enduring fame. To hilars he said that in the thirty-
fii'st year of his young flowering age he thought him-
self escaped from childish ignorance, and that his
wit could withstand and rule Venus and Cupid, but
she had wounded him with fervent love, and set
before him perilous adventure in which he needed
help from 3Iars. ^lars answered that Graundamoure
was born under the rule of Venus, and therefore,
when he had learned perfectlj' to govern himself
by prudent chivalry, he must go humbly to the
temple of Venus and make his oblation, suing to
her by the disposition which constrained him to love
ladies with a true afiection. But here Fortune with
the two faces, from behind Sir Mars, laughed at the
notion that Mars could have aid to give in the search,
where all depended upon Fortune's ordering. Then
Fortune declared at large the power of the turning
of her wheel ; Mars had less might : to hei-, therefore,
Graundamoure must sue. Mars answered that she
was nothing substantial, neither spiritual nor terres-
trial, and nothing can do nothing. He said to her,
" The 3Ian is Fortune, in the proper deed.
And is not thou that causeth him to speed.''
While yet marvelling at the argument between
Mars and Fortune, Graundamoure was approached by
Minerva, who led him into her own hall. Knights
were there playing at chess, who left their play
gently to welcome him ; especially wa.s he welcomed
by Sir Niuture and his brother Courtesy. They
took him up a stair into a chamber gaily glorified.
At its door stood a knight named Truth, who told
Graundamoure that before entry he should promise
to love him. The chamber door was held in custody
for King Melezius, that no man might enter wrong-
fully, and seek without Truth to be chivalrous.
King Melezius admitted Graundamoure : —
" ''U'ith all my heart I will,' quoth he, ' accept
Him to my serrice, for he is light woilhy ;
For unto Doctrine the highway he kept
And so from thence to the Tower of Chivalry.' "
Presented to Melezius, armed and taught by
Minerva, he was prepared for knighthood, and when
knighted was thus taught his duty by the King :—
" ' Knighthood,' he said, ' was first established
The Commonwealth in right [for] to defend,
Th.at by the wrong it be not minished ;
So ever}- knight did truly condescend
For the Commonwealth his power to extend
Against all such rebelles contrarious
Them to subdue with power victorious.
" • For knighthood is not in the feats of war,
As for to fight, in quarrel right or wrong,
But in a cause which Truth can not defar ; ^
He ought himself for to make sure and strong
Justice to keep mixt with mercy among ;
* Dcfar, defer, leave Time to right. Or solve, as in Eobert of
Brunne's version of Langtoft's Chronicle, " defare," undo.
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[a.d. 1500
And no quarrel' a knight ought to take
But for a truth, or for the Commons sake.
" ' For first Good Hope his leg harness should he ;
His habergeon of Perfect Righteousness,
Girt fast with the girdle of Chastity ;
His rich [ilacard - should be Good Business,
Brandred ' with Almcs so full of Largess ;
The helmet Jleekness, and the shield Good Faith ;
His sworde Goddes Word, as Saint Paul saith.^
" ' Also true widows he ought to restore
Unto their right for to attain their dower,
And to uphold and maintain evermore
The wealth of maidens with his mighty power.
And t' his sov'rayne at every manner hour-
To be ready, true, and eke obeisaunt,
In stable love fixed and not variaunt.' "
So taiiglit, and armeil, and mounted on the fair
barljed steed j\riuei-\'a brought him, Graundamoure
went forward again with his two gre3'hounds, Grace
and Governance, and his vavlet. Good Attendance.
The kniglit Trutli rode out to put him on his way
■with a fair company of other knights — Sir Fortitude,
Sir Justice, Sir JNIisericorde, Sir Sapience, Sir Cour-
tesy, with famous Nurture, and then Sir Concord.
Eacli took liim liv the hand wlien he at last de-
partpii : —
' " Adieu 1' they said, ' and Grace with you stand
You for to aide when that }'0u do fight !'
And so they tui'ned unto the castle right.
\nd good ihnue Jlinerve unto me then said :
' Be not adrcad of your higli enterprise ;
Be bold, and hardy, aiul no thing afraid,
And ratlier die in any manner of wise,
To attain honour and the life despise.
Than for to li^-e and to remain in shame ;
For to die with honour it is a good name.'
On A'ard went Granndamonre into the v/ilderness,
and in the darkness of niglit slept under a liill-side
till the neigli of his steed Galantise aroused liim at
sunrise. Tlien, as he rode on with his varlet and
his greyhounds, he was joined l>y one
" on a little nag,
A foolisli dwarfe, no thing for the war,
With a hood, a bell, a fox-tail, and a bag ; ^
In a pyod coat he rode brygge-a-bragge." ^
1 QiiarreJ. Pronounced as tliree syllables, qn-ar-rd.
2 Placard^ a kind of breast-plate, a man's jewelled stomacher.
3 Brandi-ed, supported.
» " The Sword of the Spirit, which is tlie Word of God " (Ephesians
vi. 17). " For the Word of God is quick, and powerfnl, and shariier
than any two-ediied sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of
the joints and mnrrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents
of the heart " (Hebrews iv. 12).
5 The hood with a bell on its point and the fox-tail for playful flap,
ping abont were badges of the fool. " A fl.ap with the fostail " thus
became a phrase for a jest. " In a pt/cd coat," a coat of motley, like
the magpie.
5 BriMiric-a-lirciii,jc (Freach " De hric et de broc"), anyhow, hither
and thither. Whtnce bric-a-brac.
A repulsive sketch of the dwarf is given, and the
poem then breaks for a time from tlie seven-lined
Troilus Verse or Chaucer Stanza, vulgarly called
rhyme royal, because James I. of ScotUuid followed
liis master Cliaucer in the use of it. This verse had
been fixed for us by Chaucer's e.xample in the same
position that had been given by the genius of Boc-
caccio to octave rhyme in Italy, as the standard
measure for sustained poetic narrative. So it re-
mained until after the accession of Elizabeth, and so,
therefore, it was adopted by Stephen Hawes for liis
" Pastime of Pleasure," and significantly dropped
when this character of empty prating slander, False
Report, under the name of Godfrey Gobelive, is .set to
try Graundamoure's temper by gross slander against
woman. The verse chosen for this jiart of the
nan-ative is Chaucer's Riding Rhyme, so called from
its use by Chaucer in description of his pilgrims on
the road to Canterbury : —
"'Welcome,' I said ; ' I pray thee now tell
SIo what thou art, and where thou dost dwell ?'
' Sotheliche,' quod he, ' when Icham" in Kent
At home Icham, though I be hither sent ;
Icham a gentleman of much noble kin
Though Iche be clad in a knaves skin.' "
With this scorner of women by his side, Graunda-
moure visited the Temple of Venus, where each
applied himself in his own way to Dame Sapience,
her secretary. For Graundamoure, Dame Sapience
drew up a Supplication, and with the setting forth of
this the poeni resumes its original measure. Venus
bade Graundamoure abide with her awhile, and caused
Sapience next to write a letter to La Bell Pucell,
with thrice nine " Wo worths " in it, in case she did
not redress his pains. Cupid fled with the letter to
La Bell Pucell, and Graundamoure offered a turtle to
Venus.
Then he went forward upon his way, but Godfrey
Gobelive came running
" With 's little nag, and cried ' Tary ! tary !
For I will come and bear you company.' "
His company upon the road again reduces the
verse into riding rhyme, foi' he resumed his merri-
ment at the expense of women, till he was overtaken
by a lady from the Tower of Chastity called Dame
Correction, who, with a knotted whip, set Godfrey
skipping, and declared him to be False Report,
escaped from the prison in wliich he had been held
with Villain-Courage and vile False Conjecture.
Graundamoure then went as a guest to the Tower of
Chastity, and False Report as a prisoner, with his
feet fettered underneath his nag. There he saw the
bright hall of jet glazed with crystal, and radiant
with light of the carbuncle hung from its golden
roof ; he saw the goodly company, and saw also the
dungeons of the scorner and the wronger. Hung
with their heads down in holly bushes and scourged
' Icham, I am, used to represent a rustic speech. First-EugUsh
"ic eom."
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135
1 y ladies with knotted whips were Villain-Courage
and his fellows : —
" These men with sugared mouths so eloquent
A maiden's herte coud right soon relent,
And these 3"oung maidens for to take in snare
They feign great woe, and for to suffer care :
The foolish maidens did helieve they smarted,
Thus to theu- wille the men them converted."
Then Graundamoure rode on ovei' the mountains
and the craggy rock till he came to a well, beside
\\hich hung a shield and horn, with an inscription
setting forth that a giant was there ready to contest
tlie way on to La Bell Pucell. The horn was blown,
tlie giant came, a monster with three heads, called
Falseness, Imagination, Perjury. Graundamoure
<liarging him, broke his sjiear upon this giant's
Jii'lm, leapt down and drew his sure sword, Clara
Prudence, and after a stout battle overcame and cut
citf the three lieads. Theu came ritling to iiim three
ladies. Verity, Good Operation, and Fidelity, and
carried Graundamoure with sweet song to theii' castle,
\\ here his wounds were healed, while he was told of
another giant to be met after depai-tiug. Temjier-
aiice prepared their supper, and after rest he travelled
" When th' little birdes swetelj- did sing
Lauds to their Maker early i' th' morning."
Soon he met a messenger whom La Bell Pucell
had sent, after receiving the letter brouglit to her by
Cupid. Disdain and Strangeness had counselled her
in one way, Peace and Mercy in another, and finally
she had sent Dame Perseverance to her knight, with
a goodly sliield to be worn by him for her sweet
sake. So Perseverance took Graundamoure with her
for a night's rest at the manor place of her cousin
Comfoit. Comfort gave best of counsel on tlie power
of patience and wise kindness over stormy winds
that stood between him and the object of desire, and
told him also of a giant with seven heads yet to be
vanquished. Over the heath he went next day till
this giant was foimd, where upon every tree hung
shields of knights whom he had slain. The names of
his seven heatls were Dissimulation, Delay, Discom-
fort, Variance, Envy, Detraction, Doubleness. The
battle with him lasted a day, and when Graundamoure
had overcome there came from the castle that stood by
seven ladies riding on white palfreys. They were
Steadfastness, Amorous Purveyance, Joy after Heavi-
ness, Continuance, Pleasaunce, Report Famous,
Amity, who hailed him as victor. These seven ladies
undertook next day to bring Graundamoure to La
Bell Pucell. They rode till they saw from afar a
goodly region
" WTicre stood a palace high and precious
Beyond an haven full tempestuous."
But in that goodly region was a fire-breathing
dragon, made by the Dame Strangeness and the
crafty sorceress Disdain, of the seven metals with a
fiend enclosed. In a temjile of Pallas strength was
sought for the last conflict, and Pallas gave a box
containing ointment of marvellous herbs' wherewith
to anoint his armour, which would turn aside the
fervent fire breathed by the serpent, and give power
over magic to his sword. From a large and goodly
ship in the haven a boat put out to them whence
they were hailed by two ladies whom Dame Patience
had sent. Then after due inquiries they were rowed
to the ship Perfectness, into which Dame Patience
received them gladly. Then they weighed anchor, and
on the other shore Graundamoure went forth alone
to combat ^vith the dragon, Privy Malice. When the
death-blow was given to it, by help of the ointment of
Pallas, and the fiend within as " a foul Ethiop which
such smoke did cast that all the island was full tene-
brous," had escaped amidst loud tluunlerings, it re-
mained only for Perseverance to bring Graundamoure
to the presence of La Bell Pucell. So they were
joined and wedded. The gi-eat aim of his mortal life
was won, but afterwards —
" Thus as I lived in such pleasui-e glad
Into the chamber came full privily
A fair old man, and in his hand he had
A crooked staff ; he went full weakcly ;
L'nto me then he came full softely.
And with his staff he took me on the breast,
' Obey 1 ' he said, ' I must you needs arrest.
' M)' name is Age, wliich have often seen
The lusty youth perish unhappily,' . . ."
Graundamoure must needs obey the arrest. Then
came to him Policy
51 y whole pleasure and delight doubtless
Was set upon treasure insatiate.
It to behold, and for to aggregate.
' This gift of Pallas, wliich represents the power of a ivell-trained
miud to stand airaiust all perils of the world, is 'i symbol first used by
Homer in the tenth book of the " Odyssey." when he represented
Heitnes providing Ulysses with moly to enable him to face uuhiu"t
the charms of Cii'ce ; —
" Thus I p.assing turned my feet
On through the glens for the divine retreat
Of Circe ; and a youth, in form and mould
Fair as when tender mauhood seems most sweet,
Beautiful Hermes, with the wand of gold,
Met me alone, and there my hand in hia did fold.
Whither, he siiid, wouldst thou thy steps incline,
Ah, hapless, all unweetiug of thy way ?
Thy friends lie huddliug in their styes like swine ;
And these wouldst thou deliver ? I tell thee nay—
Except I help thee, thou with them shalt stay.
Come, take this talisman to Circe's hall,
For I will save thee from thine ills this day,
Nor leave like niin on thy life to fall,
Since her pernicious wiles I now will tell tliee all.
Therewith the root he tore up from the ground.
Black, with a milk-white flower, in heavenly tongue
Called Moly, and its nature did expoiuid —
Hard to be dug by men ; in gods all i^ower is found."
(Ihilip S. "Worsley's Ti-auslation.)
2 Kichcn is a word in the singular ; the Freuch " richesse," in which
the final s is part of the word itself, and not a plural suffix.
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[i.D. 1500
■' The fleshly pleasure I had cast aside,
Little I loved for to play or dance ;
But ever I thoui^ht how I might provide
To spare my treasure, land or substaunee.
This was my mind, and all my purveyance.
As upon death I thought little or ne'er,
But gathered riches as I should live e'er."
But tlien came Death with his arrest, and as Graund-
amoure larueuted, Confession, Contrition, Satistaetion,
Conscience came to weigh his treasures in a balance,
and ju(l,<;e liow they might restore to theii- right owners
the goods wrongfully gotten. Then Graundamoure
received the last offices of Holy Church, and his soul
went out of his body
" To Purgat'ry for to he purified
That after that it might be glorified."
Mercy and Charity buried Graundamoure's body in
an ancient temple —
" There was for me a dirige ' devoutly
AVith many a mass full right solemnely ;
And o'er my grave, to be in memory,
Eememhrance made tliis little epitaphy :
" earth ! on earth it is a wondrous ease
That thou art bUnded, and will not thee know.
Though upon earth thou hast thy dwclUng-placc,
Yet earth at last must needs thee overtlu-ow.
Thou tlunkest thou do be no earth, I trow,
For if thou diddest, thou wouldst then apply
To forsake pleasure and to learn to die.
" earth I of earth why art - thou so proud ?
Xow what thou art call to remembraunoe ;
Open thine ears unto my song aloud, — "
And so forth, man l.ieing called through eacli of his
seven sins t(i I'emeuiljer that earth on earth will
nothing purify, and arise
'• Out of your sleep of moital heaviness,
Subdue the devil with gi-aee and meekness,
That after your life frail and transitory
You may then live in joy perdui-ably."
Then Fame with the Ijurning tongues entered the
Temple, iironiising that memory of Graundamoure's
great acts should be preserved by her, who had pre-
served the memories of Hector, Joshua, Judas
Maccaba^us, Da\id, Alexander, Julius Caesar, King
Arthur, Charlemagne, and Godfrey of Boloigne. But
Time followed, and wondered unich that Fame could
promise everlasting praise, when Time himself li\es
only until Doomsday.
" Then I am past, I may no longer be,
And after me is Dame Eternity."
' A Duhje. Tlie first word of the funeral hj-iuu, " Dirige gressus
*neos." Heuce the word " dirge."
- Art here and iu next hue becomes a dissyllable bj- rollmg the r.
Then came Eternity into the temple, in a fair
white vesture, speaker of the last words of the
poem : —
"0 mortal folk ; revolve in your mind
That worldly joy and fraU prosperity
"\Miat is it Uke but a blast of wind ?
For vou thereof can have no certainty,
'Tis now so fuU of mutability.
Set not your mind upon worldly wealth.
But evermore regard your aoules health.
" When earth in earth has ta'en his corrupt taste,
Then to repent it is for )-ou too late ;
When you save time, spend it no thing in waste ;
Time peist with Virtue must enter the gate
Of joy and bliss with mine high estate,
Without Time for to be Everlasting, —
■WTiich God grant us at our last ending."
Although Stephen Hawes was a poet of moderate
genius, this work of his marks in an interesting way
the steady advance of allegorical poetry, from such
works as the " Romaunt of the Rose " and Guile-
vUe's " Three Pilgrimages," to Spenser's " Faerie
Queene."
John Fishee. (Fro..i the Portrait bij Holhein.)
John Fisher was a Yoi-kshii-eman, l)orn in U59,
son of Robert Fisher, a trader at Be\erley, who died
when his two boys, John the elder and' Robert the
younger, were still children. Their mother married
again. The boys were tirst educated by a priest of
Beverley Church. John showed sjjecial ability, and
was at last, when his age was four or ti ve-and-twenty,
sent in 1484 to Cambridge. He graduated iu U88
and 1491, became a Fellow of his College, Michael
House, and Master of Michael House in 1495. It
was about this time, at the age of thirty-six, that he
took holy orders. In 1501 he received the degree
ot Doctor of Dixinity, and he served afterwards
1535.1
KELIGION.
137
for two years as Vice-Chaucellor of the University.
The reputation of Dr. John Fisher caused ^Margaret,
( 'ountess of Richmond, mother of Henry VII., to
diuw him uito her service. As lier chaplain and
confessor he obtained her complete coniidence, and
used it, to the best of his knowledge, for the advance-
ment of religion and learning. He caused her to
found two colleges at Cambridge, St. John's and
L'hrist's, and also the chair still known as the Lady
^Margaret's Professorehip of Divinity, which he him-
self held for a time. His funeral sermon on lier
death was printed by Wjmken de Worde, and has
1 >een more than once reprinted. In 1 504, Henry VII. ,
who trusted mueli in Fisher's piety and wisdom, made
him Bishoji of Rochester. The University of Cam-
bridge made him its Chancellor. Henry VIII., who
had been indebted to Fisher for care and instruction
in his childhood, honoured him in the earlier part
of his reign, and told Cardinal Pole that he coidd
never have met in all his tra\els a man to com-
jiare in knowledge and vii-tue with the Bishop of
Rochester.'
John Fisher's treatise (■' De Necessitate Orandi")
on the Xeed of Prayer was translatetl into English
at the beginning of Elizabeth's reign (in 1560) as
" A Godlie treatis.se declaryng the benetites, fruites,
and great Commodities of Prayer, and also the True
Use thereof. Written in Latin fourtie yeres past, by
an Englyshe man of gi-eat vertue and learnyng. And
lately translated into Englyshe." The translation in
Elizabeth's reign of a devotional work by one whom
her father had sent to the block, printed in St. Paul's
E3IBLE3IATIC DEVICE.
Fi-oiii the English Version (1560) of Fisher's treatise on the ** Need of
Praijer."
Churchyard, '• by John Cawood, one of the Printers
to the Queene's Maiestie," with a preface of " The
Translator to the Reader," urging its use for the
increase of love to God and man, is suggestive ; so
^ " Se iudicare me nunquam invenisse iu universa peregrinatione
mea, qiii Uteris et \Trtute cum Roffense esset comparandus." Fisher
was commonly kuown among scholars, from his see of Rochester, as
*' Roffensis."
82
also is the suppression of Fisher's name, while he is
described in the preface to the reader as " an Euglish-
man, a Bishop of great learning and marvellous
virtue of life." The Pelican Ls taken here also, as
by the writer of the Plowman's Tale, as symbol
of devotion. There is a little emblematic woodcut
added to the pages introducing Fisher's treatise upon
Prayer, with Learn to Die for its uppenuost tliought;
a Latui inscription also around the self-sacriticing
Pelican, which means : For Law, King, and Common-
wealth ; and arounfl that an English motto : •• Love
kepythe the Lawe, obeyeth the Kynge, and is good to
the Commenwelthe."
The treatise has for its text the words in the
eighteenth chapter of Luke, '• that men ought always
to pray;" and tliu.s it begins : —
PRAYER WITHOUT CEASING.
Forasmuch as this saying of Our Saviour Christ, Oportet
siiiipir Orure, A 3Ian must always Pray, written in the-
Gosjjel of .Saint Luke, appertaineth generally tuito all
Christian men : who seeth not how profitable and necessary
it is for every man diligently and effectually to apply him-
self to prayer ': And so expedient and beneficial a thing is in
no wise to be neglected for vain and hurtful delectations and
l^leasures. A\'lierefore to the end that our prayer may wax
sweet and pleasant unto us, first of all it shall be verj- com-
modious and profitable to have ready at hand and in our
remembrance certain reasons with the which as most ajrt and
convenient motions (as oft as we perceive ourselves to wax
cold iu devotion, and be as it were oppressed with a slothful
unaptness to serve God) we may stir up our minds and whet
our hearts to prayer, lloreover, it shall marvellously profit
and exceedingly further us not to be ignoi'aut of the singular
fruits and conmiodities tluit very many have obtained by
prayer ; for by the knowledge thereof, we shall more easily
invite and prepare ourselves to pray. And finally it shall be
very needful for us thoroughly to understand the very true
manner which is specially required in every man to be ob-
sers'ed in the time of his prayer ; forasnuich as in everj-
work of any difliculty that man taketh in hand, the right way
of doing thereof being once knowni doth very much further
the due execution and perfect finishing of the same. I have
therefore intended by the help of God to intreat in order of
these three things : that is to say, of the Necessity of Prayer,
of the Fruit of Prayer, and of the true Use and llarmer of
Prayer.
But forasmuch as the words of Oiu- Sa\-iour before said
do east some scruple and doubt into many men's minds,
it shall not be out of purpose for the better understanding
thereof if we do first expound and declare how those words
are most rightly to be understanded. And to begin withal,
this sa\-ing of Oiur Savioui' is most assuredly true. Oportet
semper Ornre, for Prayer is necessary to us every day, everj-
hour, and everj- minute. And yet doth not Almighty God
so severely demand an accoimt thereof of as that he bindeth
us to incessant prayer with our mouth, which thing never
man hath unto this time, or could be able to observe. But
forasmuch as there passeth no moment of time in which we
have not gi-eat need of the help and assistance of Almighty
God : there are we of necessity constrained by continual
prayer, humbly with all diligence to require and crave His
di\'ine help and succour. For who is he that perceiveth not
(so as he give his mind diligently to observe the same) that
all we are even presently to be returned to dust and ashes,
whensoever God should detain and hold His hand of help-
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[a.d. 1500
from over us, unU that there is no man of power without
llim to endure the spaee of one moment of time, as Job
sayeth. In His hand is the life of every li\Tnnp eroature.
Every one of us remaineth in no Letter estate than as if he
did hang in a basket over a fjieat deep pit, bonie up and sus-
tained by a cord in the hand of another man. And in that
ease doubtless the man so placed standeth in great need of
the diliiifent help of liim that lioldeth the rope, and thereby
stoyeth him from falling : fur if he once let go the rope, the
other that liangeth nmst needs down headlong into the bottom
of the pit. And likewise must it needs happen unto every
one of us, if God sustjiin us not incessantly with His mighty
hand and power. And He it is that so sfciyeth the rope that
we be not by the gi-ievousness of the fall bruised and crushed
in pieces, and so forthwith consumed to nothing. I speak
notliing now of many other dangerous perils and headlong
falling places wiieruwith we be euntinuaUy environed. A\'hat
is he then so gross witted and so blind in judgment, that
understandeth not that tliere is no time, nor no one moment
of time, in the which we have not very great need earnestly
to call upon God, to require His aid, defence and succom-,
and in tlie which we have not cause incessantly to pray?
But forasmuch as after this understanding and sense there
is no man that by actual prayer (as we call it) doth satisfy and
fulfil the same words of our Saviour, that is to say, every
moment to continue in prayer, therefore we had need to searcli
out some other sense aud meaning tliereof. And indeed tliis
saying of Our Saviour Christ may rightly be otherwise undcr-
standed. As thus : A certain monk, one of the old Fathers,
being demanded how he fulfilled that saying or command-
ment of Christ, Uportit si/iijny Urare, made this answer :
^Vhen I have (sayeth he) finished, and said my daily prayers,
the time that remaineth I use to bestow in labouring with
my hands, as far forth as the ability and strength of my body
doth permit, wlicreby it cometh to pass that daily I gain
somewhat, with the wliich I may relieve not only myself,
but also some other poor peojjle. And they (sayeth he) pray
for me, as oft as by the unquictness and trouble of my body
I can not pray for myself : And by this mean he did believe
that he satisfied tin," conmiandment. And he had the Holy
Scripture agreeable with this opinion which sayeth, Aliscoiirlv
£leemosm(tm in siutt ptufjjcritt, ft ijjsir pro tt orabit.^ Hide thy
alms in the bosom of the poor, and that shall pray for thee.
See then, how the Holy Scripture contirmeth that our abns
shall pray for us : and therefore, if a man apply his mind to
shew mercy and pity to his neighbours, if he seek to defend
the orphans and fatherless eliildren, if he labour to comfort
the widows which bo destitute of all consolation, if he be
careful to deliver tho.se that be oppressed with \-iolcnce from
injuiy and wrong, finally, if he shew himself ready to help
to his power any that want succour or relief, so that besides
all this he neglect not the ordinary appointed times for
prayer by the Church of God, he may well be judged to have
fulfilled the fonner words of Our Saviour. For that man
dnth pray always, cither by himself or else by his alms and
charitable deeds, which supplieth all the want that appeareth
in his own prayer. In this wise, then, may the words of
Christ aforesaid be understanded, wherein he teacheth us
always to continue in prayer, which is as much as to say,
always to live and do well, which doth sometime happen to
men, yea, when thoy be sleeping. For as oft as we do sleep
or wake, walk or .sit still, eat or di-ink, be ve.xed or be in
quiet, or what else soever we do or suffer, if all these doings
te with a true faith referred to the honour and glory of God,
no doubt they appertain to the increase of a good and per-
fect life. For if it were not so. Saint Paul would not have
willed the Corintliians, that whatsoever they did, they should
intend and dii-ect the same to the glory of God, saying unto , ■,
them, liU-c fditis, sivc hibUls, sice qiiitl ci/iiid fucitis, onntia in %■
gloriam Dei fiH-ite. ANTiether ye eat or drink, or what thing
else soever ye do, do all to the honour of God. And surely
if God be moved with om- words and speaking to be gracious
unto us. He will be much more stirred in the same by our
good works and well doing, forasmuch as works do now
supply the place of words.
A little later Fisher defines prayer "tlie continual
desire of the heart which is always strong, and hath
his continual motion in man's mind." Thus we must
always pray, not indeed by utterance of forms of
words, " but so that there pass no minute of time in
which we do not desire the succour of His grace and
the felicity to come."
John Fisher wrote against Lutheran opinions, and
held firmly by those in which he had been bred. In
1527, he was the only bishop who refused to gratify
Henry VIII.'s wi.sh for a divorce from Catherine of
Arragon by declaring the king's marriage with her
to be unlawful. Thenceforth he had the king for
enemy. In 153i, his loyalty to conscience again
caused him to stand alone among the bishoi)S in
refusal to assent to a denial of the Pope's sui)remrtcy
in Englaml. When he refused at peril of his life the
oath which was refused also by iSir Thonuis ilore,
he was deprived of his bishopric, and cast into the
Tower. Books were denied him, all his goods were
taken, only some old rags were left to cover him,
and he was ill-fed. On the 17th of June, 1535,
Fisher was brought to trial, and he was beheaded on
the 22nd. During his imprisonment in the Tower
he wrote to his sister Elizabeth these admonitions
of a fallen statesman and a dying brother : —
A SPIRITUAL CONSOLATION'. -
Wrilten hij Joltii Fisshcr, Bishop of Rueliestrr, to his Sister
Eli^dhctli, lit such time as lie iit's prisoner in the Tower of
London.
2 CORINTHUXS VI.
Behold, now is the accepted tiuie; behold, now is the day of salva-
tion.
M.\TTHEW XXIV.
Watch, therefore : for ye know not what hour your Lord doth come.
Sister Elizabeth, nothing doth more help effectually to
get a good and a vii-tuous life, than if a soul, when it is dull
and unlustio without devotion, neither disposed to prayer nor
to any other good work, may be stiiTcd or quickened again
by fruitful meditation. I have therefore devised unto you
this meditation that foUoweth, praying you, for my saki-
and for the weal of your own soul, to read it at such timi s
as you shall feel yourself heavy and slothful to do any good
work. It is a manner of lamentation and soirowful com-
plaining made in the person of one that was hastily prevented •*
by death, as I assure you every creatm'e may be ; none other
surety we have, living in this world here. But if you will
have any profit by reading of it, three things you must do
in any wise.
Firstly: AMicn you shall read this meditation, devise in
' Eccl3sia~1icn>! fin the Ap^cr7pia) xxlx.
- It is here driven complete from the English veroiou published in
Elizabeth's rei^n.
=■ P.TlitTilcd, gone before, for03tallod.
TO A.D. Ii35.]
KELIGION.
139
your mind as nigh as you can, all the conditions of a man or
woman suddenly taken and raWshed by death : and think
with yourself that ye were in the same condition so hastily
taken, and that incontinent j'ou must needs die, and your
soul depart hence, and leave your mortal body, never to
return again for to make any amends or to do any release
to your sold after this hour.
.Secondly : That ye never read this meditation but alone
by yourself in secret manner, where you may be most
attentive thereunto, and when ye have the best leisure
without any let of other thoughts or business. For if
you otherwise behave yourself in the reading of it, it
shall anon lose the virtue and quickness in stirring and
moving of j'our soul when you would ratherest have it
stiiTed.
Thirdly : That when you intend to read it, you must
afore lift up your mind to Almighty God, and beseech
Him that by the help and succoui- of His giace the reading
thereof may fruitfully work in your soul a good and vu-tuous
life, according to His pleasure, and say : Dciis in atfjiitoriiim
meiim intendi, Domine aitjitvarc me festiiia. Gloria patri, &c.
Laiis tibi Domine rex tvtiriialis glorite. Amen.'
Alas, alas, I am unworthily taken, all suddenly death
hath assailed me ; the pains of his stroke be so sore and
grievous that I may not long endure them ; mj- last home I
perceive well is come. I must now leave this mortal body, I
must now dejjart hence out of this world never to return again
into it. But whither I shall go, or where I shall become, or
what lodging I shall have this night, or in what company I
shall fall, or in what country I shall be received, or in what
manner I shall be entreated, God knoweth, for I know not.
MTiat if I .shall be damned in the perpetual prison of hell,
where be pains endless and without number ': Grievous it
shall be to them that be damned for ever, for the}- shall be as
men in extreme pains of death, ever wishing and desii-ing
death, and yet never shall they die. It should be now unto
me much weary one year continually to lie upon a bed were
it never so soft : how weary then shall it be to lie in the
most painful fire so many thousands of years ^vithout number,
and to be in that most honible company of devils most
terrible to behold, f uU of nuiUce and cruelty ? wretched
and miserable creature that I am : I might so have lived
and so ordered my life by the help and grace of my Lord
Christ Jcsu, that this hour might have been unto me much
joyous and greatly desired. Many blessed and holy Saints
were full joyous and desirous of this hour, for they knew
well that by death their souls shoxUd be transited into a
now life, to the life of all joy and endless pleasui-e : from
the straits and bondage of this corruptible body into a very
liberty and true freedom among the company of heaven:
from the miseries and gi-ievances of this wretched world, to
be above with God in comfort inestimable that cannot be
spoken nor thought. They were assured of the promises of
Almighty God, which had so promised to aU them that be
his faithful servants. And sure I am, that if I had ti-uly and
faithfully served Him unto this hour, my soid had been
partner of these promises. But imhappy and uns^racious
creature that I am, I have been negligent in His service, and
therefore now my heart doth waste in soitows, seeing
the nighness of death, and considering my great sloth and
negligence.
I thought full little thus suddenly to have been trapped :
but, alas, now death hath prevented me, and hath unwarily
* "O God. be thou my refasre; Lord, make haste to lielp me.
Glory be to the Father. &c. Praise be uuto tbee, O Lord, eternal
King of glory. Amen."
attacked me, and suddenly oppressed me with his mighty
power, so that I know not whither I may turn me for
succour, nor where I may seek now for help, nor what thing
I may do to get any remedy. If I might have leisure and
space to repent me and amend my life, not compelled with
this sudden stroke, but of my own free vdW and liberty, and
partly for the love of God, putting aside aU sloth and negli-
gence, I might then safely die without any dread, I might
then be glad to depart hence and leave my manifold miseries
and encumbrances of this world. But how may I think that
my repentance or mine amendment cometh now of my own
free nill, sith I was before this struck so cold and duU in the
service of my Lord God ? or how may I think that I do this
more rather for His love than for fear of His punishment,
when if I had truly loved Him, I should more quickly and
more diligently have served Him heretofore 'i 3Ie seemeth
now that I cast away my sloth and negligence compelled by
force. Even as a merchant that is compelled by a great
tempest in the sea to cast his merchandise out of the ship, it
is not to be supposed that he would cast away his riches of
his own free wiU, not compelled by the storm ; and even so
likewise do I. If this tempest of death were not now raised
upon me, it is fuU hke that I would not have cast from me
my sloth and negligence.
would to God that I might now have some farther
respite, and some longer time to amend myself of my free
wiii. and liberty I if I might entreat Death to spare
me for a season ; but that will not be, Death in no wise
will be entreated, delay he will none take, respite he will
none give, if I would give him all the riches of this world.
Xo, if aU my lovers and friends would fall upon their knees
and pray him for me. Iso, if I and they would weep,
if it were so possible, as many teai-s as there be in the seas
drops of water ; no pity may restrain him. Alas, when
opportunity of time was, I would not use it well, which if I
had done, it would now be unto me more precious than all
the treasures of a realm. For then my soul as now should
have been clothed with good works innumerable, the which
should make me not to be ashamed when I should come to the
presence of my Lord God, where now I shall appear laden
with sin miserably, to my confusion and shame. But, alas,
too negligently have I let pass from me my time, not regard-
ing how precious it was, nor yet how much spuitual riches I
might have got therein, if I would have put my diligence
and study thereunto. For assuredly no deed that is, be it
never so little, but it shall be rewarded of Almighty God.
One draught of water given for the love of God shall not be
unrewarded. And what is more easy to be given than water.
But not only deeds, but also the least words and thoughts
shaU be rewarded in Uke wise. how many good thoughts,
deeds, and words might one think, speak, and do in one
day ! But how many more in one whole year '. O, alas,
my great negligence I O, alas, my foul blindness ! 0, alas,
mv sinful madness, that knew this well, and would not put
it in effectual execution I
O if now all the people of this world were present here
to see and know the perilous condition that I am in, and
how I am prevented by the stroke of death, I would
exhort them to take me as an example to them all, and whUe
they have Icisme and time to order their lives and cast
from them sloth and idleness, and to repent them of their
misbehaviour towards God, and to bewail their offences, to
multiply good works, and to let no time pass by them unfruit-
f ully. For if it shall please my Lord God that I might any
longer live, I would othei^^'ise exercise myself than I have
done before. Xow I wish that I may have time and space,
but righteously I am denied. For when I might have had
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it, I would not well use it : and therefore now when I would
well use it, I shall not have it. ye therefore that have
.-ind may use this preeious time in your liberty, emi)loy it
well, and he not too wasteful thereof: lest peradventure
>vhen you would have it, it shall be denied you likewise, as
now it is to me.
But now I repent me full sore of my gieat negligence,
and right much I sorrow that so little I regarded the
wealth and profit of my soul, but rather took heed to the
vain comforts and pleasures of my wretched body. O cor-
ruptible body, O stinking carrion, O rotten earth, to whom
I have served, whose appetites I have followed, whose desire
I have procured, now dost thou appear what thou art in thy
own likeness. That brightness of thy eyes, that quickness
in hearing, that liveliness in thy other senses by natural
warmness, thy swiftness and nimbleness, thy fairness and
beauty, all these thou hast not of thyself, they were but
lent imto thee for a season. Even as a wall of earth that is
fair painted without for a season with fresh and goodly
colours, .and also gilted with gold, it appeareth goodly for
the time to such as consider no deeper than the outward craft
thereof: but when at the last the colour faileth, and the
gilting faileth away, then appeareth it in his own likeness,
for then the earth plainly showcth itself. In like wise my
wretched body, for the time of youth it appeared fresh and
histy, and I was deceived with the outward beauty thereof,
little considering what naughtiness was covered underneath :
but now it showeth itself. Xow, my wretched body, thy
beauty is faded, thy fairness is gone : thy lust, thy strength,
tliy liveliness, all is gone, all is failed ! Xow art thovi then
returned to thine own earthly colour. Xow art thou black,
cold, and heavy, like a hmip of earth : thy sight is darkened,
thy hearing is dulled, thy tongue faltereth in thy mo>ith,
and corrujition issucth out of every part of thee. CoiTuption
was thy beginning in the womb of thy mother, and corrup-
tion is thy continuance. All thing that ever thou receivest,
were it never so precious, thou tumest into corruption, and
now to corruption thyself returnest : altogether right vile
and loathly art thou become, where in appearance before thou
wast goodly : but the good lines were nothing else but as a
painting or a gilting upon an earthen wall, under it was
covered with stinking and tilthy matter. But I looked not
so deep, I contented myself with the outward painting, and
in that I took gi-eat pleasure. For all my study and care
was about thee, either to ai)parel thee with some clothes of
divers coloure, either to satisfy thy desire in pleasant sights,
in delectable hearings, in goodly smells, in sundry manner
of tastings and touchings, either else to get thee ease and
•rest as well in sleep as otherwise ; and proHded therefore
pleasant and deleet.iblc lodgings, and to eschew tediousness
in all these, not only lodgings but also in apparel, meats and
drinks procured many and divers changes, that when thou
wast weary of one, then mightest thou content thyself with
some other. O, alas, this was my vain and naughty studv
•whereunto my wit was ready applied : in those things I spent
the most part of my days. And yet was I never content
long, but murmuring or grudging every hour for one thing
or other. And what am I now the better for aU this :- what
reward may I look for of all my long service :- or what great
benefit shall I receive for all my great study, care, and
diligence r
Xothing better am I, but much the worse. JIuch corrup-
tion and filth my so<il thereby hath gathered, so that now
it is nuidc full hon-iblc and loathly to behold. Keward get
I none other than punishment, either in Hell everlasting,
or at the least in Purgatory, if I may so easily escape. The
benefits of my labour nn: the great cares and sorrows which I
now am wrapped in. May not I think my wit to have
been well occupied in this lewd and imfruitful business ?
have not I well bestowed my labour about this service of my
wTCtched body f hath not my time been weU employed in
these miserable studies, whereof now no comfort remaineth,
but only sorrow and repentance ? Alas, I heard full often
that such as should be damned should grievously repent
themselves, and take more displeasm-e of their nusbeha\iour
than ever they had pleasure before ; and yet that repentance
then should stand them in no stead, where a full little repent-
ance taken in time might have eased them of all their pain.
This I heard and read fuU often, but full little heed or regard
I gave thereimto. I well perceived it in myself, but all too
late I dread me. I would that now by the example of me
all other might beware, and avoid by the gracious help of
God these dangers that I now am in, and prepare themselves
against the hour of death better than I have prepared me.
Alas, what availeth me now any delicacy of nu^ats aiul
drinks which my -wretched body insatiable did dcvoiu- Y
What availeth my vanity or pride that I had in myself,
either of apparel or of any other thing belonging unto me ':
■\\Tiat availeth the filthy and unclean delights and lusts of
the stinking flesh, wherein was appearance of much pleasure,
hut in very deed none other than the sow hath, weltering
herself in the miry puddle ? Xow these pleasures be gone,
my body is nothing better, my soiU is much the worse, and
nothing remaineth but sorrow and displeasure, and that a
thousand-fold more than ever I had any pleasure before.
(.) lewd body and naughty, which hast brought me to this
utter discomfort ! dirty corruption, O satchel full of
dung, how must I go to make answer for thy lewdness ;
thy lewdness I say, for it aU cometh of thee. Jly soul had
nothing need of such things as was thy desire. What need
my soul, that is immortal, either clothing, or meat, or drink :■'
^\^lat need it any coiTuptible gold or silver ? Wliat need it
any houses or beds, or any other things that appertaineth to
these? For thee, O con-uptible body, which like a rotten
wall daily needeth reparations and botching up with meat
and (b'ink, and defence of clothing against cold and heat, was
aU this study and dihgence taken, and yet now wilt thou for-
sake me at my most need, when account and reckoning of all
our misdeeds must be given before the throne of the Judge
most terrible. Xow thou wilt refuse me, and leave me to the
jeopardy of all this matter. 0, alas, many years of delibera-
tion suffice not before so great a Judge to make answer, which
shall examine me of every idle word that ever pa.ssed my
mouth. O then how many idle words, how many evil
thoughts, how many deeds have I to make answer for ! and
such as we set but at light, full greatly shall be weighed
in the presence of His most high :jlajesty. O, alas, what
may I do to get some help at this most dangerous hour ?
WTicre may I seek for succour ? 'Where may I resort for
any comfort ':
3Iy body forsaketh me, my pleasures be vanished away
as the smoke : my goods will not go with me. AU these
worldly things I must leave behind me. If any comfort
shall be, either it must be in the prayers of my friends, or in
mine own good deeds that I have done before. But as for my
good deeds that shoidd be available in the sight of God, akis,
they be few or none that I can think to be available ; they
must be done principally and purely for His love. But my
deeds when of their kind they were good, yet did I tinge
them by my folly. For either I did them for the pleasme of
men, or to avoid the shame of the world, or else for^iv own
affection, or else for dread of puni.shment. So that seldom I
did any good deed in that purity and straightness that it
ought of right to have been done. And mv misdeeds, my
TO A.D. 1535.]
RELIGION.
lewd deeds that be shameful and abominable, be without
number. Xot one day of all my life, no not one hour, I
trow, was so truly expended to the pleasure of God, but
many deeds, words, and thoughts misoaped me in my life.
Alas, little trust then may I have upon my deeds. And as
for the prayers of my friends, such as I shall leave behind
me, of them many peradventure be in the same need that I
am in. So that where theii- own prayers might profit them-
selves, they cannot so profit another. And many of them
will be full negliijent, and some forgetful of me. And no
marvel, for who should have been more friendly unto me
than mine own self f Therefore 1 that was most bounden
to have done for myself, forgot my own weal in my lif ertime ;
no manel therefore if others do forget me after my departing
hence. Other friends there be by whose prayers souls may
te holpcn, as by the blessed and holy saints above in heaven,
which verily will be mindful of such as in earth here have
•devoutly honoured them before. But, alas, I had special
devotion but to a few, and yet them I have so faintly
honoured, and to them so coldly sued for favour, that I am
ashamed to ask aid or help of them. At this time indeed,
I h:id more effectually meant to have honoured them, and
more diligently to have commended my wretched soul unto
their prayers, and so to have made them my special friends ;
but now death hath prevented me so, that no other hope
remaineth but only in the mercy of my Lord God : to whose
mercy I do now offer myself, beseeching him not to look
upon iny deserts, but upon his infinite goodness and abundant
pity.
-■Uas, my duty had been much better to have remem-
bered this ten-ible hour, I should have had this danger ever
lefore mj- eyes, I should have pro\-ided therefore so that
now I might have been in a more readiness against the
coming of death, which I knew assuredly would come at the
last, albeit I knew not when, where, or by what manner, but
well I knew ever}- hour and moment was to him indifferent,
and in his liberty. And yet my madness ever to be sorrowed I
Notwithstanding this uncertainty of His coming, and the
Tincertainty of the time thereof, I made no certain nor sure
pro\-ision against this hour. Full often I took great study
and care to provide for little dangers, only because I thought
they might happen, and yet happed they never a deal.' And
but tiifles they were in comparison of this. How much
lather should I have taken study and care for this so great a
danger, which I knew well must necessaril}- fall unto me once.
For this cannot be eschewed in no wise, and upon this 1 ought
to have made good pro\'ision, for in this hangeth all our
■wealth. For if a man die well, he shall after his death
nothing want that he would desire, but his appetite shall be
satiate in every point at the full ; and if he die amiss, no
pro\'ision shall avail him that ever he made before. This
provision therefore is most effectually to be studied, sithens
this alone may profit without other, and without this none
can avail.
ye that have time and space to make your provision
against the hour of death, defer not from day to day like
as I have done. For I often did think and pirrpose with
myself that at some leisure I would have provided ; neverthe-
less for every frivolous business I put it aside, and delayed
this prorision always to another time, and promised with
myself that at such a time I would not fail but do it, but
■when that came another business arose, and so I deferred
it again unto another time. And so, alas, from time to time,
that now death in the meantime hath prevented me. ily
purpose was good, but it lacked execution; my will was
Never a deal, never in any part, never a bit.
straight, but it was not effectual ; my mind well intended,
but no fruit came thereof. All for because I delayed so
often and never put in effect that that I had purposed.
And therefore delay it not as 1 have done, but before all other
business put this first in surety, which ought to be chief and
principal business. Neither building of colleges, nor making
of sermons, nor gi\'ing of alms, neither yet any other manner
of business shall help you without this. Therefore first and
before all things prepare for this. Delay not in any -n-ise, for
if you do, you shall be deceived as I am now. 1 read of
many, I have heard of many, 1 have known many that were
disappointed as 1 am now. And ever 1 thought and said, and
intended, that I would make sure and not be deceived by the
sudden coming of death. Yet nevertheless I am now de-
ceived, and am taken sleeping, unprepared, and that when
I least weened of his coming, and even when I reckoned
myself to be in most health, and when I was most busy, and
in the midst of my matters.
Therefore delay not you any farther, nor put your trust
over much in your friends. Trust yourself while ye have
space and liberty, and do for yourself now while you may.
I would ad^-ise you to do that thing that I by the grace
of my Lord God would put in execution if His pleasure
were to send me longer life. Account yourself as dead,
and think that your souls were in prison of Purgatorj-,
and that there they must abide till that the ransom
for them be truly paid, either by long sufferance of pain
there, or else by suffrages done here in earth by some of
your special friends. Be your own friend. Do j-ou these
suffrages for your own soul, whether they be prayers or alms-
deeds, or any other penitential painfulness. If you v,-iR not
effectually and heartily do these things for your own soul,
look you never that other will do them for you ; and in
doing them in your own persons, they shall be more available
to you a thousand-fold than if they were done by any other.
If you follow this counsel, and do thereafter, you shall be
gracious and blessed ; and if you do not, you shall doubtless
repent your follies but too late.
Thus seeking that hLs hitest words might aid a
sister's soul upon the heavenward way, John Fisher
freely gave his life for that which he believed to be
the truth. A few words, spoken against conscience,
would have saved him fi-om the scatiold.
WhUe Fisher was founding colleges in Cambridge,
impulse had been given to Greek studies by the fall
of Constantinople, in the year 1453. Exiled Gi-eeks
carried their scholarship abroad William Grocyn,
an English clergyman, learnt Greek at Florence
under Demetrius Chalcondylas, and the brUUant
Italian poet and scholar. Poliziano ; then came home,
and in 14:91 began, at Exeter College, the teachmg
of Greek in the f niversity of Oxford. He was
aided in this work by Thomas Linacre, who also
had learnt his Greek at Florence. One of their
conu-ades was John Colet, wlio was twenty-four years
younger than Grocyn, and six years yoimger than
Linacre.
John Colet, bom in 1466, studied in France
and Italy after seven yeai-s' training at Magdalen
College, and was one of many who drew aid from
the new study of Plato to their aspiration for the
highest spiiitual life. In Plato there was not only
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[a.d. 1500
of
a philosopliical uiihokling of the doctrine of the
immortalitv of the soul, but a belief also that the
soul became inibruteil, if used only as the servant
to the flesh, and was fitted for immortal happiness
by lifting itself wlieu upon earth above the sensual
delii^hts "to a pure search for the highest truth.'
Greek studies, that thus brought in Plato as the
ally of men already combating against fleshly corrup-
tions of the Church, caused many an upholder of the
joys of the refectory and outward pomps to raise
their cry, " Beware of the Greeks, lest you be made
a heretic ; " and John Colet had not laboured long
in his pure way before he incurred suspicion of
heresy. His father was a rich City knight, who had
been twice Lord Mayor. Of Dame Christian, his
mother, Erasmus, who was among Colet's intimate
friends, said in a letter, " I knew in England the
mother of John Colet, a matron of singular piety ;
she had by the same husband eleven sons, and as
many daughters, all of which hopeful brood were
snatched away from her, except her eldest son ; and
she lost her "husband far advanced in years. She
herself being come to her ninetieth year, looked so
smooth and was so cheerful that you wovdd think
she never shed a tear, nor brought a child into the
world ; and, if I mistake not, she survived her son.
Dean Colet. Now that which supplied a woman
with so much fortitude was not learmng, but piety
to God." Her son had both. In 1504 he became
Doctor of Divinity, and in 1505 Dean of St. Paul's.
I The following passage from the "Phsedo," as given in Professor
Jowett's masterly translation of the Dialogues of Plato— an English
Plato for all libraries— will partly show what attracted the Reformers.
A irnrt of it is parai)hr.aseil by the eUer brother in Milton's " Comus,"
and causes the younger brother to exclaim — ,
** How charming is divine philosophy !
Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose,
But musical as is ApoUo's lute ;
And a perpetual feast of nectar'd sweets,
Where no crude surfeit reigns."
** * Yet once more consider the matter in this light. Wlien the soul
and the body are united, theii* nature orders the soul to rule and
govern, and the body to obey and serve. Now which of these two
functions is akin to the diviue, and which to the mortal ? Does not
the divine appear to you to be that which naturally orders and i-ules,
and the mortal that which is subject and servant ? '
" ' Ti-ue.'
" ' And which does the soul resemble ? '
" ' The soiU resembles the diviue, and the body the mortal. There
can be no doubt of that, Socrates.'
" ' Theu reflect, Cebes : is not the conclusion of the whole matter
this — that the soul is the very likeuess of the divine, and immortal,
and intelligible, and uuiform, and indissoluble, and unchangeable ; and
the body is in the very likeness of the human, and mortal, and unin-
telligible, and multifonn. and dissoluble, and changeable. Can this,
my dear Cebes, be denied ? '
" * No, indeed."
" ' But if this be true, then is not the body liable to speedy dissolu-
tion ? and is not the soul almost or altogether indissoluble ? '
" ' Certainly.'
*' ' And do you further observe, that after a man is dead, the body,
which is the visible part of man, and has a visible framework, which
is called a corpse, and which would naturally be dissolved, .and de-
composed, and dissipated, is not dissolved or decomi^osed at once,
but may remain for a good while, if the constitution be sound at the
time of death, and the season of the year favourable. For the body
■when shiimk and embalmed, as is the custom in Egypt, may remain
almost entire through iutinite ages ; and even in decay, still there are
some portions, such as the bones and ligaments, which are practically
indestructible. You allow' that ? *
•"Yes.'
*' ' Aud are we to suppose that the soul, which is invisible, iu passing
A
ill!
I
U
m
The oflice suited him well, for he had an enthusiastic
admiration of St. Paul as the interi)reter of Chris-
tianity. "Paul," he wrote, in a letter to the Abbot
of Winchcomb, "seems to me a vast ocean of wisdom
and piety." At Oxford, before he was a dean, Colet
had given free lectures on St. Paul's Epistles. As
dean," he at once began to reform the cathedral dis-
cipline. He gave Divinity lectures to all comers on
Sundays and holidays, a contemporary writer tells
us, when he was usually found expounding St. Paul's
epistles with a grace and earnestness that went to
the hearts even of those who did not understand
the Latin in which he was teaching. He despised
the lives commonly led by monks, set forth tlio
dangers of an unmarried clergy, spoke against image-|
worship and the confessional, and saw irreverence in^
thoughtless, hurried repetition of a stated quantity of
psalm and prayer.
The Bishop "of London thought his Dean a heretic,
but Colet was protected by the friendship of Ai'ch-
bishop Warham. " He was in trouble, and shouldl
have been burnt," said Latimer, "if God had not
turned the king's heart to the contrary." His family
interest brought Colet church preferment ; his eccle
siastical income he spent on the wants of his family,' '^
and in exercise of hospitality ; and the whole income
from his large fortune — derived as an only surviving
child from a rich father — was spent upon works of
benevolence. In 1510 he founded St. Paul's School
— still vigorous and efficient — a monument to a good
to the true Hades, which, like her, is invisible, and pure, and noble, *
aud on her way to the good and wise God, whither, it God will,
my soul is also soon to go— that the soul, I repeat, if tliis be heri
nature aud origin, is blown away and x>erishes immediately on quittingj
the body, as the many say ? That can never be, my dear Simmias and^
Cebes. The truth rather is that the soul, which is pm-e at departing,'
di'aws after her no bodily taint, having never voluntarily had con-
nection with the body, which she is ever avoiding, herself gathered
into herself, for such abstraction has been the study of her life.
And what does this mean but that she has been a true disciple
of philosoijhy, and has practised how to die easily V Aud is uot
philosophy the practice of death ? '
" ' Certainly.'
" 'That soul, I say, herself invisible, departs to the invisible world
■to the divine, aud immortal, and rational ; thither arriving, she
lives in bliss, and is released from the eiTor and folly of men, their
fears and wild iJassions, and all other human iiUs, and for ever dwellS;
as they say of the initiated, in comimuy with the gods ? Is uot this
true, Cebes ? '
*' 'Yes,' said Cebes, 'beyond a doubt.'
But the soul that has been polluted, and is impure at the time of
her departure, and is the companion and serv.aut of the body always,
aud is in love with and fascinated by the body and by the desires and
pleasures of the body, imtil she is led to believe that the truth only
exists ui a bodily form, which a man may touch, and see, and taste,
and use for the purposes of his lusts — the soul, I mean, accustomed
to hate, aud fe.ar, aud avoid the intellectual iirinciple. which to the
bodily eye is dark and invisible, and can be attained only by philosophy
— do you suppose that such a soul as this will depart pure aud im-
alloyed ? *
" ' That is impossible,' he replied.
" ' She is engi'ossed by the corporeal, which the continual associa-
tion and constant cai-e of the body have made natiu'al to her.'
" ' Very true.'
" * Aud this, my friend, maybe conceived to be that heavy, weighty,
earthy element of sight by which such a soul is depressed and dragged
down again into the visible world, because she is afraid of the invisible
and of the world below — prowling about tombs and sepulchres, in the
neighbourhood of which, as they tell us, are seen certain ghostly
apparitions of souls which have not departed pm-e, but are cloyed with
sight, and therefore \isible.'
" ' That is very likely, tocrates.' "
,, A.D. 1513.]
RELIGION.
U3
!iii[, that lives and acts in liis own spirit. The
,;irin Grammar produced for the use of his scliool
a: IS tirst published in 1513, and was still used in the
•HI lier jiart of the nineteenth century. Its prefitce
.\;is written by Wolsey, who was in that year Dean
if Vurk ; Colet himself wi-ote the English rudiments ;
"r isinus wrote the greater part of the Latin syntiix ;
nid C'olet's friend and tirst head-master, William
.il\-, wrote the Latin rules for genders in the verses
i.-iuning •' Pr<:ipria qu« maribus," and the rules for
i;i~t tenses and supines, beginning "As in prjesenti."
!-'iMiii Colet's lectiu-es given at Oxford on St. Paul's
F]|iistle to the Romans — as translated Ijy Mr. J. H.
l^iipton,' an accomplished master of St. Paul's School,
vLu has paid due honour to its founder by editing
several of his works — I take
A Sr.MMARY OF ST. PAUL's EPISTLE TO THE
ROMANS.
In the Epistle written by St. Paul the Apostle to the
iomans, he counsels peace and concord to those who in
;hat city bore the name of Chi-ist.
There were among them three disputes. The first was
hat between the Jews and Gentiles ; the second between
Christians and Heathens ; the third was in the Christian
;ommunity itself, between those who were strong in the
'aith and those who were weak.
The Gentiles and the Jews were mutually accusing one
inutlier; each party in turn proudly claiming precedence
)ver the other. But the presumption of the Jews was the
greater and more overweening of the two. Accordingly,
■vhen St. Paul interposes to allay this fierce contention, he
ises many arguments to beat down the haughtiness of the
jentiles, but still it is to the Jews that he chiefly turns, and
Urects against their faction the main force and point of his
liscourse. For the Jew was stiiinecked, ever struggUng
igainst the yoke of humility.
Both pai-ties, Jew and Gentile, St. Paul endeavours to raise
a higher level, to lift them above all distiuction of Jew
md (.ientile, and to lodge them both immovably in Jesus
Jhrist alone. For He alone is sufSeient ; He is all things ;
n Him alone is the salvation and justification of mankind.
After declaring the Chui'ch to consist of these (namely,
Jew and Gentile) alike, the Apostle then describes of what
aatuie the Christian Church is, and what are its duties and
iCtiiins.
It was hotly disputed by many, in what way the Chris-
;ians at Koine were to conduct themselves towards the
aeathen, in whose midst they then were, and under whose
iuthority they were living : that i.s to say, how far they
were to submit to injuries from them, and to what extent
they were to jiay the triliute exacted.
Under this head, St. Paul prudently inculcates peace and
bedience.
The third dissen.sion and strife that was in the Christian
Church was between the stronger in the faith and the
weaker. In this, scrupulous persons, of weak conscience,
were shocked at the boldness of theh stronger brethren ;
while the latter, confiding in the decision of their own con-
^ "An Exposition of St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans, delivered as
lectures in the University of Oxford about the year 1497, hy John
Colet, M.A., afterwards Dean of St. Paul's. Now first published,
with a Translation, Introduction, and Notes, by J. H. Liiptou, M.A.,
Sub-master of St. Paul's School, and late Fellow of St. John's College,
Cambridge." (1873.)
science, looked down upon the weak. And the matter in
debate was the eating of meats ; how far it was lawful to
proceed in different kinds of food. By the Jewish cere-
monial law many things were forbidden. From the iilolo-
t/ii/ld, for example (that is, things offered in sacrifice imto
idols), many shrank with abhorrence. But yet there were
some who acted boldly in this matter as they considered
lawfid, and ate on every occasion what they jjleased, thought-
lessly and inconsiderately, with no small scandal and offence
to the weak.
In this place, therefore, St. Paul enjoins that kindly
account must be faiken of the weak ; that the mind and
resolution of the feebler one must not be startled by any
venturesomeness of act even in what was lawfid ; that
offence must be avoided, edification sought, and peace main-
tained by a settlement of their disputes.
lu the first of these he counsels humihty, in the second
l)ati(jnce, in the third charity.
After giving a reason for writing to the Romans, and
promising after a time to visit tliem, he concludes his Epistle
with remembrances and salutations.
And from the lectures on that epistle, here is Colet's
comment upon a part of the twelfth chapter : —
OVERCOME EVIL WITH GOOD.
From the presence of God, and the outpouring of his
grace, and the varied bestowal of faith and love, there gi'ow
up among men various members, so to speak ; — various
powers, that is, facidties, offices, actions, and services.
These are briefly and cm'SorUy recounted by St. Paul ;
rather to give a specimen and sample of them, than to enu-
merate all exactly and in their true order. Thus he men-
tions prophei:!) according to faith, and the foretelling future
events ; minlstrij^ which the Greeks call dlticonate ; teaching,
and exhoriatlun, and f/irint/, and ruling^ and merer/, which
the Greeks Call a/ms ; — faculties that are conspicuous in
men according to the measiu-e and proportion of grace and
faith bestowed. He then adds, what ought to be in the
whole Church, — true love of God, iibhorreiue uf vvd, ehncuit)
to the good, mutual and Irotherhj affection among the faithful,
preferring one ffitothcr in honour, earnestness and diligence,
fervour of Hfe, observance of the time, rejoicing in hope,
patience in adversity, perseverance in. pragcr, liberality, hos-
pitality. He adds, after these, continual blessing, even
towards evil speakers and evil doers ; common joy, common
grief ; community of mind and of every desh-e ; lowliness,
condescension, courtesy, love, fellow-feeling, agxeement,
unity ; such as springs from a mutual adaptation and con-
formity of cUfferent parts. But as for haughtiness, piide,
disdain, self-eonceit, contempt of others, avenging of wrongs ;
— he shows them to be abominable in men, and resolutely
forbids them, as a nirrsery of mischief and destruction.
For St. Paul would have all vengeance and retaliation
to be left to God alone ; who has said by his projihet :
Vengeance is mine, and I will repag. Among the mem-
bers of Christ's body, even the Church, he feels that there
ought to be faith in God, and reason subject to faith;
humiUty, toleration, eonstanc)- in good at all times and
without cessation, a doing good even to those who do us
evil and provoke us wrongfully ; that every member, so far
as it can, m.'iy imitate Christ its head, w-ho was perfect low-
liness, goodness, patience, kindness ; who did good to the
evil, that bj' his goodness he might make them good instead
of evil ; herein imitating his Father in heaven, who maheth
his sun to rise on the evil and on the good.
144
UASSELL'S LIBEAEY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. i5oa
l-'or there is nuthing that contiuers evil, hut good ; and if
you aim at letununij evil for evil, and endeavom- to crush
evil hy evil, then you yourself descend to evil, and fooUshly
shift to a weaker position, and render yourself more power-
less to confound the evil. Nay, you even increase the evil,
when you make youi-self on a. level with evil men, seeing
that you wish to encounter evil ones while evil your-
self. For you cannot render evil for evil, without having
done evil in so rendering. In fact, he who hegins,
and he who returns, evil, are both engaged in evil ; and
therefore are alike evil. On which account, the good
must on all occasions he on their guard not to retirni evil
for evil ; lest, by this descent to evil, they cease to be good.
But we must constantly persevere in goodness and in re-
liance upon Uod ; that, as natiu-e demands, we may conquer
opposites by opposites, and evil by good; acting with
goodness and patience on our part, that evil men may
become good.
This must be allowed to be the only means and way
of conquering e%'il. And they who imagine that e^•il can
be dissipated by evil, are certainly fools and madmen : as
matter of fact and expei-ienco shows. For human laws,
and infliction of punishment, and imdcrtaking of wars, and
all the other ways in which men laboiu' to do away with evil,
aim in vain at that object, and in no respects attain theii"
purpose. Since it is plainly evident, that, whatever eitVirts
men may have made, in reliance on their own powers, the
world is none the less on that account full of evils; and
that these are growing up day by day, and multiplying
with all the more vigour, though foolish men see it not, the
more men are attempting to uproot them by theii' own efforts.
Let this be a settled and established maxim, that evil
cannot be removed except by means of good. For as it is
light that scatters darkness, and heat that banishes cold,
so - undoubtedly in Uke manner is it virtue and goodness
only that overcomes evil and extenninates vice. And
moreover, just as the sun, were he to overshadow himself,
in order to di'i\e away the darkness, would be less efficient,
and would by no means accomplish his end ; so beyond
doubt will those who depart from good, and as it were
obscure themselves, and retm'n like for like in the c;ise of
evils, never obtain what they are striving for. For what-
ever seeks to conquer, nuist needs make itself as unlike as
possible to that which it seeks to conquer ; since victory is
gained in every instance, not by what is like, but by what
is imlike. Hence we ought to aim as much as possible at
goodness, in order to conquer evil ; and at peace and for-
bearance, to overcome war and unjust actions. For it is
not by war that war is conquered, hut by peace and for-
bearance, and reliance on God. And in truth by this virtue
we see that the apostles overcame the whole world, and by
suffering were the gi'eatest doers, and by being vanquished
were the greatest «ctors ; .and, in short, by their death,
more than by aught else, left life upon the earth. Sooth to
say, the Christian warrior's prowess is his patience, his
action is suffering, and his victory a sure trust in God; a
confidence that He is either justly suffering, or patiently en-
during, the evil. 'Wliich thing He does, not in evil, but in
His all-powerfid goodness and mercy : since by His bounti-
ful grace He woidd make good those that are e\-il. Him,
even God the Father, every good man is bound to imitate,
and to endeavour by ceaseless goodness to overcome the
badness of others; and as Jesus Christ, who is perfect
goodness, teaches, we ought to love our enemies, and do
good to them that hate us, and pray for them that persecute
us, that we may be the children of our Father which is in
heaven ; for he sendeth rain on the just and on the xiijust.
A>n-eeable to this is what the Apostle, the expounder
of the Gospel, and possessor of the mind of Christ, here
writes and enjoins, saying : £e not tcise in your own conceits,
nor haughty and self-reljiug ; recompense not evil for evil ;
a thin"- which does not conquer, but increases, the evil.
But be ye good, and practise goodness constantly, both
before God and before men; that through your manifest
goodness wicked men may at length submit, and desire to-
become like yod. Be not angry with the angry, nor repel
force by force ; but be at peace with all men ; and bring it.
to pass, as much as in you lieth, that others harm you not :
that is, offend no one, but be careful at all times, however
men may rage against you, not to be yom-selves provoked,
nor strive against them in self-defence. But keep patience
unbroken, and maintain peace imdisturbed, at least in your-
selves, and give place nuto wrath. Suffer Ciod to avenge
your WTongs, you who know not wherefore and to what end! '
He suffers evils. Interfere not, by yoiu- pride and reliance
on }-our own strength, with the gi-eat and excellent pro-
vidence of God; for this is to miad high things, and to be-
wise in your own conceits. But be lowly-minded, and rely
on God alone : persevere in goodness, and suffer e^-ils. For
if these cannot be conquered by yom- goodness, then believe
that God for some better end suffers for a time, and,' as it
were, endures the evil. Wlierefore leave the removal of it,,
in strong faith, to God ; and do ye, in the meanwliile, not-
ecase to do good unto all, that ye may conquer them by
goodness. Feed your enemies ; and if an adversary thirst,,
give him drink ; and whatever service you can confer,
render it cheerfully and willingly to aU. For assuredly by
this alone will you conquer evil, and win over even the ill-
disposed to youi-selves as friends. By your love and kind-
ness you will warm those that are in the chill of malice and.
wickedness; and by your tenderness you wiU soften the
hard and unbending. For just as men grow sweet by-
goodness and gentleness, so on the other hand do they
grow bitter and harsh by unkindness and ill-treatment.
But soft, sweet, powerful gooihiess and kindness at length
fuses all things, and by its beneficent heat causes the hard
to soften, and the bitter to gi-ow sweet ; so that the rugged
become smooth, the savage tame, the proud humble, the
evil good ; in a word, the human become divine. This is.
what St. Paul means by heaping coals of fire npon his
head ; heating a man, namely, and fusing his di-oss-like bad-
ness, and soothing his implacable mood : which you will-
either do by goodness and sweetness, or you will never do ;
seeing that it is only by its opposite that anything is over-
come. But if evil provoke you to return evil, then are you
being conquered by the evil, and beginning to be your-
self evil. Whereas if, on the contrary, your goodness,
clemency, kindness, and beneficence attract those that are
evil, and di-aw them gently to a betti-r state, then have
you vanquished the evil by your goodness.
Tliis kind of contending with evil men was alone used by
those first soldiers in the Church, w-ho fought vmder the
banner of Christ and conquered gloriously. And St. Paul,
in his wisdom perceiving the force and power of goodness,
to be such, sent this golden maxim to the Romans ; namely,
lie not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with tjood.
Erasmu.s, born in 1467, came as a poor .scholar-
about thirty years old to learii Greek at Oxford,
when he established friendship vrith John C'olet and
Tliomas More. In 1.506, aged tliirty-nine, he visited
Italy, and obtained from Julius II. a i-elease from the
TO A.D. 151*3 ]
EELIGION.
145
monastic vows which had been forced upon him in
his youth. In 1510 he returned to Enghind, and was
for a time at Cambridge, where Fisher had invited
him to take the otfice of Lady Margaret Professor of
Divinity. He lodged then in Queen's College. In
1514 lie went to Brabant, invited by Charles V., as
councillor, with a salarj- of two hundred florins. He
was there in 1516, the year before Martin Luther —
who was sixteen yeai-s younger than Erasmus — began
his effectual work as a reformer by affixing his
ninety-five theses against indulgences to the chui-ch
door at Wittenberg.
A new aetiWty of thought had already been
directed to the Biljle text. In 1502 the movement
had begun in Spain with the Ai'chbishop of Toledo,
the pious Ximenez, not then cardinal. When
Ximenez, a devout Franciscan, became confessor to
Queen Isabella of Spain, the secretary of King
Ferdinand wrote to Ins fi'iend Peter Martyr, '• A
man of great sanctity has come from the depths of a
lonesome solitude ; he is wasted away by his austeri-
ties, and resembles the ancient anchorites, St. Paid*
and St. Hilarion." He liecame Provincial of the
Franciscans in Old and New Castile, and zealously
set about a refonnatiou of the cori-uptions that had
spread among them in Spain as elsewhere. In 1495
Ximenez was made Archbishop of Toledo. In that
office he kept to his Franciscan vows, avoided
pompous robes, and wore onh' the Franciscan habit.
He turned his palace into a quiet monastery, allowed
no silver on his table, no luxury in his rooms, ate
simplest fare, and went on foot from jilace to ])lace,
except upon long journeys, when he used a nuile and
rode without retinue as a simple priest. The Pope
was scandalised at what he heard of this, and bade the
archbishop conform himself to the dignity of his state
of life. He obej-ed, but wore under rich clothes hLs
old Fi'anciscan habit, which he mended himself with
a needle and thread kept for the purpose. One use
made by Ximenez of his archiepiscopal revenues, was
in the founding of a university at Alcala, the ancient
Complutum. The plans were ready in 1498, the foun-
dation-stone of its chief college was laid in 1500, and
in 1508 the university was opened with a full .staff of
professors, many of whom were employed in can-ying
out the design of Ximenez to secure the best attain-
able text of the Scriptures. He said on this subject,
" Xo translation can fully and exactly represent the
sense of the original, at least in that language in
which our Sav-iour himself spoke. The manuscripts
of the Latin Vulgate- differ so much one from another
that one cannot help suspecting some altei-ation must
' Paul, the first hermit, was the son of rich parents in the Lower
Thebaid ; he became an orphan at fifteen, and at twenty-two fled from
persecution to the desert, where he lived in a cave to tiie age of 11.3 ;
dying a.d. :UI. He is said to have lived on dates to the a^e of tifty-
three, and for the rest of his life to have had his daily bread mira-
culously brought him by a raven. It was said also that two lions
dug his grave. Hdarion, bom near Graza about a.d. 291, became a
Christian at Alexandria; went into the desert to seek St. Anthony
(who bixried Paul in the grave dug for him by the lions); then
Hilarion returned to Palestine, and established monasticism in the
deserts there.
2 The Latin version of the Scriptures nsed by the Church of Rome
was called (from the Latin vnhjata, for public use) the Vulgate. It
was chiefly the work of St. Jerome.
83
have been made, piincipaliy though the ignorance
and the negligence of the copyists. It is necessary,
therefore (as St. Jerome and St. Augustine desii-ed),
that we should go back to the oi-igin of the sacred
writings, and correct the books of the Old Testament
by the Hebrew text, and tho.se of the Xew Testament
by the Greek text. Every theologian should also be
able to drink of that water wliich springeth uj> to
eternal life at the fountain-head itself. This is the
reason, therefore, why we have ordered the Bible to be
printed in the original language with different trans-
lations To accomplish this task, we have
been obliged to have recourse to the knowledge of
the most able philologists, and to make researches in
every direction for the Ijest and most ancient Hebrew
and Greek manuscripts. Our object is, to revive the
hitherto dormant study of the sacred Scriptures."
The plan was conceived in 1502 ; the fii-st part of the
work — known, from Complutum, the Latin name of
Alcala, as the Complutensian Polyglot — appeared in
1514. It contained the Xew Testament in the Greek
text and the Vulgate. The following volumes con-
tained the Pentateuch in Hebrew, Chaldee, Greek,
and three Latin translations, and so forth. After
the Pentateuch there was no Chaldee text to give,
and the number of vei-sions given varied necessarily
in different parts of the work. The printing of the
whole in six folios was completed in 1517, four
months before the death of Ximenez in Xovember of
that year.
While this was in progress, Erasmus also was at
work on a rev'ision of the Greek text of the New
Testament, which he published in 1516, with a new
Latin version con-ecting errors of the Vulgate. In
SiE Thomas Moke. (From the Portrait by Holbein.)
the introduction to this, Erasmus said that the Scriph
tures addressed all, adapted themselves rven to the
understandmg of children, and that it were well if
they could be read by all people in all languages ;
UG
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.u. 1500
that none could reasonably be cut off from a blessing
as much meant for all as baptism or tlie sacraments.
The common mechanic is a true theologian when his
hopes look heavenward ; he blesses tliose who curse
him, loves the good, is patient witli the evil, coniforts
the mourner, and sees death only as the passage to
immortal life. If princes practised this religion, if
j)riests taught it instead of their stock erudition out
of Aristotle and Averroes, there would be fewer wars
among the nations of Christendom, less private wi-ath
and litigation, less worshii) of wealth. " Christ,"
added Erasmus, " says, ' He who loves me keeps my
commandments.' If we be true Christians, and really
believe that Christ can give us more than the pliilo-
sojihers and kings can give, we cannot become too
fiimiliar vnth the New Testament."
When Erasmus was thus working and thinking,
he had Thomas More by his side, for More was sent
in 1.516, with Cuthbert Tiuistal, on an embassy to
Brussels, and then lodged under the same roof with
liis friend. It was in this year that he wrote his
" Utopia," which dealt in a spirit closely akin to that
of Erasmus ^vith the ambition of jirinces and the ftdse
notes in man's life as it was then. More, born in
1478, the son of a judge, and himself trained to the
law, hail sliowed a rare vivacity of mind as a boy
placed in tlie household of Cardinal Morton ; he had
been, at twenty, one of the Greek scholars at Oxford,
with an aspiration for the highest purity of life. He
incurred afterwards the displeasure of Henry VII.,
but was iu high ftivour for his wit with Henry VIII.,
though he had no sympathy with the king's appetite
for foreign war. Of his Latin " Utopia" some ac-
count will be given in another volume. Here we
take a few sentences translated from the chapter
on the
RELIGION OF THE UTOPIANS.
Those among thpm who have not received our religion, do
not fright any from it, and use no one ill that goes over to it ;
80 that all the while I was there, one man only was punished
on this occasion. He hcing newly baptized, did, notwith-
standing all that we could say to the contrary, dispute pub-
licly concerning the Cluistian rehgion, with more zeal than
discretion ; and with so much heat, that he not only preferred
our worship to theirs, but condi>mncd all their rites as pro-
fane; and cried out against all that adhered to them, as
impious and sacrilegious persons, who were to be damned to
everlasting burnings. Upon his having frequently preached
in this manner, he was seized, and after trial, he was con-
demned to banishment, not for having disparaged their
religion, but for his in6aming the people to sedition : for
this is one of their most ancient laws, that no man ought to
be punished for his religion. At the first constitution of their
Government, Utopus having understood, that before his
coming among them, the old inhabitants had been engaged
in great quarrels concerning religion, by which they were so
divided among themselves, that he found it an easy thing to
conquer them, since instead of vmiting their forces against
him, everj- different party in religion fought by themselves :
after he had subdued them, he made a law that every man
might be of what religion he pleased, and might endeavour
to draw others to it by the force of argument, and by amicable
and modest ways, but witliont bitterness against those of
other opinions ; that he ought to use no other force but that
of persuasion, and was neither to mi-K with it reproaches nor
■violence ; and such as did otherwise were to be condemned to
banishment or slavery.
In 1-517, on the 31st of October, Martin Luther,
then an Augustiniau monk, and a Professor at the
University of Wittenberg, affixed to a church door
liis ninety-five Theses against Indulgences. John
Tetzel had been trading actively in his town with
the Pope's Indulgences, to raise money for the build-
inw of St. Peter's and a crusade against the Turks.
He had said that when one of his customers dropped
a penny into the box for a soul in purgatory, as soon
as the money chinked in the cliest the soul flew up
to heaven. John Huss (whose name meant "goo.se ")
had said, a hundred years before, when condemned
for liis faith, '' To-day you burn a goose ; a hundred
years hence a swan shall arise whom you will not
be able to burn." That prophesied the advance of
irrepressible thought. Luther was reasoned with
in vain by his .spiritual superiors. The papal legate,
Cajetan, foiled by a firm jjlacing of Scripture above
the Pope when he sought to bring Luther to reason,
said, " I \vill not speak with the beast again ; he
has deep eyes, and Ids head is full of speculation."
It is said by a Romanist biographer, Audin, that
when Luther, in 1.521, was on his way to the Diet
of Worms, where he maintained his cause before
the assembled cardinals, bishops, and princes of
Germany, as the towers of Worms came in sight
he stood vip in his carriage and first chanted his
famous hymn, " Eine feste Burg ist unser Gott"
("A mighty stronghold is our God"), which Audin
calls the " Marseillaise" of the Reformation. Luther,
while combating against the Pope, who had forced
him into an antagonism made violent by fervour of
his zeal, busied himself actively with the work of
giving the Bible in their own tongue to the German
peojjle. Luther's translation of the New Testament
in German appeared in 1523.
In England, WilUam Tyndale, who was of about
Luther's age, stirred V)y Luther's example, was then
imjielled to work on his translation of the New
Testament into English. He was an Oxford graduate
living as tutor in the house of a Gloucestershire
gentleman, when lie translated the " Enchiridion " of
Erasmus, which argued that the Christian warrior is
best armed by the Christian life. Tyndale had also
taken interest in all he heard of Luther, and when
arguing with a Worcestershire clergyman, who showed
himself ill-read in his Latin Bible, said, " If God
spare my life, ere many years I will cause that a
boy that driveth the plough .shall know more of
the Scripture than thou dost." He went to London
in 152.3 ; failed to obtain a place in the household
of Cuthbert Tiinstal, then newly made Bishop of
London, but was received by Humphrey Monmouth,
a rich draper, in whose house part of his translation
of the New Testament was made. Then Tyndale left
England for Hamburg, where he was aided by the
English merchants, and in 1:525 secretly jji-inted
3,000 copies of his translation of the New Testament
into English. A second edition was soon after-
wards printed at Worms, and the first copies of it
A.D. 1530.]
EELIGION.
147
were smuggled into England in March, 1526. As
an example of the English of Tyndale's translation,
for convenience of comparison, I give the same chapter
that has been quoted from \Viclit"s version i : —
Matthew's gospel, chap. vi.
Take hede to youre almes, that ye geve it not in the syght
of men to the intent that ye wolJe be senc off them, or els ye
u. tt no rewarde off j-oure father m heven. Whensoever
ill. 1 fore thou gevest thme ahnes, thou shah not make a
1 1 >uipet to be blowne before the, as the ypocrites do m the
-Mi.igoges and m the stretes, ffor to be preysed oft' men;
\. lily I siiy ■sTito you, they have there rewarde. But when
tlhiudoest thine almes, let not thy lyfte hond knowe what
t!i\ righte hand doth, That thyne almes may be secret, and
;li\ father which seith in secret, shall rewarde the openl}-.
Ami when thou prayest, thou shalt nott be as the ypocrites
Ij ale, for they love to stond and praye in the synagogges and
in corners of the stretes, because they wolde be sene of men ;
vereley I saye vnto you, they have there rewarde. But when
thou prayest, entre into thy chamber, and shutt thy dore to
till-, and praye to thy father which ys in secrete, and thy
father which seith in secret, shal rewarde the openly. But
when ve praye bable not moche, as the gentyls do, for they
thincke that they shalbe herde ffor there moche babh-nges
sake. Bo ye not lyke them there fore, for youre father
knoweth whei-of ye have neade, before ye ax oft' him. After
thys manor there fore praye ye, ourc father which arte in
heven, halowed be thy name ; Let thy kingdom come ; thy
wyll be fulfilled 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 vs ; Leede vs not
into temptacion, but delyvi-e vs ffi'om yvell. Amen. For
and j-ff ye shall forgeve other men there treaspases, youre
father in heven shal also forgeve j'ou. But and ye wj^ll not
forgeve men there trespases, no more shall youre father for-
geve youre treaspases. Moreovi'e when ye faste, be not sad
as the j-procrites are, for the}' disfigure there faces, that hit
myght apere %Tito men that they faste ; verely Y say vnto
you, they have there rewarde. But thou when thou fastest,
annoynto thyne heed, and washe thy face, that it appere
nott ■(Tito men howe that thou fastest, but ■\Tito thy father
which is in secret, and thy father which seith in secret,
shaU rewarde the openly. Gaddre not treasure together
on erth, where rust and mothes corrupte. and where theves
breake thi'ough and steale ; But gaddre yo treasure togedder
in heven, where nether rust nor mothes corrupte, and wher
theves nether break vp, not yet steale. For whearesoever
youre treasure ys, there are youre hertes also. The light
off thy body is thyne eye ; wherfore if thj-ne eye be single,
all thy body ys fidl of hght ; But and if thj-ne eye be
w}-cked, then is aU thy body full of derckncss. 'Where-
fore )-f the light that is in the be derckness, howe greate ys
that derckness ? No man can serve two masters, for other he
shall hate the one, and love the other; or els he shall lene^
the one, and despise the other. Ye can nott serve God and
mammon. Therefore I saye vnto you, be not carefull for
youre l>-fe, what ye shall eate, or what ye shaU drj-ncke ; nor
yet for youre boddy, what rajTiient ye shall weare. Y's not
the Ij-fe more worth then meate, and the boddy more off value
then raj-ment ? Beholde the foiJes of the aier, for they sowe
not, neder reepe, nor )-et cary into the bamos ; and yett youre
hevenly father fedeth them. Are ye not better then they ?
■WTiicho off you though he toke tought therefore coulde put
■ See page 75. ' Lene (Fii-st-EngUsh " leaumn "), recoimiense
one cubit vnto his stature ? And why care ye then for ray-
ment ? Beholde the lyles off the felde, howe thj- growe.
They labour not, nether spj-nn ; And yet for all that I saie
vnto you, that even Solomon in all his royalte was nott arayed
lyke vnto one of these, '\^^le^fore yf God so clothe the
grasse, which ys to daye in the felde, and to morowe shalbe
east into the foumace, shall he not moche more do the same
vnto you, o ye off Ij-tle faj-th ':■ Therfore take no thought,
sajTige, What shall we eate ? or, What shaU we drj-ncke ? or.
Wherewith shall we be clothed ■- Aftre aU these thj-nges
seke the gentyls ; for j-oiu-e hevenly father knoweth that ye
have neade off all these thj-nges. But rather seke ye fyrst
the kjTigdom of heven and the rightewesnes ther of, and aU
these thjTiges shalbe ministred vnto you. Care not therfore
for the daye folojTige, for the daye foloynge shall care ffor
ji. sylfe ; eche dayes trouble ys sufficient for the same silfe
day.
Tyndale in this translation was a follower of
Luther. He incoi-porated in the Prologue to it part
of Luthei-'s preface to his translation of the New
Testament, and gave marginal notes that were some-
times Luther's and sometimes his own. There was
also a consideration of the controversies of the day
in Tyndale's method of translation. Because the
Pope and the higher clergy were regarded as the
Church, and the church in the New Testament
meant the whole body of worshippers, Tyndale
avoided in liis translation the woid " church," and
substituted " congregation." In like mamier he used
the word " knowledge " instead of " confes.sion," and
"repentance" instead of "penance." The consequence
was that some in the Church declared that there
were 3,000 errors in Tjaidale's translation. Contro-
versy ai'ose. Tyndale maintained his cause ^vith
tracts, and More, the ablest man who held by the
old forms of the Church, was licensed by Tunstal
to read the tracts written by Tyndide and others,
and endeavour to refute their arguments. In 1529 a
Dialogue in four books, by Sir Thomas More, dealt
with the questions in dispute, and in 1530 Tjaidale
answered it. A short passage from each of these
works will suffice to show the tenor of the argument.
More wi-ote in one of his chapters : —
"Then are ye," quod I, "also fully answered in this, that
where ye said ye should not believe the church telhng you
a tale of theh own, but only telling you Scripture, ye now
perceive that in such things as we speak of, that is to wit,
necessary points of our faith, if they tell you a tale, which if
it were false were damnable, ye must beheve and may be sure
that, sith the church cannot in such things err, it it very true
aU that the church in such things teUeth you ; and that it is
not their own word, but the word of God, though it be not
in Scripture." " That appeareth weU," quod he. " Then are
ye," quod I, "as fully satisfied that where ye lately said that
it were a disobedience to God, preferring of the church before
himself, if he shall hcheve the church in such things as God
in His Holy Scripture sayeth himself the contrary, ye now
perceive it can in no wise be so. But sith His church, in such
things as we speak of, cannot err, it is impossible that the
Scripture of God can be contrary to the faith of the church.
" That is very true," quod he. " Then it is as true," quod
I, " that ye be further fully answered in the principal point,
that the Scriptures laid against images, and pilgrimages and
worship of saints, make nothing agamst them. And also
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[a.d. 1^26
that those things, images I mean and pilgrimages, and pray-
ing to saints, are things good, and to he had in honour in
Christ's church, sith the church believeth so : -which as ye
grant, and see cause why ye should grant, can in such points
not he suffered, for the special assistance and instruction of
the Holy Ghost, to fall into en-or. And so be we, for this
matter, at last, with much work, come to an end."
Tyndale answered : —
And upon that M. More concludeth his first hook, that
whatsoever the church, that is to wit, the Pope and his brood,
say, it is God's word, though it be not written, nor confirmed
with miracle, nor yet good li\-ing ; yea, and though they say
to-day this, and to-morrow the contraiy, all is good enough
and God's word ; yea, and though one pope condemn another
(nine or ten popes a row) with all theh- works for heretics, as
it is to see in the stories, yet all is right, and none error.
And thus good night and good rest ! Christ is brought asleep,
and laid in his grave ; and the door sealed to ; and the men
of anns about the grave to keep him down with pole-axes.
For that is the surest argument to help at need, and to
be rid of these babbling heretics that so bark at the hoi}'
spiritualty witli the Scripture ; being thereto wretches of no
reputation, neither cardinals, nor bishops, nor yet great bene-
ficed men, yea, and \rithout tot quots and pluralities, having
no hold but the very Scripture, whereunto they cleave as
burs, so fast that they cannot be pulled away save with very
singeing them off.
Ajid even Thomas More came to believe in
burning.
Tyndale's translation of the New Testament was
publicly burnt in tlie autumn of 1.'3 26, and in Decem-
ber of that year appeared in Latin Henry VIII. 's
answer to Luther, who was said, in a preface to the
English version of this answer, which appeared early
in 1527, to have fallen " into device ^^^tll one or two
lewd pei-sons born in tliis our realm for tlie translating
of the New Testament into English, as well with many
corruptions of that holy text, as certain prefaces and
pestilent glosses in the margins, for the advancement
and setting fortli of his aboniinalile heresies." In
1530 Tjnidale finished jirinting at Marburg his trans-
lation of the Pentateuch. In this work he had been
helped by MUes Coverdale, a Yorksliireman, who
hacl been an Austin friar at Caml>ridge, but there
was drawn to tlie opinions of the Chinch Reformers,
and brought into danger that obliged him to escape
to the Continent. At the close of 15.34, the English
clergy in convocation, aided by Thomas Cromwell,
carried a petition to the king for an authorised Bible
in English. On the 22nd of June, 15.35, John
Fisher, then eighty years of age, was beheaded on
Tower Hill ; a fortnight aftenvards, on the 6th of
July, Sir Thomas More was executed. In the fol-
lowing year, 1536, on the 6th of October, William
Tyndale, condemned by the Privy Council of Bnis.sels,
wa,s strangled and burnt at Vilvorde, his la.st words
being, " Lord, open the King of England's eyes ! "
In the same year Tyndale's New Testament was firet
j)rmted in England, and the completed translation of
the whole Bible by Miles Coverdale was admitted
into England In the next year, L537, it was
printed in England. In July of that year appeared
a complete English Bible in folio, formed by revi-
sion of the translations of Tyndale and Coverdale,
and addition of the Apocrypha, by John Rogers,
a Birmingham man, who had been their ally when
thev were at Antwerj) and Rogers was chaplain
to the English merchants there. John Rogers's
was known as ISIatthew's Bible, because Thomas
3Iatthew was the name upon its title page. Thomas
Cromwell, who was then in search of a vereion that
could be authoiised, sent Coverdale to Paris, where
he was to superintend the finishing of the Bible
known as Cromwell's ; and, at the same time, Crom-
well employed Richard Taverner, an Oxford Re-
former, then at court, on the printing of a revision
of Rogers's (or Matthew's) Bible. In 1539 there
appeared the results of both these endeavours in
Taverner's Bible, and that known as Cromwell's (or
the Great) Bible. These were followed in 1540 by
the re-i-ision planned by Cranmer, then Archbishop
of Canterbury, and based on direct collation with
the Hebrew and Greek texts. This Bible, to which
Cranmer wrote a Prologue, at last satisfied the re-
quirements of the time, was authorised, and continued
for twenty-eight yeare to be read in churches.
In the same year, 1540, Clement Marot had pre-
sented to Charles V., then a -v-isitor to Francis I., in
Paris, the thirty Psalms which he had by that time
translated into French verse, and dedicated to King
Fi-ancis. The dedication was followed by a metrical
address to the ladies of France, in which Marot asked,
'■ When yfiW the Golden Time come wherein God
alone is adored, praised, sung as He ordains, and His
glory shall not be given to another 'i " He exhorted
the ladies of France to banish unclean songs from
their lips. " Here," he said, " is matter without
ofl'ence to sing. But no songs please you that are
not of Love. Certes, they are of nothing else but
Love ; Love itself, by Supreme Wisdom, was their
composer, and vain man was the transcriber only.
That Love gave you language nnd voices for your
notes of praise. It is a Love that will not torment
your hearts, but fill your whole souls with the plea-
sure angels share. For His Spirit will come into
your hearts, and stir your lips, and guide your fingers
on the spinet towards holy strains. O hapjiy he who
shall see the blossoming of that time when the rustic
at his plough, the driver in the street, the workman
in his shop, solaces labour with the praise of God !
Shall that time come sooner to them than to you ?
Begin, Ladies, begin ! Help on the Golden Age, and
singing with gentle hearts these sacred strains, ex-
change the everchanging God of Foolish Love, for the
God of a Love that will not change." Marot 's wish
was in part fulfilled, for it became a fashion at the
French court to sing psalms of his translating set to
lively tunes. Ten thousand copies of Marot's thirty
Psalms in French were sold soon after they were
printed. Music, -m-itten for them by Guillaunie
Franc, was afterwards printed with them. Marot's
thirty Psalms, to which twenty were added, even
Calvin adopted and published, with a preface of his
own, for use at Geneva. They became the basis of
the Psalter of the French Protestant Church, which
was completed by Theodore Beza. At the English
com-t the Earl of Sun-ey then wrote paraphrases in
verse of the 8th, 55th,' 73rd, and 8Sth Psalms, as
well as of the first five chaptere of Ecclesiastes ; Sir
TO A.D. 1£41.]
EELIGION.
149
Thomas Wyat versified the Penitential Psalms, the
6th, 32nd, 38th. olst. 102nd. 130th. and 143rd, with
a Prologue and comiecting stanzas of his owTi. Of
the Psalms put into music by Surrey only the 8th was
in Marot's collection : but of those chosen bj^ Wyat,
all except the 102nd are amonj; the fifty that were
cli'>sen by 3Iarot. Another English versifier of the
Psalms at Henry VIII.'s court was Thomas Stern-
liold, groom of the Piobes to his Majesty. It was
>tirnhold's expressed desire to do in England with
tlif Psalms what had been done by Marot in France,
•■thinking thereby that the courtiers would sing
tli. in instead of their sonnets ; but did not, some few
• xcepted." Sternhold. who died in 1549, published
lu 1-548, " Certapie Psalms," nineteen in number.
After his death next year there appeared immediately
• ^Ul such Psalms of David as Thomas Sternhold,
l;(t(;' grome of the King's !Majestyes Robes, did in his
Ivte time drawe into Englysshe metre." This con-
tained thirty-seven Psalms by Sternliold, with seven
liv John Hopkins, a Suffolk clergyman and school-
master. Hopkins, ^\"ith help of others, laboured on
until thei-e was produced a complete metrical setting
< if the Psalms in English for congregational singing.
It appeared in 1.562, was in the same year adopted
fnr use in the Church of England, and appended to
the Book of Common Prayer. One of the " apt
tunes," pro^-ided for the 100th P.salm, and known to
us now as the Old Hundredth, was a tune that had
liii-n provided by Goudimel and Lejeune for the
French version of tlie Psalms by Clement Marot.
This is one of the Psalms paraphrased by the Earl
of Surrey : —
PROEM.
WTiere reckless youth in an unquiet breast.
Set on by wratb, revenge and cruelty,
After long war patience had oppressed,
And justice, wrought by princely equity :
My Denny then, mine error deep imprest.
Began to work despair of liberty ;
Had not David, the perfect wan'ior taught,
That of my fault thus pardon should be sought.
PSALM LXXXVIII.
O Lord 1 upon whose will dependeth my welfare,
To call upon thy holy name, since day nor night I spare.
Grant that the just request of this repentant mind
So pierce thine ears, that in thy sight some favour it may
find.
My soul is fraughted full with grief of follies past ;
My restless body doth consume, and death approacheth fast ;
Like them whose fatal thi-ead, thy hand hath cut in twain ;
Of whom there is no fm-ther bruit, which in their graves
remain.
O Lord ! thou hast me cast headlong, to please my foe.
Into a pit all bottomless, whereas I plain my woe.
The burden of thy wrath it doth me sore oppress :
And sundry storms thou hast me sent of terror and
distress.
The faithful friends are fled and banished from my sight :
And such as I have held full dear, have set my friendship
light.
My durance doth persuade of freedom such despair.
That by the tears that bain ' my breast mine eyesight doth
appair."
Yet do I never cease thine aid for to desire,
With humble heart ;ind stretched hands, for to appease
thine ire.
Wherefore dost thou foibear in the defence of thine,
To show such tokens of thy power in sight of Adam's line
MTiereby each feeble heart with faith might so be fed.
That in the mouth of thy elect thy mercies might be
spread ?
The flesh that feedeth woims cannot thy love declare ;
Nor such set forth thy praise as dwell in the land of
despair.
In blind indured^ hearts light of thy lively name
Cannot appear, nor cannot judge the brightness of the
same.
Nor blazed may thy name be by the mouths of those
Whom death hath shut in silence, so as they may not
disclose.
The lively voice of them that in thy Word delight.
Must be the trump that must resound the glory of thy
might;
Wherefore I shall not cease, in chief of my distress
To call on Thee, till that the sleep my wearied limbs
oppress.
And in the morning c kc when that the sleep is fled.
With floods of salt repentant tears to wash my restless
bed.
Within this careful mind, burdened with care and grief.
Why dost thou not ajipcar, Lord I that shouldst be his
relief ?
My ^vretched state behold, whom death shall straight
assail :
Of one, from youth afflicted stiU, that never did but wail.
The dread, lo '. of thine ire hath trod me wader feet :
The scourges of thine angry hand hath made death seem
full sweet.
Like as the roai-ing waves the sunken ship surround.
Great heaps of care did swallow me, and I no succour
found :
For they whom no mischaace could from my love divide.
Are forced, for my greater grief, fi-om me their face to
hide.
This is, with its Introduction, one of the Psahns
paraphrased by Sir Thomas Wyat: the Introduc-
tion is in the" Italian octave rhyme, established by
Boccaccio, the P.salm itself is in terza rima, the
measure of Dante's Divine Comedy : —
THE AUTHOR.
When David had perceived in his breast
The Spirit of God retm-n, th.at was cxil'd ;
Because he knew he hath alone expressed
These great things that the greater Spirit compil'd ;
1 Bain, bathe.
2 Appair^ impair.
3 Indiirei, liardeued.
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As shawm or pipe lets out the sound impress'd
By musie's art forged tofore, and til'd :
I Kiy, when Da\-id had perceived this.
The sp'rit of comfort in him revived is.
For thereupon he maketh argimient
(_)f reconciling, unto the Lord's grace ;
Although sometime to prophecy have lent
Both brute heastes. and wicked hearts a place.
But our David judgeth in his intent
Himself by penance clean out of this case;
Whereby he hath remission of offence.
And ginn'th t' allow his pain ;ind penitence.
But when he weight'h the fault and recomp'^nse,
Ho damneth his deed : and tindeth plain
Atwoen them two no whit equivalence,
^Vhereby he takes all outward deed in vain,
To bear the name of i-ightful penitence :
^\^lich is alone the heart retiu-ned again
And sore contrite, that doth his fault bemoan ;
And outward deed the sign or fruit .ilone.
With this he doth defend the sly assault
Of vain allowance of his void desert.
And all the glori- of his forgiven fault,
To God alone he doth it whole convert ;
His own merit he findeth in default :
And whilst he ponder'd these things in his heart,
His knee his arm, his hand sustained his chin.
When he his song again thus did begin.
PS.^.LM CX.X.X.
From depth of sin, .and from a deep despair,
From depth of death, from dejith of heart's sorrow.
From this deep cave of darkness deep repair,
Thee have I called. () Lord ! to be my boiTow.
Thou in my voice, Lord '. pirceive and hear
My heart, my hope, my plaint, my overthrow.
My wiU to rise ; and let, by grant, appear
That to my voice thine cars do well entend.
No place so far that to Thee is not near.
No depth so deep th.at thou ne may'st e.xtend
Thine ear thereto ; hear then my woeful plaint.
For, Lord, if thou do observe what men offend,
And put thy native mercy in restraint :
If just exaction demand recompence.
Who may endure, < I Lord ! who shall not faint
At such accompt ? dread, and not reverenci-
Should so reign large : but thou seeks rather love ;
For in thy hand is Jlercy's residence.
By hope whereof Thou dost our heartcs move.
I in the Lord have set my confidence :
5Iy soul such trust doth evermore approve.
Thy Holy Word of eteme excellence.
Thy mercy's promise that is alway just.
Have been my stay, my pillar, and pretence.
My soul in God hath more desirous trust.
Than hath the watchman looking for the day,
By the relief to quench of sleep the thrust.
Let Israel trust imto the Lord alway ;
For grace and favour are liis property :
Plenteous ransom shall come with him I say,
And shall redeem all our iniquity.
Hdgh Latimer. (From a Portrait prefixed to fiis Sermons. 1635.)
Ill the year of the executions of John Fisher
and Sir Thomas More (1535), Hugh Latimer, then
about forty-five years old, was made Bishop of Wor-
cester in place of a non-resident Italian who was
deprived of the office. Hugh Latimer, son of a
small farmer at Thureaston, in Leicestershire, had
graduated at Cambridge, and attacked opinions of
the Reformei-s in his oration made on taking his
B.D. degi-ee. Thomas BUiiey, who was burnt for
his Reformed opinions in 1531, heard Latimer speak,
went afterwards to his room, and talked over with
him privately the matter of his oration. The result
was tliat Latimer's opinions greatly changed. As
he opposed the Pope at a time when Henry VIII.
had broken with Rome, Latimer was introduced to
the king in 1530 by his jjliysician. Dr. Butts,
preached before him, and became his chaplain. In
1531 the king gave him a rectory in Wiltshire, at
West Kington. Here liis plain speaking as a
preacher brought Latimer into difficulty. He was
accused of heresy, excommunicated, and imprisoned,
but the king protected him, and next year also his
friend Cranmer became archbishop ; so that in 1535
Latimer became, as has been said. Bishop of Wor-
cester. He held that office only until 153y, wlien
tlie king dictated to Parliament, and imposed as
domestic Pope upon the English people, an '■ Act
Abolishing Diversity of Opinions." It required all
men, under severe penalties, to adopt the king's
opinions — which were those of the Church of Rome —
upon six questions then in dispute : transubstantia-
tion, the confessional, vows of chastity, private
masses, denial of the cup to the people at commu-
nion, and celibacy of priests. Hugh Latimer, wlio
TO A.u. 154;'.
RELIGION.
15]
could not I'etaiii his bishopric by a compliance with
this act, resigned, and was silenced for the rest of
Henry's reign. Wlien the king died, Latimer was
still a prisoner in the Tower, and in danger of his life.
Tlien came, at the end of January, 1.547, Edward VI.
:o the throne. He was but ten years old, and was
to come of age at eighteen. During those eight
yeai-s — wJiich he did not live to complete, for he
died in his sixteenth year — Cranmer was among
the sixteen executors to whom regal power was
entrusted, and his maternal uncle, the Earl of Hert-
ford, created Duke of Somerset — hithei-to a secret
iiiend, and now an open friend of the Reformers —
b(;came Lord Protector.
Edward VI. (From t/ie Portrait bj Holhein.)
Tliere was thus a stidden change of the force of
authority in the direction to which the Reformers
pointed. Latimer, released from the Tower, preached
at Paul's Cross on the 1st of January, 1.548. The
Parliament proposed to reinstate him in his bishopric,
but he preferred to remain free, and speak his heart
on all that concerned the religious life of England
and of Englishmen, with his own homely directness
that went straight to its mai'k. In January, 1.549,
he preached in the Shrouds,' at St. Paul's, his ser-
mon on the Plotighers, by which he meant the clergy
bound to labour in the field of God. He insisted
much on faithful preaching, and in this characteristic
passage warned hi.s hearers who was
THE BUSIEST PRELATE IN ENGLAND.
Well, I would all men would look to their duty, as God
hath called them, and then -we should have a flourishing
Christian Commonweal. And now I would ask a strange
question. Who is the most diligentest hishop and prelate in
^ Tlie Shrouds were covered places by the side of old St. Paul's
■which might be used by the preacher aud audiences at Paul's Cross
in case of bad weather. The name was friven also to the old church
of St. Faith, in the crypt under the cathedral, when that was chosen
as the place of shelter.
all England, aud passeth all the rest in doing his office ? I can
tell, for I know him who he is : I know him well. But now
methinks I see you listening and hearkening, that I should
name him. There is one that passeth aU the other, and is
the most diligent prelate and preacher in all England. And
will ye know who it is;' I will tell you. It is the devil.
He is the most diligent preacher of all other. He is never
out of his diocese, he is never from his cure ; ye shall never
find him unoccupied, he is ever in his parish ; he keepeth
residence at all times, ye shall never find him out of the way;
call for him when ye will, he is ever at home; the dili-
gentc-st preacher in all the realm, he is ever at his plough ;
no lording nor loitering may hinder him, he is ever applying
his business; ye .shall never tind him idle, I warrant you.
And his office is to hinder religion, to maintain superstition,
to set up idolatry, to teach all kind of popery. He is as
ready as he can be wished for to set forth his plough, to de-vise
as many ways as can be to deface and obscure God's glory.
Where the devil is resident, and hath his plough going, there
awav with books, and up with candles ; away with Bibles,
and up with beads ; away with the light of the Gospel, and
up with the light of candles, yea at noon days. Where the
devil is resident, that he may prevail, up with all supersti-
tion and idolatiy, censing, painting of images, candles, palms,
ashes, holy water, and new service of men's inventing, as
though man could invent a better way to honour God with
than God himself hath appointed. Down with Clunst's cross,
up with Purgatory pickpurse — up with Popish Purgatory, I
mean. Away with clothing the naked, the poor and im-
jjotent, up with decking of images, and gay garnishing of
stocks and stones; up with man's traditions and his laws,
down with God's will and His most holy Word, Down with
the old honour due unto God, and up with the new god's
honour. Let all things be done in Latin, There must be
nothing but Latin, not so much as Memento lioiiio qtmd ciiiis
cs, ct in clntyein irvcrferU — " Remember, man, that thou art
ashes, and into ashes thou shalt retm-n." \Miat be the words
that the minister speaketh to the ignorant people, when he
giveth them ashes upon Ash- Wednesday, but they must he
spoken in Latin Y And in no wise they must be translated
into English, Oh, that our prelates would be as diligent to
sow the corn of good doctiine, as Satan is to sow cockle
and darnel. And this is the de\'ilish ploughing, the which
worketh to have things in Latin, and hindereth the fruitful
edification. But here some man wiU say to me, " What, sir,
are ye so privj- to the devil's council, that ye know all this
to be true i" Truly, I know him too well, and have obeyed
him a little too much, in condescending to some follies ; and
I know him, as other men do, that he is ever occupied, and
ever busied in following the plough, I know him by St.
Peter's words, which saith of him, Sicut ho rugiens circuit
qiiarens fjm,ii dicont — " He goeth about like a roaring lion,
seeking whom he may devour," I would have this te.xt well
viewed, and examined every word of it, Circmt, he gooth
about every coi'ner of his diocese ; he goeth on visitation
daily, and ieaveth no place of his cure imvisited ; he waUceth
roimd about from place to place, and ceaseth not. Siciit ho,
as a lion— that is, strongly, boldly, fiercely, and proudly,
with haughty looks, with a proud countenance, and stately
braggings, Rnrilms, roaring, for ho letteth not slip any
occasion to speak or to roar out when he seeth his time.
Qiuerens, he goeth about seeking, and not sleei)ing, as our
bishops do, but he seeketh diligently— he searcheth diligently
all comers, where as he may have his prey. He roveth
abroad in every place of his diocese— he standeth not still, he
is never at rest, but ever in hand with his plough that it may
go forward.
152
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[i.D. 1549
Latimer was a Lent iireacher before the king in
1518 and 1549, preaching from a i)ulpit built m the
king's [irivate garden at Westminster, with many
statesmen, courtiers, and people gathered about him.
The king listened at an open window near the
preacher, and the princess Eliziilieth, then fifteen or
sixteen years old, was among his hearers.'
As the next passages will serve to show, Latiiner
vent straight to his point in plain idiomatic English :
A REQUEST TO THE LORD PROTECTOR.
" When all Israol hcanl of this jud^ient [the Judgment of
Solomon] thoy feared the king." It is wisdom and godly
knowledge that causeth a king to be feared. One word note
here, for God's sake, and I will trouble you no longer.
Would Salomon, being so noble a king, hear two poor
to satisfy this place. I am no sooner in the garden and have
read awhile, but by-and-by eometh there some or other
knocking at the gate. Anon eometh my man and saith,
" Sir, there is one at the gate would speak with you." AVhen
I come there, then it is some one or other that desireth-me
that I wiU speak that his mutter might be heard, and that he
hath lain thus long at great cost and charges, and cannot
once have his matter come to the hearing. But among all
other, one specially moved me at this time to speak. This
it is, sir : —
A gentlewoman came to me and told me, that a great man
keepeth certain lands of hers from her, and will be her tenant
in the spite of her teeth. And that in a whole twelvemonth
she could get but one day for the hearing of her matter,
and the same day when the matter should be heard, the great
man brought on his side a great sight of lawyers for his
counsel : the gentlewoman had but one man of law ; and the
Latiseb Preaching before Edward VI. (From a Wooicut in Fox's " Mart ijrs") (1563).
women t They were poor, for, as the Scripture saith, they
were together alone in a house, they had not so much as one
servant between them both. Would King Salomon, I say,
hear them in his own person ■■ Yea, forsooth. And yet I
hear of many matters before my Lord Protector, and my
Lord Chancellor, that cannot be heard. I must desire my
Lord Protector's grace to hear mo in this matter, that j'our
Grace would hear poor men's suits youi'self. Put them to
none other to hear, let them not be delayed. The saying
is now, that Honey is heard ever\-where ; if he be rich, he
shall soon have an end of his matter.
Other are fain to go home with weeping tears, for any
help they can obtain at any judge's hand. Hear men's suits
yourself, I require you in God's behalf, and put it not to the
healing of these velvet coats, these upskips. Now a man
can scarce know them from an ancient knight of the country.
I cannot go to my book, for poor folks come unto me, de-
siring me that I will speak that their matters may be heard.
I trouble my Lord of Canterbury, and being at his house,
now and then I walk in the garden looking in my book, as I
can do but little good at it ; but something I must needs do
' PoY, in the picture here copied, places her on the front steps of
the pulpit.
great man shakes him so, that lie cannot tell what to do.
So that when the matter came to the point, the judge was a
mean to the gentlewoman that she would let the great man
have a quietness in her land. I beseech your Grace that ye
wiU look to these matters ; hear them yourself. View your
judges, and hear poor men's causes.
CORRUPT PATRONACE OF LIVINGS.
If the great men in Turkey should use in their religion of
Mahomet to sell, as our patrons commonly sell benefices here
(the office of preaching, the office of sah'ation), it would be
taken as an intolerable thing, the Turk would not suffer it in
his commonwealth. Patrons, be chai'ged to see the office
done, and not to seek a lucre and a gain by their patron-
ship. There was a patron in England (when it was) that
had a benetice fallen into his hand, and a good brother of
mine came unto him, and brought him thirty apples in a
dish, and gave them to his man to cany them to his master ;
it is like he gave one to his man for his labour, to make up
the game, and so there was thirty-one. This man eometh to
his master and presenteth him with a dish of apples, saying,
" Sir, such a man hath sent you a dish of fruit, and desireth
you to be good unto him for such a benefice." " Tush, tn.sh ! "
TO A.D. 1550.]
RELIGION.
153
quoth hf, '" this is no ;ipplo matter, I will none of his apples.
1 h;ive as good as these (or as he hath any) in mine own
orihai'd." The man came to the ijriest again, and told him
^^-hat his master said. ''Then," quoth the priest, ''desire him
\''_t to prove one of them for my sake, he shall find them
much better than they look for." He cut one of them, and
tV)imd ten pieces of gold in it. " Marr)'! " quoth he, "this is
a good apple." The priest standing not far oS, hearing what
the gentleman said, cried out and answered, "They arc all
one fruit, I warrant you, sii- ; they grew all on one tree, and
liiive aU one taste." '• Well, ho is a good fellow, let him
liave it," said the patron, &c. " Get you a graft of this
tree, and I warrant y.ou it will stand you in bettor stead
than all St. Paul's learning."
NEGLECT OF PREACHING.
I would our preachers woidd preach, sitting or standing,
■ ne way or other. It was a goodly inilpit that our Saviour
( hrist had gotten Him here. An old rotten boat, and yet He
preached His Father's will, His Father's message out of this
[lulpit. He cared not for the pulpit, so He might do the
pi-ople good. Indeed, it is to be commended for the preacher
t" .stand or sit, as the place is; but I would not have it so
^uperstitiously esteemed, but that a good preacher may
tb rlare the Word of God sitting on a horse, or preaching in
I tree. And yet, if this should he done, the unpreaehing
prelates would laugh it to scorn. And though it be good to
h ive the pidpit set up in churches, that the people might
1 >ort thither, yet I would not have it so superstitiously used,
lilt that in a profane place the AVord of God might be
preached sometimes ; and I would not have the people offended
withal, no more than they be with our Sa\-iour Christ's
preaching out of a boat. And yet to have pulpits in
rhurches it is very weU. done to have them ; but they would
1" occupied, for it is a vain thing to have them as they
-I md in many churches.
I heard of a bishop of England that went on \-isitation,
•.i'\ (as it was the custom) when the bishop should come and
rung into the town, the great bell's clapper was fallen
ib.iwn, the tyaU was broken, so that the bishop could not be
rung into the town. There was a great matter made of this,
ind the chief of the parish was much blamed for it in the
^ isitation. The bishop was somewhat quick with them, and
signiiied that he was much offended. They made their
answers and e.xcusfd themselves as well as they could. " It
was a chance,'' .said they, "that the clapper brake, and we
f ould not get it menilod by-and-by ; we must tarry till we can have
it done. It shall bo mended as shortly as may be." Among
the other, there was one wiser than the rest, and he comes to
the bishop, " Why. my lord," saith he, •' doth your lordship
make so great a matter of the bell that laeketh his clapper ?
Here is a bell," saith he, and pointed to the pidpit, " that hath
1 icked a clapper this twenty years. We have a parson that
t'tcheth out of hi.s benefice fifty pounds every year, but we
ni'ver see him." I warrant you the bi.shop was an unpreaeh-
ing prelate. Ho could find fault with the bell that wanted a
flapper to ring him into the town, but he could not find any
. faidt with the parson that preached not at his benefice. Ever
I this office of preaching hath been least regarded, it hath scant
' had the name of God's service. They must sing A'n/w fe»f<r
dies about the church, that no man was the better for it, but
to show their gay coats and garments.
I came once myself to a place, riding on a journey home-
ward from London, and I sent word over night into the
town that I would preach there in the morning, because it
( was holiday, andmethought it was an holiday's work. The
church stood in my way, and I took my horse and my com-
pany, and went thither (I thought I should have found a
great company in the church), and when I came there, the
chm-ch door was fast locked. I tarried there half an hour
and more. At last the key was found, and one of the parish
comes to me, and said, "Sir, this is a busy day with us; we
cannot hear you; it is Robin Hood's day. The parish are
gone abroad to gather for Robin Hood, I pray you let ' them
not." I was fain there to give place to Robin Hood. I
thought my rochet should have been regarded though I
were not : but it would not serve, it was fain to give place
to Robin Hood's men.
It is no laughing matter, my friends ; it is a weeping
matter, a heavy matter, a heavy matter, under the pretence
for gathering for Kobin Hood, a traitor and a thief, to put
out a preacher, to have his ofSee less esteemed, to prefer
Robin Hood before the ministration of God's Word ; and all
this hath come of unpreaehing prelates. This realm hath
been ill prorided for, that it hath had such corrupt judgments
in it, to prefer Robin Hood to God's Word. If the bishops
had been preachers, there should never have been any suc'h
thing, but we have a good hope of better. We have had a
good beginning ; I beseech God to continue it. But I tell
you, it is far wide, that the people have such judgments.
The bishops they could laugh at it. What was that to them ':
They would have them to continue in their ignorance still,
and themselves in unpreaehing prelacy.
The last of the .sermons so preached, wliich
Latimer called his Ultimiim Vale (Last Farewell)
to the Court, was more than three hovrrs long,
vigorous, discursive, and rich in illustration of the
directness of speech that made his preaching effectual,
and at the same time laid it open, in its own day, to
much critical exception from his adversaries. The
substance of the sermon is here given, without the
digressions : —
COVETOUSNESS.
From Latimer's '■•Ultimum Kale," the last Sermon before King
Edward. Preached in 1550.
Videte et cavete ab avaritia. Take heed and beware of covetousiiess :
take heed and beieare of couetoiisness : take heed and beu:are of covet-
ousness : Take heed and beware of covetousness.
And what and if I should say nothing else, these three or
four hours (for I know it will be so long, in ease I he not
commanded to the contrary) but these words : " Take heed
and beware of Covetousness." It would be thought a strange
sermon before a king, to say nothing else but C'nvcte ab
Avarifiii—" Beware of Covetousness." And yet as strange as
it is, it would be like the sermon of Jonas that he preached to
the Nini^-ites, as touching the shortness, and as touching the
paucity or fewness of the words. For his sei-mon was. Ad-
hue qiiadr(i(ii)ita dies, et Xineve siibvertetiir — " There is yet forty
diiys to come, and Ninivy shall be destroyed." Thus he
walked from street to street, and from place to place round
about the city, and said nothing else but, " There is yet forty
days," quoth he, " and Ninivy shall be destroyed." There is
no great odds nor difference, at least wise, in the number of
words, no nor yet in the sense or meaning between these two
sermons. This is, " "i'et forty days, and Ninivj- shall be de-
stroyed;" and these words that I have taken to speak of this
day, " Take heed and beware of covetousness." For ]S'ini%-y
should be destroved for sin, and of their sins covetousness
I Let, hinder.
84
154
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[a.D. litLl
was one, and one of the gieatcst, so that it is all one in
effect. And as they be like concerning the shortness, the
paucity of the words, the brevity of words, and also the
mc■anin^' and purpose, so I would they might be like in
iTuit and profit. For what came of Jonas' sermon ? What
was t}i<; fruit of it? yl'l piieditiitionem Jomt crallihrimt
Dto-" At the preaching of .loniis they believed in God."
Here was a great fruit, a great effect wrought. What is
the siiiiie :- They U-lievcd in God. They believed God's
preacher, (iod's officer, God's minister Jonas, and were con-
verted from their sin. They believed that (as the preacher
said) if they did not repent and amend their life, the city
.should be destroyed within forty days. This was a great
fruit : for Jonas was but one man, and he preached but one
sermon ; and it was but a short sermon neither, as touching
the number of words ; and yet he turned all the whole city,
great and small, rich and poor, king and all. We be many
preachers here in England, and we preach many long
sermons, yet the people will not repent nor convert. This
was the fruit, the effect, and the good that his sermon did,
that all the whole city at his preaching converted, and
amended their evil loose living, and did penance in sackcloth.
And yet here in this sermon of Jonas is no great eurious-
ncss, no grejit derkliness, no great affectation of words, nor
painted eloquence ; it was none other but, Adhuc quadrng'inla
dm,et yinive sitbvertctiir — "Yet forty d;iy3," ymiee sitbccr-
tetiir, "and Xinivy .shall be destroyed :" it was no more. This
was no great curious seniion ; but this was a nijijiing sermon,
a pinching sermon, a biting sermon ; it had a full bite, it was
a nipping sei-mon, a rough sermon, and a shai-j) biting sermon.
Do you not hero man-el that these Xinivites cast not Jonas
in pri.son, that they did not revile him, nor rebuke him ';■
They did not revile him nor rebuke him, but God gave them
grace to hear him, and to convert and amend at his preaching.
A .strange matter, .so noble a city to give place to one man's
sermon. Xow England cannot abide this gear, they cannot
be content to hear God's minister, and his threatening for
their .sins, though the sta-mon be never so good, though it
be never so true. It is a naughty fellow, a seditious fellow,
he maketh trouble and rebellion in the realm, he lacketh
discretion. But the Xinivitcs rebuked not Jonas that he
lacked discretion, or that he .spake out of time, that his
sermon was out of season made ; but in England, if Gods
preacher, God's minister be any thing quick, or do speak
sharply, then he is a foolish fellow, he is rash, he lacketh dis-
cretion. Xow-a-days if they cannot reprove the doctrine that
is preached, then they will reprove the preacher, that " he
lacketh due con.sidenition of the times," and that " he is of
learning sufficient but he wanteth discretion. What a time
is this picked out to preach such things ? he should have a
respect and a regard to the time, and to the state of things,
and of the common weal." It rejoiceth me sometimes, when
my friend Cometh and telleth me that they find fault with
my indiscretion, for by likelihood, think I, the doctrine is
true ; for if they could find fault with the doctrine, they
would not charge me with the lack of discretion, but they
would charge me with my doctrine, and not with the lack of
discretion, or with the inconvenience of the time.
I will now ask you a question, I pray you when should
Jonas have preached again.st the covetousness of Xinivj', if the
covetous men should have appointed him his time ? I know
that preachers ought to have a discretion in their preaching,
and that they ought to have a consideration and respect to
the place and to the time that he preaches in, as I myself will
say here that I would not say in the coimtry for no good.
But what then Y sin mu.st be rebuked, sin must be plainly
spoken against. And when should Jonas have preached
against Xinivy, if he should have forborne for the respec-ts of
the times, or the place, or the state of things there :- For
what was Xinivy •- A noble, a rich, and a -wealthy city.
What is London to Xinivy :- Like a \nllage, as Islington, or
such another, in comparison of London. Such a city w-a-
Xinivy ; it was three days' journey to go through ever>
street of it, and to go hut from street to street. There w-a-
noblemen, rich men, wealthy men; there -nas -vicious mm
and covetous men, and men that gave themselves to all
voluptuous living, and to worldliness of getting riches. Was
this a time -Bell chosen and discreetly taken of Jonas to coim-
and reprove them of their sin, to declare unto them tb'
threatenings of God, and to tell them of their covetousno-.
and to .say plainly unto them, that except they repented and
amended their evil li\-ing, they and their city .should be
destroyed at God's hand -within forty days ? And yet they
heard Jonas, and gave jdace to his preaching. They heard
the threatenings of God, and feared His stroke and vengcan".
and believed God— that is, they believed God's preachers .-ir^l
minister; they believed that God would be true of His word
that he spake by the mouth of his prophet, and thereupon rlirl
penance to turn away the wrath of God from them. Wi 11.
what shall we say 'r I shall say this, and not spare Christ s
faith, Xini^-y shall arise against the Jews at the last day, and
bear witness against them, because that they, hearing God's
threatenings for sin. Ad prcedicat'ujniiii JoiuE in chiere ct .fw
cijiruiit posuiuutiam, " they did penance at the preaching oi
Jonas in ashes and sackcloth" (as the te.xt saith there) ; and I
say Xinivy shall arise against England — thou, England —
Xinivy shall arise against England, because it -will not
believe God, nor hear his preachers that cry d.-iily unto them,
nor amend their lives, and especially their covetousnis-.
Covetousness is as great a sin now as it was then, and it i-
the same sin now as it was then. And He will as sure strike
for sin now as He did then. But ah. good God, that would
give thee a time of repentance after His threatening 1 . . .
But how long time hast thou, England — thou,
England? I cannot tell, foi God hath not revealed it unto
me ; if He hiid, so God help me, I would tell you of it. I
would not be afraid, nor spare to tell it you, for the good
will I hear you : liut X cannot tell how long time ye have, for
God hath not opened it unto me. But I can tell you that this
lenity, this long-forbearing and holding of His hand, pro-
voketh us to repent and amend. And I can tell that whosfi-
ever contemneth this riches and treasure of God's goodness,
of His mercy. His patience and long-suffering, shall have th^-
more grievous condemnation. This I can tell well enough.
Paul telleth me this. And I can tell that ye have time to
repent as long as you Uve here in this -world, but after this
life I ran make no waiTant of any further time to repent.
Therefore, rc])ent and amend whUe ye be here ; for when
ye arc gone hence ye are pa.st that. But how long that
shall be, whether to-morrow, or next day, or twenty years, or
how long I cannot tell. But, in the meantime, ye h.-tvi-
many Jonases to t(-ll you of your faults, and to declare unto
you God's threatenings, except you repent and amend ; there-
fore, to retui-n to my matter, I say as I said at the beginning,
Vidctc it (ante ah arar'Uia. Videte ; see it. First sec it, and
then amend it. For I promise you. great complaints there
is of it, and much crying out, and much preaching, but no
amendment that I see. But eatetc ah acaritia — " Beware of
covetousness." And why of covetousness? Qiiln radix i^t
oimiiiim malorum araritia ct eapiditas — " For covetousness is
the root of all e\-il and mischief."
This saj-ing of Paul took me away from the gospel that
is read in the chunh this day; it took me from the
epistle, that I would jireach upon neither of them both at
TO A.D. 1550,]
EELIGIOK
155
this time. I cannot tell what aili/il nv. imt to tell you
my imperfection. 'When I was appointed to preach here, I
was new come out of a sickness whereof I looked to have
died, and weak I was. Yet, nevertheless, when I was ap-
pointed unto it, I took it upon me, albeit I repented after-
wards th.at I had done. I was displeased with myself ; I was
testy, as Jonas was when he should go preach to the
Nini\-ites. "Well, I looked on the gospel that is read this day,
but it liked me not ; I looked on the epistle : tush I I could
not away with that neither. And yet, I remember I had
preached upon this epistle once before King Henry the Eighth ;
but now I could not frame \s-ith it, nor it liked me not in no
sauce. Well, this saying of Paul came in my mind, and at
last I considered and weighed the matter deeply, and then
thought I thus with myself ; "Is covetousness the root of all
mischief and of all e\-il 'r Then have at the root, and down
■with all covetousness."
So this place of Paid brought me to this text of Luke : '• See,
and beware of covetousness." Therefore, you preachers, out
with your swords and stiike at the root ; speak against
covetousness, and crj- out upon it. Stand not ticking and
toj-ing at the branches, nor at the boughs 'for then there will
new boughs and branches spring again of them), but strike
at the root, and fear not these giants of England, these
great men, and men of power, these men that are oppressors
of the poor. Fear them not. but strike at the root of all
e\"il, which is mischievous covetousness
See and beware of covetousness, for covetousness is the
cause of rebellion. Well, now, if covetousness be the cause
of rebellion, then preaching against covetousness is not the
cause of rebellion. Some say that the preaching now-a-days
is the cause of all sedition and rebellion, for since this new
preaching has come in, there hath been much sedition ; and
therefore, it must needs be that the preaching is the cause of
rebellion here in England. Forsooth, our preaching is the
cause of rebellion much like as Christ was the cause of the
destruction of Jerusalem. For, saith Christ, Si non venissem
et locvtusfuisscm eis,peccnt>im tioii haberenf, etc. — " If I had not
come," saith Christ, " and spoken to them, they should have no
sin." So we preachers have come and spoken unto you ; we
have drawn our swords of C-i-od's Word, and stricken at the roots
of all evil to have them cut down : and if ye will not amend,
what can we do more r And preacluug is cause of sedition
here in England much like as Elias was the cause of trouble
in Israel ; for he was a preacher there, ami told the people of
all degrees their faults, and so they winced and kicked at him,
and accused him to Achab the king that he was a seditious
feUow, and a troublous preacher, and made such uproar in
the realm. So the king sent for him, and he was brought to
Achab the king, who .said to him, " Art thou he that troubleth
all Israel?" And Elias answered and said, - Nay, thou and
thy father's house are they that trouble all Israel." Elias
had preached God's Word, he had plainly told the people of
their e\-il doings, he had showed theni God's threatenings. In
God's behalf I speak; there is neither king nor emperor, be
they never in so great estate, but they are subject to God's
Word; and therefore, he was not afi-aid to say to Achab, " It
is thou and thy father's house that causeth aU the trouble in
Israel." Was not this presumptuously spoken to a king':'
Was not this a seditious fellow 'r Was not this fellow's
preaching a cause of aU the trouble in Israel ':• Was he not
worthy to be cast in bocardo or little ease r ' No, but he had
used God's sword, which is His Word, and done nothitig else
that was evil; but they could not abi.le it. He never dis-
i Bocordo, the old North Gate of Oxford, used as a prison. Latinier
himself was confined in it before his martyrdom.
obeyed Achab's sword, which was the regal power ; but Achab
disobej'cd his sword, which was the Word of God. And there-
fore, by the punishment of God, much trouble arose in the
realm for the sins of Achab and the people. But God's
preacher, God's prophet, was not the cause of the trouble.
Then it is not we preachers that trouble England.
But here is now an argument to prove the matter against
the preachers. Here was preaching against covetousness
all the last year in Lent, and the next summer followed
rebellion. Ergo, preaching against covetousness was the
cause of the rebellion. A goodly argument. Here, now,
I remember an argument of JIaster Moore's, which he
bringcth in a book that he nuide against Bilney ; - and
here, bj' the way, I will tell you a merry toy. Master
Moore was once sent in commission into Kent to help
to trj- out (if it might be) what was the cause of Goodwin
sands, and the shelf that stopped up Sandwich haven.
Thither came Master Bloore, and calleth the country afore
him, such as were thought to be men of e.xperience, and men
that could of likelihood best certify him of that matter con-
cerning the stopping of Sandwich haven. Among others
came in before him an old man, with a white head, and one
that was thought to be little less than an hundred years old.
When Master Moore saw this aged man, he thought it expe-
dient to hear him say his mind in this matter (for, being so
old a man, it was likely that he knew most of any man in
that presence and company). So blaster Moore called this
old aged man imto him, and said, " Father," said he, " tell me,
if ye can, what is the cause of this great rising of the sands
and shelves here about this haven, the which stop it up
that no ships can arrive here 'i Ye are the oldest man that I
can espy in all th's company, so that if any man can teU any
cause of it, ye of likelihood can say most to it, or, at least-
wise, more than any man here assembled." " Yea, forsooth,
good master,' ' quoth tliis old man, " for lam well nigh an
hundred years old, and no man here in this company anj-thing
near unto mine age." " Well, then," quoth Master Moore,
" how say you in this matter ': ^\'hat think ye to be the
cause of these shelves and flats that stop up Sandwich liaven ?"
" Forsooth, sir," quoth he, " I am an old man ; I think that
Tenterden steeple is the cause of Goodwin sands. For I am
an old man, sir," quoth he, "and I may remember the
building of Tenterden steeple, and I may remember when
there was no steeple at all there. And before that Tenterden
steeple was in building, there was no manner of speaking of
any flats or sands that stopped the haven, and, therefore, I
think that Tenterden steeple is the cause of the destrojing
and decay of Sandwich haven." And so, to my purpose, is
preaching of God's Word the cause of rebellion as Tenterden
steeple was cause that Sandwich haven is decayed
Elizeus' servant, Giezi, a bribing brother, he
came colourably to Naaman the Sj-rian ; he framed a tale of
his master, Elizeus, as all bribers -n-ill do, and told him that
his master had need of this and that, and took of Naaman
certain things, and bribed it away to his o\ra behoof secretly,
and thought that it should never have come out ; but EUzeus
knew it well enough. The servant had his bribes that he
sought ; yet was he stricken with the leprosy, and so openly
shamed. Think on this, ye that are bribers, when ye go so
secretly about such things; have this in youi- minds when
ye devise your secret fetches and conveyances, how Elizeus'
seri'ant was served and was openly known. For God's proverb
2 More tells the story in the " Dialogue" written against opinions
of the reformers, and Tyndale refers to it in his r3ply : " Neither
intend I to prove unto you that Paul's steeple is the cause why
Thames is broke in about Erith, or that Tenterden steeple is the
cause of the decay of Sandwich haven, as Master More jesteth."
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CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1549
will be true: "There is nothing hidden that will not he
revealed." He that took the silver basin and ewer for a
bribs thinketh that; it would never come out : but ho may now
know that I know it, and I know it not alone; there are more
besides me that know it. Oh, briber and bribery ! he was
never a good man that will so take bribes. Nor 1 can never
believe that ho that is a briber shall be a good justice. It
will never be merrj' in England till we have the skins of such.
For what needeth bribing where men do their things up-
rightly? But now I vrill play !>t. Paul, and translate the
tMng on myself. I will become the king's officer for awhile.
I have to lay out for the king two thousand pounds, or a
great sum, whatsoever it be. Well, when I have laid it out,
and to bring in mine account, I must give three hundred marks
to have my bills warranted. If I have done truly and
uprightly, what should need me to give a penny to have my
bills warranted? If I have done my office truly, and do
bring in a true account, wherefore should one groat be given ?
Yea. one groat for warranting of my bills? Smell ye
nothing in this ? What needeth any bribes-giving, except the
bills be false ? No man giveth bribes for warranting of his
bUls except they be false bills.
Well, such practice hath been in England, but beware, it
wUl out one day. Beware of God's proverb, " Thei-e is nothing
hidden that shall not be opened." Yea, even in this world, if
ye be not the chUdrpn of d:iranation. And here, now, I
speak to you my masters, minters, augmentationers, receivers,
surveyors, and auditors, I make a petition irato you. I
beseech you all be good to the king, be good to the king ; he
hath been good to you, therefore be good to him, j'ea, be good
to your own souls. Y'e are known well enough what you
were afore ye came to your offices, and what lands ye had
then, and what ye have purchased since, and what buildings
ye make daily. Well, I pray you so build, that the King's
workmen may be paid. They make their moan, but the}-
can get no money. The poor labourers, gunmakers, powder-
men, bow-makers, arrow-makers, smiths, carpenters, soldiers,
and other crafts cry out for their duties. They be unpaid,
some of them, three or four months ; j'ea, some of them, half
a ye.ar; yea, some of them put up bills this time twelve
months for thoir moncj-, and cannot be paid yet. They cry
out for their money ; and, as the prophet saith. Clamor opera-
riorum ascendit ad aiires mens — " The crj' of the workmen is
tome up to mine cars."' Oh, for God's love, let the workmen
be paid if there be money enough, or else there -will whole
showers of God's vengeance rain down upon j'our heads.
Therefore, ye minters and ye augmentationers serve the
King truly. So build and purchase that the King may have
money to pay his workmen. It seemeth evil-favourcdly that
ye should have enough wherewith to build superfluously,
and the King lack to pay his poor labourers. Well, yet I
doubt not but that there be some good officers. But I will
not swear for all.
I have now preached three Lents. The first time I
preached restitution. "Restitution," quoth some, "what
should he preach of restitution? Let him preach of con-
trition," quoth they, "and let restitution alone. We
can never make restitution." "Then," say I, "if thou
wilt not make restitution, thou shalt go to the devil for it.
Now, choose thee, either restitution or else endless damna-
tion.'' But now, there be two manner of restitutions, secret
restitution and open restitution; whether of both it be, so
that restitution be made, it is all good enough. At my first
preaching restitution, one man took remorse of conscience,
and acknowledged himself to me that he had deceived the
King, and mlling he was to make restitution. And so the
first Lent came to my hands twenty pounds, to be restored
to the King's use. I was promised twenty pounds more the
same Lent, but it could not be made, so that it came not.
WeD, the next Lent came three hundred and twenty pounas
more. I received it myself, and paid it to the King's Council.
So I was asked what was he that made this restitution. But
should I have named him r Nay ; they should as soon have
this wesaunt of mine. WeD. now, this Lent came one hundred
and eighty pounds ten shiUings, which I have paid and
delivered this present day to the King's Council. And so
this man hath made a godly restitution. " And so," quoth I
to a certain nobleman that is one of the King's Council, "if
ever}- man that hath beguiled the King should make restitu-
tion after this sort, it would cough the King twenty thousand
poimds, I think," quoth I. " Yea, that it would," quoth the
other, " a whole one hundi-ed thousand pounds." Alack !
alack ! make restitution, for God's sake, make restitution ; ye
win cough in hell else, that all the de\-ils there -will laugh at
yoiu- coughing. There is no remedy but restitution, open or
secret, or else hell. This that I have now told you of was a
secret restitution.
Some examples have been of open restitution, and glad may
he be that God was so friendly unto him to bring him unto it
in this world. I am not afi-aid to name him. It was Jlastei
Sherrington, an honest gentleman, and one that God loveth.
He openly confessed that he had deceived the King, and he
made open restitution. Oh, what an argument may he have
against the devU when he shall move him to desperation.
God brought this out to his amendment. It is a token that
he is a chosen man of God, and one of His elected. If he be
of God, he shall be brought to it; therefore, for God's sake
make restitution, or else remember God's jiroverb, "There is
nothing so secret," &c. If you do either of these two in this
world, then are ye of God ; if not, then, for lack of restitu-
tion, ye shall have eternal damnation. Y'e may do it by
means, if you dare not do it yourselves. Bring it to another,
and so make restitution. If ye be not of God's flock, it shall
be brought out to your shame and damnation at the last day,
when all evil men's sins shall be laid open before us. Yet
there is one way how all our sins may be hidden, which is
repent and amend. Scsipisceiitia, rcsipiscoitia ; repenting
and amending is a sure remedy and a sure w-ay to hide all
that it shall not come out to our shame and confusion. Yet
there is another seed that Christ was sowing in that sermon of
His, and this was the seed ; " I say to you, my friends, fear
not him that k-illeth the body, but fear Him that, after He
hath killed, hath power also to cast into hell fire," &c. And
there, to put His disciples in comfort and sure hope of His
help, and out of all doubt and mistrust of His assistance. He
bringeth in unto them the example of the ..sparrows — how they
are fed by God's mere providence and goodness; and also of
the hairs of our heads — how that not so much as one hair faUeth
from our heads without Him. " Fear Him," Siiith He, "that,
when He hath killed the body, may also cast into heU fire."
Matter for all kinds of people hero, but especiall}- for kings.
And, therefore, here is another suit to your highness.
Fear not him that killeth the body. Fear not these foreign
princes and foreign powers. God shall make you strong
enough. Stick to God, fear God ; fear not them. God hath
sent you many storms in your youth, but forsake not God,
and He will not forsake you. Pcradventure ye shall have
that which shall move you, and say unto you, " Oh, sir, oh,
such a one is a great man. he is a mighty prince, a king of
great 'power ; ye cannot be -n-ithout his fiiendship ; agree
with him in religion, or else ye shall have him your
enemy," &c. Well, fear thorn not. but cleave to Ciod, and
He shall defend you. Do not as King Ahaz did, that was
afraid of the Ass}-rian king, and, for fear lest he should have
II
ro A.D. 1560.J
EELIGIOK
157
him to his enemy, was content to forsake God, and to agi-ee
with him in religion and worshipping of God ; and anon sent
to Uryas, the high-jjriest, who was ready at once to set np
idolatry of the Assyrian king. Do not your highness so ;
fear not the best of them all, but fear God. The same Urias
was Capellanm ad maiium — a chaplain at hand, an elbow
-chaplain. K ye aitII turn, ye shall hare that will turn
with you, yea, even in their white rochets. But follow not
Ahaz. Remember the hair — ^how it falls not without God's
proWdence. Remember the sparrows — how they build in
■ever}' house, and God provideth for them. "And ye are
much more precious to me," saith Christ,' " than sparrows or
other birds." God will defend you, so that before your time
•Cometh ye shall not die nor miscarry.
On a time when Christ was going to Jerusalem, His dis-
ciples said to Him, " They there would have stoned Thee, and
wilt Thou now go thither again ;- " " What I " saith He
.again to them, " Nonne ditodecim sunt hora: in die," itc. — " Be
there not twelve houi-s in the day?" saith He. God hath
appointed His times as pleaseth Him, and before the time
Cometh that God hath ajipointed, they shall have no power
against you. Therefore, stick to God and forsake Him not,
but fear Him, and fear not men. And beware chiefly of two
affections, fear and love. Fear, as Ahaz, of whom I have
told you, that for fear of the Assyrian king he changed his
religion, and thereby purchased God His indignation to him
and his realm. And love, as Dina, Jacob's daughter, who
<aused a change of religion by Sichem and Hemor, who were
contented, for lust of a wife, to the destruction and spoiling
of all the whole city. Read the chronicles of England and
France, and ye shall see what changes of religion hath come
by marriages and for marriages. '• Harry my daughter and be
baptized, and so forth, or else," i:c. Fear them not. Remem-
ber the .sparrows. And this mle should all estates and degrees
follow, whereas now they fear men, and not God. If there be
a judgment between a great man and a poor man, then must
there be a corruption of justice for fear. "Oh, he is a great
man ; I dare not displease him," &c. Fie upon thee I Art
thou a judge, and wilt be afraid to give right judgment 'f
Fear him not, be he never so great a man, I say, but uprightly
do true justice. Likewise, some pastors go from their cure ;
they are afraid of the plague ; they dare not come nigh any
sick body, but hire others, and they go away themselves. Out
upon thee I The woU cometh upon your flock to devour them,
and when they have most need of thee, thou runnest away from
tbem. The soldier, also, that should go on warfare, he will
draw back as much as he can. "Oh, I shall be slain. Oh, such
and such went, and never came again. Such men went the
last year into Norfolk and were slain there." ' Thus they are
afraid to go. They will laboirr to tarry at home. If the
King conunand thee to go. thou art bound to go, and, serving
the King, thou ser\-est God. If thou serve God, He will not
shorten thy d;iys to thine hurt. " Well," saith some, " if they
^ Eeference is to, the insurrectioiis of 1.549. In Devonshire the
Tioters, as an army of ten thousand men, under Humiihrey Aj'undel,
claimed restoration of the mass, the law of the Six Articles, and
resumption of half the ahbey binds. In Norfolk the insuiTection,
lleade<l hy Ket, a tanner, required the diversion from Scotch wars of
six thousand men under the Earl of Warwick for attack upon the
rebels. Two thousand of the Norfolk men were killed in the battle
and pursuit ; and Ket was hanged. The leaders of the rising in
Devonshire and prisoners taken were also very severely dealt with.
In the same year, 1549, Somerset wa.s deposed from the Protectorate,
after much abnse of power, including the erection, bej^m in that
year, of Somerset House in the Strand, upon the site of buildings
belonging to the bishoprics of Worcester, Lichfield, and Llandaff, and
to the Temple, which were seized and appropriated without com-
liensation.
had not gone they had lived to this day.'' How knowest thou
that :■' Who made thee so privy of God's counsel ? Follow
thou thy vocation, and serve the King when he calleth thee.
In ser\-ing him thou shalt serve God ; and, till thy time comes,
thou shalt not die. It was marvel that Jonas escaped in such
a city. WTiat then!' Yet God preserved him so that he
could not perish. Take, therefore, example by Jonas, and
every man follow his vocation, not feaiing men. but feaiing
God " There was," said Christ,
" a man that went from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell among
thieves, and they wound him and left him for dead. And
a priest came by that was his own countrj-man, and let him
lie. A LeWte came by, and would show no compassion
upon him. At last a Samaritan came by, and set him on his
horse, and conveyed him to a city, and provided surgery for
him," iScc. "Now, who was neighboui' to this wounded man!'"
said Christ. Qni fecit illi mixericofdiain, quoth the lawyer.
'•He that showed mercy unto him." He that did the office of
a neighboTU', he was a neighbour. As ye may perceive by a
more familiar example of the Bishop of Exeter, at Sutton, in
Staffordshire. Who is a Bishop of Exeter? Forsooth, Master
Coverdale. What ? Do not all men know who is Bishop of
Exeter !■* What I he hath been bishop many years. Well, say
I, Master Coverdale is Bishop of Exeter ; Master Coverdale
putteth in execution the bishop's office, and he that doth the
office of the bishop, he is the bishop indeed.'- Therefore, say I,
Master Coverdale is Bishop of Exeter. But to the purpose of
Christ's question. "WTio made me a judge between you?
Here an Anabaptist will say, " Ah, Christ refused the office
of a judge. Ergo ! there ought to be no judges nor magis-
trates among Christian men. If it had been a thing lawful,
Christ would not have refused to do the office of a judge, and
to have detemiined the variance between these two brethi'en."
But Christ did thereby sig'uify that He was not sent for that
office. But if thou wilt have a trial and sentence of the matter
according to the laws, thou must go to the temporal judge
that is deputed therefore. But Christ's meaning was that he
was come for another purpose ; He had another office deputed
unto Him tluin to be a judge in temporal matters, fi/o eon
vocarc pcccatons ad ptcniteiitiam — " I am come," said He,
" to call sinners to repentance." He was come to preach the
Gospel, the remission of sins, and the kingdom of God, and
meant not thereby to disallow the office of temporal magis-
trates. Nay, if Christ had meant that there should be no
magistrates. He would have bid Him take all, but Chiist
meant nothing so. But the matter is, that this covetous man,
this brother, took his mark amiss ; for he came to a -wrong
man to seek redress of his matter ; nor Christ did not forbid
him to seek his remedy at the magistrate's hand, but Chiist
refused to take upon Him the office that was not His calling.
For Chiist had another vocation than to be a judge between
such as contended about matters of land. If our- rebels had
had this in their minds, they would not have been their own
judges, but they would have sought the redi'ess of their grief
at the hands of the King and his magistrates under him
appointed. But no marvel of their blindness and ignorance,
for the bishops are out of their diocese that should teach them
this gear. But this man, perchance, had heard and did
think that Christ was Messiah, whose reign in words foundeth
a corporeal and a temporal reign, which should do justice and
see a redress in all matters of worldly controversy ; which is
a necessary office in a Christian realm, and must needs be put
in execution for ministering of justice. And therefore I
require you (as a suitor rather than a preacher) look to your
2 In the following year, 1551, Miles Coverdale was made actual
Bishop of Eseter upon the resignation of Bishop -Veysey.
158
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[i.D. 1547
office yourself, aud lay not aU oa your officers' backs.
Receive the bills of suiipHcation yourself. I do not see you
do so now-a-days as you were wont to do the last year.
For tiod's s;ike look unto it, and see to the nunistering of
justice your own self, and let poor suitors have answer.
There is a kin^ in Christendom, and it is the King of Den-
mark, that sitteth openly in justice thrice in the week, and hath
doors kept open for the nonce. I have heard it reported of
one that hath bien there and seen the proof of it many a time
and oft. And the last justice that ever he saw done there
was of a priest's cause, that had had his glebe land taken
from him. And now, here in England, some go about to take
away all. But this priest had had his glebe land taken from
him by a great man. Well, first went out letters for this
man to appear at a day ; process went out for him, according
to the order of the law, and charged by virtue of those letters
to appear before the king at such a day. The day came.
The king sat in his hall ready to minister justice. The priest
was there present. The gentleman, this lord, this great man,
was called, and commanded to make his appearance according
to the writ that had been directed out for him. And the
lord came and was there, but he appeared not. "Noi""
quoth the king. " Was he summoned as he should be ? Had
he anv warning to be here ? " It was answered yea, and that
he was there walking up and down in the hall ; and that he
knew well enough that that was his day, and also that he hath
aheady been called ; but he said he would not come before the
king at that time, alleging that he needeth not as yet to make
an answer, because he had had but one summoning. " Nor"
quoth the king. " Is he here present?" "Yea, forsooth,
sii'," said the priest. The king commanded him to be
called, and to come before him. And the end was this, he
made this lord, this great man, to restore unto the priest, not
only the gliilje land which he had taken from the priest, but
also the rent and profit thereof for so long time as he had
withholden it from the priest, which was eight years or there-
abouts. Saith he, " When you can show better evidence than
the priest has done why it ought to be your land, then he
shall restore it to you again, and the profits thereof that he
shall receive in the meantime. But tUl that day comes I
charge ye that ye suffer him peaceably to enjoy that
is his." This is a noble king, and this I tell for your
example, that ye may do the like. Look upon the matter
yoiu' own self. Poor men put up bills every day, and never
the near. Confirm your kingdom in judgment, and
begin doing of your office yourself, even now while you are
yoimg, and sit once or twice in the week in council among
your lords. It shall cause things to have good success, and
tkit matters shall not be lingered forth from day to day. It
is good for every man do his own office, and to see that well
executed and discharged
But the root of all evil is covetousness. " What shall I do •■ "
saith this rich man. He asked his own brainless head wLat
he should do ; he did not ask of the Sci-ipture. For if he had
asked of the Scripture, it woidd have told him ; it woidd have
said unto him, Frniiffc csxrienti paiiem tuiim, &c. — " Break thy
bread unto the hungry." All the affection of men now.a-days
is in building gay and sumptuous houses ; it is in setting up
and pidling down, and never have they done building. But
the end of all such great riches and covetousness is this —
" This night, thou fool, thy soul shall be taken from thee. It is
to be imderstood of aU that rise up from little to much, as this
rich man that the Gospel spake of. I do not despise riches,
but I wish that men should have riches as Abraham had and
as Joseph had. A man to have riches to help his neighbour
is goodly riches. The worldly riches is to put aU his trust
and confidence in his worldly riches, that he may by them live
here gaUantly, pleas-antly, and voluptuously. Is this godly
riches? No,' no, this is not godly riches. It is a commoa
savin" now-a-days among many, "Oh, he is a rich man!"
He is well worth five hundred pounds that hath given five
hundred pounds to the ijoor, otherwise it is none of his.
Yea, but who shall have this five hundred pounds ? For whom
h;ist thou got that five hundred pounds? What says Salo-
mon? (Eccles. V.) — Est alia iiifniiUas pessima, guam vidi sub
sole, divitite coiisermtte in malum Domini sui — "Another evU,"
saith he, " and another very naughty imperfection — riches
hoarded up and kept together to the owner's harm ; for many-
times such riches do perish and consume away miserably."
"Such a one shall sometimes have a son," said he, "that
shall be a very beggar, and live in aU extreme penury." Oh,
goodly riches, that one man shall get it and another come
to devour it ! Therefore, Videte et cavete ab avaritia—
"See and beware of covetousness." Believe God's words,
for they will not deceive you nor Ue. Heaven and earth shall
perish, but, Verbum Domini manct in aternum — "The Word of
the Lord abideth and endureth for ever." Oh, this leavened
faith, this unseasoned faith! Beware of this unseasoned
faith. A certain man asked me this question, " Diddest thou
ever see a man live long that had great riches ?" Therefore,
saith the wise nun, if God send thee riches, use them. If God
send thee abundance, use it according to the rule of God's
Word, and study to be rich in our Sa\-iour Jesus Chi-ist. To
whom, with the Father and the Holy Ghost, be aU honour,
glory, and praise for ever and ever. Amen.
After taking leave of the court, Hugh Latimer
seems to have been in Lincolnshire during the rest
of Eiiward VI. 's reign. In 1.552 he preached at
Grimsthorpe Castle seven sermons on the Lord's
Prayer, and notes have been left us of twenty-one
other sermons of his preached in Lincolnshire. Upon
the accession of Mary he was sent for, and taken to
the Tower, saying, as he passed through Smithfield,
that this place had long gi-oaned for him. But it
was at Oxford, on the 16th of October, 1555, that
Hugh Latimer was burnt with Nicholas Ridley, say-
ing, when the lighted fagot was placed under his
friend's martyr-p2e, "Be of good comfort, Master
Ridley, and play the man. We shall this day light
such a candle, by God's grace, in England, as I trust
shall never be put out."
The martyrdom of Thomas Cranmer followed that
of Hugh Latimer, on the 21st of March, 1556. A
part of his labour as Archbishop of Canterbury had
been to assLst ui producing the first Prayer Book of
the Reformed Chiu'ch of England, wliich came into
use on Whit Sunday, the 9th of June, 1549. A
revision of this was entrusted to Ci'aniner, who in-
vited criticisms from the most competent advisers,
and ])roduced what is known as King Edward's
Second Prayer Book. Tliis was authorised by Par-
liament in 1552. Many of the Collects in the Prayer
Book of 1549 were fii-st \vi'itten in that year, and
among them this : —
" Blessed Lord, who hast caused all Holy Scriptures to be
written for our learning ; Grant that we may in such wise
hear them, read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest them, that
by patience, and comfort of Thy Holy Word, we may em-
brace and ever hold fast the blessed hope of everlasting life,
which thou hast given us in our Saviour, Jesus Christ."
i.D. 1555.]
RELIGION.
159
In the summer of 1551 Archbishop Craumer
-^ketched the faith of the Refoi-med Church of Eiig-
lunil in a seiies of forty-two Ai-ticles of Religion.
I If these, a draught was sent to the bishops for
revision and suggestion. They were then submitted
William CecU and John t'heke, then to the royal
iphiins, inchiding Edmund Giindal and John Knox.
Ill November, 1552, they were returned to the Ai-ch-
1 ishop for final eoiTectious, and in 155.3 they were
published by Richard Grafton, the king's piinter, as
■Articles agi-eed on by the Bishops and other learned
iiien in the Synod at London in the year of our
l^oid God 1552, for the avoiding of controvei-sy in
pudons and the establishment of a godly concord
certain matters of Religion." By a royal man-
re of June 19th, 1553, actual incumbents of Church
ii\ ings were requii-ed to subscribe to these forty-two
;iiticles, on pain of deprivation ; future incumbents
utie to subscribe to them before admission. But
the death of Edward VI. in July arrested the
lii'jvement.
There was ahso an authorised book of Homilies to
iiich Ci^anmer contributed three sermons. In 1540
i.ook of PostUles or Homilies upon the Epistles
.1 Go-spels with sennons on other subjects "by
dy^'ei-se learned men " had been issued by royal
allowance, and in 1542 the Convocation of the Clergy
resolved to prepare a Book of Homilies "' to stay
such eiTors as were then by ignorant men sparkled'
among the people." In 1547 Ai-chbishop Cranmer
applied his enei-gy to the cairying out of this design,
and he published in that year a volume of twelve
Homilies. The three written by lumself were on
■" The Salvation of Mankind," " The Tnie and Lively
Chi-istian Faith," and " Good Works annexed unto
Faith." Two were by Thomas Becon, who lived
until 1570.
Of Cranmer's preaching I take as an example the
First Part of liis " Short Declaration of the Ti-ue,
Lively, and Chi-istian "Faith" in the fii-st Book of
HomiUes. The Homily was in three parts, which
•were to be read at successive meetings of the con-
gregation, and the Fu-st Part, a complete sermon for
one sendee, was this upon
FAITH, DEAD AND LIVING.
The first entry unto God, good Christian people, is through
faith, whereby (as it is declared in the last sermon) we be
justified before God. And lest any man should be deceived
for lack of right understanding thereof, it is diligently to
be noted, that faith is taken in the Scripture two manner of
ways. There is one faith, which in Scripture is called a dead
faith, which hringeth forth no good works, but is idle, barren,
and unfruitful. And this faith by the holy Apostle St.
James is compared to the faith of dei-ils, which believe God
to be true and just, and tremble for fear ; yet they do nothing
well, but all e%-il. And such a manner of faith have the
wicked and naughty Christian people, " which confess God,"
as St. Paul saith, " in their mouth, but deny him in their
deeds, being abominable, and without the right faith, and in
aU good works reprovable." And this faith is a persuasion
and belief in man's heart, whereby he knoweth that there is
- EmrkUi, scattered, sprinkled. From Latm " spargere."
a God, and assenteth unto all truth of God's most holy Word,
contained in holy Scripture : so that it consisteth only in
belie^^ng of the Word of God, that it is true. And this is
not properly called faith. But as he that readeth Ciesar's
Commentaries, believing the same to be true, h.ath thereby a
knowledge of Caisar's life and noble acts, because he beUevcth
the history of Ciesar; yet it is not properly said, thiit he
believeth in Cajsar, of whom he looketh for no help nor
benefit : even so, he that believeth that all that is spoken of
God in the Bible is true, and yet liveth so ungodly, that he
cannot look to enjoy the promises and benefits of God:
although it may be said that such a man hath a faith and
belief to the Word of God, yet it is not properly said that he
believeth in God, or hath such a faith and trust in God,
whereby he may surely look for gi'ace, mercy, and eternal
life at God's hand, but rather for indignation and punish-
ment, according to the merits of his wicked life. For, as it
is written in a book intituled to be of Didymus Ale.xandrinus :
'• Forasmuch as faith without works is dead, it is not now
faith, as a dead man is not a man." The dead faith there-
fore is not that suie and substantial faith, which savcth
sinners.
Another faith there is in Scripture, which is not, as the
foresaid faith, idle, unfruitful, and dead, but "workcth by
charity," as St. Pavd declareth {Gal. v.) ; which, as the other
vain faith is called a dead faith, so may this be called a quick
or lively faith. And this is not only the common belief of
the articles of our faith, but it is also a sure trust and con-
fidence of the mercy of God through our Lord Jesus Christ,
and a steadfast hope of all good things to be received at
God's hand : and that, although we through infirmity, or
temptation of our ghostly enemy, do fall from him by sin.
yet if we return again unto him by true repentance, that he
will forgive and forget our ottences for his Son's sivke, our
Sa\-iour Jesus Christ, and will make us inheritors with him
01 his everlasting kingdom ; and that in the mean time, until
that kingdom come, he will be our protector and defender in
all perils and dangers, whatsoever do chance: and that,
though sometime he doth send us sharp adversity, yet that
evermore he will be a lo\Tng father unto us, correcting us for
our sin, but not withdrawing his mercy finally from us, if
we trust in him, and commit oiu-selves wholly to him, hang
only upon him, and call upon him, ready to obey and serve
him. This is the true, lively, and unfeigned Christian faith,
and is not in the mouth and outward profession only, but it
liveth and stineth inwardly in the heart. And this faith is
not without hope and trust in God, nor without the love
of God and of om- neighbours, nor without the fear of God,
nor without the desire to hear God's Word, and to follow the
same, in eschewing evil and doing gladly all good works.
This faith, as St. Paul descnbeth it, is the " sure ground
and foundation of the benefits which w.- ought to look for,
and tru.st to receive of God : a certificate and sure expectation
of them, although they yet sensibly appear not unto us."
And after he saith : " He that cometh to God must believe
both that he is, and that he is a merciful rewarder of well-
doers." And nothing commendeth gucjd men unto God so
much as this assured faith and trust in him.
Of this faith three things are specially to be noted. First,
that this faith doth not lie dead in the heart, but is lively and
fruitful in bringing forth good works. Second, that without
it can no good works be done, that shall be acceptable and
pleasant to God. Third, what manner of good works they
be that this faith doth bring forth.
For the first, as the light cannot be hid, but wUl show
forth itself at one place or other : so a true faith cannot be
kept secret, but , when occasion is oft'crod, it will break out
IGO
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1547
and show itself by good works. And as the living body of a
man ever exereisuth such things as belongeth to a natural
iinti li^•ing body, for nourishment and preservation of the
same, as it hath need, opportunity, and occa.sion ; even so the
soui, that hath a lively faith in it, will be doing alway some
good work, which .shall declare that it is living, and will not
bo unoccupied. Therefore, when men hoar in the Scriptures
so high commendations of faith, that it maketh us to please
(Jod, to live with God, and to be the childi-en of God ; if
then they phantasy that thc-y l)c set .at liberty from doing ali
good worl;s, and may live as they list, they trifle with God,
and decci\-e themselves. And it is a manifest token that they
be far from having the true and lively faith, and also far
from knowledge what true faith meaneth. For the very sure
and lively ('hristian faith is, not only to believe all things of
God which are contained in holy Scripture ; but also is an
earnest trust and confidence in God, that he doth regard us,
and hath cure of us, as the father of the child whom he doth
love, and that ho will be merciful unto us for his only Son's
sake, and that we have our Sa\-iour Christ om- perpetual
advocate and priest, in whoso only merits, oblation, and
suffering, we do trust that our offences be continually washed
and purged, whensoever wo, repenting truly, do return to
him with our whole heart, steadfastly determining with our-
selves, through his grace, to obey and serve him in keeping
his 'commandments, and never to tiu-n back again to sin.
Such is the true f lith that the Seriptm-e doth so much com-
mi'ud ; the which, when it seeth and considercth what God
hiith done for us, is .also moved, through continual assistance
of the Spirit of God, to serve and please him, to keep his
favour, to fear his displeasure, to continue his obedient
children, showing thankfulness again by observing his com-
mandments, and th.-it freely, for true love chiefly, and not for
di'ead of punishment or love of temporal reward ; considering
how clearly, without our dcservings, we have received his
mercy and pardim freely.
This true faith will show fcjrth itself, and cannot long be
idle : for, as it is wnitten, " The ju.st man doth live by his
faith." He neither sleepeth, nor is idle, when he shoulil
wake and be well occupied. And God by his prophet Jeremy
saith, that " he is a happy and blessed man which hath faith
and confidence in God. For he is like a tree set by the
water-side, that spreadeth his roots abroad toward the
moisture, and feareth not heat when it cometh ; his leaf will
be green, and will not cease to bring forth his fruit :" even so
faithful men, putting away all fear of adversity, will show
forth the fruit of their good works, as occasion is offered to
do them.
•John Eale, horn at Hove, in Suffolk, in tlie year
1495, began life as a Carmelite monk at Norwich,
was afterwards a priest in the Suffolk parish of
Thorndon, then studied at Cambridge, and at the age
of thirty became Doctor of Civil Law. Lord Went-
worth, of Nettlestead, Suffolk, in days of much
controversy about reformation in religion, trans-
formed John Bale tlie Carmelite into John Bale the
Reformer. As he wrote himself, in the last chapter
of his eighth Century of British Writers, " I was
involved in the utmost ignorance and darkness of
mind, both at N
orwich and Cambridge, without
tutor or patron, till the Word of God sinning forth,
the Cliui-ches began to return to the true foundation
of Di\ inity. Moved not by .any monk or priest, Init
by the noble Lord Wentworth, of Nettlestead, in
Suffolk, I saw and acknowledged my former defor-
mity, and by the goodness of God I was transported
from the barren Mount (Carmel) into the fair and
fruitful valley of the Gospel, where I fomid all things,
built, not on a sandy shore, but on a solid foundatioa
of stone." Then John Bale put oft' his habit as a
Carmelite, married a wife Dorothy, and became a
zealous convert. For marrying and preaching heresy
he was cited before Dr. Lee, Archbishop of Yoi-k,
and Dr. Stokesly, Bishop of London. Thomas
Cromwell rescued him, but after Cromwell had been
executed in 1540 for introducing Henry VIII. to
his fourth wife, who proved fatter than he expected >
and who did not please liim, John Bale had lost
his friend. He then went into Germany, where he
remained during the last six years of Heniy VIII. 's
reign, writing some sharp attacks upon the Romau
Catholics, and preparing in Latin an account of the
Illustrious Writers of Great Britain ("Illustrium
Majoris Britannias Scriptorum Summarium"), printed
at Ipswich by John Overton, in 1548. Edward VI.
had then come to the throne, and his advisers had
just recalled John Bale and given him the rectory
of Bishopstoke, near Southampton. Therefore his
account of BritLsh Writers, divided into Centuries,
had in this first edition a picture of its author
presenting his book to the young king in formal
state.
Jobs Bale presenting 4 Book to Edward VI.
From (lis '• Centarien of British Writers" (1548).
It is this volume which contains the jwrtrait of
Wiclif already given.' It has one other illustration
as tailpiece to prefatory matter, which again repre-
sents Bale's presentation of his book to the young
king, and contrasts amusingly with the other sketch
of the same incident. The more solemn picture may
be supposed to represent such a presentation as it
was fancied beforehand. The other shows, perhaps,
the fact as it was afterwards remembered; and, sinc&
' On page 76.
TO A.D. 1558.]
EELIGION.
161
I'.ale did not want liveliness, it seems to have been
Mi;,'gested as the subject of another little woodcut.
Second Vrxw of John Bale peesenting a Book to Edward VI.
From his " Centuries of British Writers" (1M8).
In August, 1.3.52, Bale was made Bishop of O-ssory,
in Ireland, and endeavoured to convert his people to
tlie Reformed Church. King Edward died before
the bishopric had been held cpiite a year ; Mary
' uiue to the throne, and the relations of the lloman
I atholics to the Reformers were again suddenly
reversed. Some of Bale's servants were killed, and
his own life was in danger ; he escaped to Dublin,
sailed thence, was taken by pirates, but at last made
Ills way to Basle, where he published a new edition
(if his "Centuries of British Wjiters." He came
buck after Elizabeth's accession, declined to return
til Ireland, and was made a prebend of Canterbui-y,
where he lived content until he died in 1.5G3, leaving,
said Tliomas Fuller, " a scholar's inventory, more
Ijiiuks (many of his own writing) than money behind
him."
Among John Bale's works are religious Interludes,
one on "the Promises of God " which is comparatively
well known ;' another, made in 1.').38, which remains
"idy in a single copy of the original edition, and has
Iji-nn reproduced by the Rev. A. B. Grosart in the
Miscellany of his " Fuller Worthies' Library."- This
i-i on " The Temptation of our Lord," which thus
('pens :
BALEUS PROLOCUTOR.
-Vfter hig baptism Christ was God'.s Son dcclarpil
By the Father's voice, as ye before have heard,
Whi(-h signifieth to ils that we, once baptized,
Arc the sons of God by His gift and reward.
And because that we should have Christ in regard
He gave unto him the mighty authority
Of Hia Heavenly Word, our only Teacher to be.
' It is in the first volume of Docis^ey's Collection of Old Plays.
* This Miscellany, now completed, forms four s^bstanli^l volumes,
each containing five or six scarce and valuable works, privately
printi'd.
85
Now is he gone forth into the desert place
With the Holy Ghost his office to begin.
Where Satan, the Devil, with his assaults apace,
AVith colours of craft and many a subtle gin
Will undermine him, yet nothing shall he win
But shame and rebuke in the conclusion final.
This tokeneth our rise, and his unrecurable fall.
Learn first in this act that we whom Clirist doth call
Ought not to follow the fantasies of man
But the Holy Ghost as oiu- gaiide special,
AATiich to defend us is he that wiU and can ;
To persecution let us prepare us than,'
For that will follow in them that seek the Truth :
Mark in this process what troubles to Christ ensu'th.
Satan assaulteth him with many a subtle diift.
So will he do us, if we take Christ's part.
And when that helpcth not he seeketh another shif :
The rulers among to put Christ unto smart,
With so many else that bear him their good heart :
Be ye sure of this, as ye are of daily meat.
If ye follow Christ, -n-ith him ye must be beat.
For assaults of Satan, learn here the remedie,
Take the Word of God, let that be your defence.
So will Christ teach you in our next comedie.
Earnestly print it in your quick intelligence.
Resist not the World but with meek patience
If ye be of Christ. Of this hereafter ye shall
Perceive more at large, by the story as it fall.
The Interlude begins with Christ in the Wilderness,
who will encounter Satan to teach men ways liLs
mischiefs to prevent
By the Word of God, which must be your defence,
Kather than Fastings, to withstand his violence.
Tlien comes Satan, seeking everywhere the hurt
of man, to tiy Christ, of whom he has heard as the
Redeemer. He puts on a semblance of religion,
approaches Christ and says :
It is a great joy, by my halidom, to sec
So virtuous a life in a young man as you be.
As here thus to wander in godly contemplation,
And to hve alone in the desert solitary.
lesiis Christ us.
Your pleasure is it to utter your fantasy.
iSaf/rii Tenlator.
A brother am I of this desert wilderness,
.\nd full glad would be to talk with you of goodness.
If ye would accept my simple company.
Icsus Christtis.
I disdain nothing which is of God tnily.
Sntan Trntnlor.
Then will I be bold a little with you to walk.
lesns Christiis.
Do so if ye Ust, and youi- mind freely talk.
» n-.nm, th^n.
1C2
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1538
The temjitatioiis then begin in dialogue of argu-
ment. To the suggestion that the stones shoukl be
made bread it is answered :
Man liveth not by bread or corporal feeding only,
But by God's Promise, .ind by His Scriptui-es beavenly.
Here ye persuade mc to recreate my body
And neglect God's Word, wliich is great blasphemy.
This caused Adam from innocency to fall.
And all his offspring made miserable and mort;dl.
Whereas in God's Word there is both sprete ' and life,
And where that is not, death and damnation is rife.
The strength of God's Word mightily sustained Moses
For forty days' sj)ace, thereof such is the goodness.
It fortified EUas, it preserved Daniel
.;Vnd holp in the desert the children of Israel.
Sore plagues do follow where God's Word is reject,
For no persuasion will I therefore neglect
That office to do which God hath me commanded,
But in all meekness it shall be accomplished.
tSfflffn Tf'fitfitor.
1 had rather nay, considering your feebleness,
For ye are but tuly,^ ye are no strong person doubtless.
Itsus Christtts.
Well, it is not the bread that doth a man uphold,
But the Lord of Heaven with His graces manifold ,
He that man creates is able him to nourish
And after weakness cause him again to flourish.
God's Word is a rule for all that man should do,
And out of that rule no creature ought to go.
There spoke the Reformer who desired a Cliurch
based upon Bible rule, and Christian lives obedient
to the teaching of Christ and his Apostles. When
Scripture is still insisted on, Satan is made to
answer :
Scriptures I know none, for I am but an licmiit I ;
I may say to you, it is no part of our study.
We religious men live all in contemplation ;
Scriptures to study is not our occupation.
It longeth to Doctors. Howbeit I may say to yow,
As blind as we are they in the understanding now.
Then Satan suggests to Clu-ist to wander to Jeru-
salem, there tempts liim to throw himself from thc
pinnacle of the Temple, saying :
Tush, Scripture is with it, ye cannot fare amiss.
For it is written how God hath given a charge
XTnto his .\ngels that if ye leap at large
They shall receive ye, in their hands tenderly
Lest ye dash your foot against a stone thereby.
If ye do take scathe, believe God is not true
Kor just of His word, and then bid Him Adieu.
Iisus C/irisliis.
In no wise ye ought the Scriptures to deprave.
But as they he whole, so ought ye them to have.
' Sprete, spirit.
Wor^^'':(u»„f^'™"''"'' ';°"=«™«y of Provincial and Archaic
Words tulh IS pven as Yorkshire for " a Uttle wretch." Cy-nric
tully woulti be equivalent to "skinny."
No more take ye here than serve for your vain jjui-pose,
Leaving out the best, as ye should trifle or glose.
Ye mind not by this towards God to edify,
But of sincere faith to corrupt the innocency.
Satan is shown that he has wrested Scripture
from its sense for his own purpose, and Christ says :
To walk in God's ways it becometh mortal man.
And therefore I will obey them if I can.
For it is written, in the sixth of Deutronomy,
Thou shalt in no wise tempt God jircsumptuously.
Satan Tintator.
^^^^at is it to tempt God, after your judgement ?
Jesus Chr'tstNS.
To take of His Word an outward experiment
Of an idle brain, which God neither taught ne meant.
Satan Tcniator.
What persons do so ? Make that more evident.
lesiis Christtts.
All such as forsiike any grace or remedy
Appointed of God for their own policy.
As they that do think God shall till their belly
Without their labours, when His laws are contrary.
And they that wiU say, the Scripture of God doth sloe,'
They never searching thereof the veritie.
Those also tempt God that vow presumptuously,
Not having His gift, to keep their continence.
With so many else as follow thcii- good intents
Not grounded on God nor yet on His commandments.
These throw themselves down into most deep damnation.
Satan Tentator.
Little good get I by this communication.
WiU ye walk farther and let this prattling be ?
A Mountain hero is, which I wold you to see.
Still by reference to God's Word all the temp-
tations are resisted. Then says Satan :
Well, then it helpcth not to tarry here any longer.
Advantage to have I see I must go farther ;
So long as thou livest I am Hke to have no profight.
If all come to pass, I may sit as much in your light
If ye preach God's Word, as methinks ye do intend :
Ere four years be past I shall you to your Father send,
If Pharisees and scribes can do an)-thing thereto,
False priests and bishops with my other servants mo.
Though I have hinderance it will be but for a season ;
I doubt not thine own will hereafter work some treason.
My Vicar at Rome I think will be my frynde,
I defy thee therefore ; and take thy words as w^Tide.
He shaU Me worship and have theM'orid to reward ;
That Thou here forsakest, he wUl most highlv regard.
God's Word will he tread imdcnieath his foot for ever
And the hearts of men from the Truth thereof dissever.
Thy faith wiU he hate, and slay thy flock in conclusion.
All this will I work, to do thee utter confusion.
^ S'ee, slay.
I
TO A.D. 1545.]
RELIGION.
163
Iisits (Jhristus.
Thy cruel assaults shall hurt neithor me nor mine,
Though we suffer both, by the Provideuce Divine.
Such strength is ours, that we will have \'ictory
Of Sin, Death, and Hell, and Thee in thj- most fury.
For God hath promised that His shall tread the Dragon
T.'nderneath their feet with the fierce roaring lion.
Then Angels come with heavenly food and
minister to Christ ; at the close of the Interhide
lioth Christ and the Angels turn to the people, urging
them to tbUow Chi'ist; and the piece ends with a
sweet singing of the Angels before Christ.
John Bale adds then an Epilogue in his own
person, bidding all men resist the devil, and lay fast
hold on the Scriptui-es :
Eesist, saith Peter, resist that roaring lion —
Not with your fastings, Christ never taught ye so.
But with a strong faith withstand his false suggestion
And with the Scriptui'es upon him ever go.
It is interesting to observe how Bale draws from
the Tem])tation in the Wilderness a lesson for the
days of Henry VIII., when the liattle was for a
1 iible in the hands of every Englisliuian. He makes
it liLs whole object to insist on the fact that Christ
prevailed because he rested on the Word of God.
Li a later day we shall find MUton in his " Paradise
Regained" applying the same narrative with equal
precision and far higher power to the maintenance
of fixith diu'ing another critical stage of the life of
England.
John Knox was born in 1.505, at Gilford, in Lothian.
He was taught first at the Haddington Grammar
School, and then at the University of St. Andrews.
He was ordained priest at the age of twenty-five, in
1530. This was two years after the burning of
Patrick Hamilton, a young Scottish gentleman, who
had visited Luther, and had then taught Lutheran
opinions in Scotland. The martyrdom of Hamilton
gave impulse to the movement for Reform, and other
burnings, between 15.30 and 1540, helped it much.
Knox, teaching ])hilosophy at St. Andrews, advanced
in the boldness of his o])inions, and attacked corrup-
tions of the Church. Cardinal Beatoun being then
supreme at St. Andrews, Knox went to the south of
Scotland, and in 1542 declared himself a Protestant.
He was then sentenced by Beatoun as a heretic, and
expelled from the priestlLOod of the Roman Church.
In 1544 George Wishart returned to Scotland with
the commissioners who had been sent to negotiate
a treaty with Henry VIII. George Wishart, a
brother of the Laird of Pittarow, in Meams, had
been banished by the Bishop of Brechin for teaching
the Greek Testament in Montrose, and he had been
living for some yeai-s at Corpus Christi College, Cam-
bridge. One of his pupils there sent to John Fox,
who published it in the " Book of Martyrs," the
followincr
CHARACTER OF GEORGE WISHART.
About the yeare of our Lord, a thousand, five hundieth,
fortie and three, there was, in the universitie of Cambridge,
one Maister George Wischart, commonly called Maister
George of Bennet's C'oUedge, who was a man of taU stature,
polde headed,' and on the same a round French cap of the
best. Judged of melancholye complexion by his phisiognomie,
blacke kiii-ed, long bearded, comely of personage, weU spoken
after his country of Scotland, courteous, lowly, lovely, glad
to teach, desirous to leame, and was well trauelled ; hauing
on him for his habit or clothing, neuer but a manteU frise
gowne to the shoes, a blacke Millian fustain dublet, and
plaine blacke hosen, coarse new canuasse for his shirtes, and
white falling bandes and cuifes at the hands. All the which
apparell he gaue to the poore, some weekly, some monethly,
some quarterly, as hee liked, sauing his Frenche cappe, which
hee kept the whole yeare of my beeing with him. Hee was
a man modest, temperate, fearing God, hating couetousnesse :
for his eharitie had neuer ende, night, noone, nor daye. Hee
forbare one meale in three, one day in foure for the most
part, except something to comfort nature. Hee lay hard
upon a poufie of straw : coarse new canuasse sheetes, which,
when he changed, he gaue away. Hee had commonly by his
bedside a tubbe of water, in the which (his people being in
bed, the candle put out, and all quiet) hee used to bathe
himselfe, as I being very yong, being assured offen heard
him, and in one light night discerned him. Hee loved me
tenderly, and I him, for my age, as effectually. Hee taught
with great modestie and grauitie, so that some of his people
thought him seviere, and would haue slain him, but the Lord
was his defence. And hee, after due correction for their
malice, by good exhortation amended them, and hee went his
way. O that the Lord had left him to mee his poore boy,
that hee might haue finished that hee had begunne ! For in
his Eehgion hee was as you see heere in the rest of his life
when he went into Scotland with diuers of the Nobilitie,
that came for a treaty to King Henry the eight. His learn-
ing was no less sufficient than his desire, alwayes prest and
readie to do good in that hee was able, both in the house
priuately, and in the schoole pubHckly, professing and read-
ing divers authours.
If I should declare his loue to mee and all men, his eharitie
to the poore, in giuing, relieuing, caring, helping, prouiding,
yea infinitely studying how to do good unto all, and hurt to
none, I should sooner w;int words than just cause to com-
mend him.
All this I tcstifie \vith my whole heart and trueth of this
godly man. Hee that made all, gouemeth all, and shall
judge all, knoweth I speake the troth, that the simple may
be satisfied, the arrogant confounded, the hj-pocrite dis-
closed.
Tt\0(T "
Emekv Tylxey.
George Wishart preached Church Reform in Scot-
land, and had many adherents, none more devoted
than John Knox, who was then a tutor in the famUy
of Hugli Douglas of Langniddrie, in East Lothian,
who had become a Protestant. The son of a neigh-
bouring gentleman, John Cockburn of Ormiston,
was also taught by him. When Wishart visited
Lothian, Knox stood liy him at his preaching with
the sword that was carried to defend the preacher
1 Polde-Jieaded, with shaven head.
* TcAor, the end.
164
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
La.d. 1546
after an attempt had been made to assassinate him at
Dundee. When Wishart was arrested, Knox desired
to go with him, but his friend siiid, "Nay, return to
your bairnis " (las pupils) ; " ane is sufficient for a
sacrifice." Wishai-t was bvn'nt on the 28th of March,
151(3, Cardinal Beatoun looking on. Of Cardinal
Beatouu's use of extreme penalties against heresy it
was said that lie caused tiie Governor of Perth to
hang four honest men for eating a goose on Friday.
Beatoini's own life was conspired against, not with-
out jtrivity of the English court; his Castle of St.
Andrews was seized by siuprise ; and he was put to
death on the 2'Jth of May, two months after the
burning of George Wishart. It was at Easter, in
l'>i~, that John Knox with his pupils, the sons of
the Lairds of Langniddrie and Orniiston, went into
the Castle, which was held, alter Beatoun's assassi-
nation, by those who had seized it. They were
besieged by the Regent and helped by England.
Scottish Reformers joined them. Jolm Knox taught
his boys, and catechised them publicly in the Castle
as he had done at Langniddrie in a chapel of which
the ruin is still called John Knox's Kirk. But the
tegular preacher to the St. Andrews garrison was
John Rough, a reformer about five years younger
than Knox.' Knox was urged to share his work,
and refused to intrude on the regular ministrations.
But on a fixed day Rough preached a sermon on
the right of a congregation, however small, to elect
a minister, and the responsil>ility incurred by one
who had lit gifts if he refused the call. Then in
the name of the congregation he jmblicly turned to
Knox and said, " Brother, you shall not be oflended,
although I s])eak unto you tliat which I have in
charge, even froui all those that are here ])resent,
which is this : In the name of God and of His Son
Jesus Christ, and in the name of all that presently
call you l)y my mouth, I charge you that you refuse
not this holy vocation; Ijut as you tender the glory
of God, the increase of Christ's kingdom, the edifica-
tion of your brethren, and tlie comfort of me, whom
you understand well enough to be oppressed by the
multitude of labours, that you take the jiublic office
and charge of preaching, even as you look to avoid
God's heavy displeasure, and desire that He shall
multiply his graces unto you." Then the i)reacher,
turning to the congregation, said, " Was not this
your cliarge unto me I and do ye not approve this
vocation f" They all answered, " It was ; and we aj)-
))rove it." Knox, overwhelmed with emotion, Viurst
into tears and left the assembly. He shut himself
in his chamber, and records in his own History that
" his countenance and liehaviour from that day till
the day that he was compelled to present himself in
the pidjlic place of preaching did sufficiently declare
the grief and trouble of his heart ; for no man saw
any sign of mirth from him, neither had he pleasure
to accompany any man for many days together."
Among those reformers besieged in tlie Castle of
St. Andrews who called u]jon Knox to preach was one
' John Eougli w s burnt, by sentence of Bishop Bonner, on the
22ud of December, 1557.
who has been called the Poet of the Scottish Reforma-
tion, Sir David Lindsay of the Mount f and Lind-
say's latest and longest poem, "The Monarchie,"
finished in 1553, may have been suggested by a
sermon that Knox j)reached in this year 15-17,
against the Church of Rome. Dean John Annand
having in public controversy sheltered himself behind
authority of the Church, Knox rejjlied that autho-
rity of the Church depended on acceptance of her
as the lawful spouse of Christ. " For your Roman
Church," he said, " as it is now corrupted, wlierein
stands the hope of your victory, I no more doubt
that it is the synagogue of Satan, and the head
thereof, called the Pope, to be that Mail of Sin of
whom the Apostle speaks, than I doubt that Jesus
Christ sutt'ered by the procurement of the visible
church of Jerusalem. Yea, I ofi'er myself, by word
or writing, to prove the Roman Chui'ch this day
farther degenerate from the purity which was in
days of the Apostles than was the church of the
Jews from the ordinances given by Moses when
they consented to the innocent death of Jesus
Christ." Called upon to make good his challenge,
Knox preached next Sunday in the j)arish church,
and interpreting Daniel's Vision of Four Beasts as a
vision of the Four Empires of Babylon, Persia,
Greece, and Rome, he took for his text^ "The
Fourth Beast shall be the Fourth Kingdom upon
earth, which shall be diverse from all kingdoms, and
shall devour the whole earth, and shall tread it down
and break it in pieces. And the ten horns out of
this kingdom are ten kings that shall arise ; and
another shall lise after them, and he shall be diverse
from the first, and he shall subdue three kings. And
he shall s}ieak great words against the ilost High,
and shall wear out the saints of tlie Most High, and
think to change times and laws ; and they shall be
given into his hand until a time and times and the
dividing of time." This king John Knox identified
with him who is elsewhere called the Man of Sin,
the Antichrist, describing not a single person, but a
body of peo])le under a wicked headship held by a
succession of persons. He argued that the Papal lule
was Antichristian by describing it under the three
heads of life, doctrine, and law. Of the efi'ect of this
sermon Knox wrote himself in his History, " Some
said, ' Others hewed the blanches of Paj)istry, but he
striketh at the root to destroy the whole.' Othens
said, ' If the doctors and magistri nostri defend not
now the Pope and his authority, which in their own
presence is so manifestly impugned, the Devil have
my part of him and his laws both.' Others said,
' Mr. George Wishart spake never so plainly, and
yet he was burnt; even so will lie be in the end.'
Others said, ' Tlie tyranny of the Cardinal made not
his cause the better, neither yet the suffering of
God's servant made his cause the worse. And there-
fore we would counsel you and them to provide
better defences than fire and sword, for it may be
that always ye shall be disappointed. Men now
2 See the vohime of this Library illustrating "Shorter English
Poems," pages 145 — 151.
= Diniel vii. 23—25.
TO A.D. 1553.]
RELIGION.
165
have other eyes than they had then.' This answer
gave the Laird of Niddrie."
Lindsay's poem of " The Monarchic, a Dialogue
between E.xjierience and a Covirtier of the Miserable
Estate of the World," began with a religious prologue,
and was then divided into four books, which went
through the four great Monarchies, Assyrian, Pei'sian,
(irecian, Roman, to dwell especially upon that which
grew out of the last, namely, the Fifth, spiritual and
J'ajial, which, after the triumph over Antichrist, was
to be followed by the true Monarchy of Christ. These
lines from the .section of Lindsay's " Monarchic "
which treats of the Fifth or Papal Monarchy, touch
the self-seeking of
■ THE SPIRITUALTIE.
The seilye' Nun wyll thjiik gret schame.
Without scho callit he Madame ;
The pure Preist thj-nkis he gettis no rycht.
Be he nocht stylit lyke ane Knyeht,
And callit " sehir" afEore his name,
As "schir Thonvis" and " schir Wil3aine."
All Jlonkrye, 36 may heir and se,
Ar callit Denis," for dignite :
Quhowbeit his mother mylk the kow,
He man^ be callit Dene Androw,
Dene Peter, dene Paull, and dene Robart.
AVith Chi'ist thay tak ane painfull part.
With dowbyll clethyng frome the cald,
Eitand and drynkand quhen thay wald;
With curious countryng in the queir : ■*
God wait gj-f thay by * heuin full deir.
My lorde Abbot, rycht veneribyll.
Ay marschellit vpmoste at the tabyll ;
5Iy lord Byschope, moste reuerent.
Sett abufe Erlis, in Parliament ;
And Cardinalis, durynsj thare ryngis,^
Fallowis to Princis and to Kyngis :
The Pope exaltit, in honoiu-,
Abufe the potent Empriour.
The proude Persone,"^ I thjTik trewlye.
He leidis his h-fe ryeht lustelye ;
For quhy he hes none vther pyne,
Bot tak his teind, and spend it syne.^
Bot he is oblyste, be resoun.
To preche ontyll perrochioun : '
Thoucht thay want prechcing sewintene 3eir,
He wyll nocht want ane boll of beir.'"
[14 lines omitted.]
And, als, the Vicar, as I trow,
He wyll nocht faiU to tak ane kow.
And vmaist claith, thoucht babis thame ban,
Frome ane pure selye housbandman.
Quhen that he IWs for tyll de,
Haiffeing small bairnis two or thre.
And hes thre ky, withouttin mo.
The Vicare moist haue one of tho.
* Seil'je, simple.
- Deidis. Dene or Dan, tlie shortened form of Dominus, Master ; so
Dan Cliaucer and Dan Jolin Lydgate. "Sir" (schir) was for a long
time a common prefix to a clerical name, as with " Sir Topas the
curate" in "Twelfth Night."
* Accotint-keeping in the choir.
^ Ryngts, reigns.
8 Take his tithe and then spend it.
10 Beir, barley.
With the gay cloke that happis the bed,
Howbeit that he be purelye cled.
And gyf the wyfe de on the mome,
Thocht all the babis suld be forlorne,
The vther kow he deikw awaye.
With hir pure coit of rcploch graye.
And gyf, within tway dayis or thre,
The eldest chyild hiipnis to de,
Off the tbrid kow he wylbe sure.
Cuhen he hes all, than, vnder his cure.
And Father and Mother boith ar dede.
Beg mon the babis, without I'cmede :
Thay hauld the Corps at the kirk style ;
And thare it moste remane ane quhyle,
Tyll thay gett sufficient souerte
For thare kirk rj-cht and dewitc."
Than cuniis the Landis Lord, perfors,
And cleiks tyll h\-m ane herield hors.
Pure lauboiu'ars wald that law wer doun,
Quhilk neuer was fundit be resoun.
I hard thame say, onder confessioun.
That law is brother tyll Oppressioun.
At the end of Jruie, 1547, the Reformere in St.
Andrews Castle were, with the help of a French
fleet and French soldiers, be.set bj' land and sea. At
the end of Jidy they capitulated, and Knox became
a chained prisoner in a French galley, under con-
ditions that brought on dangertius fever. After
nineteen months of imprisonment he was set free, in
February, 1549. Edward VI. was then King of
England, and John Kno.x, welcomed by the Privy
Council, was at once sent to preach in Berwick.
In Aprd, 1550, Jolm Knox, cited to appear at
Newcastle, jtistified himself for preaching that the
mass, at its best, was an idolatrous substitute for
the Sacrament of the Lord's Sujiiier. In 1551 he
preached chiefly at Newca.stle, and in December of
that year he was made one of King Edward's six
chajjlains in ordinary, each paid with a salary of forty
pounds. Two of them were to be always present witli
the king, and four to preach elsewhere in appointed
districts. Knox's influence produced modifications
of the form of administering the Communion a.s set
forth in King Edward's fii-st service-book, modifica-
tions j)lanned to shut out the Roman doctrine of real
presence.
At Berwick, John Knox engaged himself to Miss
Marjorie Bowes, whom he married in 1553, after
the death of Edward VI., under whom his scru])les
as to the constitution of the English Church caused
him to refuse first the living of All Hallows, and
afterwards a bishopric. After the change of reign
Knox at fii-st hoped to live quietly in the north
of Encland, but it was soon made evident to him
3 Man, must.
^ God knows if they buy,
7 Persone, parson.
■ * Perrocliioun, parishioners.
n Lindsay here rei)eats what he had expressed between the two
parts of Lis " Satire of the Three Estates" in a tragi-comic . pisode
of a poor man ruined by church claim on his scanty goods after
each death in his household. Here the poor husbandman dies,
leaving widow and children. The church claims his counterpane
(upmost cloth) and one of his three cows. If next the widow dies,
another cow is taken. If tbe'-i the eldest of the orphans dies, the
church takes the last cow, tl e little ones must beg. aud the corpse
go uuburied until they can f id surety for burial fees.
166
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1554
that he must leave the country, and he crossed to
Dii-ii])e at the end of January, 1554. Returning to
Dieppe from time to time for news from his wife and
friends in Enij;land, John Knox pre.sently found a
friend in .John I'alvin — a man of his own age — in
Geneva. In August, 15.35, he used opportunity of
paying a \isit to his wife at Berwick, and went
quietly to Edinljurgh, where he preached to a small
gathering of Protestants, who then showed a growing
desire to be taught by him. He stirred some to enthu-
siasm, persuaded them against outward conformity to
Roman forms, and established formal separation. In
a hall at C'alder House in West Lothian hangs a
])icture of John Knox, with an inscrij)tion on the
back, saying that " the first sacrament of the supper
given in Scotland after the Reformation was dis-
pensed in this hall." The reference is to this visit to
Scotland at the close of 1555. Knox was invited by
Erskine of Dun to his home in Angus, and there for
a mouth ])reaclied daily to the chief people of the
neighbourhood. Then he went to Calder House,
where his host was Sir James Sandilands, Chief of
the Knights Hospitallers in Scotland. Among those
who attended Knox's j)reac]iings at Calder House
were Archibald, Lord Lome, afterwards Earl of
John Knox. {From a Portrait at Calder House. Engravedfor McCrie's
"Life of Knox," 1811.)
Argyle; John Lord Erskine, afterwai-ds Earl of
Mar ; and Lord James Stewart, afterwards Earl of
Murray. At the beginning of 155G Lockhart of Bar
and Cami>bell of Kineancleuch took Knox to Kyle,
where there were many advanced Reformei-s. Next
he was with the family of the Earl of Glencairn at
Finlayston. Then he was at Calder House again,
and then again at Dun, where many gentlemen
received the Sacrament sitting at the Lord's Table,
and entered into a Covenant binding themselves to
renoimce the Popish communion, and maintain the
jmre preacliing of the Gospel as tliey had opportunity.
Knox's preaching had liy this time stirred so many
that he was summoned before a convention of the
clergy that was to meet in the church of the Black
Friars (Dominicans) of Edinburgh on the 15th of
May, 1556. He went boldly and unexpectedly with
Erskine of Dun and other gentlemen, but, as the
Queen Regent discouraged action against him, the
citation was set aside on ground of informality, and
Kno.\, ma.ster of the situation, spent that 15th of
May and the ten following days, forenoon and after-
noon, in preaching to large audiences. In the midst
of the enthusiasm of this work, on the thii'd dav of
it, he wrote to his wife's mother at Berwick —
JOHN KNOX TO MRS. BOWES.
Bclovit mother, with my maist hartlic commendation in
the Lord Jesus, albeit I was fuUie purpoisit to have visitit
yow before this tyme, yet hath God laid impedimentis, whilk
I culd not avoyd. They are suehe as I dout not ar to his
R;lorie, and to the comfort of many heir. The trumpet blew
the aid sound thrie dayis together, till privat houssis of in-
different largcnes culd not conteane the voce of it. God, for
t'hiyst his Sonis sake, grant me to be myndful, that the
sobbis of my hai't hath not been in vane, nor neglcctit, in
the presence of his Majestie. ! sweet war the death that
suld follow sie fourtie dayis in Edinburgh, as heir I have
had thrie. Rejoise, mother ; the tyme of our deliverance ap-
proaeheth : for, as Sathan rageth, sa dois the grace of the
Halie Spreit aboimd, and daylie gevtth new teetimonyis of
the everlasting love of oiu'e mercifull Father. I can wrj't na
mair to you at this present. The grace of the Lord Jesus
rest with you. In haste — this Monunday — your gone, John
Knox.
While thus busy in Scotland, Knox was made one
of its jiastors by the English congregation at Geneva.
He accepted the call, and in the summer of 155G
went to Geneva with hi.s wife and
He left Ijohind him an oi'ganised
Church Reformers, and he gave
encouragement and support of
Pastoi-al Letter —
his wife's mother.
body of Scottisli
to them, for the
their faith, this
JOHN KNO.X TO HIS BRETHREN IN SCOTLAND.
-E/Vi?r hie had bene qiiyet amang thame,
"The comfort of the halie Qaist for salutatioun."
Not sa mekill to instruct you as to leave with you, dcarlie
belovit bretliren, sum testimony of my love, I have thought
gud to communicate with you, in theis few lynis, my weak
eonsall, how I wald ye suld behave yourselves in the middis
of this wickit gencratioun, tuiching the e.xcrcis of Godis
maist halie and sacred Word, without the whilk, nether sail
knawledge incres, godlines apeir, nor fervencie continew
amang yow. For as the "Word of God is the begN-ning of lyfe
spiritual], without whilk all flesche is dcid in Godis presence,
and the lanteme to our feit, without the bryghtnes whairof
all the posteritie of A dame doith walk in darknes; and as it
ia the fundament of faith, without the whilk na man under-
standeth tha gud will of God ; sa is it also the onlie organs
and instrument whilk God useth to strenthin the weak, to
comfort the afflietit, to reduce to mercie be repent.ance sie as
have sliddin, and finallie to preserve and keip the verie lyfe
of the saide in all assaltis and temptationis. And thairfoir yf
that ye desjT yoiu- knawledge to be ineressit, your faith to bo
confirmit, your consciencis to be quyetit and comfortit, or
finallie your saule to bo preservit in Ij-fe, lat your excrcis bo
TO A.D. 1556.]
RELIGION.
167
frequent in the law of your Lord God. Despys not that
precept whilk Moses (who, be his awn experience had learnit
what comfort lyeth hid within the Word of Uod) gave to the
Isralitis in theis wordis : " Thcis Wordis whilk I command the
this day sal he in thi hart, and thou sal exercis thi ehildren in
thame, thou sal talk of thame when thou art at home in thi
hous, and as thou walkest he the way, and when tliou lyis
doun, and when thou rysis up, and thou sail bind thame for
a sigue upon thi hand, and they salbe paperis of remembcr-
ance betwene thi eis, and thou sail wryt thame upon the
postis of thi hous and upon thi gatis." And Sloses in another
jilace commandis thame to " remember the law of the Lord
God, to do it, that it may bo weill unto thame, and with
thaii' chilib'en in the land whilk the Lord sail gif thame ;"
meanyng that, lyke as frequent memorie and repetitioun of
Godis preccptis is the middis whairby the feir of God, whilk
is the begynning of all wisdome and fiUcitie, is keipit recent
in mynd, sa is negligence and oblivioun of Godis henefitis
ressavit the first grie of defeotioun fra God.' Now j'f the Law,
whUk be reasone of our weaknes can wii-k nathing but wraith
and anger, was sa effectual! that, rememberit and rehersit of
jiurpois to do, it brought to the pepiU a corporall henedic-
tioun, what sail we say that the glorious Gospcll of Chryst
Jesus doith wirk, so that it be with reverence intreatit ? St.
I'aule callcth [it] the sueit odour of lyfe unto thois that suld
resaif lyfe, hoiTowing his simUitude fra odoriferous herbis or
precious unguementis, whais nature is, the mair thay be
touchit or moveit, to send forth thair odour mair pleasing and
delectabill. Even sic, deir brethren, is the bUssit evangell of
oure Lorde Jesus ; for the mair that it bo intreatit, the mau'
comfortable and mair plissant is it to sic as do heir, read, and
exercis the s;im. I am not ig-norant that, as the Isralitis
luthit manna becaus that everie day they saw and cat but ane
thing, sa sum thair be now a dayis (wha will not be haldin of
the worst sort) that efter anis reiding sum parceUis of the
Scriptm'es do convert thame selves altogether to prophane
autors and humane letteris, becaus that the varietie of
matteris thairin conteaj-nit doith bring with it a dayUe
delcctatiOLin, whair contrairwys within the simpill Scriptures
of God the perpetuall repititioun of a thing is fascheous and
werisomc. This tcmptatioun I confes may enter in Godis
verie elect for a tyme, and impossibUl is it that thairin they
continew to the end : for Godis electioun, besydis othir
evident signis, hath this ever J0}Tut with it that Godis elect
ar callit from ignorance (I spcik of thois that ar cumin to the
yeiris of knawledge) to sum taist and feilling of Godis
mercie ; of whilk thay ar never satisfeit in this lyfe, but fray
tyme to tjTiie thay hunger and thay thrist to eat the breid
that descendit fra the heavin, and to drink the watter that
.springeth into lyic everlasting — whilk thay can not do but be
the meanis of faith, and faith luketh ever to the will of God
revcalit he His Word, sa that faith hath baith her begynning
and continewancc be the Word of God : and sa I say that
impossihill it is that Godis chosin children can despys or
reiect the word of their salvatioun be any lang continewance,
nether yit loth of it to the end. Often it is that Godis elect
ar haldin in sic bondage and thraldome that they can not
have the breid of Ij-fe brokin unto thame, neither j-it libertie
to exercis thame selves in Godis halie Word : hut then doith
not Godis deir children loth, hut maist gredilie do thay
covet the fude of thair saidis ; then do thay accuse thair
former negligence ; then lament and bewaill thay the miser-
able afflictioun of thair brethren ; and than cry and call thay
in thair hartis (and opinlie whair thay dar) for frie passage to
'■ OWivion of God's benefits received the first step of defection from
God.
the Gospell. This hungir and thrist doith argue and prufe
the lyfe of thair sauUis. But gif sic men as having libertie
to reid and exercis thame selves in Godis Halie Scripture, and
yet do begin to weaiie becaus fra tyme to tymo they reid but
a - thing, I ask wh}' wearie thay not also everie day to di-ink
wyne, to eat bread, everie day to behald the bryghtnes of the
sone, and sa to use the rest of Godis creatures whilk everie
day do keip thair awn substance, cours, and nature ? thay sail
anser, I trust, becaus sic creatures have a strenth, as oft as
thay ar usit, to expeU hunger, and quenche thrist, to restoir
strenth, and to preserve the lyfe. miserabUl wreachis,
wha dar attribut mair power and strenth to the corruptible,
creatures in nurisching and preserving the mortall karcas,
than to the eternall Word of God in nurissment of the saule
whilk is immortall I To reasone with thair abominable un-
thankfulnes at this present it is not my purpois. But to
yow, deir brethi'ene, I wryt my knawledge and do speik my
conscience, that sa necessarie as meit and di-ink is to the pre-
servatioun of lyfe corporall, and so necessarie as the heit and
bryghtnes of the sone is to the quickuj-ng of the herbis and
to expell darknes, sa necessarie is also to lyfe everlasting, and
to the illuminatioun and lyght of the saule, the perpetuall
mcditatioun, exercis, and use of Godis Halie Word.
And thairfoir, deir hretlirene, yi that ye luke for a lyfe to
cum, of necessitie it is that ye exercise yourselves in the Buke
of the Lord your God. Lat na day slip over without sum
comfort ressavit fra the mouth of God. Opin your caris, and
Hie wiU speik evin pleasing thingis to your hart. Clois
not your eis, hut diligentlie lat thame behald what portioun
of substance is left to yow within your Fatheris testament.
Let yoiu' toungis learne to prais the gracious gudness of him
wha of his meir mercie hath callit you fra darknes to lyght
and fra deth to lyfe. Nether yit may ye do this sa quyetlie
that ye will admit na witnessis ; nay, brethren, ye are or-
dejTiit of God to reule and goveme your awn houssis in his
trew feir and according to his halie word. Within your awn
houssis, I say. In sum cassis ye ar hishopis and kingis, your
wyffis, childi-en and familie ar your bishoprik and charge ; of
you it sal he requyrit how cairfuUie and diligentlie ye have
instructit thame in Godis trew knawledge, how that ye have
studeit in thame to plant vertew and to repress vyce. And
thairfoir, I say, ye must mak thame partakeris in reading,
exhortation, and in making commoim prayeris, whilk I wald
in everie hous wer usit anis a day at leist. But aliove all
thingis, deir brethren, studie to practis in lyfe that wliilk the
Lord commandis, and than be ye assurit that ye sail never
heir nor reid the same without frute : and this mekill for the
exercises within your housis.
Considdering that St. Paul caUis the Congregatioun the
hodie of Chryst, whairof everie ane of us is a member, teach-
ing ws thairby that na member is of snfficience to susteane
and feide the self without the help and support of any uther,
I think it necessarie that for the conferrence of Scriptures,
assemblies of brother he had. The order thairin to be
observit is expressit be sanct Paule, and tliairfoir I ncid not
to use many wordis in that behalf : ordie willing that when
ye convene (whilk I wald wer anis a weik), that yoiu- begyn-
ning suld he fra confessing of your offences, and invocatioun
of the spreit of the Lord Jesus to assist yow in aU your
godlie intcrprysis ; and than lat sum place of Scripture be
planelie and distinctlie red, sa mekill as sal be thocht suffi-
cient for a day or tyme, whilk endit, gif any brother have
exhortatioun, interpretatioun, or dout, lat him not feir to
speik and move the same, sa that he do it with moderatioun,
either to edifie or be edifeit. And heirof I dout not but great
2 A, one.
168
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1553-
profit sail schoriHe enaew: for first be heiring, reidmg, and
conferring the Scriptures in the assemblie, the haiU bodie
of the Scriptures of God sal becum familiar, the judgement
and spreitis of men sal be tryit, thair paeence and modestie
salbe knawin, and liiiallio thair giftis and utterance saU
appeir. JIultipUcatioun of wordis, perplcxt mtcrpreta-
tioun, and wilfulnes in rcasonyng is to be avoydit at aU
tj-mes and in all places, but chieflie in the Congregatioun,
whnir natliing aucht to be respectit except the glorie of God,
and comfort or editicatioun of our brcthi-ene. Yf any thing
occur within the text, or yit arys in rcasonyng, whilk your
judgementis can not resolve, or capacities aprehend, let the
same be notit and put in wryt befoir ye depart the congre-
gatioun, that when God sail offir unto yow an)- interpreter
your doutis being notit and knawin may have the mair
expedit resolutioun, or els that when ye sail have occasion to
wryt to sic as with whome ye wald communicat your judge-
mentis, your letteris may signitie and declair your unfeaned
desyre that ye bane of God and of his trew knawledge, and
thay, I dout not, according to thair talentis, will indeuour
and bestow thair faithfull labors, [to] satisfie your godlie
petitionis. Of myself I will speak as I think, I will moir
gladlie spend xv houris in communicatting my judgment
with yow, in explanyng as God pleassis to oppin to me any
place of Scripture, then half ane hour in any other matter
besyd.
Farther, in reading the Scripture I wald ye suld joj-ne sum
bukis of the aid, and sum of the new Testament together, as
Genesis and ane of the evangelistis. Exodus with another, and
sa furth, euer ending sic bukis as ye beg)-n, (as the tjine will
suffer) for it sail greitly comfort yow to heir that harmony,
and wciltunit sang of the halie Spreit speiking in oure fatheria
frorae the begyning. It sal confirme yow in theis dangerous
and perrellous dayis, to behald the face of Christ Jesus his
loving spous and kirk, from Abell to him self, and frome him
self to this day, in all ageis to be ane. Be frequent in the
prophetis and in the epistillis of St. Paul, for the multitude
of mattens maist comfortable thairin conteanit requyreth
exercis and gud memorie. Lyke as your assemblis aucht to
beg}Ti with confessioun and invocatioun of Godis halie Spreit,
sa wald I that thay wer never finissit without thanksgiving
and commoun prayeris for princes, ruleris, and maiestratis,
for the hbertie and frie passage of Chrj-stis evangell, for the
comfort and delyvcrance of our afflictit brethrene in all places
now persecutit, but maist crucUie now within the realme of
France and Ingland, and for sic uther thingis, as the Spreit of
the Lord Jesus sal teache unto yow to be profitable ether to
your selues, or yit to your brethren whairsoeuer thay be. If
this, or better, deir brethrene, I sail heir that ye exercis your
selues, than will I prais God for your great obedience, as for
thame that not onlie haue ressavit the Word of Grace with
gladues, but that also with cair and diligence do keip the
same as a treasure and Jewell maist precious. And becaus
that I can not expect that ye will do the contrarie, at this
present I wiU vse na threatenyngis, for my gud hoip is,
that ye sail walk as the sonis of lyght in the middis of this
wickit gencratioun, that ye salbe as starris in the nyght
ceassone, wha yit ar not ehangeit into darknes, that ye salbe
as wheit amangis the kokill, and yit that ye sail not change
your nature whilk ye haue ressavit be grace, through the
feUowschip and participatioun whilk we haue with the Lord
Jesus in his bodie and blud. And finallie, that 5'e salbe of
the novmber of the prvdent virginis, daylie renewing your
lampis with oyle, as ye that pacientlie abyd the glorious
aparitioun and cuming of the Lord Jesus, whais omnipotent
Spreit rule and instruct, illuminat and comfort your hartis
and myndis in all assaltis, now euer. Amen. The grace of
the Lord Jesus rest with yow. Remember my weaknes in
your daylie prayeris, the 7 of July, 15o7. 1
Your brother vnfeaned, Johne Knox.
During the next two years Knox was quietly at
home in Gene\a, with Calvin for a friend. Calviii'.s
sjnritual rule in Geneva made John Knox speak of
the jjlace as " the most perfect school of Christ that
ever was in tlie earth since the days of the Apostles.
In other ])laces," he said, " I confess Clu-ist to be
truly jireached ; but manners and religion to be so
sincerely reformed, I ha\e not yet seen in any other
])lace beside." In April, 1557, two friends from
p]dinburgh brought to John Knox at Geneva letters
from the Earl of Glencairn, and from Lords Lome,
Erskine, and James Stewart, inviting him, in the
name of the brethren, to return to Scotland and aid
them in maintaining and advancing the Reformation
there. Calvin advised him that he could not refuse
the call. He obeyed it; resigned his jitistoral care
at Geneva ; and in October was at Dieppe upon
liis way to Scotland, when he was met liy letters,
telling him that the greater number of the Scottish
reformers were become faint-hearted, and seemed to
have repented of their invitation. He then sent off
the most earnest exhortations that his letters could
convey, and awaited in France the answers to them,
preaching at Dieppe for a time as colleague to the
pastor of the newly-formed Protestant congregation
there. The expected answers from Scotland did not
come. He himself felt that his appearance there
would at that time stir up tumult and lead to blood-
shed, and he asked himself, " What comfort canst thou
have to see the one half of the people rise up against
the other, yea, to jeopard the one to murder and
destroy the other T' Knox wrote from Dieppe on the
1st of December, 1557, a letter to the Scottish Pro-
testants in general, and on the 1 7th, anotlier to the
Scottish Protestant nobility, and in the beginning of
the year 1558 he returned to Geneva. Tliere he
WAS among the ]iersons engaged in j)reparing that
English version of the Bible pi'oduced in Geneva at
the expense of John Bodley, and known afterwards
as the Geneva Bible, and he published liis " First
Blast of the Trumpet against the Monstrous Regi-
ment' of Women." He meant, he said, that the
trumpet should be blown three times, and at the
third time he would declare his name, which was ;.
not upon the title-page of the " First Blast," though . 1
manifest in every page. There was no doubt as to
the authorship. Knox saw the part of Christendom
he cared for subject to three Marys, who maintained
the cause of Rome in their religion — Mary of Guise,
Regent of Scotland ; Mary Queen of Scots ; and
Mary Queen of England. This led him to argue
that " to promote a woman to bear rule, superioi'ity,
dominion, or empire above any realm, nation, or city,
is repugnant to nature, contumely to God, a thing
most contrarious to His revealed will and approved
ordinance, and finally it is the subversion of good
order, of all ecpiity and justice." Then Mary of
England died, Elizabeth came to the throne, and she
too was a woman.
Regiment, rn'e, goverTuucnt.
RELIGION.
169
Mart Tudor. (Uiuji P,i... i.-^. from the Portrait bj Holbein.)
CHAPTER VI.
The Reign of Elizabeth. — John Knox, John
Fox, John Jewel, Matthew Parker, Ed.mund
Grindal, John Aylmer, and Others. — a.d.
1558 TO A.D. 1579.
April, 1558, Maiy Queen of
Scots, aged sixteen, was married
to Francis, tlie French Danpliin.
On the 1 7th of November, Eliza-
beth, aged twenty-five, became
Queen of Enghmd, and the Es-
tates of Scotland, meeting in that
month, gave to the French Dau-
jihin the title of King Consort.
The Dauphin in 1559 became
King of France as Francis II.,
and the young queen's uncles,
the two brotliers, Charles, C'ar-
dinal of Lorraine, and Francis,
Duke of Guise, became rulers
in France — one of financial and
civil affairs, the other of the
army. Their principles of civil
and religious liberty were, as set
forth tiy the Duke of Guise, that
" all Truth must proceed from
Tradition, all Justice and all
Authority from the Crown."
Francis and Mary styled them-'
selves King and Queen of Eng-
land, and Scotland, and Ireland ;
and it was determined to join
Scotland to France if Mary died
Preachers Hoer-Glass childless in her husband's life-
asdstami' ^j,jjg j^ August of the same
year, 1559, Philip II. of Spain ordered the enforce-
' The honr-gIas3, once familiar neiglibour to the pulpit, measured
86
ment in the Netherlands of a severe edict for the
extirpation of all sects and heresies. Elizabeth liad
dangerous neighboure, and a people divided against
itself She meant to uijhold the Reformation. She
desired to establish harmony within the . English
Church by taking a middle way between exti-eme
opinions, and forcing all within the Church to follow
that course. In the first year of her reign appeared
an Act for the Uniformity of Common Prayer, which
restored, with some slight modification, the forms
of church service established in the fifth and sixth
years of the reign of Edward YL, required the use
of them in all churches, and made it i)unishable to
"preach, declare, or speak anything in the derogation
or depraving " of the Book of Common Pra_yer. For
one .such ofi'ence a minister was to forfeit his clerical
income for a year, and be imjmsoned for six months
without bail ; for the second offence he was to be
deprived of his church offices and imprisoned for a
year, or for life upon a third conviction. An
offender not beneficed was to suffer a year's im-
jirisonment for the fii-st offence, and for the second
offence imprisonment for life. Of 9,400 clergy there
were not quite two hundred who refused to hold
their livings upon these conditions.
jNleanwiiile John Knox — whose Trumpet Blast
against the Government of Women closed England
against him, when he would gladly have sought the
goodwill of Elizabeth — landed at Leith and preached
m Perth against idolatry. A fervent zeal opposed
the force of the Queen Regent. The Reforming
Lords, who had been withdrawing from the churches
to form congi-egations of their own, and were called
Lords of tlie Congregation, entered into a second
covenant for mutual sujiport and defence. The
Queen Regent was defied. Jlonasteries were de-
stroyed, the Abbey of Scone was burnt, Edinburgh
came into the keeping of the Reformers, and at
Stirling tlie Lords of the Congi-egation signed a
third covenant binding themselves not to treat with
the Queen Regent separately. When the Dauj)hin
became Francis II. of France, French soldiers landed
at Leith, with a legate from the Pope and doctors
from the Sorbonne. Elizabeth aided the Scots quietly
with English money. In October, 1559, the Queen
Regent in Scotland", INIary of Guise, was deprived of
hei°authority by " us the Nobility and Commons of
the Protestaiits of the Church of Scotland." Eliza-
beth, for security against a French conquest^ of
Scotland, gave more active aid, and in April, 15G0,
the English were besieging Leith. The Lords of
the Congregation then signed a fourth covenant,
l)inding themselves to pursue their object to the last
extremity. Then the Queen Regent died. Peace was
made between England and France in the affairs of
Scotland, and proclaimed at the Edinburgh market-
cross in July, 1560. The Estates of Scotland met
on the 1st of Augu.st, and embodied on the 17th the
opmions of John Knox in a Confession of Faith for
the due length of the sermon hy the running of Its sand. An over-
fervent preacher might sometimes turn it when the sand w.is r\m,
and invite his hearers to " take another glass." The hour-glass
above flgureil was in the church of St. Allan's. Wood Street, London,
and the sketch of it is taken from Allen's " History of Lambeth."
170
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
Ta.d. 1558
tlie Scottish Church. On the 24th they annulled
former acts for the maintenance of the Roman
Church, abolished the Pope's jurisdiction, and made
it criminal to say a mass or hear a mass.' And so
the Scottish Reformation was accomplished.
The short reign of Francis II. of France, hu.sband
of young Mary Queen of Scots, was ended by his
death in December, 1.560, and he was succeeded by
a boy of eleven, Charles IX. The queen-mother,
Catherine of Medicis, made friendly advances to Eliza-
beth, who said to the young king's ambassador,
" Tell your master that war is only tit for poor de\-ils
of princes who have their fortunes to make, and not
for the sovereigns of two great countries like France
and England."
The change of rule in England brought home from
Switzerland and Germany many Reformers who had
been in exile under Mary. John Fox did not return
immediately. His age was forty-one in the year of
Elizabeth's accession, and he was then living
with a wife and two children at Basle, earning his
bi'ead as a coi'rector of the press. He was born at
Boston, in Lincolnshire, educated at Oxford, and
expelled in 1.5-t.5 on accusation of heresy. He was
then tutor, first to the children of Sir Thomas Lucy,
at Charlcote, near Stratford-on-Avon, and next to
the children of the Earl of Surrey after their father's
execution. Their grandfather, the Duke of Norfolk,
John Fox. (From )
itnd Mimiiinents," ed. 1641.)
who had shared his son's peril, and narrowly escaped
sharing his fate, became John Fox's friend, and
protected him at the beginning of the reign of Mary.
But soon Fox escaped to Basle, and introduced him-
1 Mass. The name that had come to be used in the Church of
Borne for the Communion Service was not rejected iu the First
Prayer Book of Edward VI., where that service is headed "The
Supper of the Lord, aud the Holy Communion, commonly called the
Mass." But the name was soon restricted to the communion service
of the Church of Rome. The Latin "Missa" first referred only to
the close of servica aud the dismissal of the con-iregation, thtn it
was apphed to the church service generally, then to a special part
self to the printer Oporinus by showing him the
first sketch of his "History of the Church." This,
written in Latin, was jniblished in 15.34. After the
death of Mary, his friends, Edmund Grindal and
others, returneil to England, whence they supplied Fox
with ample material from the records of the bishops'
courts. An enlarged version of his History, still
in Latin, came from the press of Oporinus in August,
1559. Then Fox came home, and lived at first near
Aldgate, at the manor place of the Duke of Norfolk,
constantly busied over the production of the first
English edition of his famous book, which appeared
in folio in 1503 as "Acts and Monuments of these
latter and perilous Days touching matters of the
Church, wherein are coin])rehended and described
the great Persecutions and horrible Troubles that
have been wrought and practised by the Romish
Prelates, especially in this realm of England and
Scotland, from the Year of Our Lord a Thousand,
unto the Time now Present. Gathered and collected
according to the true copies and writings eertificatory,
as well, of the jiarties themselves that sufiered, as
also out of the Bishops' Registers which were the
doers thereof" It is the book of a devout and
zealous partisan, adorned with pictiu'es designed to
impress more vividly on readers' minds the reason.s
for repudiation of tiie Church of Rome. Fox con-
demned the Roman Church for persecution to the
death, and honestly endeavoured to prevent, as far
as he could, infliction of the penalty of death by the
Reformed Church upon those whom he accounted
heretics. He busied himself much to save the lives
of two Anabaptists, and sought without success to"
do away with punishment by death in matters of
religion. But in the conflict of opinion he was an
eager combatant, not an impartial judge, deejjly con-
vinced of the truth of his own cause, and showing
what is to be found also sometimes iu a writer of
more genius, the inability to know how men as
honest and as earnest as himself could hold the
opposite opinion.
A few records of the suffering of Englishmen
in Spain were added by Fox to his narrative of
English persecutions, the chief of them being this
account of the burning of an English mei-chant, at
an auto da Je, at Seville, on the 20th of Decem-
ber, 1560.
THE CRUELL HANDLYNO AND BURNYNC, OF NICHOLAS
BURTON, ENIJLISHiMAN AND MERCHANT IS SPAVNE.
Forasmuch as in our former booke of Actes and Jlonu-
mentes mention was made of the miirtyrdome of Nicholas
Burton, I thought here also not to omit y' same, the story
bej-ng such as is not unworthy to be known, as well for
the profitable example of his singular constaneie, as also for
the notyng of the e.xtieme bearing and cruell rauenyng
of those Catholicke Inquisitours of Spayne, who under the
pretensed visour of religion, do nothing but seeke their
owne private gayne and commoditio, with crafty defcndyng
and spoylyng of other men's goodes. as by tlio notyng of
this story may appeare.
The fift day of the moneth of Noucmber, about the yeare
of our Lord God 1.560, this Nicholas Burton, citizen some-
tyme of London, aud marchaunt, dwelling in the parish of
^
i
TO A D. 156.1.]
EELIGION.
171
little Saint Bartlemewe, peaceably and quietly following his
tiaffike in the trade of marehaundise, and beyng in the citie
uf Cadiz, in the partes of Andolazia in Spaj-ne, there came
iiito liis lodgyng a Judas (or, as they terme them) a Familiar
nf the Fathers of the Inquisition, who, in askyng for the
sayd Nicholas Bui-ton, fayned that hee had a letter to deliuer
tu his o^-ne handes : by whiche meanes he spake with him
immediatly. And hauing no letter to deliuer to him, then
tlie sayd Promoter or Familiar, at the motion of the Deuill his
master, whose messenger he was, inuented another lye, and
~.iyd that he would take ladyng for Loudon in such shyppes
I- the sayd Nicholas Burton had fray ted to lade, if he would
t any: whiche was partly to knowe where hee laded his
.-Mjdes, that they miyht attiiche them, and chiefly to detract
the tyme untill the Alguisiel, or Sergeant of the sayd Inqui-
Triana,^ where the sayd fathers of the Inquisition proceeded
aga\Tist him secretly accordyng to theii' accustomable eruell
tjTanny, that neuer after he could be suffered to wiite or
speake to any of his nation : so that to this day it is un-
knowen who was his accuser.
Afterward the xx. day of December, in the foresayd yeare,
they brought the sayd Nicholas Burton, with a great number
of other prisoners, for professjmg the true Christian religion,
into the citie of Siuill, to a place where the sayd Inquisition
sat in judgement, which they call the Awto," with a canuas
coate, whereon in diuers partes was paynted the figure of an
houge deuill torment yng a soule in a flame of fire, and on his
hekd a coppyng tanke of the same worke.
His toung was forced out of his mouth, with a clouen sticke
fastened vppon it, that hee shoulde not vtter his conscience
BcKNING OF AN ENGLISH MERCHANT IN SEVILLE. {From Foa-'s "Acts and M'Miuiinn'^," t:d, liiTG.)
sition, might come and apprehend the body of the Siiyd
Xioholas Burton: whiche they did incontinently.
Who then well perceauyng that they were not able
to burden nor charge him that he had written, spoken, or
done any thyng there in that countre)- agaynst the ecclesias-
ticull or temporall lawes of the same realmc, boldly asked
them what they had to lay to his charge, that they did so
arrest hym, and bad them to declare the cause, and hee would
nimswere them. Notwithstanding, thej- aunswered nothj-ng,
but commaunded him with eruell and threatnyng woordes to
hold his peace, and not to speake one word to them.
And so they caiyed him to the eruell and filthy common
prison of the same towne of Cadiz, where he remained in
yrons xuij. dayes amongest theeues.
All whiche tyme he so instructed the poore prisoners in
the Worde of God, accordj-ng to the good talent whiche God
had geuen him in that behalfe, and also in the Spanish toung
to vtter the .same, that in short space ho had well reclajTned
sundry of these superstitious and ignorant Spanyardes to
embrace the Woorde of God, and to reiect theii- popish
traditions.
A\1iiche bej-ng knowen vnto the officers of the Inquisition,
they conueyed him, laden with yrons, from thence to a citie
called Siuill, into a more crueU and straighter prison called
and fayth to the people, and so lice was set with an olhir
Englishe man of Soutliamiitou. and diuers others condemned
men for religion, as well Frenchmen, as Spanyardes, vppon
a scaffold ouer agaynst the sayd Inquisition, where their
sentences and judgeinentes were read and pronounced against
them.
And immediatly after the sayd sentences geuen, they were
all caryed from thence to the place of execution without the
* In the low suburb of Seville culled Triana, on the opposite bank
of the Guadalqniver.
2 Jiid'jement irhich the]i call the Awto. Auto (Latin ''actus") was
origiually a Spani.h forensic term, and meant a decree or judgment
of a court. The Auto dn F^ I Act of Faith) was a public piol delivery
by the Court of the Inquisition, when acquittals and convictions of
those accused of crimes ayrainst religrion were read, and those ad-
judged to death were delivered to the secular power by which
srnt*»nce was immediately executed. The "Auto" ended with the
delivery of the judgments ; but as, in days of extreme pers* cution,
bumiug of heretics immediately followed, and they were carried to
the place of execution with much public cert-mony, in yellow dresses
painted over with suggestions of the pains of heli, to an-est attention
and strike doubters dumb with fear, the tenn Auto da FtJ was
commonly associated with these public executions. Besides the
general Auto da Fe. there was the private Auto, the AutSVo. or
little Act, and the delivery of judgment in a single case, the /I nf'i
singular.
172
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.l. 1558
eitie, whore tliey moat cruelly burufd him, for whoso con-
stant faytli God be prayscil.
This Nicholas Burton, by the w-ay, and in the flames of
fire, made so chearef ull a countenaunce, enibracyng death
with all pacience and gladnesse, that the tormentours and
enemyes which stode by sayd that the deuill had his soule
before he came to the fire, and therefore they sayd his senses
of feelj'ng wore past him.
It happened that after the arrest of this Nicholas Burton
aforesayd, imnicdiatly all the goodes and marchaundise whiche
hee brought with him into Spayne by way of trafficke, were,
accordyng to their common vsage, seised and taken into the
Sequester; among the which they also rolled by much
that appertained to an. other Englishe marchaunt, wherewith
he was credited as factour ; wherof , so soone as newes was
brought to the marchaunt, as well of the imprisonment of
his factour as of the arrest made vppon his goodes, he sent
his atturney into Spayne, with authoritie from him to make
cla\me to his goodes, & to demaunde them, whose name was
John Fronton, citizen of Bristow.
^V^len his atturney was landed at Siuill, and had showed
all his letters and writynges to the holy house, requyring
them that such goodes might bee redeliuered into his pos-
session, aunswere was made him that he must sue by bill, and
rctayne an aduocate (but all was doubtlesse to delay him), and
tliey, forsooth, of curtesie assigned hym one to frame his
supplication for him, and other such billes of petition as he
had to exhibite into their holy court, demandyng for eche
bill viij. rials, albeit they stoode hym in no more stead than
if he had put vp none at all. And for the space of three or
iiij. nionethes this fellow missed not twise a day, attendyng
euery mornyng and afternoone at the Inquisitours Palace,
prayng vnto them vppon his knees for his dispatch, but
specially to the Byshop of Tarracon, who was at that very
time chief in the Inquisition at .Siuill, that he of his absolute
authoritie would commaundo restitution to be made thereof ;
but the booty was so good and so great that it was very hard
to come by it agayne.
At the length, after he had spent whole iiij. monethes in
sutes and requestes, and also to no purpose, he receaued this
aunswere from them, that he must shew better euidence and
bryng more sufficient certificates out of England for proofe
of his matter then those whiche lie had already presented to
the Court ; whereupon the partie forthwith posted to London,
and with all speede returned to Siuill agayne with more
ample and large letters, testimonials, and certificates, accord-
yng to their request, and exhibited them to the Court.
Notwithstandyng, the Inquisitours still shifted him off, ex-
cusing themselues by lacke of leasure, and for that they were
occupyed in greater and more weighty affaires, and with
such aunsweres delayed him other foUre monethes after.
At the last, when the par-tie had wellnygh spent all his
money, and therefore sued the more earnestly for his dis-
patch, they referred the matter wholy to the Byshoppe ; of
whom, when he repayred unto him, he had this aunswere :
that for him sclfe hee knew what hee had to do : howbeit hee
was but one man, and the determination of the matter apper-
tained vnto the other Commissioners as wcU as vnto him :
and thus, by postyng and passj-ng it from one to an other,
the partie could obtaine no ende of his sute. Yet for his
importanitie sake, they were resolued to dispatehe him, but
it was on this sorte : one of the Inquisitours called Gasco, a
man very well experienced in these practices, willed the
partie to resorte vnto him after dinner.
The fellow being glad to heare these newes, and supposing
that his goodes should be re.storeil vnto him, and that he wa's
called in for that purpose, to talke with the other that was in
prison, to conferre with him about their aceomptcs; — the
rather thorough a little misunderstandyug, hearyng the In-
quisitor cast out a word, that it should be ueedefuU for hym
to talke with the prisoner ; — and beyng therevpon more
then halfe persuaded that at the length they meut good fayth,
did so, and rei^ayred thether about the euening. Immediatly
vpon his commyug, tlie jayler was foorthwith charged with
hym, to sliut hym vp close in such a certain prison, where
they appointed him.
The partie hopyng at the first that hee had bene called for
about some other matter, and seyug him selfe, contrary to
his expectation, cast into a darke dungeon, perceaued at the
length that the world went with him farre otherwise then
he supposed it would liaue done.
But within two or three dayes after, he was brought forth
into the Court, where he began to demaunde his goodes ; and
because it was a deuise that well serued their turne, without
any more circumstaunce they had hym say his Auc Mtir'ut.
The partie began & sayd it after this maner: Aue Maria
gratia plena JJomintts tecuiii^ boiedli'ta tu in mulicribns^ it
benedict us fruetus vent r is tui lesus. Amen.
The same was written worde by worde as he spake it ;
and without any more talke of claymyng his goodes because
it was booteles, they commaunde hym to prison agayne, and
enter an action agaynst hym as an hereticke, forasmuch aa
he did not say liis Aue Marin after the Koniish fashion, but
ended it very suspiciously, for he should haue added, niore-
ouer, iSaneta Maria, mater I)ri, ura'pro nobis peceatoribus, by
abbreuiatyng whereof it was euidcnt enough (sayd they) that
he did not allow the mediation of saintes.
Thus they picked a quarell to detaine him in prison a
longer season, and afterwardes brought hym forth into
their stage, disguised after their manor, where sentence was -
geuen that he should lose all the goodes whiche he sued for,
though they were not his owne, and besides this, suffer a
yeares imprisonment.
In August, 1.561, Mary Queen of Scots, aged
nineteen, widow of Francis II. of France, returned
to Scotland, and heard mass on the first Sunday
after her arrival. In the same year John Bodley
obtained in Enghmd a se\en years' patent for the
version of the Bible which had been prejiared and
printed at his cost in Geneva, and was known as the
Geneva Bible. Few men of anj' creed were at that
time free from faith in the use of force and violence
for the advancement of the highe.st truth they knew. .
In its preface and sliort annotations the Geneva
Bible was not without trace of desire to hew Agag in
pieces before the Lord in GOgal. Some shadow of
this form of zeal was even upon that society estab-
lished by the influence of Calvin at Geneva, which
Kno.x held to be more truly Christian than anything
that had Ijeen seen elsewhere since the days of the
Apostles.
Jean Cauvin, or John Calvin, was bom at Noyon
in 1.509. At the age of twenty-three, after a liljeral
education at Paris, Orleans, and Bourges, he had
completely adopted such reformed opinions as pre-
vented liim from entering the ministry within the
Church of Rome, for which lie was to have been
trained. He found a friend in Margaret of Navarre,
and while still young produced in Latin, at Basle,
a first outline, developed afterwards more fully,
of the principles of his faith, and of the faith
TO A.L». 1564. J
RELIGION.
173
it' luMiiy whom hLs genius made afterwards his
liillowers, tlie Institutes of the Christian Religion.
ic was in 1.536, when twenty-se\'en years old, that
< alviu tii-st settled at Geneva, but all his i-eforms
had not acceptance then, and in 1.338 he was eoni-
|itlled to leave. In l-S-tl he was recalled, and then
ij^rablished at Geneva that " yoke of Christ " by
which he sought to enforce Christian life, as well
a> Christian doctrine. A girl was whipped for
-iiiguig a song to a psalm-tune ; tlu'ee children were
piuiished for waiting outside the church to eat cakes
ill sermon-time ; a child was beheaded for having
struck her parents; and a lad of sixteen was con-
ilfinned to death for only threatening to strike his
mother. The unreformed Church had its ecclesias-
tical courts, which took cognisance of offences against
minor morals, and their summonei"s made them
'i'casion of much petty oppression and cruelty.
< alvin also was following traditional customs when
lit- sought unity of faith by burning the learned
Spaniard, ^lichael Servetus, in October, 1.5.33, for
I'lasphemy and heresy, because he was a Christian
wlio could not accejjt the doctrine of the Trinity.
< 'alvin died in 1564, leaving his mind strongly im-
pressed on the Reformed Church of England, and yet
I more strongly, througli John Kno.x, on the Reformed
I (.'hurch of Scotland. In Elizabeth's reign, Calvin's
interpretation of the doctrines of the ChrLstiau Faith
\\ as that commonly accepted by the English clei-gy.
Ill 1561, while Calvin was still living, his body of
j Chin-ch Doctrine, the " Institutio Christianje Re-
I ligionis," was published in a translation by Thom;us
Norton, who was about the same time joint author
\> ith Thomas Sackville of " Gorboduc," the fu-st
English tragedv. " The Institution of Christian
Religion, written in Latine by M. John Calvine, trans-
lated into Engli.sh according to the author's last
edition," by Thoma.s Norton, apjieared as a solid
folio in 1561; a new edition of it was required in
1562, and other editions in 1572, 1574, 1580, and
1582. Calvin's " In.stitutes," in its tiret edition, was
a short book, but it grew with his life. Every point
of doctrine newly treated by him, in sermons or
otherwise, had its treatment presently incorporated
with the " Institutes," so that the whole body of
Calvin's religious opinions had come at last to lje
therein contained.
In 1562, inider the regency in France of Catherine
of Medieis, the Huguenots rose in civil war after the
massacre of Va.s.sy. In March, 1563, there was
peace between Catherine and the Huguenots by the
edict of Amboise. In that year Queen Elizabeth
authorised the issue of a second " Book of Homilies,"
to secure uniformity of teaching in the English
Church. She liad already adopted, in 1.559, the
"Book of Homilies" first issued in 1547. In the
year 1564 — year of tlie birth of Shakespeare — the
queen's Archbishop of Canterbury, ^Matthew Parker,
began the jn-eparation of a Bible which was to secure
the utmost accuracy of text by direct reference to
the Helirew and Greek. So many bishops were
among the scholare engaged in producing it, that it
was called the Bishops' Bible. This was published
I in 1.568, the year in which the seven years' patent
for the printing of the Geneva Bible expired, and it
became from that date the authorised vereion for use
of the Church of England, until 1611, the date of the
fii-st edition of the version authorised by James I.
Matthew Parker, born at Norwich in 1504, was
educated at Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, of
which he became master in 1544. He was chaplain
to Anne Boleyn, to Henry VIII. and to Edward VI.,
and took such part in the early education of Eliza-
Iteth as won her heartiest goodwill, and gave him
great influence over her in after life. Mary deprived
him of his preferments, but Elizabeth made him,
somewhat against his will, her first Archbishop of
Canterbury, called him for his lightness of- body,
" her little archbishop," and glaclly took counsel
with him for his weight of mind. Matthew Parker
was very learned, and partly out of reverence for the
past, partly out of desii-e to take a middle way of
peace, he was unwilling to make those great changes
in the outward form of worehip which were sought by
the most imcompromismg of those who had put away
the Church of Rome. In country jilaces the great
majority of the people were still Roman Catholic,
and everywhere the less educated would associate
familiar forms of worehip with their religious life.
Archbishop Parker and the Queen desired to change
only what they accounted evil in itself, becaiise asso-
ciated with false doctrines or practices that had crept
into the Church ; and the Archbishop sought to show
that the Reformed Church of England was not, as to
essentials, a new Church, but the old restored. He
encouraged research into Churcli Antiquities; himself
published in 1572 a Latin liook on the Antiquities
of the British Church and Privileges of the Church
of Canterbury; and desired to promote a study of
Fii-st English, that Ln ^Ifric's sermons Englishmen
might find record of opinions held by the first Church
of England, which were not those of the Church of
Rome, but those to which the Church of England
in Elizabeth's day had reverted.
Bishop Jewel worked with Parker in the same
direction. John Jewel, born in Devonshire in 1522,
was educated at Merton and Corpus Christi Colleges,
Oxford. While a student he was lamed for life by
an illness. When he had taken his B.A. degi-ee he
lived by teaching, and was for seven years reader of
Latin and Rhetoric in his college. In 1544 he com-
menced M.A. In 1548 Peter Martyr was called
from Gei-many to teach divinity at Oxford, and
Jewel became one of his foremost Mends and fol-
lowei-s. In 1551 John Jewel became Bachelor of
Divinity, and took a poor living at Sunningwell,
near O.xford, to which, lame as he was, he walked
to preach once a fortnight. At Mary's accession
Jewel was expelled from his college as a follower of
Peter Martyr, and a Lutheran. The last words of
his last lecture, given in Latin, to his college were
these : —
In my last Lectiire.s I have (said he) imitated tho custom
of famished men, who when they see their meat likely to
he .suddenlv and unexpectedly snatched from them, devour
it with the gi'eater haste and greediness. For whereas I
intended thus to put an end to my Lectures, and perceived
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[a.d. 1558
that I was like forthwith to he silenced, I made no scruple
to entertain you (contrary to my former usage) with much
unpleasant and ill dressed discourse, because I see I have
incurred the displeasure and hatred of some ; but whether
deser\-edly or no, I shall leave to their consideration, for I am
persuaded that those who have driven me hence would not
suffer me to live anywhere if it were in their power. But
as for nie, I willingly yield to the times, and if they can
derive to themselves any satisfaction from my calamity, I
would not hinder them from it. But as Aristides, when he
went into exile and forsook his country, prayed that they
might never more think of him ; so I beseech God to grant
the same to my fellow-collegians, and what can they wish for
more ? Pardon me, my hearers, if grief has seized me, being
to be torn against my will from that place where I have
passed the first part of my life, where I have lived pleasantly,
and been in some honour and employment. But why do
I thus delay to put an end to my misery by one word ?
Woo is me, that (as with my extreme sorrow and deep feeling
I at last speak it) I must say farewell my studies, farewell to
these beloved houses, farewell thou pleasant seat of learning,
farewell to the most delightful intercourse with you, farewell
young men, farewell lads, farewell fellows, farewell brethren,
farewell ye beloved as my eyes, farewell all, farewell."
But lie did not yet leave Oxford. Another college
sheltered Jewel, and the University, making him
public orator, required him to wiite its congratu-
lations to the queen ujion her proposed change of the
establislied religion. He was driven also, by threat
of deatli, to sign doctrines in which he did not
believe, whereby he lo.st his friends and did not
satisfy his enemies. Tlien he fled on foot, and was
JOHS Jewel. (From the FoHraii before Strype's " Life of Jewel
found lying exhausted on the road by a friend, who
took him to London ; and thence, in 1.5.54, he crossed
to Frankfort. There he from the pulpit, with ex-
treme emotion,, publicly repudiated his subscription
to the doctrines he denied. " It was my abject and
cowardly mind," he said, " and ftvint heart that made
my weak liand to commit tliis wi-ckedness." His
old fiiend Teter Martyr presently drew Jewel from
Frankfort to Strasburg, where he took him into his
house as constant companion and helper. Jewel
transcribed for tlie printer his friend's Commentary
on the Book of Judges, and read the Fatliers with
him, especially St. Augustine. Edmund Grindal
was among the English refugees with whom Jewel
formed closer friendship at Strasburg. In 1556
Peter Martyr was called to the professorship of
Helirew at Zurich, and went thither, taking Jewel
witli liim as a part of his own household. After the
death of Mary, John Jewel returned to England,
where Elizabeth soon made him Bishop of Salis-
bury. In 1562 Bishop Jewel publislied in Latin,
for readers througliout Europe, his " Apology of
the Church of England." It was issued by the
queen's authority as a Confession of the Faith of the
Reformed Church of England, showing where and
why it had parted from those Roman doctrines
wliicli it accounted to be lieresies, and how they
had arisen in the early Church. Thus Bishop Jewel
wrote in his "Apology" upon
THE CHARGE OF HERESY.
Though St. Jerome will allow no man to be patient under
the suspicion of heresy, yet we will not behave ourselves
neither sourly nor irreverently, nor angerly, though he ought
not to be esteemed either sharp or abusive who speaks
nothing but the truth ; no, we will leave that sort of oratory
to our adversaries, who think whatsoever they speak, although
it be never so sharp and reproachful, modest and apposite
when it is applied to us, and they are as little concerned
Whether it be true or false ; but we, who defend nothing but
the truth, have no need of such base arts.
Now if we make it appear, and that not obscurely and
craftily, but bnna fide, before God, truly, ingeniously, clearly
and perspicuously, that we teach the most holy Gospel of
God, and that the ancient Fathers and the whole primitii'e
Church are on our side, and that we have not without just
cause left them, and returned to the Apostles and tlie
ancient Catholic Fathers ; and if they, who so much detest
our doctrine, aud pride themselves in the name of Catholics,
shall apparently see, that all those pretences of antiquity, of
wliich they so immoderately glory, belong not to them, and
that there is more strength in our cause than they thought
there was ; then we hope that none of them will be so careless
of his salvation, but he will at some time or other bethink
himself which side he ought to join with. Certainly, if a
man be not of a hard and obdurate heart, and resolved not to
hear, he can never repent the having once considered our
defence, and the attending what is said by us, and whether it
be agreeable or no to the Christian Religion.
For whereas they call us heretics, that is so dreadful a
crime, that except it be apparently seen, except it be palpable,
and as it were to be felt with our hands and fingers, it ought
not to be easily believed that a Christian is or can be guilty
of it ; for heresy is a renunciation of our salvation, a rejection
of the grace of God, and a departure from the body and spirit
of Christ. But this was ever the custom and usage of them
and of (heir forefathers, that if any presumed to complain of
their errors, and desired the reformation of religion, they
condemned them forthwith for heretics, as innovators and
factious men. Christ himself was called a Samaritan, for no
other cause, but for that they thought He had made a defec-
tion to a new religion or heresy. And St. Paul the Apostle
being called in question, was accused of heresy, to which he
replied: After the u'lnj lehieli theij call heresy, so worship I the
TO A.D. 1532.]
RELIGION.
175
I i, III of my fathers, believing all things which are written in the
L'lw, and in the Prophets.
In short, all that religion which we Christians now profess,
ill the beginning of Chi-istianity, was by the pagans called a
srct or heresy; with these words they filled the ears of
jrinces, that when out of prejudice they had once possessed
•iheir minds with an aversion for us, and that they were per-
suaded that whatever we said was factious and heretical,
they might be diverted from reflecting upon the thing itself,
ur ever hearing or considering the cause. But by how much
I lie greater and more grievous this crime is, so much the
i.ither ought it to be proved by clear and strong arguments,
■ specially at this time, because men begin now-a-days a little
to distrust the fidelity of their oracles, and to inquii-e into
their doctrine with much greater industry than has heretofore
1 II en employed ; for the people of Gtod in this age are quite of
. mother disposition than they were heretofore, when all the
ii ■^ponses and dictates of the Popes of Rome were taken for
I iospel, and all religion depended upon their authority ; the
Holy Scriptures and the writings of the Apostles and Prophets
are everywhere now to be had, out of which all the true and
catholic doctrine may be proved, and all heresies may be
refuted.
But seeing they can produce nothing out of the Scriptures
au'ainst us, it is very injurious and cruel to call us heretics,
who have not revolted from Christ, nor from the Apostles, nor
from the Prophets. By the sword of Scripture Chi'ist over-
came the devil when Ho was tempted by him ; with these
weapons everything that exalteth itself against God is to be
brought down and dispersed, for all Scripture (saith St. Paul)
(■^ given by inspiration of God, and is profitable for doctrine, for
>' proof for correction, for instruction, that the man of God mag
be perfect and throiightg furnished unto all good icorks ; and ac-
cordingly, the holy fathers have never fought against heretics
mth any other arms than what the Scriptures have afforded
them. St. Augustine, when he disputed against Petilianus, a
Donatist heretic, useth these words, let not (saith he) these
teords be heard, '• Isag,'^ or "Thou sageat," but rather let us sag,
" Thus saith the Lord" Let us seek the church there, let us judge
of our cause by that. And St. Jerome saith, Let whatever is pre-
tended to be delivered by the Apostles, and cannot be proved bg the
testimong of the written Word, be struck ivith the sword of God.
And St. Ambrose to the Emperor Gratian, Let the Scriptures
(saith he), let the Apostles, let the Prophets, let Christ be inter-
rogated. The Catholic Fathers and bishops of those times
did not doubt but our religion might be sufficiently proved by
Scripture ; nor durst they esteem any man an heretic, whose
error they could not perspicuously and clearly prove such by
Scripture. And as to us, we may truly reply with St. Paul,
After the way which theg call Heresg, so worship I the God of
mg fathers, believing all things which are written in the Law and
the Prophets, or the writings of the Apostles.
Jolin Aylmer, who was born in 1521, and educated
at Cambridfre, was tliat tutor to Lady Jane Grey
wlio is named in a passage often quoted from Roger
Ascham's " Schoolmaster : " —
One example, whether love or feare doth worke more in a
child, for vertue and learning, I will gladlie report : which
male be hard with some pleasure, and folowed with more
profit. Before I went into Germanie, I came to Brodegate
in Lecetershire, to take my leave of that noble Ladie Jane
Grey, to whom I was exceding moch bcholdinge. Hir
parentes, the Duke and the Duches, with all the houshoidd,
Gentlemen and Gentlewomen, were huntinge in the Parke :
I founde her, in her Chamber, readinge Phjedon Platonis in
Greeke, and that with as moch delite, as som jentleman wold
read a merie tale in Bocase. After salutation, and dewtie
done, with som other taulke, I asked hir, whie she wold leese
soch pastime in the Parke ': smiling she answered me : I wisse,
all theii sporte in the Parke is but a shadoe to that pleasure,
that I find in Plato : Alas, good folke, they never felt, what
trewe pleasure ment. And howe came you, iladame, quoth
I, to this deepe knowledge of pleasure, and what did chieflie
allure you unto it : seinge, not many women, but verie fewe
men have atteined thereunto ? I will tell you, quoth she,
and tell you a troth, which perchance ye will mervell at.
Une of the greatest benefites, that ever God gave me, is, that
he sent me so sharpe and severe Parentes, and so jentle a
scholemaster. For when I am in presence either of father or
mother, whether I speake, kepe silence, sit, stand, or go,
eate, drinke, be merie, or sad, he sowyng, plaiyng, dauncing,
or doing anie thing els, I must do it, as it were, in soch
■weight, mesure, and number, even so pcrfitelie, as God made
the world, or else I am so sharplie taunted, so cruellie
threatened, yea presentlie some tjTnes, with pinches, nippes,
and bobbes, and other waics, which I will not name, for the
honor I beare them, so without measure misordered, that I
thinke my selfe in hell, till tj-me cum, that I must go to 51.
Elmer, who teacheth me so jentlie, so pleasantlie, with soch
faire allui'ementes to learning, that I thinke all the tyme
nothing, whiles I am with him. And when I am called from
him, I fall on weeping, because, what soever I do els, but
learning, is ful of grief, trouble, feare, and whole misliking
unto me : And thus my booke, hath bene so moch my
pleasure, and bringeth dayly to me more pleasure and more,
that in respect of it, aU other pleasures, in very deede, be but
trifles and troubles unto me. I remember this talke gladly,
both bicause it is so worthy of memorie, and bicause also, it
was the last talke that ever I had, and the last t}Tne, that
ever I saw that noble and worthie Ladie.
In 1553 Aylmer was Archdeacon of Stowe, and
he was one of the Protestant exiles at Zurich in the
reign of JMary. It was he who after the accession of
Elizabeth published at Strasburg a loyal reply to
John Knox's " First Blast of the Trumpet against
the Monstrous Regiment of Women." His age then,
was thirty-eight.
The title of Aylmer's book is "An Harborowe
for Faithfull and Trewe Subiectes, agaynst the late
blowne Blaste, concerninge the Gouerment of
Weraen, wherin be confuted all such reasons as a
straunger of late made in that behalfe, with a breife
Exhortation to obedience. Anno M.D.lix. Pro-
verbes 32. Many daughters there be, that gather
riches together : but thou goest above them all. As
for favour it is deceitfuU, and bewtie is a vaine
thing : but a woman that feareth the Lord : she is
worthie to be praysed. Geve her of the fruit of her
handes, and let her owne workes prayse her in the
gate. — At Strasborowe the 26 of Ajn-il."
Aylmer begins with reasoning upon the power of
God, who by weak ir.sti-uments has declared his
glory; who had enabled one poor friar, Liither,
without armies at his back, to cast out of the temple
of God Antichrist, armed and guarded with the
power of Emperors, Kings, Princes, and Laws.
And as we began with the matter of women, so to return
thither again with the example of a wonian. Was not Queen
Anne, the mother of this blessed wonran, the chief, first, and
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CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[i,D. 1559
only cause of banisliing this beast of Rome, with aU his
ben^-arly baggage'' \\'as there ever in England a greater
feaTwrouglit by anv man tlian this was by a woman-' I take
not from King Henrv the due praise of broaching it, nor
from that lamb of God, Kiug Edward, the finishing and
perfeutin- of that was begun, though I give her her due
eon,m,<.ulation. I know that that blessed martyr of God,
Tliomas Cranmer, Bishop of Canterbury, did much travail m
it and furthered it : but if God had not given Queen Anne
favour in the sight of the king, as he gave to Esther in the
Bi..ht of Nebuchadnezzar, Hainan and his company, the
Cardinal,' Winchester,'^ Jlore, Pvochester^ and others, would
soon have triced up Mordecai, with all the rest that leaned to
that side. Wherefore, though many deserved much praise
for the helping forward of it, yet the crop and root was the
queen, which God had endued with wisdom that she could,
and given her the mind that she would, do it. Seeing then
that in all ages God hath wrought his most wonderful works
bv most base means, and showed his strength by weakness,
his wisdom by foolishness, and his exceeding gresitness by
man's e.xceeding feebleness, what doubt we of this power
wlien we lack policy, or mistrust his help which hath wrouglit
such wonders 'i ^^^lo is placed above Him, saith Job, to
teach Him what He should do ? Or who can say to Him,
Thou hast not done justly ? He sendeth a woman by birth ;
we may not refuse her by violence. He stablisheth her by
law ; we may not remove her by wrong.
Of tlie arguments of the " First Blast " Aylmer
says presently —
The arguments, as I remember, he these, not many in
number, but handsomely amplified.
First, that whatsoever is against nature, the same in a
Commonwealth is not tolerable. But the government of a
woman is against nature. Ergo, it is not tolerable.
The second. Whatsoever is forbidden by Scripture is not
lawful. But a woman to rule is forbidden by Scripture. Ergo,
it is not lawful.
The third. If a woman may not speak in the Congregation,
much less may she rule. But she may not speak in the Con-
gregation. Ergo, she may not rule.
The fourth. What the Civil Eaw forbiddeth, that is not
lawful. But the rule of a woman the CivU Law forbiddeth.
Ergo, it is not lawful.
The fifth. Seeing there followeth more inconvenience of
the rule of women than of men's government, therefore it is
not to be borne in a Commonwealth.
The last. The Doctors and Canonists forbid it. Ergo, it
cannot be good.
These (as I remember) be the props that hold up this
matter, or rather the pickaxes to undermine the State.
John Aylmer takes each of these sj'llogisms in
turn, and shows logically where it fails. Tlien
having knocked down all the props, and lilunted all
the pickaxes, he calls upon each loyal Englishman to
support and establish their queen, and cheerfully to
pay their taxes.
If thou mistrust the misspending of that thou givest and
she taketh, thou art too foolish. For could she that in all
her life hath lived upon her own so humbly without pride, so
moderately without prodigality, so maidenly without pomp,
now find in her heart in unnecessary charges to lash out
' Tlie Cordiiiol, Wolsey. 2 ITiTichcsfcr, Gardiner.
* Kochfisfer, John Fislier.
tliine ? Wilt thou have a taste, how prodigal or pompous
she is ? I pray thee, then, mark these two points which I
know to be true, although in tliat sex they be strange. Seven
years after her father's death she had so proud a stomach, and
so much delighted in glistening gases of the world, in gay
apparel, rich attire, and precious jewels, that in aU that time
she never looked upon those that her father left her but once,
and that against her will. And after so gloried in them, that
there came never gold nor stone upon her head till her sister
enforced her to lay off her former sobei-ness and bear her
company in her glistening gains. Yea, and then she so ware
it as every man might see, that her body carried that which
her heart misUked. I am sure that her maidenly apparel
which she used in King Edward's time made the noblemen's
daughters and wives to be ashamed to be di-est and painted
like peacocks, being more moved with her most virtuous
example than with all that ever Paul and Peter wrote touch-
ing that matter. Yea, this I know, that a great man's
daughter, receiving from Lady Mary before she was Queen,
goodly apparel of tinsel, cloth of gold and velvet, laid on with
parcliment lace of gold, when she Siiw it said, " What shall I
do with it?" "Marry," said a gentlewoman, "wear it."
"Nay," quoth she, "that were a shame, to follow my lady
Mary against God's Word, and leave my lady Elizabeth
which followeth God's Word." Sec that good example is oft
times much better than a great deal of preaching. And this
all men know, that when all the ladies bent up the attire of
the Scottish skits at the coming in of the Scottish Queen,
to go unbridled, and with their hair frounced, curled, and
double cm-led, she altered nothing, but to the shame of them
all kept her old maidenly shamefastncss. Another thing to
declare how little she setteth by this w-orldly pomp, is this,
that in all her time she never meddled with money but
against her will, but seemed to set so little by it, that she
thought to touch it was to defile her pure hands consecratid
to tui-n over good books, to lift unto God in prayer, and to
deal alms to the poor. Are not these arguments sufficient to
make thee think of her that she will neither call to thee before
she hath need, nor misspend it vainly after she hath it f ■*
♦ This passage recalls the acconnt given of Elizaheth as a yoimg
princess by her tutor, Roger Ascham, in a private letter, written in
April, 1550, to his German friend, John Sturm, which certainly
expressed the writer's private mind : —
" There are many honourable ladies now who surpass Thomas
More's dauirhters iu all kinds of learniutr ; hut anions: all of them the
brightest star is my ilUistrions Lady Elizaheth, the kind's sister ; so
that I have no difficulty in finding subject for writing iu her praise,
but only in setting bounds to what I write. I will write nothing
however which I have not myself witnessed. She had me for her tutor
in Greek and Latin two years ; but now I am released from tlie Court
and restored to my old literary leisure here, where by her beneficence
I hold an honest place in this University. It is difficult to say
whether the gifts of nature or of foiiune are most to he admired in
that illustrious lady. The praise which Aristotle gives wholly centres
in her — beauty, stature, pnidence, and iudnsti-y. She has just passed
her sixteenth bii-thday, and shows such diguit.v and gentleness as are
wonderful at her age and in her rank. Her study of tnie religion and
leai-uing is most energetic. Her mind has no womanly weakness, her
perseverance is equal to that of a man. and her memory long keeps
what it quickly picks up. She talks French and Italian as well as
English : she has often talked to me readily and well in Latin, and
moderately so in Greek. When she writes Greek and Latin, nothing
is more beautiful than her hand-writing. She is as much delighted
with music as she is skilful in the art. In adommeiit she is elegant
rather than showy, and by her con* empt of gold and head-dresses, she
reminds one of Hippolyte rather than of Phsedra. She read with me
almost all Cicero, and great part of Titus Livius ; for she drew all her
knowledge of Latin from those two authors. She used to give the
morning of the day to the Greok Testament, and afterwards read
select orations of Isocrates and the tragedies of Sophocles. For I
thought that from those sources she might gain purity of style, and
her mind derive instruction that would be of value I0 her to meet
TO i.D. 1572.]
RELIGION.
177
111 1562 Jolm Aylmer was made Archdeacon of
Lincoln, and iu l."J7<5 Bishop of London, on the
transhttion of Sandvs to the see of York.
John Atlmer.
From the Portrait prejixeA to his Life hij Strijpe.
Here let us recall a few more of those events which
occupied the minds of Englishmen, and quickened
energies of thought and feeling during the fii-st
twenty-one years of EPizabeth's reign. In 1.564 —
year of the birth of Shakespeare — Catherine de'
Medici was visited by her daughter Elizabeth, who
m 1-560 had been married, aged fifteen, to Philip of
Spain, aged thirty-four. The Duke of Alva came
with the Spanish Queen Elizabeth, and was heard
exhorting Catherine to strike down some leaders of
the Huguenots, saying to her, '• One head of salmon
is worth ten thousand heads of frogs." In 31arch of
this year 1564, Cardinal Granvella was obliged by
a league of nobles of the Netherlands, headed by
^Villiam of Orange and Counts Egniont and Horn, to
ivtire from the Goverimient. In July, 1565, Mary
every contmgency of life. To these I added Saint Cyprian and
Melimchthon's Common Places, &c., as best suited, after the Holy
Scriptiires, to teach her the foundations of religion, together with
elegant language and sound doctrine. Whatever she reads she at
once perceives any word that has a doubtful or curious meaning.
She cannot endure those foohsh imitators of Erasmus, who have tied
up the Latin tongue in those wi-etched fetters of proverbs. She likes
a style that gi"ows out of the subject ; chaste because it is suitable,
and beautiful because it is clear. She verj- much admires modest
metaphors, and comparisons of conti-aries well put together and
contrasting felicitously with one another. Her ears are so well
practised in discriminating all these things, and her judgment is so
good, th."t in all Greet, Latin, and English composition, there is
nothing so loose on the one hand or so concise on the other, which
she does not immediately attend to, and either reject with disgust or
receive with pleasure, as the case may be. I am not inventing
anything, my dear Sturm ; it is all true : but I only seek to give you
an outline of her excellence, and whilst doing so, I have been
pleased to recall to my mind the dear memorj- of my most illustrious
lady
St. John's C^'Uege. Cambridge, Api-il 4, 1550."
Queen of Scots married her cousin, Henry Stuart,
Lord Darnley. In October, 1565, Philip of Spain
wrote to require enforcement in the Netherlands of
edicts against heresy. The nobles required JIargaret
of Panua, who was then Regent, to publish the
letter. A storm of feeling was aroused. Thousands
began to emigi-ate to England, and set up their looms
among us. In 1566 Philip conceded to the Nether-
lands moderation of the law against heretics by
substitution of hanging for burning. In March of
that year occurred Darnley 's murder of Rizzio, and
on the ] 9th of June the birth of Mary Stuart's son
James, ilterwards James I. of England.
On the 22nd of August, 1567, the Duke of Alva
entered Brussels. He then occupied other towns of
the Netherlands, established the Council of Tiuuults
— otherwise known a.s the CouncU of Blood. Mar-
garet of Parma letired from the Regency, and Alva
became Governor-General of the Netherlands. At
the same time the second Huguenot civil war broke
out iu France. In this year, on the night of Sundaj',
the 9th of Febiuary, Lord Darnley, the husband of
3[ary Queen of Scots, was destroyed by a gunpowder
plot. In Jlay, the Earl of Bothwell was divorced
from a wife to whom he had been married only four-
teen months, and married to Queen !Mary. Before
the end of July, Mary had been conqielled by her
own subjects to sign her abdication in favour of her
son James, and appomt the Eail of Murray — friend
of Knox and the foremost Reformers — Regent
during his minority. INIary escaped from Lochleven,
raised her friends, was defeated at Langside, and
turned to England : thus she became in 1568, and
remained for eighteen years, a state prisoner to
England, regarded hj the Roman Catholics abroad
as future Queen of England if their cause should
triumph. In February, 1568, a sentence of the
Inquisition condemned to death all the inhabitants
of the Netherlands except some who were named,
and Alva estimated at eight hundred the executions
after Passion week. In June this year, also. Counts
Egniont and Horn were executed. There was pause
of ci\-il war in France between Roman Catholics
and Huguenots, but in 1569 it was resumed, and in
that year young Walter Raleigh went to France,
and joined the Huguenots as volunteer. It was
in 1569 that Edmund Spenser went to Cambridge,
entering Pembroke College as a sizar, and in that
vear also he tirst appeared in priut, as contributor of
^•el•se to a religious miscellany by one of the refugees
from persecution in the Netherlands, Jolm Van der
Noodt. Contribution to such a book shows cleiu'ly
what was the bent of young Spenser's mind, and
how he looked at the coui-se of events. The book
was called — " A Theatre wherein be represented as
well the Miseries and Calamities which follow the
Voluptuous Worldling, as also the great Joys imd
Pleasures which the Faithful do enjoy. An Argu-
ment both Profitable and Delectable to all that
sincerely love the Word of God."
In August, 1570, a treaty was made in France
which conceded much to the Huguenots. In the
spring of 1571 a Synod of the French Reformed
Church was held, by the King's permission, at
Rochelle. On the 24th of August, 1572, the French
87
178
CASSELUS LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d, 1572
Huguenots were struck down l)y the Massacre of
St. Bartholomew.
In the Netherlands, in 1573, there was the siege
of Protestant Haarlem, when three hundred women
■were among the defenders of the town. It ended
with a treat-lierous slaughter of two or three tliou-
sand. Tliree hundred were drowned in the lake,
tied hack to back. In December of that year (157.3),
the Duke of Alva was recalled by his own wish,
and lioasted on his way home that he had caused
16,000 Netlierlanders to be executed. Heaving of
such events was jjart of the education of Edmund
Spenser while at Cambridge. He graduated as B.A.
in 1.573, then being about twenty years old. In 1575
Edmund Grindal — then aged fifty-six — became Arch-
bisliop of Canterbury.
Edmirad Grindal was born in 1519, at St. Bees,
in Cumberland, was educated at Cambridge, and was
in 1550 chaplain to Bishop Ridley. In 1553 he was
among those Reformers who fled from persecutions
in England, and he went to Strasburg. At the
accession of Elizabeth he returned, and lie assisted
in the drawing up of the new liturgy. In 1559 he
was made Master of Pembroke Hall, and in tlie
Edmund Grindal.
From the Poytrait he/ore hi^ Life hij Sirijpe,
same year Bishop of London. In 1570 he became
ArchbLshop of York, and in 1575 Archbishop of
Canterbury. While maintaining generally the dis-
cipline established in the Reformed Church of
England, Edmund Grindal agreed in some respects
with those whom Matthew Parker is said to have
first called Puritans and Precisians for what he
regarded as their over-jjrecise reference of everytliing
— whetlier fit subject of revelation or not — to' Bible
warrant. Edmund Grhidal laid great stress on the
imijortance of a faithful study and interpretation of
God's Word. As Bishop of London, as Archbisliop
of York, and now as head of the Church of England,
he used what authority lie might to encourage a fonu
of meeting called " prophesying," from tlie schools of
the prophets spoken of in tlie Gld Testament, for
the interpretation of the Word of God. The clergy
in a district met to discuss difficulties with one
another, that they might not be taken by surprise
when these were propounded to them by parishioners,
and tliat they might be trained to bring knowledge
and thought to their j)reaching. Queen Elizabeth
objected to the prophesyings as examples of division
of opinion among the clergy, encouragements to a
bold cpiestioning among the laity, and destructive of ;
a Unity of Doctrine, by which she hoped to secure ■
peace in the Church. The Books of Homilies pro- i
vided sermons enough, she thought, and the use of j
them caused a uniformity of preaching that would j
give small scope for heresies of private judgment. <
She therefore bade the new Archbishop issue letters ^
to tlie clergy to forbid the "prophesyings," and I'estrain (
excess of zeal for original pi'eachiug. Gi'iudal replied
that his conscience would not suffer liirn to do this,
and he was therefore, in 1577, secpiestered from the
exei'cise of his office. This is the letter that caused
his disgrace : —
LETTER TO THE QUEEN,
Conecminff suppressing the Frophesics, and abridging tlie
]f limber of Frcachers.
With most humUe remembrance of my bounden duty to
yoiu- Itlajesty : It may please the same to bo advcrtised,,]j
that the speeches which it hath pleased you to deliver untal
mo, when I last attended on your Highness, conccminM
abridging the number of preachers, and the utter suppression
of all le.irned exercises and conferences among the ministers
of tlie Cliurch, allowed by their bishops and ordinaries, have
exceedingly dismayed and discomforted me. Not so much
for tliat the said speeches sounded very hardly against mine
own person, being but one particular niun, and not much to be
accounted of ; but most of all for that the same might both
tend to the public hann of God's Church, whereof your Iligi-
ncss ought to bo iiutriein,^ and also to the heavy bui'dcning of
yom- own conscience before God, if they should be put in strict
execution. It was not your Majesty's pleasure then, the time
not serving thereto, to hear mo at any length concerning the
said two matters then propounded : I thought it therefore
my duty by writing to declare some part of my mind unto
your Highness ; beseeching the same with patience to read
over this that I now send, written with mine own rude
scribbling h.ind ; which scemeth to be of more length than it
is indeed: for I say with Ambrose, Scribo manii mca, quod
sola tega^.'^
Madam,
First of all, I must and will, during my lite,_ confess, that
there is no earthly creature to whom I am so much bounden
as to your Majesty; who, notwithstanding mine insufficiency 1
(which commendeth your grace the more), hath bestowedfl
upon me so many and so great benefits as I could never hope]
for, much less deserve. I do therefore, according to myjj
most bounden duty, with aU thanksgiving, bear towaidsij
)-our Majesty a most humble, faithful, and thankful heart :
and that knoweth He which knoweth all things. Xcither dc
I ever intend to offend your Majesty in any thing, imless, ir
1 Nurse.
^ " I write %vith iiiiue own hand, what you alone may read."
TO A.D. 1577.]
EELIGION.
179
the cause of God or of His Church, by necessity of office, and
burden of conscience, I shall thereunto bo enforced ; and in
those cases (which I trust in God shall never be urged upon
me), if I should use dissembling or flattering silence, I should
very evil requite your Majesty's so many and so great
benefits ; for in so doing, both you might fall into peril
towards God, and I myself into endless damnation.
The prophet Ezekiel tenneth us, ministers of the Church,
tpeciilntorcs,' and not nclii/atorcs." If we see the sword coming
by reason of any offence towards God, we must of necessity
give warning, or else the blood of those that perish will be
required at our hands. I beseech youi' Majesty thus to think
of me, that I do not conceive any evil opinion of you,
although I cannot assent to those two articles then pro-
pounded. I do with the rest of all j'our good subjects
acknowledge, that we have received by your government
many and most excellent benefits, as, among others, freedom
of conscience, suppressing of idolatry, sincere preaching of
the Gospel, with public peace and tranquillity. I am also
persuaded, that even in these matters, which you seem now
to urge, )'our zeal and meaning is to the best. The like
hath happened to many of the best princes that ever were :
yet have they not refused afterwards to be better informed
out of God's Word. King David, so much commended in the
ScriptiU'es, had no evil meaning when he commanded the
people to be numbered : he thought it good policy, in so
doing, to understand what forces he had in store to employ
against God's enemies, if occasion so requii-ed. Yet after-
ward (saith the Scripture) his own heart stroke him ; and
God, by the prophet Gad, reprehended him for his oifencc,
and gave him, for the same, choice of three very hard
penances, that is to .say, famine, war, and pestilence. Good
,ling Ezcchias, of courtesy and good aft'ection, showed to the
ambassadors of the king of Babylon the treasures of the
house of God and of his own house ; and yet the prophet
Esay told him that God was- therewith displeased. The
godly king Jehoshaphat, for making league with his neigh-
bour king Achab (of like good meaning, no doubt), was
likewise reprehended by Jehu the prophet in this fonn of
words : Impio prcrbcs auxiUiim, ct his ipii odcrunt Domiitum
amicitia jiiiii/cris, &c.^ Ambrose, wiiting to Theodcsius the
emperor, useth these words : A'ot'j pktatem tiiam erga Deum,
Imitatem in homines; obliijatus sum benefeiis tuis* And yet,
for all that, the same Ambrose doth not forbear in the same
epistle earnestly to persuade the said emperor to revoke an
ungodly edict, wherein he had commanded a godly bishop
to re-edify a Jewish synagogue, puUcd down by the Christian
peoiilo.
And so, to come to the present case : I may very well use
unto yoiu- Highness the words of Ambrose above written,
Novl pictttlem tuam, &c. But surely I cannot marvel enough,
how this strange opinion should once enter into your mind,
that it should be good for the Church to have few preachers.
Alas, Madam ! is the Scripture more plain in any one
thing, tlian that the Gospel of Christ should be plentifully
preached ; and that plenty of labourers should be sent into
the Lord's harvest ; which, being great and large, standeth
in need, not of a few, but many workmen ?
There was appointed to the building of Salomon's material
temple an hundred and fifty thousand artificers and labourers,
besides three thousand three hundred overseers ; and shall
1 'Watchmen. (See Ezekiel iii. 17— 19.) » pi^tterers.
* " Shoulflest thou help the ungodly, and love them that hate the
Lord ? '■ (2 Chronicles xix. 2.)
* " I know thy i>iety towards God. thy kindness towards men ; I
em hounden by thy benefits," &c. (S. Ambros. Epist. xiii.)
we think that a few preachers may suffice to build and edify
the spiritual temple of Christ, which is his Church ?
Christ, when he sendeth forth his apostles, saith unto
them, Itc, pr<cdicate ci-anr/eliiim oiiini ercaturce? But all God's
creatures cannot be instructed in the Gospel, unless all
possible means be used to have multitude of preachers and
teachers to preach unto them.
Sermo Christi inhahiht in vohis opiihntc,^ saith St. Paul to
the C'olossians; and to Timothy, riecdica scrmoiiem, iiista
tempcstire, iiitempesfive, artjue, iiicrepa, cxhortiireJ AVhich
things cannot bo done without often and much preaching.
To this agrecth the practice of Christ's apostles. Qui eon-
stituebant per siiignlas ecclesias presbyteros.^ St. Paul like-
wise, writing to Titus, writeth thus, Hiijiis rei gratia rcliqui
te ill Crcta, ut quce desunt pergas corrigere, et constituas oppi-
datiin prcsbyteros.^ And afterwards dcseribeth, how the said
prcsbyteri were to be qualified ; not such as wo are some-
times compelled to admit by mere necessity (unless we should
leave a great number of churches utterly desolate), but such
indeed as were able to exhort ^jer saitam doctriitam, ct contra-
dicentes coiiriiiccre.^" And in this place I beseech your Majesty
to note one thing necessary to be noted ; which is this, If the
Holy Ghost prescribe expressly that preachers should be
placed oppidatim,^^ how can it well be thought that three or
four preachers may suffice for a shire ?
Public and continual preaching of God's "Word is the
ordinary mean and instrument of the salvation of mankind.
St. Paul calleth it the ministry of reconeiUation of man unto
God. By preaching of God's "Word the glory of God is
enlarged, faith is noui-ished, and charity increased. By it
the ignorant is instructed, the negligent exhorted and incited,
the stubborn rebuked, the weak conscience comforted, and
to all those that sin of malicious wickedness the wrath of God
is threatened. By preaching also due obedience to Christian
princes and magistrates is planted in the hearts of subjects :
for obedience proceedeth of conscience ; conscience is grounded
upon the Word of God ; the Word of God worketh his effect '
by preaching. So as generally, where preaching wanteth,
obedience faileth.
No prince ever had more lively experience hereof than
your Majesty hath had in your time, and may have daily.
If your JMajesty come to the city of London never so often,
what gratulation, what joy, what concourse of people is there
to be seen ! Yea, what acclamations and prayers to God for
your long life, and other manifest significations of inward
and unfeigned love, joined with most humble and hearty
obedience, are there to Mc heard ! 'Wlicrefore comcth tliis,
Madam, but of the continual preaching of God's Word in that
city, whereby that people hath been plentifully instructed in
their duty towards God and j-our JIajesty ? On the con-
trary, what bred the rebelUon in the north ? Was it not
Papistry, and ignorance of God's Word, through want of
often preaching. And in the time of that rebellion, were
not all men, of all states, that made profession of the Gospel,
most ready to ofEer their lives for youi' defence ? insomuch
that one poor parish in Yorkshire, which by continual
preaching had been better instructed than the rest (Halifax
5 " Go ye, preach the Gospel to every creature." (Mark xvi. 15.)
* " Let tlie word of Christ dwell in yon richly." (Colossians iii. 16.)
' " Preach the word ; he instant in season, oxxt of season ; reirove,
rebuke, exhort." (2 Timothy iv. 2.)
8 Who " ordained them elders in every church." (Acts xiv. 23.)
8 " For this cause left I thee in Crete, that thou shoulde.st set in
order the things that are wanting, and ordain elders in every city."
(Titus i. 5.)
>o " By sound doctrine, and to convince gainsayers."
11 In every city.
180
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
La.d. 1572
I mean), was ready to bring three or foiu- thousand ahle men
into the field to serve you against the said rebels. How
can your Majesty have a more lively trial and experience of
the contrary effects of much preaching and of little or no
preaching? The one working nio.st faithful obedience, and
the other most unnatural disobedience and rebeUion.
But it is thought of some, tliat many arc admitted to
preach, and few be able to do it well. That unable preachers
be removed is very requisite, if ability and sufficiency may
be rightly weighed and judged: and therein I trust as much
is, and shall be, done as can be; for both I, for mine ovra
part (let it be spoken without any ostentation), am very
careful in allowing such preachers only as be able and
sufficient to be preachei-s, both for their knowledge in the
Scriptures, and also for testimony of their good life and
conversation. And besides that, I have given very great
charge to the rest of my brethren, the bishops of this pro-
vince, to do the like. We admit no man to the office that
cither professeth Papistry or Puritanism. Generally, the
graduates of the university are only admitted to be preachers,
unless it be some few which have excellent gifts of know-
ledge in the Scriptures, joined with good utterance and
godly persuasion. I myself procui'ed above forty learned
preachers and graduates, within less than six years, to lie
placed within the diocese of York, besides those I found
there ; and there I have left them : the fruits of whose
travail in preaching, your Slajesty is like to reap daily, by
most assured, dutiful obedience of your subjects in those
parts.
But, indeed, this age judgcth very hardly, and nothing
indifi'crently ' of the ability of preachers of our time ; judging
few or none in their opinion to be able. "WTiich hard judg-
ment groweth upon divers evil dispositions of men. St. Paul
doth commend the preaching of Chiist crucified, n/isijuc
eiiiiiteiilin scrmoiiis- But in our time many have so delicate
cars, that no preaching can satisfy them, unless it be sauced
with much fineness ^ and exornation of speech : which the
same apostle utterly condemneth, and giveth this reason, Ke
evacneter crux C/irisfi*
Some there be also, that are mislikers of the godly refor-
mation in religion now established ; wishing indeed that
there were no preachers at all ; and so by depraving the
ministers impugn religion, non (iperto Martc, scd aoticiilis : '
much like to the Popish bishops in yom- father's time, who
would have had the English translation of the Bible called
in, as evil translated ; and the new translating thereof to
have been committed to themselves; which they never in-
tended to perform.
A number there is (and that is exceedingly great), whereof
some are altogether worldly-minded, and only bent covetously
to gather worldly goods and possessions : serving JIammon,
and not God. And another gi-eat sum have given over them-
selves to all carnal, vain, dissolute, and lascivious life, roh/ji-
tatis nmatorcs, mnijis fjiiiim Dei : et qui semetipsos detfiiferuiit
ad pafraiidum omiicin immundiliam cum ariditate.^ And
' Iniiffcrennij. Imjiai-tially, withont anplying different measures to
differeut persous. So iu the Homily ou Eeading of the Scriptures,
" God receiveth the learned and unle.amed, and casteth away none,
but is indifferent unto all." And part of the Prayer for Magistrates
in the English Church Liturgy is " that they may truly and indiffer-
ently minister justice."
' " Without excellency of speech."
' Euphuism ; artificial inffeuuity.
* "Lest the cross of Christ should be made of none eflfect."
(1 Corinthians i. 17.)
' Not by open war, but by biirrowings.
• Lovers of pleasure more than of God, " who have given themselves
over to work all uncleauness with greediness." (Ephesians iv. 19J.
because the preaching of God's Word, which to aU Christian
consciences is sweet and delectable, is to them, having cau-
terintas coiiscicntitis,^ bitter and grievous (for, as St. Ambrose
Siiith, Quomcdo possuut verba Dei dulcia esse in faucibus tuis,
ill quibiis eat amaritudo nequitiee ?^), therefore they wish also
that there were no preachers at all. But because they dare
not directly condemn the office of preaching, so expressly
commanded liy God's AVord (for that wore open blasphemy),
they turn themselves altcigethcr, and with the same meaning
as the other do, to take exceptions against the persons of
them that be admitted to preach.
But God forbid, Madam, that you should open your ears
to any of these wicked persuasions, or any way go about
to diminish the jireaching of Christ's Gospel: for that would
ruinate altogether at tlic length. Qiiiim defccerit prophetia,
dissipabitur populns^ saith Salomon.
Now, where it is thought, that the reading of the godly
Homilies, set forth by public authority, may suffice, I continue
of the same mind I was when I attended last upon your
Majesty. The reading of Homilies hath his commodity ; but
is nothing comparable to the office of preaching. The godly
pi-eacher is termed in the Gospel f delis servus et prudens,
qui norit famulitio Domini cibuin dcmensum dare in tempore ; '"
who can apply his speech according to the diversity of times,
places, and hearers, which cannot be done in Homilies : ex-
hortations, reprehensions, and persuasions, are uttered with
more affection, to the mo\ing of the hearers, in Sei'mons than
in Homilies." Besides, Homilies were devised by the godly
bishops in your brother's time, only to supply necessity, for
•want of preachers; and are by the statute not to be preferred,
but to give place to Sermons, whensoever they may be had ;
and were never thought in themselves alone to contain
sufficient instruction for the Church of England. For it was
then found, as it is found now, that this Church of England
hath been by appropriations, and that not without sacrilege,
spoiled of the livings, which at the first were appointed to
the office of preaching and teaching. Which appropriations
were first annexed to abbeys ; and after came to the crown ;
and now are dispersed to private men's possessions, without
hope to reduce the same to the original institution. So as at
this day, in mine opinion, where one church is able to yield
sufficient living for a learned preacher, there are at the least
seven churches unable to do the same : and in many parishes
of your realm, where there be seven or eight hundred souls
(the more is the pity), there are not eight pounds a year
reserved for a minister. In such parishes it is not possible
to place able preachers, for want of convenient stipend. If
every flock might have a preaching pastor, which is rather
to be wished than hoped for, then were reading of Homilies
' Consciences seared.
» " How can the word of God be sweet in thy mouth, in which is
the bitterness of sin 'i " (Serm. 1:3 in Psal. cxviii.)
9 " When prophecy shall tail, the people shall be scattered."
'° " A faithful and wise servant, who knoweth how to give his Lord's
household their meat iu due season." (Matthew xsiv. 45.)
" More in Sermons than in BomiUes. A Homily is so called from the
Greek 6ii,\,a, which has for its first sense a being together, thence
intercoiu-se and instruction, and meant such setting forth of doctrine
as could be understood in an assembly of the people. The word was
opphed in the Church of England to the two books of Homilies issued
in 1547 and 1563, and appointed to be read on " any Sunday or holy
day when there is no Sermon." The Sennon, from Latin " sermo,"
a speaking or discourse, was direct from the mind of the minister, and
could be suited to the audience and occasion. Such a sermon was in
the ancient Church called also a Homily, sometimes a tractate, and
the preachers " tractatores." The restricted use of the word Homily
in the English Eeformed Church was only for the convenience of
distinction between the sermons of the minister and those provided
by the state.
lO A.D. 15V7.]
RELIGION.
ISl
; lt"gether unnecessary. But to supply that want of preach-
inu' of God's Word, whirh is the food of the soul, growing
upon the necessities afore-mentioned, both in your brother's
time, and in your time, certain godly Homilies have been
d. \iscd, that the people should not be altogether destitute of
instruction: for it is an old and a true proverb, '• better half
a Ljiif than no bread."
Xow for the second point, which is concerning the learned
exercise and conference amongst the ministers of the Church :
I have consulted with divers of my brethren, the bishop.s, by
letters ; who think it the same as I do, viz., a thing profitable
to the Church, and therefore expedient to bo continued. And
I trust your Majesty will think the like, when your Highness
shall have been informed of the manner and order thireof ;
\xhat authority it hath of the Scriptures ; what commodity
it bringeth with it ; and what incommoditiea will follow, if it
be clean taken away.
The authors of this exercise are the bishops of the diocese
w here the same is used ; who both by the law of God, and by
tl:i; canons and constitutions of the Church now in force, have
authority to appoint exercises to their inferior ministers,
for increase of learning and knowledge in the Scriptures, as
to them seemeth most expedient : for that pertaineth nd
di^eipUiiam ckricahni.^ The times appointed for the assembly
i- once a month, or once in twelve or fifteen days, at the
iliMxetion of the ordinary. The time of the exercise is two
hijurs : the place, the church of the town appointed for the
a.-scmbly. The matter entreated of is as followeth. Some
text of Scripture, before appointed to be spoken of. is
interpreted in this order : First, the occasion of the place is
shewed. Secondly, the end. Thirdly, the proper sense of
the place. Fourthly, the propriety of the words : and those
that be learned in the tongues shewing the diversities of
iiitrrpretations. Fifthly, where the like phrases are used in
til'.- Scriptures. Sixthly, places in the Sciiptures, seeming
to repugn, are reconciled. Seventhly, the arguments of the
t'.Nt are opened. Eighthly, it is also declared what \-irtue3
an^l what vices are there touched ; and to which of the com-
mandments they pertain. Ninthly, how the text hath been
wrested by the adversaries, if occasion so require. Tenthly,
anil last of all, what doctrine of faith or manners the text
'I'th contain. The conclusion is, with the prayer for your
.'^lajesty and all estates, as is appointed by the Book of
Common Prayer, and a psalm.
These orders following are also observed in the said exercise.
First, two or three of the gravest and beat learned pastors
are appointed of the bishop to moderate in every assembly.
No man may speak, unless he be first allowed by the bishop,
with this pro\-iso, that no la\Tnan be suffered to speak at any
time. No controversy of this present time and state shall
be moved or dealt withal. If any attempt the contrary, he is
put to silence by the moderator. None is suffered to glance
openly or covertly at persons public or private ; neither yet
any one to confute another. If anj- man utter a wrong sense
of the Scripture, he is privately admonished thereof, and
better instructed by the moderators, and other his fellow-
ministers. If anj- man use immodest speech, or irreverent
gesture or behaviour, or othenvise be suspected in life, he is
likewise admonished, as before. If any wilfully do break
these orders, he is presented to the bishop, to be by him
corrected.
The ground of this, or like exercise, is of great and ancient
authority. For Samuel did practise such like exercises in
his time, both at Naioth in Kamatha, and at Bethel. So did
Elizseus the prophet, at Jericho. WTiich studious persons in
' To the discipline o£ the clcrjy.
those daj's were called filii prophetaruin,'^ that ii to say, the
disciples of the prophets, that being exercised in the study
and knowledge of the Scriptures, they might be able men to
serve in God's Church, as that time required. St. Paul also
doth make express mention, that the like in effect was used
in the primitive Church ; and giveth rules for the order of
the same ; as namely, that two or three should speak, and
the rest should keep silence.
That exercise of the Church in those days St. Paul calleth
prophetiam, and the speakers jjrop/iefas : terms veiy odious
in our days to some, because they are not rightly understood.
For indeed propkd'ui, in that and like places of St. Paul,
doth not, as it doth sometimes, sig-nify prediction of things
to come, which gift is not now ordinary in the Church of
God ; but signifieth there, by the consent of the best ancient
■n-riters, the interpretation and exposition of the Scriptures.
And therefore doth St. Paul attribute unto those that be
called prophcta; in that chapter, doctrinam ad adificationein,
exhortationem^ H co)isoh(tioiuin.'^
This gift of expounding and interpreting the Scriptures
was, in St. Paul's time, given to many by special miracle,
without study : so was also, by like miracle, the gift to speak
with strange tongues, which they had never learned. But
now, miracles ceasing, men must attain to the knowledge of
the Hebrew, Greek, and Latin tongues, &c., by travail and
studv, God gi\'ing the increase. So must men also attain
by like means to the gift of expounding and interpreting the
Scriptures. And amongst other helps, nothing is so neces-
sary as these above-named exercises and conferences amongst
the ministers of the Church : which in effect are all one with
the exercises of students in divinity in the universities;
saving that the first is done in a tongue understood, to the
more edifying of the unlearned hearers.
Howsoever report hath been made to your Majesty con-
cerning these exercises, yet I and others of your bishops,
whose names are noted in the margin hereof, as they have
testified unto me by their letters, have found by experience,
that these profits and commodities following have ensued of
them:— 1. The ministers of the Church are more sk-ilful and
ready in the Scriptures, and apter to teach their flocks. 2. It
withdraweth them from idleness, wandering, gaming, &c.
3. Some, afore suspected in doctrine, are brought hereby to
open confession of the truth. 4. Ignorant ministers are
diiven to study, if not for conscience, yet for shame and fear
of discipline. 5. The opinion of laymen, touching the idle-
ness of the clergy, is hereby removed. 6. Nothing by ex-
perience beateth down Popery more than that ministers (as
some of my brethi-en do certif}-) grow to such good k-now-
ledge, by means of these exercises, that where afore were not
three able preachers, now are thirty, meet to preach at St.
Paul's Ci-oss ; and forty or fifty besides, able to instruct
their own cures. So as it is found by experience the best
means to increase knowledge in the simple, and to continue
it in the learned. Only backward men in religion, and
contemners of learning in the countries abroad, do fi-et
against it ; which in truth doth the more commend it. The
dissolution of it would breed triumph to the adversaries, and
great sorrow and grief unto the favourers of rehgion ; con-
trary to the counsel of Ezekiel, who saith, Cor Jitsti tioii est
mitristandiim* And although some few have abused this
good and necessarj- exercise, there is no reason that the
malice of a few should prejudice all. Abuses may be
- The sons of the prophets.
' " Speaking onto edification, and exhortation, and comfort."
(1 Corinthians xiv. 3.)
* "The heart of the righteous must not be made sad." (Ezekiel
xiii. ?2.)
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[a.d. 1577
reformed, and that which is good may remain. Neither is
there any just cause of offence to he taken, if divers men
make divers senses of one sentence of Scripture ; so that all
the senses be good and agi-ceable to the analogy and pro-
portion of faith : for otherwise we must needs condemn all
the ancient fathers and doctors of the Church, who most
commonly expound one and the same text of the Scriptm-e
diversely, and yet all to the good of the Church. Therefore
doth St. Basil compare the Scriiitures to a well ; out of the
which the more a man draweth, the tetter and sweeter is the
water.
1 trust, when your Majesty hath considered and well
weighed the premises, you will rest satisfied, and judge that
no such inconveniences can grow of these exercises, as you
have been informed, but rather the clean contrary. And
for my own part, because I am very well assured, both by
reasons and arguments taken out of the Holy Scriptures, and
by experience (the most certain seal of sure knowledge), that
the said exercises, for the interpretation and exposition of
the Scriptui-es and for exhortation and comfort drawn out
of the same, are both profitable to increase knowledge
among the ministers, and tendeth to the edifying of the
hearers, — I am forced, with all humiUty, and yet plainly, to
profess, that I cannot with safe conscience, and without
the offence of the Majesty of God, give my assent to the
suppressing of the said exercises : much less can I send out
any injunction for the utter and universal subversion of the
same. I say with St. Paul, " I have no power to destroy,
but to only edify;" and with the same apostle, "I can do
nothing against the truth, but for the truth."
If it be your Majesty's pleasure, for this or any other
cause, to remove me out of this place, I will with all humility
yield thereunto, and render again to your Majesty that I
received of the same. I consider with myself. Quod hor-
rendion est incidcrc in matins Dei virentis} I consider also,
Quod qui facit eoiitra conseientiam {diviiiis jiiribus nixnm)
(td\fieat ad ffeJiemiam.'^ " And what should I win, if I
gained " (I will not say a bishoprick, but) " the whole world,
and lose mine own soul ':'"
Hear with me, I beseech you. Madam, if I choose rather
to oflfcnd your earthly Ma jest)' than to oifcnd the heavenly
Majesty of God. And now being sorry that I have been so
long and tedious to your Majesty, I will draw to an end,
mo.st humbly praying the same well to consider these two
short petitions following.
The first is, that you would refer all these ecclesia.stical
matters which touch religion, or the doctrine and discii)line
of the Church, unto the bishops and divines of your realm ;
according to the example of all godly Christian emperors and
princes of all ages. For indeed they are things to be judged
(as an ancient father writeth) in ecelisia, sen si/nodo, iwn in
palatio? "When j'our JIajesty hath questions of the laws of
your realm, you do not decide the same in your court, but
send them to your judges to be determined. Likewise for
doubts in matters of doctrine or discipline of the Church,
the ordinary way is to refer the decision of the same to the
bishops, and other head ministers of the Church.
Ambrose to Thcodosius useth these words : Si de eaiisis
peeuniari'is eomiles tnos eonsiilis, qnnnto magis in causa reli-
(jionis saeerdotes Domini a^qmim est considas?* And like-
' " That it is a fearfij thing to fall into the hands of the living
God." (Hebrews x. 31.)
2 That he who acts against his conscience (resting upon the laws
of God) builds tor bell.
' In the church, or a synod, not in a iialace.
* "It on affairs of money you considt with your counts, how much
more is it fit that you consult with the Lord's priests on affairs of
religion ? "
wise the same father to the good emperor Valentinianus : -Si
conferendum de fide, saeerdotmn debet esse ista collatio ; stent
faetiim est sub Constantino aur/ustte memoriw principe, qui
niilliis leges ante pramisit, sed libernm dedit judicium sacer-
dotibns.^ And the same father saith, that C'onstantius the
emperor, son to the said Constantino the Great, began well,
by reason he followed his father's steps at the first; but
ended ill, because he took upon him de fide intra palntiam
judicarc ^ (for so bo the words of Ambrose), and thereby fell
into Arianism ; a terrible example 1
The said Ambrose, so much commended in all histories
for a godly bishop, gocth yet farther, and writeth to the
same emperor in this form : Si docendns est episcopas a
laieo, quid seqnctnr ? Zaicns ergo dispuiet, et episcopas
audiat; episcopas discat a laieo. At certe, si vel scripturarnm
seriem divinariim vel Vetera tempera rctractcmiis, qiiis est qui
ttbnuat, in cansa fidei, in causa, inrjuam, fidei, cpiscopos solcre
de impcratoribiis Cliristianis, non imperatorcs de episcopia
judicarc ? ' Would God your Majesty would follow this
ordinary course ! You should procure to j'ourscU much
more quietness of mind, better please God, avoid many
offences, and the Church should be more quietly and peace-
ably governed, much to j'our comfort and commodity of
your realm.
The second petition I have to make to )"our Majesty is
this : that when you deal in matters of faith and religion, or
matters that touch the Church of Christ, which is His spouse,
bought with so dear a price, you would not use to pronounce
so resolutely and peremptorily, quasi ex auctoritnte,^ as ye
may do in civil and extern matters ; but always remember,
that in God's causes the will of God, and not the will of any
earthly creature, is to take place. It is the antichristia
voice of the Pope, Sic volo, sic jubeo ; stet pro ratione voluth^
tas.^ In God's matters all princes ought to bow their sceptres'
to the Son of God, and to ask counsel at His mouth vrhat
they ought to do. David exhorteth all kings and rulers to
serve God with fear and trembling.
Kemember, Madam, that you are a mortal creature.
" Look not only (as was said to Thcodosius) upon the purple
and princely array, wherewith ye are apparelled ; but con-
sider withal, what is that that is covered therewith. Is it
not flesh and blood ? Is it not dust and ashes ? Is it not a '
con-uptible body, which must return to his earth again, CJod
knoweth how soon?" Must not you also one day appear
ante tremciidum tribunal Crueifixi, nt recipias ibi, prout gcsseris
in corporc, sire bonum sive malum ? '"
And although ye are a mighty prince, yet remember that
He which dwelleth in heaven is mightier. He is, as the
Psalmist sayeth, tcrribilis, et is qui anfert spiritum principuin,
tcrribilis super omnes rcges tcrrce.^^
5 " If we confer about faith, the coufdl'cnce ought to be left to the
priests ; as it was done under the prince Coustantine, of august
memoi-y, who set forth no liiws, before he had submitted them to the
free judgment of the priests."
^ To judge of faith within the palace.
' " If a bishop be to be tauglit by a layman, what will follow ? Let
the layman then dispute, and the bi.sbop hear : let the bishop learn of
the layman. But certainly, if we have recourse either to the order
of the Holy Scriptures or to ancient times, who is there that can
deny, that in the cause of faith, I say, in the cause of faith, bishops
were wont to judge concerning Christian emperors, not emperors
concerning bishops ? "
s As if by authority.
' So I will have it; so I command: let my will stand for a
reason.
10 "Before the fearful judgment-seat of the Cniclfied, to receive
there according as you have done in the body, whether it be good or
evil?"
11 « Terrible, and he who taketh away the spii-it of princes, and is
terrible above all the kings of tha earth."
10 i.D. 1573.]
RELIGION.
183
Wherefore I do beseech you, Madam, in visccribiis C'lirisfi,^
,\lien you deal in these religious causes, set the majesty of
l.ud before your eyes, laying all earthly majesty aside:
lateniiinc -with yourself to obey His voice, and with all
humility say \mto Him, Hun mea, scd tua roliintris fiut? God
hath blessed you with great felicity in your reign, now many
\ lars ; beware you do not impute the same to your own
ilcserts or policy, but give God the glory. And as to instru-
ments and means, impute your said felicity, first; to the
1,'oodness of the cause which ye have set forth (I mean
Christ's true religion) ; and, secondly, to the sighs and
L^roauings of the godly in their fervent prayer to God for
yuu ; which have liitherto, as it were, tied and bound the
liands of God, that He could not pour His plagues upon you
aud your jjeople, most justly deserved.
Take heed, that ye never once think of declining from
God, lest that be verified of you, which is written of Ozeas
[.loasli], who continued a piince of good and godly govcrn-
uiL'ut for many years together ; and afterwards cum roborutus
I .^M-t (saith the text), cicratmn est cor ejus in iuferitiiin suuni,
i! neijhxil Borninum? Ye have done many things well; but
cxcC'iit ye persevere to the end, ye cannot be blessed. For if
)e tm-n fi-om God, then God will turn away his merciful
countenance from you. And what remainetli then to be
looked for, but only a terrible expectation of God's judg-
ments, and an heaping up of wrath against the day of
wrath ?
But I trust in God, your Majesty will always humble
voiu'self under His mighty hand, and go forward in the
zealous setting forth of God's true religion, always yielding
due obedience aud reverence to the Word of God, the only
rule of faith and religion. And if ye so do, although God
liath just cause many ways to be angxy with you and us for
I iiir unfaithfulness, yet I doubt nothing, but that for His own
name's sake, and for His own glory's sake. He wiU still hold
His merciful hand over us, shield and protect us under the
shadow of His wings, as He hath done hitherto.
I beseech God, oui' heavenly Father, plentifully to pour
His principal Spirit upon you, and always to dii-ect your
heart in His holy fear. Amen.
Queen Elizabeth met this letter by causing others
to issue her command that " prophosyings " should
be discontinued. Grindal was confined to his house,
and, by oriler of the Star C'liamber, sequestered foi'
six montlis, during which he miirht retain the name
of Arcldjishop, but all duties of the office were dis-
charged by others, of whom Aylmer, Bishop of
London, was the chief. As Grindal, at the end of the
six months, remained of tlie same mind, this state of
tilings continued, and such was Archbisliop Grindal's
])osition in 1.579, when young Edmund Spenser jnib-
lislied his " Shejjlierd's Calendar," and, honouring
the disgi-aced primate by the name of the wise
Algrind, openly dechired sympathy with him, and
want of sympatliy witli Aylmer, wlio figured in the
calendar as Mon-el. "a goat-herd proud."' Bisliop
^ In the bowels of Clirist.
* " Not mine, but tliine be done." (Luke xxii. 42.)
3 " When be was strong, his heart_was lifted up to his destruction,
for he traus^essed airainst the Lord." (2 Chronicles xxvi. 16.)
* The volume of this Library containinf? " Shorter Euijlish Poems,"
pages 205 — 209, contains the ecloi,'ue of the " Shepherd's Calendar "
which especially illustrates Edmund Spenser's sympathy with
Ednmnd Grindal.
Aylmer, cai-rying out the Queen's policy and his own,
repressed extremes on either side of the Established
Chm-ch. He dealt severely with Roman Catliolics,
and on the opposite side was described as " a man of
most intemperate heat, who persecuted Puritans with
the utmost rage, and treated ministers with such
virulent and abusive language as a man of sense and
inditferent'' temper would scorn to use towards porters
and cobblers." During these days of liis trouble,
Edmund Grindal became blind. He died in 1583.
(From the i'irst i'didun of
Spejiser's '* Couiiilaints," 1591.)
CHAPTER VIL
Reign of Eliz.\beth. — Francis B.won, Edmund
Spenser, Rich.vrd Hooker, and Others. — a.d.
1577 TO A.D. 1603.
ARTIN MARPRELATE
is a name hai-dly suggestive
of Religion, for it recalls
chielly the bitterness of a
zeal that cast out charity.
It was the a-ssumed name
under which many earnest
Puritans, who endangered
their lives by plain speak-
ing, published unlicensed
pamphlets against those
signs of an imperfect Re-
formation which they thought they found in prelacy.
Martin Mai'prelate " pistled the Bishops " in ear-
nest and violent tracts, printed by a secret press,
which the Government fiercely hunted out of one
hiding-place into another. One of the Marprelate
writers, John Penry, was caught and hanged. He
wrote before his execution, " I never did any tiling
in this cause for contention, vainglory, or to draw
discii)les after me. Great things in this life I never
sought for : sufiiciency I luul with great outward
ti-ouble ; but most content I was with my lot, and
content with my untimely death, though I leave
behind me a friendless widow and four infants."
John Udall, another of the ]\Iarprelate writers, was
left to die in jirison. When lie was tried for the
authorshij) of a book, and ofl'ered -ivitnesses in his
defence, they were refused a hearing on the jjlea that
witnesses for the prisoner would be against the Queen.
But he said, and said in vain, " It is for the Queen to
hear all things when the life of any of her subjects is
in cjuestion." The pamphlets v\Titten against the
Puritans in this quarrel, not clandestinely, Ijecause
authority was with them, were cliiefly by wits and
playwrights, as ^•iolent as those which they o]5posed,
and notso earnest. The most temperate of all these
writers was one of the impugned bishops, Thomas
Cooper, Bishop of Winchester. This contro^■ersy
was at its height in 1589, and Francis Bacon, then
twenty-nine years old, wrote of it wisely thus : —
' Indifferent, unprejudiced. (See Note 1, p. 180.)
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[i. D. 1579
AN AD',"ERTISEMEXT TOUCHIXG THE CONTROVERSIES OF^
THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND.
It is but ignorance if any man find it strange that the
state of Religion (especially in the days of peace) should he
exercised and troubled with controversies. For as it is the
condition of the Church Jlilitant to he ever under trials, so
it Cometh to pass that when the fiery trial of persecution
ceaseth there succeedeth another trial, which as it were by
contrary blasts of doctrine doth sift and winnow men's faith,
and proveth them whether they know God aright, even as
that other of afflictions discovcreth whether th..'y love Him
better than the "World. Accordingly was it foretold by
Christ, saying, That in the latter times it should be 8;iid, Lo
here, lo there is Christ : which is to be understood, not as if
the very jjerson of Christ should be assumed and counter-
feited, but his authority and pre-eminence (which is to be
Truth itself) that should be challenged and pretended. Thus
have we read and seen to be fulfilled that which followeth,
Ecce in dcserto^ ecce in penetralihus ; ^ while some have sought
the truth in the conventicles and conciliables of heretics and
sectaries, and others in the extern face and representation of
the Church, and both sorts been seduced. "Were it then that
the controversies of the Church of England were such as did
divide the unity of the sijirit, and not such as only do
unswathe her of her bonds (the bonds of peace), yet could
it be no occasion for any pretended Catholic to judge us, or
for any irreligious person to despise us. Or if it be, it shall
but happen to us all as it hath used to do , to them to be
hardened, and to us to endure the good pleasure of God. But
now that our contentions are such, as we need not so much
that general canon and sentence of Christ pronounced against
heretics, Erratis, ncscieiites Scripturas, nee potcstatem Dei," as
we need the admonition of St. James, '■ Let every man be swift
to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath;" and that the wound is
no way dangerous, except we poison it with our remedies ; as
the former sort of men have less reason to make themselves
music in our discord, so I have good hope that nothing shall
displease ourselves which shall be sincerely and modestly
propounded for the appeasing of these dissensions. For if
any shall be offended at this voice, Vos cstisfratres (ye are
brethren, why strive ye f), he shall give a great presumption
against himself, that he is the party that doth his brother
wrong.
The controversies themselves I will not enter into, us
judging that the disease requireth rather rest than any other
cure. Thus much we all know and confess, that they be not
of the highest nature; for they are not touching the high
mysteries of faith, such as detained the churchcs°after their
first peace for many years ; what time the heretics moved
curious questions, and made strange anatomies of the natures
and person of Christ ; and the CathoUc fathers were compelled
to foUow them with all subtility of decisions and determina-
tions, to exclude them from their evasions and to take them
in their labyrinths ; so as it is rightly said, illis Umporibm
wgemom res fiut esse Christianum (in those days it was an
ingenious and subtle matter to be a Christian)." Neither are
they concerning the great parts of the worship o.' God, of
which it is true that non seyratur miitas in credendo, nisi
eadem adsit in cclendo (there will be kept no unity in
behevmg, except it be entertained in worshipping) ; such as
were the controversies of the east and west churches touchin-
behold, he is in the secret
' " BehoW, he is in the desert .
chamhers." (Matthew xxiv. 26 )
(MauI^ew^xiZ'^)* """"""^ *"' ^'^"Vi-^es. nor the power of God.-
images ; and such as are many of those between the Church
of Kome and us ; as about the adoration of the Sacrament,
and the like. But we contend about ceremonies and things
indifierent ; about the extern policy and government of the
Church. In which kind, if sve would but remember that the
ancient and true bonds of unity are one faith, one baptism,
and not one ceremony, one policy ; if we would observe the
league amongst Christians that is penned by our Saviour, '• He
that is not against us is with us : " if we could but comprehend
that saying, differentia rituiim commendat uiiitatem doctrines
(the diversity of ceremonies doth set forth the unity of
doctrine) ; and that haliet rcligio qiice sunt teternitatis, habet
qu(B sunt temporis (Keligion hath parts which belong to
eternity, and parts which pertain to time) : and if we did but
know the virtue of silence and .slowness to speak, commended
by St. James; our controversies of themselves would close up
and grow together. But most especially, if we would leave
the over-weening and turbulent humours of these times, and
revive the blessed proceeding of the Apostles and Fathers of
the primitive Church, which was, in the like and greater
cases, not to enter into assertions and positions, but to deliver
counsels and advices, we should need no other remedy at all.
Si eadem eonsii/is, /rater, rjuie affinnas, debetur consiilenti
reverentia, cum non debcatur Jides affirmanti (Brother, if that
which you set down as an assertion, you would deliver by
way of advice, there were reverence due to your counsel,
whereas faith is not due to your afEmiation). St. Paul was
content to speak thus. Ego, non Dominus (I, and not the
Lord) : Et, secundum consilium meum (according to my counsel).
But now men do too lightly say, Non ego, sed Dominus (not
I, but the Lord) : yea, and bind it with heavy denunciations
of His judgments, to temfy the simple, which have not
sufficiently understood out of Salomon, that the causeless
curse shall not come.
Therefore seeing the accidents are they which breed the
peril, and not the things themselves in their own nature, it is
meet the remedies be applied unto them, by opening what
it is on either part that keepeth the wound green, and
formalizeth both sides to a further opposition, and worketh
an indisposition in men's minds to be reunited, "^'herein no
accusation is pretended ; but I find in reason, that peace is
best built upon a repetition of wrongs : and in example, that
the speeches which have been made by the wisest men de
Concordia ordinum'-' have not abstained from reducing to
memory the extremities used on both parts. So as it is true
which is said. Qui pacem tractat non rcpetitis conditionibtis
dissidii, is magis animos hominnm du/eedine pacisfaltit, (juam
ecquitnte componit.*
And first of all, it is more than time that there were an
end and surseance made of this immodest and deformed
manner of writing Lately entertained, whereby matters of
Eeligion are handled in the style of the stage. Indeed, bitter
and earnest writing may not hastily be condemned ; for men
cannot contend coldly and without affection about things
which they hold dear and precious. A politic man may write
from his brain, without touch and sense of his heart, as in
a speculation that pertaineth not unto him ; but a feeling
Christian will express in his words a character either of zeal
or love. The latter of which as I could wish rather
embraced, being more fit for these times, yet is the former
warranted also by great examples. But to leave all reverent
and religious compassion towards evils, or indignation
' On concord of arrangements.
* "Whoever seeks treaty of peace without re-stating the causes of
dissension, rather beguiles men's minds with the sweetness of peace
than brings them into accord by equity.
TO i.D. 1589.]
RELIGION.
185
towards faults, and to turn religion into a comedy or satire;
1 search and rip up wounds with a laughing countenance ; to
intermix Scripture and scurrility sometime in one sentence ;
is a thing far from the devout reverence of a Christian, and
scant beseeming the honest regard of a sober man. Kon est
inyor cmifiisio, quam serii et Joci (there is no greater confusion,
th-in the confounding of jest and earnest). The majesty of
religion, and the contempt and defonnity of things ridiculous,
ire things as distant as things may be. Two principal causes
have I ever known of Atheism : cirrious controversies, and
profane scoffing. Now that these two are joined in one, no
doubt that sect wUl make no small progression.
And here I do much esteem the wisdom and religion of that
liishop' which replied to the first pamphlet of this kind, who
remembered that "a fool was to be answered, but not by
becoming like unto him;" and considered the matter that
he handled, and not the person with whom he dealt. Job,
speaking of the majesty and gravity of a judge in himself,
^ lith, " If I did snule, they believed it not : " as if he should
have said, If I diverted, or glanced unto conceit of mirth,
vet men's minds were so possessed with a reverence of the
action in hand, as they could not receive it. Much more
ought this to be amongst bishops and divines disputing about
lioly things. And therefore as much do I dislike the inven-
tion of him who (as it seemeth) pleased himself in it as in no
urean policy, that these men are to be dealt withal at theii-
own weapons, and jiledged in their own cup. This seemed to
liim as profound a device, as when the Cardinal Sansovino
1 ounselled Julius II. to encounter the Council of Pisa with
the Council Lateran ; or as lawful a challenge as Mr. Jewel
made to confute the pretended Catholics by the Fathers. But
these things wiU not excuse the imitation of evil in another.
It should bo contrariwise with us, as C;Esar said. Nil malo,
iiuam cos similes esse siii, et me mei." But now, Dmn de bonis
contendimits, in malis consentimus (while we differ about good
tilings, we resemble in evil). Surely, if I were asked of these
men who were the more to be blamed, I should percase
remember the proverb, ' ' that the second blow maketh the
fray," and the sa\-ing of an obscui'e fellow. Qui replicat, miilti-
, plient (he that replieth, multiplieth) . But I would determine
I the question with this sentence : Attn- priiieipiiim malo dedit,
niter moflum abstiilit (by the one's means we have a beginning,
and by the other's we shall have none end). And truly, as I
do marvel that some of those preachers which call for refor-
mation (whom I am far from wronging so far as to join them
with these scoffers) do not publish some declaration whereby
they may satisfy the world that they dislike their cause
should be thus solicited ; so I hope assuredly that my lords
of the clergy have none intelligence with this other libeller,
I but do altogether disaUow that their credit should be thus
defended. For though I observe in him many glosses,
whereby the man would insinuate himself into their favours,
I yet I find it to be ordinary, that many pressing and fawning
persons do misconjecture of the humours of men in authority,
and many times Vencri immolaid siiem (they seek to gratify
them with that which they most dislike). For I have great
reason to satisfy myself touching the judgments of my lords
^ Thomas Cooper, whose pamphlet here referrrd to was entitled
" An Admonition to the People of England,"' and ffave rise to a
rejoinder entit ed "H;iy ye any work for a Cooper?" Thomas
Cooper, horn at Oxford in 1527, left a fellowship at Magdalen"^ to
study physic in the reign of Maiy, hnt after her death he became
srrccessively Dean of Christchurch, Dean of Gloucester, Bishop of
Lincoln (1570), and Bishop of Winchester (15S1). He died in 159i.
Besides his "Admonition," he published sermons, and a Latin
dictionary.
* '* I wish nothing hiit that they shall be hke themselves, I like
myself." (Cassar in Cicero's letters to Atticus.)
88
the bishops in this matter, by that w-hich was written by one
of them, which I mentioned before with honour. Never-
theless I note, there is not an indifferent •* hand can-ied towards
these pamphlets as they deserve. For the one sort flieth in
the dark, and the other is uttered openly ; wherein I might
ad%'ise that side out of a wise writer, who hath set it down
that p/oiitis iiifffiiiis gliscit aiictoritas.* And indeed we see it
ever falleth out that the forbidden writing is thought to be
certain sparks of a truth that fly up in the faces of those that
seek to choke it and tread it out ; whereas a book authorised
is thought to be but temporis foces (the language of the time).
But in plain truth I do find (to my understanding) these
pamphlets as meet to he suppressed as the other. First,
because as the former sort doth deface the government of the
Chirrch in the persons of the bishops and prelates, so the other
doth lead into contempt the exercises of religion in the
persons of sundry preachers; so as it disgraceth an higher
matter, though in the meaner person. Next, I find certain
indiscreet and dangerous amplifications, as if the civil govern-
ment itself of this estate had near lost the force of her sinews,
and were ready to enter into some convulsion, all things
being fuU of faction and disorder; which is as imwisely
acknowledged as untruly affirmed. I know his r.reaning is to
enforce this unreverent and ^-iolent impugning of the govern-
ment of bishops to be a suspected forerunner of a more
general contempt. And I grant there is sjTupathy between
the states, but no such matter in the civil policy as deserveth
so dishonoirrable a taxation. To conclude this point : As it
were to be wished that these writings had been abortive, and
never seen the sun; so the next is, since they be comen
abroad, that thej- be censured * (by all that have understanding
and conscience) as the intemperate extravagancies of some
light persons. Yea further, tha' men beware (except they
mean to adventure to depi-i\e themselves of aU sense of
religion, and to pave their own hearts, and make them as the
highway) how they be conversant in them, and much more
ho^* they delight in that vein; but rather to turn their
laughing into blushing, and to be ashamed, as of a short
madness, that they have in matters of rehgion taken their
disport and solace But this perchance is of those faults
which wiU he soonest acknowledged ; though I perceive
nevertheless that there -want not some who seek to blanch
and excuse it.
But to descend to a sincere view and consideration of the
accidents and circumstances of these controversies, wherein
either part deserveth blame or imputation ; I find generally,
in causes of church controversies, that men do offend in some
or all of these five points.
1. The first is, the giving of occasion unto the contro-
versies : and also the inconsiderate and ungrounded taking of
occasion.
3 Indifferent, imoartial. (See Note 1, pa?e 180.)
4 " When wits are punished, their authority increases." Part of a
passage in the " Annals of Tacitus" (iv. 35), which says, "Vain and
senseless is the attempt by an arbitrary act to extinguish the light of
truth and defraud posterity of due information. Genius thrives imder
oppression ; persecute the author, and you enhance the value of his
work."
5 Censured, thought of. "Censure" meant originally one's opinion
upon a subject, good or bad. The slow advance of culture has caused
the majority of such opinions to be in accord with what Chaucer
describes as the judgment of the ignorant, in his " Squire's Tale,"
when magic gifts are under scrutiny ; they judge
"As lewt^d people demen commonly
Of thingifs that ben made more subtilly
Than they can in their lewdness comprehend.
They demen gladly to the badder end*"
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2. The next is, the extending and multiplj-ing the con-
trovcisies to a«nore general opposition or contradiction than
appearcth at the tirst propounding of them, when men's judg-
ments are less partial.
3. The third is, the passionate and unbrotherly practices
and proceedings of both parts towards the persons each of
others, for their discredit and suppression.
4. The fourth is, the courses holden and entertained on
either side, for the draining of their partisans to a more strait
union within themselves, which ever importeth a further
distraction of the entire bod)-.
.5. The last is, the undue and inconvenient propounding,
publi-shing, and debating of the controversies. In which
point the most palpable en-or hath been already spoken of;
as that which, through the strangeness and freshness of the
abuse, first offereth itself to the conceits of all men.
1. Now concerning the occasion of controversies, it cannot
be denied but that the imperfections in the conversation ' and
government of those which have chief place in the Church
have ever been pi-incipal causes and motives of schisms and
divisions. For whilst the bishops and governors of the
Church continue full of knowledge and good works ; whilst
they feed the flock indeed ; whilst they deal with the secular
states in all liberty and resolution, according to the majesty
of their calling, and the precious care of souls imposed upon
them : so long the Church is situate as it were upon an hill ;
no man maketh question of it, or seeketh to depart from it.
But when these \-irtues in the fathers and leaders of the
Church have lost their light, and that they wax worldly,
"lovers of themselves, and pleasers of men," then men begin
to grope for the Church as in the dark ; they are in doubt
whether they be the succ^'sors of the Apostles, or of the
Pharisees ; yea, howsoever they sit in Moses' chair, yet they
can never speak ia)iqnnm anctoritatcm habentcs (as having
authority), because they have lost their reputation in the
consciences of men, by declining their steps from the way
which they trace out to others. So as men had need con-
tinually have sounding in their cars this saying, Nolite exire
(go not out) ; so ready are they to depart from the Church upon
every voice. And therefore it is truly noted by one that
writeth as a natural man, " that the hypocrisy of f reres did for
a great time maintain and bear out the irreligion of bishops
and prelates." For this is the double policy of the spiritual
enemy, either by counterfeit holiness of life to establish and
authorise errors; or by corruption of manners to discredit
and draw in question truth and things lawful. This con-
cerneth my lords the bishops, unto whom I am witness to
myself that I stand affected as I ought. No contradiction
hath supplanted in me the reverence I owe to their calling ;
neither hath any detractation or calumny embased mine
opinion of their persons. I know some of them, whose names
are most pierced with these accusations, to be men of great
\irtues ; although the indisposition of the time, and the want
of correspondence many ways, is enough to frustrate the
best endeavom-s in the edifying of the Church. And for the
rest generally, I can condemn none. I am no judge of them
that belong to so high a master ; neither have I two witnesses.
And I Imow it is truly said of fame, Pnrifer facta, otqne
iiifecta canciat.- Their taxations arise not all from one coast ;
they have many and different enemies, ready to invent
slander, more /eady to amplify it, and most ready to believe
> Coni'CTsafion. intercourse, way of association with others, " Octavia
is of a holy, COM. and still conversation." (" Antony and Cleopatra,"
ii. 6.) " Our conversation is iu heaven." ( Philippians ill. 20. )
' She sang equally things done and not done. (Statins, " Thebaid,'
iii. 430.)
it. And Magties mendacii crcdulitas (credulity is the adamant
of lies). But if any be, against whom the supreme bishop hath
not a few things but many things; if any have "lost his first
love;" if any "be neither hot nor cold;" if any have stumbled
too fouUy at the threshold, in sort that he cannot sit well
which entered iU ; it is time " they return whence they are
fallen, and confirm the things that remain." Great is the
weight of this fault ; et eoriim causa abhorrebant homines a
sacrificio Domini (and for their cause did men abhor the
adoration of God). But howsoever it be, those which have
sought to deface them, and cast contempt upon them, are not
to be excused.
It is the precept of Salomon, "that the rulers be not re-
proached; no, not in thought," but that we di-aw oiir very
conceit into a modest interpretation of their doings. The
holy angel would give no sentence of blasphemy against the
common slanderer, but said, Increpef fe Doatiniis (the I^ord
rebuke thee). The Apostle St. Paul, though against him that
did pollute sacred justice with tyrannous violence he did
justly denounce the judgment of God, in saj-ing Percutict te
Dominiis^ (the Lord will strike thee); yet in saying paries
dcalbate, he thought he had gone too far, and retracted it ;
whereupon a learned father s;iid, Jpsiiin quatiivis inane nomen
ct umbram saccrdotis cof/itans expavit.* The ancient councils
and sjTiods (as is noted by the ecclesiastical story), when they
deprived any bishop, never recorded the offence, but buried it
in perpetual silence. Only Cham purchased his curse with
revealing his father's disgrace. And yet a much greater fault
is it to ascend from then- person to their calling, and draw
that in question. Many good fathers spake rigorously and
severely of the unworthiness of bishops, as if presently it did
forfeit and cease their oflice. One saith, Saccrdotcs nomi-
namur et non sumus (we are called priests, but priests we are
not). Another saith. Nisi bonum opus amplectaris, cpiscopiis
esse non potes (except thou undertake the good work, thou
canst not be a bishop) . Yet they meant nothing less than to
make doubt of their calling or ordination.
The second occasion of controversies, is the nature and
humour of some men. The Church never wanteth a kind of
persons which love "the salutation of Rabbi, master;" not in
ceremony or compliment, but in an inward authority which
they seek over men's minds, in drawing them to depend upon
their opinion, and "to seek knowledge at their lips." These
men are the true successors of Diotrephes, the lover of pre-
eminence, and not lords bishops. Such spirits do light upon
another sort of natures, which do adhere to them ; men
quorum gloria in obscquio (stiff followers, and such as zeal
marvellously for those whom they have chosen for their
masters). This latter sort, for the most part, are men of
young years and superficial understanding, carried away with
partial respect of persons, or with the enticing appearance of
goodlj' names and pretences. Pauei res ipsas scquuntur,
plures nomina rerum, pluriini nomina magistroriim (few follow
the things themselves, more the names of the things, and
most the names of their masters). About these general
aflfections are wreathed accidental and private emulations
and discontentments, all which together break forth into
contentions ; such as either violate truth, sobriety, or peace.
These generalities apply themselves. The universities are the
seat and continent of this disease, whence it hath been and is
derived into the rest of the realm. There some -vnR no longer
be i numcro (of the number). There some others side them-
' " God shall smite thee, thou whited wall . . . And they that
stood by said, Eevilest thou God's h\sti priest ? Then said Paul, I
wist not, brethren, that he was the hii-h priest." (Acts xiiii. 3—5.)
* Upon reflection he had dread even for the empty name and shadow
of a priest.
TO A.D. 1589.]
EELIGION.
187
selves before " they know their right hand from their left." So
it is true which is said, transeuiit ad igmraiitia ad prajudiciiim
(they leap from ignorance to a prejudicate opinion), and
never take a sound judgment in their way. But as it is well
noted, inter juccuik judicium et senile priejudiciiim, omnis
Veritas coniimpitur (when men are indifferent, and not
partial, then their judgment is weak and unripe through
want of years : and when it growcth to strength and ripe-
ness, by that time it is forestalled with such a number of
prejudicate opinions, as it is made unprofitable : so as between
these two all truth is corrupted). In the meanwhile, the
honomable names of sincerity, reformation, and discipline
are put in the foreward : so as contentions and evil zeals
cannot be touched, except these holy things be thought first
to be i-iolated. But howsoever they shall infer the solicita-
tion for the peace of the Church to proceed from carnal sense,
yet I wUl conclude ever with the Apostle Paul, Cum sit inter
tos zelus et contcntio, nonne carnales estis ? (\\Tiilst there is
amongst you zeal and contention, are ye not carnal ':) And
howsoever they esteem the compounding of controversies to
savour of man's wisdom and human policy, and think them-
selves led by the wisdom which is from above, yet I say with
St. James, Xon est ista sapientia de sursum descendens, sed
terrena, animalis, diabolica : ubi enim zelus et contentio, ibi
ineonstan'.ia et omne opus pravum} Of this inconstancy, it is
said by a learned father, Proecdere rolitnt iion ad perfectionem,
ted ad permutationem (they seek to go forward stUl, not to
perfection, but to change).
The third occasion of controversies I observe to be, an
extreme and unlimited detestation of some former heresy or
corruption of the Church already acknowledged and convicted.
This was the cause that produced the heresy of Atius,-
grounded chiefly upon detestation of Gentilism, lest the
Chiistians should seem, by the assertion of the co-equal
di^'inity of our Saviour Christ, to approach unto the acknow-
ledgment of more gods than one. The detestation of the
heresy of Anus produced that of Sabellius ; ■* who, holding
for execrable the dissimilitude which Arius pretended in the
Trinity, fled so far from him, as he fell upon that other
extremity, to deny the distinction of persons ; and to say they
were but only names of several o8Sces and dispensations.
Yea, most of the heresies and schisms of the Church have
sprung up of this root ; while men have made it as it were
their scale, by which to measure the bounds of the most
perfect reUgion ; taking it by the furthest distance fi'om the
error last condemned. These be posthumi hcBresium Jilii
(heresies that arise out of the ashes of other heresies that are
extinct and amortized). This manner of apprehension doth
in some degree possess many in our times. They think it the
true touchstone to try what is good and holy, by measuring
what is more or less opposite to the institutions of the Church
of Rome ; be it ceremony, be it policy or government, yea, be
it other institution of greater weight, that is ever most perfect
which is removed most degrees from that Church ; and that
is ever polluted and blemished which particijxiteth in any
appearance with it. This is a subtle and dangerous conceit
1 " This wisdom descendeth not from above, but is earthly, sensual,
devilish. For where envying and strife is, there is confusion and
everj* evil work." (James iii 15, 16. )
* Arius, a presbyter of Alexandria in the fourth century, maintained
that the Son and the Father were distinct, and that the Son was
created by the will of the Father out of nothing. His doctrine was
condemned at a synod a.d. 321, and again at the Council of Nice, A.D.
325, when Athanasins took part against him. He died a.d. 333.
' SaleHius lived before Arius. He was an African Christian of the
third century, one of the Monarchians who held the Oneness of the
Three Persons by treating them as names for the different relations
Ot the one God to His people.
for men to entertain, apt to delude themselves, more apt to
seduce the people, and most apt of all to calumniate their
adversaries. This surely (but that a notorious condemnation
of that position was before our eyes) had long since brought
us to the re-baptising of children baptised according to the
pretended catholic religion. For I see that which is a matter
of much like reason, which is the re-ordaining of priests, is a
matter already resolutely maintained. It is very meet that
men beware how they be abused by this opinion ; and that
they know that it is a consideration of much greater wisdom
and sobriety to be well advised, whether in the general
demolition of the institutions of the Church of Rome there
were not (as men's actions are imperfect) some good purged
^\-ith the bad, rather than to purge the Church, as they
pretend, every day anew ; which is the way to make a wound
in her bowels, as is already begun.
The fourth and last occasion of these controversies (a
matter which did also trouble the Church in former times) is
the partial affectation and imitation of foreign churches.
For many of our men, during the time of persecution and
since, ha\'ing been conversant in churches abroad, and received
a great impression of the form of government there ordained,
have violently sought to intrude the same upon our Church.
But I answer, Consentiamus in eo quod confenit, non in eo quod
receptum est (let us agree in this, that every church do that
which is convenient for the estate of itself, and not in
particular customs). Although their churches had received
the better form, )'et many times it is to be sought, non quid
optimum, sed l; bonis quid proxiinum (not what is best, but of
good things what is ne.\t and readiest to be had). Our
church is not now to plant ; it is settled and established. It
may be, in civil states, a republic is a better policy than a
kingdom: yet God forbid th.-\t lawful kingdoms should be
tied to innovate and make alteration. Qui mala iutroducit,
voluntatcm Dei oppugnat recclatam in verbo; qui nova iutroducit,
voluntatem Dei oppugnat revclatam in rebus (he that bringeth
in evU customs, resisteth the will of God revealed in His Word;
he that bringeth in new things, resisteth the wUl of God
revealed in the things themselves). Consule providentiam Dei,
cum verbo Dei (take counsel of the proddence of God, as well
as of His Word). Neither yet do I admit that their form
(though it were possible and convenient) is better than ours,
if some abuses were taken away. The parity and equality of
ministers is a thing of wonderful gi-eat confusion ; and so is
an ordinarj- government by sj-nods, which doth necessarily
ensue upon the other. It is hard in all causes, but especially
in matters of religion, when voices shall be "numbered and
not weighed." Equidem (saith a wise father) ut i-ere quod res
est scribam, prorsus decrcvi fugcre omnem conventum episeo-
porum; nullius enim concilii bonum exitum unquam vidi ;
concilia enim non minuunt mala, sed augent potius (To say
the truth, I am utterly determined never to come to any
councU of bishops : for I never yet saw good end of any
council; for councOs abate not ill things, but rather increase
them) : which is to be understood not so much of general
councils, as of s>-nods gathered for the ordinarj- government
of the Church ; as for deprivation of bishops, and such-like
causes ; which mischief hath taught the use of archbishops,
patriarchs, and primates; as the abuse of them since hath
taught men to mislike them. But it will be said. Look to
the fruits of the churches abroad and ours. To which I say,
that I beseech the Lord to multiply his blessings and graces
upon those churches an hundredfold. But yet it is not good,
that we fall on numbering of them. It may be our peace
hath made us more wanton : it may be also (though I would
be loath to derogate from the honour of those churches, were
it not to remove scandals) that their fruits are as torches in
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[i.D. 1579
the dark, which appear greatest afar off. I know they may
have some more strict orders for the repressing of sundry
excesses. But when I consider of the censures of some
persons, as well upon particular men as upon churches, I
think of the saying of a Platonist, who saith, Certe villa
irascibilis partis aiiimte sunt gradu pruviora quam concHpiscibilis,
tametsi occii/iiora ; ' a matter that appeared well by the ancient
contentions of bishops. God grant that we may contend with
other churches, as the vine with the olive, which of us beareth
best fruit ; and not as the brier with the thistle, which of us
is most unprofitable. And thus much touching the occasion
of these controversies.
2. Now, briefly to set down the growth and progression
of these controversies ; whereby wUl be verified the wise
counsel of Salomon, that the course of contentions is to be
stopped at the first; being else "as the waters," which if they
gain a breach, it wiU hardly be ever recovered. It may be
remembered, that on their part which call for reformation,
was first propounded some dislike of certain ceremonies sup-
posed to be superstitious ; some complaint of dumb ministers
who possessed rich benefices ; and some invectives against the
idle and monastical continuance within the universities, by
those who had livings to be resident upon ; and such-like
abuses. Thence they went on to condemn the government
of bishops as an hierarchy remaining to us of the corruptions
of the lloman Church, and to except to simdi-y institutions
as not sufficiently delivered from the pollutions of the former
times. And lastly, they are advanced to define of an only
and perpetual form of policy in the Church ; which (without
consideration of possibility, or foresight of peril and pertur-
bation of the church and state) must be erected and planted
by the magistrate. Here they stay. Others (not able to
keep footing in so steep a ground) descend further ; That the
same must be entered into and accepted of the people, at
their peril, without the attending of the establishment of
authority : and so in the meantime they refuse to commu-
nicate with us, reputing us to have no chm-ch. This hath
been the progression of that side : I mean of the generality.
For I know, some persons (being of the nature, not only to
love extremities, but also to fall to them without degrees)
were at the highest strain at the first. The other part, which
maintaineth the present government of the Church, hath not
kept one tenor neither. First, those ceremonies which were
pretended to be corrupt they maintained to be things indif-
ferent, and opposed the examples of the good times of the
Church to that challenge which was made unto them, because
they were used in the later superstitious times. Then were
they also content mildly to acknowledge many imperfections
in the Church : as tares come up amongst the com ; which
yet (according to the wisdom taught by our Saviour) were
not with strife to be pulled up, lest it might spoil and
supplant the good com, but to grow on together until the
harvest. After, they grew to a more absolute defence and
maintenance of aU the orders of the Church, and stiffly to
hold that nothing was to be innovated; partly because it
needed not, partly because it would make a breach upon the
rest. Thence (exasperate through contentions) they are
fallen to a direct condemnation of the contrary part, as of a
sect. Yea, and some indiscreet persons have been bold in
open preaching to use dishonom-able and derogative speech
and censure of the churches abroad ; and that so far, as some
of om- men (as I have heard) ordained in foreign parts have
been pronounced to be no lawful ministers. Thus we see the
> Surely the vices of the irascible part of the soul ai-e a degree
Worse thau those of the coaoupiscible, though more occult.
beginnings were modest, but the extremes are violent ; so as
there is almost as great a distance now of either side from
itself, as was at the first of one from the other. And surely,
though my meaning and scope be not (as I said before) to
enter into the controversies themselves, yet I do admonish
the maintainors of the alone discipline to weigh and consider
seriously and attentively, how near they are unto those with
whom I know they will not join. It is very hard to aihrm
that the discipline which they say we want is one of the
essential parts of the worship of God, and not to affirm withal
that the people themselves upon peril of salvation, without
staying for the magistrate, are to gather themselves into it.
I demand, if a civil state should receive the preaching of the
word and baptism, and interdict and exclude the sacrament
of the supper, were not men bound upon danger of their
souls to draw themselves to congregations, wherein they
might celebrate that mystery, and not to content themselves
with that part of the worship of God which the magistrate
hath authorised f This I speak, not to draw them into the
mislike of others, but into a more deep consideration of
themselves : Fortasse noii rcileiint, quia suitm progression non
inti'Uiijuiit.- Again, to my lords the bishops I say, that it is
hard for them to avoid blame (in the opinion of an indifferent
person) in standing so precisely upon altering notliing.
Leges, novis Icgibtis non recreate, acesctmt (laws, not refreshed
with new laws, wax sour). Qui mala non permntat, in bonis
non pcrseverat (without change of the ill, a man cannot
continue the good). To take away abuses supplanteth not
good orders, but establisheth them. Morosa inoris retcntio
res turbulenta est, reqne ac novitas (a contentious retaining of
custom is a turbulent thing, as well as innovation). A good
husbandman is ever projTiing and stirring in his vineyard
or field ; not unseasonably, indeed, nor unskilfully. But
lightly he findeth ever somewhat to do. We have heard of
no offers of the bishops of bUls in parliament ; which (no
doubt) proceeding from them to whom it j)roperly pcrtaineth,
would have everywhere received acceptation. Their own
constitutions and orders have reformed little. Is nothing
amiss ? Can any man defend the use of excommunication as
a base process to lackey up and down for duties and fees ; it
being the greatest judgment next the general judgment of
the latter dayP Is there no means to train up and nurse
ministers (for the yield of the universities will not serve,
though they were never so well govemed) — to train them, I
say, not to preach (for that everj' man confidently adven-
tureth to do) , but to preach soundly, and handle the Scriptures
with wisdom and judgment ? I know prophesying was sub-
ject to great abuse, and would be more abused now ; because
heat of contentions is increased. But I say the only reason
of the abuse was, because there was admitted to it a popular
auditor}', and it was not contained within a private conference
of ministers. Other things might be spoken of. I pray God
to inspire the bishops with a fervent love and care of the
people; and that they may not so much urge things in
controversy as things out of controversy which all men
confess to be gracious and good. And thus much for the
second point.
3. Now, as to the third point, of unbrotherly proceeding on
either part, it is directly contrary to my purpose to amplifjr
wrongs : it is enough to note and number them ; which I do
also to move compassion and remorse on the offending side,
and not to animate challenges and complauits on the other.
And this point (as reason is) doth chiefly touch that side
^ Perhaps they do not retuiTi because they do not understand how
they went forward.
TO A.D. 1589.]
RELIGION.
ISO
which can do most. Injuria potentiorum sunt (injuries come
fi-om them that have the upper hand).
The -nTongs of them which are possessed of the govern-
ment of the Church towards the other, may hardly be
dissembled or excused. They have chiirged them as though
'• they denied tribute to Csesar," and witluh-ew from the civU
masistrate their obedience which they have ever performed
and taught. They have ever sorted and coupled them with
the family of those whose heresies they have laboured to
descry and confute. They have been swift of credit to
receive accusations against them from those that have
quarrelled with them but for speaking against sin and vice.
l"hcir examinations and inquisitions have been sti-ait. Swear-
ing men to blanks and generalities (not included within a
compass of matter certain, which the party that is to take
the oath may comprehend) is a thing captious and strainable.
Their urging of subscription to theu- own articles is but
lacesscre et irritare inorbos ecclesiir, which otherwise would
spend and exercise themselves. 2fon consensum quicrit sed
dissidium, qui quod fact is pritstatur in verbis exigit (he seeketh
not unity, but division, which exacteth in words that which
men are content to yield in action). And it is true, there are
some which (as I am persuaded) will nut easily oft'end by
inconformity, who notwithstamling make some conscience to
subscribe. For they know this note of inconstancy and
defection from that which they have long held shall disable
them to do that good which otherwise they would do : for
such is the weakness of many that their ministry should be
thereby discredited. As for their easy silencing of them, in
such great scarcity of preachers, it is to punish the people,
and not them. Ought they not (I mean the bishops) to keep
one eye open to look upon the good that these men do, but to
fix them both upon the hurt that they suppose cometh by
them ': Indeed, such as are intemperate and incorrigible,
God forbid they should be permitted to teach. But shaU
everv inconsiderate word, sometimes captiously watched, and
for the most part hardly enforced, be a forfeiture of their
voice and gift of teaching ? As for sundry particular moles-
tations, I take no pleasure to recite them. If a minister shaU
be troubled for sajTng in baptism, "Do you believer" for,
" Dost thou believe r" If another shall be called in question
fur praying for her Majesty without the addition of her style;
whereas the very form of prayer in the Book of Common
Prayer hath " Thy servant Elizabeth," and no more : if a
third shall be accused, upon these words uttered touching
the controversies, tollatur lex et fiat certamen (whereby was
meant that the prejudice of the law removed, cither's reasons
should be equally compared) of calling the people to sedition
and mutiny, as if he had said, " Away with the law, and try it
out by force : " if these and sundry other like particulars be
true, which I have but by rumour, and cannot atfinn ; it is to
be lamented that they should labour amongst us with so little
comfort. I know " restrained governments are better than
remiss ;" and I am of his mind that said, " Better is it to live
where nothing is lawful, than where aU things are lawful."
I dislike that laws be contemned, or disturbers be un-
punished. But laws are likened to the gir.pe, that being too
much pressed yields an hard and unwhole ome wine. Of these
things I must say, Ira viri non opcrutur justitinin Dei (the
wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God).
As for the injui-ies of the other part, they be ictus inermium ;
as it were headless arrows; they are fiery and eager in-
vectives, and in some fond men unciril and unreveren'i.
beha^^our towards their persons. This last invention also,
which ciposeth them to derision and obloquy by libels,
chargeth not (as I am persuaded) the whole side-: neither
doth that other, which is yet more odious, practised by the
worst sort of them, which is, to call in as it were to their
aids certain mercenary bands, which impugn bishops and
other ecclesiastical dignities, to ha\e the spoil of their endow-
ments and livings. Of this I cannot speak too hardly. It
is an intelligence between incendiaries and robbers — the one
to fire the house, the other to ritle it. And thus much
touching the third point.
4. The fourth point whoUy pertaineth to them which
impugn the present ecclesiastical goveinment ; who. although
they have not cut themselves off from the body and com-
mtmion of the Church, yet do they affect certain cognizances
and differences, wherein they seek to correspond amongst
themselves, and to be separated from others. And it is truly
said, tarn sunt mores quidam schismutici, quain dogmata sc/iis-
matica (there be as well schismatical fashions as opinions).
First, they have impropered to themselves the names of
zealous, sincere, and reformed; as if aU others were cold,
minglers of holy things and profane, and friends of abuses.
Yea, be a man endued with gi'eat virtues and fruitful in good
works, yet if he concur not with them, they term him in
derogation a ci\"il and moral man, and compare him to
Socrates or some heathen philosopher : whereas the w isdom
of the Scriptures teacheth us contrariwise to judge and deno-
roinate men religious according to their works of the second
table ; because they of the first are often counterteited and
practised in hypocrisy. So St. John saith, that " a man doth
vainly boast of loving God whom he hath not seen, if he love
not his brother whom he hath seen." And St. James saith,
"This is true religion, to visit the fatherless and the widow,"
&c. So as that which is with them but philosophical and
moral, is, in the phrase of the Apostle, true religion and
Christianity. As in affection they challenge the said ^nrtues
of zeal and the rest, so in knowledge they attribute xmto
themselves light and perfection. They say, the Church of
England in King Edward's time, and in the beginning of her
Majesty's reign, was but in the cradle ; and the bishops in
those times did somewhat for daybreak, but that maturity
and fulness of light proceeded from themselves. So Sabinus,
Bishop of Heraclea, a JIacedonian, said that the fathers in
the Council of Nice were but infants and ignorant men ; and
that the Church was not so to persist in their decrees as to
refuse that further ripeness of knowledge which the time had
revealed. And as they censure virtuous men by the names of
ci%'il and moral, so do they censure men truly and godly wise
who see into the vanity of their assertions by the nante of
politiques ; saying that their wisdom is but carnal and
savoming of man's brain. So likewise if a preacher preach
with care and meditation (I speak not of the vain scholastical
manner of preaching, but soundly indeed, ordering the matter
he handleth distinctly for memory, deducing and drawing it
down for direction, and authorising it with strong proofs and
warrants), they censure it as a form of speaking not becoming
the simplicity of the Gospel, and refer it to the reprehension
of St. Paul, speaking of the enticing speech of man's
wisdom.
Kow for their own manner of teaching, what is it ': Surely
they exhort well, and work compunction of mind, and bring
men well to the question, Viri, fratres, quid ageaius .^^ But
that is not enough, except they resolve that question. They
handle matters of controversy weakly and obiter, and as
before a people that will accept of anything. In doctrine of
manners there is little but generality and repetition. The
Word (the " bread of Ufe") they toss up and down, they break
it not. They draw not their directions down ad casus
1 ■' Meu, brethreu, what shall we do <• "
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conscknt'KB; that a man may be warranted in his particular
actions whether they be lawful or not. Neither indeed are
many of them able to do it, what through want of grounded
knowledge, what through want of study and time. It is an
easy and compendious thing to call for the observation of the
Sabbath-day, or to speak against unlawful gain ; but what
actions and works may be done upon the Sabbath, and in
what cases ; and what courses of gain are lawful, and what
not ; to set this down, and to clear the whole matter with
good distinctions and decisions, is a matter of great know-
ledge and labour, and asketh much meditation and con-
versation in the Scriptures, and other helps which God hath
pro\'ided and preserved for instruction. Again, they carry
not an equal hand in teaching the people their lawful liberty,
as well as their restraints and prohibitions : but they think a
man cannot go too far in that that hath a show of a com-
mandment. They forget that there are " sins on the right
hand, as well as on the left;" and that "the word is double-
edged," and cutteth on both sides, as well the superstitious
observances as the profane transgressions. Who doubteth
but it is as unlawful to shut where God hath opened, as to
open where God hath shut ': to bind where God hath loosed,
as to loose where God hath bound 'i Amongst men it is com-
monly as ill taken to turn back favours as to disobey
commnndments. In this kind of zeal (for example), they have
pronounced generally, and without difference, all untruths
unlawful; notwithstanding that the midwives are directly
reported to have been blessed for their excuse ; and Rahab is
said " by faith " to have concealed the spies ; and Salomon's
selected judgment proceeded upon a simulation ; and our
Saviour, the more to touch the hearts of the two disciples
with a holy dalliance, made as if he would have passed
Emmaus. Further, I have heard some sermons of mortifica-
tion, which I think (with very good meaning) they have
preached out of their own experience and exercise, and things
in private counsels not unmeet ; but surely no sound con-
ceits ; much like to Person's '■ Resolution," or not so good ; apt
to breed in men rather weak opinions and perplexed despairs,
than filial and true repentance which is sought. Another
point of great inconvenience and peril, is to entitle the people
to hear controversies and all points of doctrine. They say
no part of the counsel of God must be suppressed, nor the
people defrauded : so as the difference which the Apostle
maketh between "milk and strong meat" is confounded: and
his precept " that the weak be not admitted unto questions and
controversies" taketh no place. But most of all is to be
suspected, as a seed of further inconvenience, their man^^r of
handling the Scriptures ; for whilst they seek express Scrip-
ture for everything; and that they have (in manner) deprived
themselves and the Church of a special help and support by
embasing the authority of the fathers ; they resort to naked
examines, conceited inferences, and forced allusions, such as
do mine into all certainty of Religion. Another extremity is
the e-xcessive magnifying of that which, though it be a prin-
cipal and most holy in.stitution, yet hath it limits as all
things else have. AVe see wheresoever (in manner) they find
in the Scriptures the "Word .spoken of, they expound it of
preaching. They have made it almost of the essence of the
sacrament of the supper, to have a sermon precedent. They
have (in sort) annihilated the use of liturgies, and forms of
divine service, although the house of God be denominated of
the prmcipal, domus oratioiiis (a house of prayer), and not a
house of preaching. As for the life of the good monks and
the hermits in the primitive Church, I k-now they will
condemn a man as haU a Papist, if he should maintain them
as other than profane, l)ecause they heard no sermons. In
the meantime, what preaching is, and who ma)' be said to
preach, they make no question. But as far as I see, every
man that presumeth to speak in chair is accounted a preacher.
But I am assured that not a few that call hotly for a preach-
ing ministry deserve to be of the first themselves that should
be expelled. These and some other errors and misproceedings.
they do fortify and entrench by being so greatly addicted to
their opinions, and impatient to hear contradiction or argu-
ment. Yea, I know some of them that would think it a
tempting of God to hear or read what might be said against
them; as if there could be a quod boiiKiii est tciicU;^ without
an omnia probate - going before.
This may suffice to offer unto themselves a view and con-
sideration, whether in these things they do well or no, and to
correct and assuage the partiality of their followers and
dependants. For as for any man that shall hereby enter into
a contempt of their ministry, it is but liis own hardness of
heart. I know the work of e.xliortation doth chiefly rest
upon these men, and they have zeal and hate of sin. But
again, let them take heed that it be not true wliich one of
their adversaries said, " that they have but two small wants,
knowledge and love." And so I conclude this fourth point.
5. The last point, touching the due publishing and debating
of these controversies, needeth no long speech. This strange
abuse of antics and pasquils hath been touched before. So
likewise I repeat that which I said before, that a character of
love is more proper for debates of this nature than that of
zeal. As for all indirect or direct glances or levels at men's
persons, they were ever in these cases disallowed. Lastly,
whatsoever be pretended, the people is no meet judge nor
arbitrator, but rather the quiet, moderate, and private assem-
blies and conferences of the learned. Qai apud iiicapacem
loquitur, noil disirptaf, si'd caliiiiiiiiatar.^ The press and pulpit'
would be freed and discharged of these contentions. Neither
promotion on the one side, nor glory and heat on the other,
ought to continue those challenges and cartels at the Cross
and other places. But rather all preachers, especially all
such as be of good temper, and have wisdom with conscience,
ought to inculcate and beat upon a peace, silence, and
surseance. Neither let them fear Solon's law, which com- ,
pelled in factions every particular person to range himself on '
the one side ; nor yet the fond calumny of neutrality ; but .
let them know that is true which is said by a wise man, i
that "neuters in contentions are either better or worse than
either side."
These things have I in all sincerity and simplicity set
down, touching the controversies which now trouble the
Church of England; and that without all art and insinuation,
and therefore not like to be gratefid to either part. Not- ■
withstanding, I trust what hath been said shall find a con-e-
spondence in their minds which are not embarked in partiality,
and which love the wliole better than a part. Whereby I
am not out of hope that it may do good. At the least I
shall not repent myself of the meditation.
The highest expre.ssion of tlie Puritan view of '
English Religion in the latter half of the reign of '
Elizalieth is to be found in the First Book of
Spenser's " Faerie Queene." The highest e.xpression
of the opposite view is in the " Ecclesiastical Polity"
of Richard Hooker. But in verse and prose the
' " Hold fast tliat wMcli is good."
^ " Prove all thiugs. "
' " He who speaks witli the incapable resolvus notbing, but worrioi '
only."
.,
TO A.D. 1589.]
RELIGION.
191
religions spirit of the time foiuid utterance in many
forms. In 1580, when a passing cloud was between
Sir Philip Siihiey and the Queen, and he was staying
at Wilton with his sister j\[ary' (lately married
to the Earl of Pemljroke, and then mother to an
infant lieu- of the house), brother and si.ster worked
together at a translation of the Psalms of David
into English verse, and the following is one of the
versions contributed by the Countess of Pembroke —
the same of whom Ben Jonson wrote after her
death —
" Underneath this sable hearse
Lies the suhjeet of all ver.sc.
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother;
Death, ere thou hast slain another
Learn' d and fair and good as she.
Time shall thi'ow a dart at thee."
PSALM LXIX.
Troublous seas my soul surround :
Save, O God ! my sinking soul, —
Sinking where it feels no ground.
In this gulf, this whirling hole :
Waiting aid with earnest eying,
Calling God with bootless crying ;
Dim and dry in me are found
Eye to see and thi-oat to sound.
Wrongly set to work my woe,
Haters have I more than hairs :
Force in my afflicting foe
Bettering still, in me impaii's.
Thus to pay and leese- constrained
What I never ought ^ or gained,
Yet say I, Thou God dost know
How my faults and foUies go.
Mighty Lord ! let not my case
Blank the rest that hope in Thee !
Let not Jacob's God deface
All His friends in Ijlush of me !
Thine it is. Thine only quarrel
Dights me thus in shame's apparel :
ilote nor spot, nor least disgrace.
But for Thee could taint my face.
To my kin a stranger quite.
Quite an alien am I grown ;
In my very brethren's sight
Most uncared for, most unknown.
With thy temple's zeal out-eaten,
"With thy slanders' scourges beaten,
Wliile the shot of piercing spite.
Bent at Thee, on me doth light.
Unto thee what needs be told
My reproach, my blot, my blame ?
Sith-" both these TTiou didst behold,
And canst all my haters name.
' See the Tolnme of this Library containing "Shorter English
Poems," pages 212. 213.
' Leese, lose. First-English "leosan."
' Ow|jM, owned. First-English "dgan," to own, past "dhte."
* Sitli, since.
AVhiles afflicted, whiles heartbroken,
"Waiting yet some friendship's token.
Some I looked would me uphold, —
Looked, — but found all comfort cold.
Comfort ? naj', not seen before.
Needing food they sent me gall ;
Vinegar they filled me store,
Wlien for drink my thirst did call.
Oh, then snare them in their pleasures I
Make them trapt even in their treasures !
Gladly sad, and richly poor.
Sightless most, yet mightless more !
Down upon them fury rain !
Lighten indignation down !
Turn to waste and desert plain
House and palace, field and town !
Let not one be left abiding
Where such rancoui' had residing !
"Whom Thou painest, more they pain;
Hurt by Thee, by them is slain.
The next note of the love of God is from the
devout Roman Catholic poet, Robei-t Southwell,'"
who in 159.3 was hanged for his religion at the age
of thii-ty-three. We have, whatever our opinions,
to look back with equal eye upon a time when zeal
touched human life as it now does not. It has been
calculated that in Elizabeth's reign two hundred and
sixty persons were put to death for sapng and hear-
ing mass, of whom seventy-three were laymen and
three women. In 1579 Matthew Hamont, a wheel-
WTight at Hetherset in Norfolk, was burnt alive at
NorNvich as an Arian. He and his followers were
described by an opponent as men whose " knees
were even hardened in prayer, and theii' mouths
full of praises to God." Also at Norwich were
burnt for like heresies, John Lewes, in 1583 ; Peter
Cole, of Ips-ttdch, in 1587; and Francis Ket, M.A.,
of Wymondham, in 1589. An eye-witness of the
execution of Francis Ket (the Eev. William Bui-ton),
wrote that he had " the sacred Bible almost never
out of his hands, himself always in prayer, his
tongue never ceased jiraising of God. When he
went to the fire he was clothed in sackcloth ; he
went leaping and dancing. Being in the fire, above
twenty times together, clapping his hands, he cried
nothing but ' Blessed be God ! blessed be God ! ' and
so continued until the fire had consumed all his
nether parts, and until he was stifled with the smoke
and could speak no longer; all which I was witness
of myself But shall we think that the Lord took
any delight in the prayers or praises of such a devil
mcarnate ] Far be it from us. A strange and fear-
ful example of a desperate, hardened, and a cursed
creature." From such memories of a past phase of
civilisation there is but ens lesson to be dra\vn, and
that is one of charity. We are of one flesh, with
like frailties, and even in the heats of persecution
that arise from zeal towards the spiritual life there
is blended with human passions a deep sense — like
' See " Shorter English Poems," pages 258, 259.
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CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1580
Southwell's in this poem— that man's body is but
a covering to the essential soul : — •
AT HOME IN HEAVEN.
Fair soul ! how Ions shsiH veils thy graces shroud ?
How long shall tliis exile witlihold thy right 'i
When will thy sun disperse his mortal cloud,
And give thy glories scope to blaze theii- light ?
Oh that a star, more fit for angels' eyes,
Shoidd pine in earth, not shine above the skies !
Thy ghostly beauty offer'd force to God ;
It chained Him in links of tender love ;
It won His will with man to make abode ;
It stay'd His sword, and did His wrath remove :
It made the vigour of His justice yield,
And crowned Mercy empress of the field.
This luU'd our heavcnlj' Samson fast asleep,
And laid Him in our feeble nature's lap ;
Tliis made Him under mortal load to creep,
And in our tlesh His Godhead to enwrap ;
This made Hira sojourn with us in e.xile,
And not disdain oiu' titles in His style.
This brought Him from the ranks of heavenly quires
Into this vale of tears and cursed soil ;
From tlowers of grace into a world of briars.
From life to death, fi-om bliss to baleful toU.
Tliis made Him wander in our pilgrim weed.
And taste our torments to relieve our need.
O soul ! do not tliy noble thoughts abase.
To lose thy loves in any mortal wight ;
Content thy eye at homo with native grace,
Sith God Himself is ravish'd with thy sight ;
If on thy beauty God enamoiu-'d be,
Base is thy love of any less than He.
Give not assent to muddy -minded skUl,
That deems the feature of a pleasing face
To be the sweetest bait to lure the will ;
Not valuing right the worth of ghostly grace ;
Let God's and angels' censure win belief.
That of all beauties judge our souls the chief.
Queen Hester was of rare and peerless hue.
And Judith once for beauty bare the va\mt ;
But he that could our souls' endowments view,
Would soon to souls the crown of beauty grant.
O soul ! out of thyself seek God alone :
Grace more than thine, but God's, the world hath none.
Edmund Spenser, in the year L580, went to Ireland
as Secretary to Arthur, Lord Grey of Wilton, who
had just succeeded Philip Sidney's fixther in the office
of Lord Deputy. Spenser had published his " Shep-
herds' Calendar" in the preceding year, was in Lon-
don attached by service of the Earl of Leicester,
and by friendship to Philip Sidney, and, no doubt,
owed to these friends his introduction to the new
Lord Deputy, when he was looking for a private
secretary. Once introduced, his fitness would be
manifest. Lord Grey of Wilton was a friend to
poets,^ and in his views upon Church cpiestions he
was, like Spenser, a Puritan, bitterly hostile to the
Church uf Rome. The Pope, in 1.576, had issued a
bull depriving Elizaljeth of her title to Ireland, and
releasing all her Iiish subjects from allegiance to her.
Lord Grey reached Dublin on the 12th of August,
and received the sword of oflice on the cpieen's birth-
day, the 7tli of September. On the 14th of Sep-
tember a force of six or seven hundred Spaniards and
Italians landed in Kerry, and took possession of a
fort calletl Del Oro in Smerwiek Bay. The fort, then
repaired and re-occupied, had been constnicted two
years before by James Fitzmaurice, with the help of
Spanish and Italian adventurers against the English
government of Ireland. Upon this mOitary settle-
ment, that was to be an inlet to foreign support of
Irish rebellion, the Lord Deputy himself (accom-
panied, of course, by his secretary Spenser) mai-ched
with a land force of not more than eight hundred
men, young Walter Raleigh being among his cap-
tains ; while Sir William Winter and Vice-Admiral
Bingham brought provisions and guns by sea. The
foreigners defended themselves bravely, and replied,
when summoned to surren<ler, that being tliere by
command of the Pope, who had taken Ireland from
Elizabeth, they would keep what they held and win
what more they could. When overpowered, they
offered to give up the fort and depart as they
came ; but the Lord Deputy reqtiired an uncon-
ditional suiTender. Tb the plea of one of their
chiefs, that he was sent by the Pope for the defence
of the Catholic faith. Lord Grey of Wilton wrote
home, " My answer was, that I would not greatly
have marvelled if men commanded by natural and
absolute princes did sometimes take m hand wrong
actions ; but that men of account, as some of them
made show of being, should be carried into unjust,
wicked, and desperate actions by one that neither
from God nor man could claim any princely power
or empire, but indeed a detestable shaveling of the
Antichrist and general ambitious tyrant over all
principalities, and patron of the diabolical faith, I
could not but greatly wonder." If Edmund Spenser,
as private secretary, stood by his chief when he said
this, the secretary's mind assented to every word of
the Lord Deputy's. For "The Faerie Queene" shoT-vs
that Spenser could see in the Pope only a " detest-
able shaveling of the Antichrist," and that the reli-
gion of the Roman Catholics was also in his eyes
" the diabolical faith." The bitterness of the gi-eat
conflict of the time is .shown by the issue of this
enterprise against the fort Del Oro. Lord Grey
ended by telling the pleaders for the garrison that,
" their fault, therefore, apjieared to be aggravated by
the vileness of tlieir commander, and that at my
hands no conditions of composition they were to
expect other than that they should simply render
me the fort, and yield themselves to my wU for
lif"^ or death." They yielded for death. Lord Grey
wrote, " I sent straightway certain gentlemen to see
their weapons and armour laid down, and to guard
the munitions and victual that were left from spoil.
J See " Shorter English Poems," page 209.
TO A.D. 1590.]
RELIGION.
193
Tlieu put I in certain bands who straightway fell to
execution. There were six hundred .slain." Another
who was present' reported "the colonel, captains,
secretary, camp-master, and others of the best sort
saved, to the number of twenty prisoners, and Dr.
Sanders' chief man, an Englishman, Plunkett, a friar,
and others kept in store to be executed after exami-
nation to be had of them. It is confessed that five
hundred more were daily looked for to be sent from
the Pope and the King of Spain to land here."
Such was Edmund Spenser's first notable expe-
rience of the public service in Ireland. His age was
then about twenty-seven, and he had already begun
to write the " Faeiie Queene;" for his friend Gabriel
Harvey's ill opmion of what he had seen of it is in
a letter that was published in June, 1.580.
In 1581 Spenser was made Clerk of Degi-ees and
Recognisances in the Irish Court of Chancery, and
obtained also a gi-ant of the lease of the lands and
abbey of Enniscorthy in Wexford, which he trans-
ferred, no doulit pi'ofitably, at the end of the year to a
Richard Synot. In 1582 Lord Grey was recalled, but
Spenser i-emained in Ireland. He was still a Clerk
in Chancery till 1588, when he was made Clerk of
the Council of Mimster. By this time he had re-
ceived also a grant of land with Kilcolman Castle, in
the county of Cork; part of the six hundred thousand
acres confiscated from the Earl of Desmond and his
followers. Twelve thousand acres in the counties of
Cork, Waterford, and Tipperary had been granted
to Walter Raleigh, who thus became for a time
Spenser's neighbouv in Ireland. Raleigh took Spenser
to London with him in 1589, when he was i-eady to
pi'esent to Queen Elizabeth the first three books of
the "Faerie Queene." They were published in
London in the year 1590, the next three books not
appearing until 1596.
In the year after the publication of the first three
books of the "Faerie Queene " Spenser received from
Elizabeth a grant of .£'50 a year. This being equiva-
lent to a pension of £300 under Victoria, was
substantial reward for a poem containing much that
mu.st have pleased her Majesty, Puritan though it
was. She could appreciate in the first three books a
profound earnestness in the treatment of their several
themes — Religion, Temperance, and Chastity — and
she would be ready as any half reader of after
times to see only herself in Gloriana. She does also
pervade the poem ; for the " Faerie Queene " is a
great spiritual allegory, moulding what Spenser held
to be the simple essence of eternal truth for man, in
forms that reproduced the life of his own time. His
World of Faerie is the Sjiiritual world. The Faerie
Queene Gloriana is the Glory of God, for which and
towards which man strives through all his faculties
fur good. Every such faculty, presented to the
mind's eye in one of the shapes then dear to lovers
of romance, achieves that triumjih over its opposite
for which it ever labours by contending with the
trials and temptations to which it is most exjiosed,
these also being typified in i-omance forms as giants,
' From an unnamed writer to Walsinijliam. dated Smerwick,
November 12t)i. 1580, among the Irish State Paper.*.
89
dragons, and so forth. But England — the England
of his own day — with its actual aspu-ations and
perils, is never absent from the poet's thought, and
his fantastic imagery shapes to our minds constantly
the substantial struggle of his time, as seen by the
light of liis own spiritual life. The Glory of God in
England was one with the maintenance of the Refor-
mation by Elizabeth. For her, for it, the souls of
the best Englislimen were combating with trial and
temptation. As Sir Thomas More's "Utopia" has
given to our language a word equivalent to un-
practical, and yet in its pliiyfulness of fancy deals
most earnestly with hard realities in every line; so
Spenser's " Faerie Queene," with all exquisite music
of its sage and solemn tunes,
' ' Of toiimeys and of trophies hung.
Of forests and enchantments drear.
Where more is meant than meets the ear,"
shows in that "more" always a combatant Elizabethan
Englishman who deals most earnestly with all the
\dtal public questions of his day. Spenser is the
Elizabethan IMilton. Langland had not the condi-
tion of England, and what he felt to be the needs of
England, more in mind when he wrote the " Vision
of Piers Plowman " than had Spenser when in his
allegory of the " Faerie Queene " he uttered his
" truths severe by fairy fiction drest." The whole
plan of the poem, as far as it was written, will be
illustrated in the section of this Library reserved for
the illustration of our Longer Englisli Poems. But
we shall then need to say no more of the tii'st book
than is requii'ed to explain its relation to the rest
of the poem, for its theme is the religion of England,
and we have now to dwell on
its contents.
From a Monument in M'liatton
Church, Northamittonshirc.
ITH the Red Cross Knight,
whom he calls also St. George,
Spenser associates his allegory
of the heavenwaid struggle of
liis country, the adventure of
the Reformation, undertaken
for the glory of God, incom-
plete in his owai day and in
ours. The faerie knight is the spiritual quality
in any man or any nation liy which we seek first
the kmgdom of God and His righteousness. He
first appears clad in the armour deserilied by St.
Paul in the sixth chapter of his Epistle to the
Ephesians, when he says, " Take unto you the whole
armour of God, that ye may be able to withstand in
the e\'il day, and having done all, to stand. Stand
therefore, ha%-ing your loins girt about with truth,
and having on the breastplate of righteousness; and
your feet shod with tlie preparation of the Gospel of
peace ; above all, taking the shielil of fivitli, where-
with ye sljall be able tn quench all the fiery darts of
the ■wicked : and take the helmet of salvation, and
the sword of the Spirit, which is the Word of God ;"
and again in the fiftli I'hapter of the first Ejiistle to
the Thessalonians. " Let us, who are of the day, be
194
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[i.D, 1579
sober, putting on the breastplate of faith and love,
and for an helmet the hope of salvation."
" A gentle knight was pricking on the iilain,
Yclad in miglitie arms and silver shield,
Wherein old dints of deep wounds did remain,
The cruel marks of many a hloodie field ;
Yet arms till that time did he never wield :
His angry steed did chide his foaming hit.
As much disdaining to the curb to yield :
Full jolly knight he seem'd, and fair did sit.
As one for knightly jousts and fierce encounters fit.
" But on his breast a bloody cross he bore.
The dear remembrance of his dying Lord,
for whose sweet sake that glorious badge he wore.
And dead (as living) ever him ador'd :
Upon his shield the like was also scor'd.
For sovereign hope, which in his help he had :
Eight faithful true he was in deed and word ;
But of his cheer did seem too solemn sad ;
Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad.
The Red Cross Knioht.
Prom thejii-st Edition of the " Faerie Quecne " (Books I., II , III.). 15S0.
" Upon a great adventure he was bond
That greatest Gloriana to him gave.
That greatest glorious queen of fairy lond.
To win him worship, and her grace to have.
Which of all earthly things he most did crave ;
And even as he rode, his heart did earn '
To prove his puissance in battle brave
Upon his foe, and his new force to learn ;
Upon his foe, a di-agon horrible and steam."
Earn, yearn.
The steed ridden by the knight represents the
human passions and desires which carry us well on
our way when under due restraint ; and in this
sense skill in horsemanship ranks high among the
attainments of a faerie knight. The dragon against
which the Red Cross Knight has undertaken that
cliief enterprise in pursuit of which he meets with
all the others, is called in the twentieth chapter of
Revelation " the dragon, that old serpent, which is
the devil." In this enterprise the faerie knight is
champion of Truth, lowly and pure, patient of
desire, disjjassionate and slow of pace, wherefore she
has a snow-vi^hite ass for " palfrey slow." She is the
guide and companion of Innocence, typified by a
milk-white lamb, herself as guileless, and descended
from the angels who knew man in Paradise. She is
not named until a counterfeit image is made to sup-
plant her, and then (in the 45th stanza) she is first
called, because truth is simple and single, Una : —
" A lovely lady rode liim fair' beside.
Upon a lowly ass more white than snow ;
Yet she much whiter, but the same did hide
Under a veil, that wimpled was full low.
And over all a black stole she did tlirow.
As one that inly moui'n'd : so was she sad.
And hcavie sat upon her palfrey slow.
Seemed in heart some hidden care she had.
And by her in a line a milk-white lamb she lad.
" So pure an innocent as that same lamb
She was in life and every virtuous lore.
And by descent from royal IjTiage came
Of ancient kings and queens, that had of yore
Then- sceptres stretcht from east to western shore.
And all the world in their subjection held ;
Till that infernal fiend with foul uprore
Forwasted ^ all their land, and them e.xpelled :
AVhom to avenge, she had this knight from far com-
pelled."
The dwarf that follows, lagging far behind the
spii-itual part, represents the flesh and its needs :
when the allegory is read as personal, the dwarf
represents simply the flesh of man ; when it is read
as national, the dwarf stands for the body of the
people : —
' ' Behind her far away a dwarf did lag,
That lazy seem'd in being ever last.
Or wearied with bearing of her bag
Of needments .at his back. Thus as they past.
The day with clouds was sudden overcast,
And angry Jove ' an hideous storm of rain
Did pour- into his leman's lap so fast,
That every wight to shroud it did constrain.
And this fair couple eke to shroud themselves were
fain."
The day being thus troubled, they seek shelter in
a wood; — the wood of the world, as the wood is at
the opening of Dante's " Divine Comedy," as the
2 Formasted, utterly wasted.
3 Jove, Jupiter, g:od of the upper air. here represents the sky, M
when in Shakespeare's " Coriolanus" Menenius Affrippa, throwing his
cap into the air, says, " Take my cap. Jupiter! " (act ii., scene 1|.
TO A.D. 1500. '
RELIGION.
195
wood is in Milton's " Comus." There is a catalogue
of trees, typical of the uses of life by sea and land,
■• the sailing pine, the cedar proud and tall," at all
stages of life : intancy that needs support, "the vine-
prop elm;" youth full of the fresh sap of life, "the
jiopliir never dry;" man in mature strength at home
as master in the world, " the builder-oak, sole king
of forests all ; " age needing a staff until the grave
is ready, " the aspen good for staves, the cypress
funeral." These lines open the thought, and the trees
in the next stanza proceed to suggest glory and tears,
ai-ts of war, and arts of peace, healing of wounds, and
war again, all uses of life, and that which is for us
to mould, and that which we may seek in vain to
mould, for it is often rotten at the core. Losing
themselves among the plea„sa.nt ways of the world,
they take the most beaten path, which brings them
to the cave of Error. Ti-uth warns the knight of
his peril; the dwarf (the flesh) flinches, the knight
(the spirit) Ls eager, and by the light of his
s[iiritual helps (a light the Ijrood of Error cannot
bear, nor Error herself, for light she hated as the
deadly bale) the knight can see the monster as she
is : —
" This is the wandring wood, this Error's den,
A monster %'ile, whom God and man does hate :
Therefore I rede,' beware. ' Fly, fly,' quoth then
The fearful dwarf, ' this is no place for Living men.'
" But fuU of fire and greedy hardimcnt,
The youthful knight could not for aught be stayed.
But forth unto the diirksome hole he went,
And looked in : his gUstring annour made
A little glooming light, much like a shade.
By which he saw the ugly monster plain.
Half like a serpent horribly displayed.
But th' other half did woman's shape retain.
Most loathsome, filthy, foul, and full of vile disdain.
" And as she laj' upon the dii-ty gi-ound.
Her huge long tail her den all overspred,
Yet was in knots and many boughts - upwound.
Pointed with mortal sting. Of her there bred
A thousand young ones, which she daily fed,
Sucking upon her poisonous dugs, each one
Of simdry shapes, yet aU ill favoured :
Soon as that imcouth ' light upon them shone,
Into her mouth they crept, and sudden all were gone."
The battle with this monster is the typical adven-
ture that in each book opens its subject. In his
combat with the monster, and encircled by her huge
train — " God helj) the man so wrapt in Error's endless
train !" — Truth cries to the knight, " Add faith ttpon
your force, and be not faint," and this represents
what is a main feature in the larger allegory, need of
the help of God through which alone the strength of
man can fiually prevail. Prince Arthur represents
this in the plan of the whole poem. It is he who
bears the ii-resistiljle shield of the grace of God.
1 Rede, counsel.
^ Bongkts, henAs, folds, from "bugan," to bend; whence also the
geographical term "bi^ht."
^ Uncouthy xmkiiown, unaccustomed.
Every knight in his labour for the glory of God
reaches a point at which his human endeavours
would fall short, but for the intervention of the grace
of God, typified by the intervention of Prince Arthur.
To all the aid comes, preluded by words distinctly
showing its significance ; to all but one, and that is
" Britomart or Chastity," of whom Spenser held, as
Milton after him, " She that has that is clad in
complete steel," and that over it
" no evil thing that walks by night
In fog or fii'e, by lake or moorish fen,
Blue meagre hag, or stubborn unlaid ghost
That breaks his magic chains at curfew time,
No gobUn, or swart faerie of the mine.
Hath hurtful power."
Of Error, when sorely wounded, we are told that
" her vomit full of books and pajiers was ;" and when
the foulness of this caused the Red Cross Knight to
shrink, she cast forth her spawn of serpents small,
"deformed monsters, foul, and black as ink:" which
view of distasteful publications was shared by Eliza-
beth, when she endeavoured to hunt down their
writers and printers.
Successful in his first adventure, and praised as
worthy of
'■ that amioiuy
Wherein ye have great glory won this day,"
the knight retraces the way with his companions,
and presently enters upon the secpience of adventures
wliich typify the course of Christianity in England.
They begin with the Church in its primitive days,
entered already by Archimago, father of wiles, the
devil, of whom, m his dealings with men. Hypocrisy-
is the first attribute. It is Sjienser's allegory of the
rise of what he, in those days of tierce conflict, un-
doubtingly represented as the " diabolical faith : " — ■
"At length they chanced to meet upon the way
An aged sii'e, in long black weeds J'clad,
His feet all bare, his beard all hoary gray.
And by his belt his book he hanging had ;
Sober he seem'd, and very sagely sad,
And to the ground his eyes were lowly bent.
Simple in shew, and void of maUce bad.
And all the way he prayed, as he went,
And often knocked his breast, as one that did repent."
The travellei-s, courteously saluted, accepted a
night's lodging in the hermitage. When there,
Spenser represents through them a church in the
first stage of its decHne to superstition : —
" A little lowly hermitage it was,
Down in a dale, hard by a forest's side,
Far from resort of people, that did pass
In travel to and fro ; a little wide
There was an holy chapel edify' d,
'VSTierein the hermit duly wont to say
His holy things each morn and even-tide :
Thereby a crystal stream did gently play,
MTiich from a sacred foimtain weOed forth alway.
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CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a. D. 1570
" Arrived there, the little house they fiU,
Ne look for uiitortainincnt where none was :
Rest is their frast, and all things at their will :
The noblest mind the best contentment has.
With fair discourse the evening so they pass;
For that old man of pleasing words had store,
And well coiild file his tongue as smooth as glass ;
He told of saints and popes, and evcmiore
He stro\v(-d an Ave-Mary after and before."
During the iiiglit, Archiiiuigo sent a lying sjjirit
to bring from Murjihens — goil of the- iin.sub.stautial
life of dreams — " a tit false dream, that can delude
the sleeper's sent." ' Another lying spirit Archi-
mago fashioned in the sliajje of Una, to be a de-
ceiving semblance of pure truth. Both appealed
coai-sely to the senses; and the Devil, Archimago, is
thus made the author of a false and sensuous show
of religion. The Red Cross Knight was dismayed,
misdoubted the corrupt lady that yet feigned to be
his, and missed the tirm voice of his guide and
comforter :
" ' ^V^ly, dame,' quoth he, ' what hath thee thus dismayed?
What frays ye, that were wont to comfort me afraid?' "
Still showing, from his own point of view, the
state to which the Church was brought before the
Reformation, Sjienser proceeds in the second canto to
rejjreseut simpler Truth as maligned by evil arts, and
the Red Cross Knight .itirrecl to forsake her. "The
Dwai-f him brought hLs steed, so both away do fly,"
and at her slow jjace deserted Truth (Una) follows
man carried away by his swift passions.
"And after him she rode with so much speed,
As her slow beast could make, but all in vain,
For him so far had borne his lightfoot steed,
Priiked with wrath and fiery fierce disdain.
That him to follow was but fruitless pain."
Yet patiently she sought, and now that we liave the
Red Cross Knight (the Church of England or the
Englishman) parted from Una (Truth), the Devil,
ty pitied liy Archimago himself, takes the image of
the Red Cross Knight : —
" But now seemed best, the person to put on
Of that good knight, his late beguiled guest :
In mighty arms he was yclad anon.
And silver shield ; upon his coward breast
A bloody cross, and on his craven crest
A bunch of hairs discoloured diversly :
Full jolly knight he seem'd, and well ftddress'd.
And when he .sat upon his courser free.
Saint George himself ye would have deemed him to be."
There we have what Spenser regarded as the diabo-
lical faith personified to Spenser's mind. Besides, the
Knight, who re])resents the heavenward conflict, has
taken Falsehoofl for Truth — Falsehood, the paramour
of Uidjelief. His first conflict after he had deserted
' Sent, now spelt " scent ; " sense, from " sentio,'
Truth was with Sansfoy, who " cared not for God or
man a point;" he was in danger of being oveiijoweied
l>y want of faith : and in that day of trial it was only
through the death of Christ that Christianity waa
able to outlive the peril : —
" ' Curse on that cross,' quoth then the Sarazin,
' That keeps thy body from the bitter fit ; ^
Dead long ago I wote thou haddest been
Had not that charm from thee forwarned^ it.' "
Infidelity was, indeed, overthrown, but the Christian
Knight put Infidelity's companion in the place of
Una. Uf Sansfoy it was said : —
" He had a fair companion of his way,
A goodly lady clad in scarlet red,
Purtled with gold and pearl of ric-h assay,
And like a Persian, mitre on her head
She wore, with crowns and owches garnished,
The which her Lavish lovers to her gave ;
Hi'r wanton palfrey all was overspred
^Vith tinsel trappings, woven like a wave,
Whose bridle rung with golden bells and bosses brave."
In the " wanton ]5alfrey " and other touches of
this descrii)tion there is still Puritan reference to
what Sjienser regarded as the sensuous pomp of
the Church of Rome. Yielding herself to the Red
Cross Knight, this lady derives herself clearly from
Rome, as
" Bora the sole daughter of an Emperor,
He that the wide west under his rule has.
And high hath set his throne where Tiberis doth pass."
St. Cieorge, parted from Una (Truth), thus puts
into her ])lace Duessa (Doublene.ss), calling herself
Fidessa (the Faith) ; a Fides.sa who appeals to his
senses rather than to his mind, as t\iie of a church
ill which there was more pomp than preaching : —
" He in great passion all this whili! did dwell,
Jbire busying his (piick eyes her face to view
Than his duU ears to hear what she did tell."
It was not for her to bear in the Lord's vineyard
the burden and heat of the day. As the Red Cross
Knight went onward, the sun
" Hurled his beams .so scorching cruel hot
That living creature mote it not abide ;
And his new lady it endured not."
They dismount for rest in the shade of trees,
"And in his falsed fancy he her takes
To be the fairest wight that lived yet."
2 Fit, thrust, from the Italian " fitta," a thrust or stab ; probably
formefl from " fif^_'ere," to pierce. A fit in disease is from another
root, Old French " fiede," intermittent ; a Jit or f[[tte, meanins: song, is
from First-En^'lish " fyttian," to sing. Fit in the sense of fit of
clothes, fit and proper, is from the Latin " factus."
' Foncarned, completely defended (" for," intensive prefix, as in
" forlorn ") ; " waj'ran," to defend.
TO A.D. 1590.]
RELIGION.
197
He plucks a bough to make her a giirhxinl. Blood
then flows from the broken branch, and the tree
speaks. It is ti'ausfcjrmed Fradubio, who is bidden
tell how he became thus misshapen :
" He oft finds medicine who his grief imparts,
But double griefs afflict concealing hearts."
Fradubio (whose name means, between doubt) was
happy in love of Fralissa till Due.ssa came into his
keeping. Both seemed fair ; but when he would de-
cide which was the faii'er, Duessa, herself really foul
but seeming fan-, by her witchcraft caused Fralissa,
really fail-, to appear foul. Fradubio then turned
wholly to Duessa, and Fralissa was transformed into
the tree now by his side. Fradubio was happy, till
on a day he chanced to see Duessa in her proper
shape. He loathed her then, and was by her joined
to the fate of Fralissa : —
" A\Tiere now inclosed in wooden walls full fast,
Banished from living wights our weary days we waste.
' But how long time,' said then the eliin knight,
' Are you in this misf onncd house to dwell 'i '
' We may not change,' quoth he, ' this evil Jjlight
Till we be bathed in a Uving well.' "
"A garden enclosed is my sister, my spouse — a
well of living waters," says the Song of Solomon ;
then applied as a song to the true Church of God.
" The Lord Jehovah," says Isaiah, " is my strength
and my song, he also is become my salvation.
Therefore with joy shall ye draw water out of
the wells of salvation. And in that day shall
ye say, Praise the Lord, call upon His name, de-
clare His doings among the people." Fradubio
was not in doubt between the true faith and the
false. The true faith could not have been called
Fralissa (frail), and could not have been doomed to
vegetative life until it had been bathed in itself
But there was a fiiith of the old world — a Fralissa
true as Una, though in her own weaker way : the
faith of Socrates and Plato ; faith in immortality,
devotion to high effort towards spiritual life ; in
Spenser's eyes more truly beautifvd than that with
which the Pope supplanted it. Frailuliio is Platonist
turned Roman Catholic, detecting the imjiosture of
the faith that had supplanted his philosophy, and
driven back upon himself to live beside his loved
iphilosophy a vegetative life that cannot become again
a moving workuig energy for man until it be imbued
with Christian truth. Platonism, as ally of the
Church refonnei"s of the sixteenth century, was
Fralissa, and each Christian Platonist was a Fradubio
bathed in the living well : —
" The false Duessa, now Fidessa hight,
Heard how in vain Fradubio did lament,
And know welt all was true. But the good knight,
Full of sad fear and ghastly dreriment,
When all this speech the living tree had spent.
The bleeding bough did thrust into the ground.
That from the blood he might be innocent.
And with fresh clay did close th(> wooden wound :
Then turning to his lad\', dead with fear her found.
" Her seeming dead he found with feigned fear.
As all unweeting of that well she knew,
And pain'd himself with busy care to rear
Her out of careless swoon. Her eyelids blue
And dimmed sight with pale and deadly hue.
At last she up gan lift : with trembling cheer
Her up he took, too simple and too true,
And oft her kiss'd. At length, all passed fear.
He set her on her steed, and forward forth did bear."
Meanwhile Una (forsaken Truth) is left to the
waste places of the earth. In the next canto, the
third, " far from all people's press, as in exile," she
seeks her knight. Truth is not swift of travel, but
whei-ever she may be, her face will make a sunshine
in the shady place : —
" One day, nigh weary of the irksome w-ay,
From her unhasty beast she did alight.
And on the grass her dainty Umbs did lay
In secret shadow, far from all men's sight :
From her fair head her fillet she undight.
And laid her stole aside. Her angel's face.
As the great eye of heaven sliined bright.
And made a sunshine in the shady place ;
Did never mortal eye behold such heavenly grace.
" It fortimed out of the thickest wood
A ramping lion rushed suddenly.
Hunting full greedy after salvage blood.
Soon as the royal virgin he did spy,
With gaping mouth at her run greedily,
To have at once devour' d her tender corse :
But 'to the prey when as he drew more nigh,
His bloody rage assuaged with remorse,
And with the sight amaz'd, forgat his furious force.
" Instead thereof he kiss'd her weary feet.
And lick'd her lily h^r.ds with fawning tongue.
As he her wrongea innocence did weet.
Oh ! how can beauty master the most strong.
And simple Truth subdue avenging Wrong !
■\\Tiose yielded pride, and proud submission,
StUl dreading death, when she had marked long,
Her heart gan melt in great compassion.
And diizzling tears did shed for pui-e affection."
It was a romance doctrine that the lion would not
hurt a pure maiden, and in the " Seven Clianijiions
of Christendom," a romance of Spenser's time, St.
George recognised the virginity of Sabra by two
lions fawning on her. But the lion that now comes
into the allegory and attaches himself to Una with
" yielded pride ami proud submission," represents
Reason before the Reformation Ijecome the ally of
religious Truth. The quickening of intellectual
energies by those new conditions that produced the
revival of learning, not only added to the strength
and courage of man's intellect, but brought it in aid
of the reaction, by doing what the lion in the allegory
docs — forcing the closed door of Ignorance and Super-
stition, and so opening the way to Truth : —
" The lion would not leave her desolate,
But with her went along, as a strong guard
Of her chaste jierson, and a faithful mate
Of her sad troubles and misfortunes hard:
f
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Still when she slept he kept both watch and ward :
And when she wak'd he waited diligent,
With humble service to her will prepar'd :
From her fair eyes he took commandement.
And ever by her looks conceived her intent.
" Long she thus travelled through deserts wide,
By which she thought her wandring knight should pass.
Yet never show of Uving wight espy'd ;
Till that at length she found the trodden grass.
In which the track of people's footing was.
Under the steep foot of a mountain hoar :
The same she follows, till at last she has
A damsel spy'd, slow footing her before.
That on her shoulders sad a jjot of water bore.
" To whom approaching, she to her gan call.
To wect if dwelling-place were nigh at hand ;
But the rude wench her answer' d nought at all,
She could not hear, nor speak, nor understand ;
Till seeing by her side the lion stand,
With sudden fear her pitcher down she threw,
And fled away : for never in that land
Face of fair lady she before did view.
And that dread lion's look her cast in deadly hue."
The rude woncli was Abessa,' daughter of the blind
C!orceca,'- Ignorance, daughter of Superstition, who
had never before seen the face of Truth, and paled
before the force of Reason. The allegory proceeds to
represent in Una and the Lion, Truth, aided by
Reason, at the outset of the Reformation of the
sixteenth century, forcing the way into_ the deu of
Ignorance and Superstition : —
" Full fast she fled, ne ever look'd behind.
As if her life upon the wager lay ;
And home she came whereas •' her mother blind
Sate in eternal night : nought could she say ;
But sudden catching hold, did her dismay
With quaking hands, and other signs of fear :
Who full of ghastly fright and cold affray,
Gan shut the door. By this arrived there
Dame Una, weary dame, and entrance did requere.
" Which when none yielded, her unruly page
With his rude claws the wicket open rent.
And let her in ; where of his cruel rage
Nigh dead with fear and faint astonishment,
She found them both in darksome corner pent.
Where that old woman day and night did pray
Upon her beads devoutly penitent ;
Nine hundred Pater-nosters every day.
And thrice nine hundred Aves she was wont to say.
" And to augment her painful penance more.
Thrice every week in ashes she did sit.
And next her wrinkled skin rough sackcloth wore.
And thrice thi-ee times did fast from any bit :
I Abessa as a name for ignorance was taken, I think, from the Italian
" bessa," meaning foolish, doltish, ^ly, in fact expressing what is
meant ; a being prefixed for th^ sake of a resemblance to the word
"abbess."
= Corcecn, the name tor superstition ; Italian " cuore ceoo," or Latin
" cor coecum," blind lieart ; the heart in ancient tunes being taken to
represent the mind or understanding.
' Wliei-eas, to where.
1
But now for fear her beads she did forget.
Whose neeiUess dread for to remove away,
Fair Una fi'amed words and count' nance fit :
Which baldly done, at length she gan them pray,
Thiit in theii- cottage small, that night she rest her may.
" The day is spent, and comcth drowsy night.
When every creature shrouded is in sleep ;
Sad Una down her lays in weary plight,
And at her feet the lion watch doth keep :
Instead of rest, she does lament, and weep
For the late loss of her dear loved knight.
And sighs and groans, and evermore does steep
Her tender breast in bitter tears all night ;
All night she thinks too long, and often looks for light.'
At night conies Kirkrapine, who is in unholy
league with " Abessa, daughter of Corceca slow," and
shares with her his plunder of the churches ; —
" Now when Aldebaran was mounted high
Above the shiny Cassiopeia's chair,'
And all in deadly sleep did drowned lie.
One knocked at the door, and in would fare ;
He knocked fast, and often curs'd, and sware,
That ready entrance was not at his call :
For on his back a heavy load he bare '
Of nightly stealths, and pillage several.
Which he had got abroad by pvirchase criminal.
'• He was to weet a stout and sturdy tliief.
Wont to rob churches of their ornaments.
And poor men's boxes of their due relief,
Which given was to them for good intents :
The holy saints of their rich vestiments
He did disrobe, when all men careless slept.
And spoil'd the priests of their habiliments ;
Whiles none the holy things in safety kept.
Then he by cunning sleights in at the window crept."
This plunderer is not the mere thief from the
outer world who steals church plate ; he is what
Milton called afterwards the " hireling," the priest,
whatever his rank, who has entered the Church only
for the worldly wealth he can take from it. The
land and treasures gathered aliout abbeys, and used
for the sensual enjoyment of the monks ; the parish
dues paid for the poor and taken by the rector ; with
such plunder as this Kirkrapine fed Ignorance fat
" with feast of offerings
And plenty which in all the land did grow."
The Lion with his jiaw on Kirkra])ine represents
still the revolt and triumj)h of reason, but perhaps
with a glance of thought at Henry VIII. as the lion
of England with his paw on Kirkrajiino by the
suppression of the monasteries. The re-distribution
* Aldebaran, a Tauri, is the eye of the Bull, one of the twelve con-
stellations in the region of the ecliptic ; and Cassiopeia, or the Chair
or the Tlirone, is one of the constellations placed by Ptolemy in the
Northern Hemisphere. Aldebaran is one of four bright stars that
divide the heavens into four almost equal jmrts, have been called
royal stars, and were the four guardians of heaven according to the
ancient Persians. Aldebaran was then in the vernal eriuiuox, and
guardian of the east.
10 A.D. 1590.]
RELIGION.
199
of the wide lands, and of the large share of wealth
gathered to itself by the unreformed Church, with the
benefit therefrom to the country, may be an under-
thought when it is said of Kirkrai)ine that " the
thirsty land drank up his life." The outcries that
followed require no interjjretation : —
" Thus, long the door with rage and threats he bet,
Yet of these fearful women none dui'st rise.
The lion frayed them, him in to let :
He would no longer stay him to advise,
But open breaks the door in furious wise.
And entring is ; when that disdainful beast
Encountring fierce, him sudden doth surprise,
And seizing cruel claws on trembling breast.
Under his lordly foot Mm proudly hath supprest.
" Him booteth not resist, nor succour call.
His bleeding heart is in the venger's hand.
Who straight him rent in thousand pieces small.
And quite dismembred hath : the thirsty land
Drunk up his life ; his corse left on the strand.
His fearful friends wear out the woful night,
Ne dare to weep, nor seem to understand
The hea\T hap which on them is alight.
Afraid, lest to themselves the like mishappen might.
" Now when broad day the world discovered has,
Up Una rose, up rose the lion eke.
And on their former jom-ney forward pass.
In ways luiknown, her wandi'ing knight to seek.
With pains far passing that long wandi-ing Greek,
That for his love refused deity ; '
Such were the laboui's of this lady meek,
StUl seeking him, that from her still did fly.
Then furthest from her hope, when most she weened nigh,
" Soon as she parted thence, the fearful twain.
That bUnd old woman and her daughter dear,
Came forth, and finding Kii-krapine there slain.
For anguish gi-eat they gan to rend their hau-,
And beat their breasts, and naked flesh to tear.
And when they both had wept and wail'd their fill,
Then forth they ran like two amazed deer.
Half mad through malice, and revenging will.
To follow her that was the causer of their ill.
Ulysses (Odysseus), who left Calypso for Penelope when he began
his weary wanderings. The reference is to a passage in the fifth book
of the Odyssey, thus translated by Mr. Philip Stanhope Worsley : —
" Child of Laertes, would'st thou fain depart
Hence to thine own dear fatherland ! Farewell !
Yet could'st thou rea/i the sorrow and the smart.
With me in immortality to dwell
Thou woidd'st rejoice, and love my mansion well.
Deeply and long thou yeaniest for thy wife ;
Yet her in beauty I perchance excel.
Beseems not one who hath tut mortal life
With forms of deathless mould to challenge a vain strife.
" To whom the wise Odysseus answering spake :
' O nymph Calypso, much revered, cease now
From anger, nor be wroth for my wife's sake.
All this I know and do myself avow.
Well may Penelope in form and brow
And stature seem inferior far to thee,
For she is mortal, and immortal thou.
Yet even thus 'tis very dear to me
My long-desired return and ancient home to see.' "
"Whom overtaking, they gan loudly braj'.
With hollow howling, and lamenting cry,
Shamefully at her railing all the way.
And her accusing of dishonesty.
That was the flower of faith and chastity ;
And still amidst her railing, she did pray,
That plagues, and mischiefs, and long misery
Might fall on her, and follow all the way,
And that in endless error she might ever stray.
" But when she saw her praj-ers nought prevail,
She back returned with some labour lost ;
And in the way, as she did weep and wail,
A knight her met in mighty arms cmboss'd ;
Yet knight was not for all his bragging boast,
But subtile Arehimag, that Una sought
By trains into new troubles to have toss'd :
Of that old woman tidings he besought.
If that of such a lady she could tellen ought."
Archimago (the Devil), in the arms of the Red
Cross Knight, deceives Una for a time by his
like-seeming shield. In 1536, the year of the sup-
pression of the lesser monasteries, 376 in number,
T3radale was burnt in October at Vilvorde, praying,
" Lord, open the King of England's eyes." It was
the year also of the execution of Anne Boleyn.
Though Henry had put himself in the Pope's jjlace,
it was to maintain the Pojje's C'hurch upon the six
points most oppugned by the Reformers, and pre-
sently the Act of the Six Articles compelled Hugh
Latimer to resign his bishopric. It is still what
Spenser represents as "the diabolical faith," though
disguised as the Red Cross Knight, that deludes for
a time Una herself. Even Sansloy (hiwlessness), next
brother to Sansfo}', mistakes him. The sujipression of
the monasteries was followed by a rising in Lincoln-
shire, and by a more serious rebellion in the North,
of men led by robed priests, and sworn to drive
base-born persons from about the king, restore the
Church, and suppress heresy. Lawlessness gathered
force. But unbelief, and lawlessness, and joyless-
ness — the three Saracen (that is, infidel) brothers,
Sansfoi (without fidelity to God), Sansloi (without
fidelity to man); Sansjoy (without the joys of the
faithful) — are represented as the friends and com-
rades of Archimago and Duessa. Archimago, armed
as the Red Cross Knight, is overthrown by Sansloi,
and recognised as a friend. Then Sansloi, who
'■ was strong, and of so mighty corse,
As ever -n-ielded spear in warlike hand,"
slays the lion (Reason cannot resist the brute force
of Lawlessness), and makes Una his prey. The jiart
of reason in the allegory is at an end ; the final
triumph is not to be through force of human in-
tellect, but by the grace of God.
In the next canto, the fourth, the Red Cross
Knight,
" Who, after that he had fair Una lorn.
Though light misdeeming of her loyalty,
And false Duessa in her stead had borne,
Called Fidess', and so supposed to be,
Long with her travelled,"
200
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[i.D. 1579
is taken by Duessa to the House of Pride. This is
Spenser's allegory of the pomp and pride loved by
the Church against which he bitterly contended :—
" A stately palace Ijuilt of squared lirirlc,
Which cuuningly was withuut mortar laid,
Whose walls were liigh, but nothing .strong, nor tliick,
And golden foil all over them di-splayed ;
That purest sky with brightness they dismayed :
High lifted up were many lofty towers,
And goodly galleric^s far overlaid,
Full of fair wind.iws, and delightful bowers;
And on the top a dial told the timely hours.
" It was a goodly heap for to behold.
And spake the praises of the workman's wit ;
But full great pity, that so fair a mold
Did on so weak foundation ever sit :
For on a sandy hill, that stiU did flit
And fall away, it mounted was full high,
That every breath of heaven shaked it ;
And all the hinder parts, that few could spy.
Were ruinous and old, but painted cunningly."
Admitted by the porter Malvenu (111 come), they
see Lncifera enthroned, surrounded by the worship-
pers of Pride. Vanity is their usher to the presence.
Then rides fortli Lucifera (Pride) with Duessa in her
train and seated next to her, the other six of the
seven deadly sins being Pride's counsellors, and Satan
charioteer : —
" Sudden upriscth from her stately place
The royal dame, and for her coach doth call ;
All hurlen forth, and she with princely pace.
As fair Aurora in her purple pall,
Out of the east the dawning day doth call.
So forth she comes : her brightness broad doth blaze ;
The heaps of people thronging in the hall,
Do ride each other, upon her to gaze :
Her glorious glitter and light doth all men's eyes amaze.
' ' So forth she comes, and to her coach does climb.
Adorned all with g<dd and garlands gay.
That seem'd as fresh as Flora in her prime ;
And strove to match, in royal rich array.
Great Juno's golden chair, the which they say
The gods stand gazing on, when she does ride
ToJove'shigh house through heaven' sbrass-p.aved way.
Drawn of fair peacocks, that excel in pride
And full of Argus' eyes their tails disspreddcn wide.
"But this was drawn of six unequal beasts,
On which her six sage counsellors did ride.
Taught to obey their bestial beheasts,
AVith like conditions to their kinds applvM :
Of which the first, that all the rest did guide.
Was sluggish Idleness, the nurse of sin;
I'pon a slothful ass he chose to ride,
Array'd in habit black, and amis' thin.
Like to an holy monk, the service to begin.
' Amis or amice (Latin "amictus "), an outer ffanneut.
was applied, as here, to the priest's tippet of fine liaeu.
TlK
" And in his hand his portess" still he bare,
That much was worn, but therein little read :
For of devotion he had little care,
StiU drown' d in sleep, and most of his days dead ;
Scarce could he once uphold his heavy head,
To looken whether it were night or day.
M:iy seem the wain was very evil led.
When such an one had guiding of the way,
Tliat knew not whether right he went or else astray.
" From worldly cares himself he did esloin,^
And greatly shunned manly exercise ;
For every work he challenged essoin,"*
For contemplation sake : yet otherwise,
His life he led in lawless riotise ;
By which he grew to grievous malady :
For, in his lustless limbs through evil guise
A shaking fever reign'd continually :
Such one was Idleness, first of this company.
" And by his side rode loathsome Gluttony,
Deformed creature, on a filthy swine.
His belly was up-blown with luxury,
And eke with fatness swollen were his syne :
And like a crane, his neck was long and fine,
With which he swallowed up excessive feast,
For want whereof poor people oft did pine :
And all the wa)', most like a brutish beast.
He spewed up his gorge, that all did him detest.
" In green vine leaves he was right fitly clad,
For other clothes he could not wear for heat :
And on his head an ivy garland had.
From under which fast trickled down the sweat :
StiU as he rode, he somewhat still did eat.
And in his hand did bear a bouzing-ean,
Of which he supt so oft, that on his seat
His drunken corse he scarce upholden can ;
In shape and life, more Uke a monster than a man.
" Unfit he was for any worldly tiling.
And eke unable once to stir or go.
Not meet to be of counsel to a king,
\\Tiose mind in meat and drink was drowned so
That from his fnend he seldom knew his foe :
Full of diseases was his carcase blue.
And a dry dropsy through his flesh did flow :
Which by mis-diet daily greater grew :
Such one was Gluttony, the second of that crew.
" And next to him rode lustful Lechery
l^l)on a bearded goat, whose rugged hair
And whally eyes' (the sign of jealousy)
Was like the person self, whom he did bear :
' Porters, breviary or small book ot prayers. It could be carried
easily "foras," out of doors, and was therefore called in Latin
" portiforinm ;" tbe corresponding French word was " porte-hors,"
which was Euslished as "porthose" (in Chaucer "portos"), also
"portise" and " portasse." " Portuasses " were forbidden l.y a
statute of the reign of Edward VI.
' Esloin, remove to a distance. French "floigner."
• Essoin, exoneration, relief of the burden ; a law term fr )ni the
French " essoine," which is from the Latin " esonerare."
5 ininlli/ eijes. Nares says they are now called wall eyes, discoloured
by the disease called glaucoma. (In Lye's S.\xon.and Gothic-Latin
Dictionary " hwall " is Siiid to mean wanton.)
I
TO A.D. 159J.]
RELIGION.
201
Wlio rough, and black, and filthy did appear,
I'useenJv man to please fair lady's eye ;
Y(.t he, uf ladies ofl was lov.ed dear,
"When fairer faces were hid standen by :
Oh, who dues know the bent of women's fantasy ?
" In a green gown he clothed was full fair,
Which undei-neath did hide his filthiness,
And in his hand a bm-ning heart he bare.
Full of \'ain follies and new-fangleness :
For he was false, and fraught with fickleness,
And learned had to love with secret looks.
And well could dance, and sing with ruefulness.
And fortunes tell, and read in loving books.
And thousand other ways to bait his lleshly hooks.
" Inconstant man that loved all he saw.
And lusted after all that he did love ;
Ne would his looser life be tied to law.
But joy'd weak women's hearts to tempt and prove,
If from their loyal loves he might them move ;
Which lewdness fiU'd him with reproachful pain
Of that foul evil which aU men reprove
That rots the marrow and consumes the brain :
Such one was Lechery, the third of all this train.
" And greedy Avarice by him did ride,
Upon a camel loadcn aU with gold ;
Two iron coffers hung on either side,
With precious metal, full as they might hold.
And in his lap an heap of coin he told :
For of his wicked pelf his god he made,
And unto hell himself for money sold ;
Accursed usury was all his trade.
And right and wrong aUke in equal balance weigh' d.
" His life was nigh unto death's door yplac'd.
And threadbare coat and cobbled shoes he ware,
Ne scarce good morsel all his life did taste,
But botli from back and belly stUl did spare,
To fill liis bags, and riches to compare : '
Yet child ne kinsman Hving had he none
To leave them to ; but thorough daily care
To get, and nightly fear to lose his own,
He led a %vi'etched life unto himself unknown.
" Most wretched wight, whom nothing might suffice.
Whose greedy lust did hick in greatest store.
Whose need had end, but no end covetise.
Whose wealth was want, whose plenty made him poor
WIio had enough, yet wished ever more :
A vile disease, and eke in foot and hand
A grievous gout tormented him full sore,
That well he could not touch, nor go, nor stand :
Such one was Avarice, the fourth of this fail- band.
" And next to him malicious Envy rode
Upon a ravenous wolf, and still did chaw
Between his cankred teeth a venomous toad.
That all the poison ran about his jaw ;
But inwardly he chawed his own maw
At neighbour's wealth, that made him ever sad;
For death it was when any good he saw.
And wept that cause of weeping none he had :
And when he heard of harm, he wexed wondrous glad.
1 Comitare (Latin "comparare"), to set together.
90
" AU in a kirtle of discolour'd say-
He clothed was, ypaiuted full of eyes ;
And in his bosom secretly there lay
An hateful suake, the which his tail upties
In many folds, and mortal sting implies.'
StOl as he rode, he gnash'd his teeth, to see
Those heaps of gold with griple '' covetise,
And grudged at the great fcHcity
Of proud Lucifera, and his own companj'.
"He hated all good works and virtuous deeds.
And him no less, that any like did use :
And who with gracious bread the hungry feeds,
His alms, for want of faith, he doth accuse ;
So every good to bad he doth abuse :
And eke the verse of famous poet's wit
He does backbite, and spiteful poison spues
From leprous mouth on aU that ever writ :
Such one vile Envy was, that fifth in row did sit.
" And him beside rides fierce revenging AVrath,
Upon a Uon, loth for to be led ;
. And in his hand a burning brond he hath.
The wliich he brandisheth about his head ;
His eyes did hurl forth sparkles fiery red,
And stared stern on all that him beheld,
As ashes pale of hue and seeming dead ;
And on his dagger still his hand he held ;
TrembUng thi-ough hasty rage, when cholcr in him
swell' d.
" His ruffin raiment aU was stain'd with blood
Which he had spilt, and all to rags yrent,
Through unadvised rashness woxen wood ; '
For of his hands he had no government,
Ne car'd for blood in his avengement :
But when the furious fit was overpast,
His cruel facts he often would repent ;
Yet, "wilful man, he never would forecast
How many mischiefs should ensue his heedless haste.
" Full many mischiefs follow cruel AVrath :
Abhorred bloodshed and tumultuous strife,
Urmianly murder, and unthrifty scath,''
Bitter despight, with rancour's rusty knife.
And fretting grief the enemy of life ;
All these, and many evils nioe haunt ire,
The swelling spleen, and phrenzy raging rife,
The shaking palsy, and St. Francis' fire :
Such one was Wrath, the last of this ungodly tire.
" And after all, upon the waggon beam
Eode Satan, with a smarting whip in hand.
With which he forward lash'd the lazy team.
So oft as Sloth still in the mire did stand.
Huge routs of people did about them band.
Shouting for joy ; and still before their way
A foggy mist had cover'd aU the land ;
And underneath theii- feet, aU scatter'd lay
Dead skulls and bones of men, whose Uf e had gone astray."
2 Say (from Latin "sagiim"), a coarse woollen mantle for soldiers
or servants. In tlie second part of Henry VI., act iv., sc. 7, Jack Cade
puns on the name of Lord Say, "Thou say, tbou serge, nay thou
buckram lord." Saij is used in Cotgi-ave's Dictionary as equivalent to
serge. " Seyette : serge or saye," and " say (stuffe), seyette."
3 Implies, entwines, attaches closely ; from Latin " implicare."
» Grii'le, grasping. ^ Wood, mad.
« Scafh, injury. First-English " scaeththe," injury, loss, guilt.
202
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1579
"SVlu'u tliey returned into tlie House of Pride,
Sausjoy was there, Ijurning with wrath against the
knight l)y whom 8anstoy his brother had been over-
come. Combat with Hansjoy was assigned to the
next day, and that day closed witli a feast over
wliich (ihittony was steward, and with sleep where
Sloth was chamljerlain.
Tlie next canto, the fifth, tells of the combat with
Sansjoy. The false Duessa^ gave her heart to Joyless-
ness, and sheltered him from the last assault by cover
of a magic cloud. The knight retained as his trophy
the shield of Sansfoy, but Duessa, " daughter of
deceit and shame," betook herself with Night, whose
nephews the three Saracens are, to Sansjoy hidden in
the shades of hell. There she committed him to care
of j^^sculapius, and returned then to the House of
Pride. But she found that the Red Cross Knight,
not waiting for his wounds to heal, had already
departed. The natural i)ercejition of evil, represented
by the dwarf, had caused England to break from
the House of Pride in which Catholicism was a
familiar guest. The stage of the allegoiy now reached
by the poem brings us to Elizabeth's reign, and to
what Sjienser regarded as imperfect reformation of
the English Church in his own time : —
" The false Duessa, leaving noj'ous night,
Return'd to stately palace of dame Pride ;
Where when she came, she found the faii-y knight
Departed thence, albe his woundes wide.
Not throughly heal' d, unready were to ride.
Good cause he had to hasten thence away ;
For on a day his wary dwarf had spied
Where in a dungeon deep huge numhers lay
Of captive wretched thi-alls, that wailed night and day.
"A rueful sight, as could he seen with eye !
Of whom lie learned had in secret wise
The hidden cause of their captivity ;
How mortgaging their hves to Covetise,
Through wasteful pride and wanton riotise,
They were by law of that proud tjTanness,
Provok'd with Wrath and Envy's false surmise.
Condemned to that dungeon merciless.
Where they should Uve in woe and die in wi-etchedncss.
" There was that great proud king of Babylon
That would compel all nations to adore.
And him as only god to call upon
Till, through celestial doom thrown out of door,
Into an ox he was transfoi-m'd of yore ;
There also was king Croesus, that enhanced
His heart too high thro' his great riches store ;
And proud Antiochus, the which advanced
His cursed hand 'gainst God, and on His altars danced.
" And them long time before, great Nimrod was.
That first the world with sword and fire warraid ; '
And after him old Ninus far did pass
In princely pomp, of all the world obey'd ;
' Warmid, laid waste.
There also was that mighty monarch laid
Low uuder all, j'ct above all in pride,
That name of native sire did foul upbraid,
And would as Ammon's sou be magnified
Till, scorn'd of God and man, a shameful death he died.
" All these together Ln one heap were thrown,
liike carcases of beasts in butcher's stall.
And in another corner wide were strown
The antique ruins of the Romans' full ;
Great Komulus the grandsh-e of them all.
Proud Tarqurn, and too lordly Lentulus,
Stout Scipio, and stubborn Hannibal,
Ambitious SyUa, and stern Marius,
High C'lesar, groat Pompcy, and fierce Antonius.
" Amongst these mighty men were women mix'd,
Proud women, vain, forgetful of their yoke :
The bold JSemii-amis, whose sides transfix'd
With son's own blade, her foul reproaches spoke ;
Fan- Sthenobcea, that herself did choke
With wilful cord, for wanting of her will ;
High-uiiuded Cleopatra, that with stroke
Of aspes sting herself did stoutly kill !
And thousands more the like, that did that dungeon fill.
" Besides the endless routs of wretched thralls
Which thither were assembled day by day
From all the world, after then- woful falls
Thro' wicked pride and wasted wealth's decay.
But most of all which in the dungeon lay
Fell from high princes' courts or ladies' bowers,
Where they in iiUe pomp or wanton play
Consumed had their goods and thriftless hours,
And lastly tlu'own themselves into these heavy stowrcs.
' ' Whose case when as the cheerful dwarf had told.
And made ensample of their mournful sight
Unto his master, he no longer would
There dwell in peril of like painful plight.
But early rose, and ere that dawning light
Discovered had the world to heaven wide,
He by a privy postern took his flight,
That of no envious eyes he mote bo spied :
For doubtless death ensu'd if any lum descried.
"Scarce could he footing find in that foul way
For many corses, like a great lay-stall
Of murder'd men, which therein strowed lay.
Without remorse or decent funeral :
Which all tlirough that great princess' pride did fall.
And came to shameful end. And them beside
Forth riding underneath the castle wall,
A dunghill of dead carcases he spied.
The dreadful spectacle of that sad house of Pride."
Una meanwhile, last heard of in the power of
Lawlessness, was rescued by a troop of Fauns and
iSatyrs who
" Within the wood were dancing in a round,
Whiles old Sylvanus slept in shady arbour soimd."
Truth, parted from the Church, is not so much
the prey of Lawlessness as to be lost to earth. In
the waste places among " the salvage nation" she
finds friends and worsluppers.
TO A.D. 1590.]
RELIGION.
203
" The wood-bom people fall before her flat,
And worship her as goddess of the wood ;
And old Sylvanus' self bethinks not what
To think of wight so fair "
It is Truth worshipped for her own beauty by men
little taught : pure Truth, adored by the heathen,
who in their ignorance make her the " imase of
idolatries.
" Glad of such luck, the luckless lucky maid
Did her content to please their feeble eyes,
And long time with that salvage' people stay'd,
To gather breath in many miseries.
During which time, her gentle wit she plies
To teach them truth which worship'd her in vain.
And made her th' image of idolatries ;
But when their bootless zeal she did restrain
From her own worship, they her ass would worship fain.
" It fortuned a noble warlike knight
By just occiision to that forest came.
To seek his kindred and the linage right,
From whence he took his well-deserved name ;
He had in arms abroad won muchel- fame.
And till'd far lands with glory of his might,
Plain, faithful, true, and enemy of shame,
And ever lov'd to fight for ladies' right.
But in vain-gloi-ious frays he httle did delight.
" A satyr's son yhom in forest wild.
By strange adventure as it did betide.
And there begotten of a lady mild.
Fair Thyamis, the daughter of Labryde,
That was in siicred bands of wedlock tied
To Therion, a loose unruly swain,
WTio had more joy to range the forest wide,
And chase the salvage beast with busy pain,
Than serve his lady's love, and waste in pleasures vain.^'
Satyrane, kin to this wood-born people, becomes a
single type of what they stand for. Hi.s mother's
name, and the name of his mother's mother, Thy-
amis and Labryde, are taken from Greek words,
signifying passion and vehemence ; and the name of
his father, Therion, points to mere animal life. But
Satyrane, type of the natural man, bred in the woods
and showing in the outer world all the might and
courage of his race, could feel the beauty of Truth,
desii-e to keeja her goodly company, and learn her
discipline.
" Yet evermore, it was his manner fair.
After long labours and adventures spent,
TJnto those native woods for to repair,
To see his sire and offspring ancient.
And now he thither came for like intent :
Where he unwares the faii-cst Una found.
Strange lady in so strange habiliment.
Teaching the Satj-rs, which her sat around,
True sacred love, which from her sweet lips did redound.
1 Salvage^ wild in the woods, untamed.
* selvapffio." from "selva," Latin " silva,'
' Muchel Cas Scottish " mickle "), great.
Italian "salvag^o" and
' a wood.
Greek /ie7a\-.
" He wondi-ed at her wisdom heavenly rare.
Whose hke in women's wit he never knew ;
And when her courteous deeds he did compare,
Gan her admire, and her sad sorrows rue,
Blaming of Fortune, which such troubles threw,
And joy'd to make proof of her cruelty
On gentle dame so hurtless and so true :
Thenceforth he kept her goodly eompanj'.
And learn'd her discipline of faith and verity.
" But she, all vow'd unto the Eed Cross Knight,
His wandi-ing peril closely did lament,
Ne in this new acquaintance could delight.
But her dear heart with anguish did toi-ment.
And all her wit in secret counsels spent,
How to escape. At last, in privy wise
To Satyrane she shewed her intent ;
T\Tio glad to gain such favour, gan de«se,
How with that pensive maid he best might thence arise."
Thus the tjite remains. Truth — while the Church
fails — is left to depend for safety on earth upon the
natural man's common perception of her worth and
beauty. Una was fixed with the wood-bom people ;
they are exchanged, therefore, for Satyrane, who
represents that which they represent, but rejjresents
it in movement and action. The devil (Arch-
imago), in shape of a simple pilgrim, points the way
to Sansloy, who has slain, he says, the Eed Cross
Knight. The old peril typified by Sansloy is re-
newed. Satyrane calls to battle the stout Pagan,
who says —
" That Eed Cross Knight perdie I never slew ;
But had he been where erst his arms were lent,
Th' enchanter vain his error should not rue.
But thou his error shalt, I hope, now proven true."
Again there is the clash of strife ; it is now
Satyrane against Sansloy, who, seeing L^na, seeks
again to seize her, but is called from his attempt by
the .stout blows of her defendei-. Una flies from
the scene, and that false pilgiim, the Devil —
" when he saw the damsel pass away.
He left his stand, and her pursued apace.
In hope to bring her to her last decay."
Meanwhile, where is the Eed Cross Knight 1 how
is it, in Spenser's view, with the Religion of Eng-
land "! Duessa has been left in the House of Pride.
England has come out from the Church of Eome, but
only to be taken captive by Pride in another form —
the giant Orgoglio, who rejiresents, in Spenser's mind,
the reformed Church retaining still too many of
what he considered Popish vanities of worldliness.
And how was it that St. George, escaping Scylla,
fell upon Charybdis — escaping from Lucifeia and
Duessa, became thrall to Orgoglio and to Duessa yet
again, though under changed conditions^ It was
because, like the nymph of the typical fountain at
which he was taken with his armour off, he had
" sat down to rest in middest of the race." There
Duessa joined him again : —
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" What man so wise, what earthly wit so ware,
As to ilescrj- the crafty cunning train,
By which JJeceit doth mask in visor fair,
And cast her colours dyed deep in grain.
To seem like Truth, whose shape she well can feign,
And fitting gestures to her purpose frame.
The guiltless man with guile to entertain ':-
Great mistress of her art was that false dame.
The false Duessa, cloked with Fidesaa's name.
" Who when, returning from the di-eary night.
She found not in that perilous house of Pride,
Where she had left the nohle Ked Cross Knight,
Her hoped prey ; she wovdd no longer bide,
But forth she went, to seek him far and wide.
Ere long she found whereas he weary sate.
To rest himself, foreby a fountain side,
Disarmed all of iron-coated plate,
And by his side his steed the grassy forage ate.
" He feeds upon the cooling shade, and bays
His sweaty forehead in the breathing wind
WTiich through the trembling leaves full gently ijlays,
AVhcrein the iheerful birds of sundry kind
Do chaunt sweet musick, to delight his mind ;
The witch approaching, gan him fairly greet,
And with reproach of carelessness unkind
Upbraid, for leaving her in place unmeet,
With foul words tempting fair, sour gall with honey
sweet.
" Unkindness past, they gan of solace treat.
And bathe in pleasaunce of the joyous shade.
Which shield ud them against the boiling heat
And, with green boughs decking a gloomy glade.
About the fountain like a garland made ;
Whose bubbling wave did ever freshly well.
No ever would through fervent summer fade :
The sacred nymph, which therein wont to dwell,
Was out of Dian's favour, as it then befell.
" The cause was this : One day when Phrebe fair
With all her band was following the ehaee,
This nymph, quite tir'd with heat of scorching air.
Sat down to rest in middest of the race.
The goddess wroth, gan foully her disgrace.
And bade the waters which from her did flow
Be such as she herself was then in place.
Thenceforth her waters waxed dull and slow,
And all that drunk thereof did faint and feeble grow.
" Hereof this gentle knight unweeting was.
And lying down upon the sandy grail,'
Drunk of the stream, as clear as crystal glass :
Eftsoons his manly forces gan to fail,
And mighty strong was turned to feeble frail.
His changed powers at first themselves not felt,
Till crudlcd cold his courage gan assail.
And cheert'ul blood in faintness chill did melt.
Which like a fever-fit through aU his body swelt.=
• Graa, gravel.
* Srrdt, burned,
whence "swelter."
First-English "swaan," to bum, bum slowly;
" Yet goodly court he made stUl to his dame,
I'our'd out in looseness on the grassy ground.
Both careless of his health and of liis fame :
Till at the last he heaid a dreadful sound.
Which through the wood loud bellowing did reboirnd.
That all the earth for terror seem'd to shake.
And trees did tremble. Th' elf, therewith astound,
Upstarted lightly from his looser make.
And his unready weapons gan in hand to take.
" But ere he could his armour on him diglit.
Or get liis shield, his monstrous enemy
With sturdy steps came stalking in his sight,
An hideous giant, horrible and high.
That with his tallness seem'd to tlireat the sky;
The giound eke groaned under him for dread ;
His living like saw never living eye,
Ne durst behold ; his stature did exceed
The height of three the tallest sons of mortal seed."
Against this giant Orgoglio (whose name is simply
the Italian for haughtiness, pride, and vanity), the
knight,
" faint in ever)- joint and vein
Through that frail fountain that him feeble made,"
could make no valid stand. Duessa pleaded that
he might live Orgoglio's Vjond-slave, whereupon the
Red Cross Knight was thi'own without remorse into
a dungeon of Orgoglio's castle, while Orgoglio made
Duessa his, and set her "to make her dreaded more
of men " upon the beast with seven heads.
The Red Cross Knight in the dungeon of Orgoglio
was the Puntan poet's image of the Chui-ch of his
own time. To that condition it had been brought by
resting in midst of the race, by stopping short of root
and branch refoi-m. Spenser's Puritanism, like that
of Milton's after him, looked to essentials, and did
not make war upon any of the outward graces of life.
As he had shown by liis rebuke of Aylmer and his
open admiration of Grindal in " Tlie Shepherds'
Calendar," he laid stress upon the need of faithful
preaching, and he de.sired to see the lowly spirit of
an apostle in the bishop who was set over the Church.
He believed that we had dallied too much with
Rome, and that we had not escaped the thraldom of
pride, but he did not find pride in what he terais
" the seemly fomi and comely order of the Church,"
to which he says, in his "View of the State of Ire-
land," "our late too nice' fools" had objected. He
speaks there of the building only, but as to the vest-
ments he certainly could not share the extreme
Puritan opinions.
The fii-st important sign of that division in the
English Churcli, which began with the retaining of
some pomps of Rome, was in the year 15.50. John
Hooper, who was a Cistercian before he became a
Refoi-mer, and wa.s driven into exile by the Statute
of the Six Articles, had returned to England, and
in 1550 offer was made to him of the bishopric of
Gloucester. He refused it for two reasons. One
of his rea.sons touched a point not within contro-
' nice, particular about trifles.
1590.1
RELIGION.
205
versy iimong the Reformers. An iippeal to the saints
was in the oatli of supremac}' ; by chance it had not
yet been removed. The young king passed his pen
through it, and that ditiiculty was at an end. The
other touched the very point upon which ojjinion
in the Reformed Church of Enghmd was divided.
Hooper would not consent to be attii'ed in episcopal
robes — Aarouical habits, as he called them — because
they had no countenance in Scrii)ture, and were not
used in the primiti\'e Church, but were associated
with Roman corruptions and idolatries, as with the
pompous celebration of mass. John Hooper — then
a grave man, fifty-five years old — was supported in
his objections by Martin Bucer at Cambridge and by
Peter JMartyr at Oxford. The Reformation abroad
had begun among the people, and where it was estaV)-
lished popular feeling had disjiensed with pomp of
Roman ceremonial. The Reformed clergy abroad
wore sober habits tliat marked their otiice, but they
put away the vestments of the Church from which
they had seceded. The Reformation in England
had begun with the Crown ; and in many parts of
England was imposed, at first by bishojjs and privy
councillors, on an unwilling people. It seemed wise,
therefore, to those in power to change only what
they held to be essentially corrupt, and otherwise
to leave the outward accidents of pulilic worship
Tuiaftected. John Hooper was firm against persua-
sion, even when he was advised from Geneva to be
a bishop with the vestments, that as bishop he might
have intiueuce to get them put away. Men called
him harsh and rough, but, says Thomas Fuller,'
" to speak truth, all Hooper's ill nature consisted in
other men's little acquaintance with him. Such as
visited him once, condemned him of over-austerity ;
who repaii-ed to him twice, only suspected him of
the same ; who conversed with him constantly, not
only acquitted him of all morosity, but commended
him for sweetness of manners." He was committed
by his brother Reformers — Ridley being a chief
opj)onent — to the Fleet prison, " persecuted about
clothes," as another Church historian j)uts it, " by
men of the same fiiith with himself, and losing his
liberty because he would not be a bishop." At last,
however, a compromise was made. He was to wear
the vestments only upon certain occasions, and to be
dispensed from oi'dinary iise of them. Then John
Hooper became Bishop of Gloucester, preaching,
visiting, and labouring with much zeal in his diocese.
The pereecutions under Marv brought him, in Feb-
niarv, 1.53.3, to the martvr-fire Ijefore his owii cathe-
dral, upon the spot now marked by his statue. He
and his opponent Ridley were friends in the face of
death. " We have been two in white," said Hooper ;
" let us be one in red." At the very last, his recan-
tation was urged on him by Sir Anthony Kingston,
whom he had saved from a life of profligacy, and
who was made one of the commissioners charged
^^^th his execution. " Death is bitter," said Sir
Anthony ; " Life is sweet." " True," Hooper replied;
"l)ut the Death to come is more bitter, the I>ife to
come more sweet." His death was indeed bitter.
Qwotinjj Francis Godwin.
His legs and thighs were roasted, and one of his
hanils dropped oti' before he died. Such men as this
within the Church, ready to die that they might li^ e
— one of the first of them a bishop — marked by their
strong protests the beginning of that question about
vestments which vexed the Reformed Church of
England, and no other Reformed Church, after the
accession of Elizabeth. The jjolitical reason for re-
taining them was not accepted by those who magni-
fied theii- danger. Bishop Jewel sjioke of the con-
test over them as contest on a trivial matter, though
he siiid, " they are the relics of the Amorites : that
cannot be denied." But others saw in them the
bondage to Orgoglio, whose leman was Duessa on
the seven-headed beast.
In the third year of Elizabeth, it was moved in a
convocation of the Church that Saints' days should
be abolished ; that in common prayer the minister
shoidd turn his face towards the people ; that making
the sign of the cross in baptism should be omitted ;
that kneeling at the sacrament should be left to the
discretion of the minister ; that organs should be
removed ; and that it should sutfice if the minister
wore the surplice once, provided that he ministered
in a comely garment or habit. Of the members of
convocation jiresent when these resolutions were dis-
cussed, fifty-three voted for, and thirty -fi^■e against
them, but proxies caused their defeat by a majority of
one. Among those who ^oted for them was Alexander
Nowell, Dean of St. Paul's, author of the Church
Catechism, which was submitted to Convocation and
apjiro^ed by it in the same year, iri(J2, although not
printed until 1570. Ceiemonies thus accepted by
the clergy only by a casting vote, were then, with the
hope of securing unity, by the sti-ong hand firmly
enforced. Thus disatiection was increased, and, still
within the pale of the reformed Church of England,
objection to its system multijjlied and strengthened.
The rise of the Presl)yterians is thus indicated in a
letter from Edwin Sandys, Bishop of Loudon, written
to Henry BuUinger, in August, 1.573 : —
Kew orators are rising up from among lis : foolish young
men who despise authority and admit of no superior. They
are seeking the complete overthrow and uprooting of the
whole of our ecclesiastical polity, and striving to shape out for
us I know not what new platform of a church. That you
may be better acquainted with the whole matter, accept this
summary of the question at issue, reduced under certain
heads.
i. The ciWl magistrate has no authority in ecclesiastical
matters. He is only a member of the Church, the govern-
ment of which ought to be committed to the clergy.
ii. The Church of Christ admits of no other government
than that by Presbyteries : viz., by the Jlinister, Elders, and
Deacons.
iii. The names and authority of Archbishops, Ar-chdeacons,
Deans. Chancellors, Commissaries, and other titles and dig-
nitaries of the like kind, should be altogether removed from
the Church of Christ.
iv. Each parish should have its o-mi Presbj-tery.
v. The choice of Ministers of necessity belongs to the
people.
vi. The goods, possessions, lands, revenues, tithes, honours,
authorities, and all other things relating cither to Bishops or
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Ciithedi'als, and which now of right belong to them, should
hu taken away forthwith and for ever.
vii. No one should be allowed to preach who is not a pastor
of some Congregation; and he ought to preach to his own
flock exclusively, and nowhere else.
viii. The infants of Papists are not to be baptised.
ix. The judicial Laws of Jloses are binding upon Christian
Princes, and they ought not in the slightest degree to depart
from them.
In tlie year before this was written, the first sepa-
rate Pre.sliyterian congregation had been formed at
Wandsworth, and among its founders was Walter
Travers, afterwards indirectly the cause of the pro-
duction of Hooker's " Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity."
Travers is described by Izaak Walton, who had no
sympathy with his opinions, as "a man of competent
learning, of a winning behaviour, and of a blameless
life," who " had taken orders by the Presbytery in
Antwerp — and with them some opinions that could
never be eradicated — and if in anythmg he was
transported, it was in an extreme desire to set up
that government in this nation ; for the promoting
of wliich he liad a correspondence with Theodore
Beza at Geneva, and others in Scotland ; and was
one of the chiefest assistants to Mr. Cartwright in
that design." The conventicle at Wandsworth was
suppressed, but afterwai'ds revived, and presbyteries
were formed in other places with private meetings for
worship.
Thomas Cartwright, to whom Izaak Walton refers
as head of the Puritan movement, was born in
Hertfordshire in 1535, and educated at St John's
College, Cambridge. As a young scholar, and in all
his after life, Thomas Cartwright worked so hard that
he reduced the daily hours of sleep to five. In 1569
he became Lady Margaret's Professor of Divinity,
and he excited so much enthusiasm, that when he
preached at St. Mary's Church the windows were
removed, that he might be heard by the crowd out-
side as well as by the crowd within. His church
doctrine was Puritan. John Whitgift, a Lincolnshire
man, about five years older than Cartwright, was his
chief opponent in the University. Whitgift, whose
college was Pembroke Hall, and who obtained a
Fellowship of Petcrhouso, often answered Cartwright
in the pulpit at St. Mary's : so that practically the
two men submitted the two sides of a chief contro-
versy of the time to the judgment of the congrega-
tion. Whitgift also acquired fiime as a preacher, and
■when he first preached before Elizabeth she said of
him, hearing his name, that he had a white-gift
indeed. In 1567 he was made Master of Truuty
Hall and her Majesty's chaplain. He soon after-
wards caused Cartwright to be deprived of his
Fellowship at Trinity, and also, having become Vice-
Chancellor of the University, deprived his antagonist
of the Lady Margaret's lecture. Thomas Cartwright
then went aliroad for a couple of years, and was
minister to the English merchants, first at Antwerp,
afterwards at Middelburg. When he returned he was
again foremost in the controversy. Mini-sters of the
Church condemned as Puritans had been degraded
and imprisoned, and in the year 1572, the year_of
the opening of the Presbyterian church at Wands-
worth, an appeal was made to Parliament by two
Puritan leaders, Field and Wilcocks, one of them,
Field, being the Wandsworth lecturer. They pub-
lished in 1572, "An Admonition to the Parliament
for the Reformation of Church Disciisline." With it
was printed a letter from Theodore Beza to the Earl
of Leicester, who aided the Puritan cause, upon the
need of another Reformation in England. Its authors
were committed to Newgate, but their pamphlet could
not be suppressed. Thomas Cartwright ])ublished at
once a " Second Admonition." Whitgift protluced,
ill the same year, "An Answer to a certain Libel, in-
titided. An Admonition to the Parliament." This was
the ablest defence of the ecclesiastical system of the
reformed Church of England, before Richard Hooker's
work upon the subject. In the following year,
1573, Thomas Cartwright published "A Rei)ly to an
Answer made of Master Doctor Whitgift against the
Admonitions of Parliament." In the next year, 1574,
ajijieared " The Defence of the Answer to the Admo-
nition against the Reply of T. C, by John Whitgift,
D.D." In 1575, appeared Thomas Cartwi-ight's
second reply ; and other controversial writings fol-
lowed. The questions then stirring the Church, and
the chief arguments on either side, are best to be
studied in these Admonitions to Parliament, and the
succeeding debate between Cartwright and Whitgift.
John Whitgift had authority with him ; he had
already been made Dean of Lincoln, and was made, in
1577, Bishop of Worcester. Thomas Cartwright had
authority against him, and he was obliged again to
quit his country. If Whitgift would have taken the
office, he might have become Archbishop of Canter-
bury during the lifetime of Spenser's " wise Algrind,"
the disgraced Archbishop Grindal. It was due to
Whitgift's sense of duty that the Queen left Grindal
in nominal possession of his oflice, saying that " she
had made him an Archbishop, so he should die an
Archbishop." But on Griiidal's deatji, in the year
1583, Whitgift succeeded him, and as Whitgift lived
till 1601:, the Queen had in him, during all the
rest of her reign, an Archbishop who would carry
out her policy, maintain the reformed Church of
England as she had established it, by strict enforce-
ment of conformity, and repress extremes on either
side in Roman Catholic and Puritan. He at once
issued to the bishops of his province instructions
that all clergy were to acknowledge the Queen's
supremacy to be ecclesiastical as well as civil, and
to conform to the Book of Common Prayer and to
the Thirty -nine Articles ; that wearing of the vest-
ments was to be enforced ; and that all preaching,
catechizing, and praying in private families wliere
strangers were presentr — that is to say, every assembly
of the nature of a Puritan " conventicle" — was to be
utterly extinguished. Hundreds of Puritan clergy
were thus sus|iended and driven out into noncon-
formity. A petition from the magistrates of Suttblk
urged that " tlie laborious ministers of the Word are
marshalled with the worst malefactors, j)resented,
indicted, arraigned, and condemned for matters, as
we presume, of very slender moment : some for
leaving the holidays (saints' days) unbidden ; some
for singing the psalm ' Nunc Dimittis ' instead
of chanting it ; some for leaving out the cross in
TO i.D. 1590.]
EELIGIOK
207
baptism, <fec." At the same time the Queen issued a
new Commission for the suppression of sedition and
heresy. The power now given to the High Court of
Commission enabled the Commissioners to convict by
witnesses if a jury woukl not convict, and to convict
by other means if they had not witnesses; to test by
oath whomsoever they suspected, and punish at will
whoever refused the oath, by line or imprisonment.
Ar-chbishop Whitgift drew up a set of four-and-
twenty articles, contrived to include all points of
disagreement on wliich suspected Puritans might be
examined upon oath. Petitions were sent to the
Privy Council. The clerk of the Privy Council, in
sending them on to the Archbishop, told him " that
he would be the ovei-throw of this Church and the
cause of tumult," and the Privy Council remonstrated
both with Archbishop Wliitgift and with Aylmer,
Bishop of London. Whitgift himself, in reply to
Lord Burleigh's censure of a procedure that he con-
sidered to be " too much savouring the Romish
in<piisition, and rather a device to seek for offenders
than to refonn any," answered that he was so far
from inclining to Rome in such procedure, that " the
Papists are i-ather pained at my proceedings, because
they tend to the taking away of their chief argument,
that is, that we cannot agi'ee among ourselves ; and
that we are not of the Church because we lack
Unity."
It Ls not likely that Elizabeth looked much below
the surface of the " Faerie Queene ;" and if she had
seen under the allegory of its fii'st book liow heartUy
Spenser sjTnpathised with the higher objects of those
who felt a lai-ger Reformation to be necessary, she
would not have troubled hei-self about that. Spenser
was not a minister of the Church resisting her supreme
authority. He was an Irish civil servant, thoroughly
in sympathy with her political ideas. When her
minister Burleigh considered her Archbishop want-
ing in charity, and when her favourite Leicester and
others of her council were undLsguLsed friends to the
Puritans — and she often listened patiently to rough
assertion of opinions she would not hold — Sj^enser's
allegory of the Red Cross Knight, and his peril from
the giant Orgoglio after escape from Lucifera's
House of Pride, might mean what he pleased with-
out displeasing her. Loyal homage to her, full
recognition of her earnestness, hearty assent to her
public policy in many things, stem maintenance of
her authority, the sweetest praise jjoet had ever
given her, she had from Spenser, and it all came
from his heart. He gave aU that, and was a poet who
addressed his verse to cultivated minds. He tlid not
seek with it to stir the people. If he had been a
minister of her Church, acting and preaching as she
said he should not act or preach, he would never-
theless have been sacrificed to her belief that force
could secure the desired Unity within the Church,
and make its Religion what it ought to be, the source
of peace within her realm.
Tlie Red Cross Knight being thrall to Orgoglio,
the English Church being as Spenser saw it when
the " Faerie Queene " was being written, here was
the tune when need was felt of the mtervention of
heavenly gi-ace for its rescue. Spenser, therefore,
represents the dwarf— the people — taking up the
mighty armour, missing most at need; the whole
armour of God left masterless, and seeking aid. The
dwari' meeting with Una, grieves her with the tale
he has to tell, and then it is that Piince Arthur
crosses their path, Arthur who intervenes throughout
the poem as the bearer of the shield of Divine gi-ace.
" His warKke shield all closely eover'd was,
Ke might of mortal eye be ever seen ;
Not made of steel, nor of enduring brass,
Such earthly metals soon consumed been :
But all of diamond perfect pure and clean
It framed was, one massj- entire mold,
Hewn out of adamant rock with engines keen.
That point of spear it never piercen could,
Ne dint of dii-eful sword divide the substance would.'
" The same to wight he never wont disclose.
But when as monsters huge he would dismay,
Or daunt unequal armies of his foes,
Or when the flying heavens he would affray ;
For so exceeding shone his glistring ray,
That Phcebus' golden face it did attaint.
As when a cloud his beams doth over-lay •
And silver CjTithia wa.xed pale and faint.
As when her face is staiu'd with magic ai-t's con-
straint.
" Ne magick arts hereof had any might,
Kor bloody words of bold enchaunter's call ;
But all that was not such as seem'd in sight.
Before that shield did fade and sudden fall :
And when him list the rascal routs appall,
lien into stones therewith he could transmew.
And stones to dust, and dust to nought at all ;
And, when him list the prouder looks subdue,
He would them gazing blind, or turn to other hue.
" Jv e let it seem, that credence this exceeds ;
For he that made the same, was known right well
To have done much more admirable deeds :
It Merlin was, which whilom did excel
All living wights in might of magic spell.
Both shield, and sword, and armour all he wrought
For this young prince, when first to arms he fell ;
But when he died, the faiiy queen it brought
To fairy-lond, where yet it might be seen, if sought."
To Arthur Una tells her story, and he offei-s the
help which in the next canto — the eighth — he gives.
The introduction to the canto that tells this, indicates
what the help is which comes through Arthm- and
Una : —
" A}- me 1 how many perils do enfold
The righteous man, to make him daily fall ?
Were not, that Heavenly Grace doth him uphold,
And stedfast Truth acquit him out of all.
1 " Thou, O Lord, art a shield for me ; my glory, and the lifter up
of my head." (Ps. iii. 3.) " The Lord God is a sim and shield : the
Lord will give grace and glory." (Ps. Ixxxiv. 11.) " O Israel, trust
thou in the Lord : he is their help and their shield. house of Aaron,
trust in the Lord : he is their help and their shield. Te that fear the
Lord, trust in the Lord: he is their help and their shield." (Ps.
cxv.) " The shield of faith, wherewith ye shall be ahle to quench all
the fiery dai-ts of the wicked." (Ephes. vi. 16.)
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[i.D. 1579
Her love is firm, her care continual,
So oft as he, tlirough liis own foolish pride,
Or weakness, is to sinful bands made thrall ;
Else should this Ked Cross Knight in bands have died,
For whose deliv'rance she this jjiince doth thither guide."
Prince Arthur's gentle squire blew a magic horn —
the hum of the Gospel — before Orgoglio's castle : —
" Was never wight thut heard that thrilling sound.
But trembling fear did feel in every vein ;
Three miles it might be easy heard around,
And (.'choes three answer' d itself again :
No false enchantment nor deceitful train
Might once abide the terror of that blast.
But presently was void and wholly vain :
Ko gate so strong, no lock so firm and fast,
But with that piercing noise flew open quite or brast." '
Then is described the battle with Orgoglio, who was
aided by Duessa on her seven-headed beast tliat
brought the squire into great peril. Uncovering of
Arthur's shield secured the victory, and when tlie
breath had passed out of the giant's breast —
" That huge great body which the giant bore
Was vanish' d ((uite; and of that monstrous mass
Was nothing left, but Hke an empty bladder was."
Duessa fled, but the liglit-foot squire followed and
captured her. The castle of Orgoglio was entered.
It had Ignaro (Ignorance) to keep tlie gate as porter.
The Red Cross Knight was delivered from his danger.
Duessa, stripped of her scarlet robe, was displayed in
all her loathsomeness, and fled from the hated fiice of
heaven to the rocks and caves.
It may be observed in passing that in every book
except the third, in which Britomart (Chastity) stands
by her own strength, the eighth canto is the place at
which arises need of the aid of Divine grace for
attainment of the spiritual goal. In the second book,
that eighth canto opens with these stanzas- -
" And is there care in heaven ? And is there love
In heavenly spirits to these creatures base.
That may compassion of their evils move ?
There is : else much more wretched were the case
Of men than beasts. But oh ! th' exceeding grace
Of highest God that loves His creatures so.
And all His works with mercy doth embrace,
That blessed angels He sends to and fro.
To serve to wicked man, to serve His wicked foe.
" How oft do they their silver bowers leave.
To come to succour us that succour want !
How oft do they with golden pinions cleave
The flitting skies, like Hying pursuivant.
Against foul fiends to aid us nulitant !
Tliey for us fight, they watch and duly ward,
And their bright squadrons round about us plant ;
And all for love, and nothing for reward.
Oh, why should heavenly God to men have such regard .'- "
' Brast, burst.
The ninth canto of the first book speaks still of
Arthur as the good prince who " redeemed the Red
Cross Knight from bands." Arthur tells Una of the
lineage yet unknown to him ; of his delivery to a
Faery Knight as soon as life admitted him into this
world, he was assured only that he
" was son and heir unto a king.
As time in her just terra the truth to light should bring."
He told next of his vision of the Faerie Queene, and
his love for her — for the glory of God, —
" From that day forth I loved that face divine ;
From that day forth I cast in careful mind
To seek her out witli labour and lung tyne,"
And never vowed to rest till her I find."
Gifts were exchanged before the Red Cross Knight
and Una proceeded upon their way. Artliur's gift
was the water of life, held for him by the grace of
God, the diamond-box. The Red Cross Knight, the
Church militant on earth, gave, as its equivalent, his
trccisure, the New Testament : — •
" Prince Arthur gave a box of diamond sui'e,
Embow'd with gold and gorgeous ornament,
Wherein were clos'd few drops of liquor pure,
Of wondrous worth and vii-tue excellent.
That any wouftd could heal incontinent :
Which to requite, the Red Cross Knight him gave
A book, wherein his Saviour's testament
Was writ with golden letters rich and brave :
A work of wondi'ous grace, and able souls to save."
Still the argument is now of Divine grace, that
enaliles the weak mortal to attain, and it is empha-
sized with an image of Despair. The Red Cross
Knight and Una meet an armed knight, with a roi)e
on his neck, flying in terror from that man of hell
who had lured his friend and him to hasty death by
taking away from them all hope. " To me," says the
knight, " he lent this rope, to him a rusty knife."
This knight flying from Despair is Trevisan — his
name means gloom or darkness (Portuguese " tr6vas,"
privation of light, formed from the Latin " tenebra;").
He will lead the Red Cross Knight and Una to the
cave of Despair, but will not abide by them, he says,
" for liever had I die than see his deadly face." So
the Red Cross Knight, who has failed through weak-
ness and needed rescue, is led into the presence of
Despair : —
" Ere long they come, where that same wicked wight
His dwelling has, low in an hollow cave.
Far underneath a craggy clift ypight,^
Dark, doleful, di'cary, like a greedy grave.
That still for carrion carcases doth crave :
On top whereof aye dwelt the ghastly owl.
Shrieking his baleful note, which ever di-ave
Far from that haunt all otlier cheerful fowl ;
And aU about it waud'ring ghosts did wail and howl.
* Ti/ne, anxiety.
3 Ypi'jhl, fixed, pitched.
TO A.D. 1590. J
EELIGIOK
209
"And all about, old stocks and stubs of trees,
Whereon nor fruit nor leaf was ever seen,
Did hang upon the ragged rocky knees ;
On which had many wretches hanged been,
Whose carcases were scattered on the green,
And thrown about the clifts. Arrived there,
That bare-head knight, for di-ead and doleful teen.
Would fain have fled, ne durst approachen near :
But th' other forc'd him stay, and comforted in fear.
" The darksome cave they enter, where they find
That cursed man, low sitting on the ground.
Musing full sadly in his sullen mind ;
His grisly locks, long gi-owing and unbound,
Disordered hung about his shoulders round.
And hid his face ; thi-ough which his hollow eyne
Look'd deadly duU, and stared as astound ;
His raw-bone cheeks, thi-ough penury and pine.
Were shrunk into his jaws, as he did never dine.
" His garment, nought but many ragged clouts.
With thorns together pinn'd and patched was,
The which his naked sides he wrapp'd abouts :
And him beside there lay upon the grass
A dreary corse, whose life away did pass.
All waUow'd in his own yet lukewarm blood.
That from his wound yet welled fresh, alas ;
In which a rusty knife fast fixed stood.
And made an open passage for the gushing flood.
" Which piteous spectacle, approving true
The woful tale that Trevisan had told,
Whenas the gentle Red Cross Ivnight did view.
With fiery zeal he burnt in courage bold.
Him to avenge, before his blood were cold :
And to the villain said : ' Thou damned wight.
The author of this fact we here behold.
What justice can but judge against thee right.
With thine own blood to price his blood, here shed
in sight.'
" 'What frantic fit,' quoth he, ' hath thus distraught
Thee, foolish man, so rash a doom to give ?
What justice ever other judgment taught
But he should die who merits not to live ?
None else to death this man despairing drive.
But his own guilty mind deserving death.
Is then unjust to each his due to give 'i
Or let him die, that loatheth li^'ing breath ?
Or let him die at ease, that liveth here uneathf '
" ' Who travels by the wear}- wandring way.
To come unto his wished home in haste,
And meets a flood that doth his passage stay.
Is not great grace to help him overpast.
Or free his feet, that in the mire stick fast 'i
Most envious man, that gi-ieves at neighbour's good,
And fond, that joyest in the woe thou hast,
A^Tiy wilt not let him pass, that long hath stood
Upon the bank, yet wilt thyself not pass the flood ?
" ' He there does now enjoj- eternal rest,
And happy ease, which thou dost want and crave.
And further from it daily wanderest :
What if some little pain the passage have.
• UncafJi, uneasily. First-English "eitli," easy ; "edtlie," easily.
91
That makes frail flesh to fear the bitter wave ?
Is not short pain, well borne, that brings long ease
And lays the soul to sleep in quiet grave I'
Sleep after toil, port after stormy seas.
Ease after war, death after life, docs greatly please.'
" The knight much wondred at his sudden wit,
And said : ' The term of Kfe is limited,
Ne may a man prolong, nor shorten it :
The soldier may not move from watchful sted,"
Nor leave his stand, until his captain bed.' ^
' WTio life did limit by almighty doom,'
Quoth he, ' knows best the tenns established ;
And he that points the sentinel his room.
Doth license him depart at sound of morning droom.*
" ' Is not His deed, whatever thing is done.
In heaven and earth 'i Did not He all create
To die again ? AU ends that was begim ;
Their times in His eternal book of fate
Are written sure, and have their certain date.
AiXTio then can strive with strong necessity.
That holds the world in his * still changing state.
Or shun the death ordain' d by destiny ?
When hour of death is come, let none ask whence
nor why.
" ' The longer life, I wot the greater sin;
The greater sin, the greater punishment :
All those great battles which thou boasts to win.
Through strife, and bloodshed, and avengcment,
Now prais'd, hereafter dear thou shalt repent :
For life must life, and blood must blood repay.
Is not enough thy evil hfe forespent 'i
For he that once hath missed the right way.
The further he doth go the further he doth stray.
" ' Then do no fm'ther go, no further stray,
But here lie down, and to thy rest betake,
Th' iU to prevent, that life ensuen may ;
For what hath life, that may it loved make,
And gives not rather cause it to forsake ?
Fear, sickness, age, loss, labour, sorrow, strife.
Pain, hunger, cold, that makes the heart to quake ;
And ever fickle fortune rageth rife.
All which, and thousands more, do make a loathsome life.
" ' Thou, wretched man, of death hast greatest need,
If in true balance thou wilt weigh thy state ;
For never knight that dared warlike deed
More luckless disadventures did amate : ^
Witness the dungeon deep, wherein of late
Thy life shut up, for death so oft did call ;
And though good luck prolonged hath thy date.
Yet death then would the like mishaps forestall,
Into the which hereafter thou may'st happen fall.
" ' Why then dost thou, man of sin, desire
To draw thy days forth to their last degree ?
Is not the measure of thy sinful hire
High heaped up with huge iniquity,
2 WatcTiful sted, place of his watch.
3 Bed, bid. * Droom, drum.
5 His, old neuter genitive, now its. His was neuter as well as
masculine, his, hire, his = his, her, its.
6 Amnte, make dull or faint. Of the same root are the German
"matt," weary, and the Italian "matte." deprived of sense, and
English " mad ; " — deprivation of living power being the first idea.
210
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OP ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[i.D. 1590
Against the il:iy of wrath, to bui-dcn thco ?
Is not enough, that to this lady mild
Thou falsed hast thy faith with perjury,
And sold thyself to serve Ducssa vild,'
With whom in all abuse thou hast thyself defil'd ?
" ' Is not He just, that all this doth behold
From highest heaven, and bears an equal eye ?
Shall He thy sins up in His knowledge fold,
And guilty be of thy impiety ?
Is not His law, Let every sinner die ?
Die shall all flesh. What then must needs be done,
Is it not better to do willingly
Than linger till the glass be all out-run ?
Death is the end of woes : die soon, fairy's son.' "
The kniglit, much moved and wounded in liis con-
science, wavered ; and Desjiair dismayed him tlien
•with images of pains of hell, but the voice of Una
(Truth) recalled him to his faith in heavenly grace —
" And to him said, ' Fie, fie, faint-hearted knight !
"Wliat meanest thou by this reproachful stiifo ?
Is this the battle which thou vaunt' st to fight
With that fire-mouthed di-agou, horrible and bright ?
" ' Come, come awaj', frail, silly, fleshly wight,
Ne let vain woi'ds bewitch thy manly heart,
Ne deWUsh thoughts dismay thy constant spright :
In heavenly mercies hast thou not a part ?
AVhy should' st thou then despair, that chosen art ?
Where justice grows, there grows eke greater gi'acc.
The which doth quench the brond of hellish smart,
And that accurs'd handwriting doth deface :
Arise, sir knight, arise, and leave this cursed place I '
" So up he rose, and thence amounted straight.
■Which when the carl beheld, and saw his guest
Would safe depart, for all his subtle sleight,
He chose an halter from among the rest.
And with it hung himself, unhid," unbless'd.
But death he could not work himself thereby ;
For thousand times he so himself had dress'd.
Tot natheless it could not do him die.
Till he should die his last, that is eternally."
The opening of the next canto — ^the tenth — still
emphasizes what is a chief feature in Spenser'.s alle-
gorical ])icture of man striving heavenward through
all his powers for good : —
" What man is he, that boasta of flesUy might,
And v.ain assurance of mortality,
Wliich all so soon as it doth come to fight
Against spiritual foes, yields by and by.
Or from the field most cowardly doth fly ?
N"e let the man ascribe it to his skill.
That thorough grace hath gained victory.
If any strength we have, it is to ill :
But all the good is God's, both power and eke will."
1 YM, vile.
'Unhid, without a prayer. rirst-EugUsh "biddan," to pray;
"Wd," a prayer: wheuce beads, from the use o£ them iu counting
Aves and Paternosters.
An allegorical preparation of the spirit for the
final triumph follows in this as in other books of
the " Faerie Queene," the representing of the need
of Divine help. The Red Cross Knight is, in the
tenth canto, taken by Una to the House of HoUneas,
Dame Cffilia. Her three daughters are Faith, Hope,
and Charity — Fidelia, Speranza, and Charissa. Zeal
guided them to the hall of this house, where Rever-
ence led them to its lady, who welcomed Una —
" And her embracing, said, ' happy earth
Whereon thy innocent feet do ever tread.
Most virtuous vir-gin, born of heavenly birth,
That to redeem thy woful parent's head
From tjTant's rage, and ever-dying di'ead.
Hast wandred thi'o' the world now long a-day,
Yet ceasest not thy weaiy soles to lead,
WTiat grace hath thee now hither brought this way l'
Or doen thy feeble feet unweeting hither stray ?
" ' Strange thing it is an errant knight to see
Here in this place, or any other wight.
That hither turns his steps. So few there be
That choose the naiTow path, to seek the right :
All keep the broad high- way, and take delight
With many rather for to go astray.
And be partakers of their evil plight.
Than with a few to walk the rightcst way :
foolish men ! why haste ye to youi- own decay ?' "
The knight was instructed by Faith in her Sacred
Book, was comforted by Hope when pricked with
anguish of his sins, and heljied by the leech Patience,
who healed him by sharp remedies of Penance and
Remorse and true Repentance. So he was restored
to Una with his conscience cured. He was then
taken to be taught by Charity " of love and righteous-
ness and well to do." Mercy was called to aid in
showing the Red Cross Knight the way to heaven,
and he was led to a hospital in which were the
Seven Beatitudes of Mercy, each typified in a stanza.
There he rested, and thence he was led on to the
hermitage of heavenly Contemplation. By Contem-
plation he was then led to the highest mount, a.s
of Sinai or Olivet.
" From thence, far off he imtc him did shew
A little path, that was both steep and long,
"Wliich to a goodly city led his view ;
WTiose waUs and towers were builded high and strong
Of pearl and precious stone, that earthly tongue
Cannot describe, not wit of man can teU ;
Too high a ditty for my simple song :
The city of the great King hight it well,
Wherein eternal peace and h.-ippiuess doth dwell.
" As ho thereon stood gazing, he might see
The blessed angels to and fro descend
From highest heaven, in gladsome company.
And with great joy into that city wend.
As commonly as friend doth with his friend.
Whereat ho wondred much, and gan cnquere,
"What stately building durst so high extend
Her lofty towers unto the starry siihere,
A^id what unknowen nation there empeoplod were.
Il
TO A.D. 1591.]
BELIGIOK
211
" ' Fair knight,' quoth he, ' Hienisalem that is,
The new Hierusalem, that God has buUt,
For those to dwell in that are chosen His ;
His chosen people, pm-g'd from sinful guilt.
With piteous blood, which cruelly was spilt
On cursed tree, of that unspotted Lamb
That for the sins of all the world was kilt :
Now arc they saints in all that city sam,'
More dear unto their God than younglings to their dam.'
" ' Till now,' said then the knight, ' I weened well,
That great Cleopolis, where I have been.
In which that fau-est Fairy Queen doth dwell,
The fairest city was that might be seen ;
And that bright tower all built of crystal clean,
Panthea, seem'd the brightest thing that was :
But now by proof all otherwise I ween ;
For this great city, that does far surpass,
And this bright angel's tower, quite dims that tower of
glass.'
" ' Most true,' then said the holy aged man ;
' Yet is Cleopolis, for earthly frame.
The fairest piece that eye beholden can :
And well beseems all knights of noble name,
That covet in th' immortal book of fame
To be eternized, that same to haunt,
And doen theu' service to that sovereign dame.
That glory does to them for guerdon graunt :
For, she is heavenly bom, and Heaven may justly
vaunt.
" ' And thou fair imp, sprung out from English race.
However now accounted elfin's son.
Well worthy dost thy service for her grace.
To aid a virgin desolate fordone.
But when thou famous victory hast won.
And high amongst all knights hast hung thy shield.
Thenceforth the suit of earthly conquest shun.
And wash thy hands from guilt of bloody field :
For blood can nought but sin, and wars but sorrows
yield.
" ' Then seek this path, that I to thee presage,
Which after all to heaven shall thee send ;
Then peaceably thy painful pilgrimage
To j-onder same Hierusalem do bend.
Where is for thee ordain'd a blessed end :
For thou amongst those saints whom thou dost see
Shalt bo a saint, and thine own nation's friend
And patron : thou Saint George shalt called be.
Saint George of merry Engl&nd,- the sign of victory.' "
Thus prepared, the Red Cross Kiiight proceeded
to the fight with the Great Dragon, theme of the
eleventh canto ; and, having overcome, was, in the
twelfth canto, wedded finally to Una (Truth) for all
Duessa's plea that he belonged to her.
" Now strike your sails, ye jolly mariners ;
For we be come unto a quiet road,
Where we must land some of our passengers,
And light this weary vessel of her load.
* Savij togetter.
* The 1/ of *' merry " makes one syllable witli the E of •* England."
Here she awhile may make her safe abode.
Till she repaired have her tackles spent.
And wants supplied. iVnd then, again abroad
On the long voyage whereto she is bent.
Well may she speed and fairly finish her intent."
We turn back from this vision of the end yet
distant, and follow the Red Cross Knight — English
Religion — through the dangers of a way that has not
brought us yet within sight of the City of Eternal
Peace.
In the year after the publication of the first three
books of the "Faerie Queene," Michael Drayton, then
twenty -eight years old, published a volume called "The
Hamionie of the Church, Containing The Spiritual 1
Songes and holy Hymnes of godly men, Patriarkes,
and Prophetes : all sweetly sounding to the praise
and glory of the Highest. Now (newlie) reduced into
sundrie kinds of English Meeter : meete to be read
or sung for the solace and comfort of the godly. By
M.D." It was dedicated on the 10th of Febi-uary
1590(91) to Lady Jane Devereux, of Merivale, and
published in 1591. Its contents are "The Most
Notable Song of Moses, which he made a little before
his death ; the Song of the Israelites for their
deliverance out of Egypt ; the Most Excellent Song
of Salomon, Containing Eight Chapters ; the Song of
Anna ; the Prayer of Jonah ; the Prayer of Jere-
miah ; the Song of Deborah and Barak ; a Song of
the Faithful for the Mercies of God ; another Song
of the Faithful ; a Song of Thanks to God ; another
Song of the Faithful." Added to these eleven were
nine more songs and prayers out of the books of
Apocrypha. These are Drayton's versions of three
SONGS OF THE FAITHFUL.
I.
Isaiah, chapter xii.
O living Lord, I still wiU laud Thy Name,
For though Thou wcrt offended once -nath me.
Thy heav)' wrath is turned from me again.
And graciously Thou now dost comfort mc.
Behold, the Lord is my salvation,
I trust in Him, and fear not any power :
Ho is my song, the strength I lean upon.
The Lord God is my loving Saviour.
Therefore with joy out of the AVell of Life
Draw forth sweet water which it doth afi'ord :
And in the day of trouble and of strife
CaU on the name of God, the living Lord.
Extol His works and wonders to the sun ;
Unto aU people let his praise be shown :
Record in song the marvels He hath done,
And let His Glory through the world be blown.
Cry out aloud, and shout on Zion's hill,
I give thee charge that this proclaimed be :
The great and mighty King of Israel
Now only dwelleth in the midst of thee.
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CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1591
II.
Kalakkiik, chapter iii.
Lord, at Thy voice my heart for fear hath trembled ;
Unto the world, Lord, let Thy works be shown :
In these our days now let Thy power be known,
And yet in wrath let mercy be remembered.
From Teman, lo, our God you may behold,
The Holy One from Paran Mount so high :
His glory hath clean covered the sky,
And in the earth His praises be enrolled.
His shining was more clearer than the hght.
And from His hands a fulness did proceed,
AVbich did contain His wrath and power indeed;
Consuming plagues and fii-e were in His sight.
He stood aloft, and compassed the land.
And of the nations doth delusion make :
The moimtains rent, the hills for fear did quake.
His unknown paths no man may understand.
The Morians' tents e'en for their wickedness,
I might behold the land of Midian,
Amaz'd, and trembling like unto a man
Forsaken quite and left in great distress.
What, did the rivers move the Lord to ire,
Or did the floods His majesty displease,
Or was the Lord oft'ended with the seas.
That Thou cam'st forth in chariot hot as fire ?
Thy force and power thou freely didst relate
"Unto the tribes ; Thy oath will siu-ely stand.
And by Thy strength thou didst divide the land.
And from the earth the rivers sciiarate.
The mountains saw and trembled for fear.
The sturdy stream with speed forth passed by,
The mighty depths shout out a hideous cry.
And then aloft theu- waves they did uprear.
The sun and moon amid their course stood still.
Thy spears and arrows forth with shining went :
Thou spoil' st the land, being to anger bent.
And in displeasure Thou didst slay and kill.
Thou wentest forth for Thine own chosen's sake.
For the safeguard of Thine anointed one :
The house of wicked men is overthrown.
And their foundations now go all to wrack.
Their towns Thou strikest by Thy mighty power.
With their own weapons made for their defence ;
A\Tio like a whirlwind came, with the pretence
The poor and simple man quite to devour.
Thou mad'st Thy house on seas to gallop fast,
Upon the waves thou ridest here and there :
My entrails trembled then for very fear.
And at Thy voice my lips shook at the last.
Grief pierced my bones, and fear did me aimoy.
In time of trouble where I might find rest,
For to revenge, when once the Lord is prest,
With plagues He will the people quite destroy.
The fig-tree now no more shall sprout nor flourish,
The pleasant vine no more with grapes abound.
No pleasure in the city shaU be found.
The field no more her fruit shall feed nor nourish.
The sheep shall now be taken from the fold,
In stall of bullocks there shall be no choice :
Yet in the Lord my Sa™ui- I rejoice,
My hope in God yet will I surely hold.
God is my strength, the Lord my only stay,
My feet for swiftness it is He will make
Like to the hind's who none in course can take,
Upon high places he will make me way.
III.
Isauih, cha'pter xvi.
And in that day this same shall be our song,
In Judah land this shall be sung and said : —
We have a city which is wondrous strong,
And for the walls, the Lord Himself our aid.
Open the gates ; yea, set them open wide.
And let the godly and the righteous pass :
Yea, let them enter and therein abide,
Which keep His laws and do His truth embrace.
And in Thy judgment, Thou wUt sure preserve
In perfect peace those which do trust in Thee ;
Trust in the Lord, which doth aU trust deserve ;
He is thy strength, and none but only He.
Ho will bring down the proud that look so high,
The stateliest buUdings He will soon abase,
And make them even with the ground to lie,
And unto dust he will their pride deface.
It shall be trodden to the very ground,
The poor and needy down the same shall tread :
The just man's way in righteousness is found,
Into a path most plain Thou wilt him lead.
But we have waited long for Thee, O Lord,
And in Thy way of judgment we do rest :
Our souls doth joy Thy Name stUl to record,
And Thy remembrance doth content us best.
My soul hath longed for Thee, Lord, by night.
And in the mom my spirit for Thee hath sought :
Th)' judgments to the earth give such a light
As all the world by them Thy truth is taught.
But show Thj' mercy to the wicked man.
He will not learn Thy righteousness to know :
His chief delight is stQl to cui-se and ban.
And unto Thee himself he wOl not bow.
They do not once at all regard Thy power :
Thy people's zeal shall let them sec their shame ;
But with a fire Thou shalt Thy foes devour.
And dean consume them with a burning flame.
With peace Thou wilt preseire us, Lord, alone.
For Thou hast wrought great wonders for our sake:
And other gods beside Thee we have none.
Only in Thee we aU our comforts take.
TO A.D. 1592.)
RELIGION.
213
The dead and such as sleep witliin the grave.
Shall give no glory, nor j'ield praise to Theo ;
Which here on earth no place nor being have,
And Thou hast rooted out of memorie.
O Lord, Thou dost this nation multiply ;
Thou, Lord, hast blest this nation ■n'ith increase :
Thou art most glorious in Thy majesty.
Thou hast enlarged the earth with perfect peace.
We cried to Thee, and oft our hands did \vruig,
^\^len Tve have seen Thee bent to pimishmcnt ;
Like to a woman in child-birth travailing.
Even so in pain we mourn and do lament ;
We have conceiv'd and labom-6d with pain,
But only wind at last we forth have brought ;
Upon the earth no hope there doth remain.
The wicked world likewise avails us nouglit.
The dead shall live, and such as sleep in grave
With their own bodies once shall rise again :
Sing )-e that in the dust your dwelling have !
The earth no more her bodies shall retain.
Come, come, my people, to My chamber here,
And shut the doors up surely after thee ;
Hide thou thyself, and do not once appear.
Nor let thine eyes Mine indignation see :
For from above the Lord is now disposed
To scourge the sins that in the world remain ;
His servants' blood in earth shall be disclosed,
And she shall now j-ield up her people slain.
Drayton's " Harmouie of the Cliurcli " was pub-
lished ill 1.591, and in the next year, 1.592, appeared
a translation into English, finished in 1587, of the
" Ti-aite de la Verite do la Religion Chi-etienne," by
Philippe de Moruay, Seigneur du Plessis-Marly.
The author of this book was one of the most fiimous
of the French Protestant scholars and soldiers. He
was bom of a noble family in 1.5-49. He was des-
tined in cliildhood for good li\'ings in the Roman
Catholic Church, but liis mother, when he was nine
or ten years old, drew him with her to the Protestant
side. He was but two or three years older than
Sir PhUip Sidney, who had known him when he
visited England, and met him in Paris, where tliey
were both present at the Massacre of St. Bartho-
lomew, in 1572. Philippe de Mornay became a
foremost friend in the counsels of the King of
Navarre, wliom he helped to make Henry IV. of
France. He re])resented the intelligent soul of the
French Protestant cause. His nobility of character
gave him so much influence that he was called the
Pope of the Huguenots, and he was from time to time
in London as a jiolitieal representative of French
Protestantism. Sir Philip Sidney began a trans-
lation of De Mornay's " Treatise on the Truth of
Christianity," and asked his friend, Arthur Golding,
to finish it. He did so at once, and the dedication
to the complete work is dated in May, 1587, although
it was not until 1592 that the book was j^ublished,
Sidney ha%-ing died in October, 1586, from a musket-
shot at Zutphen. The volume was entitled "A
Worke concerning the Ti-ewnesse of Christian Reli-
gion, -^vi-itten in French : Against Atheists, Epicures,
Paynims, lewes, Mahumetists, and other Infidels.
By Philip of Mornay, Lord of Plessie Mariie. Be-
gimne to be translated into English liy Sir Philip
Sidney, Knight, and at his request finished by Arthur
GokUng." There was a .scriptural emblem on the
title-page, which associates the Reformation with the
return of light, and the strayed sheep recovered by
the Saviom-.
The Good Shepherd.
From the Title-page of Philip of Mornay* 6 TrucnCRS of the Christian Reli-
gioiif Tratislated [)y Sir Philip Sidney and Arthur Golding (1592).
Arthur Golding said that he followed Sidney's
wish in dedicating the translation to the Earl of
Leicester. The design of the work was to demon-
strate that there is a God who is one God, and
that he is Creator and Ruler of the world ; that man
has an immortal soul, but is fallen from his first
estate ; and that his chief hope is in God, and his
welfare consists in drawing near to Him. The way
to this sovereign welfare, it is then argued, is by true
Religion. The True God was worshipped in Israel,
which is set forth as the first mark of True Religion.
In Israel God's Word was the iiile of His ser-
vice, which is the second mark of True Religion.
The third mark is that the means of salvation have
been revealed from time to tinie to the people of
Israel. The rest of the argument is of Christ as the
Saviour and Son of God. A short passage from the
second chapter of the book, where Philip Sidney is
translator, may be taken as example of its style. It
draws evidence of the oneness of God from that
which has caused some to doubt His existence — the
oneness of nature, or as the mai-ginal note to this
paragraph calls it,
THE LINKING IN OF THINGS TOGETHER.
But let us see now how all things being so divers in the
whole world, are refeiTed to one another. The water moist-
cneth the earth, the air maketh it fat with his showers, the
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[a.d. 1592
mm enlig-htenoth it and hcateth it according to his seasons.
The earth nourishcth the plants, the plants feed the heasts,
the beasts sor%'o man. Again, nothing is seen here to he
made for itself. The sun shineth and heateth ; but not for
itself : the earth beareth, and yet hath no benefit thereby :
the winds blow, and yet they sail not : but all these things
redound to the glory of the Maker, to the accomplishment of
the whole, and to the benefit of man. To be short, the
noblest creatiires have need of the basest, and the basest are
served by the noblest ; and all are so linked together from
the highest to the lowest, that the ring thereof caimot be
broken without confusion. The sun cannot be eclipsed, the
plants withered, or the rain want, but aU things feel the hurt
thereof. Now then, can we imagine that this world which
consisteth of so many and so divers pieces, tending all to one
end, so coupled one to another, making one body, and full of
apparent consents of affections, proceedeth from elsewhere
^an from the power of one alone ? When in a field we see
many battles, divers standards, sundi-y liveries, and yet all
turning head with one sway ; we conceive that there is one
general of the field, who comniandeth them aU. Also when
in a city or a realm we see an equality of good behaviour in
an unequaUty of degrees of people, infinite trades which serve
one another, the smaller reverencing the greater, the greater
serving to the benefit of the smaller, both of them made equal
in justice, and all tending in this diversity to the common
service of their countrj- : we doubt not but there is one law,
and a magistrate which by that law holdeth the said diversity
in union. And if any man tell of many magistrates, we will
by and by inquire for the sovereign. Yet notwithstanding-
all this is but an order sot among divers men, who ought
even naturally to be united, by the community of their kind.
But when things as well light as heavy, hot as cold, moist as
dry, living as unliving, endued with sense as senseless, and
each of infinite sorts, do so close in one composition as one of
them cannot forbear another ; nay rather, to our seeming, the
worthiest do serrice to the basest, the greatest to the smallest,
the strongest to the weakest, and aU of them together are
disposed to the accomplishment of the world, and to the con-
tentment of man who aloncly is able to consider it : ought
we not forthwith to perceive, that the whole world and all
things contained therein do by their tending unto us teach us
to tend unto one alone? And seeing that so many things
tend unto man, shall man scatter his doings unto divers
ends ? Or shall he be so wretched as to serve many masters ?
Nay further, to knit up this present point withal, seeing that
all things the nobler they be the more they do close into one
unity (as for example, we sec that the things which have but
mere being are of infinite kinds, the things that have life arc
of infinite sorts, the things that have sense are of many sorts,
howbeit not of so many ; and the things that have reason arc
many only in particulars :) doth it not follow also that the
Godhead from whence they have their reason, as nobler than
they is also much more One than they, that is to say, only
One, as well in particularity and number as in kind ?
Henry Constable, whose few poems and extant
letters indicate much sweetness of character, was in
1595 driven into exile for his fidelity to Roman
Catholic opinions. There was some close association,
perhaps tie of blood, between Henry Constable and
Anthony and Francis Bacon, and to Anthony he
wrote, in 1595, " I have a marvellous opinion of your
-virtues and judgment, and therefore, though in par-
ticulars of religion we may be differing, yet I hope that
in tlie general belief of Christ (which is a greater
matter in this incredulous age), and desire of the
union of His Church you agree with me, as in the
love of my country I protest I consent with you."
Loving his country, Henry Constable sought leave
to return, and failing in that, towards the end of
Elizabeth's reign he returned clandestinely, but was
discovered and committed to the Tower. One of liis
" Spiritual Sonnets " may be taken as an example of
the purity of aspu-ation that could be associated with
the worship of the Vii-gin ; something far higher
than the idolatries from which he Drays that it may
save him : —
TO OUR BLESSED LADY.
Sovereign of queens ! if vain Ambition move
My heart to seek an earthly prince's grace,
Shew me thy Son in His imperial place
WTiose Servants reign oiu- Kings and Queens above ;
And if alluring passions I do prove
By pleasing sighs, shew me Thy lovely face,
Whose beams the angels' beauty do deface,
And even inflame the seraphim with love.
So by Ambition I shall humble be,
When in the presence of the Highest King
I serve all His that He may honour me ;
And Love my heart to chaste desires shall bring.
When Fairest Queen looks on me from her tlirone,
And, jealous, bids me love but her alone.
Richard Hooker.
From the Portrait by Faitlm-nc, engraved in his Works (1723).
" Four Books of the Laws of Ecclesiastical Politie "
were first published by Richard Hooker, tlien rector
of Boscombe, Wiltshu-e, in 1594. The fifth book,
longer than all those four, followed in 1597, when
he was rector of Bishopsbourne, near Canterbury.
Hooker died in 1600, and left notes which were
taken, not always rightly, as the rough draught of
the remaining tlu-ee books. These were not pub-
lislied until eighteen years after his death.
Richard Hooker was born at Heavitree, a suburb
10 A.D. 1594.]
RELIGION.
215
of Exeter. Like Speuser, from whom lie didered
in views of Cliurch poUty, lie was wholly an
Elizabethan writer; each was born about 1553, and
they died, before Eliaibeth, within a year of each
other. In literatiu-e Spenser is the greatest repre-
sentative of Elizabethan Puritanism, and Hooker
wrote the wisest and best argument against it.
Both were true men who sought to serve God faith-
fidly with all their powers ; and they agi-eed more
than they ditlered. Spenser, indeed, tUffered so
much from the narrower Pm-itanism of his time, and
was so fully in accord with Hooker's religious spirit,
that we cannot think of them as in oppo.site camps.
When different tendencies of thought lead men to
seek one gi-eat end by different ways, and gi-eat
pai-ties are formed, it is between the lesser comba-
tants — who confound accident with substance and
give themselves up to fierce contention about jjhrases,
words, and outward shows — that the distance seems
most wide. Between the best and piu-est upon
each side, who are one in aim, and who both look
to essentials, the accord is really greater than the
discord.
Kichard Hooker's parents were poor, but his uncle
John was chamberlain of Exeter, and the boy's school-
master, who found in him an actively inquii-ing
mind, and, under a slow manner, a quiet eagerness
for knowledge, urged upon this richer uncle that
there ought to be found for such a nephew, in some
way, at least a year's maintenance at one of the
Universities. John Jewel, who was also a Devon-
shii-e man, had been sent into his own county and the
West of England as a visitor of churches, upon his
return to England after the death of Queen Mary.
Thus he liad established friendly acquaintance with
John Hooker, and presently afterwards he was made
Bishop of Salisbury. John Hooker then visited the
Bishop in Salisbury, and talked about his nephew.
Jewel said he would judge for himself, and offered to
see the boy and his schoolmaster. When he saw
them he gave a reward to the schoolmaster, and a
small pension to Richard's parents, in aid of the
education of their son. In 1567, when Pdchard
Hooker was a boy of fifteen. Bishop Jewel sent him
to Oxford, placing him by special recommendation
imder the overeight of Dr. Cole, then President of
Corpus Chi-isti College. Dr. Cole provided Hooker
with a tutor, and gave him a clerk's place in the
college, which yielded something in aid of his uncle's
contribution and the pension from the bishop. In
this way Richard Hooker's education wiis continued
for about three years, and then, when he was
eighteen, he had a dangerous illness which lasted for
two months. His mother prayed continually for the
life of her promising son, who used afterwards to
pray in his turn " that he might never live to occa-
sion any sorrow to so good a mother ; of whom he
would often say, he loved her so dearly, that he
would endeavour to be good even as much for hers
as for his own sake." Being recovered at Oxford,
Richard Hooker went home to Exeter on foot, with
another student from Devonshire, and took Salisbury
upon his way, that he might pay his respects to
Bishop Jewel. The bishop invited Richard and his
companion to dinner, and after dinner sent them
away with good advice and benediction. Remember-
ing after they left that he had omitted the help of a
little money, the good bisliop sent a servant to bring
Hooker back, and when he returned, said, " Richard,
I sent for you back to lend you a horse which hath
carried me many a niUe, and, I thank God, with
much ease." The horse was a walking-stick that
Jewel had brought from Gennany. "And, Richard,
I do not give but lend you my horee : be sure you be
honest and bring my horse back to me at your return
tills way to Oxford. And I do now give you ten
groats to bear your charges to Exeter ; and here is ten
groats more, which I charge you to deliver to your
mother, and tell her I send her a bishop's benedic-
tion with it, and beg the continuance of her prayei-s
for me. And if you biing my horse back to me, I
will give you ten groats more to carry you on foot to
the college ; and so God help you, good Richard."
Thus the loan of the walking-stick pledged Richard
to call on his way back. He did call, and then saw
for the last time his kindly patron. John Jewel
died in September of the same year, 1571, and
Hooker would have lieen unable to remain at Oxford
if the president of his college. Dr. Cole, had not at
once bidden him go on with his studies, and imder-
taken to see that he did not want. After about nine
months also Hooker was aided by a legacy from the
bishop, a legacy of love, not of money.
Not long before Iiis death Jewel had been talking
to his friend Edwin Sandys, who had newly succeeded
Edmund Grindal in the bishopric of London. In his
talk he had said much of the pure nature and fine
intellect and studious life of young Richard Hooker.
The Bishop of London resolved, as he heard this,
that when he should send Edwin his son to college,
though he was himself a Cambridge man, he would
choose Oxford, and send him to Cor])us Christi, that
he might have Hooker for a tutor. This he did about
nine months after Bishop Jewel's' death. Hooker
was then nineteen, and his pupU — afterwards Sir
Old St. Paul's, with the Spike.
(From DugdaU's " Sistory of St. Paul's," 1658.)
Edwin Sandys, author of the " Speculum Europse "
— not very much younger; but the bishop wisely
souifht for his boy a tutor and friend who, as he
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[a.d. 1585
said, "shall teach him learning by instruction and
virtue by example : and my greatest care shall be of
the last." George Cranmer (nephew's son to the
archbishop) and other pupils soon joined Sandys,
and found in Hooker a tutor with a rare power of
communicating what he knew, and a Ufe unostenta-
tiously devout that stirred their aflections. His
health was not vigorous, and weakened by a seden-
tary life of study. He wiis short, stooping, very
short-sighted, and subject to pimples: so shy and
gentle that any pupil could look him out of coun-
tenance. He could look no man hard in the face, but
had the habitual down look that Chaucer's host in
the Canterlniry Tales is made to ascribe to the poet.
When Hooker was a rector, he and his clerk never
talked but with both their hats off together. He
was never known to be angry, never heard to repine,
while he remained at Oxford. In 1581 he was or-
dained priest, and soon afterwards appointed to
preach one of the sermons at Paul's Cross. This
appointment led indirectly to his marriage.
The first stone of St. Paul's, as we have it now,
was not laid until nearly a hundred years later, in
1675 and the new building was raised in accordance
with the classicism of that later time. The old
cathedral, ruined by the Fire of London, was, like
other English cathedrals, Gothic, and had, until 1561,
a spire. But in that year thei-e broke over London
a great storm, that struck with lightning first the
Church of St. Martin upon Ludgate Hill, and soon
afterwards the spire of St. Paul's, a structure of
wood covered with lead, which it set on fire. The
fire burned downwards for four hours, melted the
church bells, and then ran along the roof, which
Old St. Paul's, fkom the East, afteb the Loss of the Steeple, (from DugdaWs "History of St. Paul's," 1658.)
could be witty without use of an ill word, and by his
presence restrained what was unfit, without abating
what was innocent, in the mirth of others. In
December of the year 1573, in which the Bishop of
London's son became his pu]>il, Hooker became one
of the twenty foimdation scholars of his college, who
were, by the founder's statutes, to be natives of
Devonshire or Hampshii-e. Hooker became Master
of Ai-ts in 1577, and in the same year Fellow of his
College. His first pupUs, Edwin Sandys and George
Cranmer, remained the attached friends of Richard
Hooker, who worked on at Oxford, devoting himself
much to study of the Bible, which was written, he
said, " not to beget disputations, and pride, and
opposition to government ; but charity and humility,
moderation, obedience to authority, and peace to
mankind ;" qualities of which " no man did ever yet
repent himself on his death-bed."
In 1579, when he and Edmund Spenser were
about twenty-six years old, and Spenser published
Ins first book, " The Shepherd's Calendar," Richard
Hooker was appointed to read the public Hebrew
lecture in the University, and continued to do so
fell in. There were collections in all dioceses for the
restoration of the chm-ch, and it was roofed again,
but the steeple never was rebuilt.
Paul's Cross stood in the churchyard on the north
side of the cathedral, towai-ds the east end. A cross
in that place is said to have been first erected by
Goodrich, abbot of Peterborough, to remind passers-
by to pray for the souls of certain monks of Peter-
borough there buried, who had been massacred by
the Danes in the year 870. There was already a
custom of preaching at this cross in the latter yeai-s of
Edward III. The cross preached from in Elizabeth's
reign had been buUt on the old site by Thomas
Kempe, who was Bishop of London from a.d. 1450
to A.D. 1490.
Careful choice was made of the preachers who
were in\'ited to deKver sermons at St. Paul's Cross.
Besides his fee, each minister who was not resident
in London had right of board and lodging for two
days before and one day after his sermon, in a house
kept for the ])urpose, which was known a.s the
Shunamite's House. A friend had persuaded Richard
Hooker not to make the journey from Oxford to
TO A.D. 1531.]
RELIGION,
217
London on foot, but to go on horeeback ; the ■weather
'jeing wet, and he no rider, he arrived at the Shuna-
iiiite's House soaking, and sore, with a very bad cold,
and doubt whether the two days' rest would so far
recover him that he could preach. But the mistress
jf the house, a Mrs. Churchman, paid such exemplary
attention to him, that when Sunday came he was
^qual to his duty. Then the good woman ad\-ised
her gi'ateful guest that, as he was of a tender con-
stitution, he should take a wife who could nui-se him,
prolong hLs life, and make it comfortable. To this
counsel the simple-hearted scholar duly assented, and
asked i\Irs. Churchman to find for him such a wife.
8he found him her own daughter Joan, whose chance of
a husband seemed otherwise, perhaps, not of the best,
since she had no money, and was neither good-looking
nor good-tempered.' Her father was a pious man,
who hud failed in business as a draper Ln WatLLng
Street, and had been made keeper of the Shunamite's
House because he was fit for the office, and in need
of help to live. Hooker's marriage di-ew him from
his quiet student life at Oxford. A small living was
given to him near Aylesbury, at Drayton-Beauchamp,
in Decembei-, 158-t, and he had lived for about a year
in his country pai-sonage when he was visited by his
old pupils, Edwin Sandys and George Cranmer.
They found him reading Hoi-ace in a field, and mind-
ing a few sheep wliile the servant was gone to his
dinner and to help in household work. They sat
^vith him luitil the man returned, then went with
him into the house, but lost his company when
Richard was called to rock the cradle of his first-
bom. They left next day with no tiatteiing opinion
of Mrs. Hooker, but with increased reverence for
their old tutor, whom they saw gently bearing a Ufe
of poverty in a home where there was no sympathy to
cheer it. When Ci-anmer glanced at this on leaving,
Hooker is said to have replied, " My dear George, if
saints have usually a double .share in the miseries of
this life, I that am none ought not to repine at what
my wise Creator has appointed for me, but labour-, as
indeed I do daily, to submit mine to His will, and
possess my soul in patience and peace."
The consequence of this visit was that Edwin
Sandys strongly represented to his father, who was
then Archbishop of York, Hooker's desert and need.
Tlie next opportunity was therefore taken of using
])atronage for the substantial improvement of his
fortimes, and in March, 1.58.5, Richard Hooker, then
only thirty-fom- years old, was made Master of the
Temple. Walter Travers, who had the Earl of
Leicester for pati-on, had been appointed Evening
Lecturer at the Temple. We have already spoken
of him as a friend of Thomas Cartwright, and one
of the leadere of the Puritan caiise in the Church of
England ; the same who had been busy about the fii-st
separate Presbyterian congregation when that was
^ Hooker's vife. These details are from Izaak Walton's life of
Hooker, and represent, perhaps too unfavourably, what friends said
about Mrs. Hooker. She was very soon married again after Richard's
death. Four months after the death of her first husband she was
found dead in her bed, and the second husband — to whom she was
then already joined — fell under ujijust suspicion of having poisoned
her.
92
formed at Wandsworth. The Pm-itan element was
strong even in this society of lawyers, and many
tliought that Walter Travers should have been aji-
pointed to the place -iven to Richard Hooker.
Hooker preached in the morning, Travers in the
evening : so it was said that " the forenoon sei-mon
spake Canterbury ; and the afternoon -Gene^-a."
Then Ai'chbishop Wliitgift prohibited the preaching
of Travers. The prohibition was appealed against in
vain. Whitgift's policy was the Queen's ; he sought
to compel unity. The Queen trasted him as she had
trasted Archbishop Parker, practically transferred to
him her supremacy over the Church of England, and
called him " her little black husband." This treat-
ment of Walter Travers raised a bitter controversy.
Richard Hooker sought in his gentle way to main-
tain himself against it; the hardest thing said by
him in the matter, being in reply to the accusations
against him, " that he prayed before and not after his
sermons ; that in his prayers he named bishops ; that
he kneeled both when he prayed and when he re-
ceived sacrament : and," he said, " other exceptions
so like these, as but to name I should have thought
a greater fault than to commit them."
The bitterness of personal contention pained
Hooker acutely. He could not take part in it, and
it distracted him when he would give pure thought
to the principles involved in the dispute. There was
a great controversy within the Church, a desire for
truth and right was at the heart of it on both sides,
but on each side, as usual, blind passion was eloquent,
and there were many partisans who never looked
below the sm-face. Hooker desired escape out of the
noise, that he might make a right use of his powers
in God's service, and at last he wrote this letter to
the Archbishop : —
My Lord, — When I lost the freedom of my cell, which,
was my college, yet I found some degree of it in my quiet
country parsonage : hut I am wear)' of the noise and opposi-
tions of this place ; and indeed God and Nature did not intend
me for contentions, but for study and quietness. My lord,
my particular contests with Mr. Travers here have proved
the more unpleasant to me, because I beUeve him to be a good
man; and that belief hath occasioned me to examine mine
o-wn conscience concerning his opinions ; and to satisfy that,
I have consulted the Scripture, and other laws, both human
and divine, whether the conscience of him and others of his
judgment might be so far complied with 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 his and other tender consciences shall require us.
And in this examination I have not only satisfied myself, but
have begun a treatise in which I intend a justification of the
Laws of our Ecclesiastical Polity ; in which design God and
His holy angels shall at the last great day bear me that witness
which my conscience now does, that my meaning is not to
provoke any, but rather to satisfy all tender consciences ; and
I shall never be able to do this but where I may study, and
pray for God's blessing on my endeavours, and keep myself
in peace and privacy, and behold God's blessings spring out
of my mother earth, and eat my own bread without opposi-
tions ; and therefore, if your grace can judge me worthy of
such a favour, let me beg it, that I may perfect what I have
begun.
218
CASSELL'S LIBEARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1590
The result of this pleadiBg was that, in the year
1591, Richard Hooker resigned the more lucrative
and, ui a worldly seuse, important office of Master
of the Temple, and was presented to the living of
Boscombe in Wiltshire, about six mUes from Salis-
bui-y, and to a prebend of small value— Nether-
Avon— in Salisbuiy Cathedral. At Boscombe he
was remote enough from strife of cities, and woidd
be free to use his pen while doiug his duty to his
parishioners ; for the whole population of his parish
was scarcely above a huncked. Richard Hooker
lived four years at Boscombe— from 1591 to 1595 —
and there "he completed by March, 1593, the first
four of the eight books which he had planned as the
natiu-al division of his work. They were first pub-
lished in 159i. The spirit and plan of the whole
work are thus expressed by Hooker himself in his
"Preface to them that seek (as they term it) the
Reformation of Laws and Orders Ecclesiastical in the
Chm-ch of England." Fu-st, as to its spiiit, let this
passage testify : — •
Amongst ourselves, there was in King Edward's days some
question moved, by reason of a few men's scrupulosity,
touching certain things. And beyond seas, of them which
fled in the days of Queen Mary, some contenting themselves
abroad with the use of their own serWce book at home, autho-
rised before their departure out of the reakn ; others Uking
better the Common Prayer Book of the Chui'ch of Geneva
traxislated ; those smaller contentions before begim were by this
mean somewhat increased. Under the happy reign of her
Majesty which now is, the greatest matter a while contended
for was the wearing of the cap and surplice, tUl there came
Admonitions directed unto the High Court of ParUament, by
men who, concealing their names, thought it glory enough to
discover their minds and affections, which now were univer-
sally bent even against all the orders and laws wherein this
church is found unconformable to the platform of Geneva.
Concerning the defender of which Admonitions, all that I
mean to say is but this : — There will come a time when three
words uttered with charity and meekness, shall receive a far
more blessed reward than three thousand volumes written
with disdainful sharpness of wit. But the manner of men's
writing must not aUenate our hearts from the truth, if it
appear they have the truth : as the followers of the same
defender doth think he hath, and in that persuasion they
follow him, no otherwise than himself doth Calvin, Beza,
and others, with the Uke persuasion that they in this cause
had the ti'uth. We being as fully persuaded otherwise, it
resteth that some kind of trial be used to find out which
part is in error.
The plan of the work is in the same preface thus
sketched by its author ; —
Nor is mine own intent any other in these several books
of discourse, than to make it appear unto you that for the
Ecclesiastical Laws of this land we are led by great reason to
observe them, and ye by no necessity bound to impugn them.
It is no part of my secret meaning to di-aw you hereby into
hatred, or to set upon the face of this cause any fairer gloss
than the naked truth doth afford ; but my whole endeavour
is to resolve the conscience, and to show as near as I can what
in this controversy the heart is to think, if it will follow the
light of sound and sincere judgment, without either cloud of
prejudice or mist of passionate affection. AXTierefore, seeing
that laws and ordinances in particuhir, whether such as we
observe, or such as yourselves would have established, when
the mind doth sift and examine them, it must needs have
often recom-se to a number of doubts and questions about the
nature, kinds, and qualities of laws in general, whereof,
unless it be thoroughly informed, there wiU appear no cer-
tainty to stay om- persuasion upon : I have for that cause
set down in the first place an introduction on both sides
needful to be considered : declaring therein what law is, how
diCEerent kiads of laws there are, and what force they are of
according unto each kind. This done— because ye suppose
the laws for which ye strive are found in Scripture, but those
not for which we strive, and upon this surmise are drawn
to hold it as the very maia pillar of your whole cause, that
Scriptm-e ought to be the only rule of all our actions, and
consequently that the Church orders which we observe being
not commanded in Scripture are offensive and displeasant
unto God— I have spent the second book in sifting of this
point, which standeth with you for the fii'st and chiefest
principle whereon ye bmld. Whereunto the ne.xt in degree
is, that as God will have always a Church upon earth while
the world doth continue, and that Church stand in need of
o-overnment, of which government it behoveth Himself to be
both the author and teacher ; so it cannot stand with duty,
that man should ever presume in any wise to change and
alter the same ; and therefore, that in Scripture there must
of necessity be foimd some particuliu- form of Ecclesiastical
Polity, the laws whereof admit not any kind of alteration.
The tirst thi-ee books being thus ended, the fouith proceedeth
from the general grounds and foundations of your cause,
unto your general accusiitions against us, as having iu the
orders of our Church {for so you pretend) corrupted the right
form of Church PoUty with manifold Popish rites and cere-
monies, which certain Eefonned Chirrches have banished from
amongst them, and have thereby given us such example as
(you think) we ought to foUow. This your assertion hath
herein drawn us to make search, whether these be just excep-
tions against the customs of our Church, when ye plead that
they are the same which the Church of Home hath, or that
they are not the same which some other Eefonned Churches
have devised. Of those four books which remain and are
bestowed about the specialties of that cause which licth in
controversy, the first examineth the causes by you alleged,
wherefore the PubUc Duties of Christian religion, as our
prayers, our sacraments, and the rest, should not be ordered
in such sort as with us they are ; nor that power whereby the
persons of men are consecrated unto the ministry, be disposed
of in such manner as the Laws of this Church do allow. The
second and third are concerning the power of Jiu-isdiction —
the one, whether laj-men, such as your governing elders are,
ought in all congregations for ever to be invested with
that power ; the other, whether bishops may have that power
over other pastors, and therewithal that honour which with us
they have. And because, besides the power of order which
all consecrated persons have, and the power of jurisdiction
which neither they all, nor they only have, there is a thiiU
power — a power of ecclesiastical dominion — communicable, as
we think, unto persons not ecclesiastical, and most fit to bo
restrained unto the Prince our sovereign commander over the
whole body politic : the eighth book we have allotted unto
this question, and have sifted therein yoiu' objections against
those Pre-eminences Royal which thereunto appertain.
Thus have I laid before you the brief of these my travails,
and presented under your view the limbs of that cause litigious
between us ; the whole entire body whereof being thus com-
pact, it shall be no troublesome thing for any man to find
each particular controversy's resting-plaee, and the coherence
lO A.D. 159I.T
EELIGIOK
219
it hath with those things, either on which it dependeth, or
which depend on it-
The preface is followed by tMs summary : —
WHAT THINGS ARE HANDLED IN THE BOOKS
FOLLOWING.
The first book, concerning Laws in general.
The second, of the use of Di^Tne Law contained in Scrip-
ture, whether that be the only law which ought to serve
for our direction in all things without exception.
The third, of Laws concerning Ecclesiastical Polity;
whether the form thereof be in Scripture so set down that
no addition or change is lawful.
The fourth, of general exceptions taken against the Laws
of our Polity, as being Popish and banished out of certain
Reformed Churches.
The fifth, of our laws that concern the Public Religious
Duties of the Church, and the manner of bestowing that power
of order, which euableth men in sundry degrees and callings
to execute the same.
The sixth, of the power of Jurisdiction, which the reformed
platform claimtth unto lay-elders, with others.
The seventh, of the power of Jurisdiction, and the honour
which is annexed thereunto in Bishops.
The eighth, of the power of ecclesiastical dominion or
Supreme Authority, which with us the highest governor or
Prince hath, as well in regard of domestical jurisdictions as of
that other foreignly claimed by the Bishop of Rome.
Jkurck
From the Frontispiece of Booker's " EccUsiatiied. Polity" (1594).
Richard Hooker open-s the first book of his
" Ecclesiastical Polity " -with observations on the dis-
advantage in argument at which they are placed who
maintain the conservative point of view, and on the
fact that he may seem for a time tedious and obscure
to many who find ditficulty upon unfamiliar ground,
since he intends to rea.son from first causes, holding
that way to be best for the a.scertainment of truth.
Conclusions so anived at will be surer, and when
reached will also help us to understand the first prin-
ciples more clearly. Do we who maintain Church Law
uphold only a vain tradition ? Let us seek the truth
as to this matter. WHiat are Laws] The just means
to an end, subject to tlieir author, God, who Ls the
Fii-st Cau.se of Order and of Law. He uses in all
things means towards ends, for the accomplishment
of which He limits the use of HLs infinite power.
God's purposes are not always known to us, " how-
beit undoubtedly a proper and certain reason there is
of every finite work of God, inasmuch a.s there is a
law imposed upon it ; which if there were not, it
shoidd be infinite, even as the Worker Himself Ls."
God hath made to Himself a law eternal, whereby
He worketh all things of which He is the cause and
author. " That little thereof which we darkly appre-
hend, we admire ; the rest with religious ignorance
we humbly and meekly adore."
God's law is eternal and immutable ; a part of it
His promises declare, and all else must be in
accord with them. God's eternal purpose, which He
keeps, is the first law eternal. The second eternal
law is that which man makes for himself in tiiie
accord with Reason and Revelation.
Eternal Law is of three kinds, according to the
kinds of tilings that are subject to it : (a) natural
law, which ordei-s natiu-al agents ; (h) heavenly,
observed by the angels; (c) human, "that which,
out of the law either of reason or of God, men
probably gathering to be expedient, they make it a
kw."
God's will is fixed in the Law of Nature on which
human life depends. But Hooker's philosophy here
falters a little, for he sees an occasional swerving
which he ascritjes to the defect of matter cureed for
the sin of man, and he does not point out that some
operations may appear only to be irregidar till we
completely understand the laws that govern them.
"But howsoever," Hooker says, "the.se swei-vings
ai-e now and then incident to the course of nature,
nevertheless so constantly the laws of natui-e are by
natural agents obsei-ved, that no man denieth but
those things which nature worketh are wrought,
either always or for the most part, after one and
the same manner." What causes this uniform
obedience to law ? The works of Natiu-e are the
■will of God. " Those things which Nature is said
to do, are by divine art performed, using Nature as
an instrument ; nor is there any such art or know-
220
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1590
ledge divine in Nature herself working, but in the
guide of Nature's work." His guidance accords with
that determining of means to ends which "is rightly
tei-med by the name of Providence. The same being
referred unto the things themselves here disposed by
it, was wont by the ancient to be called Natural
Destiny." Each force of nature is subject to its own
law, and bound also to serve the common good of
all.
To Heavenly Law the angels pay perfect obedience.
With intellectual desire to resemble God in goodness
and do good to His creatures, especially to Men, in
whom they see themselves beneath themselves, the
Angels love, adore, and imitate. Individually they
pi-aise God ; they work together in God's army ; as
fellow-servants with men they are God's ministers of
grace. When Angels fell through pride it was by
reflex of their understanding on themselves, and they
became dispersed labourers against the law of God.
They have been honoured as themselves gods before
light came into the world.
The argument next joroceeds to its especial topic.
Human Law.
Except in God, there is in all things higher possi-
bility that breeds desire towards perfection, which is
Goodness, looking to the highest, namely, to that
which is nearest God. Everything helps in some
way, and is therefore good. Man especially aspires.
God is eternal : and man, therefore, seeks continued
life, a long personal life and continuance by offspring.
God is immutable : and man, therefore, seeks fixity of
purpose. God is exact : and man, therefore, seeks
precision in details. These desires are so boimd to
us that we hardly observe them. But external per-
fections of truth and virtue (desired as they become
known) are sought more noticeably, and still after
the pattern of God.
Angels have all knowledge of which they are
capable : Men grow towards it. Of natural agents,
living animals may excel men in tha lower things of
sense, as stones excel animals in firmness and dura-
bility; but the soul of Man as he grows in reason
reaches beyond sensible things. With the ritrht
helps of art and study, men as they might be would
excel men as they are, not less than men as they are
excel the simpleton. The very fii-st man who took
the right way — Aristotle— excelled all before and
after him. To the praise of the method of Aristotle
Hooker adds his dispraise of the method of Ramus.'
Education and instruction make us capable of Law.
By reason we attain to knowledge beyond that of the
senses. We act sometimes for the goodness we find
in the mere stii- and change ; and sometimes only for
the end to be attained. In either case we act freely.
We choose that which seems good in our eyes.
Knowledge and WUl determine choice. Will
seeks the good to which Reason points; Appetite
1 Ramus. Pierre La Eam^e, bom in 1515, son ot a poor labourer,
bad from cbildhood an Intense desire for knowledge. By working
in the day and studying at night, he enabled himself to graduate at
the age of twenty-one, and with an ardent tendency to place reason
above mere authority, in graduating maintained as his thesis that
"aU Aristotle said was false." After a brilliant intellectual career,
he perished in the massacre of St. Bartholomew.
that which satisfies the Senses. Aflections rise
involuntarily at the sight of some things ; the Will
has power to stay their action. " Appetite is the
Will's solicitor, and the Will is Appetite's controller."
Reason enough to give Will power over Appetite
makes action upon Appetite also voluntary ; and
this even when, half unobserved, the Appetite assents
by not tlissentmg or using power to prevent.
Children and men without reason are guided by
the reason of othei's. Reason seeks only such good
as it judges to be possible. Good may be attainable
by ways avoided for unpleasantness, and Evil (never
desired for itself) may be sought for some appearance
of goodness in the ways to it. Goodness moves only
when apparent ; while hidden it is neglected. Sen-
sible good is always obvious, and is sought till liigher
reason comes to show the higher object of desu'e. In
all sin a lesser good is preferred to the greater which
reason can make known. The root of this, says
Hooker, is the Curse, weakening the instrument, the
soul within the flesh. Man seeking the utmost good
fails in discernment of it.
We discern by knowledge of causes and by ob-
servation of signs. The latter way, though less
sui-e, is easier and fitter for the weakness of the age.
A sign of evident goodness is general accejjtance.
The general and perpetual voice of men is as the
sentence of God Himself. For that which all men
have at all times learned. Nature herself must needs
have taught ; and God being the author of Nature,
her voice is but His instrument. By her from Him
we receive whatsoever in such sort we learn. Much
truth is thus open to the common light of reason.
As Hooker's argument advances from stage to
stage he inserts little summaries of it at successive
resting-places, and we come now to the first of the
summaries, which is this : —
A Law therefore generally taken, is a directive riile unto
goodness of operation. The rule of divine operations out-
ward, is the definitive appointment of God's own wisdom set
down within Himself. The ride of natiiral agents that work
hy simple necessity, is the determination of the wisdom of
God, known to God Himself the principal director of them,
but not unto them that are dii-ected to execute the same.
The rule of natural agents which work after a sort of theii-
own accord, as the heasts do, is the judgment of common
sense or fancy concerning the sensible goodness of those
objects wherewith they are moved. The rule of ghostly or
immaterial natures, as spirits and angels, is their intuitive
intellectual judgment concerning the amiable beauty and high
goodness of that object which with unspeakable joy and
delight doth set them on work. The rule of voluntary agents
on earth is the sentence that Reason giveth concerning the
goodness of tliose things which they .are to do. And the
sentences which Reason giveth are some more, some less
general, before it come to define in particular actions what is
good.
We pass then to the next stage of Richard Hooker's
argument upon the nature of Law. The main prin-
ciples of reason are, he says, in themselves apparent.
Tlie greater good should be chosen before the lesser :
but choice errs where the lesser good is seen, the
greater unseen. We seek knowledge for the pre-
TO t..s. 15SW.]
EELIGION.
221
servation of life, and beyond that also, firstly for its
own sake, for the delight in contemplation itself, and
secondly for its use in providing rules of action.
We know all things either as they are in them-
selves, or as they are in mutual relation to one
another. The knowledge of what man is in reference
to himself, and of other things in relation to man, is
at the source of all natural laws which govern human
actions. The best things produce the best opera-
tions, and considering that all parts of man concur in
producing hum;m actions, it cannot be well if the
diviner part, the soul, do not direct the baser. " Tliis
is therefore the first Law, whereby the highest power
of tlie mind requireth general obedience at the hands
of all the rest concurring with it unto action."
So we may seek for the several grand mandates
of the understanding part of man which control Ids
Will ; ^^'hether they import his duty to God or to his
fellow-man.
Even the riatural man seems to know that there is
a God on whom all things depend ; who is therefore
to be honoured, of whom we ask what we desire,
as children of theii' father, and of whom we learn
" what is in effect the same that we read, ' Thou
shalt love the Loi-d thy God with all thy heart,
■with all thy soul, and with all thy mind ;' which
Law our Savioiu' doth term the Fii'st and the Great
Commandment."
Touching the next, which as our Saviour addeth is like
unto this (he nieaneth in amplitude and largeness, inasmuch
IS it is the root out of which all laws of Duty to Menward have
grown, as out of the former all offices of EeUgion towards
God) , the like natural inducement hath brought men to know
that it is their duty no less to love others than themselves.
For seeing those things which are equal must needs aU have
one measure ; if I cannot but -n-ish to receive all good, even
us much at evciry man's hand as any man can wish unto his
own soul, how should I look to have any part of my desire
herein satisfied, unless myseU be careful to satisfy the like
desire which is undoubtedly in other men, we all being of
one and the same nature ? To have any thing offered them
repugnant to this desire must needs in all respects gneve
them as much as me : so that if I do harm I must look to
suffer ; there being no reason that others should show greater
measure of love to me than they have by me shewed unto
them. My desire therefore to be loved of my equals in
nature as much as possible may be, imposeth upon me a natural
duty of bearing to them-ward fully the like affection. From
which relation of equality between ourselves and them that
are as ourselves, what several rules and canons natural reason
hath drawn for direction of life no man is ignorant ; as
namely, Thnt hccniisc we tcoidd take no harm, we must therefore
do none; That sith we would not be in any thing extremely dealt
with, we must ourselves avoid all extremity in our dealings;
That from all violence and wrong we are utterly to abstain ;
with such like.
Upon these two principles of Duty to God and
Man, found out by the understanding faculty of the
mind, all Law depends ; and the natural measure
whereby to judge our doings is therefore " the sen-
tence of Reason determining and setting down what
is good to be done." Wliich sentence is either man-
datory, showing what must be done ; or else permis-
sive, declaring only what may be done ; or thirdly,
admonitorj-, opening what is most convenient for us
to do. For there ai-e degrees of goodness in action,
and a Law is pi-operly that of which Reason says
that it must be done ; and the Law of Reason is that
which men have found out for themselves that they
are all and always bound to in their- actions.
Laws of Reason have these marks : (1) They who
keep them act as nature works, in a fit harmony
^A'ithout supei-fluity and defect. (2) They are in-
vestigable by Re;ison without the aicl of Revelation.
(3) They are so investigable that the knowledge of
them is general ; the world has always been ac-
quainted with them. Each particular man may not
know them, but he can with natural jjerfection of
wit and ripeness of judgment find them out, and of
the general principles of them it is not easy to find
men ignorant. " Law Rational, therefore, which
men commonly use to call the law of nature, meaning
thereby the law which human nature knoweth itself
in reason luiiversally bound unto, which also for that
cause may most fitly be termed the Law of Re ison ;
this Law," says Hooker, " comprehendeth all those
things which men by the light of their natural under-
standing evidently know, or at leastwise may know,
to be beseeming or unbeseeming, virtuous or vicious,
good or evil for them to do." All misdeed may be
said to be against the Law of Reason, but we mean
by it here only the law governing duties wliich all
men by force of natural wit might do, or might
imderstand to he such duties as concern all men.
" Do as thou wonkiest be done imto," says Saint
Augustine, "is a sentence wdiich all nations under
heaven are agreed upon. Refer this sentence to the
love of God, and it extingtiisheth all heinous crimes ;
refer it to the love of thy Neighbour, and all gi-ievous
wrongs it banisheth out of the world." Saint Au-
gustine held, therefore, that by the Law of Reason
certain principles were univereally agreed upon, and
that out of them the greatest moral duties we owe
towards God or man may without any great difliculty
be concluded.
Why, then, can there be such failure in the know-
ledge of even prmcipal moral duties, that breach of
them is not considered sin 1 In part this may come
of evil custom spreading from the ignorance imd
wickedness of a few, but partly it comes through
want of the gi-ace of God. " For whatsoever we
have hitherto taught, or shall hereafter, concerning
the force of man's natural understanding, this we
always desii-e withal to be understood : that there is
no kind of faculty or power in man or any other
creature, wliich can rightly perform the functions
allotted to it, without perpetual aid and concui-rence
of that supreme cause of all things."
Great good comes to man from observance of the
Law of Reason : " for we see the whole world and
each part thereof so compacted, that as long as each
thin<' performeth only that work which is natural
unto'it, it thereby preserveth both other things and
also itself Thus righteousness, which is the willing
observance of this law, has a Reward attached to it,
and sin. which is the wilful transgression of it, a
Punishment. Rewards and punishments always
presuppose something willingly done, well or ill
222
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[a.d. 159<>
" Take away the will," says the Code of Justinian,
" and all things are cqiial : That which we do not,
and would do, is commonly accepted as done." Re-
wards and i>unishments are only received at the
hands of those who are above us, and have power to
examine and judge our deeds. The inward and
secret good or evil, which God only knows, God only
rewards or punishes, " for which cause, the Roman
laws, called the Laws of the Twelve Tables, requiring
offices of inward affection wliich the eye of man can-
not reach unto, threaten the neglectors of them \vith
none biit divine punishment." In external actions
men have authority over one another. How do they
acquire it 1 Here follows that view of the social
compact which especially caused John Locke to quote
Hooker, and attach to his name again and again the
adjective "judicious :" —
The laws which have been hitherto mentioned do bind men
absolutely even as they are men, although they have never
any settled fellowship, never any solemn agreement amongst
themselves what to do or not to do. But forasnyich as we
are not by ourselves sufficient to furnish ourselves with com-
petent store of things needful for such a life as our nature
doth desire, a life fit for the dignity of man; therefore to
supply those defects and imperfections which are in us liring
single and solely by ourselves, we are naturally induced to
seek communion and fellowship with others. This was the
cause of men's uniting themselves at the first in politic
societies; which societies could not be without government,
nor government without a distinct kind of law from that
which hath been already declared. Two foundations there
are which bear up public societies : the one, a natm-al in-
clination, whereby all men desire sociable life and fellowship ;
the other, an order expressly or secretly agreed upon touching
the manner of their union in h\'ing together. The latter is
that which we call the Law of a Commonweal, the very soul
of a politic body, the parts whereof are by law animated, held
together, and set on work in such actions as the common
good requirelh. Laws politic, ordained for external order
and regiment amongst men, are never framed as they should
be, unless presuming the wiU of man to be inwardly obsti-
nate, rebellious, and averse from all obedience unto the
sacred laws of his nature ; in a word, unless presuming man
to be in regard of his depraved mind little better than a
wild beast, they do accordingly provide notwithstanding so
to frame his outward actions, that they be no hindrance unto
the common good for which societies are instituted : unless
they do this, they are not perfect. It resteth, therefore, that
we consider how nature findeth out such laws of government
as serve to direct even nature depraved to a right end.
All men desire to lead in this world a happy life. That
life is led most happily, wherein all virtue is exercised with-
out impediment or let. The Apostle, in exhorting men to
contentment although they have in this world no more than
very bare food and raiment, giveth us thereby to understand
that those are even the lowest of things necessary ; that if
we should be stripped of aU those things without which we
might possibly be, yet these must be left ; that destitution in
these is such an impediment, as tiU it be removed sufEereth not
the mind of man to admit any other care. For this cause,
first God assigned Adam maintenance of life, and then ap-
pointed him a law to observe. For this cause, after men
began to giow to a number, the first thing we read they gave
themselves unto was the tilling of the earth and the feeding
of cattle. Having by this mean whereon to live, the prin-
cipal actions of their life afterward are noted by the exercise
of their reUgion. True it is, that the kingdom of God must
be the first thing in our purposes and desires. But inasmuch
as righteous Ufe presupposeth life ; inasmuch as to live vir-
tuously it is impossible except we hve ; therefore the first
impediment, which natm-ally we endeavour to remove, is
penury and want of things without which we cannot live.
Unto life many implements are necessary ; more, if we seek
(as aU men naturally do) such a life as hath in it joy,
comfort, delight, and pleasure. To this end we see how
quickly sundry arts mechanical were found out, in the very
prime of the world. As things of greatest necessity are
always first provided for, so things of greatest dignity are
most accounted of by all such as judge rightly. Although,
therefore, riches be a thing which every man wisheth, yet no
man of judgment can esteem it better to be rich, than wise,
\-irtuous, and reUgious. If we be both or either of these, it is
not because we are so bom. For into the world we come as
empty of the one as of the other, as naked in mind as we are
ia body. Both which necessities of man had at the first no
other helps and suppKes than only domestical ; such is that
which the Prophet implieth, saying, " Can a mother forget
her child;'" such as that which the Apostle mentioneth,
saj-ing, " He that careth not for his own is worse than an
Infidel;" such as that concerning Abraham, "Abraham will
command his sons and his household after him, that they
keep the way of the Lord."
But neither that which we learn of ourselves nor that
which others teach us can prevail, where wickedness and
malice have taken deep root. If, therefore, when there was
but as yet one only family in the world, no means of instruc-
tion human or divine could prevent effusion of blood; how
could it be chosen but that when families were multiplied
and increased upon earth, after separation each providing
for itself, en\'y, strife, contention, and violence must grow
amongst them ? For hath not nature furnished man with
wit and valour, as it were with armour, which may be used
as weU unto extreme evil as good ? Yea, were they not used
by the rest of the world unto e^Tl; imto the contrary only
by Seth, Enoch, and those few the rest in that line ? We all
make complaint of the iniquity of our times : not unjustly ;
for the days are eyH. But compare them with those times
wherein there were no ci'sil societies, with those times wherein
there was as yet no manner of public regiment established,
with those times wherein there were not above eight persons
righteous li\-ing upon the face of the earth; and we have
surely good cause to think that God hath blessed us exceed-
ingly, and hath made us behold most happy days.
To take away aU such mutual grievances, injuries, and
T\Tongs, there was no way but only by growing unto compo-
sition and agreement amongst themselves by ordaining some
kind of government pubUc, and by yielding themselves sub-
ject thereunto; that unto whom they granted authority to
nde and govern, by them the peace, tranquillity, and happy
estate of the rest might be procured. Men always knew that
when force and injury was oft'ered they might be defenders of
themselves. They knew that howsoever men may seek their
own commodity, yet if this were done with injm-y unto others
it was not to bo suffered, but by all men and by all good
means to be -n-ithstood. Finally they knew that no man might
in reason take upon him to determine his own right, and
according to his own determination proceed in maintenance
thereof, inasmuch as everj- man is towards himself and them
whom he greatly affecteth partial ; and therefore that strifes
and troubles would be endless, except they gave their com-
mon consent all to be ordered by some whom they should
agree upon : without which consent there was no reason that
TO A.D. 1594.'
RELIGION.
one man should take upon him to he lord or judge over
another. Because, although there be according to the opinion
of some very great and judicious men a kind of natural right
in the noble, w-ise, and virtuous, to govern them which are of
servile disposition, nevertheless for manifestation of this
their right, and men's more peaceable contentment on both
sides, the assent of them who are to be governed seemeth
necessar}-.
To fathers within their private families nature hath given
a supreme jjower; for which cause we see throughout the
world, even from the foundation thereof, all men have ever
been taken as lords and lawful kings in their own houses.
Howbeit over a whole grand multitude having no such de-
pendency upon any one, and consisting of so many families
as every politic society in the world doth, impossible it is that
iiny should have complete lawful power, but by consent of
men, or immediate appointment of God : because not having
the natural superiority of fathers, their power must needs be
either usurped, and then unlawful ; or, if lawful, then either
granted or consented unto b}' them over whom they exercise
the same, or else given extraordinarily from God, unto whom
all the world is subject. It is no improbable opinion, there-
fore, which the Arch-philosopher was of, that as the chiefest
person in every household was always as it were a king, so
when numbers of households joined themselves in civil society
together, kings were the first kind of governors amongst
them. Which is also (as it seemeth) the reason why the
name of Father continued still in them, who of fathers were
made rulers ; as also the ancient custom of governors to do as
ilelchisedec, and being kings to exercise the office of priests,
which fathers did at the first, grew perhaps by the same
occasion.
Howbeit not this the only kind of regiment that hath been
received in the world. The inconveniences of one kind have
caused sundry other to be de%'ised. So that in a word all
public regiment of what kind soever seemeth evidently to
have risen from deliberate advice, consultation, and compo-
sition between men, judging it convenient and behoveful ;
there being no impossibility in nature considered by itself,
but that men might have lived without any public regiment.
Howbeit, the corruption of our nature being presupposed, we
may not deny but that the law of nature doth now require of
necessity some kind of regiment ; so that to bring things
unto the first course they were in, and utterly to take away
all kind of public government in the world, were apparently
to overturn the whole world.
The case of man's nature standing therefore as it doth,
some kind of regiment the law of nature doth require ; yet
the kinds thereof being many, nature tieth not to any one,
but leaveth the choice as a thing arbitrary. At the first when
some certain kind of regiment was once approved, it may be
that nothing was then further thought upon for the matter of
governing, but all permitted unto their wisdom and discretion
which were to rule ; till by experience they found this for all
parts verj- inconvenient, so as the thing which they had de-
vised for a remedy did indeed but increase the sore which it
should have cured. They saw that to live by one man's will
became the cause of all men's miser}'. This constrained them
to come unto laws, wherein all men might see their duties
beforehand, and know the penalties of transgressing them.
If things be simply good or c%n\, and withal universally so
acknowledged, there needs no new law to be made for such
things. The first kind therefore of things appointed by laws
human containeth whatsoever, being in itself naturally good
or evil, is notn-ithstanding more secret thiin that it can be
discerned by every man's present conceit, without some
■deeper discourse and judgment. In which discourse because
there is difficulty and possibility many ways to err, unless
such things were set down by laws, many would he ignorant
of their duties which now are not, and many that know what
they should do would nevertheless dissemble it, and to excuse
themselves pretend ignorance and simplicity, which now they
cannot.
And because the greatest part of men are such as
prefer their own private good before all things, even that
good which is sensual before whatsoever is most divine ; and
for that the labour of doing good, together with the pleasure
arising from the contrary, doth make men for the most part
slower to the one and proner to the other, than that duty
prescribed them by law can prevail sufficiently with them :
therefore unto laws that men do make for the benefit of men
it hath seemed always needful to add rewards, which may
more allure unto good than any hardness deterreth from it,
and punishments, which may more deter from evil than any
sweetness thereto aUureth. "WTierein as the generahty is
natural, Virtue mcardiible and vice piiuishnble ; so the par-
ticular determination of the reward or punishment belongeth
unto them by whom laws are made. Theft is naturally
punishable, but the kind of punishment is positive, and such
lawful as men shall think with discretion convenient by law
to appoint.
In laws, that which is natural bindeth imlver.sally, that
which is positive not so. To let go those kind of positive
laws which men impose upon themselves, as by vow unto
God, contract with men, or such like ; somewhat it will make
unto our purpose, a little more fully to consider what things
are incident into the making of the positive laws for the
government of them that live united in public society. Laws
do not only teach what is good, but they enjoin it, they have
in them a certain constraining force. And to constrain men
unto any thing inconvenient doth seem unreasonable. Most
requisite, therefore, it is that to derise laws which all men
shall he forced to obey none but wise men bo admitted.
Laws are mattera of principal consequence ; men of common
capacity and but ordinary judgment are not able (for how
should they r) to discern what things are fittest for each kind
and state of regiment. We cannot be ignorant how much
our obedience unto laws dependeth upon this point. Let
a man though never so justly oppose himself imto them
that are disordered in their ways, and what one amongst
them conmionly doth not stomach at such contradiction,
storm at reproof, and hate such as would reform them ?
Xotwithstanding even they which brook it worst that men
should tell them of their duties, when they are told the same
by a law, think very well and reasonably of it. For why ?
They presume that the law doth speak with all indifferency ;
that the law hath no side-respect to their jjcrsons ; that the
law is as it were an oiade proceeded from wisdom and under-
standing.
Howbeit laws do not take their constraining force from
the quality of such that devise them, but from that power
which doth give them the strength of laws. That which we
spake before concerning the power of govei-nment must here
be applied unto the power of making laws whereby to govern;
which power God hath over all : and by the natm-al law,
whereunto He hath made all subject, the lawful power of
making laws to command whole politic societies of men be-
longeth so properly imto the same entire societies, that for
any prince or potentate of what kind soever upon earth to
exercise the same of himself, and not either by express com-
mission immediately and personally received from God, or
else by authority derived at the fii-st from their conscat
upon whose persons they impose laws, it is no better than
mere tjTanny.
224
CASSELL'S LIBEARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. lEOO
Laws they are not, therefore, whieh public approbation
hath not made so. I3ut approbation not only they give who
personally declare their assent by voice, sign, or act, but also
when otlicrs do it in their names by right originally at the
least derived from them. As in parliaments, councils, and
the like assemblies, although we be not personally ourselves
present, notwithstanding our assent is, by reason of others
ao-ents there in our behalf. And what we do by others, no
reason but tliat it should stand as our deed, no less effectually
to bind us than if ourselves had done it in person. In many
things assent is given, they that give it not imagining they
do so, because the manner of their assenting is not apparent.
As for example, when an absolute monarch commandeth his
subjects that which seemeth good in his own discretion,
hath not his edict the force of a law whether they approve or
dislike it ? Again, that which hath heen received long
sithcnce and is by custom now established, we keep as a law
which we may not transgi-ess; yet what consent was ever
thereunto sought or required at our hands 'i
Of this point therefore we are to note, that sith men natu-
rally have no fuU and perfect power to command whole
politic multitudes of men, therefore utterly without our con-
sent we coidd in such sort be at no man's commandment
living. And to be commanded we do consent, when that
society whereof we are part hath at any time before con-
sented, without revoking the Siime after by the like universal
agi'eement. Whei'efore as any mans deed past is good as
long as himself continueth ; so the act of a public society of
men done five hundred years sithence standeth as theirs who
presently are of the same societies, because corporations are
immort;d ; we were then alive in our predecessors, and they
in their successors do live still. Laws therefore human, of
what kind soever, are available by consent.
We shall have to glance back at this passage
when illustrating, in another volume, the political
philo.soi)hies of Hobbes and Locke. Laws made
for the ordering of politic societies either esta-
blish duties whereunto all men by the law of reason
did before stand bound ; or else, for particular
reasons, make that a duty which before was none.
Where a law of society punishes outward trans-
gression of a law of reason or conscience, that law
being in part natural, or of divine establishment,
is mixedly human. Where it concerns only what
reason may under particular conditions hold to be
convenient, as the manner in which property shall
pass after its owner's ' death, such law is merely
human. Laws whether mixedly or merely human
are_ made by politic societies : some only as those
societies are civilly united ; some, as they are spii-i-
tually joined and form a olnn-ch. Of human laws in
this latter kind the tliird book of " Ecclesiastical
Polity " would treat.
Besides (1) the natural Law of Reason that con-
cerned men as men, and (2) that which belongs to
them as they are men linked with othei-s in some
form of politic society, there is (.3) the law touching
the public commerce of the several bodies politic with
one another, that is, the Law of Nations. Civil
society contents us more than solitary living, for it
enlarges the good of mutual participation ; not con-
tent with this, we covet a kind of society and fellow-
ship even with all mankind. In all these kinds of
law the corruption of men has added to the Primary
Laws that suffice for the government of men as .they
ou"ht to be, Secondary Laws wliich are needed for
men as they are, " the one grounded upon sincere,
the other built upon depraved nature. Pi-imary
laws of nations are such as concern embassage, such
as belong to the courteous entertainment of foreignei-s
and strangers, such as serve for commodious traffic,
and the like. Secondary laws in the same kind are
such as this present unquiet world is most familiarly
acquainted with ; I mean laws of arms, which yet
are much better known than kept."
Besides this law for civil communion. Christian
nations have judged a like agreement needful in re-
gard even of Christianity; and General Councils of
the Church represent this kind of correspondence, so
that the Church of God here on earth may have her
laws of sijiritual commerce between Christian nations.
" A thing," says Hooker —
A thing whereof God's own blessed Spirit was the author;
a thing practised by the holy Apostles themselves ; a thing
always afterwards kept and observed throughout the world ;
a thing never otherwise than most highly esteemed of, till
pride, ambition, and t)Tanny began by factious and vile
endeavours to abuse that di\-ine invention unto the further-
ance of wicked purposes. But as the just authority of civU.
courts and parliaments is not therefore to be abolished, be-
cause sometime there is cunning used to frame them according
to the private intents of men overpotent in the commonwealth ;
so the grievous abuse which hath been of councils should
rather cause men to study how so gracious a thing may again
be reduced to that first perfection, than in regard of stains
and blemishes sithence growing be held for ever in extreme
disgrace.
To speak of this matter as the cause requireth woidd re-
quire very long discourse. All I will presently say is this.
AVTiether it be for the finding out of anj-thing whereunto
divine law bindeth us, but yet in such sort that men are not
thereof on aU sides resolved ; or for the setting down of some
uniform judgment to stand touching such things, as being
neither way matters of necessity, are notwithstanding offen-
sive and scandalous when there is open opposition abont
them : be it for the ending of strifes toudiing matters of
Chj'istian belief, wherein the one part may seem to have pro-
bable cause of dissenting from the other ; or be it concerning
matters of polity, order, and regiment in the church; I nothing
doubt but that Christian men should much better frame them-
selves to those heavenly precepts, which our Lord and Saviour
with so great instancy gave as concerning peace and unity, if
we did all concur in desire to have the use of ancient councils
again renewed, rather than these proceedings continued,
which either make all contentions endless, or bring them to
one only determination, and that of all other the worst,
which is by sword.
Here ends the section of the book which speaks of
the origin of natural and human law, and Hooker
passes to that other Law which became needful, and
which God Himself made known by Scriptm-e for our
aid in attainment of the highest good. Our desire is
to tlie sovereign good or blessedness, the highest that
we know. The ox and ass desire the food, and jiro-
pose to themselves no end in feeding ; they desire
food for itself Reasonable man eats that he may
TO A.D. 159i.J
RELIGION.
l-Zo
live, lives that lie may work ; seeks wealth, health,
virtue, knowledge, still as means to other ends.
" We labour to eat, and we eat to live, and we live
to do good, and the good which we do is as seed
sown with reference to a future harvest."
For each means to an end the desire is propor-
tionetl to its convenience ; but for the la.st end the
desire is infinite. " So that unless the last good of all,
which is desued altogether for itself, be also infinite,
we do evil in making it our end ; even as they who
placed their felicity Ln wealth, or honour, or pleasure,
or anything here attained ; because in desiring any-
thing as our final perfection which is not so, we do
amiss." "No good is infinite but only God; there-
fore He is oiu" felicity and bliss. Moreover, desii-e
tendeth unto union with that which it desireth."
Our final desh-e thei-efore is to be with. God, and live,
as it were, the life of God.
Happiness is that estate whereby we attain, as far
as pos.sible, the full possession of that which is simply
for itself to be desii-ed, the highest degi-ee of all our
perfection, which is not attainable in this world.
The creatures under man are less capalile of happi-
ne.ss, because they have theu' chief perfection in that
wliich is best for them, but not in that which is
simply best, and whatever external perfection they
may tend to is not tetter than themselves. Is it
probable that God should frame the hearts of all
men so desii-ous of that which no man may obtain ]
Beyond the complete satisfactions of the flesh ; beyond
the completeness in knowledge and vii-tue that brings
social estimation ; man covets a perfection that is
more than all, " yea, somewhat above capacity of
reason, somewhat divine and heavenly, which with
hidden exultation it rather sui-miseth than con-
ceiveth." This highest perfection man conceives in
the nature of a reward. Rewards presuppose duties
performed. Our natirral means to this infinite re-
ward are our works ; nor is it possible that nature
should ever find any other way to salvation than
only this. But our works cannot deserve ; there is
none who can say, My ways are pure. " There resteth,
therefore, either no way unto salvation, or if any,
then surely a way which is supernatural, a way which
could never have entered into the heart of man as
much as once to conceive or imagine, if God Himself
had not revealed it exti-aordinarily." Thus Hooker
pa-sses from the Law of Rea.son to the Revealed Way
of Salvation : — to Faith, the piincipal object whereof
is that eternal verity which hath discovered the trea-
sures of hidden wisdom in Christ ; Hope, the highe.st
object whereof is that everlasting goodness which in
Christ doth quicken the dead ; Charity, the final
object whereof is that incomprehensible beauty which
shineth in the countenance of Christ, the Son of the
living God. Laws concerning these things are super-
natural, being " such as have not in natui-e any
cause from which thev flow, but were by the volun-
tary appointment of God ordained besides the coui-se
of nature, to rectify nature's obliquity withal." The
revealed law of God does not sxipersede natuT'al law,
but is added to it, and is indeed fraught with precepts
of the other also. These precepts are used to prove
. things less manifest ; they are applied with singular
use and profit to partiicular cases ; " besides, be they
93
plain of themselves or obscure, the evidence of God's
own testimony added to the natiu-al assent of Re;ison
concerning the certaiaty of them, doth not a little
comfort and confirm the same." Here we are at the
second resting-])lace in Hooker's argument, at which
he pauses again to glance over the ground he has
traversed, in a little summary. His second summary
is this : —
We see, therefore, that our sovereign good is desired
naturally; that God, the author of that natural desire, had
appointed natural means whereby to fulfil it ; that man
ha\-mg utterly disabled his nature unto those means hath had
other revealed from God, and hath received from heaven a
law to teach him how' that which is desu-ed naturally must
now supernaturally be attained : finally, we see that because
those later exclude not the former quite and clean as un-
necessar}-, therefore together with such supernatural duties as
could not possibly have been otherwise known to the world,
the same law that teacheth them, teacheth also with them
such natural duties as could not by light of nature easily have
been known.
In the first age of the world memories served for
books, but the ^^TittHg of the Law of God has been
by God's wisdom a means of preserving it fi-oni ob-
li^-ion and corruption. The writing is not that which
adds authority and strength to the Law of God ; but it
preserves it from the hazards of tradition. " ^\Tieu
the question therefore is, whether we be now to seek
for any revealed Law of God otherwhere than only
in the sacred Scripture : whether we do now stand
bound in the sight of God to yield to ti-aditions
m-ged by the Church of Rome the same obedience
and reverence we do to His ^vlitten law, honouiing
equally and adoiing both as di\-ine : our answer is,
no." Hooker next dwells on the fact that '• the
principal intent of Scripture is to deliver the laws of
duties supernatural," and discusses the sense in
which Scripture is said to contain all things neces-
sary to salvation. It does not contain necessarily
everything in the law of reason that man can discover
for himself, but this is no defect. " It sufliceth that
Nature and Scripture do serve in such full sort, that
they both jointly, and not severally either of them,
be so complete, that unto everlasting felicity we need
not the knowledge of anything more than these two
may easily furnish owe minds vrith on all sides ; and
therefore they which add traditions, as a part of
supernatural necessaiy truth, have not the tnith,
but are in error.
Laws are imposed (1) by each man on himself;
(2) by a public society upon its members; (3) by
all nations upon each nation ; (4) by the Lord Him-
self on any or all of these. In each of these four
kinds of law there are (a) Natural laws which
always bind, and (h) Positive laws wliich only bind
after they have been expressly and wittingly im-
posed. Only the positive laws are mutable, but of
these not all ; some are permanent, some changeable,
as changes in the matter concerning which they were
fii-st made may exact. All laws that concern super-
natural duties are positive. They concern men either
as men, or as membere of a church. To concern them
as men supernaturally, is to concern them as duties
which belong of necessity to all. It is so also wnh
226
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1594
laws that concern them as members of a church, so
far as they are ^vithoiit respect to such vai-iable acci-
dent as the state of the Chiu-ch in this world is
subject to.
On the other side, laws that were made for men or societies
or churches, in regard of their being such as they do not
always continue, but may perhaps be clean otherwise a while
after, and so may require to be otherwise ordered than before ;
the laws of God Himself which are of this nature, no man
endued with common sense will ever deny to be of a difEerent
constitution from the former, in respect of the one's constancy
^nd the mutability of the other. And this doth seem to have
been the very cause why St. John doth so peculiarl)' teim the
doctrine that teacheth salvation by Jesus Christ, Evangcliiim
telernuiit, an eternal Gospel ; because there can be no reason
wherefore the publishing thereof should be taken awa}-, and
any other instead of it proclaimed, as long as the world doth
continue : whereas the whole law of rites and ceremonies,
although delivered with so great solemnity, is notwithstand-
ing clean abrogated, inasmuch as it had but temporary
cause of God's ordaining it.
We may pass now to Hooker's third summary.
Thus far therefore we have endeavoured in part to open, of
what nature and force Laws are, according unto their several
kinds : — the law which God with himself hath eternally set
down to follow in his own works ; the law which he hath
made for his creatures to keep ; the law of natural and ncces-
sarj- agents ; the law which angels in heaven obey ; the law
whereunto by the Ught of reason men hnd themselves bound
in that they are men ; the law which they make by compo-
sition for multitudes and politic societies of men to be guided
by ; the law which belongeth unto each nation ; the law that
concerneth the fellowship of all ; and lastly, the law which
God himself hath supcmaturaUy revealed. It might perad-
venture have been more popular and more plausible to vulgar
ears, if this first discourse had been spent in oxtolling the
force of laws, in shewing the great necessity of them when
they are good, and in aggravating their offence by whom
public laws are injmiously traduced. But forasmuch as with
such kind of matter the passions of men are rather stirred one
way or other, than their knowledge any way set forward unto
the trial of that whereof there is doubt made ; I have there-
fore turned aside from that beaten path, and chosen though a
less easy yet a more profitable way in regard of the end we
propose. Lest, therefore, any man should marvel whereunto
all these things tend, the drift and puiiiose of all is this, even
to shew in what manner, as every good and perfect gift, so
this very gift of good and perfect laws is derived from the
Father of lights ; to teach men a reason why just and reason-
able laws are of so great force, of so gi-eat use in the world ;
and to inform theii- minds with some method of reducing the
laws whereof there is present controversy unto their first
original causes, that so it may be in every particular ordi-
nance thereby the better discerned, whether the same be
reasonable, just, and righteous, or no. Is there any thing
which can either be thoroughly understood or soundly judged
of, till the verj' fu-st causes and principles from which origi-
nally it springeth be made manifest f If all parts of know-
ledge have been thought by wise men to be then most orderly
delivered and proceeded in, when they are drawn to their
first original ; seeing that our whole question concerneth the
quality of Ecclesiastical Laws, let it not seem a labour super-
fluous that in the entrance thereunto all these several kinds
of laws have been considered, inasmuch as they all concui- as
principles, they all have their forcible operations therein,
although not all in like apparent and manifest manner. By
means whereof it cometh to pass that the force which they
have is not observed of many.
Tlien after enforcing the value of a study of the
origin of Law and of a discrimination of its several
kinds as an aid to just inquiiy in the religious contro-
versies of the day. Hooker adds an example, drawn
from food, of the true distinguishing of laws, and of
theii' several forms according to the difi'erent kind
and quality of our actions ; so that one and the self-
same thing may be under divers considerations con-
veyed through many laws ; and thus the first book of
"Ecclesiastical Polity" closes: —
Wherefore that here we may briefly end : Of Law there
can be no less acknowledged, than that her seat is the bosom
of God, her voice the harmony of the world ; all things in
heaven and earth do her homage, the very least as feeling
her care, and the greatest as not exempted from her power ;
both angels and men and creatures of what condition soever,
though each in different sort and manner, yet all with imi-
form consent, admiring her as the mother of their peace
and joy.
Let us complete the illustration of English Religious
Thought under Elizabeth with Sir John Davies's
" Nosce Teipsimi " (Know Thyself), a poem published
ill 1599, when he was plain John Davies, on " The
Origin, Nature, and Immortality of the Human
Soul." Its author, born in 1570, was the third son
of a lawyer practising in Tisbury, WUtsliire. In
1580 he lost his father, and his mother took charge
of the education of the children. In Michaelmas
term, 1585, he went as a commoner to Queen's
College, Oxford ; in February, 1588 (new .style),
he entered the Middle Temple ; in July, 1590, four
months after the death of his mother, he graduated as
B.A. at Oxford. John Davies incurred in the Middle
Temple more than an average share of the fines and
punishments then usual for breach of discipline, and
he was called to the grade of utter barrister in July,
1595. In 1593 he had written "Orchestra, or a
Poem of Dancing," and it was published in 1596,
with a dedication " to his very friend. Master Richard
Martin." He was still wild, and after he had cud-
gelled " his very friend. Master Richard Martin,"
whom he had called in a sonnet "his own selves
better half," at a dinner in the Temple Hall, Davies
was disbarred and expelled from his inn in February,
1598. Martin was himself given to pranks, a wit
and a poet, who like Davies outlived follies of youth.
He became M.P. and Recorder of London, and was
one of the friends of Selden and Ben Jonson. Jolm
Davies went back to Oxford, and there sojourned with
sober thougjits, of which the fruit appeared in 1599
in his fine poem on Self-knowledge and the Higher Life
of Man, "Nosce Teipsum." The poem and the resolve
on a true Life that gave bii-th to it, soon hel])ed Jolm
Davies upward in the world. He became known at
the Court of Elizabeth, whom he had pleased not only
by the dedication of his poem to her, Ijut by writing
and publishing also in 1599 twenty-six acrostics in
TO A.D. 1599.]
EELIGION.
227
her pi-aLse, " HjTuns to Astrea."^ lu 1601 he was
reconciled to jNIai-tin, re-admitted to his position at
the Bar and his seniority, and became a member of
Elizabeth's last Parliament. After Elizabeth's death,
when Da vies was among those who went forward to
meet James, the King, on hearing his name, asked
whether he was "Nosce Teipsum," and being told that
he was, graciously embraced him. In the same year
Davies became Attorney-General for Ireland ; but he
was not knighted until February, 1607. Worthy of
the author of " Nosce Teipsum " was his work for
Ireland, of which there Ls a valuable record in jH'Ose
tracts of his. He lived diu-ing the whole reisrn of
James I., and died in Bacon's death year, 162G. The
stanza of Su- John Davies's " Nosce Teijisum" was
adopted by Sii' William Davenant in liis "Goudibert,"
published in 1051, and recommended by him to the
post of English heroic measure. Dryden followed the
suggestion in his " Heroic Stanzas on the Death of
Cromwell," and in his " Annus Mu-abUis," published
in 1667, though the French heroic couplet was then
making way. But in that year " Pai'adise Lost "
appeared, and it was in blank verse.
The author of " Nosce Teipsum " begins by asking
why he was sent to the schools, since the desire of
knowledge fu-st coniipted man in Paradise. Our tiret
parents desired knowledge of evU as well as of good,
but they could know evil only by doing it. With
knowledge of evU came a dimmer sight for good.
Reason grew dark, and they were bats who had been
eagles. But what do we, when with fond fruitless
curiosity we seek in profane books for hidden know-
ledge '] We seek an empty gain, and with cloud of
error on the windows of our mind we look in vain to
recall the knowledge that before the Fall was ours by
grace.
" So might the heir, whose father hath in play
Wasted a thousand pounds of ancient rent.
By painful earning of one groat a day
Hope to restore the patrimony spent.
" The wits that div'd most deep and soar'd most high.
Seeking man's powers, have found his weakness such :
Skill comes so slow, and Ufe so fast doth fly ;
We learn so little, and forget so much.
" For this the wisest of all mortal men
Said, he knew nought, but that he nought did know ;
And the great mocking master mock'd not then,
When he said, truth was buried here below.
" For how may we to other things attain,
\\Ticn none of us his own soul understands ?
For which the devil mocks our curious brain
When Know Thyself his oracle commands.
" For why should we the busy Soul believe,
"ttlien boldly she concludes of that and this ;
When of herseU she can no judgment give,
Kor how, nor whence, nor where, nor what she is ?
* Some are quoted in the volume of this Library contaiimig
"Shorter English Poems," pages 259, 260.
" All things without, which round about we se
We seek to know, and have therewith to do ;
But that whereby w-e reason, live and be.
Within ourselves, we strangers are thereto."
Why does our study turn so little inward? Perhaps
because reflection of ourselves shows to man's soul
painfully the lower shape it wears. The man lives
least at home " that hath a sluttish house, haunted
with sprites." The broken merchant looks at his
estate with discontent and pain. Yet trouble drives
a man to look within himself. Trouble and disgi-ace
had forced Davies to self-contemplation,
" As spiders touch' d, seek their webs' inmost part ;
As bees in storms unto their hives return ;
As blood in danger gathers to the heart ;
As men seek to\^-ns, when foes the country bum.
" If aught can teach us aught, Affliction's looks
(Making us pry into ourselves so near)
Teach us to know ourselves, beyond all books,
Or all the learned schools that ever were.
" This mistress lately pluck' d me by the ear.
And many a golden lesson hath me taught ;
Hath made my senses quick, and reason clear,
Eeform'd my wOl, and rectified my thought.
" So do the winds and thunders cleanse the air ;
So working seas settle and purge the >rine ;
So lopp'd and pruned trees do flourish fair ;
So doth the tire the drossy gold refine.
" Neither Minerva, nor the learned Muse,
Nor rules of art, nor precepts of the wise.
Could in my brain those beams of skill infuse,
As but the glance of this Dame's angrj- eyes.
" She within lists my ranging mind hath brought,
That now beyond myself I list not go ;
Myself am centre of my circling thought,
Only myself I study, learn, and know.
" I know my Body's of so frail a kind.
As force without, fevers within can Idll :
I know the heavenlj- nature of my mind,
But 'tis corrupted both in wit and will :
" I know my Soul hath power to know all things.
Yet is she blind and ignorant in all :
I know I'm one of nature's little kings,
Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall :
" I know my life's a pain, and but a span :
I know my sense is mock'd with ev'ry thing :
And, to conclude, I know myself a Man,
■WTiich is a proud, and yet a wretched thing."
So ends the introduction, and the poem then opens
with the thought that into their world sun and moon
and stars, eyes of the world, look down ; while the
eyes, lights of the world of man, have no power to
look -n-ithin. But He who gave eyes to man gave
also an inward light whereby to see the true form of
the Soul ■v^ithin.
228
OASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
Ta.d. 1598
" But as the sharpest eye tliscernoth nought,
Except the sunbeams in the air do shine ;
So the best Soul, with her reflecting thought,
Sees not herself, without some light divine.
" Light, which mak'at the light which makes the day !
Which sctt'st the eye -ivithout, and mind within;
Lighten my spii-it with one clear heavenly ray,
"Which now to view itself doth first begin !"
Men find the Soul in aii-, in fire, in blood, in the
elements ; in harmonies, complexions,
" swarms of atomies
Which do by chance into our bodies flee.
" Some think one general Soul fills ev'ry brain.
As the bright sun sheds light in ev'ry star ;
And others think the name of Soul is vain,
And that we only well inix'd bodies are."
Men place its seat, according to their fancies, in
brain, stomach, heart, or liver.
" Some say, she's all in all, in every part ;
Some say, she's not contained, but all contains."
There is no fancy about the soul so wild that it has
found no master to teach it in his school. God, only
■wise, has thus punished man's pride of wit.
" But Thou which didst man's Soul of nothing make,
And when to nothing it was fall'n again.
To make it new the form of man didst take.
And God with God, beeam'st a man with men.
" Thou that hast fasliion'd t%vice this Soul of ours.
So that she is by double title Thine,
Thou only know'st her nature, and her pow'rs ;
Her subtile form, thou only canst define.
" To judge herself, she must herself transcend,
As greater circles comprehend the less :
But she wants pow'r her own pow'rs to extend.
As fetter' d men cannot their strength express."
By the light of the grace brought by Him whose
truth shines with equal ray into the palace and the
cottage, by the clear lamp of the divine oracle of
Christ, each subtle line of the Soul's face ia seen.
" The Soul a substance and a spirit is.
Which God himself doth in the body make.
Which makes the man, for every man from this
The nature of a man and name doth take.
" And though this spirit be to the body knit,
As an apt means her powers to exercise,
Which are life, motion, sense, and wiU, and wit,
Yet she survives, although the body dies."
The Soul is a real substance with its own working
might that does not spring from ] lower of the senses
or from tempering of humours of the body. She is a
vine that spreads without a prop; a star with her
own native light.
" For when she sorts things present with things past,
And thereby things to come doth oft foresee.
When she doth doubt at first, and choose at last.
These acts her own, without the body be.
" When of the dew, which the eye and ear do take
From flowers abroad, and bring into the brain.
She doth within both wax and honey make :
This work is hers, this is her jjroper pain."
It Is the Soul that traces effects to their causes ;
from seeing the branch conceives the root; and
swifter than lightning files from east to west, and
soars above the sky.
" Yet in the body's prison so she lies.
As through the body's windows she must look.
Her divers powers of sense to exercise.
By gathering notes out of the world's great book.
" Nor can herself discourse or judge of aught
But what the sense collects and home doth bring ;
And yet the power of her discoursing thought.
From these collections is a diverse thing.
" For tho' om' eyes can nought but colours see,
Yet colours give them not their power of sight ;
So, tho' those fruits of sense her objects be.
Yet she discerns them by her proper light.
" The workman on his stuff his skill doth show.
And yet the stuff gives nOt the man his skill :
Kings their affairs do by their sei-vants know.
But order them by their own royal wUl.
" So, though this cunning mistress and this queen
Doth, as her instrimients, the senses use,
To know all things that are felt, heard, or seen ;
Yet she herself doth only judge and choose."
So a wise emperor decides on matters brought him
by his subjects' ])ains ; a judge leaves others to col-
lect the diverse facts;
" But when tho cause itself must be decreed.
Himself in person, in his proper court,
To grave and solemn hearing doth proceed.
Of every proof, and cveiy by-report.
" Then, hke God's angel, he pronounceth right.
And milk and honey fiom his tongue do flow :
Happy are they that still are in his sight.
To reap the wisdom which his lips do sow :
" Right so the Soul, which is a lady free.
And doth the justice of her state maintain:
Because the Senses ready servants be.
Attending nigh about her comt, the brain :
" By them the forms of outward things she leams,
For they return into the fantasie
Whatever each of them abroad discerns.
And there im-ol it for the mind to see.
" But when she sits to judge the good and ill.
And to discern bctwi.xt the false and true.
She is not guided by the Senses' skill,
But doth each thing in her own mirror view.
TO A.l>. 1599.]
EELIGION.
229
" Then she the Senses cheeks, which oft do err,
And ev'n against their false reports decrees;
And oft she doth condemn what they prefer ;
For with a power above the sense, she sees.
" Therefore no Sense the precious joys conceives
Which in her private contemplations be ;
For then the ra\'ish'd spirit the Senses leaves,
Hath her own powers, and proper actions free.
" Her harmonies are sweet, and full of skill,
WTien on the body's instrument she inlays ;
But the proportions of the wit and will,
Those sweet accords are even the angels' lays.
" These tunes of reason are Amphion's Ijtc,
WTierewith he did the Theban City found ;
These are the notes wherewith the heavenly quire
The praise of Him which spreads the heaven doth
sound.
' ' Then her self -being nature shines in this.
That she performs her noblest works alone :
The work the touch-stone of the nature is.
And by their operations things are known."
Tlie Soul so working is more than a fine perfection
of the Sense. It accuses the Sense of false judgment
and fond ajapetites.
" Sense thinks the planets spheres not much asunder;
"What tells us then their distance is so far ?
Sense thinks the lightning born before the thunder ;
What teUs us then they both together are :- "
Other such illusti-ations follow, and then it is urged
that as our senses become dull with age our wisdom
grows, " and folly most in quickest sense Ls found;"
that heart.s with finer senses want the quick dis-
coursing power.
" But why do I the Soul and Sense divide.
When sense is but a power which she extends ;
Which being in divers parts diversified,
The divers forms of objects apprehends?
" This power spreads outward, but the root doth grow
In the inward Soul, which only doth perceive ;
For the eyes and ears no more their objects know
Than glasses know what faces they receive.
" For if we chance to fix our thoughts elsewhere.
Though our eyes open be, we cannot see :
And if one power did not both see and hear.
Our sights and sounds would always double be.
" Then is the Soul a nature, which contains
The power of sense, within a greater power-.
Which doth employ and use the Sense's pains.
But sits and rules •n-ithin her private bower."
The next section of the poem argues against those
■who see in the soul no more than the temperatui'e of
humours of the body.
" As if most skill in that musician were.
Which had the best and best tuned instrument ?
As if the pencil neat, and colours clear.
Had power to make the painter excellent ?
" Why doth not beauty then refine the wit,
And good complexion rectify the will :•■
Why doth not health bring wisdom stiU with it ?
Why doth not sickness make men brutish stiU ?
" Who can in memon,-, or wit, or will.
Or air, or fire, or earth, or water find ?
What alchymist can draw, with aU his skih.
The quintessence of these out of the mind .'' ''
Havmg argued thus far that the Soui working by
herself alone, according to her own peculiar nature, is
a substance and a perfect being, the poet proceed.s
next to argue that she is a spii-it and heavenly in-
fluence flowing from the fountain of God's Sijirit,
" whose image once she was,
Thongh now, alas 1 she scarce His shadow be.
" Were she a body, how could she remain
Within this body, which is less than she ?
Or how could she the world's great shape tontain,
And in our narrow breasts contained be ?
" All bodies are confined within some place,
But she all place within herself confines :
All bodies have their measure and their space ;
But who can draw the Soul's dimensive lines ?
" No body can at once two forms admit.
Except the one the other do deface ;
But in the Soul ten thousand forms do sit.
And none intrudes into her neighbour's place.
" All bodies are with other bodies fiUed,
But she receives both heaven and earth together-,
Nor are their forms by rash encounter spilled,
For there they stand, and neither toucheth either."
How vast then the Soul that contains aU things in
their due proportion :
" From their gross matter she abstracts the forms,
And draws a kind of quintessence from things;
Which to her proper nature she transforms.
To bear them light on her celestial wings.''
After dwelling on this part of the argument, Sir
John Davies passes to the thought that
' ' He that spread the skies
And fixed the earth first formed the Soul in man,"
and touches successively on false opinions of the
creation of Souls. Then he dwells at some length on
the belief of those fathers of the Church who held, as
he tliinks wrongly, that corruption could spread by
the bii-th of one Soul from another.
230
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1598
" None are so gross, as to contend for this,
That Souls from hodies may traduced be ;
Between whose natures no proportion is,
When root and branch in nature still agree.
" But many subtile wits have justified,
That 8ouls from Souls sijiritually may spring ;
Which (if the nature of the Soul be tried)
Will even in nature prove as gross a thing."
Reasoii-s against this opinion lie draws first from
nature. All things are made of nothing or of stuff
already formetL There is no stuff or matter in the
Soul, she must be created out of nothing, "and to
create to God alone pertains." After more reasons
di-awn from nature, follow others from divinity,
which treat of Adam's fall, foreknowledge, freewill,
and the grace of God. The next topic is the reason
of the union of Soul with Body —
" That both of God and of the world partaking.
Of all that is, man might the image bear."
There was need of a creature to knit into worship
the enjoyment of this lower creation, to rule over it,
and unite the world to God. How, it is next asked,
are Soul and Body joined i
" But how shall we this union well express ?
Nought tics the Soul, her subtilty is such ;
She moves the Body, which she doth possess.
Yet no part touchoth, but by \-irtue's touch.
" Then dwells she not therein as in a tent ;
Nor as a pilot in his ship doth sit ;
Nor as the spider in her web is pent ;
Nor as the wax retains the print in it ;
" Nor as a vessel water doth contain ;
Nor as one Uquor in another shed ;
Nor as the heat doth in the fire remain ;
Nor as a voice throughout the air is spread :
" But as the fair and cheerful morning light
Doth here and there her silver beams impart,
And in an instant doth herself unite
To the transparent air, in all and part :
" Still resting whole, when blows the air divide.
Abiding pure, when th' ail- is most corrupted,
Throughout the air, her beams dispersing wide.
And when the air is tost, not interrupted :
" So doth the piercing Soul the Body fill,
Being all in all, and all in part diffused ;
Indi-\-isible, uncorruptible still ;
Not forced, encountered, troubled, or confused.
" And as the Sun Above the light doth bring.
Though we behold it in the air below ;
So from th' Eternal Light the Soul doth spring.
Though in the Body she her powers do show."
But the operations of the Soul are diverse as the
lipei-ations of the sim and its \-isible effects, in dif-
ference of season, daylight, climate, form of man ;
she also has a quickening power, and a power also
that she sends abroad, her sense, which through live
organs " views and searcheth all things every^vhel•e."
The poem dwells on the eyes, guides to the body here
" which else would stumble in eternal night,"
" Yet their best object, and then- noblest use.
Hereafter in another world will be,
When God in them shall heavenly light infuse,
That face to face they may their Maker see."
It dwells on the other gates of sense by which out-
ward things enter the Soul, — hearing, taste, smelling,
feeling, and the common sense by which their several
perceptions were brought together for transmission
to the brain. Fancy and memory, the passions and
affections of the soul are then passed in review ; and
after them the intellectual powers, wit, reason, under-
standing, opinion, judgment, and, through knowledge
brought by undei-standing, at last wisdom. The poet
then ascribes to the Soul innate ideas,
" For Nature in man's heart her laws doth pen
Prescribing truth to wit and good to will ;
Which do accuse or else excuse all men.
For every thought or practice, good or ill."
He sings next of the Soul's power of will, and of
the relations between wit and will ; of the intellectual
memory surviving after death of the liody ; and of the
mvitual dependence of all powers of the Sovd.
" Our wit is given Almighty God to know ;
Our will is given to love Him, being known :
But God could not be knowTi to us below
But "by His works, which through the sense are
shown.
" And as the wit doth reap the fruits of sense,
So doth the quick'ning power the senses feed :
Thus while they do their sundry gifts dispense,
The best the service of the least doth need.
" Oh ! what is man, great Maker of mankind !
That Thou to him so great respect dost bear !
That Thou adorn' st him with so bright a mind,
Mak'st him a king, and even an angel's peer !
" what a lively Hfe, what heav'nly power,
"WTiat spreading virtue, what a sparkling fire,
How great, how plentiful, how rich a dower
Dost Thou within this dT,-ing flesh inspire !
" Thou leav'st Thy print in other works of Thine,
But Thy whole image Thou in man hast writ :
There cannot be a creature more di\'ine.
Except like Thee it should be infinite.
" But it exceeds man's thought, to think how high
God hath raised man, since God a man became :
The angels do admire this mystery.
And are astonished when they ^iew the same.
TO A.B. 1599.]
EELIGION.
231
" Nor hath He given these blessings for a day,
Nor made them on the body's life depend ;
The Soul, though made in time, sur\dvcs for aye ;
And though it hath beginning, sees no end."
This passage leads up to the climax of the poem in
its closing argument that the Soul is immortal and
cannot be destroyed.
" Her only end is never-ending bliss,
'NMiich is, the eternal face of God to see ;
^\'ho last of ends and iirst of causes is :
And to do this, she must eternal be."
The poet bases this upon five reasons. One is
man's unlimited desii'e to learn or know, which
si)rings from the essence of the Soul, and with this
desire a power " to find out every truth if she had
time."
" But since our life so fast away doth slide.
As doth a hungry eagle through the wind.
Or as a ship transported with the tide.
Which in their passage leave no print behind :
" Of which swift little time so much we spend.
While somefew things wethroughthe sense do stiain,
That our short race of life is at an end,
lire we the principles of skiU attain :
" Or God (which to vain ends hath nothing done)
In vain this appetite and pow'r hath given,
Or else our knowledge which is here begun.
Hereafter must be perfected in heaven."
Another reason is the Soul's aspiration to eternity.
" Water in conduit-pipes can rise no higher
Than the wcU-head, from whence it first doth spring ;
Then since to Eternal God she doth aspire,
She cannot be but an eternal thing."
Who ever ceased to wish, when he had health, or
having wisdom was not vexed in mind ']
"So, when the Soul finds here no true content.
And, like Noah's dove, can no sure footing take.
She doth return from whence she first was sent,
And flies to Him that first her wings did make."
Another reason is that the best Souls often desire
the body's death, which would not be if the body's
death were theu-s,
" For all things else, which Nature makes to be.
Their being to preserve are chiefly taught ;
And though some things desire a change to see,
Yet never thing did long to turn to nought.
" If then by death the Soul were quenched quite.
She could not thus against her nature run ;
Since every senseless thing, by Nature's light.
Doth preservation seek, destruction shun.
" Nor could the world's best spirits so much err,
If death took all, that they should aU agree,
Before this Ufe, their honom- to prefer :
For what is praise to things that nothing bef "
Again, if the Soul stood by the Body's prop,
" We should not find her half so brave and bold,
To lead it to the wars, and to the seas,
To make it suft'er watchings, hunger, cold.
When it might feed with plenty, rest with ease."
Another reason is that as the good Soul by scorn
of the Body's death shows that she camiot die, tht
wicked Soul proves her eternity by fear of death.
The Soul's craving for continuance is shown also
" by tombs, by books, by memorable deeds," and by
care for posterity ; true notes of immortality ^vl•itten
by Nature herself in our heart's tables. Finally,
even those who reason against the Soul's immortality
use the Soul's power to conceive its immortality, and
prove it by the act of reasoning against it.
" So when we God and angels do conceive.
And think of truth, which is eternal too ;
Then do our minds immortal forms receive.
Which if they mortal were, they could not do.
" And as if beasts conceiv'd what reason were,
And that conception should distinctly show,
The)- should the name of reasonable bear ;
For without reason none could reason know.
" So when the Soul mounts with so high a wing
As of eternal things she doubts can move.
She proofs of her eternity doth biing
Even when she strives the contrary to prove."
After arguing that the Soul is indestructible, tlie
poet answers objections to faith in her immortality,
from the intellectual dotage of old men, idiocy, mad-
ness. The defects are in the sense's organs. The
Soul does not lose her power to see, " though mists
and clouds do choke her window liiiht."
" These imperfections then we must impute
Not to the agent but the instrument :
Wo must not blame Apollo, but his lute,
If false accords from her false stiings be sent."
After following the Soul a little way beyond the
gates of death, thus the poem closes : —
" O ignorant poor man '. what dost thou bear,
Lock'd up within the casket of thy breast?
What jewels, and what riches hast thou there ?
What heavenly treasure in so weak a chest ?
" Look in thy Soul, and thou shalt beauties find
Like those which drown'd Narcissus in the flood :
Honour and pleasure botli are in thy mind.
And all that in the world is counted good.
232
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 159S
" Think of her worth, and think that God did mean
This worthy Mind shoidd worthy things embrace :
Blot not her beauties with thy thoughts unclean,
Nor her dishonour with thy passion base.
" KiU not her quick' ning power with surfeitings ;
Mar not her sense with sensuality ;
Cast not her serious wit on idle things ;
Make not her free-will slave to vanity.
" And when thou think' st of her eternity.
Think not that death against oui- nature is ;
Think it a birth : And when thou go'st to die,
Sing like a swan, aa if thou went'st to bliss.
" And if thou, like a child, didst fear before,
Being in the dark, where thou didst nothing see,
Now I have brought thee torchlight, fear no more ;
Now when thou diest, thou canst not hoodwinked be.
" And thou, my Soul, which t\irn'st with curious eye
To view the beams of thine own foiin di\-ine,
Know, that thou canst know nothing perfectly,
^XTiilo thou art clouded with this flesh of mine.
" Take heed of over- weening, and compare
Thy peacock's feet with thy gay peacock's train :
Study the best and highest things that are.
But of thyself an humble thought retain.
" Cast down thyself, and only strive to raise
The glory of thy Maker's sacred Name :
Use aU thy powers, that blessed Power to praise,
Wliich gives thee power to be, and use the same."
CHAPTER VIII.
Reign of .James I. — Donne, Andrewes, Giles
Fletcher, Qu.vrles, Wither, and Others. — a.d.
1603 TO A.D. 162.5.
MPATIENCE of the Ro-
man Catholics under laws
tliat made it high treason
for them to come near to
the Lord's ■ Table in the
way their consciences re-
quired, zeal of the Puri-
tans, some resentment also
among quiet English
Churchmen of the mea-
sures by which Archbishop
Whitgift sought through
the High Court of Commission to enforce Church
unity, made the new sovereign's probable treatment
of religious questions a matter of deep interest when
•James I. came to the throne.
The king was a man of thirty-seven, more gifted
by education than by nature, though he had much
natural .shrewdness in dealing with the surfaces
ot things to make up for the want of any power
to look far below the surface. It was not his
fault that the base flattery of courts had taught
him from childhood to over-estimate his own con-
Initial
To Genesis in King James's A iitho-
rized Version of the Bible (IGllj.
siderable attainments, and to mistake his own good-
humoured shrewdness for the statesman's grasp
of thought. He meant well, and sought to deal
wisely with the pressing questions of his day, but
he had no aspiration strong enough to lift him up
out of himself; he had no motive of action so con-
tinuous as a complacent wish to mauitain his personal
position as a phcenLx of intelligence, and the supre-
macy in Church and State of his own office of king.
He did not regard the supremacy of the Crown in
England as means to an end, but as in itself the end
towards which he should shape his policy. He had
no wish to oppress subjects who did not thwart him.
Though he was bred a Protestant, the Roman Catho-
lics might reasonably expect from the son of Mary
Queen of Scots relief from a tyranny under which
they all incurred the punishment of death for hearing
mass, and priests of theu's who led pure and exem-
plary lives, as well as those who plotted the overthrow
of the Protestant rule in England, were sent to the
gallows. James was treated with, before lus acces-
sion to the throne, and gave good hope to the Roman
Catholics. No quiet subject, he said, should be perse-
cuted for his religion. That also was his private pur-
pose, though it implied only toleration to the laity.
The Roman Catholic priests being, as he felt, natural
enemies to the supremacy of the cro^vn in Church
matters, he meant to send them all abroad if jjossible.
Desu'e for the subversion of Protestant ride in England
had been, of course, intensified by penalties of death
for celebrating mass, and lines on reciisants.
There were two under-cuiTents of Roman Catholic
plotting when James came to England : one was set
in movement by the Jesuits, who looked for help
from Spain in setting a Roman Catholic upon the
throne ; the other was a wild scheme of a secular
priest, William Watson, who hated the Jesuits, and
had a plan of his own for carrying the king off to the
Tower, and there converting him. Discovery of
Watson's plot implicated other men in suspicions.
Lord Cobham was arrested, and from him accusation
passed on to Sii- Walter Raleigh, whom James liad
promptly begun to strip of honour and possessions.
After a trial, in November, 1603 (at which Raleigh,
of all men in England the one least open to such a
charge, had been denounced by the Attorney-Geneml,
Sir Edward Coke, as " a monster with an English
face, but a Spanish heart" — Raleigh, whose ruling
passion might almost be said to he animosity to
Spain, and whom James eventually caused to Ije
executed at the wish of Spain), Sir Walter Raleigh
was condemned to death as guilty of liisrh treason
by sharing in a plot to depose James, and make
Arabella Stuart queen. Raleigh was respited, but
detained during the next twelve years as a prisoner
in the Tower of London. It was there that he
resolved to write a History of England, prefticed by
the story of the four great Empires of the AVorld ;
his design being to take a large view of the life of
man upon earth that should set forth the Di\-ine
wisdom. In his Preface, Raleigh says — "The ex-
amples of Divine Providence everj-where found (the
first divine histories being nothing else but a con-
tinuation of such examples) have persuaded me to
fetch my begvnnmg from the begimiing of all things:
TO A.D. 1614.1
RELIGION.
233
to wit, Creation." He does, La fact, in the five books
which form the substantial fragment of his work,
published in IGl-t, carry the History of the World
from the Creation to tlie end of the second Mace-
donian war. As critical history, Raleigh's work
aboiuids with erudition of his time ; but the detail
(if events, wherever the matter commanded Raleigh's
fullest interest, is, from time to time, kindled with
\igorous and noble thought, and flsishes out the glory
and the praise of God from depths of the religious
life of an Elizabethan hero.
The firet chapter of the History opens with argu-
ment that the In^•isible God is seen in His C'rea-
tiu'es, and ends by saying, " Let us resolve wth
8t. Paul, who hath taught us that there is but one
God, the Father ; of whom are all things, and we in
Him ; and one Lord Jesus Chiist, by whom are
all things, and we by Him ; there are diversities of
operations, but God is the same, which worketh all
ill all." The last chapter of Raleigh's History as far
as it was written closes with these thoughts on
THE ELOQUENCE OF DEATH.
Kings and Princes of the AVorld have always laid before
them the actions, hut not the ends, of those great ones which
preceded them. They are always transported with the glory
of the one, hut they never mind the miserj* of the other, till
they find the experience in themselves. They neglect the
advice of God while they enjoy life, or hope it ; but they
follow the counsel of Death, upon his first approach. It is
he that puts into man all the wisdom of the world, without
speaking a word ; which God with all the words of His law,
promises, or threats, doth not infuse. Death, which hateth
and destroyeth man, is believed. God, which hath made him
and loves him, is always deferred. I have considered, saith
Solomon, all the works that are under the sun, aijd, behold,
all is vanity and vexation of spirit : hut who believes it, till
Death tells it us 'i It was Death which, opening the con-
science of Charles the Fifth, made him enjoin his son Philip
to restore Navarre ; and King Francis the First of France,
to command that justice should be done upon the murderers
of the Protestants in Merindol and Cabriercs, which till then
he neglected. It is therefore Death alone that can suddenly
make man know himself. He tells the proud and insolent,
that they are but abjects, and humbles them at the instant ;
makes them cry, complain, and repent ; yea, even to hate
their forepassed happiness. He takes the account of the
rich, and proves him a beggar ; a naked beggar, which hath
interest in nothing, but in the gravel that fills Ms mouth.
He holds a glass before the eyes of the most beautiful, and
makes them see therein their deformity and rottenness ; and
they acknowledge it.
O eloquent, just, and mighty Death, whom none could
ad^-ise, thou hast persuaded ; what none hath dared, thou
hast done ; and whom all the world hath flattered, thou only
hast cast out of the world and despised. Thou hast drawn
together all the far-stretched greatness, all the pride, cruelty,
and ambition of man ; and covered it all over with these two
narrow words : Hicjncet.
There remains one added paragraph. " Lastly,
whereas this book, by the title it hath, calls itself
the Fii'st Part of the General History of the World,
implying a Second and Third Volume, which I also
intended and have hewn out ; besides many other
discouragements persuading my silence, it hath
94
pleased God to take that glorious Prince out of the
world to whom the}- were directed ; whose unspeak-
able and never-enough lamented loss hath taught me
to say with Job, ' Versa est iii luctum cithara mea,
et organum meum in vocem flentium ' (My harp is
turned to mourning, and my organ into the voice of
them that weep)." The reference is to the death,
in November, 1612, of the king's popular eldest son,
Prince Henry, who had not long before obtained his
father's promise that Raleigh should be set free at
Clii-istmas. Raleigh was set free in January, 1616,
to prepare for the voyage to Guiana, by which he
expected to enrich the English Crown with a dis-
covery of gold. The voyage was disastrous, and
Raleigh, "with English face and Spanish heart,"
could not resist a chance it gave him of again
attacking Spain. The King of Spain asked for his
head ; and James I. decreed his execution, -without
trial, upon the fifteen-years-old con\iction of treason.
Raleigh was executed in October, 1618.
Raleigh's conviction had arisen from events con-
nected -with the earKest Roman Catholic jjlots against
Protestant sovereignty m England. They were asso-
ciated at the opening of his reign with other incidents
that confii-med James in one of his views of policy, and
on the 22nd of February he issued a proclamation
ordering all Jesuits and seminary priests to leave
the realm before the 1 9th of March. But he forgave
the Roman Catholic laity their fines as recusants ; he
hafl placed a Roman Catholic upon his Privy CouncU ;
and he was making peace with Spain. The pro-
clamation for expulsion of the priests immediately
produced another plot. The day of issue of the
proclamation was the day after Ash Wednesday,
1604; and in the beginning of Lent, Robert Catesby
called Thomas Winter to London to join with
himself and John Wright in a plot for blowing up
the Parliament House. At the end of April, an
Englishman of kno'wn audacity, Guido Fawkes, was
brought from Flanders. Thomas Percy, who was
related to the Earl of Northumberland, completed
the number of five, who were tir.st bound by an oath
of secrecy to united effort for attainment of their
purpose. On the 24th of May, 1604, Percy took a
house adjoining the Parliament House, and Guido
Fawkes, under the name of John Johnson, lived
with him as a servant. The house at Lambeth in
which Catesby lodged was taken for use in storing
materials. At the end of the year. Parliament being
expected to meet in February, 1605, iindergi-ound
boring was begun at the wall of the Parliament
House, which was nine feet thick. When Parliament
was prorogued until October, the work was relaxed ;
it was then resumed again under difficulties, till the
conspirators heard that there ran under the Parlia-
ment House a cellar from which a stock of coals was
being sold ofi', and of which they could obtain a
lease. Thomas Percy bought the lease of the cellar;
which he said he needed for lus coals. They soon
placed in it twenty bairels of powder from the house
at Lambeth, and covered them with billets of wood
and fagots. Then they rested till September, when
fresh powder was brought in to make good any
damage by damp. But Parliament was prorogued
to the 5th of November, and they had again leisure
234
CASSELL'S LIBEARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1605
to arrange for the course to be taken after the king,
his eldest son, and the Parliament had been struck
away, and the conspirators, now become thirteen in
number, were masters of the situation. It is enough
to recall with a word or two how a note warning Lord
Monteagle to absent himself from the meeting of Par-
liament led to suspicion ; how the terms of the note
being held to suggest danger of gunpowder, search was
quietly made, as if for stuff of the king's that might
have been left in the cellar which was known to be
under the Parliament House; and how on the -ith
of November, 1605, the powder was discovered that
was to have blown up king and Parliament on the
following morning.
While tliis j)lot was in progress, the king had
found the number of recusants increased by ten
thousand after the remission of the fines. In
November, 1604, fines wei-e again levied, and in
the following February the king required that all
penal laws against the Roman Catholics should be
enforced; but that the priests should be expelled,
not executed. Discovery of the Gunpowder Plot
led to increased severity of the laws against recu-
sants. Roman Catholics were not to escape fine by
attendance at a parish chui'ch ; they were to be
tested also by requii'ement of attendance at the
sacrament. The enforcement of this test, repugnant
to religious feeling on both sides, happily soon fell
into disuse. Recusants did not escape with fine
alone. They had to submit to various civil dis-
abilities. It was at this time that a new Oath of
Allegiance was devised fur distinguishing those Roman
Catholics who refused to abjure the Pope's claim to
a deposing powei'. Roman Catholics who refused
that oath incurred penalties of a prsemunire in
addition to the burdens laid upon all recusants.
This Oath of Allegiance was one that many Roman
Catholic Englishmen could honestly take, for it
repudiated only a recognition of the Pope's claim to
depose a sovereign and release his Roman Catholic
subjects from all ties of obedience to him. But on
the other hand, the Pope, in September, 1606, for-
mally declared that the oath could not be taken by
English Roman Catholics without peril to their
souls. In August, 1607, he reiterated this.
In 1608 King James replied to the two briefs of
the Pope, and to the remonstrance of Cardinal
Bellarmin addressed, on the 28th of September,
1607, to the Roman Catholic Archpriest Blackwell.
Blackwell (being imprisoned in the Gate House) had
himself taken the oath, and advised others to do so ;
an act for which he was deprived of his office by
the Court of Rome. The king, with the strained
ingenuity of the time, entitled his Apology for the
Oath of Allegiance " Triplici Nodo Triplex Cuneus "
(To the Tiiple Knot a Triple Wedge). The triple
knot was represented by the three letters : two from
the Pope, and one from Cardinal Bellarmin. The
triple wedge was the answer King James gave to each
after quoting it in full Cardinal Bellarmin replied ;
writing under the name of his seci'etary, Matthew
Tortus. To Matthew Tortus Lancelot Andrewes
replied for the king, also in Latin, with a volume
called "Tortura Torti." Bellarmin added in 1610 an
"Apology" for liis Reply to King James, which was
nearly twice as long as the Reply itself. In the same
year, 1610, John Doime first commended himself to
James's hearty goodwill by adding to the contro-
versy, on the king's side, an English book, which
suggested in its title that the English Roman
Catholics who suffered through refusal of the oath
were idly making of themselves false martyrs. The
book was called " Pseudo-martyr. Wherein out of
certaine Propositions and Gradations, this conclusion
is evicted. That those which are of the Romane
Religion in this Kingdome, may and ought to take
the Oath of Allegeance."
Jolm Donne when he wrote the book was about
thirty-seven years old, and not prosj)erous. He and
his wife and family were indebted much to the kind-
ness of Sir Robert Drury, by whom they were
housed in a part of that town mansion which has left
its whereabouts marked by the name of Drury Lane.
Influential friends who appreciated Donne's genius
sought to advance him at court in some secular
employment, for he had not yet entered the church.
The king liked his presence and conversation, but
gave him no substantial help until " Pseudo-martyr "
appeared. The book had an ingenious dedication to
his Majesty, which is here given as specimen of the
written English of its time, without alteration in its
sjjelling, pimctuatiou, and use of capitals.
Headpiece from Donne's "PsEnDO-MABTYE."
DEDICATION OF DONNE's " PSEUDO-MARTYR."
To the High and Mightie Prince James, by the grace of God
King of Great Britaine, France and Ireland, defender of
the Faith.
Most miglitic and sacred Soucraigne,
As Tomporall anuies consist of Press'd men, and voluntaries,
so doo they also in this warfare, in which your Maiestio hath
appear' d by your Bookes. And not only your strong and
full Garisons, which are your Clcargie, and your Vniuersitics,
but also obscure Villages can minister Souldioura. For, tho
equall interest, which all your Subiects haue in the cause
(all being equally endanger'd in youi- dangers) giues euery
one of Ts a Title to tho Dignitie of this warfare ; And so
makes those, whom the Ciuill Lawes made opposite, all one,
Paganos, Milites. Besides, since in this Battaile, your
Maicstie, by your Bookes, is gone in Person out of the
Kingdome, who can be exempt from waiting vpon you in
such an expedition ? For this Oath must worke vpon vs all ;
and as it must draw from the Papists a Profession, so it must
from vs, a Confirmation of our Obedience ; They must testifie
an AUeageanee by the Oath, we, an AUeageance to it. For,
since in providing for yoiu- Maiesties securitie, the Oath
defends vs, it is reason, that wee defend it. The strongest
Castle that is, cannot defend the Inhabitants, if they sleepe,
or neglect the defence of that, which defends them; No
more can this Oath, though framed with all aduantagioua
Christianly wisedome, secure your Maicstie, and vs in j'ou, if
by our negligence wee should open it, either to the aduersaries
Batteries, or to his vndenninings.
TO A.D. 1610.]
EELIGION.
235
The influence of those your Maiesties Bookes, as the Sunne,
which penetrates all corners, hath wrought vppon me, and
drawen up, and exhaled from my poore Meditations, these
discourses : 'UTiich, with all reverence and deuotion, I present
to your Maiestie, who in this also haue the power and office
of the Sunne, that those things which you exhale, you may
at your pleasure dissipate, and annull ; or suffer them to fall
downe againe, as a wholesome and fruitfull dew, vpon your
Church and Commonwealth. Of my holdnesse in this
addresse, I most humbly beseech your Maiestie, to admit this
excuse, that hauing obserued, how much your Maiestie had
vouchsafed to descend to a conuersation with your Subiects,
by way of your Bookes, I also conceiu'd an ambition, of
ascending to your presence, by the same way, and of par-
ticipating, by this means, their happinesse, of whome, that
saying of the Queene of Sheba, may bee vsurp'd : Happie are
thy men, and happie are those thy Seruants, which stand
before thee alwayes, and heare thy wisedome, For, in this, I
make account, that I haue performed a duetie, by expressing
in an exterior, and (by your Maiesties permission) a pubUcke
Act, the same desire, which God heares in my daily prayers,
that your Maiestie may very long goueme vs in your Person,
and euer, in your Eace and Progenie.
Tour Maiesties most
humble and loyall
Subiect :
lOHN Do>-NE.
The book began by distinguishing between the dig-
nity of tiiie martyi'dom and the inordinate and coiTupt
affectatiou of it. It then argued that the Roman
religion encouraged this -N-icious aflectation of danger,
l)y eiToneous doctrines : as the interference with
secular magistrates, the undue extolling of merits,
especially the mei-it of martyrdom, and by the doc-
trine of Purgatory, from which martyrs are promised
an escape. It set forth that the Jesuits especially
encouraged this corrupt desire of false martyrdom ;
and that they could not have the comfort of honest
martyrdom because they obeyed the Pope, if they
disobeyed other laws. Then Donne proceeded to the
question of the several obediences due to pi-inces
and claimed by the Roman Church. The way was
thus laid open for detailed argument in support of the
Oath of Allegiance. In the course of his Preftice to
the Priests and Jesuits and to their Disciples in this
Kingdom, Donne says of
THE pope's temporal JURISDICTION.
This doctrine of temporal jurisdiction is not only a violent
and dispatching poison, but it is of the nature of those poisons
which destroy not by heat nor cold, nor corrosion, nor any
other discernible quality, but, as physicians say, out of the
specific form and secret malignity and out of the whole sub-
stance. For as no artist can find out how this malignant
strength grows in that poison nor how it works, so can none
of your writers tell how this Temporal Jurisdiction got into
the Pope, or how he executes it, but are anguished and
tortured when they come to talk of it, as physicians and
naturalists are when they speak of these specific poisons, or
of the cause and origin thereof, which is Antipathy.
And yet we find it reported' of one woman, that she had
' Forester, " De Venenis." Peter Forester, bom at Alcmar in
V'22, became Professor o£ Medicine at Leyden, and died in 1597.
so long accustomed her body to these poisons, by making them
her ordinary food, that she had brought herself and her whole
complexion and constitution to be of the same power as the
poison was, and yet retained so much beauty as she allured
kings to her embracemcnt, and killed and poisoned them by
that means : so hath the Roman faith been for many years,
so fed and jiampered with this venomous doctrine of temporal
jurisdiction that it is grown to some few of them to be matter
of faith itself ; and she is able to draw and hold some princes
to her love because, for all this infection, she retains some
colour and probability of being the same she was. And as
that fish which .aSlianus speaks of, lies near to the rock, and
because it is of the colour- of the rock surprises many fishes
•which come to refresh themselves at the rock; so doth the
Roman doctrine, because it can pretend by a local and per-
sonal succession (though both interrupted) that it is so much
of the colour of the rock, and so near it, as Petrus and Petra,
inveigle and entrap many credulous persons, who have a
zealous desire to build upon the rock itself.
Tailpiece from Donke's " Pseddo-mabttb."
Donne even now condemned rather the worldly
than the spiritual element in the creed to which he
had been bred. Of his " Divine Poems " part cer-
taiidy were written whUe he was a Roman Catholic,
and when King James, delighted with his " Pseudo-
martyr," urged liim to enter the ministry of the
English Church, he held back for almost three years,
during which he gave himself to such study of di^-inity
as should assure Iiis conscience and fit him for the
work if he found that he could undertake it. The
i-esult was that he did at last enter the ministrj' of
the chm-ch, with his whole heart in its duties. King
James then made him his Chaplain in Ordinary ; the
University of Cambridge, at the King's wish, made
him a Doctor of Divinity; and Dr. Donne became
one of the gi-eatest preachers of King James's reign.
HLs wife died, leaving him with seven children, just
as the days of their adversity were at an end. He
mourned her loss deeply, and did not marry again.
The Benchers of Lincoln's Inn made Domie their
lecturer ; the King made him Dean of St. Paul's ;
the Vicarage of St. Dunstan's in the West fell to him
also. After the age of fifty his worldly means be-
came very easy. He provided for the future of his
chilch-en, and was liberal to the poor dm-ing the
next nine or ten years of his life ; and then he died,
in the reign of Charles I., in April, 1631. In a
foi-raer sickness Donne had wi-itten a hymn to God,
which afterwards he set to a solemn tune, and
caused frequently to be sung, especially at evening
service, when he was present at St. Pauls. If
was this
236
CASSELL'S LIBRAEY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1605
HYMN.
To God the Father.
Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun,
"\VTiich w.is my sin, though it were done before ?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run,
jVnd do run stiU, though still I do deplore ?
■SVhon Thou hast done. Thou hast not done.
For I have more.
Wilt Thou forgive that sin, which I have won
Others to sin, and made my sin their door ?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun
A year or two ; — but wallow'd in a score ?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,
For I have more.
I have a sin of fear, that when I've spun
My last thread, I shall polish on the shore ;
But swear by Thyself, that at my death Thy Son
Shall shine as He shines now, and heretofore ;
And having done that, Thou hast done,
I fear no more.
In Ids last illness Donne wrote also tliis
HYMN TO GOD, MY GOD.
In my Sickness.
Since I am coming to that holy room
Where with the quire of saints for evermore
1 shall be made Thy music ; as I come,
I tune the instrument here at the door,
And what I must do then, think here before.
WhUst my physicians by their love are grown
Cosmogi-aphers, and I their map who lie
Flat on this bed that by them may be shown
That this is my south-west discovery —
Fcr fretum febris — by these straits to die:
I joy, that in those straits I see my West,
For though those cuiTents yield return to none.
What shall my West hurt me ? As west and east
In aU flat maps (and I am one) are one.
So Death doth touch the Resurrection.
Is the Pacific sea my home ? or are
The eastern riches ? is Jerusalem ?
Anyan^ and Magellan and Gibraltar are
AU straits, and none but straits are ways to them,
Whether where Japhet dwelt or Ham or Shem.
We think that Paradise and Calvarie,
Christ's cross and Adam's tree, stood in one place :
Look, Lord, and find both Adams met in me !
As the first Adam's sweat suiTounds my face.
May the last Adam's blood my soid embrace !
1 Anijan, the Mozambique Channel, named from the island of
Anyouam, Aujonan, or Johannes at its northern entrance. The
Mozambique Straits lead to the "eastera riches" of Africa, dwelling
of Ham. The Straits of Magellan are a way from the Atlantic
into the Pacific, which ocean is bordered on its west by the Asiatic
home of those who were regarded as the sons of Shem, The Straits
of Gibraltar led into the Mediteraneau those who sought the sons of
Japheth. and made voyage to the Holy Land,
So, in His purple wrapp'd, receive me. Lord!
By these His thorns, give me His other crown !
And as to others' souls I preached Thy Word,
Be this my te.xt, my sermon to mine own : —
Therefore, that He may raise, the Lord thi-ows down.
Donne's last sermon was preached on the first
Friday in Lent, according to an appointment which
his friends in vain sought to dissuade him from
keepuig, telling him that the effort to preach would
shorten his life. Izaak Walton, in telling of Donne's
life, says upon this that
He passionately denied then- requests, saying "he would
not doubt that that God, who in so many weaknesses had
assisted him with an unexpected strength, would now with-
draw it in his last employment ; professing an holy ambition
to perfonn that sacred work." And when, to the amazement
of some beholders, he appeared in the pulpit, many of them
thought he presented himself not to preach mortification by
a living voice, but mortality by a decayed body, and a dying
face. And doubtless many did secretly ask that question in
Ezekiel (chap, x.xxvii. 3), "' Do these bones live ? ' or,canthat
soul organise that tongue, to speak so long time as the sand
in that glass will move towards its centre, and measure out an
hour of this dying man's unspent Ufe ? Doubtless it cannot."
And yet, after some faint pauses in his zealous prayer, his
strong desires enabled his weak body to discharge his memory
of his preconceived meditations, which wore of dj-ing ; the
text being, " To God the Lord belong the issues from death."
Many that then saw his tears, and heard his faint and hollow
voice, professing they thought the text prophetically chosen,
and that Dr. Donne had preached his own Funeral Sermon.
Being full of joy that God had enabled him to perfonn
this desired duty, he hastened to his house ; out of which ho
never moved, till, like St. Stephen, " he was carried by
devout men to his grave."
To this may be added Walton's account of the
manner in which the dying man stood for the por-
trait from which the effigy was made that marks his
interment in St. Paul's- : —
A monument being resolved upon. Dr. Donne sent for a
carver to make for him in wood the figure of an urn, gi^^ng
him directions for the compass and height of it; and to
bring with it a board, of the just height of his body. " These
being got, then -ivithout delay a choice painter was got to be
in readiness to draw his picture, which was taken as foUowoth.
—Several charcoal fires being first made in his large study,
he brought with him into that place his winding-sheet in his
hand, and having put oft all his clothes, had this sheet put on
him, and so tied with knots at his head and feet, and his
hands so placed as dead bodies are usually fitted, to be
shrouded and put into their coflin, or grave. Upon this um
he thus stood, with his eyes shut, and with so much of the
sheet tui-ned aside as might shew his lean, pale, and death-like
face, which was purposely turned towards the East, from
whence he expected the second coming of his and our Saviour
Jesus." In this posture he was drawn at his just height ;
and when the picture was fully finished, he caused it to be set
by his bed-side, where it continued and became his hourly
object till his death, and was then given to his dearest friend
f
2 The marble statue of Donne was one of those reoovered after
the Fire of London from the ruins of the old cathedral.
TO A.D. 1631.]
RELIGIOK
237
and executor Dr. Henry King, then chief Residentiary of St.
Paul's, who caused him to he thus carved in one entire piece
of white marhle, as it now stands in that Church.
Effigy of Dr. Donne in St. Paul's Cathedral.
The marble, vividly suggestive of mortality, is in
the cathedral of which he was dean, but the ruin
caused by the Fire of London made it impossible again
to mark the place where the dust lies of the poet
who, in one of his latest sermons — preached in March,
1629 — thus expressed a thought old as mortality : —
ASHES TO ASHES, DUST TO DUST.
The ashes of an oak in the chimney are no epitaph of that
oak, to tell me how high or how large that was. It tells me
not what flocks it sheltered while it stood, nor what men it
hurt when it fell. The dust of great persons' graves is
speechless too ; it says nothing, it distinguishes nothing. As
soon the dust of a wretch whom thou would'st not, as of
a prince whom thou could'st not, look upon, will trouble
thine eyes if the wind blow it thither ; and when a whirl-
wind hath blown the dust of the churchj'ard unto the church,
and the man sweeps out the dust of the church into the
churchyard, who will undertake to sift those dusts again, and
to pronounce — this is the patrician, this is the noble, flour ;
and this the yeomanly, this the plebeian, bran.
] to follow John Domie to his grave. Another writer
who maintained the argument of James I. in that
controversy was Lancelot Andrewes, the author of
" Tortm-a Torti." Lancelot Andrewes was but a
year or two younger than Spenser, was his school-
fellow at Merchant Taylor's School, and followed
him to the same college at Cambridge, Pembroke
Hall. He became skilled in controversial theology,
and was the first English Churchman in Elizabeth'.s
day who qualified himself to engage Roman Catholic
controversialists with then- own weapons. It was
the common fate of Protestant theologians to seem
worsted in argument because they dwelt on study of
the Bible alone, and were unprepared to meet attacks
weighted with eiiidition drawn from a long study of
the Fathers by men trained to casuistry. Andrewes
himself became a casuist to whom many applied for
counsel ; and when he was taken to the North of
England by the Earl of Huntingdon, he was skilled
enough in argument to convert some Roman Catho-
lics. Lancelot Andrewes rose m Elizabeth's reign,
through two or three church livings, to be Master of
Pembroke Hall, Chaplain in Ordinary to the Queen,
and Dean of Westmmster. He would have been
made a bishop by her, but for some opinions which
would have caused him to resist all alienation of
He was pious and profoundly
with an intellectual ingenuity
his learning, greatly pleased a
of the time of James I. Such
an audience delighted in tricks of thought, quaint-
ness of speech, and scraps of Latm that showed
learning in the speaker and assumed it in his
hearers. The style of Andrewes, like that of Domie,
illustrates Later Euphuism in the pulpit. He
cUvided reputation with Donne as a preacher, but
was not also a poet. The excess of ingenuity and
pedantry of the time were less forced than they seem
to readers of books written m simpler style. The
accjim-ed fashion of a time becomes to most men
a second nature. Lancelot Andrewes prayed in
Latin and Greek, and the private prayers which he
fashioned for himself, almost wholly founded upon
texts of Scripture, expressed, though in dead languages,
a living faith, in words of Christian humility. King
James made Anchewes, in 1605, Bishop of Chichester,
and that was liis rank in the Church of England when
his skill in controversy with the Roman CathoUcs
caused him to be chosen as the answerer of Bellar-
min's retort upon the king.
Bellarmm was the great controversialist upon the
side of Rome. In 1G05 he had resigned the Arch-
bishopric of Capua that he might give all his energy
to battle for Rome on the vital questions of the day.
Lancelot Andrewes was then the one man of mature
age in the English Church who, against such an
antagonist, could fitly be named as its champion.
James Usher, who was fahly on his way to as famdiar
episcopal revenues,
learned, gifted also
that, coloured with
cultivated audience
We have left the controversy of the Oath of
Allegiance, which gave rise to the " Pseud o-martyi-,"
arms with which
Rome often had prevailed, was twenty-five years
a knowledge of the use of the
younger.
In the year of his answer to
Andrewes was made Bishop of
Bellarmin (1609),
Ely and a Privy
Councillor. In 1618 he was made Bishop of Win-
chester. He held then the richest of the bishoprics.
2.38
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1608
from wliich one of its holders was unwilling to be pro-
moted because, said he, " Canterbury has the higher
rack, but Winchester the better manger." Lancelot
Andre wes died in 1631, after his years had completed
the number of three-score and ten.
Lancelot Amdrewes.
from a Portrait ialcn in 1618, Engraved for his Worfcs.
The Private Prayers of Lancelot Andi-ews, com-
piled by him for his own use from the Scriptures
and the writings of the early Fathers, but chiefly
from the Scriptures, were said to have been found
after his death in a little MS. book, " worn in pieces
by his fingers and wet vnth. his teai's." A literal
translation of them from the Greek and Latin into
English was published in 1647, from which I take
the following : —
MORNING PRAYER.
Blessed art Thou, Lord our God, the God of our fathers,
which hast turned the shadow of death into the morning, and
hast renewed the face of the earth.
Which hast made sleep to depart from mine eyes and
slumher from mine eyelids.
Which hast lightened mine eyes that I sleep not in death.
Which hast delivered my sold from the night fears, from
the pestilence which walketh in the dark.
Which makest the outgoings of the morning and evening to
praise Thee.
For I laid me down and slept, and rose again, for it was
Thou, Lord, which didst sustain me.
For I waked and beheld, and lo, my sleep was sweet.
Lord, do away as the night, so my sins; scatter my
transgressions as the morning cloud.
Make me a chOd of the light and of the day ; cause me to
walk soberly, chastely, and decently, as in the daj'-time.
O Lord, uphold us when we are fallen into sin ; and raise
us up when we are fallen.
That we harden not our hearts, as in the provocation, or
with any deceitfulness of sin.
Deliver us also from the snare of the hunter ; evil allure-
ments, gross words, the an-ow which flieth by day.
From the evil of the day preserve me, O Lord, and me
from doing evU in it.
EVENING PRAYER.
Having passed through this day, I give my thanks to Thee,
Lord.
The evening approacheth, bless that also to me: an
evening there is of the day, so of our Ufe ; that evening is
old ao-e, and age hath now sui'prised me ; Lord, prosper thou
that likewise imto me.
Tarry with me, O Lord, for the evening grows upon me,
and my day is much declined. Cast me not off now in mine
age ; forsake me not now when my strength faileth me.
But rather let Thy strength be made more perfect in this
my weakness.
Lord, the day is vanished and gone ; so doth this life.
The night doth now approach ; so doth death also ; death
without death, the end both of our day and of our life, is
near at hand.
Eemember this, therefore, we beseech Thee, Lord ; make
the end of all our lives Christian-like and acceptable to Thee,
peaceable, and, if it like Thee, painless, translating us, among
Thine elect, unto Thy heavenly kingdom.
Lord, Thou hearest prayer : to Thee shall all flesh come.
In the morning, at noon, and in the evening, will I call ;
1 will cry out, and Thou shalt hear my voice.
In the night will I lift up my hands to Thy Sanctuarj', and
will bless Thee, Lord.
The liOrd hath shewed His merey in the day ; therefore at
night I will sing of Him, and pray unto the God of my life.
Thus wiU I praise Thee all my life long ; and in Thy Name
wiU I lift up my hands.
let my prayers be directed as the incense, and the lifting
up of my hands as the evening sacrifice.
Blessed art Thou, Lord my God, the God of my Fathers.
Which hast created the changes of night and of day.
Which givest rest to the weari,^ and refreshest the weak.
WHiich givest songs in the night ; and makest the outgoing
of the morning and evening to praise Thee.
A\'hich hast delivered us from the maUce of this day ; and
cuttest not off our lines, like a weaver, neither from morning
to evening makeJh an end of us.
As we add days to our days, so we add sins to our sins.
The just man falls seven times a day, but we wretched
sinners seventy times seven times :
But we return to our hearts; and with our hearts we
return to Thee.
To Thee, O Lord, we return ; and aU that is within us
saith, Lord, we have sinned against Thee.
But we repent ; alas, we repent. Spare us, good Lord.
Be merciful and spare us.
Be propitious to us.
Have pity upon us, and spare us, O Lord.
Forgive us the guilt.
Take out the stains.
Cure the faintness in us by reason of our sins ; and heal
our souls, O God, for we have sinned against Thee.
Deliver me from mine unavoidable sins.
Cleanse me from my secret offences.
And for my communion with the transgression of others,
pardon Thy servant, Lord.
All our good deeds Thou hast wrought in us.
If we have done anything well, mercifully regard it, O
Lord.
Our sin and our distraction is from our own selves.
Whatsoever we have done amiss, gTaciousIy pardon it.
TC A.D. 1631.]
RELIGION.
239
Thou -which givest Thy beloved secure rest, grant that I
3iay pass this night \vithout fear.
Enlighten mine eyes, that I sleep not in death.
Deliver me from the mighty fear ; from the business that
walketh in the dark.
Thou which neither sleepcst at any time nor slumberei't,
keep me this night, Lord, from all evil : chiefly, O Lord,
keep and preserve my soul.
Visit me, God, with the visitations of Thy saints : open
mine ears in the visions of the night.
At least let my sleep he a cessation from sins, from labour,
and let me dream of nought that may offend Thee, or defile
myself.
Let not my loins be filled \vith Ulusions, but let my reins
chasten me in the night.
Let me remember Thee upon my bed ; and let me meditate
with my heart, and search out my spirit.
And when it shall be time for me to rise, let me wake with
the light to Thee, Lord, to Thy praise and Thy ser\-ice.
O Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit, mj' soul, and
my body. Thou hast created. Thou hast redeemed them, O
Lord, Thou God of Truth.
And with myself I commend to Thy merciful protection aU
those that belong to me, and all that is mine : Thou, O Lord,
of Thy goodness, hast bestowed them upon me.
keep us all from e^'il ; chiefly, good Lord, keep and pre-
serve our souls. Keep them, God, keep them aU spotless,
and without guUt present them in that da}-.
1 wiU lay me down and sleep in peace. For Thou only
makest me dwell in safety.
ON ENTERING CHURCH.
In ymir entrance into the church, before public service, say :
Lord, in the multitude of Thy mercies, I will approach
Thine House ; and I will worship towards this holy temple
in the reverence of Thee.
Lord, hear the voice of my prayer when I call unto Thee,
when I lift up my hands towards Thy Sanctuary.
Remember these my brethren also, which stand about me
and pray together with me ; remember their endeavours and
their zeal.
Remember them likewise, for just causes which are absent,
and, Lord, have mercy upon them and us, according to the
abundance of Thy goodness.
1 have loved the beauty of Thine House, and the place
where Thy glory dweUeth ; that I might hear the voice of Thy
praises, and publish all Thy wonders.
One thing have I desired of the Lord, which I will still
entreat : that I may dwell still in the House of the Lord, and
visit His holy Temple.
To Thee, O Lord, my heart hath said, I will seek the Lord.
Thee, my God, have I sought and Thy face. And Thee
will I seek.
We may enter tlie clnirch witli Bishop Lancelot
Audrewes, and listen awhile to his preachmg. It is
Easter Day, the 18th of April, 1613 — tlu-ee years
before the death of Shakespeare — and he is preach-
ing before King James, at Whitehall, upon the first
■words of the third chapter of St. Paul's Epistle to
the Coloi5sians — " If ye then be risen with Chri.st,
seek tho.se things which are above, where Christ
sitteth on the right hand of God. Set your affections
on things above, not on things on the earth. " Thus
he begins : —
AN EASTER-DAY SERMON.
The wisdom of the Church hath so disposed of her readings
in these great feasts, as lightly the Gospel lets us know what
was done on the day, done for us, and the Epistle what is to
be done by us. To instance in this present : Snrrexit Bominiis
■vere, "The Lord is risen indeed," saith the Gospel. In
Quo consurrexistis et vos, "and you are risen with Him,"
saith the Epistle. That which is in the Gospel is Christ's
act, what He did ; that which is in the Epistle our agendum,
what we are to do.
Or rather both ours: 1, wliat He did, matter of Faith;
2, what we are to do, matter of Duty, om- agendum upon
His act.
The common sort look to Easter-day no farther than
Easter-day fare and Easter-day apparel ; and other use they
have none of it. The true Christian enquireth farther, what
is the agendum of the feast, what is the proper act of Easter-
day ? The Church hath hers, and we have ours. Kothing
more proper to a Christian than to keep time with Christ, to
rise with Him this day, who this day did rise. That so it
may be Easter-day with us as it was with Him ; the same
that was the day of His be also the daj- of our rising.
Thus then it lieth. Christ is risen and if Chiist, then wb.
If we so he, then we " seek ; " and that we cannot, unless we
"set our minds." To "set oui- minds" then. On what?
" On things above." "WTiich above ? Not " on earth," so is
the text, but " where Christ is." And why there ? Because
where He is, there are the things we seek for, and here
cannot find. There " He is sitting;" — so at rest. And "at
the right hand;" — so in glory. "God's right hand;" — and
so for ever. These we seek, rest in eternal glory. These
Christ hath foimd, and so shall we, if we make this our
agendum ; begin this day to " set our minds " to search after
them.
Because it is to the Colossians, the colossus or capital point
of all is, to rise with Christ ; that is the main point. And if
}-ou would do a right Easter-day's work, do that. It is the
way to entitle us to the true holding of the feast.
[Here Andrewes proceeds to the Greek and Latin of the
words "seek out" and "set your minds," or affections,
which he saj's, if read in the imperative, " then be they in
pra-cepfo and per modum officii, 'by way of precept,' and ' in
nature of a duty ; ' " if read in the indicative, " then they be in
eleneho and per modum signi, ' by way of trial,' and ' in nature
of a sign.' " Then follows a division of the text into its
parts. The parts are — A, two things supposed : (1) Christ's
rising, (2) our rising ; B, two things inferred : If risen, then
(1) to seek, (2) to set our minds above on things there where
Christ is; C, two things referred to or given hope of: (1)
rest, to sit, (2) glory at the right hand. The rest of the
sermon is a dwelling upon each successive section of this
scheme. I will take as an example of its manner, that
part of it which clothes with thought the section marked B 2,
that we set our minds above on things where Christ is] : —
And now to the object. Of seeking we shall soon agree;
Generatio querentium we are all, saith the Psalm, even "a
generation of searchers." Somewhat we are searching after
still. Our wants or our wanton desires find us seeking work
enough, all our lives long. What then shall we seek, or
where ?
He, saith the Apostle, that will thus bestow his pains, let it
he, where? "Above." On what? "The things there,"
quee sursum, he repeats in both, tells it twice over: Quee
sursum quarite, qua sursum sapite. " Above" it must be.
And of this we shall not vary with him, but be easily
enough entreated to it. We )-ield presently, in our sense, tc
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[a.d.
seek to be above others in favour, honour, place, and jjower,
and what not. We keep the te.xt fully in this sense— we both
seek, and set our whole minds upon this. Altiim sapimiis
oiiim-s ; all woidd be above, bramble ' and all, and nothing is
too high for us.
It is true here, for on earth there is a siirsiim, "above ; "
there be high places ; we would not have them taken away ;
we would offer in them, and offer for them too, for a need.
And there is a right hand here too, and some sit at it, and
almost none but thinks so well of himself as why not he 'i
Our Saviour Christ, when it was fancied that He should have
been a great king upon earth, there was suing straight for
His right-hand place. Not so much as good wise Zebedee's
two sons that smelt of the fisher-boat, but means was made
for them to sit there.
But all this while, we are wide. For where is all this ?
Here upon earth. All our "above" is above one another
here, and is Ambition's above, and farther it mounteth not.
But this is not the Apostle's, not the " above " nor " the right
hand " he meaneth. No ; not Christ's right hand upon earth,
but that right hand He sits at Himself in heaven. The
Apostle saw clearly we would err this error ; therefore, to
take away, as he goes, all mistaking, he explains his " above "
two ways : Privative ; non quw supra terrain, hear you, " not
upon earth;" his "above" is not here upon earth. This is
•where not. Then Positive ; to clear it from all doubt where,
he points us to the place itself, "above," there "above,"
where Christ is, that is, " not on earth." Earth is the place
whence He is risen. The Angels tell us, non est hie : seek
Him not here now, but in the place whither He is gone, there
seek Him, in Heaven. Heaven is a great circle : ' where in
Heaven ? In the chiefest place, there where God sits, and
Christ at His right hand.
So that upon the matter, the fault He finds, the fault of our
"above" is, it is not above enough, it is too low, it is not so
high as it should be. It should be higher, above the hUls ;
higher yet, above the clouds ; higher yet, higher than our
eye can carry, above the heavens. There, now we are right.
And indeed the very frame of om- bodies, as the heathen
poet well observed, giveth thither, upward ; coeliimqiie tiieri
jiissit,- and bids us look thither. And that way should our
soul make ; it came from thence, and thither should it di-aw
again, and we do but bow and crook our souls, and make them
ciirfic ill terris niiimre,^ against their natui-e, when we hang
yokes on them, and set them to seek nothing but here below.
And if nature would have us no moles, grace would have
ns eagles, to mount " where the body is." And the Apostle
* "And the bramble said unto the trees, If in tmth ye anoint me
kinfi: over you, then come and put your trust in my shadow."
(Judges ix. 15.)
' Ovid's "Metamorphoses," book i., pp. 85, 86. The line, with its
context, was thus translated by George Sandys : —
*' The nobler creature, with a mind jxissest,
"Was wanting yet, that should command the rest.
That Maker, the best world's original,
Either him framed of seed celestial ;
Or Earth, which late he did from Heaven divide.
Some sacred seeds retained to Heaven allied.
Which with the living stream Prometheus mizt,
And in that artificial structure iixt
The fonn of all th' all-ruling Deities.
And whereas others see with downcast eyes.
He with a lofty look did Man indue
And bade him Heaven's transcendent glories view."
* Persius. Satu'e ii., line 61—
" O souls, in whom no heavenly fire is found,
Fat minds, and ever grovelling on the ground."
(Dryden'a Translation.)
goeth about to breed in us a holy ambition, telling us we are
ad altiura geniti, "bom for higher matters" than any here;
therefore not to be so base-minded as to admire them, but to
seek after things above. For, contrary to the philosopher's
sentence, Qwe supra noa nihil ad nos, "Things above they
concern us not," he reverses that ; yes, and we so too hold,
ea maxime ad nos, "they chiefly concern us."
That wa.s a sermon preached before King James.
Sir John Hariugton, best known as a good translator
of Ariosto, was a courtier under both Elizabeth and
James; he was bom in 1561, and died in 1G12. He
describes, in the course of a small book ^v^■itten in
1 608 for the pleasure of James's son, Prince Henry,
a sermon preached before Queen Elizabeth. The
book professed to sei-A'e as an addition to a volume
of great worth by Dr. Francis Godwin, " A Catalogue
of the Bishops of England since the fii-st planting
of Christianity in this Island, with an Histoi-y of
their lives and memorable actions." The fiither of
Francis Godwin, after .sharing the changes of fortune
common to church reformers under Henry VIII. ,
Edward VI., and Mary, had become Bishop of Bath
and Wells under Elizabeth, but displeased the queen
by taking a second wife. The son Francis, born, like
Harington, in 1561, was raised to a bishopric — that
of Llandatf — by Elizabeth, in recognition of the value
of his book upon the bishops. James translated him
in 1617 to Hereford. Sir- John Harington's "Brief
View of the State of the Church of England as it
stood in Queen Elizabeth's and King James's reign
to the year 1608" is further described on its title-
page as a " Character and History of the Bishops of
those times, which might serve as an addition to Dr.
Godwin's Catalogue of Bishops." It professes to have
been written for the private use of Prince Henry
upon occasion of that proverb,
" Henrj' the Eighth pulled down Monks and their Cells,
Henry the Ninth should puU down Bishops and their Bells."
But Prince Henry did not live to become Heniy the
Ninth. Sir John Harington's account of the bishops
he had known, or heard about, at Court makes a small
book rather of courtiers' small talk upon church
matters than of religion. Dr. Rudd, Bishop of St.
David's, coming in due turn to be gossiped about, we
have this account of
DR. RUDDS SERMON BEFORE QUEEN ELIZABETH.
St. David's hath yielded many excellent bishops, as well
for good learning as good life, and for abstinence miraculous,
if we believe stories that thirty-three bishops successively did
eat no flesh. I can add little of the bishops save of him that
now lives ; whom if I knew not, yet by his look I should
guess to be a grave and austere man, even like St. Da\-id
himself ; but knowing him as I do, he was in more possibility
to have proved like to St. John Baptist in my opinion. There
is almost none that waited in Queen Elizabeth's Court, and
observed anj-thing, but can tell, that it pleased her very much
to seem, to be thought, and to be told that she looked, young.
The majesty and gravity of a sceptre borae forty-four years
could not alter that nature of a woman in her. This not-
with.standing, this good bishop being appointed to preach
TO A.D, 1625.]
RELIGION.
241
before her in the Lent of the year 1596, the Court then lying
at Kichmond, wishing in a godly zeal, as well became him,
that she should think something of mortality, being then
sixty-three years of age, he took this text fit for that purpose
out of the Psalms, Psalm 90, verse 12, " So teach us to
number our days, that we may apply our hearts imto wis-
dom; " which text he handled so well, so learnedly, and so
respectively, as I dare undertake that most thought, and so
should I if I had not been somewhat better acquainted with
the humour, that it would have well pleased her, or at least
no way offended her. But when he had spoken awhile of
some sacred and mystical numbers, as three for the Trinity,
three times three for the heavenly Hierarchy, seven for the
Sabbath, and seven times seven for a Jubilee ; and lastly (I
do not deliver it so handsomely as he brought it in) seven
times nine for the grand climacterical year ' ; she, percei\-ing
whereto it tended, began to be troubled with it. The Bishop,
discovering all was not well, for the pulpit stands there vis a
> is to the closet, he fell to treat of some more plausible num-
jers, as of the number 666 making Latinus, with which, ho
said, he could prove the Pope to be Antichrist ; also of the
fatal number of 88, which being so long before spoken of for
a dangerous )-ear, yet it hath pleased God that year not onlj-
to preserve her, but to give her a famous Wctory against the
united forces of Rome and Spain. And so he s;iid there was
no doubt but she should pass this year also and many more,
if she would in her meditations and soliloquies with God, as
he doubted not she often did and woiild, saj- thus and thus :
So making indeed an excellent prayer by way of prosopopa>ia
in her Majesty's person, acknowledging God's great graces
and benefits, and prajTng devoutly for the continuance of
them, but withal interlarding it with some passages of Scrip-
ture that touch the infirmities of age, as that of Ecclesiastes
12, " ^Vhen the grinders shall be few in number, and they
wax dark that look out of the window, &c., and the daughters
of singing shall be abased : " and more to like purpose, he con-
cluded his Sermon. The Queen, as the manner was, opened
the window, but she was so far from giving him thanks or
good countenance that she said plainly he should have kept
his Arithmetic for himself, "but I see," said she, "the
greatest clerks are not the wisest men," and so went away for
the time discontented. The Lord Keeper Puckering, though
reverencing the man much in his particular, yet for the
present, to assuage the Queen's displeasure, commanded hini
to keep his house for a time, which he did. But of a truth
her Majesty showed no iU nature in this, for within three
days after she was not only displeased at his restraint, but in
my hearing rebuked a lady yet living for speaking scornf idly
of him and his sermon. Only, to show how the good Bishop
was deceived in supposing she was so decayed in her -limbs
> The dim<tcterical yenr, the a^e of 6-3, was spoken of in a letter of
Augustus Csesar (preserved by Aulus Gelliiis) as peculiarly dangerous.
This behef is said to have come down from Pythagoras. The word
is from the Greek K\ifiaicTt}f>, step of a staircase. It was held that all
the seventh years of life were climacterical, there being a change to a
new step at each multiple of seven. At the seventh hour after birth
it could be known whether a child would live ; at each multiple of
seven days, during early infancy, there was said to be a new step in
development. At 7 years, the milk-teeth are shed ; at 14, puberty
begins ; at 21, man is developed in length and acquires beard. &c. ; at
28 he has developed also in breadth, and is fully shaped ; at 3.5, he has
attained highest physical vigour ; at 42, he has the highest combina-
tion of physical with mental power ; at 49, seven times seven, his
mind is in its highest vigour, the man is fully ripe, and at his best.
The number 9 also marks mystical periods of change, and the multiple
of 7 and 9 becomes thus doubly a time marked for change, and is the
grand climacteric. Decay then begins, if the year be not fatal, and
the next multiple of 7 brings man to three score and ten, the limit of
luslife.
95
and senses as himself perhaps and others of that age were
wont to be, she said she thanked God that neither her stomach
nor strength, nor her voice for singing, nor fingering instru-
ments, nor lastly her sight, was any whit decayed. And to
prove the last before us all, she produced a little jewel that
had an inscription of very small letters, and offered at first to
mj' Lord of Worcester and then to Sir James Crofts to read,
and both professed l/ona fide that they could not, yet the
Queen herself did find out the poesie, and made herself merry
with the standers-by upon it. And thus much for St. Darid's.
We have glanced at the relation of James I. to
the question of his day between the Reformed Church
of England and the Roman Catholics. The Piu-itans
also at liLs accession sought relief from him. A peti-
tion, to which seven hundred and fifty ministers of
the Church gave their assent, and which, being suj>-
posed to represent the desire of a thousand of the
clergy, was called the Millenary Petition, was pre-
sented to him on his way from Scotland in 1603.
It sought the changes then most wished for by the
Puiitans. The two great Universities condemned
the petitioners. The king heard both sides in
a three days' conference at Hampton Court, after
making up his mind in private conclave ^v•ith one side
how far he would see reason in the pleadings of the
other. Richard Bancroft, who had been Bishop of
London since 1597, openly regarded the representa-
tives of Puritan opinion, Dr. John RaynolcLs and Dr.
Thomas Sparks, Professors of Divinity in Oxford,
and Mr. Chadderton and Mr. Knewstubs, of Cam-
bridge, as schismatics, whose mouths ought to be
stopped. When the argument touched freedom of
the Church in things indifferent, the king said, " I
will not argue with you, but answer as kings in
Pai-liament, Le Roy s'avisera. This is like Mr. John
Black, a beardless boy, who told me at the last con-
ference in Scotland that he would hold conformity
with me in doctrine, but that every man as to cere-
monies was to be left to his o-«-n lilierty, but I will
have none of that ; I -will have one doctrine, one dis-
cipline ; one religion in substance and ceremony.
Never speak more to that point, how far you are
bound to obey." Presently Dr. Raynolds asked for
a restoration of the " prophesj-ings," as in Giindal'-s
time ; and that questions not to be resolved by them
might be referred to the archdeacon's -visitation, and
from thence to the diocesan sjmod, where the bishop
with his presb}i;ei-s should determine such points as
were too difficult for the other meetings. Here the
king broke in mth the angiy exclamation that they
were aiming at a Scotch presbytery, " wliich agrees,"
he said, "-ivith monarchy as well as God and the
Ae\\\. Then Jack and Tom, Will and Dick shall
meet, and at then- pleasure censure both me and my
council. Therefore, pray stay one seven years before
you demand that of me, and if then you find me
pursy and fat, and my windpipe stuffed, I ^^■ill i)er-
haps hearken to you ; for let that government be up,
and I am sure I shall be kept in breath. But tiU
you find I grow lazy, pray let that alone. I i"e-
member how they used the poor lady, my mother, in
Scotland, and me in my minority." Then turning to
the bishops he put his hand to his hat and said, " My
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I
lords, I may thank you that these Pui-itans plead for
my supremacy, for "if once you are out and they in
place, I know what would become of my supremacy,
for, no bishop, no king. Well, doctor, have you any-
thing else to offer ?" Dr. Raynolds : " No more, if
it please your Majesty." Then rising from his chair,
the king said, " If this be all your party have to say,
I will make them conform, or I will harry them out
of this land, or else worse."
A few alterations in the Book of Common Prayer
were allowed at the Conference, and the king assented
to the ^vish for a new authorised version of the Bible,
provided it were without marginal notes. Of all the
translations, he said, that of Geneva was worst, be-
cause of the marginal notes which allowed disobe-
dience to kings.'
The king required of the Puritans by proclamation
absolute conformity. A book of canons for the bind-
ing of the clergy, containing 141 articles, was intro-
duced to the Upper House of Convocation by Dr.
Bancroft, and the good Dr. Rudd, that Bishop of St.
David's who so far forgot conventions feminine and
courtly as to remind Queen Elizabeth in a sermon of
the ominous number of her years, spoke generously
on the side of Christian charity. After suggesting
questions to which Puritans might ask him for his
answer, he said : —
I protest that all my speeches now are uttered by way of
proposition, not by way of opposition, and that they all tend
to work pacification in the Church ; for I put great difference
between what is lawful and what is expedient, and between
them that are schismatical and them that are scrupulous only
upon some ceremonies, being otherwise learned, studious,
grave, and honest men.
Concerning these last, I suppose, if upon the urging them
to absolute subscription they should be stiff, and choose rather
to forego their livings and the exercise of their ministry,
though I do not justify their doings herein, j'et surely their
service will be missed at such a time as need shall require us
and them to give the right hand of fellowship one to another,
and to go ann in arm against the common adversary.
Likewise consider who must be the executioners of their
deprivation : even we oiu'sclves, the bishops ; against whom
there wiU be a great clamour of them and their dependents,
a,nd many others who are well affected towards them, whereby
our persons will be in hazard to be brought into extreme dis-
like or hatred.
Also remember that when the Benjamites were all de-
stroyed, saving six hundred, and the men of Israel swore in
their fury that none of them would give his daughter to the
Benjamites to wife, though they suffered for their just deserts,
yet their brethren afterwards lamented, and said, " There is
one tribe cut off from Israel this day ; " and they used all their
wits, to the uttermost of their policy, to restore that tribe
again.
In like sort, if these our brethren aforesaid shall be de-
prived of their places for the matter premised, I think we
should find cause to bend our wits to the utmost extent of our
skill to provide some cure of souls for thein, that they may
exercise their talents.
* A note often quoted against the Geneva version was that to verse
16 of the 15th chapter of the Second Book of Chronicles, where upon
Asa's deposing of liis mother Maachah for idolatry, the marginal note
says that he should not only have deposed her, but killed her.
Furthei-more, if these men, being divers hundreds, should
forsake their charges, who, I pray you, should succeed them 'i
Verily, I know not where to find so many able preachers in
this realm unprovided for ; but suppose there were, yet they
mi"-ht more conveniently be settled in the seats of unpreach-
in" ministers. But if they are put in the places of these men
that are dispossessed, thereupon it will follow — 1. That the
number of preaching ministers will not be multiplied. 2.
The Church cannot be so well furnished on a sudden ; for
though the new supply may be of learned men from the
Universities, yet wiU they not be such ready preachers for a
time, nor so experienced in pastoral government, nor so well
acquainted with the manners of the people, nor so discreet in
their carriage, as those who have already spent many years
in their ministerial charge.
Dr. Rudd was answered by Bancroft and others,
and was not allowed to reply to them. Bancroft at
the Hampton Court Conference had knelt and peti-
tioned the king for a praying ministry, saying that
the service of the Church had been neglected since
preaching had come into fashion. Besides, he had
said, pulpit harangues are dangerous; and humbly
moved that the number of homilies might be in-
creased, and tliat the clergy might be obliged to read
them instead of sermons, in which many vented theii-
spleen against their superiors. It was not likely,
therefore, that Bancroft paid much heed to the plea
that there would be fewer efficient preachers if the
Puritans were forced out of the Church. In December,
1604, Richard Bancroft succeeded John Whitgift as
Archbishop of Canterbury, and continued to support
the policy of the Crown until his death in 1610.
His severe repression of the Puritans obliged many
to separate from the Clmrch ; but his successor in
1610, Dr. George Abbot, greatly i-elaxed the enforce-
ment of laws levelled against Puritan opinion, and
spent all his zeal in battle against those who gave
allegiance to the Pope.
It was in the firet year of Dr. Abbot's primacy
that the translation of the Bible authorised by
James I., and since used in the English churches, was
completed and published. It had been suggested by
the Puritansin the Hampton Court Conference, and
assented to on condition that it kept as near as
possible to the Bishops' Bible, left the Biblical names
and the division into chapters untouched, used the
old ecclesiastical words — as " church," not " con-
gregation " — and had no side-notes, except for the ex-
plaining of a Hebiew or Greek word. The work was
begun in 1606, and carried out by forty-seven trans-
lators, pai-ted into six companies, who divided the
work among them. All being finished and revised,
the authorised vereion of the Bible was published in
1611 in a massive volume, having been seen through
the j)i-ess by Dr. Miles Smith and Dr. Thomas Bilson,
Bishop of Winchester. Bilson had been Winchester
born, Winchester bred, and Master of Winchester
School, before ending his life in 1616 as Bishop of
Winchester. Dr. Miles Smith, Bilson's fellow-editor,
was canon residentiary of liis native town of Here-
ford. It was he who ^vl■ote the " Preface " to the
new version, and in the following year, 1612, he
was made Bishoj) of Gloucester. He died in the
year 1624.
I
TO A.D. 1611.]
EELIGIOK
243
Close follo^ving of the Bishops' version, which
itself kept iii view the preeecliug translations, pro-
duced in Kins James's Bible a tine blendLnff of the
work of all who had fii-st laboured with intense
devotion to bring home to every Englishman the
Word of God. Its forty-seven translatore were at
work when Shakespeare was in the full noon of his
genius, and 'WTote King Lear. There was intense
life behind them, and about them ; and in the midst
of strife as to the best form of cluu-ch, they pro-
duced a Bible from which God has spoken to the
hearts of Englishmen of every creed, in a book un-
clouded by ephemeral dispute, tlirough words that
give then- dignity to every speech -w-ith which thej'
blend, while they sustain, fii-mly as human language
may, the hearts which they have lifted to the love
of God and man.
In 1610, the year before the publication of the
authorised version of the Bible, Giles Fletcher pub-
lished a religious poem called " Christ's Victory and
Triumph," in Four Books celebrating Christ's Victory
(I.) In Heaven, (II.) On Earth ; and His Triumph
(III.) Over Death, and (IV.) After Death. The
brothers Phineas and Giles Fletcher, fii-st cousins to
John Fletcher the dramatist, were sons of Giles
Fletcher, LL.D., author of a book on Russia, who
mamed in 1.580, at Cranbrook, in Kent. Phineas
was the elder brother, but Giles was the first to
pubKsh ; so that GUes Fletcher's " Christ's Victory "
appeared in the reign of James I., and Phineas
Fletcher's " Purple Island " was not published until
the reign of Charles I. Giles Fletcher was at
TiTnity College, Cambridge, when he wrote liis poem.
He passed to the degree of B.D. there, and was
still at Cambridge in the year 1617. He became
Rector of Alderton, a ^dllage on the coast of Suffolk,
seven miles from Woodbridge, and there he died
in 1623.
The measure of Giles Fletcher's poem is suggested
by Spenser, and is not Spenserian. For five lines the
stanza follows Spenser's model, and then it is finished
with a new rhyme in triplet, ending with an Alexan-
drine. Giles Fletcher's measure is very inferior to
Spenser's. His brother Phineas afterwards, in the
" Pui-jile Island," improved it by striking out the
fifth line, but neither of the brothers can be said to
have been happy in the invention of a stanza that
should remind readei-s of Spenser and yet not
be his.
Tlie fii-st part of Giles Fletcher's poem — " Clu-ist's
Victory in Heaven " — sings of the pleadings in
heaven of Mercy and Justice for and against the
cause of man. The pleading is like in concejition to
that in Robert Grosseteste's " Chastean d'Amoiu-,"'
but poetically elaborated, with pleasant influences of
Spenser sho'sving themselves even through the taint
of the Later Euphuism on a young -wi-iter's style.
Giles Fletcher thus represents Justice closing her plea
against man : —
^ See the note on page 54.
" His strength 'i 'Tis dust :— His pleasure 'i Cause of pain :
His hope? False courtier :— Youth or beauty?
Brittle :
Intreaty ;- Fond :— Repentance ? Late and vain :
Just recompence ? The world were all too little :
Thy love ? He hath no title to a tittle :
Hell's force ? In vain her furies Hell shall gather :
His servants, kinsmen, or his children rather ?
His child (if good) shall judge; (if bad) shaU curse his
father.
" His life ? That brings him to his end, and leaves him :
His end ? That leaves him to begin his woe :
His goods ? 'WTiat good in that which so deceives him :
His gods of wood ? Their feet, alas ! are slow
To go to help, which must be help'd to go :
Honours, great worth ? Ah ! little worth they be
Unto their owners : — Wit ? That makes him see,
He wanted i,^-it, who thought he had it, wanting Thee.
" 'S^Tiat need I urge, what they must needs confess ?
Sentence on them, condemn' d by their own lust ;
I crave no more, and Thou canst give no less.
Than death to dead men, justice to imjust ;
Shame to most shameful, and most shameless dust :
But if Thy Mercy needs will spare her friends.
Let Mercy there begin, where Justice ends.
'Tis cruel Mercy, that the wrong from right defends.
" She ended, and the heav'nl}- hierarchies.
Burning with zeal, now quickly marshall'd were ;
Like to an army that alarum cries,
^^Tien ev'ry one doth shake his dreadful spear ;
And the Almighty's self, as He would tear
The earth and her firm basis quite asunder,
Flam'd all in just revenge, and mighty thunder;
Heav'n stole itself from earth, by clouds that gather'd
under."
Upon the indictment of Justice followed in heaven
the plea of Mercy, who looked do^^^l upon Repent-
ance and Faith, both also personified. For man,
pleaded Mercy,
" He was but dust, why fcar'd he not to fall ?
And being faU'n, how can he hope to live ?
Cannot the hand destroy him, that made aU ?
Could He not take away, as well as give ?
Shoidd man deprave, and shall not God deprive ?
AVas it not aU the world's deceii-ing spirit,
(That, puffed up with pride of his own merit.
Fell in his rise) that him of heav'n did disinherit.
" He was but dust : how could he stand before Him ?
And being faU'n, why should he fear to die ?
Cannot the hand that made him first, restore him ?
Depraved by sin, should he deprived lie
Of grace ': — Can He not hide infirmity,
■UTio gave him strength ? Unworthy the forsaking
He is, who ever weighs, without mistaking.
Or maker of the man, or manner of his making.
' ' 'Who shall bring incense to Thy temple more ?
Or on Thy altar cro\\-n the sacrifice :
Or strew with idle flow'rs the hallow'd floor ;
Or why shoidd prayer deck with herbs and spice
Her rials, breathing orisons of price i
244
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
I.A.D. 1610.
If all must pay, that which all cannot pay ?
Oh ! first begin with me, and Mercy flay.
And Thy thrice-honour'd Son, who now beneath doth stray.
" But if or He or I may live and speak.
And heav'n rejoice to see a sinner weep,
Oh 1 let not Justice' iron sceptre break
A heart already broke, that low doth creep,
And with humility her feet's dust doth sweep.
Must all go by desert ? is nothing free ?
Ah ! if but those, who only worthy be ;
None should Thee ever see, none should Thee ever see !
" What hath man done, that man shall not undo.
Since God to him is grown so near akin ?
Did his foe slay him ?— He shall slay his foe :
Hath he lost all ?— Ho all again shall win :
Is sin his master ? — He shall master sia :
Too hardy soul, with sin the field to try ;
The only way to conquer, was to fly :
But thus long death hath liv'd, and now death's seU
shall die.
" Christ is a path, — if any be misled ;
He is a robe, — if any naked be ;
If any chance to hunger, — He is bread ;
If any be a bondman, — He is free ;
If any be but weak, — how strong is He ?
To dead men, life He is ; to sick men, health ;
To blind men, sight : and to the needy, wealth ;
A pleasure without loss ; — a treasure without stealth."
Mercy dwelt then upon tlie early life of Christ on
earth.
" With that the mighty thunder dropt away
From God's outstretched arm ; now milder grown
And melted into tears, — as if to pray
For pardon, and for pity, it had known, —
Which should have been for sacred vengeance thrown :
Thereto th' angelic armies all had vow'd
Their former rage : — but all to Mercy bow'd.
And broken weapons at her feet, they gladly strow'd.
" Bring, bring, ye Graces, all your silver flaskets,
Painted with every choicest flower that grows.
That I may soon unload your fragrant baskets,
To strew the fields with odours, where He goes ;
Let whatsoe'er Ho treads on be a rose !
So down she let her eyelids fall, to shine
Upon the rivers of bright Palestine ;
Whose woods drop honey, and her rivers flow with wine."
So ends Giles Fletcher's first book with Mercy's
Victory through Christ iir Heaven. The song descends
in the second book to Earth, and follows Christ
thi'ough the Temptation in the Wilderness. Christ
is described, and the beasts of the wilderness at peace
about Him, then the approach of Satan, thus : —
"At length an aged sire far off He saw
Come slowly footing ; ev'ry step he guess'd,
One of his feet he from the grave did draw ;
Three legs he had, that made of wood, was best ;
And aU the way he went, he ever blest
With benedictions, and with prayers store ;
But the bad ground was blessed ne'er the more :
And all his head with snow of age was waxen hoar.
"A good old hermit he now seem'd to be,
AVho for devotion had the world forsaken,
And now was travelling some saint to see,
Since to his beads he had himself betaken,
Where all his former sins he might awaken,
And them might wash away with tears of brine,
And alms, and fasts, and churches' discipline ;
And dead, might rest his bones under the holy shrine.
" But when he nearer came, he bowed low
With prone obeisance, and with court'sy kind,
That at his feet his head he seem'd to throw :
What need he now another saint to find ?
Affections are the sails, and faith the wind
That to this saint a thousand souls convey
Each hour : happy pUgrims thither stray !
What care they for the beasts, or for the weary way ?
" Soon the old palmer his devotions simg.
Like pleasing anthems, mod'lated in time ;
For well that aged sire could tip his tongue
With golden foil of eloquence, and rhj-me.
And smooth his rugged speech with phi-ases prime.
' Ay me ! ' quoth he, ' how many years have been.
Since these old eyes the sun of heav'n have seen !
Certes the Son of heav'n, they now behold I ween.
" 'Ah, might my humble cell so blessed be !
As Heaven to welcome in its lowly roof ;
And be the temple for Thy Deity !
Lo ! how my cottage worships Thee aloof ;
That under ground hath hid its head in proof
It doth adore Thee, with the ceiling low.
Here 's milk and honey ; and here chestnuts grow ;
The boughs a bed of leaves upon Thee shall bestow.
" ' But oh 1' he said, and therewith sigh'd full deep,
' The heav'ns, alas ! too envious are grown.
Because our fields Thy presence from them keep ;
For stones now grow, where com was lately sown :
(So stooping down, he gather'd up a stone)
But Thou with com canst make this stone to ear:
What need we then the angry heav'ns to fear 'i
Let them envy us still, so we enjoy Thee here.'
" Thus on they wander'd ; but those holy weeds
A monstrous serpent, and not man do cover ;
So under greenest herbs the adder feeds :
And round about that loathsome corpse did hover
The dismal prince of gloomy night ; and over
His ever-damned head the shadows err'd
Of thousand peccant ghosts, unseen, unheard ;
And aU the t)Tant fears, and all the tjTant fear'd.
" He was the son of blackest Acheron,
Where many danmed souls loud wailing lie ;
And rul'd the burning waves of Phlegethon,
Where many more in flaming sulphur ivy ;
At once compell'd to live, and forc'd to die :
Where nothing can be heard, but the sad cry
Of oh ! alas ! and oh ! alas ! that I
Or once again might live, or once at length might die !
i.e. 1610.]
RELIGION.
245
I
" Ere long they came near to a baleful bow'r,
Much like the mouth of that infernal cave,
"Which gaping stood aU comers to devour ;
Dark, doleful, dreary, like a greedy grave,
That still for carrion carcases doth crave.'
The ground no herbs but venomous did bear ;
The trees aU leafless stood ; and ev'ry where
Dead bones and skulls were cast, and bodies hanged were."
This is the cave of Despaii- in which Satan would
persuade C'hi-ist to make His home in the wilderness;
:uid Giles Fletcher does not shrink from a description
of it in the manner of Spenser, though it provokes
compai'ison with one of the tiiiest passages in the
"Faerie Queene."
" Within the gloomy den of this pale wight.
The serpent woo'd him with his charms, to inn ;
That he might bait by day, and rest by night ;
But under that same bait, a fearful gin -
Was ready to entangle Him in sin :
But He upon ambrosia daQy fed.
That grew in Eden, thus he answered ;
So both away were caught, and to the Temple fled.
" Well knew our Saviour this the serpent was ;
And the old serpent knew our Sa\'iour well ;
Kever did any this in falsehood pass ;
Xever did any Him in truth excel :
With Him we fly to heav'n ; from heav'n we fell
With this : — but now they both together met
Tpon the sacred pinnacle, that threat
With its aspiring top Astrea's starry seat."
Over the temple among the stars Presumption
spi"ead her pavOion. She is described allegorically,
and then, we are told,
" Gently our Saviour she began to task,
Whether he were the Son of God, or no ;
For any other she disdain'd to ask ;
And if He were, she bid Him fearless throw
Himself to ground, and therewithal did show
A tUght of little angels that await,
r'pon their glittering wings to catch Him straight,
And longed on their backs to feel His glorious weight.
" But when she saw her speech prevailed nought.
Herself she tumbled headlong to the floor :
But Him the angels on their feathers caught.
And to a lofty mountain swiftly bore :
Whose snowy shoulders, like some chalkj' shore,
Eestless Olympus seem'd to rest upon.
With all his swimming globes : — so both are gone,
The dragon with the Lamb. — Ah, unmeet paragon!
" All suddenly the hill his snow devours ;
Instead of which a goodly garden grew,
As if the snow had melted into fiow'rs,
Wliich their sweet breath in subtle vapours threw.
That all around perfumed spirits flew :
* Darfc, doJefuJ, &c. These two lines are quoted from Spenser's de-
Bcription of the cave of Despair. (" Faerie Queene," Bk. I., canto is.,
St. 33.1 Spenser's description beginning with that stanza has been
quoted on pages 208, 209, 210.
* Gi'ji, contrivance, snare. From " ingenium ; " French "engin."
For whatsoever might aggrate '■' the sense
In all the world, or please the appetence,
Here it was poured out in lavish affluence."
This garden is painted, and its mistress, Vain
Delights, in stanzas inspii-ed by the second book oi
the " Faerie Queene," and recalling Spenser's descrip-
tion of Acrasia in the Bower of BHss. Here Pan-
gloretta is a Cii-ce ; here sit they who drink mth
laughing Bacchus ; here are Avarice and Ambition.
Pangloretta .seeks to win the Saviour with a song,
of which these are the last lines : —
' ' Every thing doth pass away.
There is danger in delay.
Come, come, gather then the rose.
Gather it, or it you lose.
All the sand of Tagus shore.
Into my bosom casts his ore.
All the valley's ripen'd com.
To my house is yearly borne.
Eveiy grape of every vine.
Is gladly bruis'd to make me wine.
Whilst ten thousand kings, as proud
To carrj- up my train, have bow'd :
And the stars in heav'n that shine.
With ten thousand more are mine."
The Enchantress finding her .spells vain, betakes
hei-self to hell, and angels feed theii- Lord, who
has achieved the Victory over the temptations ot
Earth.
The thii'd part of Giles Fletcher's poem sings oi
the death of Christ, whereby Death itself was swal
lowed up in victory. Thus Joseph of Aiimathef-
closes his lament at the burial of C'luist : —
" ' Thus spend we tears, that never can be spent,
On Him, that sorrow never more shaU see :
Thus send we sighs, that never can be sent.
To Him that died to live, and would not be.
To be there where he would. — Here bury we
This heav'nly earth, here let it softly sleep,
The fairest Shepherd of the fairest sheep.'
So all the body kiss'd, and homewards went to weep.
" So home their bodies went, to seek repose.
But at the grave they left theii- souls behind ;
Oh, who the force of love celestial knows !
That can the chains of nature's self imbind,
Sending the body home, without the mind.
Ah, blessed Virgin 1 what high angel's art
Can ever count thy tears, or sing thy smart.
When every naU that pierced Him, did pierce thy heart ?
" So Philomel, perch' d on an aspen sprig,
Weeps all the night her lost virginity ;
And sings her sad tale to the listening twig,
That dances at such joj-ful miser}- :
Nor ever lets sweet rest invade her eye.
But leaning on a thorn her dainty chest.
For fear soft sleep should steal into her breast.
Expresses in her song, grief not to be expre.st.
3 Agt^rate, bring pleasure to.
246
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1610
" So when the lark, poor bird ! afar espies
Her yet unfeather'd children (whom to save
She strives in vain) slain hy the fatal scythes
Which from the meadow the green grass doth shave ;
That their warm nest is now become their grave :
The woful mother up to heaven springs,
And all about her plaintive notes she flings,
And their untimely fate most pitifully sings."
These are the hist lines of the thii-d laook ; the
fourth smgs of the Triumph After Death, the Eesiu--
rection and Ascension into Heaven.
" Lift up your heads, ye everlasting gates,
And let the Prince of glory enter in !
At whose high pa>an 'mongst sidereal states,
The sun did blush, the stars aU dim were seen,
When springing first from earth, He did begin
To soar on angels' wings. — Then open hang
Your crystal doors. — So all the chorus sang
Of heav'nly birds, as to the skies they nimbly sprang.
" Hark ! how the floods clap their applauding hands ;
The pleasant valleys singing for delight ;
And lofty mountains dance about the lands ;
The while the fields, struck with the heav'nly light,
Set all their flow'rs a smiling at the sight ;
The trees laugh with their blossoms ; and the sound
Of the tiiumphiint shouts of praise, that crown'd
The Lamb of C4od, rising to heaven, hath passage found.
"Forth sprang the ancient patriarchs, all in haste,
To see the pow'rs of hell in triiunph led,
And with small stars a garland interlac'd
Of olive leaves they bore, to crown His head.
That was before with thorns so injured :
After them flew the prophets, brightly stol'd
In shining lawn, with foldings manifold :
Striking their ivory harps, all strung vdth chords of gold.
"To which the saints victorious carols sung;
Ten thousand strike at once, that with the sound,
The hollow vaults of heaven for triumph rung :
The cherubines their music did confound
With all the rest, and dapp'd their wings around :
Down from their thrones the dominations flow,
And at His feet their crowns and sceptres throw ;
And all the princely souls fell on their faces low.
" Nor can the martyrs' wounds stay them behind.
But out they rush amongst the heavenly crowd,
Seeking their heaven, out of their heaven to find ;
Sounding their silver tmmpets out so loud,
That the shriU noise broke thi'ough the starrj' cloud ;
And all the virgin souls in white array,
Came dancing forth, and making joyous play ;
So Him they thus conduct unto the courts of day.
•' Now Him they brought imto the realms of bliss,
Where never war, nor wounds, await Him more ;
For in that place abides etei-nal peace :
Where many souls amved long before,
Whose lives were full of troubles great and sore,
But now, estrnngcd from all misery,
As far as hcav'n and hell asunder lie ;
And ev'iy joy is crown'd with immortality.
" Gaze but upon the house, where man doth live,
With flow'rs and verdure to adorn his way :
Where aU the creatures due obedience give ;
The winds to sweep his chambers every day,
And clouds that wash his rooms ; the ceiling gay
With gUtt'ring stars, that night's dark empire brave :
If such an house God to another gave.
How shine those splendid courts He for Himself wUl have."
From struggling to sing of the glory and the love
in heaven, Giles Fletcher descends tenderly to close
his poem with a thought of human love. His elder
brother Pliiiieas has wi-itten abeady some pastorals,
and Giles looks up to him and yields to him the
praise, as one who could liud fitter music for so high
a theme.
" But let the Kentish lad, that lately taught
His oaten reed the trumpet's silver sound,
Young ThjTsUis ; and for his music brought
The willing spheres from heav'n to lead around
The dancing nymphs and swains, that sung, and
crown'd
Eclecta's hymen with ten thousand flow'rs
Of choicest praise ; and hung her heav'nly bow'rs
With saffron garlands, dress'd for nuptial paramours ;
" Let his shriU trumpet, with her silver blast,
Of fair Eclecta and her spousal bed.
Be the sweet pipe, and smooth encomiast :
But my green Muse, hiding her younger head.
Under old Camus' flaggy banks, that spi'ead
Their willow locks abroad, and all the day
With their own wat'ry shadows wanton play.
Dares not those high amours and love-sick songs assay.
" Impotent words, weak lines, that strive in vain ;
In vain, alas, to tell so heav'nlj' sight !
So heav'nly sight, as none can greater feign.
Feign what he can, that seems of greatest might:
Could any yet compare with Infinite ?
Infinite sure those joys ; my words but light ;
Light is the palace where she dwells. — then, how
bright ! "
So ends in Heaven the tiiie-hearted work of the
young poet. Giles Fletcher's age when he wrote this
could hardly have been more than twenty-five.
Joshua Sylvester, who in the latter days of Eliza^
betli obtained the first place among translators of
the French Protestant poems of Du Bartas, on the
Creation of the Worlcl, and other sacred themes,
continued to translate and write in the reign of
James I. These are some of his versified thoughts
gathered under the head of " Spectacles " — " to dis-
cern the AVorld's Vanity, Levity, and Brevity : " —
Avis et Navis.
As in the air th' high soaring Eagle scuds :
As on the water slides the winged Ship :
So flies, so flits, the wealth of worldly goods ;
So swift away doth wanton pleasure slip.
TO A.D. 161+.]
RELIGION.
247
And as we cannot, in the air or water,
See the Ship's furrow nor the Eagle's footing :
'S\Tien Wealth is past, and Pleasure posted after,
To track their trace, nor is nor can be booting.
Dulce Veneiiit})!, vel sibi ItetUns.
■WTiy wail'st thou, fondling ? and why weep you, fair ?
Sighing your souls into the senseless air ?
Blame but yourselves : Desire is your disease :
Your pain proceeds from what yourselves doth please.
Your chief content is in our torment's top :
Your most delight is in your most diseasing ;
You drink you drunk in the sweet-bitter cup
Which soura your joys, and makes annoys so pleasing.
Aqua, Sagittcs, Venti.
Swiftly Water sweepeth by :
Swifter winged Arrows fly :
Swiftest yet, the Wind that passes
When the nether clouds it chases.
But the joys of earthly minds,
Worldly Pleasures, vain Delights,
Far outswift for sudden flights
Waters, Arrows, and the Winds.
Soriiii.
The World's a garden; Pleasures are the flowers;
Of fairest hues, in form and number many ;
The lily first, pure whitest flower of any.
Rose sweetest rare, with pinked gilliflowers.
The violet and double marigold.
And pansy too : but, after all mischances.
Death's winter comes, and Idlls with sudden cold
Rose, Uly, violet, marigold, pink, pansies.
Glacifs.
He that makes the World his nest.
Settling here his only rest ;
Never craving other scope.
Never having higher hope :
What thinks, think you, such a one ?
This : to sit secure upon
A baU of ice, a slippery bowl,
Which on the seas doth ever roll.
Helium cum Vitiis.
One day I saw the World in furious fight
With lovely Virtue, his most loathed foe :
It dared her ; she bravely did defy 't ;
It entered lists ; she first had entered though.
It traverses, it toQs, it hews, it hacks ;
But all in vain, his blows come never nigh her :
For the World's weapons are but Ij'thie ' wax.
And Virtue's shield is of celestial fire.
Quasi noH Uteris.
Oh, happy he, can be so highly wise
As not to know the vain and \-icious pleasures
The vicious take when the)- will take their leisures.
Which so besot their souls and blind their eyes !
Oh, happy he, that can disdain, and deem
Those pleasures poisons, and that honey gall !
But who can so ? He that, contemning all.
Lives in the World, and not the World in him.
1 Lj/fhic, soft. First-Englisli "lithe," tender, mild, soft.
Sonlescit et Surdcscit.
Stay, Worldling, stay : whither away so fast ?
Hark, hark a while to Virtue's coimsels current!
No, no, alas I After the World in haste
He hies, flies, follows ; as a rapid torrent
Too proudly swelling with some fresh supply
Of liquid silver from the welkin gushing,
31y warning, as a rock, he roUeth by,
With roai-ing murmur, sudden over-rushing.
'Tis but vanity and foUy
On the world to settle wholly.
All the joys of aU this Hfe
Are but toys, annoys, and strife.
O God, only wise and stable.
To establish me in Thee,
Give me. Thou that art all-able.
Wisdom with true constancy.
Nicholas Breton," wlio began to sing in the reign
of Elizabeth, wi-ote veree and prose throughout the
reign of James. A poem of his produced in 1614,
called " I Would and Would not," of which the only
known copy i.s in the Bodleian Librai-y at Oxford, is
in a strain of which these stanzas show the character:
I WOULD AND I WOULD NOT.
I would I were a man of greatest power
That sways a sceptre on this world's great mass,
That I might sit on top of Pleasure's tower.
And make my will my way, where'er I pass.
That Law might have her being from my breath.
My smile might be a life, my frown a death.
And yet I would not : for then, do I fear.
Envy or malice would betray my trust :
And some vile spirit, though against the hair,'
Would seek to lay mine honour in the dust.
Treason or murther would beset me so,
I should not know who were my friend or foe.
No, I do rather wish the low estate.
And be an honest man of mean degree ;
Be loved for good, and give no cause of hate.
And climb no higher than a hawthorn tree ;
Pay even,' man his own, give reason right.
And work aU day, and take my rest at night.
For sure in courts are worlds of costly cares
That cumber reason in his course of rest ;
Let me but learn how thrift both spends and spares,
And make enough as good as any feast ;
And fast, and pray my days may have good end.
And welcome all tiiat pleaseth God to send.
2 Nicholas Breton. See " Shorter English Poems," page 244. Mr.
Grosart in his " Chertsey Library " is first to coUect and edit Breton's
works.
3 Against the hair, against the natiiral disposition of things, as in a
fur stroked the wrong way. So in the " MeiTy Wives of Windsor"
(Act II., sc. 3) Shallow says to Dr. Cains of his projwsed duel with
Sir Hugh Evans, " If you should fight you go against the hair of your
professions." The phrase was common, and in Elisha Coles's Latin
Dictionary (1677) was rendered " Invito. Uinerci ; arersante naturd."
248
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1615
Tlie Would and Would Not are in this way carried
on tlirough all changes of life. I would and would
not be the faii'est of creatures, be mad, be fiddler,
tliief, juggler, miJler, tailor, park-keeper, collier,
giirdener, perfect painter, merchant, physician, her-
balist, astronomer, civil lawyer, scrivener, trader,
broker, and so forth.
No, I would not bo any one of these,
Nor any of this wretched world's delight :
I would not so my spirit's comfort leese
To have mine eyes bewitcht from heavenly light.
No, I would have another world than this,
■Where I would seek for my Eternal BUss,
And till I come unto that glorious place
Where all contents do overcome the heart.
And love doth live in everlasting grace,
While greatest joy doth feel no smallest smart,
But God is all in all to his beloved
The sweet of souls, that sweetest souls have proved.
This would I be, and would none other be
But a religious servant of my God,
And know there is none other God but He,
And willingly to suffer Mercy's rod,
Joy in His grace, and live but in His love.
And seek my bUss but in the Heavens above.
The poem then closes with a picture of religious
life in the foi-m of a prayer, in which Breton " would
read the rules of sacred life " to all estates of men.
Among the little prose books of Nicholas Breton
was one published in 1615, and dedicated to Francis
Bacon, entitled " Characters upon Essays, Moi-al
and Divine." The writing of characters in an inge-
nious and pithy form was a fashion of the day. Ben
Jonson's play of " Eveiy Man out of His Humour "
abounded with such plays of wit, and Sii- Thomas
Ovei-bury was in liigh repute as a character wi-itei-.
Breton's characters in this collection were not of men,
but of these qualities or states, — Wisdom, Learning,
Knowledge, Practise, Patience, Love, Peace, War,
Valour, Resolution, Honour, Truth, Time, Death,
Faith and Fear. This was his character of
PEACE.
Peace is a calm in conceit, where the senses take pleasure
in the rest of the spirit. It is Nature's holiday after the
Reason's labour, and Wisdom's music in the concords of the
nund. It is a blessing of Grace, a bounty of Mercy, a proof
of Love, and a preson'cr of Life. It holds no arguments,
knows no quarrels, is an enemy to sedition and a continuer of
amity. It is the root of plenty, the tree of pleasure, the
fruit of love, and the sweetness of life. It is like the still
night, where all things are at rest ; and the quiet sleep where
dreams are not troublesome; or the resolved point, in the
perfection of k-nowledge, where no cares nor doubts make
controversies in opinion. It needs no watch, where is no
fear of enemy ; nor solicitor of causes, where agreements are
concluded. It is the intent of law, and the fruit of justice ;
the end of war, and the beginning of wealth. It is a grace
in a court, and a glory in a kingdom ; a blessing in a family,
and a happiness in a commonwealth. It fiUs the rich man's
cofEers, and feeds the poor man's labour. It is the wise man's
study and the good man's joy. "V\Tio love it, are gracious;
who make it, are blessed ; who keep it are happy ; and who
break it, miserable. It hath no dwelling with idolatry, nor
friendship with falsehood ; for her life is in Truth, and in her
aU is Amen. But lest, in the justice of Peace, I may rather
be reproved for my ignorance of her work than thought
worthy to speak in her praise, with this only conclusion I
win draw to an end and hold my peace : It was a message
of joy at the birth of Christ ; a song of joy at the embrace-
ment of Christ; an assurance of joy at the death of Christ;
and shall be the fulness of joy at the coming of Christ.
John Hayward, who incurred suspicion Ln Eliza-
beth's reign by dedicating (in 1599) his liistory of
the deposition of Richard and fir.st year of the reign
of Henry IV. to the Earl of Essex, was knighted by
King James in 1619, the year after the publication
of his devotional book called the "Sanctuarie of a
Troubled Soule." The author says in his dedication
to the Archbishop of Canterbury that " as we shall
be much accountable for all our time, but for our best
time most of all," he has endeavoured for many
years "to employ some hours of those days that are
specially appointed for the service of God to the best
exercises of Religion that I could. Out of these
exercises this work hath been raised by degi-ees."
In an Advertisement to the Reader concerning the
use of liis devotions, the author says we are more
feelingly affected ■svith that which is unpleasant than
with that which is delightfid. Fear, he says, is a
most powerful passion, wherefore God hath more used
threats than j^romises. St. Paul exhorteth us to make
an end of our salvation with fear and trembling.
David terms fear the beginning of wisdom, and Job
calleth it wisdom itself. When we think of the last
times we have no will to offend ; wherefore he who
feareth the Lord shall not fear any e\'il, and He will
fulfil the desu-es of them that fear Him. We cai-e
much to heal diseases of the body, and neglect those
of the soul, whose medicine is in meditation upon tlie
last things. The physician who brings to the sick
such medicine should not so deliver it as to provoke
loathing, but, like the physician, gild his bitter piUs.
" When Diogenes did trample with his filthy feet upon the
furniture of Plato's chamber, afiirming that he did tread
down Plato's pride : Yea, answered Plato, but with a greater
pride. So these, in the affectation of their barren baseness,
wiU beat down with unsavourj' scorn that which they esteem
affectation, cither for aptness of words or order of matter, in
other men's pains. But with three things men do especially
persuade — with truth of matter, with example of life, and
with fit sobriety of speech : for Truth findeth more easy
entrance when it conicth both armed with her own force, and
adorned with the furniture both of life and speech. And as
one who walketh in the sun for pleasure may be tainted with
the heat thereof before he retire, so they who are drawn by
delight into these cogitations, may thereby take the touch o2
a more deep impression."
The physician who brings such medicine should
appeal also to the i-eason with regard to the profit
that comes of its use. For such profit, Sir John.
Hayward says, men's reason has induced them to
TO A.D. leat.i
RELIGION.
249
take the dung of men, horses, wolves, clogs, asses,
boars, sows, hares, mice, swallows, hens, doves, geese,
against various diseases, and Galen entitled one
chapter of his book of Simples KiJirpos, which signifies
Dung. When such things — and more as repulsive
that are here recited — men will swallow if told
that it will profit their bodies, " insomuch as the
using of these helps to lengthen our life is many
times a means to hasten our death ; shall we be so
nice, or rather negligent, that our courage cannot
climb over a few difficulties in meditating upon those
things which will be an occasion, so sm'ely, so safely,
both to purge and preserve our souls from sin."
And if no reasons can stir up oiu- reason to leave
all and follow Christ, and dwell on the last things,
" then the last remedy only remains : by often exer-
cise to acquaint our nature with them ; and, as one
who maketh a fii-e of green wood, not to be tired with
blowing until our devotion be set on flame." At
fii'st these exercises of devotion are neither pleasant
nor easy; "yet by our persistence and the assistance
of God, who is more strong and liberal than we can
either ask or understand, they wOl in short time
seem unto us veiy easy and pleasant, and in the
mean season not only maintain, but increase our
strength for continuance in that happy course."
This is the author's argument as to the use of his
book of devotions. A second part of the Advertise-
ment to the Reader is " concerning the pleasure of
a vii-tuous life."
The essence of the whole work is meditation and
prayer. It is in Two Parts, of which the first by
a series of Meditations, each closed with a Prayer,
contemplates the Hour of Death, the Day of Judg-
ment, Pains of Hell and Joys of Heaven ; the second,
in like manner, after representing God's wrath against
sin, dwells, in the fonn of prayerful meditation, upon
Chiist as the sacrifice for sin, his agony in the Garden ;
how He was sold, betrayed, and apprehended ; how
He was carried before Ajinas, before Caiaphas, before
Pilate, before Herod, and lastly before Pilate again ;
how He was scourged ; how He was crowned with
thorns, clothed in purple, openly scorned, and pre-
sented to the Jews ; how He was condemned, and
forthwith led to the place of execution; how He was
crucified ; how He was mocked and reviled, and how
He prayed for His enemies ; how He pardoned the
Thief, how He tasted the vinegar, and how He cried
to His Father; how He died, and how they opened
His side with a spear ; and then again of the gi-iev-
ousness of sin, and what means God useth to with-
draw us from sin. The completed book, a growth of
years, then closes with two prayers, of which the last
thus opens : —
"0 my God! most mighty, and yet most mild, whose
Justice shineth to us through Thy love, whose Majesty is
seated in the Throne of Mercy : O invisible and indirisible
God, Who canst not be expressed, WTio canst not be under-
stood.
" Whatsoever Thou art, I inrocate and adore Thee ; for I
know Thou art a most High and Holy Thing : if it be lawful
to call Thee a Thing, Who art the Cause of all things ; if it
be lawful also to call Thee a Cause, upon ^^^lom all causes
depend. I know not by what name I should express Thee ;
96
and therefore I come stammering to Thee like a little child.
For Thou art above aU things ; Thou art all things that are
in Thee. Thou art Thy HoUness, Thy Happiness, Thy
Wisdom, Thy Power, and whatsoever else is said to be in
Thee. Seeing therefore that Thou art merciful, it followeth
also that Thou art Mercy ; and I am so exceedingly miser-
able, I am nothing but mere misery. Behold therefore, O
Thou who art Mercy! Behold, misery is before Thee.
What now shouldest Thou do ? Verily Thy proper work ;
even to take away my miserj-, and to relieve my distressed
state.
" Have mercy upon me, my Mercy ! O God, which art
Mercy, have mercy upon me ! declare Thy nature, shew Thy
power ; take away my misery, take away my sins, for this
is my extreme misery. One depth calloth another: the
depth of miserj- calleth imto the depth of mercy ; the depth
of sin crieth imto the depth of pardon and grace. Thy
mercies are incomparably deeper than are my miseries. Let
one depth therefore swaUow up another. Let the infinite
depth of Thy mercy and grace swaUow up the great depth
of my sin and misery.
' ' And that I may not, by returning to my former courses of
life, plunge myself again in Thy displeasure ; touch my soul,
I beseech Thee, with continual remembrance and remorse of
my sins : that I may spend all the time of my life which is
to come in lamenting the time thereof that is gone. For our
sins do never condemn us, if we be not either contented in
remembering, or content to forget them."
Sir John Hayward wi-ote also a ti-act " Of
Supremacie in Atiau-es of Religion," which was pub-
lished in 1624, and dedicated to Prince Charles
within a year of his succession to the throne. It
maintains the right of the sovereign to supreme
power in ecclesiastical aflairs to be of the nature of
all sovereign power, pei-petual and absolute ; argues
that it is dangerous to place ecclesiastical supremacy
elsewhere, by reference to Jews, Assyrians, Persians,
Greeks, and ancient Rome, before and under the
heathen and Christian Emperors. Emperors called
and confirmed the eight general councils of the
Church. From stiife between the Bishops of Rome
and Constantinople, Sir Jolm Hayward traces de-
velopment of the absolute power of the Bishops of
Rome over ecclesiastical aflairs, which brought the
Western Empire into a state of vassalage to the See
of Rome. The Bishops of Rome then claimed sove-
reignty over divers principal kingdoms in Europe,
and generally over all states in the world ; whence
came divers distresses.
This brings us back to the theme dearest to King
James I. — royal supremacy. John Selden was born
in 1584 in the hamlet of Salvington, about two miles
from Worthing. A house called Lacies at the
entrance to the village is pointed out as his bii-th-
place. He was the only sm-viving son of a musician,
and was first educated at the Chichester Free School,
where he made rapid advance in his studies.' He
went on to Oxford, and, after three or four yeai-s at
' Selden is said to have cut these lines of welcome to the honest
visitor and warning to the thief on a beam of the house-door .it
Lacies when he was ten years old ;—
" Gratns, honeste, mihi, non claudar, inito, sedehis ;
Fur abeas, non sum facta soluta tibi."
250
CASSELL'S LIBEARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1607
Hart Hall, went to London and made law his pro-
fession. He had a keen appetite for the study of
history and antiquities, not as dead things of the
past, but as foundations of right knowledge of the
present, and m that sense was the very tyjje of a true
antiquary. In 1607, at the age of twenty-three, he
finished, in two books, a summary of public occur-
rences and events aflecting the development of civil
government in this country before the Conquest. _ It
was dedicated to Sh- Robert Cotton, and printed nine
years afterwards. In IGIO Selden published a sketch
of the development of English law from the earliest
times to the reign of Henry II., and also a study of
the history of the custom of Duelling, then one of
the familiar institutions of society. In 1613 Selden
applied his learning to the provision of notes for his
friend Michael Drayton's poem on his native land,
the " Polyolbion." In 1614 his knowledge of the
past interpreted the present in a book upon Titles of
Honour. In 1 6 1 6, year of Shakespeare's death, John
Selden edited Sir John Fortescue's Latin tract in
praise of the laws of England, which showed how the
constitutional life of the country was felt even iiii a
disastrous time of civil war. In 1617, an interesting
Latin book on the Gods of the Syrians illustrated the
idolatries described in the Old Testament. In 1618
he applied his learning to a question of the Church in
liis ovn\ day, the divine right of tithes. King James
looked on denial of this as akin to the denial of his
own supremacy. Selden's " Historic of Tithes " pro-
posed to give an impartial statement of the evidence
as to the divine or human institution of the tithes
paid for support of the Cluu-ch. His book was
John Selden. (From the Portrait prefixed to his " Tracts," 1683.)
dedicated to his friend Sir Robert Cotton, from whose
precious collection of rare books and MSS. he had
drawn part of his knowledge. The ])ractical purpose
for which true students acquii-e the knowledge to be
drawn from such old sources is expressed in this
dedication with the pithy wisdom that abounds in
Selden's writings : —
PAST AND PRESENT.
To have borrowed your help, or used that your inesti-
mable hbrary (which lives in you), assures a curious diligence
in search after the inmost, least known, and most useful parts
of historical truth, both of past and present ages. For such is
that truth which your humanity liberally dispenses ; and such
is that which by conference is learned from you : such indeed,
as if it were, by your example, more sought after, so much
headlong error, so many ridiculous impostures, would not be
thrust on the too credulous, by those which stumble on the road,
but never with any care look on each side or behind them ;
that is, those which keep their understandings always in a
weak minority that ever wants the authority and admonition
of a tutor. For, as on the one side, it cannot be doubted but
that the too studious affectation of bare and sterile antiquity,
which is nothing else but to be exceeding busy about nothing,
may soon descend to a dotage ; so, on the other, the neglect
or only vulgar regard of the fruitful and precious part of it,
which gives necessary Ught to the present in matter of state,
law, history, and the understanding of good authors, is but
preferring that kind of ignorant infancy, which our short life
alone allows us, before the many ages of former experience
and observation, which may so accumulate years to us as if
we had Hved even from the beginning of time.
The sort of fable that vanishes before strict search
into the sources of our knowledge may be illustrated
by a legend told in the tenth chapter of Selden's
" Historic of Tithes : "—
HOW SAINT AUGUSTINE SHOWED THAT A LORD OF
THE MANOR MUST PAY TITHES.
For the practice of payment among Christians, both
Britons and Saxons ; might wee beleeue the common tale of
that Augustine, the first Ai-chbishop of Cantcrburie Prouince,
his comming to Cometon in Oxfordshire, and doing a most
strange miracle there, touching the estabhshing of the Doctrine
of due pajTuent of Tithes, wee should haue as certain and
expresse autoritics for the ancient practice of such payment,
as any other Church in Christendome can produce. But as
the tale is, you shall haue it, and then censure it.' About the
yeer (they say) DC, Augustine comming to preach at Come-
ton, the Priest of the place makes complaint to him, that the
Lord of the Mannor hauing been often admonished by him,
would yet pay him no Tithes. Augustine questioning the
Lord about that default in deuotion : hee stoutly answered.
That the tenth Sheaf doubtlesse was his that had interest
in the nine, and therefore would pay none. Presently
Augustine denounces him excommunicate, and turning to the
Altar to say Masse, publiquely forbad, that any excommimicat
person should l)o present at it, when suddenly, a dead Corps,-
that had been buried at the Church doore, arose (pardon me
for relating it) and departed out of the limits of the Church-
yard, standing stiU without, while the Masse continued.
'Which ended, Augustine comes to this liuing-dead, and
charges him in the name of the Lord God to declare who hee
was. Hee tells him, that in the time of the British State he
1 Censure, fonn an opinion npon. The sense of the word has been
<iein"ade(l by the notion common among ill-trained men that in ex-
pressing opinions tbey exalt themselves by finding fanlt. This passage
is qnoted without change of spelling, stops, italics, &c., as an example
of the English of 1618. Paper and print in the reign of James I. were
excellent,
2 Dead cori;}Re. Cor^im only means loody, and use of the word was
not yet limited to the dead body.
*
TO A.D. 1621]
RELIGION.
i'51
N\;i3 hiiiiis vilUe Patroniis,^ and although he had been often
\ iged by the Doctrine of the Priest to pay his Tithes, yet he
iii-uer eould be brought to it ; for which he died, he says,
I xcommunicat, and was carried to Hell. Angiistine desired to
liuow where the Priest that excommunicated him, was buried.
This dead shewed him the place ; where hee makes an inuoca-
tion of the dead Priest, and bids him arise also, because they
wanted his help. The Priest rises. Augustine askes him, if
he knew that other that was risen. He tells him, yes ; but
wishes he had neuer known him, for (saith hee) he was in all
things euer aduerse to the Church, a detainer of his Tithes,
and a great sinner to his death, and therefore I excommuni-
cated him. But Augustine publiquely declares, that it was
fit mercie shoidd be vsed towards him, and that he had
suffered long in Hell for his offence (you must suppose, I
thinke, the Autor meant Purgatorie) : wherefore hee giues
him absolution, and sends him to his graue, where hee fell
againe into dust and ashes. Hee gone, the Priest new risen,
tells, that his Corps had lien there aboue CLXX. yeers ; and
Augustine would gladly haue had him continue -i-pon earth
againe, for instruction of Soules, but could not thereto entreat
him. So he also returns to his former lodging. The Lord
of the Town standing by all this while, and trembling, was
now demanded if hee would pay his Tithes ; but he presently
fell down at Augustines feet, weeping and confessing his
offence ; and receiuing pardon, became all his life time a
follower of Augustines. Had this Legend truth in it, who
could doubt, but that pajTnent of Tithes was in practice in
the Infancie of the British Church? The Priest that rose
here from the dead, liud (if he euer liud) about CC'CXXX.
after Christ, and would not surely haue so taxed the Lord of
this ilannor only, if the pa}Tnent had not been vsually among
other good Christians here, not taught only, but performed
also. Neither need I admonish much of the autoritie of it ;
the whole course of it directs you how to smell out the
originall. Beside the common Legend of our Saints, it is in
some Volumes put alone, for a most obseruable Moniment,
and I found it bound vp at the end of the MS. life of Thomas
Becket, Archbishop of Canterburie, writen by lohn de Grandi-
sono, and it remains in the publique Librarie of Oxford.
There also you haue it related in loannes Anglicus his
Historia Aurea, and, in the Margine, are noted to it these
words : Sac miraculum videbitur il/is incredibile qui credunt
aliquid Deo esse inipossibile, sed nulli dubium est quod nunquam
Anglorum durm cernices Christi iugo se submisissent nisi per
magna miracula sibi diuinitus ostensa.^ But let the truth be as
it will, I doe not beleeue, that the fable can be found, nor
any steps' of it, aboue CCCC. yeer old at most.
The plan of Selden's " History of Tithes " is thus
sketched in its introduction : — ■
"As touching the argument of it — the whole being fourteen
chapters — the first seven are thus filled. The first hath what
is, in best authority of the ancients, belonging to those tithes
paid before the Le^dtical law. The second, the several kinds
paid by the Jews under the law, and this from Hebrew
lawyers. The third shows the practice of the Romans,
Grecians, and some other Gentiles in paj-ing or vowing them.
Then the whole time of Christianity being quadripartitely
1 Lord of this town.
2 " This miracle will seem incredihle to those who believe there is
anything impossible to God, but nobody doubts that the stilf necks
of the English would never have submitted to the yoke of Christ
unless by divine Providence great miracles had been shown them."
3 Steps, traces.
divided (^.-ith allowance of about twenty years more or less
to every part), takes up the next four chapters, in which the
practice of payment of tithes, arbitrary consecrations, appro-
priations, infeodations, and exemptions of them, estabUshment
of parochial right in them, as also the laws, b6th secular and
ecclesiastic, ■n-ith the opinions of divines and canonists touching
them, are, in their several times, manifested; but so only,
that whatsoever is proper to this kingdom of England, either
in laws or practice, either of pa^-ment or of arbitrarj- con-
secrations, appropriations, or infeodations, or establishment
of parochial right, together with a coroUaiy of the ancient
jurisdiction whereto they have been here subject, is reserved
all by itself to the next seven chaj^ters. But every of the
fourteen have their arguments prefixed, which may discharge
me of further declaration in this place. By this time, I trust,
you conceive what the name of History in the title pretends ;
and the Tithes spoken of purposely in it (for perhaps it is
needful to admonish that also) are only such as either have
been paid, vowed, or dedicated to holy uses, or else give light
to the consideration of the performance or omission of such
payment."
King James was displeased with a book that,
whUe it professed to put all due evidence into each
scale, had not weight enough on the scale he wished
to see heaviest. He caused Selden to be brought to
him that he might reason with him ; and his reasoning
was heard ■with the outward deference due from a
subject to a king. But also the king caused Selden
to be interrogated by the High Com-t of Commission,
which had despotic power of inflicting severe penalties
on those who fell under Church censure. 8elden
escaped by signing a declaration in which he did not
retract anything in his book, but humbly acknow-
ledged his eiTor in publishing it, " especially in
that I have at all, by showing any interpretation
of Holy Scripture, by meddling with Councils,
Fathers, or Canons, or by what else soever occurs in
it, offered any occasion of argument against any right
of maintenance, jure divino, of the ministers of the
Gospel : beseeching your lordships to receive this
ingenuous and humble acknowledgment, together
with the unfeigned protestation of my gi'ief, for that
through it I have so incurred both his Majesty's and
your lordships' displeasure, conceived against me in
behalf of the Church of England." Of this he said
afterwards, "I did most willingly acknowledge that
I was most soiry for the publishing of that History,
because it had offended, and I profess still to all the
world that I am Sony for it; and so should I have been
if I had published a most orthodox catechism that
offended; but what is that to the doctrinal conse-
quences of it ■! " The king ordered Eichard Montague,
then Dean of Hereford, to answer Selden, and for-
bade John Selden to reply again, saying, " If you or
any of your friends shall write against this confuta-
tion, I will throw you into prison." Montague's
" Diatribe upon the First Part of the History of
Tithes" appeared in 1621, and pleased the kmg so
well that his Majesty suggested other literaiy work
to him. Richard Montague became a bishop, but not
until 1628. Other men answered Selden's history,
and in a letter to Sir Edward Herbert, afterwards
Lord Herbert of Cherbury, who was then serving as
ambassador in France, Selden complained that, while
252
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1607
he was forbidden to defend himself, all who pleased
were free to attack him as viciously as they pleased.
In 1621, al.so, the king came into conflict with the
Parliament called in that year to provide for his
necessities. It oflered him advice which he resented
as presumptuous meddling with afiairs of state, and
the House of Commons was bidden to avoid touching
the king's prerogatives ; what privileges it claimed it
held from the crown as "rather a toleration than
inheritance," and if members forgot theii- duty,
privileges would be disallowed.
On the 18th of December the house entered a pro-
test on its journals declaring " that the liberties,
franchises, privileges, and jurisdiction of Parliament
are the ancient and undoubted bu-thright and mheri-
tances of the subjects of England." The king held a
privy council, sent for the Commons' journal, and
with his own hand erased that entry. John Selden,
for his knowledge of past history, had been sent for
by the house and asked what were its privileges. He
had replied as a sound English constitutional lawyer,
in whom the love of a just liberty was strong, and
the terms of the protest of the house were framed in
accordance with his counsel. The king dissolved the
Parliament and imprisoned some of its members.
Selden also was, for his part in the contest, placed in
custody of the sheinff. After five weeks of durance,
he was questioned before the Privy Council and
discharged. He owed some relief from ditliculties
at court to the good offices of Bishop Launcelot
Andrewes, who was, Selden tells us, the only bLshop
who appi-oved of the " History of Tithes." Towards
the close of his reign, James needing, in Februaiy,
1624, again to summon a Parliament, Selden entered
it as member for Lancaster.
James Usher, (from the Portrait before his " Bodic of Divinity," 1653.)
Another man who passed with a high reputation
for learning into the reign of Charles I., and who also
contributed liis thought to the controversies wliich
then gathered intensity, was James Usher, whom
James I. made Bishop of Meath, and nominated at
the close of his reign Archbishop of Ai-magh. Usher,
born in January, 1581, was about four years older
than Selden. He was the son of Ai-nold Usher, one
of the six clerks of the Irish Court of Chancery, and
had, like Selden, an inborn aptitude for antiquarian
research, to be applied to liv-ing uses. He is said to
have had liis tendency of work stimulated early by
dwelling on a sentence of Cicero, wliich says that
"To be ignorant of what happened before you were
born is to be always a child."' As a boy he made
chronological tables. He was one of the first students
who entered Trinity College, Dublin, which owed its
foundation partly to the energies of members of his
family. He was still studying when his father died,
and then he divested himself of the estate that fell
to him as eldest son, providing at once for the other
children, and keeping only as much as would main-
tain him in a quiet college life, and enable him to
buy books necessary for his studies. He proceeded to
the degree of M.A. in 1600, and was ordained at the
age of twenty-one. Some English troops having
subscribed £1,800 for the library of the new College,
Usher was sent to London in 1603 on a book-buying
expedition. He obtained a piece of Chm-ch prefer-
ment in Ireland, the Chancellorship of St. Patrick's,
Dublin, before he came to England again, in 1606,
in search of books for his University. In London
he became known to Sii- Robert Cotton and Sir
Thomas Bodley. In 1607 he took the degree of
B.D., and soon aftei-wards, at the age of twenty-
seven, was made Professor of Divinity at Trinity
College. In 1609 he was again in England, and
added Selden to the enlarging number of Ids friends.
At the age of thirty-two he was admitted to the
degree of Doctor of Divinity. In 1613, Dr. Usher
was in London, and published his first book. It was
vii-tually a continuation of Jewel's " Ajjology for the
Church of England," written in Latm, and dedicated
to the king. In the same year he married an
heiress, the daughter of his friend Dr. Chaloner, who
had charged her on his death-bed to marry no one
but Dr. Usher, if he offered himself. They lived
happily together for forty years. In 1615, Dr.
Usher was the member of the Irish Church most
active in drawing up a set of 104 Articles of
Religion for that Church, which proposed to itself
an independent constitution. Usher's theologictil
opinions agreed with those of Calvin, and the tone
of his articles caused it to be suggested to the
king that Dr. Usher was a Puritan. "When he
went next to England, in 1619, he took with him
testimony to his orthodoxy upon all points toucliing
the royal supremacy over the, Church, and made
that, furthermore, so clear, in an intei-view with
his Majesty, that James named him for the next
vacant bishopric, that of Meath, and distinguished
him as his bishop. Usher was zealous against the
Roman Catholics, and, as a bishop of the Reformed
Church in Ireland, had inevitable dealings with
them. A sermon of his, in October, 1622, on the
' "Nescire autem quid ontea quam natus sis acdderit, id est
semper esse puerum." (Ciceronis ad M. Bnitum Orator.)
TO A.D. 1622.]
RELIGION.
253
Lord Deputy's receu-ing the sword of office, had for
its text, " He beareth not the sword in vain," and
was thought to be too offensive in its tone. In the
following month, he was admonishing of then- duty
Rom:ui CathoKcs of rank, who were summoned to
the Castle Chamber in Dublin for refusing to take
the Oath of Supremacy. This was
BR. usher's speech, DELIVERED IN THE CASTLE
CHAMBER, CONCERNIXG THE OATH OF SUPREMACY.
AVhat the danger of the law is for refusing this oath, has
teen sufficiently opened by my lords the judges; and the
quality and quantity of that offence has been aggravated to
the full by those that have spoken after them. The part
which is most proper for me to deal ia is the information
of the conscience, touching the truth and equity of the
matters contained in the oath ; which I also have made
choice the rather to insist upon, because both the form of
the oath itself requireth herein a full resolution of the con-
science (as appeareth by those words in the very beginning
thereof, " I do utterly testify and declare in my conscience,"
&c.), and the persons that stand here to be censured for
refusing the same have alleged nothing in their own defence,
but only the simple plea of ignorance.
That this point, therefore, may be cleared, and all needless
scruples removed out of men's minds, two main branches
there be of this oath which require special consideration.
The one positive, acknowledging the supremacy of the
government of these realms, in all causes whatsoever, to
rest in the King's Highness only. The other negative,
renouncing all jurisdictions and authorities of any foreign
prince or prelate within his Majesty's dominions.
For the better understanding of the former, we are, in
the first place, to call unto our remembrance that exhorta-
tion of St. Peter : ' ' Submit yourselves unto every ordinance
of man for the Lord's sake : whether it be unto the king, as
having the pre-eminence : or imto governors, as unto them
that are sent by him, for the punishment of e^-il-doers. and
for the praise of them that do well." By this we are
taught to respect the king, not as the only governor of his
dominions simply (for we see there be other governors placed
under him) , but is uirEpe'xojTo, as him that exceUeth and hath
the pre-eminence over the rest ; that is to say (according to the
tenure of the oath), as him that is the only supreme governor
of his realms. Upon which ground we may safely build this
conclusion, that whatsoever power is incident unto the king
by virtue of his place, must be acknowledged to be in him
supreme ; there being nothing so contrary to the nature of
sovereignt)' as to have another superior power to overrule it.
Qui Sex est, Regein {Maxime) non habeat.^
In the second place, we are to consider that God, for
the better settling of piety and honesty among men, and
the repression of profaneness and other vices, hath estab-
lished two distinct powers upon earth : the one of the keys,
committed to the Church ; the other of the sword, committed
to the ci\-il magistrate. That of the keys is ordained to
work upon the inner man, ha\Tng immediate relation to
the remitting or retaining of sins. That of the sword is
appointed to work upon the outward man, yielding protection
1 "Maiimus, let him who is a kin^, not have a king." The last
line of an epigram of Martial's (bk. ii., ep. 18) " In Maximum,"
■which bids men avoid servility. Its sense is, " I flatter you and earn
a supper ; you flatter elsewhere for your profit ; nay, then, we are
equals, and I will not bow to you : let him who is a king not have
a king."
to the obedient, and inflicting external punishment upon the
rebellious and disobedient. By the former, the spiritual
officers of the Church of Christ are enabled to govern well,
to speak, and exhort, and rebuke, with all authority, to loose
such as are penitent, to commit others unto the Lord's prison
until their amendment, or to bind them over unto the judg-
ment of the great day, if they shall persist in their wilfulness
and obstmacy. By the other, princes have an imperious
power assigned by God unto them, for the defence of such
as do well, and executing revenge and wrath upon such as
do evil ; whether by death, or banishment, or confiscation of
goods, or imprisonment, according to the quality of the
offence.
AVTien St. Peter, that had the keys conamitted unto him,
made bold to draw the sword, he was commanded to put it
up, as a weapon that he had no authority to meddle withal.
.\nd on the other side, when Uzziah the king would venture
upon the execution of the priest's office, it was said unto him,
" It pertaineth not unto thee, Uzziah, to bum incense unto the
Lord, but unto the priests, the sons of Aaron, that are con-
secrated to bum incense." Let this, therefore, be our second
conclusion — that the power of the sword and of the keys
are two distinct ordinances of God ; and that the prince
hath no more authority to enter upon the execution of any
part of the priest's function, than the priest hath to intrude
upon any part of the office of the prince.
In the third place, we are to observe that the power of
the civil sword (the supreme managing whereof belongeth to
the king alone) is not to be restrained unto temporal causes
only, but is by God's ordinance to be extended likewise unto
all spiritual or ecclesiastical things and causes ; that as the
spiritual rulers of the Church do exercise their kind of govern-
ment, in bringing men unto obedience, not of the duties of the
first table alone (which concemeth piety and the religious
serWce which man is bound to perform unto his Creator), but
also of the second (which respecteth moral honesty, and the
offices that man doth owe unto man) : so the ci«l magistrate is
to use his authority also in redressing the abuses committed
against the first table, as well as against the second; that
is to say, as well in punishing of an heretic, or an idolater,
or a blasphemer, as of a thief, or a murderer, or a traitor ;
and in providing, by all good means, that such as live under
his government may lead a quiet and peaceable life iu all
piety and honesty.
And howsoever by this means we make both prince and
priest to be in their several places Ciistodes utriii^que tabula,
keepers of both God's tables, yet do we not hereby any
way confound both of their offices together. For though
the matter wherein their government is exercised may be
the same, yet is the form and manner of governing therein
always different : the one reaching to the outward man only,
the other to the inward; the one binding or loosing the
soul, the other la>-ing hold on the body and the things
belonging thereto ; the one having special reference to the
judgment or the world to come, the other respecting the
present retaining or losing of some of the comforts of
this Ufe.
That there is such a civil government as this in causes
spuitual or ecclesiastical, no man of judgment can deny.
For must not heresy, for example, be acknowledged to be a
cause merely spiritual or ecclesiastical ? And yet by what
power is an heretic put to death? The officers of the
Church have no authority to take away the life of any man :
it must be done, therefore, i»«' brachimi aeculare;- and conse-
2 By the secular arm.
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[a.d. 1622
quently it must be yielded without contradiction, that the
temporal magistrate doth exercise therein a part of his
ci%'il government, in punishing a crime that is of its own
nature spiritual or ecclesiastical.
But here it will be said : The words of the Oath being
general — that the King is the only supreme governor of this
realm, and of all other his Highness' dominions and countries
— how may it appear that the power of the dvU. sword only
is meant by that government, and that the power of the keys
is not comprehended therein ? I answer, first, that where a
civil magistrate is affirmed to be the governor of his own
dominions and countries, by common intendment this must
needs be understood of a civil government, and may in no
reason bo extended to that which is merely of another
kind. Secondly, I say that where an ambiguity is conceived
to be in any part of an oath, it ought to be taken according
to the understanding of him for whose satisfaction the oath
was ministered. Now in this case it hath been sufficiently
declared by public authority, that no other thing is meant by
the government here mentioned, but that of the ci\Tl sword
only.
For in the book of Articles agreed upon by the archbishops,
and bishops, and the whole clergy, in the Convocation holden
at London, ffn«o lo62, thus we read: "Where wo attribute
to the Queen's Majesty the chief government (by which titles
we understand the minds of some slanderous folks to be
offended), we give not to our princes the ministering either of
God's word or of the sacraments (the which thing the injunc-
tions also, lately set forth by Elizabeth our Queen, doth most
plainly testify), but that only prerogative which we see to have
been given always to all godly princes, in Holy Scriptures, by
God himself; that is, that they should rule all estates and
degrees committed to their charge by God, whether they be
ecclesiastical or temporal, and restrain with the civil sword
the stubborn and evil-doers."
If it be here objected that the authority of the Convocation
is not a sufficient ground for the exposition of that which was
enacted in Parliament, I answer, that these Articles stand
confirmed, not only by the royal assent of the prince (for the
establishing of whose supremacy the oath was framed), but
also by a special Act of ParHament, which is to be found
among the statutes in the thirteenth year of Queen Elizabeth,
chap. 12. Seeing, therefore, the makers of the law have
full authority to expound the law, and they have sufficiently
manifested that, by the supreme government given to the
prince, they understand that kind of government only which
is exercised with the civil sword, I conclude that nothing can
be more plain than this : that without aU scruple of con-
science, the King's Majesty may be acknowledged in this
sense to be the only supreme governor of all his Highness'
dominions and countries, as well in all spiritual or ecclesi-
astical things or causes as temporal. And so have I cleared
the first main branch of the oath.
I come now unto the second, which is propounded
negatively, " That no foreign prince, person, prelate, state,
or potentate, hath, or ought to have, any jurisdiction, power,
superiority, pre-eminence, or authority, ecclesiastical or
spiritual, within this realm." The foreigner that challenges
this ecclesiastical or spiritual jurisdiction over us is the
Bishop of Rome ; and the title whereby he daimeth this power
over us is the same whereby he claimeth it over the whole
world — because he is St. Peter's successor, forsooth. And
indeed, if St. Peter him.selt had been now aHve, I should
freely confess that he ought to have spiritual authority and
superiority within this kingdom. But so would I say, also,
if St. Andrew, St. Bartholomew, St. Thomas, or any of the
other apostles had been alive. For I know that their com-
mission was very large — to " go into aU the world, and to
preach the gospel unto every creature." So that in what
part of the world soever they lived, they could not be said
to be out of their charge, their apostleship being a kind of
an universal bishopric. If, therefore, the Bishop of Rome
can prove himself to be one of this rank, the oath must be
amended, and we must acknowledge that he hath ecclesiastical
authority within this realm.
True it is, that our lawyers, in their year books, by the
name of the "Apostle" do usually design the Pope; but
if they had examined his title to that apostleship as they
would try an ordinary man's title to a piece of land, they
might easily have found a number of flaws and main defects-
therein.
For, first, it would bo inquired whether the apostleship
was not ordained by our Sa\'iour Christ as a special com-
mission, which, being personal only, was to determine with
the death of the first Apostles. For howsoever, at their
first entrj' into the execution of this commission, we find
that Matthias was admitted to the apostleship in the room of
Judas, yet afterwards, when James the brother of John was
slain by Herod, we do not read that any other was substituted
in his place. Nay, we know that the apostles generally left
no successors in this kind ; neither did any of the bishops (he
of Rome only excepted), that sat in those famous churches
wherein the apostles exercised their ministry, challenge
an apostleship or an universal bishopric by vii-tue of that
succession.
It would, secondly, therefore, be inquired, what sound
evidence they can produce to show that one of the company
was to hold the apostleship, as it were, in fee, for him and
his successors for ever, and that the other eleven should hold
the same for term of life only.
Thirdly, if this state of perpetuity was to be cast upon
one, how came it to fall upon St. Peter, rather than upon
St. John, who outlived all the rest of his fellows, and so as a
surviving feoffee had the fairest right to retain the same in
himself and his successors for ever ?
Fourthly, if that state were wholly settled upon St.
Peter, seeing the Romanists themselves acknowledge that
he was Bishop of Antioch before he was Bishop of Rome,
we require them to show why so great an inheritance
as this should descend unto the }-ounger brother (as it
were by borough English) rather than to the elder, accord-
ing to the ordinary' manner of descents ; especially seeing
Rome hath little else to allege for this preferment, but only
that St. Peter was crucified in it, which was a very slender
reason to move the apostle so to respect it.
Seeing, therefore, the grounds of this great claim of the
Bishop of Rome appear to be so vain and frivolous, I may
safely conclude that he ought to have no ecclesiastical or
spiritual authority within this realm, which is the principal
point contained in the second part of the oath.
King James wrote with his own hand the follow-
ing acknowledgment of this loyal address :—
JAMES REX.
Right Reverend Father in God, and right trusty and
wcU-beloved Counsellor, we greet you well. You have not
deceived our expectation, nor the gracious opinion we ever
conceived, both of your abilities in learning, and of your
faithfulness to us and our service. "WTiereof, as we have
received sundry testimonies, both from our precedent
deputies, as likewise from our right trusty and well-
beloved cousin and counsellor the Viscount Falkland, our
TO A.D. 1624.]
EELIGIOX.
55."
present deputy of that realm ; so have we now of late, in
one particular, had a further evidence of your duty and
affection well expressed by j'our late carriage in our Castle
Chamber there, at the censure of those disobedient magistrates
who refused to take the Oath of Supremacy. Wherein your
zeal to the maintenance of our just and lawful power,
defended with so much learning and reason, deserves our
princely and gracious thanks, which we do by this our letter
unto you, and so bid you farewell. Given under our signet,
at our Court at TMiitehall, the eleventh of January, 1622,
in the 20th year of our reign of Great Britain, France, and
Ireland.
To the Eight Reverend Father in God, and our right
trusty and well-beloved Counsellor, the Bishop of
Meath.
The King lost no time in making Usher a Pri^-y
Councillor for Ireland. Dr. Usher directed also
against the unreformed Church a treatise on the
Religion of the ancient Irish and Britons, and in
1624r was combating on the gi-ound of Chui-ch anti-
quities an Iiish Jesuit, William Malone, who had
adverted to the doctrine and practice of the primitive
Christians. Usher had fitted himself for this kind
of controversy. In his youth, a Roman CathoUc
book called " Tire Fortress of Faith " had been put
into his hands. It appealed continually to the
■wiitings of the early Fathers of the Chm-ch. Usher
had then at once set himself a complete com-se of
reading in the Fathers, took a fixed portion every
dav, and read them through in eighteen yeai-s. He
thus qualified himself, like Lancelot Andrewes, to
meet the arguments of his opponents in the only
way that they could recognise as sufficient. In
Usher's answer to Malone, he dealt in successive
sections w-ith the chief points in dispute between
the churches — namely, traditions, the real presence,
•confession, the priest's power to forgive sins, piu-ga-
toiy, prayer for the dead, limbus patrum, prayer to
saints, images, fi-ee-will and merits ; the treatise
extending to nearly six himdred pages. Wlien Dr.
Usher had finished his argument against Malone,
he visited England again. He was there studying
ecclesiastical antiquities, when the death of the Ai'ch-
bishop of Armagh enabled King James to nominate
Ms bishop to the primacy of Ireland. Illness delayed
Usher's return; he was not installed as Archbishop
untU 1626.
George "Wither's satires against the pa.ssions, pub-
lished in 1613, at the age of twenty-five, as "Abuses
Stript and Whipt," and his " Shepheard's Hunting,"
written when imprisoned in the IVIarshalsea for his
bold speech, have been refeiTed to in another volume
of this Library.' In 1618 appeared "Wither's Motto,"
" Nee habeo, nee careo, nee euro " (I have not, want
not, care not), in which those thoughts are amplified
into expression of a spirit of honest independence so
far as man is concerned, and dependence only upon
Grod : " He that supplies my want hath took my
care." In 1622 George Wither, who after education
ut Oxford had been attending to his father's farm at
1 See " Shorter English Poems," pages 288—291.
Bentworth, near Alton, in Hampshii-e, collected his
earlier poems as " Juvenilia," and published a new
poem called "Faire-Vii-tue,the Mistress of Philarete."'
Philarete is Greek for a lover of Virtue, and the
poem is a love poem, with Virtue pei-sonified as the
fail- object of desire. A characteristic tone of liberty
and independence rims through all the veree of
George Wither. To the critics he says : —
" If the verse here used be
Their dislike, it liketh me.
If my method they deride.
Let them know. Love is not tied
In his free discourse to chuse
Such strict rules as arts-men use.
These may prate of Lore, but they
Know him not ; for he will play
From the matter now and then,
Off and on and off again.
'• If this prologue tedious seem.
Or the rest too long they deem,
Let them know my love they win
Though they go ere I begin.
Just as if they should attend me
Till the last, and there commend me :
For I will for no man's pleasure
Change a syllable or measure,
Xeither for their praises add
Aught to mend what they think bad ;
Since it never was my fashion
To make work of recreation.
" Pedants shall not tie my strains
To our antique poet's veins.
As if we in latter days
Knew to love, but not to praise :
Being bom as free as these, .
I will sing as I shall please.
Who as well new paths may run
As the best before have done.
I disdain to make my song
For their pleasure short or long ;
If I please, I'U end it here ;
If I Hst, I'U sing this year :
And though none regard of it.
By myseU' I pleas'd can sit.
And with that contentment cheer me
As if half the world did hear me."
After singiu" in this measure of the birth and beauty
of Fair- Virtue, George Wither interpolates a little
gi-oup of the love-songs he made for lier, luul then
resumes her praises, dwelling upon every charm :—
" In the motion of each part
Nature seems to strive with art,
■WTiich her gestures most shall bless
With the gifts of pleasingness.
" 'UTien she sits, methinks I see
How aU virtues fixed be
In a frame, whose constant mould
WiU the same unchanged hold.
- Wither pronounces the name both Philaret and Philarete.
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[a.d. 1622
If )-ou note her when she moves,
Cytherea drawn with doves
May come loam such winning motions
As will gain to Love's devotions
More than aU her painted wiles,
Such as tears, or sighs, or smiles.
" Some, whose bodies want true graces,
Have sweet featm'es in their faces ;
Others that do miss them there,
Lovely are some other where,
And to our desires do fit
In heha%-iour or in wit
Or some inward worth appearing
To the soul, the soul endearing :
But in her j-our eye may find
All that's good in womankind.
What in others we prefer
Are but sundry parts of her,
Who most perfect doth present
What might one and all content.
Yea, he that in love stiU ranges
And each day or hourly changes,
Had he judgment but to know
What perfections in her grow.
There would find the spring of store.
Swear a faith, and change no more."
After every outward feature has beeu celebrated,
there is agam rest with an interlude of pastoral
songs/ after which the strain is resumed with —
" Boy, have done, — for now my brain
Is inspired afresh again,
And new raptures pressing are
To be sung in praise of her,
Whose fair picture lieth nigh
Quite unveiled to every eye.
No small favour hath it been
That such beauty might be seen :
Therefore ever they may rue it
Who with evU eyes shaU ^■^ew it."
Of the face and voice of Fair-Vii-tue Wither sings: —
" If you truly note her face,
You shall find it hath a grace
Neither wanton, nor o'er serious,
Nor too yielding, nor imperious :
But with such a feature blest
It is that which pleaseth best.
And delights each several eye
That affects with modesty.
Lowliness hath in her look
Equal place with greatness took,
And if beauty anywhere
Claims prerogatives, 'tis there :
For at once thus much 'twill do,
Threat, command, persuade, and woo.
" In her speech there is not found
Any harsh, unpleasing sound.
But a well-beseeming power.
Neither higher, neither lower
» "Tlie Manly Heart." on page 291 of the volume of " Shorter
Poems," was given as an example of these lyrics in " Faire- Virtue."
Than will suit with her perfection ;
'Tis the loadstone of atfection.
And that man whose judging eyes
Could well sound such mysteries,
Would in love make her his choice,
Though he did but hear her voice ;
For such accents breathe not whence
Beauty keeps non-residence.
Never word of hers I hear
But 'tis music to mine ear.
And much more contentment brings
Than the sweetly-touched strings
Of the pleasing lute, whose strains
Eavish hearers when it plains.
" Raised by her discourse I fly
In contented thoughts so high,
That I pass the common measures
Of the dulled sense's pleasures,
And leave far below my flight
Vulgar pitches of delight.
" If she smile and merry be,
All about her are as she ;
For each looker-on takes part
Of the joy that's in her heart.
If she grieve, or you but spy-
Sadness peeping through her eye.
Such a grace it seems to borrow.
That you'U fall in love with sorrow.
And abhor the name of mirth
As the hatefull'st thing on earth.
" Should I see her shed a tear.
My poor eyes would melt, I fear ;
For much more in hers appears •*
Than in other women's tears,
And her look did never feign
Sorrow where there was no pain.
" Seldom hath she been espied
So impatient as to chide ;
for if any see her so.
They'll in love with anger grow.
Sigh or speak, or smile or talk,
Sing or weep, or sit or walk.
Everything that she doth do
Decent is and lovely too."
After like praise of her behaviour, her dress, and
other aids to Vii-tue's prevailing charm, Wither con-
tinues : —
' ' Though sometime my song I raise
To unusual heights of praise.
And break forth as I shall please
Into strange hyperboles,
'Tis to shew, conceit hath found
Worth beyond expressions bound.
Though her breath I do compare
To the sweet'st perfumes that are ;
Or her eyes, that are so bright.
To the morning's cheerful light ;
Yet I do it not so much
To infer that she is such.
As to shew that being blest
With what merits name of best,
TO A.D. 1623.]
EELIGION.
157
She appears more fail- to me
Than all creatures else that be.
" Her true beauty leaves behind
Apprehensions in my mind
Of more sweetness than aU art
Or inventions can impart ;
Thoughts too deep to lie express' d.
And too strong to be suppress'd ;
TVTiich oft raiseth my conceits
To such unbelieved heights,
That I fear some shallow brain
Thinks my Muses do but feign.
Sure he wrongs them if he do :
For could I have reached to
So like strains as these you see
Had there been no such as she,
Is it possible that I,
Who scarce heard of poesy,
Should a mere idea raise
To as true a pitch of praise
As the learned poets could
Now, or in the times of old.
All those real beauties bring,
Honour'd by their sonneting ;
HaxTng arts and favours too,
More t' encourage what they do ?
Xo, if I had never seen
Such a beauty, I had been
Piping in the country shades
To the homely dairy-maids.
For a country- fiddler's fees.
Clouted cream, and bread and cheese.
" I no skill in numbers had
More than every shepherd's lad.
Till she taught me strains that were
Pleasing to her gentle ear.
Her fair splendour and her worth
From obscureness drew me forth ;
And because I had no Muse,
She herself deigned to infuse
All the skiU by which I climb
To these praises in my rhyme."
And still the praise runs on iii a strain of pleasant
music, imtil it represents all outward charm that has
been dwelt upon a.s but
" An incomparable shrine
Of a beauty more di\-ine;"
and sings the praises of the mind of Fair- Virtue : —
" Let no critic cavil then
If I cLare affirm again
That her mind's perfections are
. Fairer than her body's far ;
And I need not prove it by
Axioms of Philosophy',
Since no proof can better be
Than their rare effects in me ;
For, whilst other men complaining
Tell their mistresses' disdaining.
Free from care I write a story
Only of her worth and glory.
97
'■ AVhilst most lovers pining sit,
Eobbed of liberty and wit,
Vassalling themselves with shame
To some proud imjierious dame ;
Or in songs their fate bewaOing,
Shew the world their faithless failing,
I, enwi-eath'd with boughs of myrtle,
Fare like the beloved turtle.
" Yea, while most are most untoward.
Peevish, vain, inconstant, frowai'd ;
While their best contentments bring
Nought but after-sorrowing ;
She, those childish humom-s slighting.
Hath conditions so dehghting.
And doth so my bliss endeavour.
As my joy increaseth ever.
" By her actions, I can see
That her passions so agree
Unto reason, that they err
Seldom to distemper her.
" Love she can, and doth, but so
As she will not overthrow
Love's content by any folly,
Or by deeds that are unholy.
Doatingly she ne'er affects,
Neither willingly neglects
Her honest love, but means doth find
With discretion to be kind.
'Tis not thund'iing phrase nor oaths,
Honom'S, wealth, nor painted clothes.
That can her good-liking gain.
If no other worth remain."
Then follow characters of a virtuous mind, until the
poem is again iuteniipted by a group of songs.
Philarete pauses to hear the music of a swain who
comes day by day to sing and jihiy iu the groves,
where he is praising his mistress Fair- Virtue to the
shepherds. For the swain, who has entered an
arbour,
" He so bashful is, that mute
Will his tongue be and his lute
Should he happen to espy
This unlooked-for company."
They are all silent, therefore, and draw quietly near
to listen to the singing.
After the songs, the praise of Fair-Vii-tue runs on ;
for the swain espied the listeners, who were ill-hidden
1 >y the trees, and fled the place. Philarete says then
to the shepherds : —
" To entreat him back again
Would be labour spent in vain.
You may therefore now betake ye
To the music I can make ye."
Happy the woman who shall be thought one with
Fair-Virtue : —
" Yet, that I her servant am.
It shall more be to my fame
258
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1620
Than to ovra these woods and downs,
Or be lord of fifty to^ras ;
And my mistress to be deem'd
Shall more honour be esteem' d,
Than those titles to acquire
Which most -women most desire.
Yea, when you a woman shall
Countess or a duchess call,
That respect it shall not move,
Keithcr gain her half such love.
As to say, lo ! this is she.
That supposed is to be
Mistress to Phil'arete.
And that lovely nj-mph, which he,
In a pastoral poem famed,
And Fair Virtue, there hath named.
Yea, some ladies (ten to one)
If not many, now unknown,
Will be very well apaid,
A\Tien by chance, she hears it said, —
She that fair one is whom I
Here have praised concealcdly.
" And though now this age's pride-
May so brave a hope deride ;
Y'et, when all their glories pass
As the thing that never was.
And on monuments appear,
That they e'er had breathing here
"V^Tio envy it ; she shall thrive
In her fame, and honour' d live,
\^^lilst Great Britain's shepherds sing
English in their sonneting.
And whoe'er in future days.
Shall bestow the utmost praise
On his love, that any man
Attribute to creature can ;
'Twill be this, that he hath dared
His and mine to liave compared."
George W iihek (F om tlu Portrait yrefircd to his " EmUcms" 1635.)
When the strain was at last ended, still there
was dance and song among the shepherds and the
nymphs, so that Wither 's little volume was rich in
the grace of lyi'ic verse ydth. wisdom in its under-
thought. The last of the songs before the rustic
company broke up, after Philarete had sepaiuted^
was : —
A nymph's song
In praise of the Lover of Virtue.
Gentle swain, good speed befall thee ;
And in love still prosper thou !
Future times shall happy call thee,
Tho' thou lie neglected now :
Vu-tue's lovers shall commend thee.
And perpetual fame attend thee.
Happy are these woody mountains,
In whose shadow thou dost hide ;
And as happy are those fountains.
By whose murmurs thou dost bide :
For contents are here excelling.
More than in a prince's dwelling.
These thy flocks do clothing bring thee.
And thy food out of tho fields ;
Pretty songs the bii'ds do sing tliee ;
Sweet perfumes the meadow jdelds :
And what more is worth the seeing.
Heaven and earth thy prospect being ?
None comes hither who denies thee
Thy contentments for despite ;
Is either any that en\'ies thee
That wherein thou dost delight :
But all happy things are meant thee.
And whatever mav content thee.
Thy affection reason measures.
And distempers none it feeds ;
Still so hai-mless are thy pleasures.
That no other's gi-ief it breeds :
And if night beget thee sorrow.
Seldom stays it till the morrow.
Why do foolish men so vainly
Seek contentment in their store.
Since they may perceive so plainly.
Thou art rich in being poor :
And that they are vex'd about it,
"\\Tiilst thou merrj- art -n-ithout it ?
Why are idle brains devising.
How high titles may be gain'd.
Since by those poor toys despising.
Thou hast higher things obtained ?
For the man who scorns to crave them,
Greater is than they that have them.
If all men could taste that sweetness.
Thou dost in thy meanness know.
Kings would be to seek where greatness
And their honours to bestow,
For if such content woidd breed them,
As they would not think they need them.
W) A.D. ie23."i
RELIGION.
239
And if those who so aspiring
To the coui-t preferments he.
Knew how worthy the desiring
Those things are, enjoyed by thee,
Wealth and titles would hereafter
Subjects be for scorn and laughter.
He that courtly styles affected
Should a iIay-Lord"s honour have:
He, that heaps of wealth collected,
Should be counted as a slave :
And the man with fcw'st things cumbered,
With the noblest should be numbered.
Thou their folly hast discerned,
That neglect thy mind and thee ;
And to slight them thou hast learned,
Of what title e'er they be :
That no more with thee obtaineth,
Than with them by meanness gaineth.
All their riches, honours, pleasures,
Poor unworthy trifles seem,
If compared with thy treasures,
And do merit no esteem :
For they true contents pro^'ide thee.
But from them can none divide thee.
Whether thralled or exiled,
^\"hether poor or rich thou be,
\\"hether praised or res-iled.
Not a rush it is to thee :
This nor that thy rest doth win thee,
But the mind which is within thee.
Then, oh why, so madly dote we
On those things that us o'erload ?
Why no more their vainness note we,
But stUl make of them a god ?
For alas ! they still deceive us,
And in greatest need they leave us.
Therefore have the fates provided
Well, thou happy swain, for thee,
That may'st here so far divided
From the world's distractions be :
Thee distemper let them never.
But in peace continue ever.
In these lonely groves enjoy thou
That contentment here begun ;
And thy hours so pleas'd employ thou,
Till the latest glass be run :
From a fortune so assured.
By no temptings be allured.
iluch good do't them with their glories,
AATio in courts of piinces dwell ;
We have read in antique stories,
How some rose and how they fell :
And 'tis worthy well the heeding.
There's like end, where's like proceeding.
Be thou still in thy affection
To thy noble mistress true ;
Let her never-match'd perfection
Be the same unto thy \-iew :
And let never other beauty
3Iake thee fail in Love or Duty.
For if thou shalt not estranged
From thy course professed be.
But remain for aye unchanged.
Nothing shall have power on thee :
Those that slight thee now shall love thee.
And in spite of spite approve thee.
So these virtues now neglected
To be more esteem'd will come ;
Yea, those toys so much afiected,
Many shall be wooed from ;
And the Golden Age deplored
Shall by some be thought restored.
William Diunimond of Hawthornden wa.s about
three years older than George Wither, and Drum-
mond's " Flowers of Zion" appeared in the same year
asWither's "Faire Virtue," 1623. In this collection
(of ■which the poems have no headings given to them
by their author) there is also
A ntiiph's song
Of the true JTuppiuens.
Amidst the azure clear
Of Jordan's sacred streams,
Jordiin, of Lebanon the offspring dear,
When zeph\"rs tlow'rs unclose.
And sun shines with new beams,
With gra%-e and stately grace a Xymph arose.
TJpon her head she ware
Of amaranths a crown ;
Her left hand iialms, her right a torch did bear ;
Unveiled skin's whiteness lay ;
Gold hairs in curls hung down ;
Eyes sparkled joy, more bright than star of day.
The flood a throne her reared
Of waves, most like that heaven
Where beaming stars in glorj- turn ensphered.
The air stood cahn and clear.
No sigh by winds was given.
Birds left to sing, herds feed, — her voice to hear ;
" World- wand'ring sony wights,
"ttTiom nothing can content
Within these varying lists of days and nights ;
Whose Hfe, ere known amiss.
In glitt'ring giiefs is spent ;
Come learn," said she, " what is your choicest bliss :
From toil and pressing cares
How ye may respite find,
A sanctuary from soul-thraUing snares ;
A port to harbour sure.
In spite of waves and wind.
Which shall, when time's swift glass is run, endure.
" Not happy is that Hfe
Which you as happy hold ;
No, but a sea of fears, a field of strife ;
Charg'd on a throne to sit
With diadems of gold,
Pieserv'd by force, and still observ'd by 'xii;
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[a.d. 1614
Huge treasures to enjoy,
Of all her gems spoil Ind,
All Seres' silk in jjarmonts to employ,
Deliciously to feed,
The pha>nix' plumes to find
To rest upon, or deck youi- purple bed ;
Frail beauty to abuse.
And, wanton Sybarites,
On past or present touch of sense to muse ;
Never to hear of noise
But what the ear delights,
Sweet music's charms, or charming flatterer's voice.
Nor can it bliss you bring,
Hid Natiu-e's depths to know,
WTiy matter changeth, whence each form doth spring ;
Nor that your fame should range,
And after- worlds it blow
From Tanais to Nile, from Nile to Gange.
All these have not the power
To free the mind from fears.
Nor hideous horror can allay one hour,
WTien death in stealth doth glance,
In sickness lurks or years.
And wakes the soul from out her mortal trance.
*' No, but blest life is this :
With chaste and pure desire
To turn unto the load-star of all bliss,
On God the mind to rest,
Burnt up with sacred fire.
Possessing Him to he by Him possest ;
"When to the balmy east
Sun doth his Hght impart.
Or when he diveth in the lowly west
And ravisheth the day,
With spotless hand and heart
Him cheerfully to praise, and to Him pray ;
To heed each action so
As ever in his sight.
More fearing doing iU than passive woe ;
Not to seem other thing
Than what ye are aright ;
Never to do what may repentance bring ;
Not to be blown with pride.
Nor mov'd at glory's breath.
Which shadow-like on wings of time doth glide ;
So malice to disarm
And conquer hasty wrath.
As to do good to those that work your harm ;
To hatch no base desires
Or gold or land to gain.
Well pleas'd with that which virtue fair acquires ;
To have the wit and will
Consorting in one strain.
Than what is good to have no higher skiU ;
Never on neighbour's goods
With cockatrice's eye
To look, nor make another's heaven your hell ;
Nor to be beauty's thrall,
All fruitless love to fly,
Yet lox-ing stiU a Love transcendent all,
A Love which, while it bums
The soul with fairest beams,
To that increate sun the soul it turns.
And makes such beauty prove.
That, if sense saw her gleams
All lookers on would pine and die for Love.
" Who such a life doth live
You happy even may call
Ere ruthless Death a wished end him give ;
And after then when given.
More happy by his fall,
For humanes' earih, enjo)-ing angels' heaven.
" Swift is your mortal race.
And glassy is the field ;
Vast are desires not limited by grace :
Life a weak taper is ;
Then while it light doth j-ield.
Leave flying joys, embrace this lasting bliss."
This when the nj-mph had said.
She dived within the flood,
Whose face with smiling curls long after staid ;
Then sighs did zephyrs press.
Birds sang from everj' wood.
And echoes rang, " This was true Happiness."
After a recovery from severe illness Drummond
sent these lines
TO SIR WILLIAM ALEXANDER.
With the Author's Hpitaph.
Though I have twice been at the doors of death,
And twice found shut those gates which ever mourn,
This but a light'ning is, truce ta'en to breathe,
For late-bom sorrows augur fleet return.
Amidst thy sacred cares, and com-tly toils,
Alexis, when thou shalt hear wandering fame
TeU, Death hath triumph'd o'er my mortal spoils.
And that on earth I am but a sad name ;
If thou e'er held me dear, by all our love.
By all that bUss, those joys heaven here us gave,
I conjure thee, and by the maids of Jove,
To grave this short remembrance on my grave :
Here Damon lies, whose songs did sometime grace
The murmuring Esk : — may roses shade the place.
Sir William Alexander, Earl of Stii-ling, bom in
1580, was about five years older than Drummond.
He also was a poet, and had been in favom- \\-ith
.Tames VI. before he became James I. of England.
In 1621 he received a gi-ant of Nova Scotia, which
he was to colonise at his owti expense. He lived
until 1640, was made Secretary of State for Scotland,
and otherwise honoured. As poet, he is, perhaps,
best known for his four Monarchic Tragedies, but he
published at Edinburgh, in 1614, a long poem in
octave rhyme, entitled " Doomsday, or the Great
Day of the Lord's Judgment," of which there was a
London edition in 1637. It is divided into Twelve
Hours, and was perhaps inspired by the poem of Du
Bartas on the Seven Days of creation ; one poet tells
of the beginning of the world, the other of its end.
Tlie first hour of Doomsday declares God proved in
His works, tells of the sin of man and of temporal
plagues and judgments that have been as figures of
TO A.D. 1S25.1
RELIGION.
261
I
I
the last. The second hoiu- teUs of signs and wonders
before the sounding of the last triunijet call. The
theme of the tliii'd hour is the descent of Christ to
judgment and the end of the world. In the fourth
hour the trumpet sounds and the dead rise. In the
lifth hour trial of souls begins, and in this hour and
the sixth and seventh the heathen, the creatiu-e
worsliippei-s, those whom ambition led through blood,
tho.se who lived sensually, the false judges and the
learned, above all the Chm-chmen, who abused their
gifts, are accused. With the eighth hour begins the
recoi-d of the souls who stand in triumph. First
come the patriarchs, prie.sts, and prophets, faithful
to God, though knowing Christ only in types and
figures. Then in the ninth hour come the evangelists,
apostle.N. and those who knew Chiist in the flesh ;
then the tii-st martp-s and early Fathere of the
Church. In the tenth hour there is the jiarting of
the evU from the good : —
TREASURES IN HEAVEX.
That happy squadron is not question'd now,
WTiat ill they did, what good they did neglect,
Xo circumstance is urg'd, when, where, nor how,
They oft had faU'd, in what God did direct ;
He trusts, not tries, not counts, but doth allow ;
The Lord in Israel will no fault detect,
But absolutely doth absolve them all.
And from then- bondage to a kingdom caU.
" You whom my Father blessed, no more dismayed.
Come, and enjoy that boundless kingdom now,
'Which, ere the world's foundations tiist were laid.
By heaven's decree hath been prepar'd for you ;
"W'ith rays more bright than are the sun's array'd.
Before the throne you shall with reverence bow :
The height of pleasure which you should possess,
No tongue of man is able to express.
" 'When pressed by famine you me friendly fed,
And did with drink my scorching thirst allay ;
You with your garments me, when naked, clad,
A\*hose kindly visits sickness could not stay ;
No, even in prison, they me comfort bred.
Thus charity extended everj- way :
Your treasures, kept in heaven, for int'rest gain
That you emich'd eternally remain."
'With spiritual joy each one transported sings,
And, Hfted up, to heaven in haste would fly.
But yet this speech so great amazement brings.
That modestly they, as with doubt, reply :
' ' I'nbounded Lord, when didst thou lack such things,
That there was cause our willingness to try 'r
■Who nothing had but what Thou gav'st to us ;
How couldst Thou need, or we afiord it thus ': "
" That which was given, as now I do reveal,
"Unto the least of those whom I held dear,"
Saith Christ, '■ deep grav'd with an eternal seal
As due by me, I do acknowledge here ;
Those were the objects prompted for your zeal.
By which your goodness only could appear :
Best magazines for wealth the poor did prove,
"Where, when laid up, no thief could it remove."
Thus helpful alms, the offering most esteemed.
Doth men on th' earth, the Lord in heaven content,
How many are, if time might be redeemed,
T\"Tio wish they thus their revenues had spent ?
If this on th' earth so profitable seemed,
WTiat usurer would for others' gains be bent f
But woidd the poor ■vdih plenty oft supply.
Though they themselves for want were hke to die.
Those who, affecting vain ambition's end.
To gain opinion muster all in show ;
And, prodigal, superfluously spend
All what they have, or able are to owe,
For pleasm-es frail, whilst straj-ing fancies tend.
As Paradise could yet be found below :
StiU pamp'ring flesh with aU that th' earth can give,
Xo happiness more seek but here to live ;
Those if not gorgeous who do garments scorn.
And not in warmness but for cost exceed,
Though as of worms they have the entrails worn,
AVomis shall at last upon their entrails feed ;
Those dainty tastes who, as for eating bom,
That they may feast strive appetite to breed,
And, curious gluttons, even of vileness vaimt,
'\\'hilst surfeiting when thousands starve for want.
The world's chief idol, nurse of fretting cares,
Dumb trafficker, yet understood o'er all.
State's chain, life's maintenance, load-star of affairs,
W^hich makes all nations voluntar'ly thrall,
A subtle sorcerer, always laying snares ;
How many. Money, hast thou made to fall !
The general jewel, of all things the price.
To %-irtue sparing, la%ish unto vice.
The fool that is unfortunately rich.
His goods perchance doth from the poor extort,
Yet leaves his brother dying in a ditch,
'Whom one excess, if spar'd, would well support ;
And, whilst the love of gold doth him bewitch,
This miser's misery gives others sport :
The prodigal God's creatures doth abuse.
And them, the wretch, not necessar'ly use.
Those roving thoughts which did at random soar,
And, though they had conveniently to Uve,
AVould never look behind, but far before.
And, scorning goodness, to be great did strive ;
For, stiU projecting how to purchase more,
Thus, bent to get, they could not dream to give :
Such minds whom envj- hath fiU'd up with grudge,
Have left no room, where charity may lodge.
Ah ! who of those can well express the grief,
'\\Tiom once this earth did for most happy hold ?
Of all their neighbours stiU estecm'd the chief,
'ttliilst stray'd opinion balanc'd worth by gold :
That which to thousands might have given reUef,
■Wrong spent or spar'd, is for their ruin told :
Thus pleasures past, what anguish now doth even?
We see how hardly rich men go ij heaven.
The eleventh hour of "Doomsday" displays the
suffering of those who are condemned; and the
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[a.d. 1624
twelfth points at tlie transcendent bliss of the souls
sloritied.
Francis Qnarles, who was four years younger than
Wither, and in the time of James I. was cupbearer
to his daughter Elizabeth before becoming secretary
to Dr. Uslier in Ireland, wrote in James's reign some
poems ujion the Scripture stories of Jonah, Esther, and
Job, with metrical versions from Jeremiah and King
Solomon, as " Sion's Elegies " and " Sion's Somiets."
But Quarles is best kno^v^l for his " Emblems," which
were published in the reign of Charles I.
We may pass out of the reign of James I. with the
two brothers Edward and George Herbert, sons of
Richard Herbert, Esq., Deputy-Lieutenant of Mont-
gomeryshire. Richard Herbert's grandfather. Sir
Richard Herbert of Colebrook, had been steward
of the Welsh Marches in Henry VIII. 's time, and
brother to William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke.
Richard Herbert, the father of Edward and George,
was black-haired, black-bearded, and bold. He and
his wife Magdalen, daughter of Sir Richard Newport,
had ten children: seven sons and three daughters.
Edward, born in 1.581, was the eldest son. He
became afterwards a Knight of the Bath as Sir
Edward Herbert, and then Lord Herbert of Cher-
buiT. The second son, Richard, after he had been well
educated, fought in the Low Countries in battles and
duels, and carried scars of four-and-twenty wounds
with him to his grave in Bergen-op-Zoom. William,
the thu'd son, also well educated, spent his life in the
"wars. Charles, the fourth son, distinguished himself
at New College, Oxford, and died early. The fifth
son was George Herbert, born in 1593, the poet
whose name remains familiar to his countrymen.
Tlie other two brothers were Hem-y, who prospered
gi'eatly as a courtier, and Thomas, who distinguished
himself by his skill and courage in the navy, but
missed the promotion he deserved, and closed his
days in discontent.
Edward, the eldest of these sons, was born in 1581,
at Eyton, Shropshire, in a house that came into the
family as part of his mother's heritage. He must
have been more discreet as an infant than as a man,
for he says in his autobiogi-aphy, " The very farthest
thing I remember is, that when T understood what
was said liy others, I did yet forbear to speak, lest I
should utter something that were imperfect or im-
pertinent." After private teaching, he was sent, at
the age of twelve, to University College, Oxford,
and soon afterwards arrangement was made for his
marriage to an heiress in direct descent from William,
the Earl of Pemljroke, who was Ijrother to Edward's
gi-eat-grandfather, Sii- Richard. The young lady in-
lieiited her large estates subject to the condition that
she should marry a Herbert. Young Edward was
the only Herbert matching her in fortune. He was
six years younger, but the match was made, and
Edward Herbert married before he had finished his
studies at the University.
He himself thus tells in his autobiography how he
came to London at the age of nineteen, and was
made a Knight of the Bath early in the reign of
James I. : —
About the year of our Lord 1600, I came to London;
shortly after whiih the attempt of the Earl of Essex, related
in our history, followed, which I had rather were seen in the
writers of that argument than here. Not long after this,
curiosity, I'athcr than ambition, brought me to court ; and as
it was the nvinner of those times for all men to kneel down
before the great Queen Elizabeth, who then reigned, I was
likewise upon my knees in the presence-chamber, when she
passed by to the chapel at Whitehall. As soon as she saw niu
she stopped, and swearing her usual oath, demanded, " ^\^lo
is this?" Everj'body there present looked upon me, but
no man knew me, until Sir James Croft, a pensioner, finding
the queen stayed, rctm-ned back and told who I was, and that
I had married Sii' William Herbert of St. Gillian's daughter.
The queen thereupon looked attentively upon me, and swear-
ing again her ordinary oath, said, " It is a pity he was married
so young," and thereupon gave her hand to kiss twice, both
times gently clapping me on the cheek. I remember little
more of myself, but that from that time until King James's
coming to the erown, I had a son, which died shortly after-
wards, and that I attended my studies seriously, the more I
learnt out of my books adding still a desire to know more.
King .James being now acknowledged king, and coming
towards London, I thought fit to meet his JIajesty at Burley,
near Stamford. Shortly after I was made Knight of the
Bath, with the usual ceremonies belonging to that ancient
order. I could tell how much my person was commended by
the lords and ladies that came to see the solemnity then used,
but I shall flatter myself too much if I believed it.
I must not forget yet the ancient custom, being that some
principal person was to put on the right spm- of those the
king had appointed to receive that dignity : the Earl of
Shrewsbury seeing my esquire there with my spirr in his
hand, voluntarily came to me and said, " Cousin, I believe
you will be a good knight, and therefore I will put on your
spur;" whereupon, after my most humble thanks for so
great a favom-, I held up my leg against the wall, and he put
on my spur.
There is another custom likewise, that the knights the first
da}- wear the gown of some religious order, and the night
following to be bathed ; after which they take an oath never
to sit in place where injustice should be done, but they shall
light it to the uttennost of their power; and particularly
ladies and gentlewomen that shall be wronged in their
honour, if they demand assistance, and many other points,
not unlike the romances of knight errantry.
The second day to wear robes of crimson tafEety (in which
habit I am painted in my study), and so to ride from St.
.lames's to Whitehall, with our esquires before us ; and the
third day to wear a gown of purple satin, upon the left slpere
whereof is fa.stoned certain strings weaved of white silk and
gold tied in a knot, and tassels to it of the same, which all
the knights are obliged to wear until they have done some-
thing famous in arms, or imtil some lady of honour- take it
off, and fasten it on her sleeve, saying, " I will answer he shall
prove a good knight."
Sir Edward Herbert, who had all the fiiith of his
time in the chivalry of duelling, interpreted his vow
as a Knight of the Bath in a way that would have
satisfied his contemporary, Don Quixote, that good
knight who was first introduced to the world by
Cervantes in 1605, about the time when Sir Edward
Herbert began his career as Knight of the Bath.
About the year 1608, when he had a fourth child
born, he went abroad. At Paris, soon after his
TO A.D. 1C25.;
EELIGION.
263
departiu'e, ne made acquaintance witli the Duchess
of Ventadour, aud says : —
Passing two or three tla^-s here, it happened one evening
that a daughter of the duchess, of ahout ten or eleven years
of age, going one evening fi'om the castle to walk in the
meadows, myself, with divers French gentlemen, attended her
and some gentlewomen that were with her. This young
lady wearing a knot of riband on her head, a French chevalier
took it suddenly, and fastened it to his hatband : the young-
lady, offended herewith, demands her riband, but he refusing
Sia Edward Herbert as Knight of the Bath.
(From the Picture once in his Studij.)
to restore it, the yoxmg ladj- addressing herself to me, said,
"Monsieur, I pray get my riband from that gentleman;"
hereupon going towards him, I courteously, with my hat in
my hand, desired him to do me the honour, that I may deliver
the lady her riband or bouquet again ; but he roughly
answering me, " Do you think I wiU give it you, when I have
refused it to her?" I replied, " Xay then, sir, I will make
you restore it by force ;" whereupon also, putting on my hat
and reaching at his, he to save himself ran away, and, after a
long course in the meadow, finding that I had almost over-
took him, he turned short, and running to the young lady, was
about to put the riband on her hand, when I, seizing upon
his arm, said to the young lady. " It was I that gave it."
" Pardon me," quoth she, " it is he that gives it me : " I said
then, " JIadam, I will not contradict you, but if he dare say
that I did not constrain him to give it, I -wiU fight with him."
The French gentleman answered nothing thereunto for the
present, and so conducted the young lady again to the castle.
The next day I desired Sir. Aurelian Townsend to teU the
French cavalier, that either he must confess that I constrained
him to restore the riband, or fight with me ; but the gentle-
man seeing him unwilling to accept of this challenge, went
out from the place, whereupon I following him, some of the
gentlemen that belonged to the constable taking notice
hereof, acquainted him therewith, who sending for the
French cavalier, checked him well for his sauciuess, in
taking the riband away from his grandchild, and afterwards
bid him depart his house ; and this was all that I ever heard
of the gentleman, with whom I proceeded in that manner,
because I thought myseU obliged thereunto by oath taken
when I was made Knight of the Bath, as I formerly related
upon this occasion.
But -ivith the weakness of his time and of his blood,
amusingly illustrated by the simple self-i-evelation of
liis autohiography, there was strength ; and his other
works bear witness to the scholarly side of Edward
Herbert's character. When next in Paris he lodged
with Casaubon. When home again after adventures
in the wai-s, " I passed," he says, " some time, partly
in my studies, and partly riding the great hor.se, of
which I had a stable well furnished." He was sent
as ambassador to Paris, but it was not long before he
was anxious to fight a duel with the French Minister,
the Due de Luynes, for which reason he had to be
recalled in 1620, but afterwards he was sent again.
While in Paris on his .second embassy, he published,
in 1624:, a Ijook in Latin, which he had begun in
England, "on Truth as it is distinguished from Reve-
lation that is like the truth, or jiossible, and from the
f;tlse." Of the publication of this remarkable book
Edward Herbert writes in his autobiography as
follows : —
3Iy book, Sc Veritiite prout (listinguitur a Rerelatioiie veri-
siiiii/i, possiliili, et A f also, having been begun by me in Eng-
land, and fonned there in all its principal parts, was about
this time finished ; all the spare hours which I could get from
my visits and negotiations being employed to perfect this
work : which was no sooner done, but that I communicated
it to Hugo Grotius, that great scholar, who, ha-i-ing escaped
his prison in the Low Countries,' came into France, and was
* Hugo Grotius, the chief Dutch scholar of his time, had been con-
demned at the Synod of Dort, in November, 1618, to peri'etual iin-
l^risonment for supportint^ the Armiuians. In his prison at Louvesteiu
he continued his studies, aud after two years' confinement his wife
obtained leave to remove au accumulation of books on the plea that
they reduced space iu his ceU. This enabled her, instead of the books,
to carry off her husband, iu a box tlu-ee feet and a half long. When
freed from the bos Grotius crossed the frontier in disguise as a mason,
with rule and trowel. He found Ms way to Paris, and there received
a pension. It was there that Edward Herbert met with him. In
1622 Grotius published his Apology, which the States-General forbade
his countrymen to read, on pain of death. The Arminiam, whom
Grotius had favoured, began also from this time to add freedom to
EugUsh thouf-'ht, religious and pohtical. They derived their name
from Jacob Harmensen, LatiuizedArminius. Harmensenwas born in
1560, at Oudewater, a smaU towu on the Tssel, in Holland, about
eighteen miles from Rotterdam. His father died when Jacob Har-
mensen was an infant in the arms of a mother left with poor means,
and two elder children to support. The fatherless child was edu-
cated and the foundation of his religious hfe was laid by a reformec?
priest named Theodore .Smihus, who was a wanderer through perse-
264
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1624
much welcomed by me ; and Monsieur Tielcners also, one of
the greatest scholars of his time ; who, after they had perused
it, and given it more commendations than is fit for me to
repeat, exhorted me earnestly to print and pubUsh it. How-
heit, as the frame of my whole book was so different from
any' thing which had been wi-itten heretofore, I found I must
either renounce the authority of all that had written formerly
concerning the method of finding out truth, and consequently
insist upon my own way, or hazard myself to a general censure
concerning the whole argument of my book. I must confess
it did not a Uttle animate mo, that the two great persons
above-mentioned did so highly value it, yet, as I knew it
would meet with much opposition, I did consider whether it
was not better for me a while to sapi^ress it. Being thus
doubtful in my chamber, one fair day in the summer, my
casement being opened towards the south, the sun shinirig
clear, and no wind stirring, I took my book, De Vcritatc, in
my hand, and kneeling on my knees, devoutly said these
words,
" thou eternal God, author of the light which now shines
upon me, and giver -of all inward illuminations, I do beseech
Thee, of Thy infinite goodness, to pardon a greater request
than a sinner ought to make. I am not satisfied enough
whether I shall publish this book Dc Vcritatc; if it be for
Thy glory, I beseech Thee give me some sign from heaven ;
if not, I shall suppress it."
I had no sooner spoken these words, but a loud though yet
gentle noise came from tho heavens (for it was like nothing
on earth), which did so comfort and cheer me, that I took
my petition as granted, and that I had the sign I demanded,
whereupon also I resolved to print my book. This, how
strange soever it may seem, I protest before the eternal God
is true, neither am I any way superstitiously deceived herein,
since I did not only clearly hear the noise, but in the serenest
sky that ever I saw, being without all cloud, did to my
thinking see the place from whence it came.
Tlie book was remarkable for boldness of specula-
tion upon sacred tilings, and for the difl'erence it
shows ill bent of thought between Edward Herbert
cntion. Wlien Harmeusen, a^ed fifteen, was with his teacher at
Utrecht, .Smilius died ; hut the hoy was immediately cared for hy
another earnest Dutch Eeformer, also a native of Oudewater, Rudolph
Snell. Suell became Professor of Hebrew and Mathematics at
Leydeu, before his death in 1613. This learned fellow-townsman took
young Hannensen away with him, but soon hurried back to Oudewater
upon hearmg of the cruelties of the Spaniards, who had sacked the
town and slain most of the inhabitants, including his mother, his
sisters, his brothers, and his kiudi-ed. The sudden desolation is said
to have caused him to spend fourteen days in passion of weeping.
Snell with the boy left the scene of massacre on foot for Marburg, in
Hesse Cassel ; then, having heard of the opening (in 1576) of the
University of Leyden by the Prince of Orange, he went to Eotterdam,
and thence sent Harmenseu to Leyden. The youth excelled among
the students, and in 1582 was sent, at expense of the Senate of
Amsterdam, to Geneva, where he became a zealous admirer of Theo-
dore Beza, who was expounding the Epistle to the Romans, But
Harmensen's regard for the philosophy of Peter Ramus stood in
his way at Geneva, and he went to Basle, where he was soon
thoroughly at home. At Basle he was offered the title of Doctor by
the theological faculty before his return to Geneva, but declined it
because he felt himself unripe. From Geneva he went with a Dutch
fellow-student to Padua, for the benefit of the teaching of Giacopo
Zabarella, then in the fulness of his fame there as Professor of Philo-
sophy. The two young Dutchmen then travelled together for eight
months iu Italy, can-yiug the Greek Testament and Hebrew Psalter
in their pockets. In the course of their travel they saw Rome, but
the Senate of Amsterdam, with pious horror of Rome, was greatly
lispleased with Harmensen for going there. The young theologian,
however, returned to Geneva, and thence earned to his iiatrous at
Amsterdam clear testimony of his fitness for the reformed ministry.
and his younger brother' George, each thinking for
himself on matters of religion. Edward, who was
made after his return from Paris in 1G25 an Irish
baron, and afterwards an English peer as Lord
Herbert of Cherbury, taught forcibly the existence
of a s]3ii-itual power within man, supreme over all the
faculties, which draws knowledge from the world
around and reasons upon Revelation. He denied
that the salvation of man could wholly depend on
acceptance of a form of religion revealed only to a
portion of the human race. God as the Father of
mankind could not, he said, condemn a large part of
the human race for ignorance of that which it had
no opportunity of knowing. It has been said that
his refusal to believe in revelation confined to a few
is inconsistent with his belief that a revelation to
himself alone communicated the assent of God to his
diffusion of his book. But this would have only
been inconsistent had he held that God in listening
to him was deaf to the prayers of others. He
believed that every man could, by true worship,
draw near to God and bring God near to him,
receiving aid and comfort. The supposition that
God answered his prayer was, in fact, part of his
supposition that the prayers of all who drew near
to Him with spii'itual worship found their way to
heaven. Thus reasoning, Edward Herbert built up
in this treatise upon Truth a creed of his own,
containing the five points that he held to be the
essentials of a true religion. These were belief (1)
in God; (2) in Man's duty to worship Him ; (3) in the
Immortality of the Soul ; (4) in Future Rewards and
Punishments ; (.5) in the need of Repentance for Sin.
So taught Edward, Lord Herbert of Cherbury, eldest
l)rother and head of the house of "holy George
Herbert," who, wlule the De Verltate was being read,
maintained in his parsonage at Bemerton every
ordinance and doctrine of the English Cliurch, and
quickened all with a pure spirit of devotion.
There was still, with many Reformers, dread of the student who had
gone so near to Antichrist, but when Hannensen began to preach he
won golden opinions. At this time a book was in circulation written
by some brethren of the church of Delft, called *' An Answer to some
Arguments of Beza and Calvin out of a Treatise concerning Predesti-
nation, on the 9th chapter to the Romans." Martin Lidyus, formerly
a pastor in Amsterdam, but then a Professor iu Friesland, sent the
book to Hannensen, because he was able, and fresh from Beza's
teaching at Geneva, requesting him to defend Beza by answering the
brethren of Delft. But Harmensen was converted by theii- book, and
he was led to join in argument against Calvin's form of the doctrine
of predestination and election. His ability and piety soon made him
a leader of the gi-owing reaction among Dutch Reformers against
what they took to he an unjust view of God's providence iu Calvin's
doctrine. The name of Armiuian was then given to these dissenters
from Calvinism. Amiinius was, in September, 1603, when James I.
was newly become King of England, joined with Francis Gomar, a
strict Calvinist, iu the Professorship of Theology at Leyden. His
predecessor in the chair was Francis Junius, the elder. Then followed
bitterness of controversy, troubliug a very gentle spirit, then disease,
and in October, 1609, Arminius died, leaving a widow and nine child-
ren. In the year after his death, his followers set forth, in five
articles, the opinions for which they were attacked. These articles
they specified in a " Remonstrance to the Estates of Holland," and
from it the Armiuians came to be called " the Remonstrants," and
thek' church at Amsterdam the " Church of the Remonstrants." The
five opinions were : — 1. Of Election ; that God from all eternity de-
termined the salvation of those in whom He foresaw that they would
l^ersevere to the end in their faith iu Jesus Christ, aud the eternal
pimishment of those in whom he foresaw continued unbelief and re*
sistance of His aid ; so that Election depended on the acts of men.
TO A.D. 1633.]
RELIGION.
2C5
George Herbert, the tiftli of Richard Herbert's
seven sons, was born at Montgomery Castle on the
3rd of April, 1593, and was in his fourth year when
liis father died. He was educated at home by his
mother for the next eight years, and then sent to
Westminster School. In his fifteenth year, being a
king's scholar, he was sent on to Trinity College,
Cambridge, and, young as he wa-s, he had already
entered into controversy on church questions of the
day. AVhen, after the accession of James to the
English throne, the Millenary Petition represented
the desii-e of many of the clergy for further reforma-
tion in the Church, the Universities signified their
displeasure. Cambridge passed a grace that who-
soever opposed by word or writing or any other way
the doctrine or discijtline of the Church of England,
or any part of it, .should be suspended, ipso facto,
from any degi'ee already taken, and be disabled from
taking any degree for the future. Oxford published
a formal answer to the petition and condemnation of
the petitioners. Andrew Melville, Rector of St.
Andrews, a leading minister of the Scottish Church,
then satirised the Univereities (in 1604) in a Latin
poem entitled " Anti-Tami-Cami-Categoria," that is,
accusation against Thames and Cam — Oxford and
Cambridge. George Herbert, as a .schoolboy, retorted
with "Epigrams Apologetical," which were not printed
until 1662. They could only have been published
by one who shared the unwisdom of a boyish partisan.
George Herbert went to Cambridge in May, 1609,
gi-aduated as B.A. early in 1613, and as M.A., at the
age of twenty-three, in 1616, year of the death of
Shakespeare. In January, 1620, George Herbert was
elected Public Orator, and thus obtained what he said
was "the fuiest place in the University, though not
the gainfuUest, yet that will be about .£30 per annum.
free, though foreseen, and predestined only through foreknowledge.
2. Of Redemption; that Christ at<)ned for the sins of all men and of
each min, though none but those who believe in Him can be partakers
of the benefit. 3. Of Original Sin ; that true faith cannot come to the
natiiral man without help of the Grace of God — that is, regeneration
by the Holy Ghost, which is the gift of God through Christ. 4. Of
Effectual Grace ; that this Divine Grace begins, advances, and per-
fects whatever is good in man ; wherefore every good work proceeds
from God alone, but His Grace, offered to all, does not force men to
act against their inclinations, and may be resisted by the impenitent
sinner. 5. Of Perseverance ; that God helps the truly faithful to
remain so, though — and upon this at first opinion among Arminians
differed— the regenerate may lose true justifying faith, fall from a
state of Grace, and die in their sins. These opinions were, it will be
seen, mainly protests against Calvin's views of Predestination. The
Remonstrants were left free to hold their opinions until 1618, when the
States General convoked at Dort a Synod of thirty-eight Dutch and
Walloon divines, five professors from different universities, and
twenty-one lay elders, with ecclesiastical deputies from most of the
States of the United Provinces, and from the churches of the Pala-
tinate, Hesse, Switzerland, Bremen, England, and Scotland. The
Synod of Dort condemned the Arminians, banished their ministers,
and submitted to trial their ablest defenders. Bamevelt, Grotius, and
Hoogarbetz. Bamevelt was executed ; Grotius and Hoogarbetz were
condemned to perpetual imprisonment. Arminian opinion spread
through the Reformed Churches of Europe, and was favoured by
James I. and Charles I. because they looked upon the Calvinistic
Puritans as enemies, and had more trust in a body of Reformers who
had parted from them and were persecuted by them. The strict
Calvinist disliked an Arminian almost as much as a Roman Catholic.
Under the Stuarts royal preference of a di\ine tinged with Arminian
opinions was so marked, that when Bishop Georire Morley was asked
"what the Arminians held," his answer was, "All the best bishoprics
and deaneries in England."
But the commodiousness is beyond the revenue, for the
Orator writes all the University letters, be it to the
king, prince, or whoever comes to the University."
The commodiousness of the ofEce was, that it enabled
a man who sought advancement at court to show
his ability to the king, and make himself agi-eeable.
Public orators before him had used the post as a
stepping-stone to court preferment, and during the
rest of the reign of James I. George Herbert waited
upon his Majesty, a courtly and a ^ritty fortune-
hunter. He got in 1623 — as a layman — the sinecure
rectory of Whitford iii Fliiitsliire, which was worth
£120 a year, and had once been given to Philip
Sidney when he was a boy of ten. But the death
of James I. on the 27th of March, 162.5, put an
end to all George Herbert's further hopes in that
direction.
CHAPTER IX.
Under Charles I. and the Commonwealth. —
George Herbert, Richard Sibbes, Thomas
Fuller, John Howe, George Fox, Richard
Baxter, Jeremy Taylor, John Milton, and
Others. — a.d. 1625 to a.d. 1660.
George Herbert, stiU a layman, was in July, 1626,
year of the death of Francis Bacon, made a preben-
dary of Leightou Ecclesia or Leighton Bromswald,
in Huntingdonshire, with a stall in Lincoln. He
repaired the church of the place. In 1 627 his mother
died, and George Herbert retii-ed from his office of
Public Orator. He left Cambridge, weak in health,
for he was consumptive, and stayed for a time with
his brother. Sir Henry Herbert, at Woodford, in
Essex. In 1629 he was at Dauntsey, iu Wiltshii-e,
the seat of the Earl of Danby, with whom he was
coiuiected by his mother's second marriage. She had
married Sir- John Danvere. At Damit.sey his health
improved. In March, 1629, he married Jane Dan-
vei-s, a kinswoman of his stepftither and of Lord
Danby. George Herbert had resolved now to take
holy orders. His kinsman Philip, Earl of Pembroke,
obtamed for him the living of Bemerton, with a little
church within a mile or two of the gi-eat house at
Wilton, half way between Wilton and Salisbury.
George Herbert found Charles 1. and his Coui-t
with the Earl, at Wilton, when he went there, and
on the 26th of April, 1630, the Bishop of Salis-
bury inducted him into liis li\-ing. George Herbert's
church at Bemerton supplied the needs of a thinly-
scattered population, though it would pei-haps have
been overcrowded by a congi-egation of fifty. There
he laboured for not quite three yeai-s, marked for
death by consumption, lodged in a slight hollow of
pleasant but over-watered meadow-land, most favour-
able to the gi-o^vth of liis disea.se. The sujireme
beauty of George Herbert's life was in its close at
Bemerton from the beginning of his ministration
there in April, 1630, when he was thirty-seven years
old, to his death at the age of forty. He was buried
nnder the altar of his church on the 3rd of Mai-ch,
1633. According to liis wish, no word of inscription
marks liis resting-place. The little church remains,
98
26G
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[i.D. 1630
and is still used for week-day prayers, but near it
there has been built a handsome memorial church.
For his own use he set down in a little book his
view of the duties of " the Country Parson," treating
of his knowledge; the parson on Sundays; his
praying; his preaching; liis charity; his comfort-
ing the sick; his arguing; his condescending; the
parson in his journey ; the parson in his mirth ; the
pai-son with his churchwardens ; the parson blessing
the people. "His chiefest recreation," says Izaak
Walton, " was music, in which heavenly art he was
a most excellent master, and composed many divine
hymns and anthems, wldch he set and sung to his
lute or viol ; and though he was a lover of retired-
ness, yet his love to music was such that he went
usually twice every week, on certain appointed days,
to the cathedral church in Salisbury, and at his
When thou dost tell another's jest, therein
Omit the oaths, which true wit cannot need ;
Pick out of tales the mirth, but not the sin ;
He pares his appFe that will cleanly feed. 10
Play not away the virtue of that Name
Which is the best stake when griefs make thee tame.
Lie not ; but let thy heart be true to God,
Thy mouth to it, thy actions to them both :
Cowards tell lies, and those that fear the rod ;
The stormy-working soul spits hes and froth.
Dare to be true : nothing can need a he ;
A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby.
The waj- to make thy son rich is to fill
His mind with rest, before his trunk with riches : 20
For wealth without contentment climbs a hill.
To feel those tempests which fly over ditches ;
UKuKGt; Hekbeui's CuuKca at BtiiiEi.ru^'.
retui-n woidd say, ' that his time spent in prayer and
cathedral music elevated his soul, and was his heaven
upon earth.' But before his return thence to Bemer-
ton he would usually sing and play his pai-t at an
appointed private music-meeting ; and to justify this
practice he would often say, ' Religion does not banish
mirth, but only moderates and sets rules to it.' "
George Herbert's sacred poems, expressing a pure
spirit of worship that shone in these last years of his
life through all his actions, were published under the
title of "The Temple" in 163.3, soon after his death.
The opening verses, entitled " The Church Porch,"
are counsels as to the mind with which the temple
should be entered, of which these are a few^ examples
that may serve as an abridgment of the whole : —
FROM GEORGE HERBERT'S CHURCH PORCH.
Thou whose sweet youth and early hopes inhance
Thy rate and price, and mark thee for a treasure.
Hearken unto a Verser, who may chance
EhjTne thee to good, and make a bait of pleasure :
A verse may find him who a sermon flies,
And tiurn deUght into a sacrifice.
But if th}' son can make ten pound his measure,
Then all thou addest may be called his treasure.
By all means use sometimes to be alone ;
Salute thyself ; see what thy soul doth wear ;
Dare to look in thy chest, for 'tis thine own.
And tumble up and down what thou find'st there :
Who cannot rest till he good-fellows find,
He breaks up house, turns out of doors his mind. 30
Be sweet to all. Is thy complexion sour ?
Then keep such company ; make them thy allay ;
Get a sharp wife, a servant that will lour :
A stumbler stmnbles least in rugged way.
Command thyself in chief. He life's war knows
"\^^lom all his passions follow as he goes.
Laugh not too much ; the wittj' man laughs least ;
For wit is news only to ignorance.
Less at thine own things laugh, lest in the jest
Thy person share and the conceit advance. 40
Make not thy sport abuses ; for the fly
That feeds on dung is coloured thereby.
TO A.D. 1633.]
RELIGION.
267
I
Pick out of mirth, like stones out of thy ground,
Profaneness, filthiness, abusiveness ;
These are the scum, with which coarse wits ahound :
The fine may spare these well, yet not go less.
All things are big with jest ; nothing that's plain
But may be witty, if thou hast the vein.
Be calm in arguing : for fierceness makes
Error a fault, and truth discourtesy. 50
Why should I feel another man's mistakes
More than his sickness or his poverty ':
In love I should ; but anger is not love.
Is or wisdom neither ; therefore gently move.
Be useful where thou livest, that they may
Both want and wish thy pleasing presence still.
Kindness, good parts, great places, are the way
To compass this. Find out men's wants and will,
And meet them there. AH worldly joys go less
To the one joy of doing kindnesseB. 60
AfEect in things about thee cleanliness,
That all maj- gladly board thee, as a flower.
Slovens take up their stock of noisomeness
Beforehand, and anticipate their last hour.
Let thy mind's sweetness have his operation
Upon thy body, clothes, and habitation.
In alms regard thy means and others' merit :
Think heaven a better bargain than to give
Only thy single market-money for it ;
Join hands with God to make a man to live. 70
Give to all something ; to a good poor man
Till thou change names, an4 be where he began.
Though private prayer be a brave design,
Yet public hath more promises, more love ;
And love's a weight to hearts, to eyes a sign.
We all are but cold suitors ; let us move
Where it is warmest : leave thy six and seven ;
Pray with the most, for where most pray is heaven.
When once thy foot enters the Church, be bare ;
God is more there than thou ; for thou art there 80
Only by His permission : then beware,
And make thyself all reverence and fear.
Kneeling ne'er spoUed silk stocking ; quit thy state ;
All equal are within the Church's gate.
Eesort to sermons, but to prayers most :
Pra)"ing's the end of preaching. Oh, be drest;
Stay not for th' other pin ! ^^^ly, thou hast lost
A joy for it worth worlds. Thus HeU doth jest
Away thy blessings, and extremely flout thee ; 89
Thy clothes being fast, but thy soul loose about thee.
In time of service seal up both thine eyes.
And send them to thj- heart, that, spj-ing sin,
They may weep out the stains by them did rise :
Those doors being shut, all by the ear comes in.
Who marks in church-time others' symmetry
Makes all their beauty his deformity.
Let vain and busy thoughts have there no part ;
Bring not thy plough, thy plots, thy pleasures thither.
Christ purg'd His temple : so must thou thy heart :
All worldly thoughts are but thieves met together 100
To cozen thee. Look to thy actions well ;
For churches are either our Heaven or HeU.
Judge not the preacher, for he is thy judge ;
If thou mislike him, thou conceiv'st him not :
God calleth preaching foUy : do not grudge
To pick out treasures from an earthen pot :
The worst speak something good ; if all want sense,
God takes a text, and preacheth patience.
Sum up at night what thou hast done by day.
And in the morning what thou hast to do ;
Dress and undress thy soul ; mark the decay
And growth of it ; if with thy watch that too
Be down, then wind up both : since we shall be
Most surely judg'd, make thy accounts agree.
In brief, acquit thee bravely, play the man :
Look not on pleasures as they come, but go ;
Defer not the least virtue : life's poor span
Make not an eU by trifling in thy woe.
If thou do Ul, the joy fades, not the pains ;
If well, the pain doth fade, the joy remains.
Then follows the Crossing of the Thi-eshold.
SCPERLIMINARE.
Thou whom the former precepts have
Sprinkled, and taught how to behave
Thyself in Church, approach and taste
The Church's mystical repast.
Avoid profaxexess ! come not heke :
Is OTHIXG KVT holy, PURE, AND CLEAR,
Or th.1T which groaxeth to be so.
May at his peril fvrther go.
no
120
George Herbert.
From the Portrait before his '• Temple " ("1674).
■VMien the Temple is entered, the eye dwells fii-st
on the altar, and the altar of the heart is reared in
a poem altar-shaped. Next follows The 8aciiiice —
268
CASSELL'S LIBEARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1630
Christ dying for man; Thanksgiving; the Agony;
Poems on Good Friday and Easter ; and so onward
through Prayer, Repentance, the Communion, to
many" thoughts of God. I quote tlu-ee of these
poems : —
VIRTUE.
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so tright.
The bridal of the earth and sky,
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ;
For thou must die.
Sweet rose, whose hue angrj- and brave
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye.
Thy root is ever in its grave,
And thou must die.
Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie, 10
My music shows ye have your closes.
And all miist die.
Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like season' d timber, never gives ;
But though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chieflv lives.
MAN,
My Ciod, I heard this day
That none doth build a stately habitation
But he that means to dwell therein.
What house more stately hath there been,
Or can be, than is Man 'i to whose creation
All things are in decay.
For Man is ev'ry thing.
And more : he is a tree, yet bears more fruit ;
A beast, yet is, or should be, more :
Reason and speech we only bring : 10
Parrots may thank us if they are not mute.
They go upon the score,
Man is all sj-mmetry,
Full of proportions, one limb to another.
And all to all the world besides ;
Each part may call the farthest brother,
For head with foot hath private amity,
And both with moons and tides.
Nothing hath got so far
But Man hath caught and kept it as his prey ; 20
His eyes dismount the highest star ;
He is in little all the sphere ;
Herbs gladly cure our flesh, because that they
Find their acquaintance there.
For us the winds do blow.
The earth resteth, heaven moveth, fountains flow ;
Nothing we see but means our good.
As our delight or as our treasure ;
The whole is either our cupboard of food
Or cabinet of pleasure, 30
The stars have us to bed.
Night draws the curtain, which the sun withdi-aws ;
JNIusic and tight attend our head ;
All things unto our flesh are kind
In theii- descent and being, to our mind
In their ascent and cause.
Each thing is f uU of duty :
Waters united are our navigation ;
Distinguished, our habitation ;
Below, our diink ; above, om- meat ; 40i
Both are our cleanliness. Hath one such beauty ?
Then how are all things neat !
More servants wait on Man
Than he'll take notice of : in ev'ry path
He treads down that which doth befriend him.
When sickness makes him pale and wan,
mighty love ! Man is one world, and hath
Another to attend him.
Since then, my God, Thou hast
So brave a palace built, dwell in it, 501
That it may dwell with Thee at last !
Till then afford us so much -wit,
That, as the world serves us, we may serve Tt«e;
And both Thy servants be.
man's medley.
Hark how the birds do sing,
And the woods ring :
All creatures ha^■e their joy, and man hath his.
Yet if we rightly measure,
Man's joy and pleasure
Eather hereafter than in present is.
To this life things of sense
Make their pretence ;
In th' other angels have a right by birth :
Man ties them both alone, 10
And makes them one,
Witbth' one hand touching heav'n, with th' otherearth.
In soul he mounts and flies.
In flesh he dies ;
He wears a stuff whose thread is coarse and round,
But trimm'd with curious lace,
And should take place
After the trimming, not the stuff and ground.
Not that he maj' not here
Taste of the cheer ; 20
But as birds drink, and straight Uft up their head.
So must he sip and think
Of better drink
Ho may attain to after he is dead.
But as his joys are double.
So is his trouble ;
He hath two winters, other things but one ;
Both frosts and thoughts do nip
And bite his lip ;
And he of all things fears two deaths alone, 30
TO A.D. 1647.
EELIGIOJn".
269
Yet ev'n the greatest griefs
May be reliefs.
Could lie but take them right and in their ways.
Happy is he whose heart
Hath found the art
To turn his double pains to double praise.
I
Christopher Hai-vey, bom in 1.597, was the son of
a preacher at Buuljury, in Cheshire.^ His mother,
in 1609, took in second marriage another preacher,
Thoma.s Pierson, of Brampton-Biian, on the borders
of Radnor and Hereford. Chiistopher in 1613 en-
tered Bi-a-seno-se College as a poor scholar, gi-aduated
a,s B.A. in 1617, M.A. in 1620. He was living
by the Wye, at Whitney, in Hereford — perhaps as
ciu-ate — before he became rector there after the
death of his predecessor, in December, 1630. For
half a year, from September, 1632, to March, 1633,
Christopher Harvey left Whitney to be head-master
of the Grammar School at Kington ; but he returned
to Whitney, and four more children were bom there,
making a family of five, before November, 1635,
when Sir Robert Whitney of Wliitney presented him
to the vicarage of Clifton-on-Dunsmore, in Warwick-
sliire. Here he had four more children, of whom
one, named Whitney, died in infancy, and then he
himself cUed at the age of sixty-six, in 1663. In
1647, the Vicar of Clifton published anonymously
" The Synagogue, or Shadow of the Temjjie. Sacred
Poems and Private Ejaculations in imitation of Mr.
George Herbert," of which there was a fourth etlition
in his lifetime (1661). In the same year he pub-
lished " Schola Cordis,- or the Heart of itself gone
away from God, brought back again to Him, and
instructed by Him. In forty-seven Emblems." This
(left with the old spelling unaltered) is the thirty-
fifth—
THE ENLARGING OF THE HEART.
How pleasant is that now which heretofore
Mine heart held hitter — sacred leaming'i- lore !
Enlarged hearts enter with greatest ease
The straitest paths, and runne the narrowest wayes.
What a blessed change I find
Since I intertain'd this Guest !
Now methinks another mind
Moves and rules within my brest.
Surely I am not the same
That I was before He came ; 10
But I then was much to blame.
When before my God commanded
Anj-thing He would have done,
I was close and gripple-handed.
Made an end ere I begunnc ;
If He thought it fit to lay
Judgements on me, I could say,
" They are good," — but shrinke away.
^ The Rev. A. B. Grosart, in his edition for the " Fuller Worthies
Library " of the whole works of Christopher Harvey — then first
collected — made valuable additions to our knowledge of facts of his
life.
' " The School of the Heart."
All the wayes of righteousnesse
I did think were full of trouble ;
I compUiin'd of tediousnesse,
And each duty seemed double :
Whilst I serv-'d Him but of feare,
Ev'ry minute did appeare
Longer farre then a whole year.
Strictnesse in religion seem'd
Like a pined pinion'd thing ;
Bolts and fetters I esteem'd
More beseeming for a king.
Then .for me to bow my neck.
And be at another's beck
When I felt my conscience check.
But the case is alter'd now ;
He no sooner tumes His eye,
But I quickly bend and bow.
Ready at His feet to lie ;
Love hath taught me to obey
All His precepts, and to say,
" Not to-morrow, but to-day."
What He wills, I say, " I must ; "
"What I must, I say, " I will;"
He commanding, it is just.
What He would, I should fulfil ;
Whilst He biddeth, I beleeve ;
What He calls for. He will give ;
To obey Him is — to hve.
His commandments grievous are not
Longer then men think them so ;
Though He send.me forth, I care not.
Whilst He gives me strength to goe.
When or whither, aU is one ;
On His bus'nesse, not mine owne,
I shall never goe alone.
If I be compleat in Him, —
And in Him all fulnesse dwelleth, —
I am sure aloft to swim
Whilst that ocean overswelleth ;
Ha\-ing Him that's AU in All,
I am confident I shall
Nothing want for which I call.
20
3»
40
50
60
Christopher Harvey and his
this praise from Izaak Walton
' Synagogue " received
TO MY REVEREND FRIEND.
I loved you for your Synagogue before
I knew your person ; but now love you more ;
Because I find
It is so true a picture of your mind ;
WTiich tunes your sacred lyre
To that eternal quire,
Where holy Herbert sits
(O shame to profane wits 1)
And sings his and your anthems, to the praise
Of Him that is the First and Last of days.
10
270
CASSELL'S LIBRAEY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1629.
These holy hj-mns had an ethereal hirth ;
For they can raise sad souls above the earth,
And fix them there,
Free from the world's anxieties and fear.
Herbert and you have pow'r
To do this ; ev'ry hour
I read you, kills a sin
Or lets a virtue in
To fight against it ; and the Holy Ghost
Supports my frailties, lest the day be lost.
20
This holy war, taught by your happy pen.
The Prince of Peace approves. WTien we poor men
Neglect our arms.
We are circumvested with a world of harms.
But I will watch and ward,
And stand upon my guard ;
And stiU consult with you
And Herbert, and renew
My vows and say, " Well fare his and your heart.
The fountains of such sacred wit and art." 30
Jolin Milton, aged seventeen, became a student of
Christ's College, Cambridge, in 162.5, just at the time
of the death of King James I. and the accession of
Charles I. His bu-thday was on the 9th of Decem-
ber, and he was but two or three weeks older than
twenty-one when, risen before the dawn of Christmas
Day, 1629, his young spirit mounted heavenward
through these lines wi-itten
ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST's NATIVITY.
This is the month, and this the happy mom.
Wherein the Son of Heaven's eternal King,
Of wedded Maid and Virgin- Mother bom.
Our great redemption from above did bring ;
For so the holy sages once did sing.
That He our deadly forfeit should release,
And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.
That glorious form, that light unsnfperable.
And that far-beaming blaze of majesty.
Wherewith He wont at Heaven's high council-table 10
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,
He laid aside ; and, here with us to be.
Forsook the courts of everlasting day.
And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.
Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein
Afford a present to the infant God ?
Hast thou no verse, no hj-mn, or solemn strain.
To welcome Him to this His new abode,
Isow, whUe the heaven, by the Sun's team untrod,
Hath took no print of the approaching light, 20
And aU the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright ':
See how from far upon the eastern road
The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet !
Oh ! run, prevent them with thy humble ode.
And lay it lowly at His blessed feet ;
Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet.
And join thy voice unto the angel quire.
From out His secret altar touched with hallowed fire.
The Hymn.
It was the winter wild,
'\\'hile the heaven-bom child 30
All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies ;
Xature in awe to him
Had doffed her gaudy trim.
With her great Master so to s>-mpathize.
It was no season then for her I
To wanton with the Sun her lusty paramour.
Only with speeches fair
She woos the gentle air
To hide her guilty front with innocent snow,
And on her naked shame, 40
Pollute with sinful blame,
The saintly veil of maiden-white to throw.
Confounded, that her Maker's eyes
Should look so near upon her foul deformities.
But He, her fears to cease.
Sent down the meek-ey'd Peace ;
She, crowned with olive green, came softly sliding
Down through the turning sphere.
His ready harbinger,
With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing ; 50
And, wa\'ing wide her mj-rtle wand,
She strikes an universal peace through sea and land.'
Xo war or battle's sound
Was heard the world around ;
The idle spear and shield were high up-hung ;
The hooked chariot stood,
Unstained with hostile blood ;
The trumpet spake not to the armed throng ;
And kings sat still with awful eye.
As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by. 60
But peaceful was the night.
Wherein the Prince of Light
His reign of peace upon the earth began.
The winds, with wonder whist.
Smoothly the waters kissed.
Whispering new joys to the mild ocean.
Who now hath quite forgot to rave.
While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.'
The stars, with deep amaze.
Stand fixed in steadfast gaze, 70
1 There was said to have been peace throughout the world at the
time of the birth of Christ. This happened in the rei^ of Augustus,
when the idea of universal Peace — the Roman Peace— charmed poets
and politicians. Virgil expressed it throueh the forecast of the shade
of Auchises in the sixth hook of the " .SIneid : " —
" But ye, my Romans, still control
The nations far and wide.
Be this your genius, to impose
The Rule of Peace on vanquished foes.
Show pity to the humbled soul
And crush the sons of pride."
(Coninffton's Translation.)
* Ovid tells, in the eleventh book of his ** Metamorphoses," how
Ceyx, king of Trachis, sailed to consult an oracle, promising his sad
wife Alcyone, daughter of .Solus, god of the winds, that he would
return in two months. He was wrecked in a storm. Juno caused
Isis to bring to Alcyone a dream, from the god of sleep, through
which the ghost of her dead husband told his fate. She wakened to
A.D. 1629]
EELIGIOK
271
Bending one way their precious influence,
And •n-ill not take their flight,
For all the morning-light,
Or Lucifer that often -n-amed them thence ;
But in their glimmering orbs did glow,
Until their Lord himself hespake, and bid them go.
And though the shady gloom
Had given Day her room,
The sun himself withheld his wonted speed ;
And hid his head for shame, 80
As his inferior flame
The new-enlightened world no more should need;
He saw a greater sun appear
Than his bright throne or burning axletree could bear.
The shepherds on the lawn,
Or ere the point of dawn,
Sat simply chatting in a rustic row ;
Full little thought they than '
That the mighty Pan
Was kindly come to live with them below. 90
Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep,
Was all that did their sUly- thoughts so busy keep.
When such music sweet
Their hearts and ears did greet,
As never was by mortal finger strook ;
Divinely-warbled voice
Answering the stringed noise.
As all their souls in blissful rapture took ;
The air, such pleasure loth to lose, 99
With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.
Kature, that heard such sound.
Beneath the hoUow round
Of CjTithia's seat, the airy region thrilling,
Now was almost won
To think her part was done.
And that her reign had here its last fulfilling ;
She knew such harmony alone
Could hold aU Heaven and Earth in happier union.
At last surroimds their sight
A globe of circular light,
110
wild ^ef, mshed to the shore, and saw hu body floating on the
'* Thither forthwith, O wonderful ! she springs
Beating the passive air with new-grown wings.
Who, now a bird, the water's summit rakes ;
About she flies, and full of sorrow makes
A moumfiil noise, lamenting her divorce :
Anon she touched his dumb and bloodless corse.
With stretched wings embraced her perished bliss
And gave his colder hps a heatless kiss.
Whether he felt it or the floods his look
Advanced, the vulgar doubt ; yet sure he took
Sense from the touch. The gods commiserate.
And change them both, obnoxious to Uke fate.
As erst they love ; their nuptial faiths they shew
In Uttle birds, engender, parents grow.
Seven winter days in peaceful calms possess
Alcyon sits upon her floating nest ;
They safely sail, then ^olus incaves
For his, tbe Winds, and smooths the stooping waves."
(Sandys's Translation.)
This is the fable of the Halcyon in whose breeding time at sea there
IS a calm.
* T?iati,then, Our two words were originally one word, "thanne."
* Siily, simple, innocent; from "saelig," happy, blessed-
That with long beams the shamefaced Night arrayed.
The helmed Cherubim,
.And sworded Seraphim,
Are seen, in glittering ranks with wings displaj-ed,
Harping, in loud and solemn quire.
With unexpressive^ notes to Heaven's new-bom Heir.
Such music — as 'tis said —
Before was never made.
But when of old the Sons of Morning sung
"While the Creator great I'AQ
His constellations set,
And the weU-balanced World on hinges hung,
And cast the dark foundations deep.
And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.
Ring out, ye crj-stal spheres !
Once bless our human ears,
— If ye have power to touch our senses so —
And let your silver-chime
Move in melodious time,
And let the base of heaven's deep organ blow; 130
And with your ninefold harmony ■•
Make up full concert to the angcUc s)Tui)hony.
For if such holy song
En-n-rap our fancy long.
Time -n-ill run back, and fetch the Age of Gold ;
And speckled A'anity
WiU sicken soon and die.
And leprous Sin will melt fi-om earthly mould ;
And Hell itself will pass away.
And leave her dolorous mansions to the peeling day. 140
Yea, Truth and Justice then
WOl down return to men,
Orbed in a rainbow, and like glories wearing ;
Mercy will sit between,
Throned in celestial sheen,
With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering ;
And Heaven, as at some festival.
Win open wide the gates of her high palace-hall.
3 TJnerpressive, ineffable, inexpressible. So Milton's Lycidas in
heaven *' hears the unexpressive nuptial song; " and Kosalind, in "As
Ton Like It," is "The fair, the chaste and unexi)ressive she."
* Ninefold harmony of the spheres. According to the Ptolemaic
astronomy, there were nine moving spheres of the world ; outermost,
the " primum mobile," which gave motion to the others and carried
them round with it in diurnal revolution, then the sphere of tbe
fixed stars, then successively inwards the spheres or orbits of Saturn,
Jupiter, Mars, the Sim, Venus, Mercury, the Moon, the Earth being
in the centre. The nine spheres were said to correspond to the nine
Muses, the spaces between them formed musical intervals, and the
sounds produced by their movements were said to blend in a perfect
harmony of the universe. The interval from the earth to the moon
was a tone, from the moon to Mercury a semitone, from Mercury to
Venus another semitone, but thence to the sun three tones and a
half or a diapente (the old term for an interval of a fifth), and from
the moon to the sun two and a half or a diatessaron (interval of a
fourth) ; then a tone from the son to Mars ; from Mars to Jove and
from Jove to Saturn each a semitone, again a semitone to the starry
sphere. From the earth, therefore, to the starry heavens a complete
diapason (or octave) of sis tones. Besides this, there was said to be
musical proportion in the rate of movement of the planets, and the
sounds produced thereby ; the swifter motion of the moon causing
a sound of higher pitch than that of the starry sphere, which being
slowest of all produces the gravest sound, "the base of heaven's
deep organ:" but there is a proportionate return caused by the
motion of the primum mobile with which the starry sphere has
swiftest accord and makes the shrillest treble and the moon the base.
272
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1629.
But ■1%-isest Fate says No,
This must not yet be so, 130
The Babe lies yet in smiling infancy,
That, on the bitter cross,
Must redeem our loss ;
So both himself and us to gloiify :
Yet first, to those ychained in sleep.
The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep,
With such a horrid clang
As on Mount Sinai rang,
A^VTiile the rod fire and smouldering clouds outbrake.
The aged earth aghast, 160
With terror of that blast.
Shall from the surface to the centre shake ;
When, at the world' s last session.
The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne.
And then at last our bliss
Full and perfect is, —
But now begins ; for from this happy day
The Old Dragon under ground.
In straiter limits bound.
Not half so far casts his usui-ped sway, 170
And, wroth to see his kingdom fail,
Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.
The oracles are dumb.
No voice or hideous hum
Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving.
Apollo from his shrine
Can no more divine.
With hollow shi-iek the steep of Delphos lea\Tng.
No nightly trance, or breathed spell.
Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.' 180
The lonely mountains o'er.
And the resounding shore,
A voice of weeping heard and loud lament ;
From haimted spring, and dale
Edged with poplar pale.
The parting Genius is with sighing sent;
With flower-inwoven tresses torn
The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.
In consecrated earth,
And on the holy hearth, 190
The Lars and Lemures^ moan with midnight plaint ;
In urns and altars round,
A drear and dying sound
Affrights the Flamens at their seirice quaint ;
And the chill marble seems to sweat.
While each peculiar power foregoes his wonted seat.
• So in " Paradise Eegained," book i., Christ says to Satan —
" No more shalt thou by oracling abuse
The Gentiles ; henceforth oracles are ceased,
And thou no more with pomp and sacrifice
Shalt be inquired at Delphos, or elsewhere ;
At least in vain, for they shall find thee mute."
2 Lars and Lemures. The Lures were inferior deities of the Romans,
who were public, presiding over city, country, roads, &c. ; and
domestic, whose images were placed witliin the house upon an
altar near the hearth, thence called by Milton "the holy hearth."
Icmiires were " souls of the sUeut ones," spirits of the dead, who
lie " in consecrated earth."
I'eur and Baalim ^
Forsake their temples dim.
With that twice-battered god of Palestine ;
And mooned Ashtaroth, 200
Heaven's queen and mother both,
Now sits not girt with taper's holy shine ;
The Lybic Hammon'' shrinks his horn ;
In vain the Tj-rian maids their wounded Thammuz^ mourn.
And sullen Jloloch," fled.
Hath left in shadows dread
His burning idol all of blackest hue ;
In vain wivh c\"mbals' ring
They call the grisly king.
In dismal dance about the furnace blue ; 210
The brutish gods of Nile^ as fast,
Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis haste.
Nor is Osiris seen
In Memphian grove or green.
Trampling the unshowei-ed grass with lowings loud ;
Nor can he be at rest
Within his sacred chest.
Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud ;
In vain, with timbreled anthems dark.
The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipped ark. 220
3 Peor and Baalim. Baal was the supreme male god of the Canaan-
ites. Baal Peor was the name under which he was worshipped by the
Israehtes while yet in the wilderness. Kepresentiug powers of nature,
he was worshijiiped with affix of various other names, which are com-
prised in the plural form Baalim. He was associated with the sun ; as
Ashtoreth (plural Ashtaroth) or Astarte, the companion deity and
queen of heaven, was associated with the moon.
* Lybic Sammon. The Lybiau deity first worshipped at Meroe,
then in Egyptian Thebes, and known in Europe as Jupiter Ammon,
was especially worshipped in Siwah, an oasis of the Libyan desert,
and represented witb the head and horns of a ram.
5 Wounded Thamnuiz. Thammuz was the Eastern original of the
worship that passed into Greece as that of Adonis. He was said to
die every year and revive again. He died by the tusk of a boar in the
Lebanon, and when the river Adonis, flowing there, ran with a red
tinge in its waters at certain seasons of the year, feasts of Adonis
wei-e held by the women who made loud lament for him. So iu
*' Paradise Lost," book i. — •
" Thammuz came next behind,
Wbose annual wound in Lebanon allured
The Syrian damsels to lament his fate
In amorous ditties all a summer's day,
Wbile smooth Adonis from his native rock
Ran purple to the sea, supposed with blood
Of Thammuz yearly wouuded."
s MoJocli, national god of the Ammonites, to whom Solomon, to
satisfy some of his wives, built a temple on the Mount of Olives.
In his worship children were caused to pass through iire in the part
of the valley of Hinnom called Tophet ("toph," a drum), from the
soiuiding of drums and cymbals to di'own the cries of the victims.
The place was afterwards defiled by Josiah, and used for burning
refuse from the city and bodies of criminals, whence its name Ge-
hinnom, the valley of Hinnom, came (from the smoke, fire, and
pollution of the place) to serve as a name for hell, Gehenna. In
" Paradise Lost" Milton uses Moloch to personify, among the com-
panions of Satan, Hate.
" The hridifh joiis o/ Nile. Osiris (Oseh-iri, much make), tbe chief
god worshipped in Egypt, represented fertility, the creative ix)wer.
His bride and sister I.<us had even liigher worship. Their antagonist
was Tryphon ; their son Orus or Horus. Osiris was father also to the
dog Anubis by the wife of Ti-yiJhon. Osiris was worshipped in a
bull marked with particular spots, and if that bvdl died, the pi-,ests
mounied until another was discovered. Isis was represented with
horns of a cow. Anubis was represented with a dog's head as guide
of departed souls, and was particularly worshipped at a city iu
Middle Eg}-pt called Cynopolis (Dog-city).
TO A.D. 1635.]
EELIGION.
273
He feels, from Juda's land,
The dreaded Infant's hand,
The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyne ;
Nor all the gods heside
Longer dare abide.
Nor Typhon ' huge ending in snaky twine.
Our Babe, to shew his Godhead true,
Can in his swaddling-bands control the damned crew.
So when the sun in bed,
Curtained with cloudy red, 230
Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,
The flocking shadows pale
Troop to the infernal jail,
Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave,
And the yellow-skirted fays
Fly after the Night steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.
But see I the Virgin blest
Hath laid her Babe to rest,
Time is our tedious song should here have ending ;
Heaven's youngest-teemed^ star 240
Hath fixed her polished car.
Her sleeping Lord with handmaid-lamp attending ;
And all about the courtly stable
Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable.
When Milton was at Cambridge, Dr. Richard
Sibbes (or Sibbs) was Ma.ster of Catharine Hall,
and a leading preacher, whose religious opinions were
of the form commonly associated with the Puritanism
in the Church. Cambridge was the university that
produced the gi-eater number of the cKstinguished
churchmen whose names were associated with this
form of thought, and Sibbes must have been a
preacher to whom Milton often listened with plea-
sure. Richard Baxter said that he owed his con-
vei-sion to the reading of sermons by Sibbes, collected
under the title of " The Bruised Reed and Smoking
Flax." Sibbes cUed in 1635, aged fifty-eight. The
following passage is from a funeral sermon of hLs,
entitled " Chri.st is Best ; or a Sweet Passage to
Glory." ^ Its text is fi-om the first chapter of St.
Paul to the Philippians : " For I am in a sti-ait be-
tween two, ha\'ing a desire to depart, and to be with
Christ, which is best of all ; nevertheless, to abide in
the flesh is most needful for you." Its doctrines are
that the servants of God are often in gi-eat straits ;
that God reserves the best to the la.st for all His ;
that the lives of worthy men, especially magistrates
and ministers, are very needful for the Church of
God ; that holy and gracious men who are led by the
Spirit of God can deny themselves and their own
best good for the Church's benefit.
* Typhon. All the gods, except Jupiter and Mioerva, in the wars
of the giants, fled into Eeypt and changed themselves into animals
for fear of Typhon. But Typhon also files when Christ is horn.
^ Youngest-teemed, youngest bom ; the star of Bethlehem which
guided the main. " We have seen his star in the east, and are come
to worship him" (Matthew ii. 2).
' Preached at the funeral of Mr. Staaxland, late Becorder of North-
ampton.
99
THE TRIE MEN OF THE WORLD.
Gracious men are public treasures, and storehouses wherein
every man hath a share, a portion ; they are public springs- in
the wilderness of this world to refresh the souls of people ;
they are trees of righteousness that stretch out their boughs
for others to shelter under and to gather fruit from. You
have an excellent picture of this in Daniel, in the dream of
Xebuchadnezzar ; the magistrates there are compared to a
great tree, wherein the birds bmld their nests and the beasts
shelter themselves : so a good magistrate, especiallj- if he be
in great place, is as a great tree, for comfort and shelter.
beloved, the lives of good men are verj- useful. A good
man (saith the philosopher) is a common good, because as
soon as ever a man becomes gracious he hath a public mind,
as he hath a public place ; nay, whether he hath a public
place or no, he hath a public mind. It is needful, therefore,
that there be such men alive.
If this be so, then we may lament the death of worthy
men, because we lose part of our strength in the loss of such,
God's custom being to convey much good by them; and
when there is scarcity of good men, we should say with
Hicah, " AVoe is me, the good is perished from the earth." ■•
They keep judgments from a place, and derive a blessing
upon it. Howsoever the world judgeth them, and accounts
them .not worthy to live, yet God accoimts the world im-
worthy of them ; they are God's jewels, they are His treasure,
and His portion, therefore we ought to lament their death and
to desire their lives ; and we ought to desire our own lives as
long as we may be useful to the Church, and be content to
want * heaven for a time. Beloved, it is not for the good of
God's children that they live ; as soon as ever they are in the
state of grace they have a title to heaven ; but it is for others.
When once we are in Christ we live for others, not for
ourselves : that a father is kept alive, it is for his children's
sake ; that good magistrates are kept alive, it is for their
subjects' sake ; that a good minister is kept alive out of the
present enjoying of heaven, it is for the people's sake, that
God hath committed to him to instruct ; for as Paul saith
here, " In regard of my own particular, it is better for me
to be with Christ."
If God convey so much good by worthy men to us, then
what wretches are they that malign them, persecute them,
and speak ill of those that speak to God for them 1 Doth the
world continue for a company of wretches, a company of pro-
fane, blasphemous, loose, disorderly livers ? Oh no, for if
God had not a Church in the world, a company of good
people, heaven and earth would fall in pieces, there would be
an end presently. It is for good people only that the world
continues ; they are tbe pillars of the tottering world, they
are the stakes in the fence, they are the foundation of the
building, and if they were once taken out, all would come
down, there would be a confusion of .aU ; therefore those that
oppose and disquiet gracious and good men are enemies to
their own good, they cut the bough which they stand on,
they labour to pidl down the house that covers themselves,
being blinded with malice and a diabolical spirit. Take heed
of such a disposition ; it comes near to the sin against the
Holy Ghost, to hate any man for goodness, because per-
haps his good life reproacheth us ; such a one would hate
Christ himself it He were here. How can a man desire to
be with Christ if he hates His image in another ? Therefore
« Micah Til. 1, 2. '
out of the earth."
5 H'aiif, do without,
Woe is me ! ... . The good man is perished
274
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1629
if God convey so much good by other men that are good, let
us make much of them, as public persons, as instruments of
our good ; take away malice, and pride, and a poisonful
spirit, and all their good is ours. What liindcrs that we
have no good by them i Pride, and an envious spirit, kc.
A second thing that I observe hence is this : holy and
gracious men, tliat arc led by the Spirit of God, can deny
themselves and their own best good for the Chiu-ch's benefit.
They know that God hath appointed them as instruments to
convey good to others, and knowing this, they labour to come
to Paul's spii-it here, to desire to live, to have life in patience
and death in desire in regard of themselves ; for it were much
better for a good man to bo in heaven out of misery, out of
this conflicting condition with the devU and de-i-ilish-minded
men.
The reason is, because a good man, as soon as he is a good
man, liath the spirit of love in him ; and love seeketh not its
omi, but the good of another ; and as the love of Chiist and
the love of God possesseth and seizeth upon the soul, so scH-
lovo decays. W^hat is gracious love but a decay of self-love ?
The more self-love decays the more wo deny ourselves.
Again, God's people have the Spirit of Chi-ist in them, who
minded not His own things. If Clu'ist had mind<d His own
things, where had our salvation been ? Christ was content
to liu'ive heaven, and to take' our nature upon Him, to be
Emanuel, God with us, that wo might be with God for ever
in heaven. He was content not only to leave heaven, but to
be bom in the womb of a virgin ; He was content to stoop to
the grave ; He stooped as low as hell in love to us. Now
where Christ's Spirit is, it will bring men from their altitudes
and excellences, and make them to stoop to serve the Church,
and account it an honour to bo an instrument to do good.
Christ was content to be accounted not only a servant of
God, but of the C^hurch's: "My righteous servant," iSrc.
Those that have the Spii-it of Christ have a spirit of self-
denial of their own ; we see the blessed angels are content to
be ministering .spirits for us ; and it is thought to be the sin of
the devil, jiride, when he scorned to stoop to the keeping of
man, ,an inferior creature to himself. The blessed angels do
not scom to attend upon a poor child, little ones. A Clxristian
is a consecrated person, and he is none of his own ; he is a
sacrifice as soon as he is a Christian — he is Christ's — he gives
himself to C'hrist ; and as he gives himself, so he gives his life
and all to Christ, as Paul saith of the Corinths — they gave
themsehvs and their goods to Him. ^Vhen a Christian gives
himself to Christ, ho gives all to Chi-ist — all his labour and
pains, and whatsoever he knows that Christ can serve him-
self of him for His Church's good, and His glory ; he knows
that Christ is wiser than he, therefore he resigns himself to
His disposal, resolving, if he live, he lives to the Lord ; and
if he die, he dies to the Lord ; that so, whether he live or
die, he may be the Lord's.
O beloved, that we had the spirit of St. Paul and the
Spirit of Christ to set us a- work to do good while we are here,
to deny ourselves ; oh, it would be meat and drink, as it was
to our blessed Saviour Christ, to do good all kind of ways.
Consider all the capacities and abilities we have to do good,
this way and that way, in this relation and that relation, that
we may be trees of righteousness, that the more we bear the
more we may bear. God will mend His own trees, He K-ill
jiurge them and prune them to bring forth more fruit. God
cherisheth fruitful trees. In the law of Moses, when they be-
sieged any place, ho commanded them to spare fruitful trees.
God spares a fruitful person till he have done his work : we
know not how much good one man may do, though he be a
mean person; sometimes one poor wise man delivereth the
city, and the righteous deli\-ercth the island. AVe see for one
servant, Joseph, Potiphar's house was blessed. Naaman had
a poor maid-servant that was the occasion of his conversion.
Grace wiU set an\-body a-work ; it puts a dexterity into any,
though never so mean ; they cany God's blessing wheresoever
thev go, and they betliink themselves when they are in any
condition to do good, as he saith in Hester, God hath called
me to this place, perhaps for this end. "We should often
put this query to ourselves : AATiy hath God called me to this
Ijlace r for such and such a pm-pose.
Now that we may he fruitful as Paul was, let us labour- to
have humble spirits. God delights in an humble sph-it, and
not in a proud spirit, for that takes all the glory to itself ;
God delights to use humble spirits that are content to stoop
to any service for others, that think no office too mean.
Secondly, get loving hearts. Love is full of invention —
How shall I glorify God ? How shall I do good to others Y
How shall I bring to heaven as many as I can ? Love is a
sweet and boundless afllection, full of holy devices.
Thirdly, labour to have sufficiency in our places, that you
may hiive ability to do good. Oh, when these meet together,
ability and sufficiency, and a willing, a large, and gracious
heart, and a fit object to do good to, what a deal of good is
done then I
Fourthly, and when we find opportunity of doing any
good let us resolve upon it — resolve to honour God and servo
him in spite of flesh and blood. For we must get every good
work that we do out of the fire, as it were ; we must get it
out with travail and pains. We carry that about us that ■n'ill
hinder us, let ' us ; therefore labour to have sincere aims in
that we do to please God, and then resolve to do all the good
we can.
To stir us up to be more and more fruitful in our places,
let us consider we live for others, and not for omselves, when
we are good Chi'istians once. It was a good speech of that
godly Palsgrave, great-grandfather to him that is (Frederick
the Godly they called him), when he was to die, " Sntis robis,"
saith he, " I have hitherto lived for you, now let me live for
myseU." We live here all oiu- life for others, therefore let
us think while we live how we may do most good in the
Church of Ciod.
For encouragement hereunto, consider God will undertake
to recompense all the good we do, to a cup of cold water ; we
shall not lose a sigh, a groan, for the Church ; God would
account himself dishonoured if it should not be rewarded, he
hath pawned his faithfuhioss upon it. He is not unfaithful
to bo unmindful of your good works.
Na)', we have a present reward and contentment of con-
science ; as light accompanies fire, so peace and joy accom-
pany every good action. All is not reserved for heaven : a
Christian hath some beginnings of happiness here : when he
doth that that is contrary to the flesh and blood. How fidl of
sweet joy is a fruitful soul ! Those that are fruitful in their
places never want arguments of good assurance of salvation.
It is your lazy lukewarm Christian that wants assurance.
Therefore I beseech you be stirred up, to li\'e desired in thi'
world, and die lamented. Labour to be useful in your places
all you can ; to be as the olive and fig-tree, delighting God
and man, and not to cumber the ground of the Church with
barrenness ; sins of omission, because men were not fruitful
in their places, was a ground of damnation: "Cast the un-
profitable servant into utter darkness." Put case he did no
harm ; aj', but he was unprofitable. Such was the cursed
disposition of Ephraim ; he brought forth fruit to himself.
Oh this looking to ourselves ! AVien we make ourselves
1 Lett delay, Iiinder.
TO A.D. 1635.]
EELIGION.
275
the beginning and the end of all the good we do, it is an
argument of a barren person. Xone ever came to heaven
but those that denied themselves.
In 16.35, year of the death of Richard Sibbes,
George Wither and Francis Quarles each followed a
fashion of the time, and published a book of Emblems.
Wither's book was a handsome folio, with a good
selection of emblem pictures, well engraved, and a
line ])ortrait of the author. Quai'les's volume was in
12mo, with somewhat rudely-executed woodcuts of
emblems, usually ill-drawn. Quai'les's book has been
often reproduced with improved pictiu'es, but there
has been neglect of Wither's work, which is not
inferior in merit. It is divided into four books, each
containing lifty-six Emblems followed by a "Lottery,"
that ingeniously sums uji their teaching in fifty-six
stanzas. This is George Wither's Emblem of
THE PREACHER.
The Grospel tliaiikfully embrace.
For God vouclisafed us tliis grace.
This modern Emblem is a mute expressing
Of God's gi-cat mercies in a modern blessing ;
And gives me now just cause to sing His praise
For granting me my being in these days.
The much-desired messages of heaven
For which our fathers would their lives have given.
And in groves, caves, and mountains once a year
Were glad, with hazard of their goods, to hear.
Or in less blood}' times at their own homes
To hear in private and obscured rooms,
Xow those, those jo}"ful tidings we do lire
Divulged in everj' ^nllage to perceive ;
And that the sounds of gladness echo may
Through all our goodly temides every day,
This was, O God, Thy doing ; unto Thee
Ascribed for ever let all praises be !
Prolong this mercy, and vouchsafe the fruit
Slay to Thy labour in this vineyard suit :
10
Lest for our fi-uitlessness Thy light of grace
Thou from our golden candlestick displace. 20
We do methinks ah-eady. Lord, begin
To wantonize, and let that loathing in
WTiich makes Thy manna tasteless ; and I fear
That of those C'hi'istians who more often hear
Than practise what they know, we have too many,
And I suspect myself as much as any.'
O mend me so that by amending me
Amends in others may increased be ;
And let all graces which Thou hast bestowed
Keturn Thee honour, from whom first they flowed. 30
The next is one of the Emblems of Francis
Quarles upon the text we have just seen otherwi.se
treated by Richard Sibbes, who recognised, with
Saint Paul, a worthier tie to earth than is here
represented.
J ajji in a strait hctyuld tn-o, haring a desire to depart, and to he icith
CTirW.— PHiLippiiiss i. 23.
^^^lat meant oiu' careful parents so to wear
And la^-ish out their ill-e.Ktended hours
To purchase for us large possessions here
WTiich, though impurchased, are too truly ours ?
What meant they — ah, what meant they to endure
Such loads of needless labour to procure,
And make that thing om- own which was our own too sure ?
What mean these liv'ries and possessive keys ':
■What mean these bargains and these needless sales ?
WTiat mean these jealous, these suspicious ways 10
Of law-devised and law-dissolved entails ?
No need to sweat for gold, wherewith to buy
Estates of high-prized land ; no need to tie
Earth to their heirs, were they but clogged with earth as I.
I Tliis honest Hue recalls the wholesome answer of Orlando to the
sickly Jaques, whom Shakespeare represents as seeiug in the seven
ages of man only occasion for a sneer at each —
" Jaques. Will you sit down with me, and we two mil rail against
our mistress the world and all our misery.
" Orlando. I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against
whom I know most faults."
27G
CASSELL'S LIEEARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1629
were their souls hut clogged with earth as I,
They would not purchase with so salt an itch ;
They would not take of alms ' what now they buy,
Nor call him happy whom the world counts rich ;
They would not take such pains, project, and prog,"
To charge their shoulders with so great a log : 20
Who hath the greater lands hath but the greater clog.
1 cannot do an act which Earth disdains not ;
I cannot think a thought which Earth corrupts not ;
I cannot speak a word which Earth profanes not ;
I cannot make a vow Earth interrupts not :
If I but offer up an early groan,
Or spread my wings to Heaven's long longed-for throne,
She darkens my complaints, and drags my off'ring down.
E'en like the hawk, whoso keeper's wary hands
Have made a pris'ner to her wcath'ring stock,'* 30
Forgetting quite the pow'r of her fast bands,
Makes a rank bate "■ from her forsaken block ;
But her too faithful leash doth soon retain
Her broken tiight, attempted oft in vain ;
It gives her loins a twitch, and tugs her back again.
So, when my soul directs her better eye
To Heaven's bright palace, where my treasure lies,
I spread my willing wings, but cannot fly ;
. Earth holds me down — I cannot, cannot rise :
AVhen I but strive to mount the least degree, 40
Earth gives a jerk, and foils me on my knee ;
Lord, how my sold is racked betwixt the World and Thee 1
Great God, I spread my feeble wings in vain ;
In vain I offer my extended hands ;
I cannot mount till Thou unlock my chain ;
I cannot como till Thou release my bands ;
Which if Thou please to break, and then supply
My wings with spirit, th' eagle .shall not fly
A pitch that's half so fair, nor haU so swift as I.
S. BONAVENT.
'S'o/i/oy., cap. L
Ah ! sweet Jesus, pierce the marrow of ray soul with th' •
healthful shafts of Thy love, that it may tridy bum, and
melt, and languish, with the only desire of Thee : that it may
desire to be dissolved, and to be with Thee : let it hung<r
alone for the bread of life ; let it thirst after Thee, the spring
and fountain of eternal light, the stream of true pleasiu-e :
let it always desire Thee, seek Thee, and find Thee, and
sweetlj- rest in Thee.
EPIGRAM.
What ! will thy shackles neither loose nor break ?
Are they too strong, or is thine arm too weak ?
Art wiU prevail where knotty strength denies ;
M)- sold, there's aquafortis in thine eyes.
Tlie measure of the verses attaclied by Quarles t(3
this Emblem ui 1G35 was taken from "The Fmi>\e
* Of alms, as alms.
* PfOSj probably, toy or pry about ; but to progue was to steal.
' Weathering stock, tbe percb on wbicb hawks were taken for aa
airing. This also is figured in the picture.
* Bate, a tei-m iu falconry tor the beating of the wings in preparing
for a flight, probably from Trench " tattre."
Island," published by Phineas Fletcher, two years
before, in 1633, but written much earlier. Quarles
greatly admired Phineas Fletcher, and called him the
Spenser of his age. Phineas Fletcher was, like his
brother Giles, a clergyman. He had the living of
Hilgay in Norfolk. "The Purple Island, or the
Isle of Man," is a poem in twelve cantos, opening
with pastoral stanzas that dwell much upon the praise
of Speusei', and then proceed —
" Great Prince of Shepherds, than Thy heavens more high,
Low as our earth, here serving, ruling there ;
■Who taught'st our death to Uve, Thy Ufe to die ;
Who, when we broke Thy bonds, our bonds wouldst bear ;
Who roigncdst in Thy heaven, yet felt'st our hell ;
Who (God) bought'st man, whom man (tho' God) did fell,
AVTio in our flesh, oui- graves and, worse, oui- hearts wouldst
dweU.
" Great Prince of Shepherds, Thou who late didst deign
To lodge Thyself within this wretched breast,
(Most wretched breast, such guest to entertain.
Yet oil most happy lodge in such a guest 1)
Thou first and last, inspire Thy sacred skill ;
Guide Thou my hand, grace Tliou my artless quill ;
So shall I first begin, so last shall end Thy will.
" Hark then, ah, hark ! ye gentle shepherd-crew ;
An Isle I fain would sing, an Island fair ;
A place too seldom viewed, yet still in view ;
Near as ourselves, yet farthest from our care ;
Which we by leaving find, by seeking lost ;
A foreign home, a strange, though native coast ;
Most obvious to all, yet most unknown to most.
" Coeval with the world in her natiWty,
Which though it now hath passed through many ages.
And still retained a natural proclivity
To ruin, compassed with a thousand rages
Of spiteful foes, which still this island tosses ;
Yet ever grows more prosperous by her crosses.
By withering, springing fresh, and rich by often losses."
God made man at the close of the first week of
Creation.
" Now when the first week's life was almcst spent ;
And this world built, and richly f umishcd ;
To store heaven's coirrts. He of each element.
Did cast to frame an Isle, the heart and head
Of all his works, composed witli curious art ;
Which like an index briefly should impart
The sum of all ; the whole, yet of the whole a part-
" The tri-une God Himself in council sits.
And purple dust takes from the new-made earth ;
Part circular, and part triangular fits ; *
Endows it largely at the unborn birth ;
Deputes his favourite viceroy ; doth invest
With aptness thereunto, as seemed him best ;
And loved it more than aU, and more than all it blessed."
5 Part circular and part triangular. In Spenser's description of the
body as a castle ("Faerie Queeue," bk. ii.) —
" The frfnne thereof was partly circular
And part triangular."
TO A. It. 16:35.]
EELIGION.
But the Island, not content with its own hajjjiiness,
" would try whate'er is in the continent, and seek out
ill and search for ■wTetchedness," allured by the ser-
pent from the peaceful shore. The first canto Phineas
ends with loving reference to his brother Giles, and
allusion to his owai youth, from which it must be
inferred that the Purple Island, although not pub-
lished until 1G33, was ^vl•itten in the reign of James I.
In the second, third, fourth, and tifth cantos Man's
Body is tlescribed as geogi'aphy and economy of an
island \\-ith over-elaborate allegory. Spenser, in the
second book of the " Faerie Queene," had described
the Body as a castle, the castle of the Soul, and Du
Bartas had been ingeniously descriptive. Then in
the sixth canto Justice and Mercy plead in heaven
against and for the rebellious Island, and this gives
Phineas occasion again to i-efer lovingly to his brother
Giles's poem. Within the Purple Island there is
iierce dissension. The Prince of the Island is all-
seeing Intellect.
" He knows nor death, nor years, nor fecWe age ;
But as his time, his strength and ingoxu' grows :
And when his kingdom by intestine rage
Lies broke and wasted, open to his foes ;
And battered sconce now flat and even lies ;
Sooner than thought to that Great Judge he flies,
\Mio weighs him Just reward of good, or injuiies.
" For he the Judge's viceroy here is placed ;
\^Tiere if he lives as knowing ho may die.
He never dies, but with fresh pleasures graced,
Bathes his crowned head in blessed eternity ;
^\Tiere thousand joys and pleasures ever new.
And blessings thicker than the morning dew.
With endless sweets rain down on that immortal crew.
" There golden stars set in the crystal snow :
There dainty joj-s, laugh at uneasy oare;
There day no night, delight no end shall know :
Sweets without surfeit, fulness without spare,
And by its spending, grows in happiness :
There God Himself in glory's lavishness
Diffused in aU, to aU, is aU full blessedness.
"But if he here neglects his master's law,
And with those traitors 'gainst his Lord rebels,
Down to the deep ten thousand fiends him draw ;
A deep, where night, and death, and hoiTor dwells,
And in worst ills, still worse expecting, fears :
Where fell despite for spite his bowels tears ;
And still increasing grief, and torments endless bears.
"Prayers there are idle, death is woo'd in vain.
In midst of death, poor wretches long to die :
Night -without day, or rest, still doubling pain.
Woes spending still, yet stiU their end less nigh :
The soul there restless, helpless, hopeless lies ;
The body frying roars, and roaring fries :
There's life that never Hves, there's death that never dies.
" Hence while unsettled here he fighting reigns.
Shut in a tower where thousand enemies
Assault the fort : with wary care and pains
He guards all entrance, and by divers spies
Searcheth into his friend's designs, and foes :
But subjects most he fears, for weU he knows
This tower's most like to fall if treason 'mougst them rose.
" Therefore while yet he lurks in earthly tent.
Disguised in worthless i-obes and poor attire.
Try we to view his glory's wondennent.
And get a sight of what wo so admire :
For when away from this sad place he flies.
And in the skies abides, more bright than skies ;
Too glorious is his sight for our dim mortal eyes."
Tlien we have pictui-ed allegorically the inmates of
the Castle of Intellect, in a way suggested by Spenser's
description of the Castle of Alma (the Sovd).
The seventh and eighth cantos set forth the
enemies by whom the Priiice is besieged, " the en-
raged Dragon and his serpents bold," -with him Caro
(the Flesh), " accursed dam of sin," and the chief ills
personified that are at war with the true life of man.
The ninth and tenth cantos set forth, as warriors
ranged to " beat back these hellish sprites," the
several parts of the true spiritual life ; and the two
remaining cantos then set forth, as war for and
against the Dragon, the long contest between good
and evil in the Purple Island. It is ended by the
help of the Saviour at the jirayer of Electa (the
chosen), and is heralded by King James I. in the
form of an angel.
" And straight an Angel full of heavenly might
(Three several crowns adorn' d his royal head)
From northern coast raising his blazing light,
Thi'ough aU the earth his glorious beams dispread,
And open lays the beast's and Dragon's shame :
For to this end, th' Almightj- did him frame,
And therefore from supplantuig gave his ominous name.'
" A silver tnmipet oft he loudly blew.
Frighting the guilty earth with thimd'ring knell ;
And oft proclaimed, as through the world he flew,
Babel, great Babel lies as low as hcU :
Let every angel loud his trumpet sound.
Her heaven-e.xalted towers in dust arc di-own'd :
Babel, proud Babel's fall'n, and lies upon the ground.
" The broken heavens dispart with fearful noise.
And from the In-each outshoots a sudden light :
When straight shrill trumpets ^^•ith loud sounding voice
Give echoing summons to new bloody fight :
Well knew the Dragon that all-quelling blast.
And soon perceived that day must be his last ;
Which strook his frighten'd heart , and aU his troops aghast.
"Yet full of malice, and of stubborn pride.
Though oft he strove, and had been foiled as oft.
Boldly his death and certain fate defied :
And moimted on his flaggy sails aloft.
With boundless spite he long'd to try again
A second loss, and new death ; — glad and fain
To show his poia'nous hate, though ever showed in vain.
I James = JacoT), snpplanter or beguiler. King James inteiTreted
the Book of Bevelations.
278
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1635
" So he arose upon his outstretched sails,
Fearless expecting his approaching: death ;
So he arose, that th' air hoth starts ;md fails,
And over-pressed, sinks his load heneath :
So he arose, as doth a thunder-cloud.
Which all the earth with shadows hlack doth shroud :
So he arose, and through the weary aii- he rowed.
" Xow his Almighty Foe far ofi he spies ;
Whose sun-like anns eclipsed the hrightest day,
Confounding with their beams less glitteiing skies,
Firing the air with more than heavenly ray,
Like thousiind suns in one : — such is their light,
A subject only for immortal spright,
WTiich never can be seen, but by immortal sight.
" His threat' ning eyes shine like that dreadful flame.
With which the thundcrer arms his angry hand :
Himself had fairly wrote His wondi-ous Name,
Which neither earth nor heaven could understand :
A hundred crowns, like towers, beset around
His conquering head : well may they there abound.
When all his limbs, andtroops, with goldare richly crown'd.
" His armour all was dyed with purjjle blood;
In purple blood of thousand rebel kings ;
In vain their stubborn powers His arm withstood :
Their proud necks chained. He them in triumph brings,
.i\jidbreaks their spears, and all their trait' rousswords;
Upon whose arms and thigh in fairest words
Was written, The King of kings, and Lord of lords.
" His snow-white steed appeared of heavenly kind,
Begot by Boreas on the Thracian hills ;
More strong and speedy than his parent ^^•ind :
And (which His foes with fear and hon-or fills)
Out from His mouth a two-edged sword He darts ;
AVHiose sharpest steel the bone and marrow jiarts,
.Vnd with his keenest point unbreasts the naked hearts.'
*' The Dragon, woimded with His powerful hand,
They take, and in strong bonds and fetters tie :
Short was the fight, nor could he long withstand
Him, whose appearance is His victory.
So now he's bound in adamantine chain ;
He storms, he roars, he yells for high disdain :
His net is broke, the fowl go free, the fowler ta'en.
" Thence by a Mighty Swain he soon was led
Unto a thousand thousand torturings :
His tail, whose folds were wont the stars to shed,
Now stretched at length, close to his body clings :
Soon as the pit he sees, he back retires,
And battle new, but all in vain, respires :
So there he deeply lies, burning in quenchless fires.
" As when Alcides from forced hell had drawn
The thi-ee-h(>ad Dog, and mastered all his pride ;
Basely the fiend did on his victor fawn.
With serpent tail clapping his hollow side :
At length ai-rivcd upon the brink of light,
He shuts the day out from his dullard sight.
And swelling all in vain, renews unhappy fight.
1 " For the word of the Lord is quick and powerful, sharper than
any two-edged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of the
soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discemer of
the thoughts and intents of the heart." (Heb. iv. 12.)
'■ Soon at this fight the Knights revive again,
As fresh as when the flowers fi-om winter's tomb,
When now the sun brings back his nearer wain
Peep out again from their fresh mother's womb :
The prinu-ose, lighted new, her flame displays.
And frights the neighbour hedge with fiery rays :
And all the world renew theu- mirth and sportive plays.
' ' The Prince, who saw his long imprisonment
Now end in never ending liberty,
To meet the victor from his castle went.
And falling down, clasping his royal knee,
Pours out deser\-ed thanks in grateful praise :
But him the heavenly Savioui' soon doth raise,
And bids him spend in joy his never-ending days."
Then the poem ends ^vith the marriage joy of Electa,
to whom the Sa\'ioiir is bridegroom, she a gladsome
bride.
George Sandys, younger brother of Richard
Hooker's pupil, Edwin Sandys, and son to the Arch-
bishop of York, was bom in 1.577, and died in 1644.
He travelled in the East, translated 0\dd's " Meta-
morphoses," and in 1636 published a " Paraphrase of
the PsalnLS," with music by Henry Lawes, the gi-eat
composer of the day. In the same volume were his
paraphrases of Job, of the Lamentations of Jeremiah,
and of other songs out of the Old and New Testaments.
This is George Sandys's version of
PSALM XV.
'\\Tio shall in Thy tent abide ? |
On Thy holy hiU reside ?
He that's just and innocent;
Tells the truth of his intent ;
Slanders none with venomed tongue ;
Fears to do his neighbom- wrong ;
Fosters not base infamies ;
Vice beholds with scornful eyes ;
Honours those who fear the Lord ;
Keeps, though to his loss, his word ;
Takes no bribes for wicked ends,
Nor to use his money lends :
"Who by these directions guide
Their imre steps, shall never slide.
Richard Crashaw, who wa.s expelled from the
University of Cambridge in 1644 for refusing to sign
the Covenant, then became a Roman Catholic, and
died in 16.50 a canon of Loretto. He first published
his "Steps to the Temple" in 1646. There was a
second edition in 1649. It was another collection of
religious poems in a form suggested by the " Temple "
of George Herbert. Among his poems are the.se lines
on .sending Herbert's " Temple " to a lady : — •
ON MR. G. Herbert's book.
Know }"ou, fair, on what j-ou look ?
Divinest love lies in this book.
Expecting fire from your eyes,
To kindle this His sacrifice.
WTien your hands untie these strings,
Think you've an angel by the wings ;
TO A.D. 1646.1
EELIGION.
279
One that gladly wiU be nigh
To wait upon each morning sigh,
To flutter in the balmy air
Of your woll-pei-fumed prayer.
These white plumes of His He'll lend you,
TVTiich every day to heaven wiU send you ;
To take acquaintance of the sphere,
And all the smooth-faced kindred there.
And though Herbert's name doth owe
These devotions, fairest, know
That while I lay them on the shrine
Of your white kind, they are mine.
On the Miracle of Loaves.
Now, Lord, or never, they'll believe on Thee ;
Thou to their teeth hast proved Thy deity.
Two unit lip into the Temple to prai/.
Two went to pray ? rather say.
One went to brag, th' other to pray.
One stands up close, and treads on high,
"Where th' other dares not lend his eye.
One nearer to Ciod's altar trod.
The other to the altar's God.
England's Temple : Westminster Abbey i (with the Hall). From a Print hj Hollar (1641).
^
And these are some of a group of Divine Epigrams
in Crasliaw's " Steps to the Temple : " —
Vpon the Sipirlehre of our Lord.
Here, where our Lord oncn laid hLs head,
Now the gi-ave lies biu-ied.
The indole's Mites.
Two mites, two drops, yet all her house and land,
FaU from a steady heart, though trembling hand :
The other's wanton wealth foams high and brave :
The other cast away, she only gave.
Oil the Prodigal.
Tell mc, bright boy, tell me, my golden lad,
"Wliither away so fi-olic ? why so glad ?
"WTiat all thy wealth in council ? all thy state ?
Are husks so dear? troth 'tis a mighty rate.
Come, see the place where the lord la;/.
Show me Himself, HimscH, bright sir, O show
"V\1iich way my poor tears to Himself may go.
"Were it enough to show the place, and say, •
" Look, Slary, here see where thy Lord once lay ;"
Then could I show these arms of mine and say,
" Look, Marj-, here see where thy Lord once lay."
1 Tlie towers of -Westmuister Atbey in the time of Charles I. were
not raised above the level of the roof. We see thein in modem
London as completed-not in best accordance with the architecture
of the building— by Sir Christopher Wreu.
And a certain Priest comiiif/ that waij, looked on him, and
passed hi/.
Why dost thou wound my wounds, thou that passest by,
Handling and turning them with an unwounded eye ?
The calm that cools thine eye does shipwTeck mine, for O,
I'nmoved to see one wretched is to make him so '.
Dives ashiiiij a Drop.
A drop, one drop, how sweetly one fair drop
Would tremble on my pearl-tipp'd finger's top !
My wealth is gone, 0, go it where it will.
Spare this one jewel, I'll be Dives still.
/ am ready not only to be bound, but to die.
Come death, come bands, nor do you slu-ink, my ears.
At those hard words man's cowardice calls fears.
Save those of fear, no other bands fear I ;
No other death than this,— the fear to die.
On St. Peter easting away his Xcts at our Saviour's call.
Thou bast the art on't, Tetcr, and canst teU
To cast thv nets on all occasions well.
AATien Chi^st calls, and thy nets would have thee stay,
To cast them well's to cast them quite away.
Eobert Herriek, ejected from his pai-sonage at Dean
Prior, came to London, and published, m 1G4S, not
only his " Hesperides," but his more sacred thoughts
in a separate book, as " Noble Numbei-s," of which
these are some : —
380
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1646
LITANY TO THE HOLY SPIRIT.
In the hour of my distress,
When temptations me oppress,
And when I my sins confess,
Sweet Spu-it, comfort me !
When I lie within my bed,
Sick in heart, and sick in head.
And with douhts discomforted,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me !
When the house doth sigh and weep,
And the world is drowned in .sleep, 10
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me !
When the artless doctor sees
Ko one hope, but of his fees.
And his skill runs on the lees.
Sweet Spirit, comfort me !
When his potion and his piU,
His or none or little skill.
Meet for nothing but to kiU,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 20
When the passing-beU doth toll,
And the fuiies in a shoal
Come to fright a parting soul,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me !
When the tapers now burn blue,
And the comforters are few,
jVnd that number more than true.
Sweet Spirit, comfort me !
When the priest his last hath prayed,
And I nod to what is said, 30
'Cause my speech is now decayed.
Sweet Spirit, comfort me !
When, God knows, I'm tossed about.
Either with despair or doubt ;
Yet, before the glass be out,
Sweet Spirit, comfort mo !
AVhen the tempter me pirrsu'th
With the sins of aU my youth.
And half damns me with untruth.
Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 40
When the flames and hellish cries
Fright mine ears, and fright mine eyes.
And all teiTOrs me surprise.
Sweet Spirit, comfort me !
When the Judgment is reveal'd.
And that open'd which was scal'd;
When to Thee I have appeal'd,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me !
TO DEATH.
Thou bidst me come away,
And I'U no longer stay.
Than for to shed some tears
For faults of former years ;
^
And to repent some crimes
Done in the present times ;
And next, to take a bit
Of bread, and wine with it ;
To don my robes of love,
Fit for the place above ; 10 jl
To gii'd my loins about
With charity throughout,
And so to travel hence
With feet of innocence :
These done, I'U only cry,
"God, mercy ! " and so die.
HUMILITY'.
Humble we must be, if to heaven we go ;
High is the roof there, but the gate is low.
Whene'er thou speak' st, look with a lowly eye;
Grace is increased by humility.
GKACE FOR A CHILD.
Here a little child I stand.
Heaving up my either hand ;
Cold as paddocks though they be,
Here I lift them up to Thee,
For a benison to fall
On our meat, and on us all. Amen.
TO HIS DEAR GOD.
I'll hope no more
For things that will not come :
And, if they do, they prove but cumbersome.
Wealth brings much woe ;
And, since it fortunes so,
'Tis better to be poor
Than so f abound
As to be drowned
Or overwhelm'd with store.
I'ale care, avant, 10
I'll learn to be content
With that small stock thy bounty gave or lent.
What may conduce
To my most healtliful use,
Almighty God, me grant I
But that or this
That hurtful is
Deny thy suppliant.
TO KEEP A TRUE LENT.
Is this a fast, to keep
The larder lean,
And clean
From fat of veals and sheep ?
Is it to quit the dish
Of flesh, yet still
To fill
The platter high with fish ?
Is it to fast an hour.
Or ragg'd to go, 10
Or show
A downcast look and sour ?
TO A.i'. llJoT.J
EELIGION.
281
No : 'tis a fust, to dole
Thy sheaf of wheat.
And meat,
Unto the hungry soul ;
It is to fast from stiife,
From old debate
And hate
To circumcise thy life ; 20
To shew a heart gi-ief-rent ;
To starve thy sin,
Js ot bin :
And that's to Keep thy Lent.
William C'hillingsvortli, who was two yeai's younger
than Charles I., was converted to Catholicism when
a student at Oxford, but re-convei'ted by Laud, who
was his godfather. In 1G37 Chillingworth dedicated
to Charles I. a volume entitled " The Religion of
Protestants a Safe Way to Salvation." It was written
in answer to a book entitled " Mercy and Truth, or
Charity maintained by Catholiques," the author of
which had sought to prove Protestantism unsafe.
Chillingworth maintained that those Protestants are
right who take Scripture a-s the only rule of faith, and
do not seek rest in the traditions of an infallible
Church.'
THE APPEAL TO SCRIPTURE.
Yet when we say. The Scripture is the only Rule to judge
all Controversies by ; me-thinks you should easily conceive,
that we would be imderstood, of aU those that are possible to
be judged by Scripture, and of those that arise among such
as believe the Scripture. For, if I had a Controversie with
an Atheist whether there were a God or no, I would not say,
that the Scriptui'e were a Rule to judge this by ; feeling that,
doubting whether there be a God or no, he must needs doubt
whether the Scripture be the Word of God : or, if he does
not, he grants the Question, and is not the man we speak of.
So likewise, if I had a Controversie about the Truth of Christ
with a Jew, it would be vainly done of me, should I press
him with the Authority of the New Testament which he
believes not, until out of some principles common to us both,
I had perswadod him that it is the Word of God. The New
Testament therefore, while he remains a Jew, would not be a
fit Rule to decide this Controversie ; in as much as that which
is doubted of it self, is not fit to determine other doubts. So
Hkewise, if there were any that believed Christian ReUgion,
and yet believed not the Bible to be the Word of God, though
they believed the matter of it to be true, (which is no impos-
sible supposition ; for I may believe a Book of S. Anst'm's to
contain nothing but the Truth of God, and yet not to have
been insirired by God himself,) against such men therefore
there were no disputing out of the Bible ; because nothing in
question can be a proof to it self. 'UTien therefore we say.
Scripture is a sufiicient means to determine all Controversies,
we say not this, either to Atheists, Jews, Turks, or such
Christians (if there be any such) as believe not Scripture to
be the Word of God. But among such men only, as are
already agreed upon this, that the Scripture is tJie Word of
God, we say, AU Controversies that arise about Faith, are
* This possasre is given just as it was printed in 1637. It will be
observed that it differs very little from the custom now established in
spelling, but more in punctuation and in the use of cax)itals and
italics. Nobody punctuated well before the Restoration.
100
either not at all decidable, and consequently not necessary to
be believed one way or other ; or they may be determined by
Scripture. In a word, That all things necessary to be be-
lieved are evidently contained in Scripture, and what is not
there evidently contained, cannot be necessary to be believed.
And our reason hereof is comincing, because nothing can
challenge our belief, but what hath descended to us from
Christ by Original and Universal Tradition : Now nothing
but Scripture hath thus descended to us, Therefore nothing
but Scripture can challenge our belief. Now then to come
up closer to you, and to answer to your Question, not as you
put it, but as you should have put it : I say. That this Posi-
tion, Scripture alone is the Utile whereby they uhieh believe it to
be God's Word, are to judge all Controversies in Faith, is no
fundamental point. Though not for your Reasons : For, your
first and strongest reason, you see, is plainly voided and cut
off by my stating of the Question as I have done, and sup-
po.sing in it. that the parties at variance, are agreed about
this. That the Scripture is the Word of God ; and conse-
quently that this is none of their Controversies. To your
second. That Controversies cannot be ended u-ithout some living
Authority, We have said already, that Necessarj- Controversies
may be and are decided. And, if they be not ended, this is
not through defect of the Rule, but thi-ough the default of
Men. And, for these that cannot thus be ended, it is not
necessary they should be ended. For, if God did require the
ending of them, he would have prodded some certain means
for the ending of them. And, to your Third, I say, that
Your pretence of using these means, is but hv"pocritical : for
you use them with prejudice, and with a setled resolution not
to believe any thing which these means happily may suggest
into you, if it any way cross yom- pre-conceived perswasion
of j'our Churche's Infallibility. You give not yoiu: selves
Liberty of judgment in the use of them, nor suffer your selves
to be led by them to the Truth, to which they would lead you,
would you but be as willing to believe this Consequence, Our
Church doth oppose Scripture, therefore it doth err, therefore
it is not infallible ; as you are resolute to believe this, The
Church is infaUible, therefore it doth not err, and therefore
it doth not oppose Scripture, though it seem to do so never
so plainly.
Joseph Hall, born in li)74 at Ashby-de-la-Zouch
ill Leicestershire, was the son of an officer who had
the government of that to-s\ai under the Earl of
Huntingdon, then President of the North. He had
a devout mother, and was from infancy intended for
the Chuixli. He graduated at Cambridge, liecame
fellow of Emanuel College, and published in 1597
and 1.598 a series of clever satires in English verse.
He also wrote, as a young man, a very clever
Latin prose satire on the greed, drunkenness, and
folly of man, and on the ra-ago tjqie of woman, in
the foiTU of a description of an imaginary austral
region, under the name of " The World other and the
same" (Mundus Alter et Idem). He was about to
become head-master of a school at Tiverton, when
the rectory of Halsted in Suffolk was offered to him.
How he then got rid of a hindrance and foimd a
help he has thus told in an autobiogra])hical sketch,
entitled " Some Specialities in the Life of Joseph
Hall:"—
" Having then fi.xcd my foot in Halsted, I found there a
dangerous opposite to the success of mj- ministry, a witty and
bold atheist, one llr. LUley, who, by reason of his travels
282
CASSELL'S LIBEAEY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1637
and abilities of discourse and behaviour, had so deeply
insinuated himself into my patron, Sir Kohm-t Drury, that
there was small hopes {during his entireness) for me to -work
any good upon that noble patron of mine, who, by the sug-
o-estion of this wicked detractor, was set off from me before
he knew me. Hereupon, I confess, finding the obdurateness
and hopeless condition of that man, I bent my prayers against
him, beseeching God daily, that he would be pleased to re-
move, by some means or other, that apparent hinderance of
my faithful labours, who gave me an answer accordingly:
for this malicious man going hastily to London to exasperate
my patron against me, was then and there sweirt away by the
pestilence, and never returned to do any farther mischief.
Now the coast was clear before me, and I gained every djiy of
the good opinion and favomable respects of that honom'able
gentleman and my worthy neighbours. Being now, therefore,
settled in that sweet and civil country of Suffolk, near to St.
Edmund's Burj-, my first work was to build up my house,
which was extremely ruinous : which done, the uncouth soli-
tariness of my life, and the extreme incommodity of that
single housekeeping, drew my thoughts, after two years, to
condescend to the necessity of a married estate, which God
no less strangely provided for me ; for, walking from the
church on Jlonday in the ^\^litsun week, with a grave and
reverend minister, JMr. Grandidge, I saw a comely and modest
gentlewoman standing at the door of that house where we
were in\-ited to a wedding dinner, and inquiring of that
worthy friend whether he knew her. Yes (quoth he), I know
her well, and have bespoken her for your wife. ^Mien I
farther demanded an account of that answer, he told me, she
was the daughter of a gentleman whom he much respected,
Mr. George Winniff , of Bretenham ; that out of an opinion
had of the fitness of that match for me, he had already
treated with her father about it, whom he found very apt to
entertain it, advising me not to neglect the opportunity ; and
not concealing the just praises of modesty, jnety, good dis-
position, and othiT virtues that were lodged in that seemly
presence. I listened to the motion as sent from God, and at
last, upon due prosecution, happily prevailed, cnjoj-ing the
comfortable society of that meet help for the space of fort}'-
nine years."
From Halsted Joseph Hall passed to Waltham
Holy Cross in Essex, which li\-ing he held for two-
and-twenty years, having added to it a prebend in
Wolverhampton Church, and in 1616 the Deanery of
Worcester. He was one of the divines sent to the
Synod of Dort. In 162-t he refused the Bi.shopric
of Gloucester, but accepted that of Exeter in 1627,
and in November, 1641, was translated to Noi-n-ich.
In that year the chief argument befoi'e the nation
was upon the subject of Episcopacy. Bishop Hall
wrote a pamphlet upon it, which brought Milton
into controvei-sy with him. In Decem1)er, 164L the
Parliament sent to the Tower Josejih Hall and other
bishops who jirotested against their oxchi.sion from
the House of Lords. Six months afterwards he was
released on bail, but stripped of his dignities, and
he spent the last nine years of his life on a little
farm at Heigham, near Norwich. Joseph Hall died
in 1656, aged eighty-two.
Thomas Fuller -svTote of Joseph Hall in his
"Worthies," — "He was commonly called our English
Seneca, for the pureness, plainness, and fulness of his
style; not unhappy at Controversies, better in his
Sermons, best of all in his ' Meditations.' "
hall's meditations.
Upon tlie SiffAC of Gold mclicd.
This gold is both the fairest and most solid of all metals ;
yet is the soonest melted with the fire : others, as they are
coarser, so more chm-lish, and hard to be wrought upon by a
dissolution.
Thus a sound and good heart is most easily melted into
sorrow and fear by the sense of God's judgments ; whereas
the carnal mind is stubborn and remorseless. All metals are
but earth, yet some are of finer temper than others ; all hearts
are of flesh, yet some are, through the power of grace, more
capable of spiritual apprehensions.
God, we are such as thou wilt be' pleased to make us.
Give me a heart that may be" sound for the truth of grace,
and melting at the teiTOrs of thy law ; I can be for no other
than thy sanctuary on earth, or thy treasury of heaven.
VpoH the siijlit of a Trie fiiU blossomed.
Here is a tree overlaid with blossoms : it is not possible
that all these should prosper; one of them must needs rob
the other of moisture and growth. I do not love to see
an infancy over-hopeful : in these pregnant beginnings one
faculty starves another, and at last leaves the mind sapless
and barren. As therefore we are wont to pull off some of the
too frequent blossoms, that the rest may thrive ; so it is good
wisdom to moderate the early excess of the pails, or progress
of over-forward childhood.
Neither is it otherwise in our Christian profession : a
sudden and lavish ostentation of grace may fiU the eye with
wonder, and the mouth with talk, but will not at the last fiU
the lap with fruit. Let me not promise too much, nor raise
too high expectations of my undei'takings. I had rather men
should complain of my small hopes, than of mj' short per-
fonnances.
Vpon occasion of a licd-brcast comutff into a Chamber.
Pretty bii-d, how cheerfully dost thou sit and sing, and }"et
knowest not where thou art, nor where thou shalt make thy
ne.xt meal, and at night must shroud thyself in a bush for
lodging : what a shame it is for me, that see before me so
hberal provisions of ray God, and find myself set warm under
my own roof, yet am ready to droop under a distrustful and
unthankful dulness ! Had I so little certainty of my hai-boui-
and purveyance, how heartless should I be, how careful I
How little list should I have to make music to thee, or
myself !
Surely thou earnest not hither without a providence : God
sent thee, not so much to delight, as to shame me : but all in
a conviction of my suUen imbelief, who imder more apparent
means am less cheerful and confident. Reason and faith have
not done so much in me, as in thee mere instinct of nature.
AVant of foresight makes thee more merry, if not more
happy, here, than the foresight of better things makcth me.
O God, thy providence is not impaired by those powers
thou hast given me above these brute things: let not my
greater helps hinder me from an holy security and comfort-
able reliance upon thee.
Vjmi the Sight of a Dark Lantliorn.
There is light indeed, but so shut up as if it were not ; and
when the side is most open, there is light enough to give
direction to him that bears it, none to others : he can discern
another man by that light w-hich is cast before him, but
another man cannot discern him.
Eight such is reserved knowledge ; no man is the better for
TO A.D. 1656.]
EELIGION.
283
it but the uwutT. ITiere is no outwurd diifurence betwixt
concealed skill and ignorance : and when such hidden know-
ledge wiU look forth, it casts so sparing a light, as may only
argue it to have an unprofitable being ; to have ability, with-
out will to good ; power to censure, none to benefit. The
suppression or ingi-ossing of those helps which God would
have us to impart, is but a thieves' lanthom in a true man's
hand.
God, as all our light is from Thee, the Father of Lights,
so make me no niggard of that poor rush-candle thou hast
lighted in my soul : make me more happy in giving light to
others, than La receiving it into myself.
Vpon the Ringing of the Birds hi a Spring Morniug.
How cheerfully do these little birds chii-p and sing out of
the natural joy they conceive at the approach of the sun and
entrance of the spring; as if their life had departed, and
returned with those glorious and comfortable beams !
No otherwise is the penitent and faithful soul affected to
the true sun of righteousness, the Father of Lights. T\'Tien
He hides His face, it is troubled, and silently mourns away
that sad winter of affliction : when He returns, in His pre-
sence is the fulness of joy ; no song is cheerful enough to
welcome Him.
O Thou who art the God of all consolation, make my heart
sensible of the sweet comforts of Thy gracious presence ; and
let my mouth ever show forth Thy praise.
Vpoit the Sight of a XatitraL
God, why am not I thus r ^ATiat hath this man done,
that thou hast denied wit to him ? or what have I done, that
thou shouldest give a competenc)- of it to me ':" What differ-
ence is there betwi.\t us but thy bounty, which hath bestowed
upon me wluit I could not merit, and hath w ithheld from him
what he could not challenge ? All is, O God, in thy good
pleasure, whether to give or deny.
Neither is it otherwise in matters of grace. The vmregene-
rate man is a spiiitual fool : no man is truly wise but the
renewed. How is it that whilst I see another man besotted
with the vanit}- and corruption of his nature, I have attained
to know God and the great mystery of salvation, to abhor
those sins which are pleasing to a wicked a^jpetite ': WTio
hath discerned me ': Nothing but th)- free mercy, my God.
Why else was I a man, not a brute beast ? Why right shaped,
not a monster ? ^\1iy perfectly limbed, not a cripple 'i ^XTiy
well-sensed, not a fool ': "UTiy well-affected, not gi-aceless r
Why a vessel of honour, not of wrath ?
If aught be not iU in me, Lord, it is Thine. let Thine
be the praise, and mine the thankfulness.
Vpon the Loadstone and the Jet.
As there is a civil commerce amongst men for the preserva-
tion of human society, so there is a natural commerce which
God hath set amongst the other creatures for the maintenance
of their common being. There is scarce anj-thing therefore
in nature which hath not a power of attracting some other.
The fire draws vapours to it, the sun draws the fire ; plants
draw moisture, the moon draws the sea ; all purgative things
draw their proper humours. A natural instinct draws all
sensitive creatures to affect their own kind ; and even in those
things which are of imperfect mi.xtion we see this experi-
mented. So as the senseless stones and metals are not void
of this active virtue : the loadstone draws iron, and the jet,
rather than nothing, draws up straws and dust. With what
a force do both these stones work upon their several subjects !
Is there any thing more heavy and unapt for motion than
iron or steel r Yet these do so run to their beloved loadstone,
as if they had the sense of a desire and delight : and do so
cling to the point of it, as if they had forgotten their weight
for this adherence. Is there any thing more apt for dispersion
than small straws and dust ? Yet these gather to the jet,
and so sensibly leap up to it, as if they had a kind of ambition
to be so preferred.
Methinks I see in these two a mere ' emblem of the hearts
of men and their spiritual attractives. The grace of God's
spirit, like the true loadstone or adamant, draws up the iron
heart of man to it, and holds it in a constant fixedness of holy
purposes and good actions : the world, like the jet, draws up
the sensual hearts of light and vain men, and holds them fast
in the pleasures of sin.
I am Thine iron. O Lord ; be Thou my loadstone. Draw
Thou mo, and I shall run after Thee. Knit my heart unto
Thee, that I may fear Thy name.
Upon hearing of 2Iiisie hj Xight.
How sweetly doth this music sound in this dead season !
In the day-time it would not, it could not, so much affect
the ear. All hannonious sounds are advanced by a silent
darkness.
Thus it is with the glad tidings of salvation. The gospel
never sounds so sweet as in the night of persecution or of our
own private atHiction. It is ever the same ; the difference is
in our disposition to receive it.
O God, whose praise it is to give songs in the night, make
my prosperity conscionable, and my crosses cheerful.
Vpon a Glow-worm.
What a cold candle is lighted up in the body of this sorry
woiTU ! There needs no other disproof of those that say there
is no light at all ^vithout some heat. Y'et sure an outward
heat helps on this cool light. Never did I see any of these
bright worms but in the hot months of summer. In cold
seasons cither the)' are not, or appear not, when the nights
ai'e both darkest and longest, and most uncomfortable.
Thus do false-hearted Christians in the warm and lightsome
times of free and encomaged profession ; none shine more
than they. In hard and gloomy seasons of restraint and per-
secution all their formal light is either lost or hid, whereas
true professors either like the sunshine ever alike, or, like the
stars, shine fairest in the frostiest nights. The light of this
worm is for some show, but of no use. Any light that is
attended with heat can impart itself to others, though %vith
the expense of that subject wherein it is ; this doth not waste
itself, nor help others. I had rather never to have light than
not to have it always : I had rather not to have light than not
to communicate it.
Vpon a Spring-wafer.
How this spring smokcth, whilst other greater channels arc
frozen up ! This water is living whilst they are dead. All
experience teachcth us that weU-waters arising from deep
springs are hotter in winter than in summer. The outwai-d
cold doth keep in, and double their inward heat.
Such is a true Christian in the evil day. His life of grace
gets more -s-igour by opposition ; he had not been so gracious
if the times had been better. I will not say he may thank
his enemies, but I must say he may thank God for his
enemies.
O God, what can put out that heat which is increased with
cold ? How happy shall I be if I may grow so much more in
grace as the world in malice !
^ Kej-e, umnixed, piire.
2s-t
(JASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.L.. 1637
I'jion the Sound of a Cracl;ed Bill.
What a harsh sound doth tliis bell make in every ear!
The metal is good enough; it is tho lift that makes it so
unpleasinaly jarrinif.
How like is this bell to a scandalous and ill-lived teacher !
His calUng is honourable, his noise is heard far enough ; but
the flaw which is noted in his life mars his doctrine, and
offends those ears which else would take pleasure in his
teaching. It is possible that such a one, even bj- that dis-
cordous noise, may ring in others into the triumphant chiu-ch
of heaven ; but there is no remedy for himself but tho fire,
whether for his reforming, or judgment.
Vpon the night of u Blind Man.
How much am I bound to God that hath given me eyes to
see this man's want of eyes ! "With what suspicion and fear
he walks 1 How doth his hand and staff examine his way !
With what jealousy doth he receive every morsel, every
draught, and yet meets with many a post, and stumbles at
many a stone, and swallows many a fly ! To him the
world is as if it were not, or as if it were all rubs and snares,
and downfalls ; and if any man will lend him a hand, he must
trust to his (however faithless) guide without all comfort save
this, that he cannot see himself miscarry.
Many a one is thus spiritually blind, and because he is so,
discerns it not, and not discerning, complains not of so woeful
a condition. The god of this world hath blinded the eyes of
the chiklren of disobedience ; they walk on in the ways of
death, and yield themselves over to the guidance of him who
seeks for nothing but their precipitation into hell. It is an
addition to the misery of this inward blindness, that it is ever
joined with a secure confidence in them whoso trade and
ambition it is to betray their souls.
Whatever become of these outward senses, which are
common to me with the meanest and most despicable crea-
tui'es, Lord give mo not over to that spiritual darkness,
■which is incident to none but those that live without thee,
and must perish eternally, because they want thee.
V2)on the Sight of a Mayriagc.
What a comfortable and feeling resemblance is here of
Christ and his church ! I regard not the persons, I regard
the institution. Neither the husband nor the wife are
now any more their own. They have either of them given
over themselves to other : not onl)- the wife, which is the
weaker vessel, hath yielded over herself to the stronger pro-
tection and participation of an abler head ; but the husband
hath resigned his right in himself over to his feebler consort ;
so as now her weakness is his, his strength is hers. Yea,
their very flesh hath altered property ; hers is his, his is hers.
Yea, their very soul and spirit may no more be severed in
respect of mutual affection, than from their own several
bodies.
It is thus, Saviour, with Thee and Thy Church. We are
not our own, but thine, who hast married us to thyself in
truth and righteousness. What powers, what endo-mnents
have we but from and in thee ! And as our holy boldness
dares interest ourselves in thy graces, so thy wonderfully
compassionate mercy vouchsafes to interest thyself in our
infirmities. Thy poor church suffers on earth, thou feelest
in heaven, and, as complaining of our stripes canst say. Why
persecutest thou me ? Thou again art not so thine own, as
that thou art not also om-s ; thy sufferings, thy merits, thy
obedience, thy life, death, resurrection, ascension, inter-
cession, glorj-, yea, thy blessed humanity, yea, thy glorious
deity, by virtue of our right, of our union, are so ours, as that
we would not give om' part in thee for ten thousand worlds.
gracious Saviour, as thou canst not but love and cherish
this poor and unworthy soul of mine which Thou hast merci-
fully espoused to Thyself ; so give me grace to honour and
obey Thee, and forsaking all the base and sinful rivalty of the
world, to hold me only unto Thee whilst I live here, that I
may perfectly enjoy Thee hereafter.
Vpon a liing of Bells.
^\'hilst every bell keeps due time and order, what a sweet
and harmonious sound they make ! All the neighbour villages
are cheered with that common music ; but when once they jar
and check each other, either jangling together, or striking
preposterously, how harsh and mipleasing is that noise 1 So
that as we testify our public rejoicing by an orderly and well-
tuned peal; so when we woidd signify that the town is on
fire we ring confusedly.
It is thus in Church and Common-wealth. When every one
knows and keeps their due ranks, there is a melodious consort
of peace and contentment ; but when distances and proportions
of respects are not mutually observed, when either states or
persons will be clashing with each other, the discord is
grievous, and extremely prejudicial. Such confusion cither
notifieth a fire already kindled, or iiortendeth it. Popular
states may ring the changes with safety, but the monarchial
government requii'es a constant and regular course of the set
degrees of rule and inferiority, which camiot bo -(iolated
without a sensible discontentment and danger.
For me, I do so love the peace of the Church and State, that
I cannot but -nith the charitable apostle say. Would to God
they were cut off that trouble them ; and shall ever wish either
no jars, or no clappers.
Upon a Penitent JS/ilifietor.
1 know not whether I should more admii'c the \sisdom or
the mercy of God in His proceedings with men. Had not this
man sinned thus notoriously he had never been thus happy ;
whilst his courses were fail- and civil, yet he was graceless.
Now his miscarriage hath drawn him into a just affliction, his
affliction hath humbled him. God hath taken this advantage
of his humiliation for his conversion. Had not one foot
slipped into the mouth of hell he had never been in this for-
wardness to heaven.
There is no man so weak or foolish as that he hath not
strength or wit enough to sin, or to make ill use of his sin. It
is only the goodness of an infinite God that can make our sin
good to us, though e%il in itself.
God, it is no thanks to ourselves or to our sins that
we are bettered with evil. The work is Thine ; lot Thine bo
the glory.
Upon the Vietv of the World.
It is a good thing to see this material world ; but it is a
better thing to think of the intelligible world. This thought
is the sight of the soul, whereby it discerncth things like
itself, spiritual and immortal, which are so much beyond the
worth of these sensible objects, as a spirit is beyond a body, a
pure substance beyond a corruptible, an infinite God above a
finite creature.
God, how great a word is that which the Psalmist saj-s
of Thee, that Thou abasest ThyseU to behold the things both
in heaven and earth ! It is our glory to look up even to the
meanest piece of heaven ; it is an abasement to Thine incom-
prehensible majesty to look down upon the best of heaven.
Oh, what a transcendent glory must that needs be, that is
TO A.D. 1647.]
EELIGIOX.
285
abased to behold the things of heaven 1 '^^^lat a happiness
shall it be to me, that mine eyes shall be exalted to see Thee,
who all humbled to see the place and state of my blessedness !
Yea, those very angels that see Thy face are so resplendently
glorious, that vre could not overlive the sight of one of their
faces, who are fain to hide theii- faces from the sight of Thine.
How many millions attend Thy throne above, and Thy foot-
stool below, in the ministration to Thy saints 1 It is that
Thine in^'isible world, the communion wherewith can make
me truly blessed. God, if my body have fellowship here
amongst beasts, of whose earthly substance it participates, let
my soul be united to Thee the God of Spirits, and be raised
up to enjoy the insensible society of Thy blessed angels.
Acquaint mo beforehand with those citizens and affairs
of Thine Heaven, and make me no stranger to my futui-e
glory.
Upon the Sliiiy of a Wasp.
How small things may annoy the greatest ! Even a mouse
troubles an elephant, a gnat a lion ; a very flea may disquiet
a giant. A\'hat weapon can be nearer to nothing than the
sting of this wasp ? Yet what a painful woimd hath it given
me I That scarce visible point, how it envenoms, and rankles,
and swells up the flesh! The tenderness of the part adds
much to the grief.
And if I be thus vexed with the touch of an angry fly.
Lord, how shaR I be able to endure the sting of a tormenting
conscience 'r As that part is both most active and most
sensible, so that wound which it receives from itself is most
intolerably grievous; there were more ease in a nest of
hornets than under this one torture. O God, howsoever I
speed abroad, give me peace at home, and whatever my flesh
suffer, keep my soul free.
Thus pained, wherein do I find ease but in lapng honey to
the part infected r That medicine only abates the anguish.
How near hath nature placed the remedy to the offence !
T\'hcnsoever my heart is stung with the remorse for sin,
only Thy sweet and precious merits, blessed Saviour, can
mitigate and heal the wound. They have virtue to cure me ;
give me grace to apply them. That sovereign receipt shall
make my pain happy. I shall thus applaud my grief : It is
good for me that I was thus afliicted.
Upon a Cancelled Bond.
Whilst this obligation was in force I was in servitude to
my parchment : my bond was double, to a pajTnent,. to a
penalty. Now that it is discharged, what is it better than a
waste scroU ; regarded for nothing but the witness of its o%vn
voidance and nuUity ':■
No otherwise is it with the severe law of my Creator. Out
of Christ it stands in fuU force, and binds me over either to
pert'ect obedience, which I cannot possibly pert'orm, or to
exquisite toiment and eternal death, which I am never able to
endure : but now that my Saviour hath fastened it cancelled
to His Cross (in respect of the rigoui' and malediction of it),
I look upon it as the monument of my past danger and
bondage ; I know by it how much was owed by me, how
much was paid for me. The direction of it is everlasting —
the obligation by it unto death is frustrate. I am free from
cirrse, who never can be free from obedience.
O Saviour, take Thou glory, and give me peace.
Jeremy Taylor was born in August, 161.3, at
Cambridge. He was the son of a barber, was sent at
three years old to the free school then just founded
by Dr. Stephen Perse, and in 1626, at thirteen, went
to Cains College as a sizar. John MOton, who went
to Cambridge at seventeen, had entered at Christ's
College in the preceding year. Jeremy Taylor was
M.A. at the age of twenty-one, and then won the
patronage of Laud by the charm of his personal
beauty, ability, and pure devotion. He chanced to
preach at St. Paul's, tilling the pulpit in place of a
college friend who was lecturer there, and made so
great an impression that Laud heard of it and sent for
him to preach another sennon at Lambeth. The Arch-
bishop then became Jeremy Taylor's friend, told him
that he was yet young for active life, and transferred
him for further study to Oxford, where he used pressure
to get him a fellowship at All Souls' without previous
residence in the University. Taylor also was made
chaplain to Laud, and in 1637 rector of Uppingham
in Piiitlandshii-e. There he mairied, in 1639, and
three years afterwards was left a widower with two
infant boys ; a thii-d son had died not long before his
mother. At this time troubles were rising between
King and Commons. Jeremy Taj^lor joined the king's
camp as one of his chaplains, and in October, 1642,
added one to the number of the loyal clergy who
were deprived of their livings. He wrote on behalf
of Episcopacy, " Episcojiacy Asserted," and was
made D.D. for doing so, his age tlien being twenty,
nine. He saw service as a chaplain ^^•ith the aiiuy
m Wales, was imprisoned for a time, married a
AVelsh lady, and set up a school near Grongar Hill,
at Llan^ihangel Aberl^ytliyrch, in Carmarthensliire.
The great house of the place was Golden Grove,
where Lord and Lady Carbery were his warm friends ;
and here, in 16-17, he urged tolerance on the contend-
ing factions, in a book ujion the " Liberty of Pro-
phesying," that is to say, of intei-jjreting the Bible.
Jeremy Taylor had as pure an aspiration as Jolin
MOton, but being born with a tendency of mind that
caused him to (hvell more upon authority, there is
a characteristic difterence between Taylor and Milton
in then- manner of suggesting the essentials of imion
among Christians.
Milton would require only that they who accepted
the Bible as the word of God and ground-work of
their faith should be fellow-Christians in spirit as in
name ; leaving each one free to draw from it what-
ever truths he found, or thought he fotmd ; that
every Christian should join liimself to that body of
worshippers with wliich he most agreed in his inter-
pretation of tlie Scrijjtiu-es, unite with them in
election of whatever jiastor he believed most able to
support and strengthen his religious life, and neither
interfere with nor be interfered with by fellow-
worshippei-s who, through differences of interpreta-
tion or for other reasons, had formed themselves into
other equally independent congregations. This was
the principle maintained by the Ladependents, with
whose theory of Christian union, through a freely-
admitted difterence in the interjM-etation of the Book
accepted by all congregations as the rule of faith,
Milton was in perfect agi'eement.
Jeremy Taylor differed from Milton in suggesting,
not the Bible itself, but the simjilest and oldest
doctrinal summary of it, the Apostles' Creed, as the
gi-ound of Church union. He desired that in each
country the Chiu-ch and State should have like boun-
286
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[i.c- 1647
(laries ; and lie proposed that the English Church
should regard every man who accepted the A])ostles'
Creed as in substantial agreement with it, and that
no man's religious opinions should be interfered with,
unless interference were required for the well-being of
the State. The acceptance of .such a reservation by
Jeremy Taylor and its rejection by Milton depend
simply upon diflerence in the point of view natural
to each, and not at all upon essential difference in
their religious feeling. At the close of the Intro-
duction to the " Liberty of Prophesying" Taylor
wrote : —
ZEAL WITHOUT CHARITY.
A holy life will make our tolicf holy, if we consult not
humanity and its imperfections in the choice of our religion,
but search for truth without designs save only of acquh-ing
heaven, and then be as careful to preserve charity as wo
were to get a point of faith. I am much persuaded we should
find out more truths by this means ; or however (which is
the main of all) we shall be secured though we miss them,
and then we are well enough.
For if it be evinced that one heaven shall hold men of
several opinions, if the unity of faith be not destroyed by
that which men call differing religions, and if an unity of
charity be the duty of us all even towards persons that are
not persuaded of every proposition we believe, then I would
fain know to what purpose are all those stirs and great
noises in Christendom ; those names of faction, the several
names of churches not distinguished by the division of
kingdoms, the church obeying the government, which was
the primitive rule and canon, but distinguished by names of
sects and men. These are all become instruments of hatred ;
thence come schisms and parting of communions, and then
persecutions, and then wars and rebellion, and then the
dissolutions of all friendships and societies. All these
mischiefs proceed not from this, that aU men are not of one
mind, for that is neither necessary nor possible, but that
every opinion is made an article of faith, every article is a
ground of a quarrel, every quarrel makes a faction, every
faction is zealous, and aU zeal pretends for God, and whatso-
ever is for God cannot be too much. We by this time are
come to that pass, we think we love not God except we hate
our brother ; and we have not the virtue of religion, unless
we persecute all religions but our own : for lukewarmness is
so odious to God and man, that we, proceeding furiously upon
these mistakes, by supposing we preserve the body, we
destroy the soul of religion ; or by being zealous for faith, or
tchich is all one, for that which we mistake for faith, we are
cold in charity, and so lose the reward of both.
And near the close of the book itself he wrote : —
TOLERATION.
It concerns all persons to see that they do their best to
find out truth, and if they do, it is certain that let the error
be never so damnable, they shall escape the error or the
misery of being damned for it. And if God wiU not be
angiy at men for being invincibly deceived, why should men
be angry one at another ? For he that is most displeased at
another man's error, may also be tempted in his own will,
and as much deceived in his understanding ; for if he may fail
in what he can choose, he may also fail in what he cannot
choose ; his understanding is no more secured than his will,
nor his faith more than his obedience. It is his own fault if
he ofiends God in either ; but whatsoever is not to be avoided.
as errors which are incident oftentimes even to the best and
most inquisitive of men, are not offences against God, and
therefore not to be punished or restrained by men. But all
such opinions in which the public interests of the common-
wealth, and the foundation of faith, and a good life are not
concerned, are to be permitted freely : " Let every one be
fully persuaded in his own mind," was the doctrine of St.
Paul, and that is argument and conclusion too ; and they
were excellent words which St. Ambrose said in attestation
of this great truth : " The civil authority has no right to
interdict the liberty of speaking, nor the sacerdotal to prevent
speaking what you think."
Jeremy Taylor.
from (lie Portrait before his " Sermons for all Sundajs 0/ tlie Tear " (1655).
The time of his retirement in Wales, which lasted
until 16,'i8, was the best fruit season of Jeremy
Taylor's life. There he produced, in 1649, his life
of Christ as the "Great Exemplar;" in 10.50, his "Holy
Living;" and in 1651, his "Holy Dying." In 1651
also appeared one half, and in 1653 the other half, of
" A Course of Sermons for all Sundays of the Year."
In these books, in his " Golden Grove, a Manual of
Daily Prayers," published in 1655; and his "Discourse
on the Measures and Offices of Friendship," in 1657,
dedicated to the excellent Mrs. Catherine Philips,
Jeremy Taylor is the prose poet of the Church of
England. He wrote also some verse, but is most
poet in his prose, where a fancy alike delicate and
strong is always subordinate to the religious feeling it
expresses, in words that satisfy the ear of the musician
as well as the heart of the Christian. Observe, for
example, in this passage from the " Holy Dying,"
the change of musical time together with the form of
thought in the course of the sentences beginning " So
I have seen a rose : " —
THE CH.\NGE BY DEATH.
It is a mighty change that is made by the death of every
person, and it is visible to us who are alive. Reckon bn*
from the sprightliness of youth, the fair cheeks and the full
ej-es of childhood, from the vigorous and strong flexure of
10 A.D. 1660.]
RELIGION.
287
the joints of five-and-twenty, to the hollowness and dead
paleness, to the loathsomeness and horror of a three-days'
burial, and we shall perceive the distance to be very great
and very strange. But so I have seen a rose newly springing
from the clefts of its hood, and at first it was fair as the
morning, and full with the dew of heaven, as a lamb's fleece:
but when a ruder breath had forced open its ■(•irgin modesty,
and dismantled its too youthful and unripe retirements, it
begun to put on darkness, and to decline to softness, and the
symptoms of a sickly age : it bowed the head, and broke its
stalk, and at night ha^-ing lost some of its leaves, and all its
beauty, it fell into the portion of weeds and wom-out faces.
The same is the portion of every man and every woman : the
heritage of worms and serpents, rottcimess and cold dishonour,
and oiu- beauty so changed, that our acquaintance quickly
Icnows us not ; and that change mingled with so much horror,
or else meets so with om' fears and weak discoursings, that
they who six hours ago tended upon us, either with charitable
or ambitious services, cannot without some regret stay in
the room alone where the body lies stripped of its life and
honour. I have read of a fau- young German gentleman,
who li\-ing, often refused to he pietui-ed, but put ofl^ the
imiiortunity of his friend's desire by gi\-ing way, that after a
few days' bmial they might send a painter to his vault, and,
if they saw cause for it, di-aw the image of his death unto the
life : they did so, and found his face half eaten, and his
midriff and backbone full of serpents ; and so he stands
pictured among his armed ancestors. So does the fairest
beaut}- change, and it will be as bad with you and me; and
then what servants shall wo have to wait upon us in the
grave r what friends to \-isit us ': what officious people to
cleanse away the moist and unwholesome cloud reflected
upon o(U' faces from the sides of the weeping vaults, wliich
are the longest weepers for our funeral :'
Among the sermons jweached in Wales and pub-
lished as part of the series for every Sunday in the
j'ear, are two on " The Marriage Ring," which include
such counsel to the bi'idegi'oom and the bride as might
sa^e many a marriage-knot from hurting those it
binds : —
IN THE BEGINNING OF MARRIAGE.
5Ian and wife are equally concerned to avoid all offences of
each other in the beginning of their conversation. Ever)-
little thing can blast an infant blossom : and the breath of
the south can shake the little rings of the \Tne, when first
they begin to curl like the locks of a new-weaned boy ; but
when by age and consolidation the)- stiffen into the hardness
of a stem, and have by the wann embraces of the sun and
the kisses of heaven brought forth their clusters, they can
endure the storms of the north and the loud noises of a
tempest, and yet never be broken. So are the early unions of
an unfixed marriage ; watchful and observant, jealous and
busy, inquisitive and careful, and apt to take alarm at every
unkind word. For infirmities do not manifest themselves in
the first scenes, but in the succession of a long society ; and
it is not chance or weakness when it appears at first, but
it is want of love or prudence, or it will be so expounded ;
and that which appears Ul at first usually affrights the in-
experienced man or woman, who makes unequal conjectures,
and fancies mighty sorrows by the proportions of the new
and early unkindness. It is a verj' great passion, or a huge
folly, or a certain want of love, that cannot preserve the
colours and beauties of kindness, so long as public honesty
rctjiiires men to wear their sorrows for the death of a friend.
Plutarch compares a new marriage to a vessel before the
hoops are on, Ka-r' apxa-t laiv imh Trjs rvxoians frnSias Smirjro-
Toi ■irpo((>afft(os, everything dissolves their tender imagi-
nations, but xpo"" Twi/ a.pijia>v aiiiTii^iv \afiivTuv ii6yis Inrh
TTvpos Kal ffiSripou SiaKvirai, when the joints are stiffened and
are tied by a firm compliance and proportioned bending,
scarcely can it be dissolved without fire or the riolence of
irons. After the hearts of the man and wife are endeared
and hardened by a mutual confidence, and an experience
longer than artifice and pretence can last, there are a great
many remembrances, and some things present, that dash all
little imkindnesses in pieces. The little boy in the Greek
epigram, that was creeping do-mi a precipice, was invited to
his safety by the sight of his mother's pap, when nothing
else could entice him to return ; and the bond of common
childi-en, and the sight of her that nurses what is most dear
to him, and the endearments of each other in the course
of a long society, and the same relation, is an excellent
security to redintegrate and to call that love back, which f oUy
and trifling accidents would disturb.
** Tormentimi ingens uubentibus taEret
Quae nequeuut i:iarere, et ptirtu retiuei-e maritos."
When it is come thus far, it is hard untwisting the knot ; but
be careful in its first condition, that there be no rudene.ss
done ; for if there be, it will for ever after be apt to start,
and to be diseased.
Let man and wife be careful to stifle little things, that as
fast as they spring, they be cut down and trod upon ; for if
they be suffered to grow by numbers, they make the spirit
peevish, and the society troublesome, and the affections loose
and easy by an habitual aversation. Some men are more
vexed with a fly than with a wound ; and when the gnats
disturb our sleep, and the reason is disquieted but not per-
fectly awakened, it is often seen that he is fuller of trouble
than if in the daylight of his reason he were to contest with
a potent enemy. In the frequent little accidents of a family
a man's reason cannot always be awake ; and when his dis-
courses are imperfect, and a trifling trouble makes him yet
more restless, he is soon betrayed to the violence of passion.
It is certain that the man or woman are in a state of weak-
ness and foUy then, when they can be troubled with a trilling
accident ; and therefore it is not good to tempt their affec-
tions when they are in that state of danger. In this case
the caution is, to subtract fuel from the sudden flame ; for
stubble, though it be quickl)- kindled, yet it is as soon ex-
tinguished, if it be not blown by a pertinacious breath, or
fed with new materials. Add no new provocations to the
accident, and do not inflame this, and peace will soon return,
and the discontent will pass away soon, as the sparks fi-om
the collision of a flint : ever remembering, that discontents
proceeding from daUy little things, do breed a secret un-
discemible disease, which is more dangerous than a fever
proceeding from a discerned notorious surfeit.
Let them be sure to abstain from all those things, which
by experience and observation they find to be contrary to
each other. They that govern elephants never appear before
them in white; and the masters of bulls keep from them
aU gai-ments of blood and scarlet, as knowing that they
wiU be impatient of civU usages and discipline when their
natures are provoked by their proper antipathies. The
ancients in their marital hierogl)-phics used to depict Mercury
standing by Venus, to signify, that by fair language and
sweet entreaties, the minds of each other should be united ;
and hard by them Suadam et Gratias descripserimt, they
would have aU deliciousness of manners, compliance, and
mutual observance to abide.
288
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1650
That passage is taken from tlie first of the two
sermons, this from the second : —
MARRIED LOVE.
It contains in it all sweetness, and all society, and all
felicity, and all prudence, and all wisdom. For there is
nothing can please a man without love ; and if a man be
weary of the wise discourses of the Apostles, and of the inno-
cency of an even and a private fortune, or hates peace or a
fruitful year, he hath reaped thorns and thistles from the
choicest flowers of Paradise; for nothing can sweeten feli-
city itself but love No man can tell but he that loves
his children how many delicious accents make a man's heart
dance in the pretty conversation of those dear pledges ; their
childishness, their stammering, their little angers, their
innocence, their imperfections, their necessities, are so many
little emanations of joy and comfort to him that delights in
their persons and society ; but he that loves not his wife and
children, feeds a lioness at home, and broods a nest of sorrows,
and blessing itself cannot make him happy ; so that all the
commandments of God enjoining a man to love his wife are
nothing but so many necessities and capacities of joy. She
that is loved is safe, and he that loves is joyful. Love is a
union of all things excellent ; it contains in it proportion,
and satisfaction, and rest, and confidence ; and I wish that
tliis were so much proceeded in that the heathens themselves
could not go beyond us in this vii-tue and in its proper and
its appendant happiness. Tiberius Gracchus chose to die
for the safet}' of his wife : and yet methinks to a Christian
to do so should be no hard thing ; for many servants will die
for their masters, and many gentlemen will die for their
friend ; but the examples are not so many of those that
are ready to do it for their dearest relatives, and yet some
there have been. Baptista Fregosa tells of a Neapolitan that
gave himself a slave to the Jloors that he might follow his
■wife ; and Dominicus C'atalusius, the Prince of Lesbos, kept
company with his lady when she was a leper ; and these are
greater things than to die.
Henry and Thomas Vaughan, twin sons of Henry
Vaughan of Tretower Castlo and Newton in Breck-
nockshire, were Ijorn in 1621, in the house of Lower
Newton, by the village of Scethrog, in the parish of
Llansaintfread. Henry Vaughan, whose home was
thus placed by the Usk, in lovely scenery near the
road between Crickhowel and Brecon, became the
best of the religious poets who received an imjjidse
from the genius of George Herbert. Vaughan's place,
indeed, is beside Herbert rather than below him.
For six years after the age of eleven the twin brothers
were taught by the rector of the neiglibouring parish
of Llangattock, and then, in 1638, were entered at
Jesus College, Oxford. Henry Vaughan left Oxford
after the year 16iO, and perhaps studied medicine in
London. He had experience of London life among
the poets, reverenced Ben Jonson, and contributed
to the memorial verses on the death of William
Cartwright. His first volume of poems — love verses
— was published in 1646. He had then taken the
degi-ee of M.D., and began practice of medicine in
Brecknock (Brecon), but not staying there long, he
presently settled for life as a country doctor in his
native village of Scethrog. He married twice, and
]iad five or six children. His brotlier Thomas had
taken orders, and become the parson of the parish to
which Scethrog and Newton belong. But when he
and other of tlie loyal clergy were ejected from their
livings, Thomas Vaughan returned to Oxford and
gave to chemistry, on which he wTOte eleven little
books, under the name of " Eugenius PhUalethes,"
the rest of his life iintU his death in 166.5; when Elias
Aslmiole says that he was poisoned by some chemical
fumes. Henry Vaughan published under the Com-
monwealth, in 1650, the first part of liis religious
poems gathered under the title of " Silex ScintU-
lans " — The Flint (of the Heart) yielding sjiarks of
fire. There followed, in 1651, the chief body of his
secular poems, as " Olor Iscanus " (the Swan of Esk) ;
then, in 1652, devotional prose pieces as " The Mount
of Olives;" in 1654, " Flores Solitudinis " (Flowers
of Solitude), translations of religious pieces made in
the time of sickness that had turned his mind to
sacred poetry; and in 1655 the second part of " Silex
Scintillans." Then followed " Hermetical Physic,"
and for the rest of liis life until his death in 1695, at
the age of seventy-three, he lield quietly by his voca-
tion as a country doctor, and published no more verse
except, in 1678, a little duodecimo called "Thalia
Rediviva, the Pastimes and Diversions of a Country
Man," including some remains of his brotlier
Thomas.
An obvious relation of thought between Hemy
Vaughan's " Retreat " and Wordsworth's " Ode on
the Intimations of Immortality in Early Cliildhood,"
makes it interesting to know that Wordsworth
possessed a copy of Vaughan's " Silex ScintLllaus," in
which it is contained.
THE RETRE.^T.
Happy those early days, when I
Shin'd in my angel-infancy!
Before I understood this place
Appointed for my second race.
Or taught my soul to fancy aught
But a white, celestial thought ;
When yet I had not walked above
A mile or two from my first love.
And looking back, at that short space.
Could see a glimpse of his bright face ; 10
WTien on .some gilded cloud or ilowiT
IMy gazing soul would dwell an hour,
And in those weaker glories spy
Some shadows of eternity ;
Before I taught my tongue to wound
3Iy conscience with a sinful soimd.
Or had the black art to dispense
A sev'ral .sin to ev'rj- sense.
But felt through all this fleshly dress
Bright shoots of everlastingness. 20
Oh, how I long to travel back.
And tread again that ancient track !
That I might once more reach that plain.
Where first I left my glorious train ;
From whence th' enlightened spirit sees
That shady city of palm-trees.
But ah ! my soul with too much stay
Is drunk, and staggers in the way I
TO A.D. 1655.]
RELIGION.
289
30
10
Some men a forward motion love,
But I by backward steps would move ;
And, when this dust falls to the ura,
In that state I came, return.
This also is very cliaracteristic : —
DEPARTED FRIENDS.
They are all gone into the world of light !
And I alone sit Ungeiing here.
Their very memory is fair and bright.
And my sad thoughts doth clear.
It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast
Like stars upon some gloomy grove.
Or those faint beams in which tliis hill is dressed
After the sun's remove.
I see them walking in an air of glor)-,
■V\Tiose light doth trample on my days ;
lly days, which are at best but duU and hoary,
Mere glimmering and decays.
O holy Hope I and high Humility !
High as the heavens above '.
These are your walks, and you have show'd them me
To kindle my cold love.
Dear, beauteous death ; the jewel of the just !
Shining nowhere but in the dark ;
"UTiat mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
Could man outlook that mark I 20
He that hath found some flcdg'd bird's nest may know
At first sight if the bu-d bo flown ;
But what fair deU or grove he sings in now,
That is to him imknown.
And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams
Call to the soul when man doth sleep,
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,
And into glory peep.
If a star were confined into a tomb.
Her captive flames must needs bum there ;
But when the hand that lock'd her up gives room,
She'U shine through all the sphere.
O Father of eternal life, and all
Created glories under thee !
Eesume thy spirit from this world of thraU
Into true liberty !
Either disperse these mists, which blot and fiU
5Iy perspective stUl as they pass ;
Or else remove me hence unto that hiU
AMiere I shall need no glass.
30
40
Suggested no doubt, by George Herbert's " Porch to
the temple," the " Rules and Lessons " by Henry
Vaughan have theii- o^vn force and beauty,
them all.
101
I give
RULES AND LESSONS.
When first thy eyes unveil, give thy soul leave
To do the like ; our bodies but forerun
The spirit's duty. True hearts spread and heave
Unto their God, as flow'rs do to the sun.
Give Him thy first thoughts then ; so shalt thou keep
Him company all day, and in Him sleep.
Yet never sleep the sim up. Prayer should
Dawn with the day. There are set, awful hours
'Twixt heaven and us. The manna was not good
After sun-rising : fair day sullies flowers.
Kise to prevent' the sun; sleep doth sins glut.
And heaven's gate opens when this world's is shut.
10
20
■\Valk with thy fellow-creatures : note the hush
And whispers amongst them. There's not a spring
Or loaf but hath his morning hymn. Each bush
And oak doth know I AM. Canst thou not sing ?
O leave thy cares and follies '. go this way ;
And thou art sure to prosper all the day.
Serve God before the world ; let Him not go
Unta thou hast a blessing ; then resign
The whole unto Him ; and remember who
Prevail'd by wrestling ere the sun did shine.
Pom- oQ upon the stones ; weep for thy sin ;
Then journey on, and have an eye to heav'n.
Mornings are mysteries ; the first world's youth,
Man's resurrection and the future's bud
Shroud in theii- births ; the Crown of Ufe, light, truth
Is styled their star, the stone, and hidden food.'-
Three blessings wait upon them, two of which
Should move. They make us holy, happy, rich. 30
■V\-hen the world's up, and ev'rj- swarm abroad.
Keep thou thy temper ; mix not with each clay ;
Dispatch necessities: life hath a load
WTiich must be carried on, and safely may.
Yet keep those cares without thee, let the heart
Be God's alone, and choose the better part.
Through aU thy actions, counsels, and discourse.
Let mildness and reUgion guide thee out ;
n truth be thine, what needs a brutish force.
But what's not good and just ne'er go about.
AVrong not thy conscience for a rotten stick;
That "ain is dreadful which makes spirits sick.
40
To God, thv country, and thy friend be true ;
If priest and people change, keep thou thy ground.
Who sells religion, is a Judas Jew ;
And, oaths once broke, the soul cannot be found.
The perjurer's a de^•il let loose : what can
Tie up his hands, that dares mock God and man .
i-eoeivetU it " (Eev. u. 17).
290
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1640
50
Seek not the same steps mth the crowd ; stick thou
To thy sure trot ; a constant, humble mind
Is both his own joy and his Maker's too;
Let folly dust it on, or lag behind.
A sweet self-privacy in a right soul
Outruns the eurth„and lines the utmost pole.
To all that seek thee hear an open heart ;
Make not thy breast a labj-rinth or trap ;
If trials como, this wiU make good thy part,
For honesty is safe, come what can hap ;
It is the good man's feast, the prince of flowers, 59
AMiieh thrives in storms, and smells best after showers.
Seal not thy eyes up from the poor, but give
Proportion to their merits, and thy purse ;
Thou may'st in rags a mighty Prince relieve,
Who, when thy sins call for 't, can fence a curse.
Thou shalt not lose one mite. Though waters stray,
The bread we cast returns in fraughts one day.
Spend not an hour so as to weep another.
For tears are not thine own ; if thou giv'st words,
Dash not [with them'] thy friend, nor heav'n; smother
A viperous thought ; some syllables are swords. 70
ITnbitted tongues are in their penance double ;
They shame their owners, and their hearers trouble.
Injure not modest blood, while spirits rise
In judgment agiiinst lewdness; that's base wit,
That voids but tilth and stench. Hast thou nc prize
But sickness or infection ? stifle it.
"Who makes his jest of sins, must be at least
If not a very devil, worse than beast.
Yet fly no friend, if he be such indeed ;
But meet to quench his longings, and thy thirst ; 80
All ow j'our joys, religion ; that done, speed.
And bring the same man hack thou wert at first.
Who so returns not, cannot pray aright.
But shuts his door, and leaves God out all night.
To heighten thy devotions, and keep low
All mutinous thoughts, what biisiness e'er thou hast,
Observe God in His works ; here fountains flow.
Birds sing, beasts feed, fish leap, and th' earth stands fast ;
Above are restless motions, running lights.
Vast, circling, azure, giddy clouds, days, nights. 90
When seasons change, then lay before thine eyes
His wondrous method ; mark the various scenes
In heav'n ; hail, thunder, rainbows, snow, and ice,
Calms, tempests, Hght, and darkness, by His means ;
Thou canst not miss His praise ; each tree, herb, flower,
Are shadows of His wisdom, and His pow'r.
To meals when thou dost come, give Him the praise
vATiose arm supplie<l thee ; take what may suffice,
And then be thanlcful; O admire His ways
A\ ho fills the woi'ld's unempticd granaries ! 100
A thankless feeder is a thief, his feast
A verv robberv, and himself no guest.
1 There are words here .accideTitally dropped in the original copy.
Ml*. Lyte inserts " with them," Mr. Grosart prefers "thyself."
High noon thus past, thy time decays ; provide
ITiee other thoughts : away with friends and mirth ;
The Sim now stoops, and hastes his beams to hide
Under the dark and melancholy earth.
All but preludes thy end. Thou art the man
Whose rise, height, and descent is but a span.
Yet, set as he doth, and 'tis weU, Have all
Thy beams home with thee : trim thy lamp, buy oil, UQ
And tlu'U set forth ; who is thus dressed, the fall
Furthers his glory, and gives death the foil.
Man is a summer's day ; whose youth and fire
Cool to a glorious evening, and expire.
When night comes, list thy deeds ; make plain the way
'Twixt heaven and thee ; block it not with delays ;
But perfect all before thou sleep' st ; then say
There's one sim more strimg on my bead of days.
What's good score up for joy ; the bad, well scann'd.
Wash off with tears, and get thy blaster's hand. 120
Thy accounts thus made, spend in the gi-ave one horn-
Before thy time ; be not a stranger there,
A\'here thou may'st sleep whole ages; life's poor flow'r
Lasts not a night sometimes. Bad spirits fear
This conversation ; but the good man lies
Intombed man}' days before he dies.
Being laid, and dressed for sleep, close not thy eyes
Up with thy curtains ; give thy soul the wing
In some good thoughts ; so, when the day shall rise.
And thou unrak'st thy fire, those sparks will bring 130
New flames ; besides where these lodge, vain heats mourn
And die ; that bu.sh, where God is, shall not bui'u.
When thy nap's over, stir thy fire, imi-ake
In that dead age ; one beam i' th' dark outvies
Two in the daj' ; then from the damps and ague
Of night shut up thj' leaves ; be chaste ; God pries
Through thickest nights ; though then the sun be far,
Do thou the works of day, and rise a star.
Briefly, do as thou would' st be done unto, 139
Love God, and love thy ncighboui- ; watch, and pray.
These are the words and works of life : this do,
And live ; who doth not thus, hath lost heav'n's way.
lose it not 1 look up, wilt change tho.se lights
For chains of darkness and eternal nights ?
This piece also we maj' take for its simplicity : —
PEACE.
My soul, there is a country
Afar beyond the stars,
Where stands a winged sentry
All skilful in the wars.
There, above noise and danger.
Sweet Peace sits, crowned with smiles.
And One bom in a manger
Commands the beauteous files.
He is thy gi-acious Friend,
And (0 my soul awnke !)
Did in pure love descend.
To die here for thv sake.
10
TO A.D. 1649.]
EELIGION.
29]
If thou t;inst get but thither,
There grows the flower of peace,
The rose that cannot wither,
Thy fortress, and thy ease.
Leave then thy foolish ranges ;
For none can thee secure,
But One, who never changes,
Thy God, thy Life, thy Cure.
20
Thomas Fuller. (From a Portrait taken in 1661
Tliomits Fuller, bom at Aldwincle, Nortliampton-
shire, in 1608, and educated at Queen's College,
Cambridge, was first known in the Church as a
popular preacher in his University town, and then
became rector of Broad Winsor, in Dorsetshire. H e
began his career in literature with a poem in three
parts upon " David's Heinous Sin, Hearty Repent-
ance, and Heavy PunLshment," and in IG-iO he wi-ote
an account of the Crusades as " A History of the
Holy War," from which this is a passage, illustrating
the change of opinion time had wrought touching
CRUSADES AND PILGRIMAGES TO JERUSALEM.
Thi-ee things are necessary to make an invasive war law-
ful : the lawfulness of the jurisdiction, the merit of the cause,
and the orderly and lawful prosecution of the cause. Let us
apply to our present purpose in this Holy War : for the first
two, whether the jurisdiction the Christians pretended over
the Turks' dominions was lawful or not ; and, whether this
war was not only opera-, but vittd jiretium, worth the losing so
many lives, we refer the reader to what hath been said in
the first book. Only it wiU not be amiss to add a story or
two out of an author of good account. \Micn Charles the
Sixth was King of France, the Duke of Brabant sailed over
into Africa with a great army, there to fight against the
Saracens. The Saracen Prince sent an herald to know of
him the cause of his coming : the Duke answered, it was to
revenge the death of Chri.st the Son of God, and true Prophet,
whom they had unjustly crucified. The Saracens sent back
their messengers again to demonstrate their innocency, how
they were not Saracens, but Jews, which put Chi-ist to death,
and therefore that the Christians (if posterity should be
punished for their predecessors' fault) should rather revenge
themselves on the Jews which lived amongst thein.
Another relateth, that in the year of our Lord 1453, the
great Tui-k sent a letter to the Pope, advertising him how he
and his Turkish nation were not descended from the Jews, but
from the Trojans, from whom also the Italians derive their
pedigree, and so would prove himself akin to his Holiness.
Moreover, he added, that it was both his and their duty to
repair the ruins of Troy, and to revenge the death of their
great-grandfather Hector, upon the Grecians ; to which end,
the Turk said he had already conquered a great pai-t of
Greece. As for Christ, he acknowledged him to have been
a noble Prophet, and to have been crucified of the Jews,
against whom the Christians might seek their remedy. These
two stories I thought good to insert, because though of later
date, and since the holy war in Palestine was ended, yet
they have some reference thereunto, because some make that
our quarrel to the Turks.
But grant the Christians' right to the Turks' lands to be
lawful, and the cause in itself enough deserving to ground a
war upon, yet in the prosecution and managing thereof,
many not only venial errors but inexcusable faults were
committed ; no doubt, the cause of the ill success.
To omit the book called the Office of oui- Lady, made at
the beginning of this war to procure her favouralile assistance
in it (a little manual, but full of blasphemies, in folio, thrust-
ing her with importunate superstitions into God's throne, and
forcing on her the glory of her ilaker) ; superstition not only
tainted the rind, but rotted the core of this whole action.
Indeed, most of the pottage of that age tasted of that wild
gouid. Yet far be it from us to condemn all their works to
be dross, because debased and alloyed with superstitious
intents. Xo doubt there was a mi.xture of much good metal
in them, which God the good refiner kuoweth how to sever,
and then will cro'mi and reward. But here we must dis-
tinguish betwixt those deeds wliich have some superstition in
them, and those which in their nature are wholly supersti-
tious, such as this voyage of people to Palestine was. For
what opinion had they of themselves herein, who thought
that by dj-ing in this war, they did make Christ amends for
his death, as one saith, which if but a rhetorical flemish,
yet doth h^icrbolise into blasphemy. Yea, it was their verj-
judgment,'that hereby they did both merit and superero-
gate ; and by dying for the Cross, cross the score of their
own sins, and score up God for their debtor. But this flieth
high, and therefore we leave it for others to foUow. Let us
look upon pilgrimages in general, and we shaU find pilgrims
wandering not so far from their- o™ country as from the
judgment of the ancient fathers.
We will leave om- army at home, and only bring forth
our champion. Hear what Gregory Nyssene saith, who Uved
in the fourth century, in which time vohmtary pilgrimages
first began; though " before there were necessai-y pilgrims,
forced to wander from their country by persecution.
""WTicre," saith he, "our Lord pronounceth men blessed, he
reckoneth not going to Jerusalem to be amongst those good
deeds which direct to happiness." And afterwards, speaking
of the going of single women in those long travels : " A
woman," saith he, " cannot go such long journeys without a
man to conduct her; and then whatsoever we may suppose,
whether she hii-eth a stranger or hath a friend to wait on
her on neither side can she escape reproof, and keep the
law' of contincncv." Moreover, " If there were more di^nne
<Tace in the places of Jerusalem, sin would not be so frequent
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[a.d. 1640
and customarj- amongst those that lived there. Now there is
no kind of uneleanness which there they dare not commit ;
malice, adulter)', thefts, idolatry, poisonings, envies, and
slaughters. But you will say unto me. If it he not worth the
pains, why then did you go to Jerusalem ? Let them hear,
therefore, how I defend myself. I was appointed to go into
Arahia to an holy council, held for the reforming of that
Church ; and Arabia being near to Jerusalem, I promised those
that went with mc, that I would go to Jerusalem to discourse
with them which were presidents of the churches there ;
where matters were in a very troubled state, and they
wanted one to be a mediator in their discords. We knew that
Christ was a man bom of a virgin, before we saw Bethlehem;
we believed his resurrection from death, before we saw his
sepulchre ; we confessed his ascension into heaven, before we
saw Mount Olivet. But we got so much profit by oiu' journey,
that by comparing them, we found our own more holy than
tliose outward things. AATierefore you that fear God, praise
liim in what place you are. Change of place makcth not
God nearer unto us ; wheresoever thou art, God will come to
thee, if the inn of th)' soul be found such as the Lord may
dwell and walk in thee," &c.
A patron of pilgrimages not able to void the blow, yet
willing to break the stroke of so pregnant and plain a testi-
mony, thus seeketh to ward it : that indeed, pilgrimages are
unfitting for women, yet fitting for men. But sure God
never appointed such means to heighten devotion necessary
thereunto, whereof the half of mankind, all women, are by
their verj' creation made incapable.
Secondly, he pleadeth, that it is lawful for secular and
laymen to go on jjilgximages, but not for friars, who lived
recluse in theii- ccUs, out of which they were not to come ;
and against such, saith he, is Isyssens speech dii'ectcd. But
then, I pray, what was Peter, the leader of this long dance,
but an hermit ? and, if I mistake not, his profession was
the verj' dungeon of the monastieal prison, the stiiotest and
severest of all other orders. And though there were not so
many cowls as helmets in this war, yet always was the holy
army well stocked with such cattle ; so that on all sides it is
confessed that the pilgrimages of such persons were utterly
unlawful.
Soon after tlie ]mlilication of tliis book, Fuller became
lecturer to the Savoy Cliurcli in the Strand, where lie
was .so popular a preacher that he is .said to have had
two audiences — one outside the church, and one in.
Thomas Fuller was active on the king'.s side in the
Civil War ; he was presented to the living of Waltham,
in 1648 ; in 16.54:, man'ied a second wife — twelve or
thirteen years after his firet wife's death ; and if he
had not died of fever soon after the Restoration, he
would have been made a bishop. Of his books,
which are all ingenious and lively in their style, the
most important are " The Church History of Britain,
from the Birth of Jesus Christ until the j-ear 1648,"
fii-st jmblished in 16.55, and "The History of the
"Worthies of England," first publi.shed in the year
after his death.
John Howe, born in 16.30, was the son of a clergy-
man. His father was persecuted in the reign of
Charles I. for Puritan tendencies. John Howe
went to Cambridge in 1647, and entered Milton's
College — Christ's — as a sizar. In 16.52, aged twenty-
two, he was the Rev. John Howe, M.A., minister
at Great Torrington, in Devonshire. His parish is
set on a hill-top, in beautiful Devonshire scenery, the
hills surrounding it in such a way as to have suggested
a comparison with the site of Jerusalem. There he
jH-eached and prayed on special fast-days, with his
jjeople, from nine in the morning until four in the
evening, taking only a cpiarter of an hour's rest. In
1654 he manied a minister's daughter, and two
years later, at the age of twenty-six, being in London,
he went to WHtehall Chapel to see Cromwell. Th©
John Howe.
(Froin the Contemporary Painting in Dr. Williams's Library.)
Protector observed him, sought speech with him, in.
vited him to preach, and liked him so well that he
per.suaded him to come to London and act as his
chaplain. Howe lived to see the Revolution, and
died early in Queen Anne's reign. He sympathised
strongly with Richai-d Baxter in his desii'e for union
among Christians ; and thus it was that the chaplain
of Oliver Cromwell preached of
CHRISTIAN LOVE.
The blessed apostle St. John only endeavours the strength-
ening of these two vital principles, faith in Christ and love to
fellow-Christians, as ma)' be seen at large in his epistles.
These he presses, as the great commandments ; upon the
observation whereof he seems to account the safety and peace
of the sincere did entirely depend. "This is his command-
ment, Tli'''t we should believe on the name of his Son Jesus
Christ, and love one another, as he gave us commandment,"
1 Epistle iii. 23. He puts upon Christians no other dis-
tinguishing test, but " "SMiosoever believeth that Jesus is
the Christ, is born of God : and every one that loveth him
that begat, loveth him also that is begotten of him " (chap. v.
1) : is only solicitous that they did practise the commandment
they had from the beginning — i.e. that they loved one another
(2 Epist. verse .5), and that they did abide in the doctrine of
Christ (verse 9).
The prudence and piety of those unerring guides of the
Church (themselves under the certain guidance of the Spirit
of truth), directed them to bring the things wherein they
woiild have Christians unite, within as narrow a compass as
TO A.D. 1660.J
EELIGION.
293
was possible, neither multiplying articles of faith nor rites of
worship. These two principles, as they were thought to
answer the apostles, would fully answer our design and
present enquiry. And we may adventure to say of them
that they are both sufficient and necessary ; the apt and the
only means to heal and save us; such as would effect our
cure, and without which nothing ^^-ill.
Kor shall I give other answer to the proposed question —
than what may be deduced from these two, considered
according to what they are in themselves and what they
naturally lead and tend unto. I shall consider them in the
order wherein the Apostle here mentions them, who, you see,
reserves the more important of them to the latter place.
The sincere lore of Christians to one another would be
a happy means of preserving the truly Christian interest
among us. That this may be understood, we must rightly
apprehend what kind of love it is that is here meant. It
is specified by what we find in conjimction with it, the
understanding and acknowledgment of the mysteiy of Chris-
tianity. Therefore it must be the love of Christians to one
another as such. ^Tience we collect, lest we too much
extend the object of it on the one hand or contract it on the
other,
1 . That it is not the love only which we owe to one another
as men, or human creatures merely, that is intended here.
That were too much to enlarge it, as to our present considera-
tion of it. For under that common notion, we should be as
much obliged to love the enemies we are to unite against as
the friends of religion we are to unite with, since all partake
equally in human nature. It must be a more special love
that shall have the desired influence in the present case. We
cannot be peculiarly endeared and united to some more than
to others upon a reason that is common to them with others.
We are to love them that are bom of God, and are his
childi-en, otherwise than the children of men, or such of
whom it may he said they are of their father the devil ; them
that appear to have been partakers of a di%-ine nature at
another rate, than them who have received a mere human, or
also the diabolical nature, 1 John v. 1. Yet this peculiar
love is not to be exclusive of the other which is common, but
must suppose it and be superadded to it, as the reason of it
is superadded. For Christianity supposes humanity ; and
diWne grace, human nature.
2. Nor is it a love to Christians of this or that party or
denomination only. That were as much unduly to straiten
and confine it. The love that is owing to Christians as
such, as it belongs to them only, so it belongs to them who
in profession and practice do own sincere and incorrupt
fhiistianity. To limit our Christian love to a party of
Christians, truly so called, is so far from ser\-ing the purpose
now to be aimed at that it resists and defeats it; and instead
of a preservative union infers most destructive divisions. It
scatters what it should collect and gather. 'Tis to love
factiously ; and with an unjust love that refuses to give
indifferently to every one his due : for is there no love due to
a disciple of Christ in the name of a disciple ? It is founded
in falsehood, and a lie denies them to be of the Christian
community who really are so. It presumes to remove the
ancient land-marks, not civil but sacred, and draws on, not
the people's curse only, but that of God himself. 'Tis true
(and who doubts itf) that I may and ought upon special
reasons to love some more than others ; as relation, ac-
quaintance, obligation by favours received from them, more
eminent degrees of true worth, and real goodness : but that
signifies nothing to the withholding of that love which is due
to a Christian as such, as that also ought not to prejudice the
love I owe to a man, as he is a man.
Nor am I so promiscuously to distribute this holy love as to
place it at random upon everj- one that thinks it convenient
for him to call himself a Christian, though I ought to love
the very profession, while I know not who sincerely make it,
and do plainly see that Jews and Pagans were never worse
enemies to Christ and his religion than a great part of the
Christian world. But let my apprehensions be once set
right concerning the true essentials of Christianity, whether
consisting in doctrinal or rital principles ; then wiU my love
be duly carried to all in whom they are found under one
common notion, which I come actually to apply to this or
that person as particular occasions do occur, and so I shall
always be in a preparation of mind, actually to unite in
Christian love with every such person, whensoever such
occasions do invite me to it. And do we now need to be told
what such an impartial truly Christian love would do to our
common preservation, and to prevent the ruin of the Christian
interest ?
1. How greatly would it contribute to the vigour of the
Christian life 1 For so we should all equally "hold the head,
from which all the body by joints and bands having nomish-
ment ministered, and knit together, increaseth with the in-
crease of God;" as afterwards in this chapter (C'oloss. ii. 19).
Thus (as it is in that other parallel text of Scripture) " speak-
ing the truth in love, we shall grow up into him in all things,
which is the head, even Christ ; from whom the whole body
fitly joined together and compacted by that which every
joint supplieth, according to the effectual working in the
measure of every part, maketh increase of the body unto the
edif\-ing of itself in love," Eph. iv. 1.5, 16. Obstructions that
hinder the free circulation of blood and spirits, do not more
certainly infer languishings in the natural body, than the
want of such a diffusive love shuts up and shrivels the
destitute parts and hinders the diffusion of a nutritive vital
influence in the body of Christ.
2. It would inspire Christians generally with a sacred
courage and fortitude, when they should know and even feel
themselves knit together in love. How doth the revolt of
any considerable part of an army discourage the rest ! or if
they be not entire and of a piece ! Mutual love animates
them, as nothing more, when they are prepared to live and
die together, and love hath before joined whom now their
common danger also joins. They otherwise signify but as so
many single persons, each one but caring and contriving how
to shift for himself. Love makes them significant to one
another, so as that every one understands himself to be the
common care of all the rest. It makes Christians the more
resolute in their adherence to truth and goodness when,
from their not doubted love, they are sure of the help, the
counsels, and prayers of the Christian community, and
apprehend by their decHning they shall grieve those whom
they love, and who they know love them. If any imagine
themselves intended to be given up as sacrifices to the rage
of the common enemy, their hearts are the apter to sink, they
are most exposed to temptations to prevaricate ; and the rest
will be apt to expect the like usage from thorn, if themselves
be reduced to the like exigency and be Uablo to the same
temptations.
3. It would certainly, in our present case, extinguish or
abate the so contrary unhallowed fire of our anger and wrath
towards one another, as the celestial beams do the baser
culinary fire, which bums more feri-ently when the sun hath
less power. Then would debates, if there must be any, be
managed without intemperate heat. We should bo remote
from being angiy that we cannot convey our own sentiments
into another's mind ; which when we are, our business is the
more remote; we make ourselves less capable of reasoning
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[a.d. 1634
aptly to convince, and (because anger begets anger, as love
doth love) render the other less susceptible of conviction.
Why are we vet to learn that the wrath of man worketh not
the righteousness of God f What is gained by it •- So little
doth angiy contention about small matteis avail, that even
they that happen to have the better cause lose by it, and
their advantage cannot recompense the damage and hurt
that ensues to the Church and to themselves. Our famous
Davenant,' speaking of the noted controversy between
Stephen, Bishop of Rome, who, he says, as much as in him
lay, did with a schismatical spirit tear the Church, and
Cyprian, who with great lenity and Christian charity
professes that he would not break the Lord's peace for
diversity of opinion, nor remove any from the right of
communion, concludes that erring Cyprian deserved better of
the Church of Christ than orthodox Stephen. He thought
him the schismatic whom he thought in the right, and that
his orthodoxy, as it was accompanied, was more mischievous
to the Church than the other's error. Nor can a man do
that hurt to others, without suffering it more piincipally.
The distemper of his own spirit, what can recompense I and
how apt is it to grow in him ; and, while it grows in himself,
to propagate itself among others 1 WTiereupon, if the want of
love hinders the nourishment of the body, much more do the
things which, when it is wanting, are wont to fill up its
place. For as naturally as love begets love, so do wrath,
envy, malice, calumny, beget one another, and spread a
poison and virulency through the body, which necessarily
wastes and tends to destroy it. How soon did the Christian
Church cease to be itself, and the early vigour of primitive
Christianity degenerate into insipid, spiritless formality,
when once it became contentious ! It broke into parties,
sects multiplied, animosities grew high, and the grieved
Spirit of love retired from it, which is grieved by nothing
more than by bitterness, wrath, anger, Sec, as the connection
of these two verses intimates, Eph. iv. 30, 31 — " Grieve not
the Holy Spirit of God, whereby ye are sealed unto the day
of redemption. — Let aU bitterness, and wrath, and anger, and
clamour, and evU speaking, be put away from you, with all
malice." And to the same purpose is that, 1 Pet. ii. 1, 2,
" \\'Tierefore laying aside all malice, and all guile, and
h}-pocrisies, and envies, and all evil speakings, as new-born
babes, desire the sincere milk of the word, that ye may grow
thereby." By this means religion, once dispirited, loses its
majesty and awfulness, and even tempts and invites the
assaults and insultations of enemies.
4. It would oblige us to all acts of mutual kindness and
friendship. If such a love did govern in us, we should be
always ready to serve one another in love, to bear each other's
burdens, to afford our mutual counsel and help to one another,
even in our private affairs if callc.'d thereto ; especially in that
which is our common concern, the preserving and promoting
the interest of religion, and to our uttermost strengthen
each other's hands herein. It would engage us to a free,
amicable conversation with one another upon this account ;
would not let us do so absurd a thing as to confine our
friendship to those of our o^^■n party, which we might as
J John Bavenant was bom in 'Watlin^ Street in 1576, and educated
at Queen's College, Cambridge, of which he became Ma.ster in 1614.
He was a Divinity Professor at Cambridge, was sent by James I. to
the synod of Dort, and in 1621 was made Bishop of Salisbury. He
Tas a liberal Calvinist, and offended James I. by a discourse on Pre-
destination. He died of consumption. John Howe is here quoting
from a Latin exhortation to Christian unity pnblished by Davenant
at Cambridge in I&IO, the year before his death, "Ad fratemam
Communionem inter Evangelicas Ecclesias restaurandam Adhortatio."
■ There was an English edition in the year of his death, 1641.
reasonablv to men of our ovm statm-e, or to those whose voice
and hair and look and mien were hkest our own. It would
make us not be ashamed to be seen in each other's com-
pany, or be shy of owning one another. We should not
be to one another as Jews and Samaritans that had no dealing
with one another, or as the poet notes they were to other
nations; " Xoii monstrare vias eadem nisi sacra coknti" (Not
so much as to show the way to one not of their religion).
There would be no partition- wall through which love would
not easUy open a way of friendly commerce, by which we
should insensibly slide, more and more, into one another's
hearts. Whence also,
5. Prejudices would cease, and jealousies concerning each
other. A mutual confidence would be begotten. We should
no more suspect one another of ill designs upon each other,
than lest our right hand should wait an opportunity of
cutting off the left. We should believe one another in our
mutual professions, of whatsoever sort, both of Icindness to
one another, and that we really doubt iind scruple the things
which we say we do.
6. This would hence make tis earnestly covet an entire
union in all the things wherein we differ, and contribute
greatly to it. We are too prone many times to dislike
things for the disliked persons' sake who practise them.
And a prevailing disaffection makes us unapt to imderstand
one another, precludes our entrance into one another's mind
and sense, which if love did once open, and inclined us
more to consider the matters of difference themselves than to
imagine some reserved meaning and design of the persons
that differ from us, 'tis likely we might find ourselves much
nearer to one another than we did apprehend we were, and
that it were a much easier step for the one side to go quite
over to the other. But if that cannot be,
7. It would make us much more apt to jneld to one
another and abate all that ever we can in order to as full an
accommodation as is any way possible, that if we cannot agree
upon cither extreme, we might at least meet in the middle.
It would cause an emulation who should be larger in their
grants to this purpose : as it was professed by Luther when
so much was done at Marburg towards an agreement between
him and the Helvetians, that he would not allow that praise
to the other party that they should be more desirous of peace
and concord than he. Of which amicable conference, and of
that afterwards at Wittenberg, and several other negotiations
to that purpose, account is given by divers ; and insisted on
by some of our own great divines, as precedential to the
concord they endeavoured between the Saxon and the
Helvetian Churches of later time, as Bishop Morton,^ Bishop
Hall, Bishop Davenant, in their several sentences or judg-
ments ■mitten to Mr. Durj- ^ upon that subject.
And indeed when I have read the pacific writings of those
eminent worthies, for the composing of those differences
abroad, I could not but wonder that the same peaceable
spirit did not endeav6ur with more effect the composing of
' Thomns Morion, bom at York in 1564, and educated at St. John's
College, Cambridge, was made chaplain to James I. in 1606. Bishop of
Chester in 1615, of Liclifleld and Coventry in 1618, and of Diirham in
16.32, He died in retirement in 1659 aged ninety-five.
^ John Dury (or Dnrseus) was a Scotch divine who spent forty
years in the vain endeavour to reconcile Lutherans and Calvinists.
He travelled to confer with divines in England, Geneva, Germany,
Sweden, Denmark, Holland, &c., and wrote much to advance the idea
of Christian union, which he made it the work of his life to strive
for in a true spirit of brotherhood. His works were published
between 16^4 and 1674. One of them was " A Model of Church
Government" (1647). He is not to be confounded with John Dury
(or Durteus), a Jesuit, who pnblished in 1582 a reply to William
Whitaker's answer to Edmund Campian.
TO A.D. 1060.]
RELIGION.
295
onr o'wii much lesser diiferences at home. But the things of
our peace were (as they still are) hid from our eyes, with the
more visibly just severity by how much they have been
nearer us and more obvious to the easy view of any but an
avei-se e5'e. It is not for us to prescribe (as was said) to
persons that are now in so eminent sfcitions as these were at
that time; but may we not hojje to find with such (and where
shovdd we rather expect to find it ':) that compassion and
mercifulness in imitation of the blessed Jesus, their Lord and
oui'S, as to consider and study the necessities of souls in these
respects, and at least willingly to connive at and very
heartily approve some indulgences and abatements in the
administrations of the inferior clergj', as they may not think
fit themselves positively to order and enjoin ;•• Otherwise J
believe it could not but give some trouble to a conscientious
confoiming minister, if a sober pious person, sound in the
faith and of a regular life, should tell him he is willing to
use his ministry in some of the ordinances of Christ, if only
h(,' would abate or dispense with some annexed ceremony
which in conscience he dare not use or admit of. I believe it
would trouble such a minister to deal with a person of this
character as a pagan because of his scruple, and put him
upon considering whether he ought not rather to dispense
with man's rule than ^\^th God's. I know what the same
Bishop Davenant hath expressly said, that " He that believes
the things contained in the Apostles' Creed,' and endeavours
to live a life agreeable to the precepts of Christ, ought not to
be expunged from the roll of Christians, nor be driven from
communion with the other members of any Church what-
soever." However, truly Christian love would do herein all
that it can, supplying the rest by grief that it can do no
more.
S. It would certainly make us abstain from mutual censures
of one another as insincere for our remaining differences.
Charity that thinks no evil would make us not need the re-
proof, Eom. xiv. 4, " 'mio art thou that judgest another man's
servant':" The common aptness hereunto among us shows
how little that di\Tne principle rules in our hearts, that in
defiance of our rule and the authority of the great God and
our blessed Redeemer, to whom all judgment is committed,
and who hath so expressly forbidden us to judge lest we be
judged (llatt. vii. 1), we give oursolves so vast a liberty,
and set no other bounds to our usiirped licence of judging,
than nature hath set to oiu- power of thinking — i.e. think all
the mischievous thoughts of them that differ from us that we
know how to de^■ise or invent, as if wo would say, " Our
tlioughts (and then, by an easy advance, our tongues) are our
own, who is Lord over us?" I animadvert not on this as
the fault of one party ; but wheresoever it Ues, as God knows
how diffused a poison this is among them that are satisfied
with the public constitutions towards them that dissent from
them, and with these back agaia towards them, and with the
several parties of both these towards one another. This
uniting, knitting love would make us refrain, not merely
from the restraint of God's laws in this case, but from a
benign disposition, as that which the temper of our spirits
would abhor from. So that such as are well content with the
public forms and rites of worship, would have no inclina-
tion to judge them that apprehend not things with their
imderstandings, nor relish with their taste, as persons that
therefore have cut themselves off from Christ, and the body
of Christ. They mii;ht leam better from the Cassandrian
moderation and from the avowed sentiments of that man
' Jeremy Taylor also, in his "Liberty of Pi-ophesyiog," recom-
mended this basis of Christian union. (See pages 285, 286.)
whose temper is better to be liked than his terms of union,
who speaking of such as, being formerly rejected (meaning
the Protestants) for finding fault with abuses in the Church,
had by the urgency of their conscience altered somewhat in
the way of their teaching and the fonn of their service, and
are therefore said to have fallen off fi-om the Church and are
numbered among heretics and schismatics. It is, saith he,
to be enquired how rightly and justly this is determined of
them. For there is to be considered, as to the Clurch, the
head and the body. From the head there is no departure but
by doctrine disagreeable to Christ the head ; from the body
there is no departure by diversity of rites and opinions, but
only by the defect of charity. So that this learned Romanist
neither thinks them heretics that hold the head, nor
schismatics, for such dift'erences as ours are, from the rest of
the body, if love and charity towards them remain. And
again, where this love remains, and bears rule, it can as little
be, that they who are imsatisfied with the way of woi-ship
that more generally obtains shoidd censure them that are
satisfied, as insincere merely because of this difference. It
cannot permit that we should think .all the black thoughts we
can invent of them, as if because they have not our consciences
they had none, or because they see not with our eyes they
were therefore both utterly and wilfuUy blind.
Thomas Browne, bom in Cheapside in 1605, was
educated at Winchester School and Pembroke College,
Oxford. He travelled in France and Italy, graduated
in physic at the University of Le^'den, and published,
in 1634, after his return to London, a cjuaint, thought-
ful book, entitled "Religio Medici" (The Religion of a
Physician). Two years afterwards Dr. Bro^vne settled
at Norwich, where he became the leading physician.
He was not knighted until thirty-seven years after
]ii.s " Religio Medici " was published, and he died in
1682. His books on " Urn Burial," and on "Vulgar
EiTors," are not less interesting than his " Religio
Medici," from which this passage is taken : —
TRUE AFFECTION.
There are wonders in true affection ; it is a body of enigmas,
mj-stcries, and riddles ; wherein two so become one, as they
both become two. I love my fiiend before myself, and
yet methinks I do not love him enough. Some few months
hence, my multiplied affection will make me believe 1 have
not loved him at aU : when I am from him, I am dead tUl I
be with him ; when I am with him, I am not satisfied, but
would stiU be nearer him. United souls are not satisfied
with embraces, but desire to be truly each other ; which being
impossible, their desires are infinite, and proceed without a
possibility of satisfaction. Another misery there is in affection,
that whom we truly love like our own, we forget their looks,
nor can our memory retain the idea of their faces ; and it is
no wonder : for they are oiurselves, and om- affection makes
their looks our own. This noble affection falls not on vulgar
and common constitutions, but on such as are marked for
virtue. He that can love his friend with this noble ardour,
will, in a competent degree, aft'ect all. Xow, if we can bring
oirr affections to look beyond the body, and cast an eye upon
the soul, we have found the true object, not only of friendship,
but charity ; and the greatest happiness that we can bequeath
the soul, is that wherein we all do place our last felicity,
salvation ; which, though it be not in our power to bestow,
it is in our charity and pious invocations to desire, if not
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procure and fm-thcr. I cannot contentedly frame a prayer
for myseK in particular, without a catalogue for my friends ;
nor request a happiness wherein my sociable disposition doth
not desire the fellowship of my neighbour. I never heard
the toll of a passing-bell, though in my mirth, without my
prayers and beat Avishes for the departing spirit. I caimot
go to cure the body of my patient, but I forget my profession
And call unto God for his soul. I cannot see one say his
prayers, but instead of imitating him, I fall into a supplication
for him, who, perhaps, is no more to me than a common
nature : and if God hath vouchsafed an ear to my supplica-
tions, there are surely many happy that never saw me, and
enjoy the blessing of ray unknown devotions. To praj' for
enemies, that is, for their salvation, is no harsh precept, but
the practice of oui- daily and ordinary devotions. I cannot
believe the story of the Italian: our bad wishes and un-
charitable desires proceed no further than this Ufe ; it is the
devil, and the imcharitable votes of hell, that desii'C our
misery in the world to come.
To do no injoiy, nor take none, was a principle, which to
my former years, and impatient affections, seemed to contain
enough of morality ; but my more settled years, and Christian
constitution, have fallen upon severer resolutions. I can
hold there is no such thing as injury ; that if there be, thei-e
is no such injui-y as revenge, and no such revenge as the
contempt of an injmy; that to hate another, is to malign
himself ; that the truest way to love another, is to despise
ourselves. I were unjust unto mine own conscience, if I
should say I am at variance with anything like mvself .
George Fox, founder of the Society of Fiiends, was
boni ill 1624 at Fenny Drayton in Leicestershire.
Clu'istopher Fox, bis father, was a weaver, known
for his inte,r!:i-ity as " righteous Christie." George
Fox, as a child, found his chief pleasure in reading
the Bible. As a youth he was placed with a shoe-
maker, wlio also kept sheej), and in September, 164.3,
he wandered away for ipiiet meditation, exercised
in mind upon religious cjuestions. To save himself
thought about clothes he made himself a durable
suit of leather garments, which he wore for some
yeai-s. In 1647 he began to jn-eacli in Dukintield
and Manchester, and at other places in Derbysliire
and Nottinghamshire ; followers gathered about liim
who called tliemselves " Friends," in sign of bro-
therly love, and resolved on strict obedience to the
Bible in all tilings, and the separation of plain
spii'itual truth from external forms that sometimes
usurped its place. One characteristic of his teacliing
was a strong sense of the need of the Spirit of God to
enlighten those who interpret the voice of the same
Spirit in othei's.
GEORGE fox's ACCOUST OF HIS MISSION.
Of all the sects of Christendom with whom I discom-scd,
I found none that coiUd bear to be told that they should
come to Adam's perfection, into that image of God, that
righteousness and holiness that Adam was in before he
fell. Therefore, how should they be able to bear being
told that any should grow up to the measure of the stature
of the fulness of Christ, when they cannot bear to hear
that any shall come, whilst ui)on earth, into the same power
and spirit that the prophets and apostles were in ? Though
it be a certain truth that none can understand these writings
aright without the aid of the same Spirit by which they were
written.
The Lord God opened to mo by his invisible power how
"every man was enlightened by the divine light of Christ."
I saw it shine through all, and that they who believed in
it came out of condemnation to the light of life, and became
the children of it ; but they that hated it and did not believe
in it were condemned by it, though they made profession
of Christ. This I saw in the pure openings of the light,
without the help of any man ; neither did I then know where
to find it in the Scriptures, though afterwards, searching the
Scriptm-cs, I found it. For I saw in the Light and Spirit,
which was before the Scriptures were given forth, and w'hich
led the holy men of Cxod to give them forth, that all must
come to that Spirit if they would know God or Christ or
the Scriptures aright, which Spirit they that gave tliem forth
were led and taught by.
I was sent to turn people from darkness to the light,
th;it they might receive Chi-ist Jesus ; for to as many as
should receive Him in His light, I saw He would give
power to become the sons of God, which I had obtained by
receiving Christ. 1 was to direct people to the Spirit that
gave forth the Scriptures, by which they might be led unto
aU truth, and up to Chiist and God, as those had been who
gave them forth. I was to turn them to the grace of God,
and to the truth in the heart, which came by Jesus ; that by
this grace they might be taught what would bring them
salvation, that their hearts might be established by it, their
■words might be seasoned, and aU might come to know their
salvation nigh. I saw Christ died for all men, was a pro-
pitiation for all, and enlightened all men and women by
His divine and saving light, and that none could be true
believers but those that believed therein. I saw that the
grace of God which brings salvation had appeared to all men,
and that the manifestation of the Spirit of God was given to
every man to profit \rithal. These things I did not see by
the help of man, nor by the letter, thoagh they are written
in the letter ; but I saw them in the light of the Lord
Jesus Christ, and by His immediate Spirit and power, as
did the holy men of God by whom the Scriptures were
written. Yet I had no sUght esteem of the Holy Scrip-
tm-es ; they were very precious to me, for I was in that Spirit
by which they had been given forth, and what the Lord
opened in me I afterwards found was agreeable to them.
I could speak much of those tilings, and many volumes
might he written, but all would prove too short to set forth
the infinite love, wisdom, and power of God, in preparing,
fitting, and furnishing me for the service He had appointed
me to ; letting me see the depths of Satan on one hand,
and opening to me on the other hand the divine mysteries
of His own everlasting kingdom.
'When the Lord Cxod and His Son Jesus Chiist sent me
forth into the world to preach His everlasting gospel and
kingdom, I was glad that I was commanded to turn people
to that inward Ught, spuit, and grace, by which all might
know their salvation and their way to God; even tliat
divine Spirit, wliich would lead them into all tnith, and
which I infallibly knew would never deceive any. . . .
With and by this divine power and Spirit of Ciod, and
the light of Jesus, I was to bring people olf from all their
own ways, to Christ the new and living way; from their
chm-clies which men had made, and gathered to the Church
of God, the general assembly written in heaven, which
Christ is the head of : and oflE from tlie world's teachers
made by men, to leai-n of Christ, who is the Way, the Truth,
and the Life, of whom the Father said , ' This is my beloved
Son, hear ye Him;' and off from all the world's worships,
TO A.D. 1688.]
RELIGION.
297
to know the Spirit of truth in the inward parts ; and to be
led thereby, that in it they might worship the Father of
^^pirits, who seeks such to worship Him, which Spirit they
that worshipped not in knew not what they worshipped. I
was to bring people off from all the world's religious which
are in vain, that they might know the pure religion, might
\'isit the fatherless, the widows, and the strangers, and keep
themselves spotless from the world ; then there would not be
so many beggars — the sight of whom often grieved my heart,
as it denoted so much hard-heartedness.
I was to bring them off from all the world's fellowships,
prayings, and singings, which stood in forms without power,
that their fellowship might be in the Holy Ghost, the eternal
iipirit of God ; that they might pray in the Holy Ghost, sing
in the Spirit, and with the grace that comes by Jesus ;
making melody in their hearts to the Lord, who hath sent
His beloved Son to be their Saviour, caused His heavenly sun
to shine upon all the world, and through them all, and His
heavenly rain to fall upon the just and the unjust (as His
•outward rain doth fall, and His outward sun doth shine upon
all), which is God's unspeakable love to the world.
I was to bring people off from Jewish ceremonies, from
heathenish fables, from man's inventions and windy doc-
trines, by which they blow the people about this way and
the other way from sect to sect, and from all their beggarly
rudiments, with their schools and colleges for making minis-
ters of Christ — who are indeed only ministers of their own
making, but not of Christ's; and from all their images,
crosses, and sprinkling of infants, with theii' holy days (so
called), and all their vain traditions, which they had got
up since the apostles' days, which the Lord's power was
against. In the dread and authority thereof I was moved to
declare against them all, and against all that preached and
not freely, as such who had not received freely from Christ.
Moreover, when the Lord sent me into the world, he
forbad me to put off my hat to any, high or low; and I
was required to thee and thou all men and women without
any respect to rich or poor, great or small. And as I tra-
velled up and down I was not to bid good-morrow or good-
evening, neither might I bow or scrape with mj- leg to any
one ; this made the sects and professions rage
In fairs also, and in markets, I was made to declare
against their deceitful merchandise, cheating and cozening,
warning all to deal justly, to speak the truth, to let their
yea be yea, and their nay be nay, and to do unto others
as they would have others do unto them ; forewarning them
of the great and terrible day of the Lord, which would come
upon them all. I was moved also to crj- against all sorts of
music, and against the mountebanks plaj-ing tricks upon
their stages, for they burdened the pure life, and stirred
up people's minds to vanity. I was much exercised, too,
■with schoolmasters and schoolmistresses, warning them to
teach children sobriety in the fear of the Lord, that they
might not be nursed and trained up in lightness, vanity, and
wantonness. I was made to warn masters and mistresses,
fathers .and mothers, in private families, to take care that their
children and ser\-ants might be trained up in the fear of
the Lord, and that themselves should be therein examples
and patterns of sobriety and virtue to them
But the black earthly spirit of the priest wounded my
life ; and when I heard the bell toU to caU people together
in the steeple-house, it struck at my life, for it was like a
market-bell to gather people together, that the priest might
set forth his wares for sale. Ohl the vast sums of money
that are got by the trade they make of selling the Scriptures,
and by their preaching, from the highest bishop to the
lowest priest. What one trade in the world is comparable
102
to it? Notwithstanding the Scriptures were gi%-en forth
freely, Christ commanded his ministers to preach freely -
and the prophets and apostles denounced judgment against
all covetous hirelings and di\-iner3 for money. But in this
free spirit of the Lord Jesus was I sent forth to declare
the word of life and reconciliation freely, that all might
come to Christ, who gives freely, and renews us into the
image of God, which man and woman were in before they
feU.
The persecution brouglit on themselves, and borne
with heroic simplicity, by Fox and liis followers,
through the zed with which they carried out their
protest agaia.st all that they accounted insincere or
unscriptural, forms an interesting pa.ssage in EugUsh
religious history. Fox died in 1690.
John Hales, bom in 1584, was made Greek Pro-
fessor at Oxford in 1612, had afterwards an Eton
Fellowship, and died at Eton in the time of the Com-
monwealth, 165G. His be.st wTitings were published
in 16.59 as "Golden Remains of the Ever Memo-
rable ill'. John Hales, of Eton College." This is
a prayer from John Hales for peace in the English
Chiu'ch, closing a sermon on the text " Peace I
leave with you ; my peace I give unto you " (John
xiv. 27): —
PRAYEK FOE PEACE IS THE CHURCH.
When our friends and enemies do both jointly consent
to lay open our shame, to whose judgment shall we appeal,
or whither shall we fly :- WTiither f Even to thee, Lord
Christ ; but not as to a judge : too well we know thy
sentence. Thou hast sent us messengers of peace, but we,
like Jerusalem, thy ancient love, have not understood the
things belonging to our peace. Lord, let us know them
in this our day, and let them no longer be hidden from
our eyes. Look down, Lord, upon thy poor dismembered
Church, rent and torn with discords, and even ready to sink.
AVhy should the neutral or atheist any longer confirm him-
self in his irreligion by reasons drawn from our dissensions ?
Or why should any greedy-minded worldling prophesy imto
himself the ruins of thy sanctuarj-, or hope one day to dip his
foot in the blood of thy Church ? We wiU hope, Lord (for
what hinders f), that not\vithstanding all supposed impossi-
bilities, thou wilt one day in mercy look down upon thy Sion,
and grant a gracious interview of friends so long divided.
Thou that wroughtest that great reconciliation between God
and man, is thine arm waxen shorter I' Was it possible to
reconcile God to man ? To reconcile man to man is it imi)OS-
sible ? Be with those, we beseech thee, to whom the perse-
cution of Church controversies is committed, and, Hkc a good
Lazarus, drop one cooling drop into their tongues and pens,
too, too much exasperated each against other. And if it be
thv determinate will and counsel that this abomination of
desolation, standing where it ought not, continue imto the
end, accompUsh thou with speed the number of thine elect,
and hasten the coming of thy Son our Saviour, that He may
himself in person sit and judge, and give an end to om- con-
troversies, since it stands not with any human possibility.
Direct thy Church, O Lord, in all her petitions for peace,
teach her wherein her peace consists, and warn her from the
world, and bring her home to Thee : that all those that love
thy peace may at last have the reward of the sons of peace,
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and reign with Thee in thy kingdom of peace for ever. Grant
this, God, for thy Son's sake, Jesus Christ our Lord, to
whom with Thcc and the Holy Ghost he ascribed all praise,
might, majesty, and dominion, now and for ever.
RiCHABD Baxtek. (From a I'ortrait idem in 1677.)
Richard Baxter was born ill November, 1615, at
High Ercal, in Shropshire. He was the son of a small
freeholder. Part of his boyhood was spent at Eaton
Constantine, about five miles from Sln-ewsbuiy. The
best pai-t of his education he received at the free
school of Wroxeter, and tlience he went to be taught
for a time by Mr. Richard Wickstead, chaplain to
the CouncU at Ludlow. But Mr. Wicksteatl taught
him little, and Baxter considered the year and a half
at Ludlow to have been nnprofitably spent. Then
he taught for a time at Wioxeter, to helji his old
schoolmaster there, who was dj'ing of consimiption.
Hindered himself by much ill-health, young Ba.xter
studied privately for the ministry. For two years
after he had attained tlie age of twenty-one Richaixl
Baxter had his religious thouglits intensified by
exj)ectation of death from violent cough with spit-
ting of blood. He presented himself to the Bishop
of Worcester for examination for orders, was or-
dained, and licensed to teach in a newly-founded free
school at Dudley, where lie often preached in tlie
town and the neighbouring villages. From Dudley
he removed in less than a year to assist the minister
at Bridgenorth. There he was somewhat troubled
by " the Et-cetera Oath " framed by the Convocation
then sitting, which obliged the clergy, on pain of
expulsion, to swear " that they would never consent
to the alteration of the present government of the
Church by Archbishojis, Deans, Archdeacons, &c."
This set Baxter on the study of Episcopacy, and in
the same year, 1640, he was invited to be preacher
at Kidderminster, where the vicar had been declared
insufiicient by the townspeople and reduced to the
reading of the prayers and the payment of £60
a year, otit of his £200. for a preacher who would
satisfy his people. During the sixteen years of
Baxter's work at Kidderminster he never occupied
the vicarage house, though authoiised to do so by
the Parliament, but left the old vicar there to end
his days in peace. The vicar was deprived by Par-
liament, and although Baxter would not take his
place or receive more than a maintenance of a hun-
dred a year and a house, the inhabitants, to keep to
themselves the benefit of the sequestration, secretly
got an order to settle Baxter in the title. To the
deprived vicar they gave forty pounds a year with
the \dcarage that Baxter would not take.
Questions in Church and State were being argued
by main force while Richard Baxter was at Kidder-
minster.
William Laud, son of a clothier at Reading, was
born in 1573, and educated at Reading free school
and St. John's College, Oxford, where he obtained a
fellowship] in 1594. He was small of stature, eager
and confident of spirit. His health was very bad
before and after the time of Ids taking his M.A.
degree, which he received in July, 1598. He was
ordained priest in 1601, and in 1602, in a divinity
lecture read at St. John's College, he maintained
against Puritan opinions the Church as Elizabeth
established it. About six weeks after the Queen's
death, William Latid, then in his thirtieth year, was
chosen Proctor for his University, and took part
in the " Answer of the Vice-Chancellor, Doctors,
Proctors, ifcc, in the Univeisity of Oxford, to the
Petition of the Ministei-s of the Chiu-ch of Eng-
land desiring Reformation." Towards the close of
the same year. Laud was appointed chaplain to the
Earl of Devonshire. In July, 1604, he took the
degree of B.D., and in the pulilic exercise on that
occasion maintained — as his opponents said, with
arguments drawn from the wiitings of Cardinal Bel-
larmin — the necessity of bajttism to salvation, and
that there could be no true Church without bisliops.
In December, 1605, on St. Stephen's Day, Laud
married the divorced Lady Rich — Sidney's Stella —
to her old and constant lover, formerly Sir Charles
Blount, then Charles Lord Mountjoy, and next
created Earl of Devonshhre for his conduct in the
Irish wai's. James was ofl'ended by the act of mar-
riage to a divorced wife in her husband's lifetime.
The Earl of Devonshire was in disgi'ace at court,
and Laud lost royal favour. A sermon preached by
Laud in 1606, at St. INIary's Church, before his Uni-
versity, revived the charge of Popery against his
doctrine on church matters, and Peter Heylin says
Laud told him that it was then reckoned a heresy
to speak to him, and a suspicion of heresy to salute
him in the street. Joseph Hall, afterwards Bishop
of Norwich, wrote to Laud at this time, " I would I
knew where to find you, then I could tell how to
take direct arms, whereiis now I must pore and con-
jecture. To-day you are in the tents of the Roman-
i.sts, to-morrow in ours ; the next day between both ;
against both. Our adversaries think you oiu's, we
theirs, your conscience finds you with both, and
neither ; I flatter you not. "rhis of yours is the
TO A.D. 1621.]
RELIGION.
299
woi-st of all tempers." In November, 1607, Laud,
aged thirty-four, received his tirst preferment — the
1-icarage of Stamford, in Northamjitonshire ; and
in the April following, the advowson of North Kil-
worth, ill Leicestershire. In the summer of 1608
he proceeded to the degree of D.D., and was made
chaplain to Dr. Neile, Bishop of Eoehester. To be
near him he exchanged his living of North Kilworth
in October, 1609, for the i-ectory of West Tilbury, in
Essex. In May, 1610, he was presented by the
Bishop of Rochester to the living of Cuckstone in
Kent. He then resigned his fellowship in St.
John's and lived at Cuckstone, but the place was
mihealthy, and he was laid uj) with ague. Bishop
Neile was translated to Lichfield, and, before leaving
Rochester, obtained from the king for liis friend
Laud a prebend's stall in Westminster. Dr. Neile's
successor at Rochester was another hearty friend
of Laud's — his old tutor, Dr. Buckeridge, who left
the Presidency of St. John's College to take the
bishopric. Dr. Buckeridge and Dr. Neile exerted
jdl their influence to secure Dr. Laud's election to the
vacant Presidency, and obtained it in May, 1611,
against strong opposition based on the opinion that
Laud was " a Papist at heart, and cordially addicted
to Popeiy." King James presently appointed Dr.
Laud one of his chaplains. After the death, in
November, 1610, of Archbishop Richard Bancroft,
he Avas succeeded in the primacy by George Abbot,
a man moderate of temper and strict Calvinist in
his opinions, who reversed, as far as he could, the
policy by which Bancroft had driven many of the
clergy from the Church. The new primate coii-
.sidered Laud's opinions too near to those of the
Roman Church. It was he, indeed, who in o[)posiiig
Laud's election to the Presidency of St. John's, had
described him as a Papist at heart. Laud was
neglected at court for some time, but his friend
Dr. NeUe gave him a jirebend in Lincoln, and in
December, 1615, the archdeaconry of Huntingdon,
and in 1616 King James made Dr. Laud Dean of
Gloucester. Dr. Miles Smith, one of the producers
of King James's authorised vei'sion of the Bible, was
then Bishop of Gloucester, and openly expressed his
indignation at the proceedings of the new Dean in
■changing the place of the communion-talile, and so
■oi-dering the services that tumult arose against Popish
■revival, the civil authority had to interfere, and some
rioters had to be sent to prison. Laud then returned
"to court, and took part in action against the Oxford
Puritans. In 1617 Dr. Laud went with King James
to Scotland, and urged the enforcement of a Liturgy
upon the Scotch. Five Articles were then forced by
King James on an unwilling people. These were,
kneeling at sacrament, observation of Christmas and
other holy days, episcopal confirmations, private
baptism, and private communion. In June, 1618,
King James's declaration concerning lawful sports
and games on the Lord's Day was also introduced
into Scotland. It would need force to supersede
among the Scottish people one prejudice with another,
and this was not tried till the reign of Charles. The
outward conflict was about symbols that many on
both sides held to be in themselves indiflerent, but to
ttixe ignorant the symbols were in place of the things
signified. " Yet was there gi-eat confusion," Avi-ote
David Calderwood, " great confusion and disorder in
many kirks, by reason of the late innovation. In
some kii-ks the jieople went out and left the minister
alone ; in some, when the minister would have them
to kneel, the ignorant and simple sort cried out,
' The danger, if any be, light upon your own soul,
and not upon ours.' Some, when they could not get
the sacrament sitting, departed, and besought God
to be judge between them and the minister. It is
not to be passed over in silence, how that when John
Lauder, minister at Cockburnspeth, was reaching the
bread till' one kneeling, a black dog start'-' up to
snatch it out of his hand."
King James used to say to Laud that he had given
him notliing but the Deanery of Gloucester, " a shell
without a kernel;" but in 1621 Laud was nominated
to the bishopric of St. David's. Archbishop Abbot
in that year, while on a visit to Lord Zouch at
BramhUl, by chance hit one of the gamekeepers,
who was concealed in a thicket, when he had levelled
his crossbow at a deer. The man died, and although
the Archbishop, deeply afliicted, was cleared of blame
by a Commission, and received a full pardon under
the Great Seal, declaring him capable of exercising
his ecclesiii-stical authority as if the accident had not
occurred. Laud and three other nominated bishops
objected to be consecrated by him. They were con-
secrated by a commission of five bishops appointed
to act in the place of the Primate.
When Laud was thus made bishop the " Pilgrim
Fathers," tii'st driven from this country by the policy
of Archbishops Whitgift and Bancroft, had just
established themselves at New Plymouth. A sepa-
ratist or Brownist cont'regation — following the counsel
of Robert Brown to form, apart from the authorised
worshiji, separate and independent C'liurohes on a
Scripture model— had met at the village of Scrooby,
in Nottinghamshire, on the Yorkshiie border. It
met at an episcopal manor house which had come to
be used as a station for post-horses, and was occu-
pied by William Brewster as postmaster. John
Robinson was its minister, William Brewster its
ruling elder, and a youth named William Bradford
walked in from the neighbouring hamlet of Auster-
field to worship there. Bradford's heart had been
fii-st stirred by the preaching of Richard Clifton,
rector of Bab worth, near Scrool>y. When Clifton
was sOenced as a Puritan, young Bradford, indig-
nant at this act of oppression, declared himself a
Separatist, and joined the congregation of John
Robinson at Scrooby, where his energy soon made
him the ciAal head of the community, and he took
afterwards his place in history as Governor Bradford
of New Plymouth. John Smith, pastor of a Sepa-
ratist congregation at Gamsborough, had removed
his church to Amsterdam to avoid persecution, and
he had been preceded l>y another minister — his tutor,
Johnson. Disputes arose among the people at Am-
sterdam, and when the refugee Church of Scrooby
joined tliem in 1608, the dissension caused Jolm
Robinson to remove A\ith his followers to Leyden,
1 Till, to.
' start, for started; the cd being dropped after the ending in {.
300
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1620
where they remained eleven yeai-s in peace. But the
desire grew in them to found an easier and happier
society than they could have as exiles in a foreign
town, where men bred to English husbandry must
learn town ways of earning their bread among
strangers ; William Bradford had become a silk
dyer, William Brewster a printer. Colonisation was
then, in England and elsewhere, occupying energetic
thought. John Robinson and his congregation of
three hundred resolved to live no longer among
foreigners, but to go out and found in the New
World an English pi-ovince in wliich theii' religion
should lie free. They sought in vain an Act of tole-
ration from the king. While they wei-e negotiating,
the Puritans of Lancashii'e were forced, by a royal
declaration, to conform, or leave the kingdom ; Ijut
by the help of Sir Edwin Sandys (to whose brother
the Scrooby manor house belonged), the English
congregation at Leyden obtained a patent from the
Virginia Company. They bought in London the
iSpeedwell, a vessel of about sixty tons, and hired
in England the Maijjiower, a vessel of 180 tons,
brought these little ships to Delft Haven, and there
embarked in them, on the 2:2nd of July, 1620, as
many of the congregation as they would contain.
William Brew.ster went as their leader, William
Bradford and ililes Standish bemg of the company.
John Robinson, their pastor, stayed with those
who were left, and blessed the depai-ting vessels
from the shore. " I chai-ge J'ou," he said, iu his
solemn farewell, "I charge you before God and His
blessed angels, that you follow me no farther than
you have seen me follow the Lord Jesus ChrLst.
The Lord has more truth yet to break forth out of
His Holy Word. I cannot sufficiently bewail the
condition of the Reformed Churches, who are come
to a period in Religion, and wdl go at present no
farther than the instruments of then Reformation.
Luther and Calvin were gi'eat and shining lights
in their times, yet they penetrated not into the
whole counsel of God. I beseech you remember it
— 'tis an article of your Church-covenant — that you
be ready to receive whatever truth shall be made
known to you from the written Word of God." On
the 11th of Decemljer, 1620, after various explora-
tions for a fitting place of settlement, the Pilgiims
landed where they could resolve to moor the Maij-
floiver and begin a settlement, which they called —
after the last bit of England they had received kind-
ness from at their departure — Pl}^nouth. Every
man of them buUt his own house in hard winter
weather. The Governor fii'st appointed was among
its victims ; his son died when they landed, he died
himself soon after, and the bereaved wife and mother
quickly followed. At the end of March, 1621,
William Bradford became his successor. Until the
harvest of 1623 the infant colony that was to de-
velop into a new world of English energy and free-
dom suffered much from want. Food was obtained
from shii)S at famine price.?, and there is a tradition
that at one time there was only a jiint of corn in
the place, and that, being divided with strict justice,
gave to each inhabitant five kernels.
In November, 1621, Laud was conseci'ated Bishop
of St. David's. After maintaining liis cause in
Parliament, he went to his see, and had its income
improved by the king's presentation to a rectory —
that of Creeke in Northamptonshire — which was to
be held with it. In August, 1622, he was at court
again, ready with aid and encoiu-agemeut to any
contest against Puritanism. Laud was thoroughly
in earnest, thoroughly honest, and as religious its a
man can be who battles for that which he holds to
be the highest truth in a breast-plate of righteous-
ness that is not tempered ^vith charity. Bulstrode
Whitelock said of him truly, that " he was too full
of fire, though a just and good man ; and his want
of experience in State matters, and his too much
zeal for the Church, and heat, if he proceeded in
the way he was then in, would set this nation on
fire." When, in May, 1622, John Fisher, the Jesuit
who had been hoping to convert the Duchess (then
the Marchioness) of Buckingham to Romanism, was
invited to argue openly befoi-e the Duke with an
English di\'iue. Dr. Francis White was the di%'ine
appointed. They argued twice, and as, on both
occasions, nothing had been said on the dogma of
an infallible church, the king appointed a tliii-d
meeting, at which Laud was appointed to ai'gue, and
was held to have confuted Fisher. He wrote of
liis argument afterwards: "The Catholic Church of
Christ Ls neither Rome nor a conventicle ; out of
that there is no salvation, I easily confess it ; but
out of Rome there is, and ovit of a conventicle too.
Salvation is not shut up into this narrow conclave.
In this discourse I have, therefoi-e, endeavoured to
lay open those wider gates of the Catholic Church,
confined to no age, time, or place, not knowing any
bounds, but that faith which was once, and but once
for all, delivered to the saints. And in my pursuit
of this way, I have searched after, and delivered with
a single heart, that truth which I profess." In June,
1622, the Marquis of Buckingham ajipointed Laiul
his chaplain, who became his confidential agent in
London during the secret visit to Spain with Prince
Charles, arising out of the question of the Spanish
match. After the death of James I., on the 21:th of
March, 162.5, Laud remained fii-m in the patronage
of the Duke of Buckingham, who was the new king's
favourite. Thus Laud became upon church matters
the chief adviser of Chailes I. He drew up the list
from which the new king was to appoint chaplains
free from Puritanism. He preached at the opening
of Parliament, and as the Archbishop of Canterbury,
who woidd place the crown on Charles's head,
happened to be also Dean of Westminster, and in
that character had also duties at the coronation.
Laud was appointed to supply his place as dean. It
was afterwards urged against him that at the coro-
nation he caused a siher crucifix found among the
regalia to be placed upon the altar, and modified, in
two places, the coronation oath. Laud preached,
four days after the coronation, at the ojiening of
the second Pai-liament. He dwelt upon unity.
" Would you," he said, " keep the State in unity '?
In any case, take heed of breaking the peace of the
Church. The peace of the State depends much upon
it : for, divide Christ in the minds of men, or divide
the minds of men about theii- hopes of salvation in
Chi-ist, and then tell me where will be the vmity?"
TO A.D. 1633.]
EELIGION".
301
And so he gave his influence in aid of the old policy
of compulsion. In 162G William Laud was trans-
lated from his see of St. David's to that of Bath and
Wells, was made also Dean of the Chapel Royal,
and a Pri\T.' Councillor. In July, 16:28, he was
translated from the bishopric of Bath and Wells to
that of London; in April, 1030, Laud was made
Chancellor of the University of Oxford ; in July,
1030, as Dean of the Chapel Pioyal, he baptized the
infant who afterwards became Charles II. In the
same year, a Scotch minister, Alexander Leighton,
father to the more famous Robert Leighton, per-
sonally pi-eseuted to memliei's of the House of Com-
mons a book he had ^\'iitten, called " An Appeal to
Pai-liament, or Ziou's Plea again Prelacy." He was
sentenced by the Star Chamber to a fine of £10,000
and imprisonment for life, then transferred to the
High Court of Commission to be degraded from his
ministerial office, because the Star Chamber could not
pa.ss sentence of corporal punishment upon a man in
orders. Ha\4ng been degi-aded by the High Com-
mission, he was retiu-ned to the Star Chamber, where
he was further sentenced to be pilloried at West-
minster during the sitting of the court, and there
whipped ; after the whipping to have one of his eare
cut off, hLs nose slit, his forehead branded with S.S.
for Seditious Slanderer,' and then to be taken to his
prison, whence at another time he was to be conveyed
to the pillory in Cheapside, where his other ear was
to be cut off and he was again to be whijjjjed.
Leighton's imprisonment lasted for ten years, until
he was released by the Long Parhameut in lOiO.
Alexander Leighton was then made keeper of Lam-
beth Palace, after Laud had been imprisoned in the
Tower; but Leighton died insane in 164.5. In 1033,
William Prynne, a Puritan barrister, published
again.st stage plays, masques, and dances his " Histrio-
Mastix." It denounced masques and dances in terms
that could be said to involve the queen in then-
condemnation. Therefore he was committed to the
Tower. In the same year, 1633, Laud, Bishop of
London, went with Cliarles L into Scotland, and
helped to impose a liturgy upon the Scottish Church
against the will of the people ; and in August of that
year Dr. Abbot, Archbishop of Canterbmy, whose
resistance to the policy of compulsion had ^\'ithdra^vn
him from royal favour, died. Laud was immediately
appointed his successor. At the same time he had
secret offer of a cardinal's hat through a pei-son to
whom he records in his diary that he answered,
" Something dwelt within him wliich would not
suffer that, till Eome was othei-wise than it was at
the present time." Laud at once pursued liis policy
with excess of zeaL The " Declaration concerning
* Or Sower of Sedition. When Prynne had been branded on the
cheek with S. L. (Seditions Libeller), he made these lines on his way
back in a boat to the Tower :
" S. L. Stigmata Lacdis.
"Stigmata maxillis referens insi^ia Landis
Emltans remeo, victinia grata. Deo."
Which was Englished ;
" S. L. Laud's Scaes.
" Triumphant I return, my face descries
Laud's scorcliin? scars, God's grateful sacrifice. "
Lawful Sports to be used on Sundays," fii-st issued by
James I. in 1018, was revived and extended, with
requirement upon all clergy to publish it in their
chui-ches on pain of cognizance by the High Com-
WiLLiAM Laud. (From the Portrait b>j Vandijlce.)
mission. The Declaration, commonly known as " The
Book of Sports," Ls here given exactly as it was
printed for general use at the time of its promulga-
tion by Charles I, in 1633,
THE KINGS MAIESTIES DECLARATION TO HIS SUBJECTS,
CONCERNING LAWFULL SPORTS TO BEE VSED.
«I % the King.
Ovr Deare Father of blessed Memory, in his retume from
Scotland, coniming through Laticmhire, found that his Sub-
iects were debarred from Lawful Recreations vpon Simdayes
after Euening Prayers ended, and vpon Holy dayes : And
Hee prudently considered, that if these times were taken
from them, the meaner sort who labour hard all the weeke,
should haue no Recreations at all to refresh their spirits.
And after His retume, Hee farther saw that His loyall Sub-
iects in aU other parts of His Kingdome did suffer in the
same kinde, though perhaps not in the same degree : And
did therefore in His Princely wisedome, publish a Declaration
to all his louing Subiects concerning lawfull Sports to be
vsed at such times, which was printed and published by His
rovaU Conunandement in the yeere 1618. In the Tenor
which hereafter followeth.
1 By the King.
Whereas rpon Our retume the last yere out of Scotland,
We did publish Our Pleasure touching the recreations of
Out people in those parts vnder Our hand : For some causes
Vs thereunto moouing, Wee haue thought good to conmiand
these Our Directions then giuen in Lancashire with a few
words thereunto added, and most appliable to these parts of
Our Realmes, to bee published to all Our Subiects.
TThereas Wee did iiist/;/ in Our Progrcsse through Lanca-
shire, rebuke some Puritanes and precise people, and tooke
order that the like ATilawfuU c.aniage should not bee vsed by
any of them hereafter, in the prohibiting and vnlawfull
punishing of Our good people for vsing their lawfull Eecrea-
302
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1633
tions, and honest exercises ^-pon Simdayes and other Holy
dayes, after the aftemoone Sermon or Seruice : Wee now
finde that two sorts of people wherewith that Countrey is
much infected, (Wee meane Papists and Puritanes) haue
maliciously traduced and calumniated those Our iust and
honourahle proceedings. And therefore lest Our reputation
might vpon the one side (though innocently) haue some
aspersion layd vpon it, and that vpon the other part Our
good people in that Countrey be misled by the mistaking
and misinterpretation of Our meaning: We haue therefore
thought good hereby to cleare and make Our pleasure to be
manifested to all Our good People in those parts.
It is true that at Our first entry to this Crowne, and King-
dome, Wee were informed, and that too tniely, that Our
County of Lancashire abounded more in Popish Recusants
then any County of England, and thus hath stOl continued
since to Our great rcgreet, with little amendmet, saue that
now of late, in Our last riding thi'ough Our said County, Wee
find both by the report of the fudges, and of the Bishop of
that diocesse, that there is some amendment now daily
beginning, which is no small contentment to Vs.
The report of this growing amendment amongst them,
made Vs the more soitv, when with Our owne Eares We
heard the generall complaint of Our people, that they were
barred from all lawfull Eecreation, & exercise vpon the Sun-
daves aftemoone, after the ending of all Diuine Seruice, which
cannot but produce two euils : 'The one, the hindering of the
conuersion of many, whom their Priests will take occasion
hereby to vexe, perswading them that no honest mirth or
recreation is lawfull or tolerable in Oui- Religion, which
cannot but breed a great discontentment in Our peoples
hearts, especially of such as are peraduenture vpon the point
of turning ; The other inconuenience is, that this prohibition
barreth the common and meaner sort of people from vsing
such exercises as may make their bodies more able for Warre,
when Wee or Our Succes.sours shall haue occasion to vse
them. And in place thereof sets vp filthy tiplings and
drunkennesse, & breeds a number of idle and discontented
speeches in their Alehouses. For when shall the conmion
people haue leaue to exercise, if not vjjon the Sundayes &
holydaies, seeing they must apply their labour, & win their
liuing in all working dales ?
Our expresse pleasure therefore is, that the Lawes of Our
Kingdome, &, Canons of Our Church be as well obserued in
that Countie, as in all other places of this Our Kingdome.
And on the other part, that no lawfull Recreation shall bee
barred to Our good People, which shall not tend to the breach
of Our aforesayd Lawes, and Canons of Our Church : which
to expresse more particularly, Our pleasure is. That the
Bishop, and all other inferiour Churchmen, and Church-
wardens, shall for their parts bee carefull and diligent, both
to instruct the ignorant, and coniiince and reforme them that
are mis-led in Religion, presenting them that will not con-
forme themselues, but obstinately stand out to Our Judges
and Justices : A\'hom We likewise command to put the Law
in due execution against them.
Our pleasure likewise is, That the Bishop of that Diocesse
take the like straight order with aU the Puritanes and Pre-
cisians within the same, either constraining them to con-
forme themselues, or to leaue the County according to the
Lawes of Our Kingdome, and Canons of Our Church, and so
to strike equally on both hands, against the contemners of Our
Authority', and aducrsaries of Our Church. And as for Our
good peoples lawfull Eecreation, Our pleasure likewise is.
That after the end of Diuine Seruice, Our good people be
not disturbed, letted, or discouraged from any lawful recrea-
tion. Such as dauncing, either men or women, Archery for
men, leaping, vaulting, or any other such harmelesse Recrea-
tion, nor from hauing of May-Games, Whitson Ales, and
Morris-dances, and the setting vp of Maypoles & other sports
therewith vsed, so as the same be had in due & conuenient
time, without impediment or neglect of Diuine Seruice : And
that women shall haue leaue to carry rushes to the Church
for the decoi-ing of it, according to their old custome. But
withaU We doe here account still as prohibited all \-nlawfull
games to bee vsed vpon Sundayes onely, as Beare and Bull-
baitings, Interludes, and at all times in the meaner sort of
peojjle by Law prohibited. Bowling.
And likewise We barre from this bcnefite and liberty, all
such knowne recusants, either men or women, as will abstaine
fi'om comming to Church or diuine Seruice, being therefore
•NTiworthy of any lawfull recreation after the said Seruice,
that wiU not first come to the Church, and serue God:
Prohibiting in Uke sort the said Recreations to any that,
though conforme in Religion, are not present in the Church
at the seruice of God, before their going to the said Recrea-
tions. Our pleasure likewise is. That they to whom it be-
longeth in Office, shall present and sharpely punish all such as
in abuse of this Our liberty, wiU vse these exercises before
the ends of all Diuine Seruiees for that day. And We like-
wise straightly command, that euery person shall resort to his
owne Parish Church to heare Diuine Seruice, and each Parish
by it selfe to vse the said Recreation after Diuine Seruice.
Prohibiting likewise any OfEensiue •weapons to bee carried
or y.sed in the said times of Recreations. And Our pleasure
is. That this Our Declaration shall bee published by order
from the Bishop of the Diocesse, through all the Parish
Churches, and that both Our ludges of Our Circuit, and Our
lustices of Our Peace be iufonned thereof.
Giticit at Our Mannour of Greenwich the fourc
and twentieth day of May, in the sixteenth
yeere of Our Saigne of England, France and
Ireland, and of Scotland the one and fiftieth.
Now out of a like pious Care for the seruice of God, and
for suppressing of any humors that oppose trueth, and for
the Ease, Comfort, & Recreation of Our well deseruing
People, Wee doe ratifie and publish this Our blessed Fathers
Declaration : The rather because of late in some Counties of
Our Kingdome, Wee finde that ^-nder pretence of taking
away abuses, there hath been a generall forbidding, not onely
of ordinary meetings, but of the Feasts of the Dedication of
the Churches, commonly called Wakes. Now our expresse
■will and pleasure is, that these Feasts with others shall bee
obserued, and that Our lustices of the peace in their seuerall
Diuisions shall looke to it, both that all disorders there, may
bo preuented or punished, and that aU neighbourhood and
freedome, with manlike and lawfull Exercises bee vsed. And
Wee farther Command Our Justices of Assize in their seuerall
Circuits, to see that no man doe trouble or molest any of Our
loj'all and duetifuU people, in or for their lawfull Recrea-
tions, haying first done their duetie to God, and continuing
in obedience to Vs and Our Lawes. And of this Wee com-
mand all our ludges, lustices of the Peace, as well within
Liberties as without, JIaiors, BaylifE&s, Constables, and other
Oflicers, to take notice of, and to see obserued, as thej" tender
Our displeasure. And Wee farther will, that publication of
this Our Command bee made by order from the Bishops
through all the Parish Churches of their seuerall Diocesse
respectiuely.
Giiien at Our Palace of Westminster the eigh-
teenth day of October, in the ninth yeere of
Our Reigne.
God saue the King
TO A.D. 1645.]
RELIGION.
303
Laud, as Bishop of London, had severely censured
the Lord Mayor for prohiVjiting a woman from selling
apples on Sunday in St. Paul's Ouirchyard. His
enforcement of the reading of this " Book of Sports "
in all the English churches was resisted by many
of the clergj', who were therefore silenced. Some
who read it, read the Fourth Commandment after
it. Some read it unwillingly, with forced compliance
to preserve their livings. William Prvnne, after a
year's imprisonment in the Tower, was sentenced
to a tuie of .£.5,000, to be expelled from lus Uni-
versity, his Inn of Coiu-t, and his profession of the
law ; to be pilloried, first at Palace Yard, West-
min.ster, then at Cheapside, and in each place to lose
an ear : to have his Vjook burnt before his face by
the common executioner ; and to be imprisoned for
life. In 1637 eight ships in the Thames prepared
to carry to New EngUuid refugees from the nile of
compulsion, were stopped, and an Order of Coiuicil
prohibited " all minLstei-s imconformable to the doc-
ti'ine and dLscipline of the Church of England ; and
that no clergyman should be suffered to pass to the
foi'eign i)lantations without the approbation of the
Archbishop of Canterbiuy and the Bishop of Lon-
don." On the 30th of June in the same year
Prynne, the lawyer, stood in the pUlory again, to
lose what remained of his ears, ^\^th the Rev. Hemy
Burton and Dr. John Bastwck, a physician, sen-
tenced also to fine, branding, mutOation, and im-
prisonment. But as they went to the pUloiy the
people had strewed sweet herbs on the way.
There had been old antagonism between William
Laud and John Williams, who in 1621 succeeded
Bacon as Lord Keeper, and was at the same time
made Bishop of Lincoln. His opinions on public
questions did not please the Court of Charles. The
Duke of Buckingham had been his enemy, and he
had both Charles and Laud against him. As early
as 1627 an attempt had been begun to charge him
with betrayal of the king's secrets. In 1637 this
accusation was shifted to a charge of tampering with
the king's fatnesses. He was condemned, and sen-
tenced to a fine of £10,000, suspension by the High
Commission Court from all his offices, and imprison-
ment during the king's pleasure. His palace was
entered to seize goods to the value of the fine, and
a letter wa.s there found from Lambert 0.sbaldistone,
Master of Westminster School, in which Laud, small
of stature, was referred to as '• the little urchin,"
and " the little meddling hocus pocus." Upon this
letter further proceedings were taken, and Dr. Wil-
liams Wits sentenced to pay £5,000 more to the kin g
and £3,000 to the Aichbishop of Canterbmy;
while the wi-iter of the letter was fined £5,000 to
the king, £5.000 to the Archbishop of Canterbury,
deprived of his preferments, condemned to impiison-
ment diu-ing the king's pleasiu-e, and to stand in the
pillory with his ear nailed to the posts. Dr. Wil-
liams was not released until 16-10, when he was
reconciled to the king, who made him, in 16il,
Archbishop of York. Laiul was then in the Tower,
to which he was conveyed on the 1st of March,
1641. He had tried force against force stronger
than his own, and raised a tumult against prelacy.
He was stripped of his revenues, heavily fined, and
hai-shly treated dming three years of imprisonment,
that ended in his trial and his execution on the 10th
of January, 1645. From the scafibld Laud, seventy-
one yeai-s old, delivered his last words to man in the
form of his own fimeral sennon, on a text from the
twelfth chapter of the Epktle to the Hebrews, "Let
us i-un with patience the race which is set before us,
looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our
fiiith ; who, for the joy that was set before him, en-
dured the cross, despising the shame, and is set down
at the right hand of the tluone of God." The sennon
ended, this was
laud's last prayer.
Eternal God and merciful Father, look down upon me
in mercy ; in the riches and fuhiess of all thy mercies look
down upon me, hut not tUl thou hast naUed my sins to the
cross of Christ. Look upon me, but not tiU thou hast bathed
me in the blood of Christ ; not till I have hid myself in
the wounds of Christ; that so the punishment that is due
to my sins may pass away and go over me : and since thou
art pleased to trj- me to the uttermost, I humbly beseech
thee, give me now in this great instant full patience, propor-
tionable comfort, a heart ready to die for my sins, the King's
happiness, and the preservation of this Church ; and my zeal
to these (far from arrogance Ije it spoken) is all the sin,
human frailty excepted, and all incidents thereunto, which is
yet known of me in this particular, for which I now come
to suffer ; but otherwise my sins are many and great. Lord,
pardon them all, and those especially which have drawn
down this present judgment upon me ; and when thou hast
given me strength to bear it, then do with me as seems best
to thee ; and c;irry me through death that I may look upon
it in what visage soever it shall appear to me, and that
there may be a stop of this issue of blood in this more
than miserable kingdom. I pray for the*people, too, as well
as for myself. Lord, I beseech thee, give grace of repent-
ance to all people that have a thirst for blood ; but if they
wiU not repent, then scatter their devices, and such as are
or shall be contrary to the glory of thy great name, the
truth and sincerity of religion, the establishment of the King,
and his posterity after him in their just rights and privileges,
the honour and conservation of ParUament, in their ancient
and just power, the preservation of this poor Church in the
truth, peace, and patrimony, and the settlement of this dis-
tracted and distressed people under their ancient laws and
in their native liberties. And when thou hast done .all this
in mere mercy for them, Lord, fill their hearts with thank-
fulness and with religious dutiful obedience to thee and thy
commandments all their days. Amen, Lord Jesus, and I
beseech thee receive my soul into thy bosom, Amen.
If any think it strange that a good man, engaged
in intense controversy about sacred thuigs. cotdd err
as Laud en-ed in attempting to enforce that unity
•nathin the Church of Christ for which all true hearts
laboured and stUl labour, let liim remember that the
PUo-rim Fathers were good men, and that in the free
church which they crossed the wide Atlantic to
secm-e they were, after a few years, banishing those
fellow-Christians whom they termed heretics. One
of then- leaders was exclaiming, " God forbid, that
our love of the truth should be grown so cold that
we should tolerate errors!" Another averred that
" to say men ought to have liberty of conscience is
304
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1611
impious ignorance." Ajiother urged that " Religion
admits of no eccentric notions." Every member of
the conoregation of a tolerant Baptist of Rhode
Island was fined twenty or thirty pounds, and one
who refused to pay the tine was whipped unmercifully.
There was a tine on absence from " the ministry of
the Word;" to deny that any book in the Old or
New Testament was throughout the inftillible Word
•of God, was blasphemy, punishable by tine and
floo-ging, and in case of obstiaacy, by exile or death.
A devout woman, hearing of such things, travelled
all the way from London to warn the leaders of the
new church against persecution, and they flogged her.
She was sentenced to twenty stripes. At home,
when Laud's friends ceased to be the persecutors,
they becanie the persecuted. Each party was full of
zeal in either character, and we can only look with
equal eye, whether argument be of the seventeenth
or nineteenth century, on imperfections common to
humanity. John Robinson uttered a great truth
when, in his farewell to the little band that left
Delft in the MajAower, he said, "The Lord has more
truth yet to break forth out of His Holy Word."
Are we not waiting yet for the acceptance of its
leading truth, that of the three abiding virtues of the
Christian the greatest is charity % " Though I have
the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries,
and all knowledge ; and though I have all faith,
so that I could remove mountains, and have not
charity, I am nothing. And though I bestow all
my goods to feed the poor, and though I give
my body to be burned, and have not charity,
it profiteth me notliing." So St. Paul interpreted
the teaching of Him who based His Church vij)on
two articles : " Thou shalt love the Lord thy God
with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with
all thy mind. This is the first and great command-
ment. And the second is like unto it : Thou shalt
love thy neighboiu- as thyself. On these two com-
mandments hang all the law and the prophets."
In this sense many a true man of many a creed
has sought the peace of God, and Richard Baxter
laboured towards peace. He was gentle, without
cowardice or weakness, and he sought unity for the
distracted Church as earnestly as William Laud.
Baxter was reckoned among the Puritans, and shared
the Presbyterian sympathies of the Long Parliament,
whose members voted, in May, 10-41, approval "of
the affection of their brethren of Scotland, in their
desire of a conformity in the Church government
between the two nations." The Grand Committee of
the whole House for Religion, appointed three days
after the assembling of the Parliameut, had originated
ill King James's time, but soon became a new energy
for the inquiry into accusations against loyal clergy.
It had a sub-committee, which divided itself into
several lesser committees, and the first sentence of
sequestration was passed by the Grand Committee
itself as early as the 16th of Januaiy, 1641. As
the work gi-ew on the hands of the sequestrators,
committees were appointed under Parliament in all
parts of the country. They were to consist of from
five to ten members, each paid five shillings a day
for his attendance, and were enjoined to be " speedy
"and effectual " in their inquiry into the lives, doctrine.
and conversation of all ministers and schoolmasters.
These local courts were tii-st instituted in 1643, and
remained instruments of tp'anny for the next ten
yeare. A fifth of the sequestrated income might be
gi-anted to the expelled man, on conditions that even
a word of resentment might be held to break, and
the number of the clergy thus ejected has been
reckoned by the historian of their sufferings at seven
thousand.
When Cromwell first raised his troop, he had
invited Baxter to become its pastor. Baxter refused,
and reasoned against the appeal to arms. But when
war was so far afoot that the only question could be
of having or not having the religious life maintained
among the combatants, Baxter consented to become,
and was for two years, chaplain to a regiment. Thus
he was at the taking of Bridgewater, the siege of
Bristol and of Sherborne Castle. He was three weeks
at the siege of Exeter, six weeks before Banbury
Castle, and eleven weeks at the siege of Worcester.
In the army he opposed the various forms of free
opinion in religion to be found among the soldiers,
and somewhat lost their confidence by his zeal on
behalf of unity ; for he flinched from the religious
disputations that had cast out love, and chiefly on
that gi'ound held with the Presbyterians of those
days, who desired uniform Church government not
less than Laud, but sought to give it a shape which
they regarded as more Biblical than the macliinery of
archbishops and bishops. In their desire also to
separate their chui'ch as much as possible from the
traditions of the Church of Rome, they .scrupulously
avoided naming children after saints. Most of the
names iia the New Testament, and many more, being
thus associated with saint worsliip, Old Testament
names, as Elijah, Jonathan, Obadiah ; or the names
of Christian gifts, Grace, Faith, Hope, Charity ; or
even religious phi-ases, were given as Christian names
to their children by pious parents. Towards the
end of the civil war Baxter had a severe illness,
and it was at that time that he wrote that one of
his many books which is most widely read, " The
Saint's Everlasting Rest," first published in 1653.
He says : —
" Whilst I was in health, I had not the least thought of
writing books, or of serving God in any more public way than
preaching. But when I was weakened with great bleeding,
and left solitary in my chamber at Sir John Cook's in Derby-
shire, without any acquaintance but my servant about me,
and was sentenced to death by the physicians, I began to
contemplate more seriously on the everlasting rest which I
apprehended myself to be just on the borders of ; and that
my thoughts might not too much scatter in my meditation, I
began to write something on that subject, intending but the
quantity of a sermon or two (which is the cause that the
beginning is, in brevity and style, disproportionable to the
rest) ; but being continued long in weakness, where I had no
books, nor no better emploj'ment, I followed it on till it was
enlarged to the bulk in which it is published. The first three
weeks I spent in it was at Jlr. Xowell's house at Kirby
MaUoiy, in Leicestershire ; a quarter of a year more, at the
seasons which so great weakness would allow, I bestowed on
it at Sir Tho. Rouse's house, at Kouse Lench, in Worcester-
shire ; and I finished it shortly after at Kiddei-minster. The
first and last parts were first done, being all that I intended
TO i.D. 1660.]
EELIGION.
305
for mv own use ; and the second and third parts came after-
wards in besides my tirst intention."
Under the Commouwealtli, Richard Baxter spoke
liis mind freely to Cromwell, and told him that he
was a usurper, while admitting that he sought to tise
his fiilse position for the maintenance of godliness,
and that, where his o^vn interest was not at stake,
he sought more to do good than any who had gone
before.
CHAPTER X.
From the Commonwealth to the Revolution. —
Richard Baxter, John Bunyax, John Milton,
Ralph Cudworth, Robert Leighton, Thomas
Ken, and Others.— a.d. 1660 to a.d. 1689.
Initial. Frr<m (i'^nvnJoir.s .-lusiccr
*^ Leviathan " (1673).
N no small degree
Charles II. owed
his crown to the
division between
Presbyterians and
Independents. At
K idderm inster
Richard Baxter had
set up during the
Commonwealth an
Association for Ca-
tholicism against
Parties, of which he
wrote : —
"As we hindered no man from following his own judgment
in his own congregation, so we erinced, beyond denial, that it
would be but a partial, di\'iding agreement to agree on the
terms of Prtsbj-terian, Episcopal, or any one party, because it
would unavoidably shut out the other parties ; which was the
pi-incipal thing which we endeavoured to avoid ; it being not
with Presbii-terians only, but with all orthodox, faithful
pastors and people, that we are bound to hold communion,
and to live in C'hi-istian concord, so far as we have attained.
Hereupon, many counties began to associate, as Wiltshire,
Dorsetshire, Somersetshire, Hampshire, Essex, and others;
and some of them printed the articles of their agreement. In
a word, a great desire of concord began to possess all good
people in the land, and our breaches seemed ready to heal.
And though some thought that so many associations and
forms of agreement did but tend to more division, by showing
our diversity of apprehensions, the contran- proved true by
experience ; for we all agreed on the same course, even to
unite in the practice of so much discipline as the Episcopal,
Presbj-terians, and Independents are agreed in, and as
crosseth none of their principles."
Baxter, who had always held by the monarchy,
welcomed the Restoration, and his great hope for a
mea.sure of compromise that would bi-ing again into
one church the Episcopal and Presbyterian Christians
seemed at last attainable. The best Independents
desired fellow.ship without the pale of a church to
which, however they might be parted from it upon
matters of opinion, they could be joined in the
103
brotherhood of Christian charity. " I have credibly
heard," says Baxter, " that Dr. Thomas Goodwin,
PhiUp Nye, and Dr. Owen, the leaders of the In-
dependents, did tell the king that, as the Pope
allowed ordei-s of religious parties in mere dependence
on himself, all that they desired was, not to be
masters of others, but to hold their own liberty of
worehip and discijiline in sole dependence on the
king, as the Dutch and French churches do, so they
may be saved from the bishops and ecclesiastical
courts." Before the arrival of Charles II. he had
been -v-isited in Holland by English Presbyterians.
His Declaration from Breda had included in these
words the promise of an end of persecution for
religion : —
"And because the passion and uncharitableness of the times
have produced several opinions in rehgion, by which men are
engaged in parties and animosities against each other ; which
when they shall hereafter unite in a freedom of conversation,
•nill be composed, or better understood; we do declare a
liberty to tender consciences ; and that no man shall be dis-
quieted, or called in question, for differences of opinion in
matters of religion which do not distm-b the peace of the
kingdom ; and that we shall be ready to consent to such an act
of Parliament as, upon mature dehberation, shall be offered
to us, for the fuU granting that indulgence."
The king, whom Presbyterians had helped to the
throne, after his anival in London, named ten or
twelve Presbj-terians, including Baxter, chaplains in
ordinary. Baxter counselled his king not less faith-
fully than he had counselled Cromwell, and still
laboured above all things to establish spii-itual union
among English Christians. Baxter and other Presby-
terians in London discussed measures of compromise
with Episcopal clergy, and began by offering to
accept Archbishop Usher's scheme of church govern-
ment, that made each bishop the head of a Presbytery
which shared his powers, and a revised Liturgy that
did not forbid extemporary prayer. They accepted
the king as supreme " in all things and causes, as
well ecclesiastical as civil." They proposed also that
of the church ceremonies in question, some should be
abolished as occasions of dispute upon inditterent
matters, and that use of othere should be optional.
Upon every pohit the Presbyterians were met with
resistance by the bishops, but in October, 1660, the
king signed' a Declaration on ecclesiastical aftairs,
which conceded very much to Presbyterian desires.
Had it been acted upon, much strife and division
would have been at an end ; but there can be no end
to strife without change m the minds of combatants.
The House of Commons in November, 1660, rejected
the Declaration by a majority of twenty-six.
Among enthusiasts of the time was a small body
of Fifth-Monarchy men, so called from their inter-
pretation of the prophecy in the seventli chapter of
Daniel. The four beasts had always been interpreted
to mean the four great monarchies of the world ; the
ten horns of the fourth beast were said to be the ten
European kingdoms, and the " little horn" (verses 8,
20, 21.) was now i-ead to mean William the Con-
queror and his successoi-s, who " made war with the
306
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITER ATUnE,
[a.d. 1660
saints, and prevailed against them, until the Ajicient
of Days cauie, and judgment was given to the saints
of the ZSIost High." This pi-ophecy was said to be
fultilled 1)V the trial and condemnation of Charles I. ;
••and the time came that the saints possessed the
kingdom." This was the Fifth Monarchy, and hj
1666 (verses 2-1: — 27), having overthrown the power
of Rome, it was to be visible on earth, terribly and
suddenly, for the redemption of the people from all
Ijondage, ecclesiastical antl civO. Sixty Fifth Monarchy
men on Sunday, January (jth, 1661, issiied from their-
jueeting-house at Swan Alley, in Coleman Street,
•led liy a wine-cooper named Venuer, who had con-
spired in Cromwell's time, carried arms, declaring for
King Jesus, and killel several people. They repulsed
some files of the train-ljands hastily collected by the
whom Baxter had the foremost place, ai-gued that
" limiting of Church communion to things of doubt-
ful disputation hath been in all ages the ground of
schism and separation." They asked for modifications
of the Prayer Book that would add to the number of
those who used it many who before had conscientious
scruples. Baxter even drew up a reformed Liturgy.
The repl}' to this and to the desire for removal of
ceremonies that had served as occasions for dispute
was, " If pretence of conscience did exempt from obe-
dience, laws were useless ; whoever had not list to
obey might pretend tenderness of conscience, and
be thereby set at liberty." The conference was in-
eflectual.
The Parliament that met in ilay, 1G61, ordered
the Covenant to be burnt bv the hangman, recalled
Basiee's Church at Kiddebmixster.
Xord !Mayor, each fanatic believing that he would bs
■miraculously sustained although a thousand came
-against him. When they heard that the Life Guards
■\vere bearing down upon them, they escaped to Caen
Wood between Hampstead and Highgate, but at
<lawii on Wednesday entered London again, and
hoped to capture the Lord Mayor. Venner and
about sixteen of liis followers were taken and hanged
in different parts of the town, denouncing judgment
on the king, the judges, and the city. This incident
was followed by a proclamation " jirohibiting all un-
hiwful and seditious meetings and conventicles under
jiretence of religious worship," in which the unre-
sisting Quakera were named with the Fifth Monarchy
men. The Quakers worshipped as they held that
their duty to God required, and paid tribute also
to Csesar by accepting quietly the imposed pain of
imprisonment for conscience' sake. Few understood
•their point of view, and even Baxter reckoned them
-with sectaries for whom he did not intercede.
In April, 1661, the conference was held at the
Savoy Palace in the Strand, between twelve bishops
and twelve Presbyterians. The Presbyterians, among
the bishops to the House of Lords, established
an unmodified Episcopal Church, and passed, on the
19th of May, 1662, the Act of Uniformity, through
wliich no Piesbyterian miiuster could pass into the
ministry of the Church -svithout ordination by a
bishop, " assent and consent to everything contained
and prescribed in and by" the Prayer Book, with
declaration that the Co^-enant was an unla^^•ful oath,
and that it is unlawful to take ai-ms against the
king for any cause whatever. This Act came into
force on the 2ith of August, 1662, and those who
suffered by it remembered that this was St. Bar-
tholomew's Day, an annivei-sary already associated
witli religious liatreds.
Richard Baxter, of coui-se, was among the minis-
ters then shut out of the Chiu-ch. He might not
return to Kidderminster. The same conformity was
requu-ed from all teachei-s of the young, both public
and private. Two thousand ministers refused com-
pliance with the Act, and at once resigned, or were
deprived of their livings. The same Parliament
passed a long Act against liberty of the press, for the
suppression of " heretical, seditious, schisnxatical, cr
10 A.D. 1668.]
RELTGIOX.
307
offensive books or pamphlets, wherein any doctrine
or opinion should be asserted or maintained contrary
to the Christi;xn faith, or the doctrine or discipline of
the Church of England ; or which might tend or be
to the scandal of I'eligion, or the Church, or the
Government, or governoi-s of the Church, State, or
Commonwealth, or of any corporation or pei-son
whatsoever." On the 21st of May, 1662, the king
married Catharine of Portugal, a Iloman Catholic
jirincess. The king wished to olitain from Parlia-
ment a power dispensing with the penalties incun-ed
by Roman Catholics and Dissenters, but in 1663 the
Commons voted an address, in which the}" replied to
him "that it is in no sort advisable that there be any
indulgence to pereons who presume to dissent from
the Act of Uniformity, and religion established." In
1664 the fii-st Act against conventicles was passed.
Any meeting for religious worship at which ti^e per-
sons were |)resent, more than the famOy, was declared
a conventicle. Every pereon above the age of sixteen
found at a conventicle was subject for the firet offence
to three months' imprisonment, or a fine of five pounds;
for the second, to sLx months' imprisonment, or a fine
of twenty pounds ; for the third, to banishment to
an}- plantation except New England or Virginia,
Exile to one of these colonies might turn punishment
into a favour by giving a Presbyterian the religious
fellowship he sought.
In the year 166-5 there was a gi-eat plague, of
which, in August and September, eight thousand
were dying every week. Because the plague was busy
in London, Parliament met at Oxford on the 31st
of October, 1665. ilany Xonconforiuists, who had
bravelj- stayed among the plague-stricken in London
and other towns, occupied the pulpits left vacant by
those of the conforming clergy who had fled. In
their preaching they sometimes dwelt on the connipt
life at court, and the j)ei'secution of their brethren.
Use is said to have been made of this fact by pro-
motei-s of one of the first acts passed by the Parlia-
ment at Oxford, the " Five ^Mile Act," which was
strongly but ineffectually opposed in the House of
Lords. It enacted that all pereons " in holy orders
or pretended holy ordere," who had not fulfilled the
retpiii-ements of the Act of LTniformity, and who
should t;»ke upon them to preach in any unla-\\-ful
assembly, conventicle, or meating, should not, unless
only in passing on the road, come or be within five
miles of any city or town coi-porate or borough
that sent members to Parliament ; or of any jiarish,
town, or place wherein, since the Act of Oblivion,
they had been parson, ^^car, curate, stipendiary
lecturer, or had taken on them to jireach in unlaw-
ful assembly, conventicle, or meeting, on pain of a
penalty of £40 for every offence. Every person who
had not fii-st taken and subscribed the oath, and who
did not frequent divine service as established by law,
was also subject to the same penalty if he or she
should " teach any public or private school, or take
any boardei-s or tablers that were taught or instructed
by him or her." It is clear, therefore, that whatever
party was uppermost, the use made of power showed
that England generally had not yet outgrown foith
in the possibility of compelling peace by the enforce-
ment of one rule of Christian discipline and doctrine.
Dr. John Owen was in those days the chief
di\-ine among the Independents. He was born in
1616, at Hadham, Oxfordshiie, was educated at
Queen's College, Oxford, but left at the age of
twenty-one to avoid the regidations of Laud. At
the outbreak of civil war he was disinherited for hi&
advocacy of the cause of the Parliament. In 16.50,
Cromwell made him Dean of Christ Church, and he-
was Vice-Chancellor of the Univei-sity from lesa"
until the death of Cromwell. At the Restoration
he was deprived of oflice in the L^nivei-sity, and foi-
the next twenty-three yeai-s he lived in retii-ement.
using his pen actively.
Baxter preached, on the 25th of May, 1662, his
last sermon before he was silenced bj' the Act of
Uniformity ; and in September of the same year he,
being then forty-seven years old, man-ied Margaret
Charlton, aged twenty -three. His 'v.iSe, who was of
good worldly position, had been bom within thi-ee
miles of his native village, and had removed with
her mother to Kiddermiuster, where she received,
from Baxter her fii-st strong impressions of religion.
In July, 1663, he went to live at Acton, and then
and always wrote much, advocating always peace,,
and seeking a church that would comprehend the
Presbyterians, ^^'ith addition of an indulgence for
Independents and others who aided the religious
life in forms of worship outside the enlarged pale of
the Church. Some thought that he would himself
confonn, because he urged the laity who thought -svitli
him not to forsake the Church. But he was com-
mitted to Clerkenwell prison for preaching in his
own house at Acton. His wife went to prison with
liim, and, as he tells us, " was never so cheerful a
companion to me as in prison." He was released
Ijecause of a flaw in the mittimus, but was then
pi-evented by the Five Mile Act from return to
Acton. He went, therefore, to Totteridge, near
Barnet, where he had "a few mean rooms, which
were so extremely smoky, and the place -withal so
cold, that he spent the winter with gi-eat pain."
Here he followed up a passage in a book of Dr.
Owen's, which suggested to him a chance of bringing
Presbyterians and Independents to accord, and drew
Dr. Owen into an endeavour to ascertain tjrms of a
common undei-standing. It was the chief labour of
Baxter's life to bi-ing English religion into the way
of peace. One of Ids many books (fifty-six publica-
tion had preceded it) was on " The Cure of Church
I)i%-isions." It was published in 1668, and gave
sixty Directions to the People that applied practically
the 'teaching of Christ to the distractions of the
Church, with twenty-two additional Directions to the
Pastors. It is a very practical book still. This, for
instance, is one of the Directions : —
DIRECTION XLIX.
T'Tlr vnfice of all the good i)i others tihich app.-m-eth, anf
y.ilha- taU; of that behind their lacks, than of their faults.
If there iv-ere no good in others, they -were not to be loved :
for it is contrary- to mans nature to will or love anrthing, but
sub ratione bo»i, as supposed to be good. The good of nature
308
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1660
i3 lovely in aU men as men, even in the wicked and our
enemies (and therefore let them that think they can never
speak bad enough of nature take heed lest they run into
excess) ; and the capacity of the good of holiness and happi-
ness is part of the good of nature. The good of gifts and of
a common profession, with the possibility or probability of
sincerity, is lovely in all the visible members of the Church ;
and truly the excellent gifts of learning, judgment, utterance,
and memory, with the virtues of meekness, humility, patience,
contcntedness, and a loving disposition inclined to do good
to all, arc so amiable in some, who yet are too strange to a
heavenly life, that he must be worse than a man who will not
love them.
To vilify all these gifts in others savoureth of a malignant
contempt of the gifts of the Spirit of God ; and so it doth to
talk all of their faults, and say little or nothing of their gifts
and virtues. Yea, some have so unloving and unlovely a
kind of religiousness that they backbite that man as a
defender of the profane, and a commender of the ungodly,
who doth but contradict or reprehend their backltitings, and
are ever gains;iying all the commendations which they hear
of any whom thi^y think ill of.
But if you would, when you talk of others (especially them
who differ from you in opinions), be more in commendation
•of all the good which indeed is in them — 1 . You would shew
yourselves much liker to God, who is love, and unliker to
.Satan the accuser. 2. Y'ou would shew an honest impartial
ingenuity which honouroth vii-tue wherever it is found.
y. You would shew an humble sense of your own frailty,
who dare not proudly contemn your brethren. 4. You
would shew more love to God himself, when you love all of
God whensoever you discern it, and cannot abide to hear his
gifts and mercies undervalued. 5. You would increase the
grace of love to others in yourselves by the daily exercise of
it ; when backbiting and detraction wUl increase the malig-
nity from which thtiy spring. 6. You would increase love
also in the hearers, which is the fulfilling of the law, when
detraction will breed or increase malice. 7. You will do
much to the winning and conversion of them whom you
conunend, if they be unconverted. For when they are told
that you speak lovingly of them behind their backs, it will
much reconcile them to your persons, and consequently pre-
pare them to hearken to the counsel which they need. But
when they are told that you did backbite them, it will till
them with hatred of you, and violent prejudice against your
counsel and profession.
Yet mistake mo not. It is none of my meaning all this
while that you should speak any falsehood in commendation
of others ; nor make people believe that a careless, carnal
sort of persons are as good as those that are careful of their
souls, or that their way is sufficient for salvation ; nor to
commend ungodly men in such a manner as tendeth to keep
either them or their hearers from repentance ; nor to call evil
good, or put darkness for light, nor honour the works of the
devil ; but to shew love and impartialitj' to all, and to bo
much more in speaking of all the good which is in thi^m than
of the evil, especially if they lie your enemies, or differ from
you in opinions of religion. Titus iii. 1 : " Put them in
mind to be subject to principalities and powers, to obey
magistrates, to be ready to every good work, to speak evil of
no man, to be no brawlers, but gentle, showing all meekness
to all men. For we ourselves were sometime foolish, &c."
Grace is clean contrary to this detracting vice.
The volume
sketch of
ends with the following suggestive
THREE WAYS OF LIFE.
The way of Divi-' The way of Peace by The way of Division
tiion by Violence. Love and Humility. by Separation.
I.
Depart from I Adliere to the an-
the apostolieallcient simple Chris-
primitive simpli-ltianity, and make
city; and make i nothing necessary to
things unneees- 1 your concord and
sary seem neees- J communion, which is
sary in doctrine,
worship, disci-
pline, and con-
versation.
II.
Endure no man
that is not of your
mind and way ;
but force aU to
concord upon
these terms of
yom-s, whatever
it cost.
III.
Brand all dis-
senters with the
odious names of
schismaticks, he-
reticks, or sedi-
tious rebels ; that
they may become
hateful to high
and low.
IV.
^Vhentlushath
greatly increased
their disaffection
to you, accuse
their religion of
aU the expres-
sions of that dis-
affection, to make
it odious also.
V.
Take those for
your enemies that
are their friends,
and those for your
friends which are
their enemies :
And cherish those
be they never so
bad, that will be
against them and
help you to root
them out.
But remember
not necessary.
II.
Love your neigh
hours as yourselves
receive those that
Christ receiveth, and
that hold the neces-
saries of communion,
be they Episcopal,
Presbyterian, Inde-
pendents, Anabap-
tists, Arminians, Cal-
vinists, &c., so they
be not proved here-
tical or wicked.
III.
Speak evil of no
man, and especially
of dignities and
Icrs. Revile not when
you are revUed : speak
most of the good that
is in dissenters ; and
do them all the good
you can.
IV.
If any wrong you,
be the more watchful
over your passions,
and opinions, and
tongues, lest passion
carry you into ex-
tremes. Love your
enemies ; bless them
that curse you ; do
good to them that
hate you ; and pray
for them that despite-
fully use you and
persecute you ; and
do not evil, that good
may come by it.
V.
Impartially judge
of men by God's in-
terest in them, and
not your own or your
parties. Reprove the
ways of love-killers
and backbiters ; and
let not the fear of
their wrath or cen-
sures carry you into
a compliance with
them, or cause you by
silence to encourage
them. But rejoice if
you should be martyrs
I.
Depart from the
apostolical primitive
simplicity, on p r e-
tence of strict ob-
serving it ; and make
new duties and new
sins, which Scripture
makes not such.
II.
Account all those
ungodly that use set
prayers, or worship
not God in the same
manner as you do.
III.
Brand aU dissenters
with the odious names
of graceless forma-
lists. That you may
make them all seem
unlovely to othei'S.
IV.
When this hath
stirred them up to
wrath, call them
wicked persecutors,
and have no com-
mmiion with them.
Backbite and re-
proach all those as
compilers with sin, or
such as strengthen the
hands of tlie wicked
and the persecutors,
who would recall you
to love and humility.
And cherish all sects
be they never so er-
roneous or passionate'
that will take your
part, and speak against
them. But first, when
I the wrath which you
TO A.D. 1668.]
RELIGION.
3T)9
By Violfiice.
By Love.
that for all this for love
you must come For —
to judgment.
and
peace
By Separation.
thus kindled hath con-
sumed you ; secondly,
or your divisions
crumbled you all to
dust; thirdly, and
your scandals hard-
ened men to scorn
religion to their dam-
nation; remember,
woe to the world be-
cause of olt'enccs, and
woe to him by whom
offence coraeth.
And read these "Blessed are the Read Acts 20. 30;
following words meek, for they shall 1 Cor. 1. 10, 13, and
of 'Six. K. Hook- inherit the earth." ! 3. 3; Rom. 16. 17, IS ;
er's, which hei "Blessed are the Jam. 3. 13, 14, 15, 16,
useth of some, peacemakers, for they, 17. Study these on
pai-t of the his- shall bo called the' youi- knees.
tory, which out, children of God."
oiSulpitiiislhe-] "Blessed are they
fore mentioned ; , which are persecuted
Ecclea.Pol.£j>ist.ioT righteousness'
Dedic. 'sake, for theirs is the
kingdom of heaven."
" I deny not
hut that our antagonists in these controversies may pcr-
adventm-e have met with some not unlike to Ithacius,
who mightily bending himself by all means against the
heresy of Priscillian, (the hatred of which one evil was
all the virtue he had .^)) became so wise in the end,
that every man careful of virtuous conversfition, studious
of the Scripture, and given to any abstinence in diet, was
set down in his calendar for suspected Priscillianists : ,^^
For whom it should be exjiedient to approve their sound-
ness of faith, by a more licentious and loose beha%'iour. ,^1
Such proctors and patrons the truth might spare. Yet is
not their grossness so intolerable as on the contrary side,
the scurrilous and more than satirical immodest}' of Mar-
tinism ; the first published schedules whereof being brought
to the hands of a grave and very honourable knight, with
signification given that the book would refresh his spirits ;
he took it, saw what the title was, read over an unsavoury
sentence or two, and delivered back the libel with this
answer : ' I am sony j'ou are of the mind to be solaced with
these sports, and sorrier you have herein thought my affec-
tion like your own.' "
John Bimyan, bom in 1628, at Elstow, within a
mile of Bedford, was a tinker's son, and bred to liis
father's calling. What little reading he learnt at a
free school he had lost till he married at nineteen.
Of this he wrote afterwards in a sketch of liis
own Ufe, called " Grace Abounding to the Chief of
Sinners."
Presently after this, I changed my condition into a
manned state, and my mercy was, to light upon a wife,
whose father was 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 a spoon betwixt us hoth),
yet this .she had for her part, " The Plain Han's Pathway to
Heaven;" and "The Practice of Piety;" which her father had
left her when he died. In these two books I would some-
times read with her, wherein I also found some things that
were somewhat pleasing to me ; (but aU this while I met with
no conviction.) She also would be often telling of me what a
godly man her father was, and how he would reprove and
correct vice, both in his house, and among his neighbours ;
what a strict and holy life he lived in his days, both in
word and deed.
Banyan's imagination was fervid, and objects of
thought sometimes became as real to liis eye or ear.
One 8imday he had heard in chui-ch a sermon against
the sports encouraged on that day by those who
opposed the Puritans. He felt guilty imtil he had
dined, then shook the sermon from his mind, and
followed his old custom.
But the same day, as I was in the midst of a game of cat,
and having struck it one blow fi-om 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 leave thy
sins and go to heaven, or have thy sius and go to heU r " At
this I was put to an exceeding maze ; wherefore, leaving my
cat upon the ground, I looked up to heaven, and was as if I
had, with the eyes of ray understanding, seen the Lord Jesus
looking down upon me, as being very hotly displeased with
me, and as if He did severely threaten me with some giievous
punishment for these and other ungodly practices.
After a little time, the religious feeling became very
strong, but he says the change could only have been
outward, because he was proud of his godliness. It
cost him a year to give up dancing, and much
struggle to give up his pleasure in bell-ringing.
Now you must know that before this I had taken much
delight in ringing, but my conscience beginning to be tender,
I 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 dm-st not ring :
but I thought this did not become religion neither, yet I forced
myself, and would look on still. But quickly after, I began
to think, how if one of the bells should fall 1-' Then I chose
to stand under a main beam that lay overthwart the steeple
fi-om side to .''ide, thinking here I 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 aU this beam. This made me stand in the steeple-
door ; and now, thought I, I am Siife enough, for if the beU
should now fall, I can slip out behind these thick walls, and
so be preserved notwithstanding.
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 't And
this thought (it may, for aught I know, when I stood and
looked on) did continually so shake my mind, that I durst not
stand at the steeple-door any longer, but was forced to flee,
for fear the steeple should fall upon my head.
He tells how he was one day in Bedford streets,
plying his trade as tinker, when he was moved by
Iiearing some poor women talk of their experiences
in religion. He records some of his own struggles
to wm perfect faith in God : —
Wherefore while I was thus considering, and being put to
a plunge about it, (for you must know, that as yet I had not
in this matter broken my mind to any one, only did hear and
310
CASSELL'S LIBRAEY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. leso
consider), the tempter came in with this delusion, that there
was no way for me to know I had faith, but by trying to
work some miracles ■ urging those scriptures that seemed to
look that way, for the enforcing and strengthening his
temptation. Isay, one day, as I was between Elstow and
IJedford, the temptation was hot upon me, to try if I had
f lith, by doing some miracle ; which miracle at this time was
this : I must say to the puddles that were in the horse-pads,
•'Be dry;" and to the dry places, "Be you puddles:" And
truly one time I was going to say so indeed; but just as I was
about to speak, this thought came into my mind, " But go
under yonder hedge, and pray first, that Ciod would make you
able." But when I concluded to pray, this came hot upon
lue ; that if I prayed, and came again, and tried to do it, and
yet did nothing notwithstanding, then to be sure I had no
faith, but was a castaway, and lost ; nay, thought I, if it be
so, I wiU not try j-et, but will stay a little longer.
So I continued at a great loss ; for I tliought, if they only
had faith, which could do such wonderful things, then I con-
cluded, that for the present I neither had it, nor yet for the
time to come were ever like to have it. Thus I was tossed
betwixt the devil and my own ignorance, and so perplexed,
especially at some times, that I could not tell what to do.
About this time, the state and happiness of these poor
people at Bedford was thus, in a kind of vision, presented to
me. I saw as if they were on the sunny side of some high
mountain, there refreshing themselves with the pleasant
beams of the sun, while I was sliivering and shrinking in the
cold, afflicted with frost, snow and dark clouds : methought
also, betwi.xt me and them, I s;iw a wall that did compass
about this mountain. Now through this wall my soul did
greatly desire to pass, concluding, that if I could, I would
I ven go into the very midst of them, and there also comfort
myself with the heat of their sun.
About this wall I bethought myself to go again and again,
still prj-ing as I went, to see if I could find some way or
passage by which I might enter therein, but none could I find
for some time. At the last I saw as it wore a narrow gap,
like a Uttlc doorway in the wall, through which I attempted
to pass. Now the passage being very strait and narrow, I
made many efforts to get in, but all in vain, even until I was
well nigh quite beat out, by striving to get in ; at last, with
gi'eat striving, methought I at first did get in my head, and
after that, by a sideling striving, my shoulders, and my whole
body ; then I was exceeding glad, went and sat down in the
midst of them, and so was comforted with the light and heat
i'{ their sun.
Now this moimtain, and wall, &:c., was thus made out to
luc; The mountain signitieth the cliurch of the living God :
the sun that shone thereon, the comfortable shining of His
merciful face on them that were therein ; the wall I thought
was the world, that did make separation between the Chris-
tians and the world ; and the gap which was in the wall, 1
thought, was Jesus Christ, who is the way to God the Father.
For Jesus said in his reply to Thomas, " I am the way, and
the truth, and the life ; no man cometh to the Father but
by Jle. Because strait is the gate and narrow is the way
which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it." But
forasmuch as the passage was wonderful narrow, even so
narrow that I could not, but with great difficulty, enter in
:hereat, it showed me, that none could enter into life but
those that were in downright earnest, and uidess also they
left that wicked woidd behind them ; for here was only room
for body and soul, but not for body and soul and sin.
His anxieties of mind ended in serious illness, bnt
he recovered, and became robust In lG-37 Jolm
Bunyan was made deacon of Lis cliurch at Bedford,
and moved his fellow-worshippers so greatly with his
jirayers, that he was asked to take his turn in village
preaching. That was against the law, and complaint
was lodged ; but it was not nntil after the Restora-
tion that he was committed to Bedford jail for
preaching in conventicles. He remained in prison
until March, 1G72 ; that is to say, from the age of
tliirtv-two to the age of forty-four. At the close of
this time Bunyan wrote some " Reflections upon my
Imprisonment," in which he said : " 1 never had in
all my life so great an inlet into the Word of God as
now ; those scriptures that I saw nothing in before
were made in this place and state to shine upon me.
Jesus Christ was never more real and apparent
than now ; here I have seen and felt Him indeed ! "
Thoughts of his wife, who had laboured in 'v-ain for
his release, and for the little ones de])rived of the
breadwinner, one a blind daughter, ISIary, frail of
frame, whom he outlived, were the shai'^iest of his
sorrows. And here he wrote — •
The way not to faint is, " To look not on the things that
are seen, but at the things that are not seen ; for the tilings
that are seen are temporal, but the things that are not seen
are eternal." And thus I reasoned with myself. If I providt'
only for a prison, then the whip comes at unawares, and so
doth also the pillory. Again, if I only provide for these, then
I am not fit for banishment. Further, if I conclude that
banishment is the worst, then if death comes, I am surprised :
so that I see, tlie best way to go through sufferings, is to trust
in God through Christ, as touching the world to come ; and
as touching this world, " to count the grave my house, to
make my bed in darkness: to say to corruption, Thou art
my father ; and to the worm. Thou art my mother and
sister : " that is, to familiarise these things to me.
But notwithstanding these helps, I found myself a man
encompassed with infirmities ; the parting with my wife and
poor children hath often been to me in this place as the
pulling the flesh from the bones, and that not only because
I am somewhat too fond of these great mercies, but also
because I should have often brought to my mind the many
hardships, miseries, and wants that my poor family was like
to meet with, should I be taken from them, especially my
jioor blind child, who lay ntarer my heart than all beside.
t)h 1 the thoughts of the hardship I thought my poor blind
one might go under, would break my heart to pieces.
Poor child: thought I, what sorrow art thou like to have
for thy portion in this world 1 Tliou must be beaten, must
beg, suffer hunger, cold, nakedness, and a thousand calami-
ties, though I cannot now endure the wind should hi )w upon
thee. But yet recalling myself, thought I, I muet venture
you all with God, though it goeth to the quick to leave you ;
Oh ! I saw in this condition I was as a man who was pulling
down his house upon the head of his wife and children ; yet ,
thought I, I must do it, I must do it : and now I thought on
those two milch kine that were to carry the ark of God into-
another country, and to leave their calves behind them.'
But that which helped me in this temptation were divers
considerations, of wliich, three in speci.-il here I will name l
the first was the consideration of these two scriptures,.
1 1 Simuel vL 7—12. Tlie tendei-ne?-! of deep feeling in the whole
passage enters with sin<;ular charm into this application of Old
Testament reading. Jolm Banyan cert.^inly read the Bible with his
heart as well as his eyes.
TO AD. 167^.]
RELIGION.
311
■ Leave thy fatherless children, I \vill preserve them alive,
:iiid let thy widows trust in me:" and again, "The Lord
^:iid, Yerily it shall go well with thy remnant, verily I mil
. ause the enemy to entreat them well in the time of evil, and
in time of affliction."
JoHS BdSta-n
It wa.s tluring this imprisonment, wlien Christ was
" seen and felt indeed," that John Biinyan wrote
'• The Pilgrim's Progress from this World to that
winch is to come, delivered under the Similitude of
a Dream, wherein is discovered the Marnier of his
Setting out, his Dangerous Journey, and safe Arrival
at the Desiied Country." It is the heavenward
.struggle against obstacles and clangers of this world
^•ividly personified liy the imagination of a man to
whom spiritual life is the reality and earthly life the
shadow. To those who cjuestioned the fitness of liis
method of representing Divine truth, he said of
allegor}' what he might have said of the earthly
trial under which it was written : " Dark clouds bring
waters, when the bright brings none." In the close
to the author's rhymed ajjology for his book, which
was not published until 1(J78, six years after his im-
pri.sonmeut, he thus indicates its purpose : —
THE pilgrim's PROGRESS.
This book it chalketh out before thine eyes
The man that seeks the everlasting prize ;
It shows you whence he comes, whither he goes,
AVTiat he leaves undone, also what he does ;
It also shows you how he runs and runs.
Till he unto the gate of glory comes.
It shows too, who set out for life amain,
As if the la.sting crown they would obtain ;
Here also you may see the reason why
They lose their labour, and like fools do die.
This book wiU make a traveller of thee,
.f by its counsel thou wilt ruled be ;
It will direct thee to the Holj- Land,
If thou wilt its directions understand :
Yea, it will make the slothful active be ;
The blind also delightful things to see.
Art thou for something rare and profitable ?
Wouldest thou see a truth -n^thin a fable ;-
Art thou forgetful ? Wouldest thou rememhor
From Xew-year's-day to the last of December ?
Then read my fancies, they wUl stick like burn-j
And may be to the helpless, comforters.
This book is writ in such a dialect
As may the minds of listless men affect :
It seems a novelty, and j-et contains
Nothing but sound and honest Gospel strains.
Would' St thou divert thyself from melancholy ?
"Would" st thou be pleasant, yet be far from folly ?
^\■ould'st thou read riddles, and their explanation?
(Jr else be di-owned in thy contemplation ':
Dost thou love picking meat ': Or would' st thou see
A man i' th' clouds, and hear him speak to thee ?
Would' st thou be in a dream, and yet not sleep ?
(_)i- would'st thou in a moment laugh and weep?
Wouldest thou lose thyself, and catch no hann,
And find thyself again without a charm ?
Would'st read thyself, and read thou know'st not what.
And yet know whether thou art blest or not.
By reading the same Unes ? then come hither.
And lay my book, thy head, and heart together.
And thus begins John Bimyan's vision of the
heavenward journey : —
As I walk'd through the wQdemess of this world, I lighted
on a certain place whore was a den, and I laid me do-mi in
that place to sleep ; and as I slept, I dreamed a dream. I
di-eamed, and behold I saw a man clothed ^vith rags, standing
in a certain place, with his face from his own house, a book
in his hand, and a great burden upon his back. I looked, and
saw him open the book, and read therein ; and as he read, he
wept and trembled ; and not being able longer to contain, he
brake out with a lamentable cry, saj-ing, "\Miat shall I do ?
His city — the world — will be burned with fire
from heaven. To his neighbours his strange trouble
became worse and worse, as he cried, ■' What shall
I do to be saved 1 " Then came Evangelist, and
showed liim the strait gate to which he was to make
his way. He set off with speed ; neighbom- Obstinate
could "not jjersuade Christian to return, and soon
turned back from following ; but neighbour Pliable
was persuaded to go on, talking by the way of ever-
lastmg life and cro\ras of glory.
Xow I saw in mv dream, that just as they had ended this
talk, they di-ew near to a very mirj' slough, that was in the
midst of the plain; and they, being heedless, did both fall
suddenly into the bog. The name of the Slough was Despond.
Here, therefore, they wallowed for a time, being gi-ievously
bedaubed with the dirt ; and Christian, because of the burden
that was on his back, began to sink in the mu-e.
Fit. Then said Pliable, Ah, Neighbour Christian, where are
you now ?
C'/ir. Truly, said Christian, I do not know.
P/i. At that Pliable began to be offended, and angcrly said
to his fellow, Is this the happiness you have told me all this
while of ? If we have such Ul speed at our first setting out,
what may we expect 'twixt this and our journey's end ? Hay
I "-et out again with my life, you shall possess the brave
312
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1660
country alone for me. And with that he gave a desperate
struggle or two, and got out of the mire on that side of the
slough which was next to his own house : so away he went,
and Chi-istian saw him no more.
WTicrefore Christian was left to tumble in the Slough of
Despond alone : but still he endeavom-ed to struggle to that
side of the slough that was still further from his own house,
and next to the wicket-gate ; the which he did, but could not
get out, because of the burden that was upon his back : but
I beheld in my dream, that a man came to him, whose name
was Help, and asked him. What he did there 'i
Chr. (?ii', said Christian, I was bid go this way by a man
called Evangelist, who directed me also to yonder gate, that
I might escape the wrath to come ; and as I was going
thither, I fell in here.
Help. But why did you not look for the steps ?
Chr. Fear followed me so hard, that I fled the ne.xt way,
and fell in.
Help. Then said he. Give me thy hand : so he gave him his
hand, and he drew him out, and set him upon sound ground,
and bid him go on his way.
Then I stepped to him that plucked him out, and said.
Sir, wherefore, since over this place is the way from the City
of Destruction to yonder gate, is it that this plat is not
mended, that poor travellers might go thither with more
security ? And he said unto me. This miry slough is such a
place as cannot be mended ; it is the descent whither the
scum and filth that attends conviction for sin doth continually
run, and therefore it is called the Slough of Despond ; for
still as the sinner is awakened about his lost condition, there
ariseth in his soul many fears and doubts, and discouraging
apprehensions, which all of them get together, and settle in
this place : and this is the reason of the badness of this
ground.
It is not the pleasure of the King that this place should
remain so bad. His labourers also have, by the dii-ection of
his majesty's surveyors, been for above these sixteen hun-
dred years employed about this patch of ground, if pcrhajis it
might have been mended : yea, and to my knowledge, said
he, here hath been swallowed up at least twenty thousand
cart-loads, yea, millions of wholesome instructions, that have
at all seasons been brought from all places of the King's
dominions (and they that can tell say they are the best
materials to make good ground of the jjlace), if so be it might
have been mendtd, but it is the Slough of Despond still, and
so will be when they have done what they can.
True, there are by the direction of the law-giver, certain
good and substantial steps, placed even through the very
midst of this slough ; but at such time as this place doth much
spue out its filth, as it doth against change of weather, these
steps are hardly seen ; or if the}' be, men through the dizzi-
ness of their heads, step besides ; and then they are bemired
to purpose, notwithstanding the steps be there; but the
ground is good when they are once got in at the gate.
Tlie steps over the Slough of Despond are the
promises of forgiveness and acceptance to life by
faith in Christ. Then Christian met and talked
\nt\i Mr. Worldly Wiseman from the towii of Carnal
Policy, who thought a visit to Mr. Legality, who
lived in the Village of Morality, would answer their
purpose better than making for the strait gate ; and
Christian was found by Evangelist on the wrong
road, under Mount Sinai. Evangelist taught him,
comforted him, and set him again in the right way.
So he found the gate, and was admitted by Good-
will, and taken to the bouse of the Interpi-eter, who
taught him spiritual truths by a succession of im-
pressive figures and emblems.
Then said the Interpreter to Christian, Hast thou con-
sidered all these things ?
Chr. Yes, and they put me in hope and fear.
Inter. Well, keep all things so in th)- mind that they may
be as a goad in thy sides, to prick thee forward in the way
thou must go. Then Chi-istian began to gird up his loins,
and to address himself to his journey. Then said the
Interpreter, The Comforter be always with thee, good Chris-
tian, to guide thee in the way that leads to the city. So
Christian went on his way, sa5'ing,
" Here I have seen things rare and profitable ;
Things pleasant, dreadful, things to make me stable
In what I have begun to take in hand ;
Then let me think on them, and understand
'\^^lerefore they show'd me was, and let me be
Thankful, good Interpreter, to thee."
Now I saw in my di'eam, that the highway up which
Chi-istian was to go, was fenced on either side with a wall,
and that wall is called Salvation. Up this waj-, therefore,
did burdened Christian run, but not without great difficulty,
because of the load on his back.
He ran thus till he came at a place somewhat ascending,
and upon that place stood a Cross, and a little below in the
bottom, a sepulchre. So I saw in my dream, that just as
Christian came up with the cross, his burden loosed from off
his shoulders, and fell from off his back, and began to tumble,
and so continued to do, till it came to the mouth of the
sepulchre, where it fell in, and I saw it no more.
Then was Christian glad and lightsome, and said with a
merry heart. He hath given me rest by His sorrow, and life
bj- His death. Then he stood still awhile to look and
wonder ; for it was ver^' siu-prising to him, that the sight of
the cross should thus ease him of his burden. He looked
therefore, and looked again, even till the springs that were in
his head sent the waters down his cheeks. Now as he stood
looking and weeping, behold three shining ones came to him,
and saluted him with. Peace be to thee; so the first said to
him. Thy sins be forgiven : the second stript him of his rags,
and clothed him with change of raiment ; the third also set a
mark in his forehead, and gave him a roll with a seal upon
it, which he bid him look on as he ran, and that he should
give it in at the celestial gate. So they went their way.
As Christian went on, he found three men. Simple,
Sloth, and Presumption, fast asleep in a valley, with
fetters on their heels. He roused them, but they
slept again. Next there came tumbling over the
wall two men : the name of the one was Formalist,
and the name of the other was Hypocri.sy. They
justified the old custom of getting over the wall to
save the journey by the strait gate, which was too
far about ; and, said they — -
We see not wherein thou differest from us but by the coat
that is on thy back, which was, as we trow, given thee by
some of thy neighbours, to hide the shame of thy nakedness.
Chr. By laws and ordinances you will not be saved, since
you came not in by the door. And as for this coat that is on
my back, it was given me by the Lord of the jjacc whither I
go ; and that, as you say, to cover my nakedness with. And
I take it as a token of his kindness to me, for I had nothing
TO A.D. 1G7?=.]
EELIGIOIS^.
513
lut rags before. And besides, thus I comfort myself as I
_'o : sui-ely, think I, when I come to the gate of the city, the
l.ord thereof vnU know me for good, since I have his coat on
my back ; a coat that he gave me freely in the day that he
stript me of my rags. I have moreover a mark in my fore-
head, of which perhaps you have taken no notice, which one
of my Lord's most intimate associates fixed there in the day
that my burden fell off my shoulders. I will tell you more-
over, that I had then given me a roll sealed, to comfort me by
reading as I go in the way ; I was also bid to give it in at
the celestial gate, in token of my certain going in after it ;
all which things I doubt you want, and want them because
you came not in at the gate.
To these things they gave him no answer ; only they looked
upon each other and laughed. Then I saw that they went
on all, save that Christian kept before, who had no more talk
but with himself, and that sometimes sighingly, and some-
times comfortably : also he would be often reading in the roU
that one of the shining ones gave him, by which he was
refreshed.
The dreamer saw them travel on till they came to
the foot of the hOl Difficulty, where was a spring.
Christian drauk of the well, and went straight on ;
liis companions, seeing two otlier ways that seemed
to avoid the hill, took them. The name of one of
these ways was Danger, and tlie name of the other
Destruction. Then Mistrust and Timorous, wlio had
seen lions in the path, were met rushing back, but
Christian, who liad slept in an arbour on the hill-
.side, went on till he missed his roll, but he returned
for it, and then proceeded, passing the lions ; which
were chained, though he saw not the chains ; and dis-
coursed witli Discretion, Prudence, Piety, and Charity,
in the House Beautiful. Then they supped, and all
their talk at table was about the Lord of the Hill,
a great warrior, who had fought and slain him tliat
liad power of death, and the Pilgrim then was laid
in a large upper chamber, wliose window opened
towards the sun-risin|, : the name of the chamber
was Peace. Next day his hostesses took him to
the armoury, and sent him forth armed. His way
next was through the Valley of Humiliation.
But now, in this Valley of Humiliation, poor Christian was
hard put to it ; for he had gone but a little wa}% before he
I'Spied a foul fiend coming over the field to meet him ; his
name is ApoUyon. Then did Christian begin to be afraid,
and to cast in his mind whether to go back or to stand his
gi'ound : but he considered again that he had no annour for
iiis back, and therefore thought that to turn the back to him
might give him the greater advantage with ease to pierce him
with his darts. Therefore he resolved to venture and stand
his ground : for, thought he, had I no more in mine eye than
the sa\Tng of my life, 'twould be the best way to stand.
80 he went on, and ApoUj'on met him. Now the monster
was hideous to behold : he was clothed with scales like a fish
"fand they are his pride) ; he had wings liiie a dragon, feet
like a bear, and out of his belly came fire and smoke ; and
his mouth was as the mouth of a lion. "When he was come
up to Christian, he beheld him with a disdainful countenance,
and thus began to question with him.
Apol. ^^^lence come you ? and whither are you boimd ?
Chr. I am come from the City of Destruction, which is
the place of all evil, and am going to the City of Zion.
Apol. Bv this I perceive thou art o»e of my subjects, for
104
all that country is mine, and I am the prince and god of it.
How is it then that thou hast run away from thy kinsri'
Were it not that I hope thou mayest do me more service, I
would strike thee now at one blow to the ground.
Chr. I was born indeed in your dominions, but your service
was hard, and your wages such as a man could not live on,
for the wages of sin is death ; therefore when I was come to
years, I did as other considerate persons do, look out, if
perhaps I might mend myself.
Apol. There is no prince that will thus lightly lose his
subjects, neither will I as yet lose thee : but since thou com-
plainest of thy serHce and wages, be content to go back :
what om- countrj- will afford, I do here promise to give thee.
Chr. But I have let myself to another, even to the Iving of
princes, and how can I with fairness go back with thee ':
Apol. Thou hast done in this according to the proverb,
changed a bad for a worse : but it is ordinary for those that
have professed themselves his servants, after a whOe to give
him the slij), and return again to me : do thou so too, and all
shall be well.
But. Christian remained firm against all entice-
ment.
Then Apollyon broke out into a grievous rage, saying, I
am an enemy to this prince ; I hate his person, his Laws, and
people ; I am come out on purpose to withstand thee.
Chr. Apollyon, beware what you do, for I am in the king's
highwav. the wav of holiness; therefore tak*^ herd to VMurself.
Christian and Apollyon.
(From the 13th Edilion of " Pilgrim's Progress" 1692.)
Then Apollyon straddled quite over the whole breadth of
the way, and s;ud, I am void of fear in this matter, jjrepars
thyself to die ; for I swear by my infernal den, that thou
shalt go no further ; here will I spill thy soul.
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[A.D, 1660
And with that he threw a flaming dart at his hreast, but
Christian had a shield in his hand, with which he caught it,
and so prevented the danger of that.
Then did Christian draw, for he saw 'twas time to bestir
him : and Apollyon as fast made at him, throwing darts as
thiek as hail : by the which, notwithstanding all that C'hi-is-
tian could do to avoid it, Apollyon wounded him in his head,
iiis hand, and foot. This made Chi'istian give a little back ;
Apollyon therefore followed liis work amain, and Christian
again took courage, and resisted as manfully as he could.
This sore combat lasted for above half a day, even till Chris-
tian was almost quite spent ; for you must know that Christian,
by reason of his wounds, must needs grow weaker and weaker.
Then Apollyon, eapjnng his opportunity, began to gather
up close to Christian, and wi'estling with him, gave him a
dreadful fall : and with that Chi-istian's sword flew out of his
hand. Then said Apollyon, I am sure of thee now : and
with that he had almost pres.sed him to death, so that Chris-
tian began to despaii- of life : but as God would have it,
while Apollyon was fetching of his last blow, thereby to
make a full end of this good man. Christian nimbly stretched
out his hand for his sword, and caught it, saj-ing. Rejoice
not against me, O mine enemy ! when I fall I shall arise ;
and with that gave him a deadly thrust, which made him give
back, as one that had received his mortal wound : Christian
perceiving that, made at him again, saj-ing. Nay, in all these
things we arc more than conquerors through him that loved
us. And with that Apollyon spread forth his dragon's
wings, and sped him away, that Christian for a season saw
iiim no more.
In this combat no man can imagine, imless he had seen and
heard as I did, what yelling and hideous roaring Apollyon
made all the time of the fight, he spake like a di-agon ; and
on the other side, what sighs and groans burst from Chri.stian's
heart. I never saw him all the while give so much as one
pleasant look, till he perceived ho had woimded Apollj'on
with his two-edged sword ; then indeed he did smile, and
look upward ; but 'twas the dreadfullest sight that ever I saw.
The way then was through the Valley of the
Shadow of Death, from which Christian met men
flying.
Chr. But what have you seen ? said Christian.
Mm). Seen! 'WTiy, the valley itself, which is as dark as
pitch ; wc also saw there the hobgoblins, satjTS, and dragons
of the pit ; we heard iilso in that valley a continual howling
and yelling, as of a people under unutterable misery, who
there sat bound in afliiction and irons ; and over that valley
hangs the discouraging clouds of confusion ; Death also doth
always spread his wings over it. In a word, it is every whit
dreadful, being utterly without order.
Chr. Then said Christian, I perceive not yet, by what you
have said, but that this is my way to the desired haven.
Men. Be it thy way ; wo wiU not choose it for ours. So
they parted, and Christian went on his way, but still with
his sword drawn in his hand, for fear lest he should be
assaulted.
I saw then in my tlream, so far as this valley reached,
there was on the right hand a very deep ditch ; that ditch is
it into which the blind have led the blind in all ages, and
liave both there miserably perished. Again, behold on the left
hand, there was a very dangerous quag, into which, if even a
good man falls, he can find no bottom for his foot to stand on.
Into that quag King David once did fall, and had no doubt
therein been smothered, had not He that is able plucked him
cut.
The pathway was here also exceeding narrow, and there-
fore good Chi-istian was the more put to it ; for when he
sought in the dark to shun the ditch on the one hand, he was
ready to tip over into the mire on the other ; also when ho
sought to escape the mire, without great carefulness he would
be ready to fall into the ditch. Thus he went on, and I heard
him here sigh bitterly; for, besides the dangers mentioned
above, the pathway was here so dark, that oft-times, when
he lift up his foot to set forward, he knew not where, or
upon what, he shoidd set it next.
About the midst of this vaUey, I perceived the mouth of hell
to be, and it stood also hard by the wayside. Now thought
Christian, ^\Tiat shall I do r And ever and anon the flame
and smoke would come out in such abundance, with sparks
and hideous noises (things that cared not for Christian's
sword, as did Apollyon before) that he was forced to put up
his sword, and betake himself to another weapon, caUed
All-prayer. So he cried in my hearing, O Lord, I beseech
Thee deliver my soul. Thus he went on a great while, yet
still the flames would bo reaching towards Mm : also he heard.
doleful voices,
" Poor man ! where art thou now ;- Thy day is night.
Ciood man be not cast down, thou yet art right :
Thy way to heaven lies by the gates of heU ;
Cheer up, hold out, with thee it shall go well ; "
and rushings to and fro, so that sometimes he thought he-
should be torn in pieces, or trodden down like mire in the
streets. This frightful sight was seen, and these di'cadful
noises were heard by him for several miles together ; and
coming to a place where he thought he heard a company of
fiends coming forward to meet him, he stopped, and began
to muse what he had best to do. Sometimes he had half a
thought to go back : then again he thought he might be
half way thi'ough the valley : he remembered also how he
had ali-ead)- vanquished many a danger, and that the danger
of going back might be much more than for to go forward;
so he resolved to go on. Yet the fiends seemed to come
nearer and nearer: but when they were come even almost at-
him, he cried out with a most vehement voice, " I wUl walk
in the strength of the Lord God;" so they gave back, and
came no further.
One thing I would not let slip: I took notice that now
poor Christian was so confounded, that he did not know his
own voice ; and thus I perceived it. Just when he was come
over against the mouth of the burning pit, one of the wicked
ones got behind him, and stepped up softly to him, and.
whisperingly suggested many grievous blasphemies to him,
which he verily thought had proceeded from his own mind.
This put Christian more to it than anj-thing that he met mth
before, even to think that he should now blaspheme Him that
he loved so much before ; yet, if he could have helped it, he
would not have done it ; but he had not the discretion neither
to stop his ears, nor to know from whence those blasphemies
came.
■^Tien Christian had travelled in this disconsolate condition
some considerable time, he thought he heard the voice of a
man, as going before him, saying, " Though I walk through
the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear none ill, for
Thou art with me."
The second part of the valley Christian found even
more dangerous than the tir.st, being full of snares
and pitfalls, and, says Bunyau —
Now I saw in my dream, that at the end of this valley lay-
blood, bones, ashes, and mangled bodies of men, even of
TO A.D. 1678.]
RELIGION.
315
pilgrims that had gone this way formerly ; and while I was
musing what should he the reason, I espied a little hefore me
a cave, where two giants. Pope and Pagan, dwelt in old
time ; by whose power and tj-ranny the men whose hones,
blood, ashes, Sec, lay there, were cruelly put to death. But
by this place Christian went without much danger, whereat I
somewhat wondered; but I have learned since that Pagan
has been dead many a day ; and as for the other, though he
be yet alive, he is by reason of age, and also of the many
shrewd brushes that he met with in his younger days, gi-own
so crazy, and stiif in his joints, that he can now do little more
than sit in his cave's mouth, grinning at pilgrims as they go
by, and biting his nails, because he cannot come at them.
After overcoming more perils, Christian overtook
Faithful, who also had come out from the City of
De.struction, and brought news from it, and told in a
new foi-m a Pilgrim's Progress in the story of his own
-adventures on the way. Then they met Talkative,
who hath only what lieth on his tongue, and his
religion is to make a noise therewith. Wlien they
had parted from Talkative, Evangelist overtook and
encouraged them, and warned them of the temptations
they mu.st face, for they were alx)ut to enter Vanity
Fan-.
Then I saw in my dream, that when they were got out of
the wilderness, they presently saw a town before them, and
the name of that town is Vanity ; and at the town there is a
fair kept, called Vanity Fair : it is kept all the year long ; it
beareth the name of Vanity Fair, because the town where 'tis
kept is lighter than vanity ; and also because all that is there
sold, or that cometh thither, is vanity. As is the saj-ing of
the wise, " All th;it cometh is vanity."
This fair is no new-erected business, but a thing of ancient
standing : I will show you the original of it.
Almost five thousand years agone, there were pilgrims
walking to the celestial city, as these two honest persons are :
and Beelzebub, Apollyon, and Legion, with their companions,
perceiving by the path that the pilgrims made, that theii' way
to the city lay thi-ough this town of Vanity, they conti-ived
here to set up a fail- ; a fair wherein should be sold all sorts
of vanity, and that it should Last all the year long : therefore
at this fair are all such merchandise sold, as houses, lands,
trades, places, honours, preferments, titles, coimtries, king-
doms, lusts, pleasures, and delights of all sorts, as whores,
bawds, wives, husbands, children, masters, servants, lives.
Mood, bodies, souls, silver, gold, pearls, precious stones, and
what not.
And moreover, at this fair there is at all times to be seen
iugglings, cheats, games, plays, fools, apes, knaves, and
rogues, and that of every kind.
Here are to be seen too, and that for nothing, thefts,
murders, adulteries, false-swearers, and that of a blood-red
colour.
And as in other fairs of less moment, there are the several
rows and streets under theii- proper names, where such and
such wares are vended ; so here likewise you have the proper
places, rows, streets (viz., countries and kingdoms), where
the wares of this fair are soonest to he found: here is the
Britain Row, the French Row, the Italian Row, the Spanish
Row, the German Row, where several sorts of vanities are to
be sold. But as in other fairs some one commodity is as the
chief of all the fair, so the ware of Rome and her merchan-
dise is greatly promoted in this fair ; only our English
n.i.tirm, with some others, have taken a dislike thereat.
Xow, as I said, the way to the celestial city lies just through
this town where this lusty fair is kept ; and he that will go
to the city, and yet not go through this town, must needs
go out of the world. The Prince of Princes himself, when
here, went thiough this town to his own country, and that
upon a fair-day too ; yea, and as I think, it was Beelzebub,
the chief lord of this fair, that invited him to buy of his
vanities : yea, would have made him lord of the fair, would
he but have done him reverence as he went through the
town. Yea, because he was such a person of honour, Beelze-
bub had him from street to street, and showed him all the
kingdoms of the world in a little time, that he might (if
possible) allme that blessed One to cheapen and buy some of
his vanities; but he had no mind to the merchandise, and
therefore left the town, without laying out so much as one
farthing upon these vanities. This fair, therefore, is an
ancient thing, of long standing, and a very gi'eat fair.
Now these pilgrims, as I said, must needs go through this
fair. Well, so they did ; but behold, even as they entered
into the fair, all the people in the fair were moved, and the
town itself as it were in a hubbub about them ; and that for
several reasons : for.
First. The pilgrims were clothed with such kind of raiment
as was diverse fi-om the raiment of any that traded in that
fair. The people therefore of the fair made a great gazing
upon them : some said they were fools, some they were
bedlams, and some they are outlandish men.
Secondly. And as they wondered at their apparel, so they
did likewise at their speech ; for few could understand what
they s;iid : they naturally spoke the language of Canaan, but
they that kept the fair were the men of this world; so that,
from one end of the fair to the other, they seemed barbarians
each to the other.
Th irdbj. But that which did not a little amuse the merchan-
disers was, that these pilgrims set verj- light by all their
wares, they cared not so much as to look upon them ; and if
they called upon them to buy, they would put their fingers
in their ears, and cry, " Tm-n away mine eyes from beholding
vanity,' and look upwards, signifying that theu- trade and
traffic was in heaven.
One chanced mockingly, beholding the carriages of the
men, to say unto them. What will ye buy;-* But they,
looking gravely upon him, answered, ' ' We buy the truth."
At that there was an occasion taken to despise the men the
more ; some mocking, some taunting, some speaking reproach-
fully, and some calling upon others to smite them. At last
things came to a hubbub and great stir in the fair, insomuch
that all order was confounded.
So the pilgi-ims were brought before the great one
of the fair, and clespitefully used, and put in the
cage (as it might be, iti Bedford Jail), and some of
the men of the fair were won to them, so that they
fell to some blows among themselves, and the pOgiims
were charged with being tlie cause of the hubbub.
" So they beat them pitifully, and hanged irons upon
them, and led them in chains up and down the f:ur,
for an example and a terror to others, lest any should
speak in theii- behalf or join themselves -onto them."
Then they were brought before Judge Hategood, and
theii- indictment was (like that of many a fellow-
labourer of Bimyan, and Baxter, and George Fox),
" that they were' enemies to and disturbers of their
ti-ade ; that they had made commotions and divisions
in the towni, and had won a party to their own most
dangerous opinions in contempt of the law of their
piiuce." Then Faithful answered for liimself. Env^
316
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[a.d. 1667
and Superstition and Pickthank bore witness against
him, and the judge (clearly a judge versed in Acts of
Uniformity) thus charged the jury : —
Gentlemen of the jury, you see this man about whom so
frreat an ujjroar hath been made in this town : you have also
heard what these worthy gentlemen have ^vitnes3ed against
him : also you have heard his reply and confession. It lieth
ni)\v in your breasts to hang him, or save his Ufe ; but yet I
think meet to instruct you into our law.
There was an act made in the days of Pharaoh the Great,
servant to our prince, that lest those of a contrary religion
should multiply and grow too strong for him, their males
shoidd be thi-o%vn into the river. There was also an act
made in the Jays of Nebuchadnezzar the Great, another of
hi.s servants, that whoever woidd not fall down and worship
his golden image, should be thrown into a fiery fm-nace.
There was also an act made in the days of Darius, that
whoso, for some time, called upon any god but him, should
be cast into the lion's den. Kow the substance of these laws
this rebel has broken, not only in thought (which is not to be
borne), but also in word and deed : which must therefore
needs be intolerable.
For that of Pharaoh, his law was made upon a supposition,
to prevent mischief, no crime being yet apparent ; but here is
a crime apparent. For the second and third, you see he
disputeth against oiu' religion ; and for the treason he hath
confessed, he deserveth to die the death.
Then went the jury out, whose names were, Jlr. Blind-
man, Mr. No-good, Jlr. Malice, Mr. Love-lust, Mr. Live-
loose, Mr. Heady, Mr. High-mind, Mr. Enmity, Jlr. Lyar,
Mr. Cruelty, Mr. Hate-light, and Mr. Implacable: who
every one gave in his private verdict against him among
themselves, and afterwards unanimously concluded to bring
him in guilty before the judge. And first among themselves,
Mr. Blind-man, the foreman, said, I see clearly that this
man is an heretic. Then said Mr. No-good, Away with
such a fellow from the earth. Ay, said Mr. Malice, for I
hate the very looks of him. Then said Mr. Love-lust, I
could never endure him. Nor I, said Mr. Live-loose, for he
would always be condemning my way. Hang him, hang
him, said Mr. Heady. A sorry scrub, said Mr. High-mind.
My heart riseth against him, said Jlr. Enmity. He is a
rogue, said Mr. Lyar. Hanging is too good for him, said
Mr. Cruelty. Let us dispatch him out of the way, said Mr.
Hate-light. Then said Mr. Implacable, Slight I have all the
world given me, I could not be reconciled to him ; therefore,
let us forthwith bring him in guilty of death. And so they
did ; therefore he was presently condemned to be had from
the place where ho was, to the place from whence he came,
anil there to be put to the most cruel death that could be
invented.
They therefore brought him out, to do with him according
to their law ; and first they scourged him, then they buffeted
him, then they lanced his flesh with knives: after that they
stoned him with stones, then pricked him mth their swords :
and last of all they buimed him to ashes at the stake. Thus
came Faithful to his end.
Now I saw that there stood behind the multitude a chariot
and a couple of horses, waiting for Faithful, who (so soon as
his adversaries had dispatched him) was taken up into it, and
stniightwa}- was carried up through the clouds, ■with sound of
trumpet, the nearest way to the celestial gate. But as for
Christian, he had some respite, and was remanded back to
prison : so he there remained for a space. But He that
overrides all things, having the power of their rage in his
own hand, so wrought it about, that Christian for that tim&
escaped them, and went his way.
The dialogues with By-ends, Save-all, Money-love,
and Hold-the-world are full of distinct reference to
the worldly loss imposed on Nonconformist preachers,
and the question of their dissent from some of their
own principles tliat they might comply witli wliat
appeared to be imposed conditions of their usefulness.
Such talk brought Christian to the Hill of Lucre, and
more incidents followed, witli more homely dialogues.
The Pilgiims became prisoners to Giant Despair ui
Doubting Castle, but escaped by opening the prison
lock with a key called Promise, that was in Christian's
bosom. Christian met with Little-faith, was saved by
a Shiiung One from the net of the Flatterer, but alstt
chastised ; met with Atheist, Young Ignorance, and
talked of Temporary, who clwelt in Graceless, next
door to one Turnback, and had been much awakened
till he dropped Christian's company for that of Save-
self. So Christian at last came wth Hoj)eful to the
Gate of DeatL There was a deep, unbridged river
between them and it. They were told that there was
no way but through the river. None but En'och
and Elijah had been spared the passage. Angels
were there, who could not help them ; but who told
them they would find the water deeper or shallower
as they believed in the King of the place.
They then addressed themselves to the water ; and enter-
ing. Christian began to sink, and crj-ing out to his good
friend Hopeful, he said, I sink in deep waters ; the biUows
go over my head, all his waves go over me, Selah.
Then said the other. Be of good cheer, my brother : I feel
the bottom, and it is good. Then said Christian, Ah, my
friend, the son-ows of death have compassed me about, I shall
not see the land that flows with milk and honey. And with
that a great darkness and hon-or fell upon Cluistian, so that
he could not see before him.
" When thou passest through the waters, I will be
with thee ; and through the livers, they shall not
overflow thee." The perils of the river were at last
overcome.
Now upon the bank of the river on the other side, they saw
the two shining men again, who there waited for them;
wherefore being come out of the river, they saluted them,
saying, AVe are ministering spirits, sent forth to minister for
those that shall be heirs of salvation. Thus they went along
towards the gate. Now you must note that the city stood
upon a mighty hill, but the pilgrims went up that hill with
ease, because they had these two men to lead them up by the
arms : also they had left their mortal garments behind them
in the river, for though they went in with them, they came
out without them. They therefore went up here with much
agility and speed, though the foundation upon which the city
was framed was higher than the clouds.
Now, now, look how the holy pilgrims ride.
Clouds are their chariots, angels are their guide :
"Whu would not here for Him all hazards rim.
That thus provides for His when this world's done r
They therefore went up thi-ough the regions of the air,,
sweetly talking as they went, being comforti'd. because they
TO i.D. 1688.]
ItELIGION.
317
had safely got over the rivLT, aud had such glorious com-
panions to attend them.
******
Now while they were thus di'awing towards the gate,
behold a company of the heavenly host came out to meet
them; to whom it was said by the other two shining ones,
These are the men that have loved Oui' Lord when the)- were
iu the world, and that have left all for His holy name, and He
liath sent us to fetch them, and we have brought them thus
far on their dcsii-od journey, that they may go in and look
their Redeemer in the face with joy. Then the heavenly host
gave a great shout, saying, " Blessed are they that are called
to the marriage supper of the Lamb." There came out also at
this time to meet them several of the King's trumpeters,
clothed in white and shining raiments, who, with melodious
noises and loud, made even the heavens to echo with theii-
sound. These trumpeters saluted Christian and his fellow
with ten thousand welcomes from the world, and this they
did \vith shouting and sound of trumpet.
This done, they compassed them round on every side ; some
went before, some behind, and some on the right hand, some
on the left (as 'twere to guard them through the upper
regions), continually sounding as they went with melodious
noise, in notes on high : so that the very sight was to them
that could behold it, as if heaven itself was come down to
meet them. Thus therefore they walked on together; and
as they walked, ever and anon these trumpeters, even with
joyful sound, would, by mixing their music with looks and
gestures, still signify to Christian and his brother, how wel-
come they were into their company, and with what gladness
they came to meet them. And now were these two men as
'twere in heaven before they came at it, being swallowed up
with the sight of angels, and with hearing of their melodious
notes. Here also they had the city itself in view, and they
thought they heard all the bells therein ring to welcome
them thereto. But above all, the warm and joyful tho\ights
that they had about their own dwelling there, with such
company, and that for ever and ever. Oh, by what tongue
or pen can their glorious joy be expressed ! And thus they
came up to the gate.
Tliere yet followed the glory of admission through
the gate by which they who keep truth shall enter
into the joy of their Lonl. But Ignorance found a
ferryman named Vain-hope, to put him across the
river, and came up to the gate without a saving
scroll. " Then I saw that there was a way to hell
even from the gates of heaven, as well as from the
City of Destruction. So I awoke, and behold, it was
a dream."
John Bunyan was not released from prison by any
act of grace of which he was himself the object, but
benefited in common v\'ith many others by the king's
Declaration of Indulgence. Encouraged Ijy the Cabal
ministry, formed after the banishment of Clarendon,
L'liarles II. usurped several powers not belonging to
the Crown ; an<l one of these was a dispensing jjower
which he claimed as head of the Church, and by
virtue of which, on the 15th of March, Ki72, he sus-
pended the general laws against nonconformists and
recusants, gi'anting " a suthcient number of places
in all parts of the kingdom for the use of such as
do not conform to the Church of England, to meet
and assemble in, in order to their public worshi})
and devotion." To the Eoman Catholics he granted
exemption from the penal laws, and tlieir own form
of worship if exercised in private houses only.
When Bunyan was released, in 1672, he acted as
regular pastor to tlie congi-egation at Bedford. He
came e^ery year to London, and 3,000 persons,
sometimes gathered about tlie meeting-house at
Southwark on a Sunday, 1,200 on a weekday, or
dark winter morning at seven o'clock, to hear him
preach. He preached also at Reading. One of his
hearers there was about to disinherit his sou. The
son asked Bunyan to intercede for him : he did
so, with success ; but on his journey on horseback
from Heading to London after his labour of love,
Bunyan was drenched by heavy rain, which produced
a fe%er, of whicli he died ten days afterwards. Over
his grave iu the burial-gromid at Bunhill Fields the
record ran,
" Mr, John Bunyan, Author of the ' Pilgrim's Progress.'
6b. 12 Aug., 1688, a-t. 60.
The Pilgrim's Progress now is finished.
And Death has laid him in his earthlv bed."
In 1671, the year before John Bunyan's release
from prison, John Milton published, iu one volume,,
two poems, "Paradise Eegained" and "Samson
Agonistes." Milton's " Paradise Lost," published
in 1667, will be described in the volume of this
Library which is set apart for illustration of the
larger works in English Literature, and " Samson
Agonistes " will have a place of its own in the
volume illustrating English Plays. But there was
significance in the joining of " Paradise Eegained "
with " Samson Agonistes " in one volume, produced
at a time when many earnest men, who had thought
their- leaders imder the Commonwealth solemnly
elected to some gi-eat work, God's glory and the
j)eople's safety, which in part they effected, were
cast into questioning of God's providence towards
man. Why was it that in tlie noontide of then-
success the hand of God was changed towards those
who had laboured for His glory I Why were they
thrown lower than they had been exalted high, left
to the hostile sword,
" theii- carcases
To dogs and fo%vls a prey, or else captiv'd.
Or to the unjust tribunals under change of times."
If others, who seemed to be livhig in the midst of a
triumphant mockery of their liest hojies, felt that
what they regarded as " the good oUl cause " was
become as Samson sliorn of his jiowei-, blind, captive,
the s])ort of the Philistines, betrayed into their hands
by Delilah — as many Independents felt that they
had been given up by their yoke-fellows the Presby-
terians — Milton took up for their encouragement the
parable of Samson. Applying it to their ca.se as an
encouragement to trust in God, he expressed in the
chorus, " God of our Fathers, what is man," the
questionings lie made it his last care to meet, and,
while suggesting that
" Patience is more oft the exercise
Of saints, the trial of their fortitude.
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[i.D. 1667
ilaking them each his own deliverer,
And victor over all
That tyranny or fortune can inflict,"
he ended his play, and his life as a poet, with the
lesson of a firm and absolute reliance upon God,
however evil seem the days ou which we fall.
"All is best, though we oft doubt
What the unsearchable dispose
Of Highest Wisdom brings about.
And ever best found in the close.
Oft He seems to hide His face,
But unexpectedly returns,
And to His faithful champion hath in place
Bore \vitness gloriously ; whence Gaza mourns
And all that band them to resist
His uncontrollable intent :
His servants He, with new acquist
Of true experience, from this great event,
With peace and consolation hath dismiss' d,
And calm of mind, all passion spent."
While " Samson Agonistes " thus pointed directly
to those ills of wliich some were impatient, the other
poem published with it, •' Paradise Regained," drew
in a kindred spirit from the pattern of Chi-ist one
lesson, aj)plied to all temptations of man's life, the
lesson of a firm and f{uiet trust. The spirit of the
thii-ty-seventh Psalm pervades " Samson Agonistes,"
and its tenderest thoughts are in " Paradise Re-
!,'ained," which breathes everywhere a placid music
to one burden, " Rest in the Lord, and wait patiently
for Him." The poem is a miniature epic, in four
books, calm as its theme. In "Paradise Lost" there
was a temptation yielded to, in "Paradise Regained"
there is a temptation overcome ; and tlie tempting of
Christ in the wilderness is so told as to teach, through
Clu-ist, how, under all trials and temptations of life,
and all suggestion of doubt, the one safeguard is an
aliiding faith and quiet trust in our Father who is
in heaven.
In " Paradise Regained " the epic treatment of the
theme is subdued in every feature to the tone of its
main thought. There is the opening statement of the
subject, and the invocation of the Holy Spirit by
which this glorious eremite was led into the desert.
Then the narrative opens with the baptism of Christ,
whei'e
" on Him baptized
Heaven opened, and in likeness of a dove
The Spirit descended, while the Father's voice
From heaven pronounced Him His beloved Son.
That heard the adversary "
and as the host of Satan since the Fall have become
powers of air drawing near to man, he now
" To council summons all his mighty peers
Within thick clouds and tenfold dark involved,"
and goes forth from it to tem|)t that " one gi-eater
man," as lie went fortli from tlie council of the fiends
Jn Pandemonium to tempt Adam and Eve. Aiid
as in " Paradise Lost " Satan proceeded on his way,
but did not begua his attempt before the poet liad
shown God supi'eme, foreknowing all, and soui'ce
only of good ; so here, while Satan souglit Jesus by
the coast of Jordan, the Eternal Father declares to
Gabriel the fulness of His purpose, and the scene in
heaven closes here also with the harmonies of heaven,
as the angels
" into hymns.
Burst forth, and in celestial measures moved."
Chiist entered the wilderness with meditations
that in calmest form represent one part of the epic
episode by which we are made acquainted with
extents preceding the main action of the poem.
Then, after the forty days of fasting in the desei't,
Satan approached in the form of
" an aged man in rural weeds.
Following, as seemed, the quest of some stray ewe,
Or withered sticks to gather, which might serve
Against a winter's day, when winds blow keen,
To wann him wet rrturned from field at eve."
Satan addi-essed Christ with hypocrisy and temptation
to doubt,
" To whom the Son of God : — ' Who brought me hither,
WiU bring me hence ; no other guide I seek.' "
Satan still tempting to doubt was met by declaration
of firm faith and knowledge of the tempter. Then the
archfientl acknowledged liimself, but claimed to be
still able to love what he sees excellent in good, or
fair, or virtuous, and pleaded that he helps man
with oracles, jiortents, and dreams. Christ answered
with rebuke, and declared that now the oracles are
dumb.
" God hath now sent His living oracle
Into the world to teach His final will ;
And sends His Sjnrit of Truth henceforth to dwell
In pious hearts, an inward oracle
To all truth requisite for men to know."
The fiend dissembles, and excuses falsehood.
" ' Where
Easily canst thou find one miser-able.
And not enforcid oft-tiraes to part from truth.
If it may stand him more in stead to lie,
Say and unsay, fiign, flatter, or abjure 'i
But thou art placed above me, thou art Lord ;
From thee I can, and must submiss, cncUu-c
Check or reproof, and glad to 'scape so quit.
Hard are the ways of Truth, and rough to walk,
Smooth on the tongue discoiu-sed, pleasing to the ear,
And tuneable as sylvan pipe or song.
What wonder then if I delight to hear
Her dictates from thy mouth ? most men admirfc
Virtue, who follow not her lore. Permit me
To hear thee when I come — .since no man comes —
And talk at least, though I despair to attain.
Thy Father, who is holy, wise, and pure.
Suffers the hypocrite or atheous priest
To tread His sacred coiu'ts, and minister
About His altar, handling holy tilings.
ro A.D. 1671.1
RELIGION.
319
Prajang or vowing ; and vouchsafed His voice
To Balaam reprobate, a prophet yet
Inspired. Disdain not such access to me.'
To whom our Saviour, with unaltered brow :
'Thy coming hither, though I know thy scope,
I bid not, or forbid. Do as thou findest
Permission from above ; thou canst not more.'
He added not : and Satan, bowing low
His gray dissimulation, disappeared
Into thin air diffused : for now began
Kight with her sullen wings to double-shade
T"he desert : fowls in their clay nests were couched ;
And now wild beasts came forth the woods to roam."
So ends the first book of " Pai-adise Eegained." In
the opening of the second book Jesus has been missed
bj" the disciples Andrew and Simon, who, after vaiu
search, lament the failiu-e of their expectations.
"Then on the banks of Jordan, by a creek.
Where winds with reeds and osiers wliispering play,
Plain fishermen, (no greater men them call,)
Close in a cottage low together got,
Their unexpected loss and plaints outbre.ithed."
In the moment of theu' highest hojie all seemed to
be lost. The Messiah, the deliverer who wa.s to free
the chosen people from oppression, was i-ipt from
them. But their short plaint ends with a glad faith
in Him upon whose Pro^"idence they lay their fears.
'■ He will not fail,
Xor vn]l withdraw Him now. nor will recall.
Mock us with His blest sight, then snatch Him hence ;
Soon we shall see oiu' Hope, our Joy, retiu-n."
Maiy also, when
" Others returned fi-om baptism, not her Son,
Kor left at .Jordan, tidings of Him none.
Within her breast though c.alm, her breast though pure.
Motherly cares and feai-s got head, and raised
Some troubled thoughts.'"
The course of them, by i-ecalling more passages in the
eai'lier life of Christ, completes the work of episode
in the construction of the poem, and the dotibts of
Maiy, as the doubts of Andrew and Simon, lead only
to the constant burden of the poem " Rest in the
Lord, wait patiently for Him."
" 'Afflicted I may be, it seems, and blest :
I will not argue that, nor wUl repine. —
But where delays He now ': Some great intent
Conceals Him. "\\'hen twelve ye.ars He scarce had seen,
I lost Him, but so found as well I saw
He could not lose himself, but went about
His Father's business. 'S\'hat He meant I mused.
Since understand ; much more His absence now
Thus long to some great piu-pose He obscures.
But I to wait with patience am imued ;
My heart hath been a storehouse long of things
And sayings laid up, portending strange events.'
Thus 3Iary, pondering oft, and oft to mind
KecaUing what remarkably had pas.sed
Since first her salutation heard, with thoughts
Meekly composed awaited the fulfilling."
Chiist meanwhile tracing the desert
" Sole; but with holiest meditation fed.
Into himself descended, and at once
All His great work to come before Him set."
Satan rejoined the council of his potentate.s, and
without sign of boast or sign of joy, solicitous and
blank, sought aid of them all. Then '■ Belial the
dissolutest spirit that fell, the sensualest " counselled
" Set women in his eye." The poem is ])lamied for
the strengthening of men's hearts thi-ough the examjJe
of Christ agcUiLst all the chief temptations of the
world. What was perhaps the foremost temptation
to many in the days of Charles II. is skUfidly in-
chided by giving to Belial the suggestion, disdained
by Satan, of the ku'e of Cu-ce, a temptation inapplic-
able to Chiist, although among those wlxich have to
be resisted bj- the Christian.
" ' Therefore with manlier objects we must try
His constancy, with such as have more shew
Of worth, of honour, glory, and popular praise,
Eocks whereon greatest men have oftest ^\Tecked;
Or that which only seems to satisfy
Lawful desires of natm-e, not beyond.-
.-Vnd now I know He himgers, where no food
Is to be foimd, in the wide wilderness :
The rest conunit to me ; I shall let pass
No advantage, and His strength as oft assay.' "
Tlie first temptation shall be through hunger,
absolute want. The poem then turns to Chiist
hungering, and represents Christ's holy thoughts,
that still find rest in Ciod. He sleeps, and himger
suggests sinless ckeams of food, in which the recog-
nition of God's providence blends e^en with dream
thoughts "of meats and ch-inks, nature's refresh-
ment sweet."
" Him thought. He by the brook of Clierith stood.
And saw the ravens with their horny beaks
Food to Ehjah bringing, even and mom.
Though ravenous, taught to abstain fi-om what they
brought.
He saw the Prophet also, how he fled
Into the desert, and how there he slept
Under a jimiper; then how, awaked.
He found his supper on the coals prepared;
And by the Angel was bid rise and cat.
And ate the second time after repose.
The strength whereof sufficed him forty days ■
Sometimes that with Eliah He partook,
Or as a guest with Daniel at his pulse."
Wlien morning came, Christ saw from a hill a pleasant
o-rove, and was met by Satan
" Not rustic as before, but seemlier clad.
As one in city, or court, or palace bred,"
with suggestion that He had been forgotten by God,
and with subtle pleading to His brief answer of
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[A.D. 1671
content. Then Satan spread a table in tlie wilder-
ness with all that conld entice the appetite. The
spirits Satan brought with him there waited as
attendant youths, sweet odours and sweet music
graced the splendour of the feast. Then Satan
asked, " What doubts the Son of God to sit and
eat?" but to his solicitation he received temperate
answer of unbroken confidence in God, and the table
vanished to the sound of harpies' wings. The next
temptation was by the desire for wealth as means
to gi-eat ends. " Riches are mine," .said Satan,
■" fortune is in my hand," —
" ' They whom I f.-ivour thnvo in wealth amain ;
While vu'tiie, valour, wisdom, sit in want. " '
And Jesus patiently replied that wealth without
these three is impotent to gain or keep dominion ;
but men endued with them have often attained in
lowest poverty to highest deeds.
" ' E.xtol not riches then, the toil of fools.
The wise man's cunibrance, if not snare ; more apt
To slacken Virtue, and abate her edge,
Than prompt her to do aught may merit praise.
^\^lat, if with Uke aversion I reject
Riches and realms ! yet not, for that a crown,
Golden in shew, is but a wreath of tlioras.
Brings dangers, troubles, cares, and sleepless nights,
To hun who wears the regal diadem,
When on his shoulders each man's burden lii.s ;
For therein stands the office of a king.
His honour, virtue, merit, and chief praise.
That for the public all this weight he bears.
Yet he who reigns within himself, and iides
Passions, desires, and fears, is more a king ;
Wliich every wise and virtuoiis man attains :
And who attains not ill aspires to rule
Cities of men, or headstrong multitudes,
Subject himself to anarchy within.
Or lawless passions in him, which he serves.
But to guide nations in the way of truth
By saving doctrine, and from en-or lead
To know, and knowing worship God aright,
Is yet more kingly : this attracts the soul,
Governs the inner man, the nobler part ;
That other o'er the body only reigTis,
And oft by force, wliich to a genei-ous mind
So reigning can be no sincere delight.
Besides, to give a kingdom hath been thought
Greater and nobler done, and to lay down
Far more magnanimous, than to assume.
Riches are needless then, both for themselves.
And for thy reason why they should be sought.
To gain a sceptre, oftcst better missed.' "
Thus elose.s the second book, and Satan, mute for a
time, confounded what to say, renews his efforts in
the opening of the third book with soothing words,
that suggest temptation through the love of fame.
' ' ' AVTierefore deprive
All Earth her wonder at Thy acts, Thyself
The fame and glory ? glory the reward
That sole excites to high attempts, the flame
Of most-erected spirits, most-tempered pure.
Ethereal, who all pleasm-es else despise,
All treasiu'es and all gain esteem as dross.
And dignities and powers, all but the highest.' "
Calmly Cln-ist answered ; and to men who for earthly
glor\' may be tempted to swerve from the heavenward
path this answer speaks :
" ' For what is glory but the blaze of fame,
The people's praise, if always praise unmixed ?
And what the people but a herd confused,
A miscellaneous rabble, who extol
Things vulgar, and, well weighed, scarce worth the
praise ;'
They praise, and they admire, they know not what,
And know not whom, but as one leads the other.
And what dehght to be by such e.\tolled.
To live upon their tongues and be their talk ?
Of whom to be dispraised were no small praise, —
His lot who dares be singularly good.
The intelligent among them and the wise
Are few, and glory scarce of few is raised.
This is true glory and renown, when God
Looking on the Earth, with approbation marks
The just man, and divulges him through Heaven
To aU His Angels, who %vith true applause
Recount liis praises.' Thus He did to Job,
When, to extend his fame through Heaven and Eart^i,
— As thou to thy reproach mayest well remember —
He ask'd thee : " Hast thou seen my sei-vant Job ': ''
Famous he was in Heaven, on Earth less known ,
Where glory is false glory, attributed
To things not glorious, men not worthy of fau';-.
They err who count it glorious to subdue
By conquest far and wide, to over-run
Large countries, and in field great battles win.
Great cities by assault. What do these worthies.
But rob and spoU, bum, slaughter, and enslave.
Peaceable nations, neighbouring or remote.
Made captive, yet deserving freedom more
Than those their conquerors ? Who leave behind
Nothing but ruin wheresoe'er they rove.
And all the flourislung works of peace destroy :
Then swell with jnidc, and must be titled Gods,
Great Benefactors of mankind. Deliverers,
Worshipped with temple, priest, and sacrifice.
One is the son of Jove, of Mars the other ;
Till conqueror Death discover them scarce men.
Rolling in brutish Wees and deformed.
Violent or shameful death their due rewai'd.
But if there be in glory aught of good.
It may by means far different be attained,
Without ambition, war, or violence ;
By deeds of peace, by wisdom eminent.
By patience, temperance. I mention still
Him whom thy wrongs, with saintly patience borne.
Made famous in a land and times obscure.
^Vho names not now with honour patient Job ':
*' Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in tlie glistering foil
Set off to the world, nor in broad mmour lies ;
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes
And pei-fect witness of all-judging Jove ;
As He pronounces lastly on each deed.
Of so much Fame in heaven expect thy meed."
(Milton's "Lycidas.'
1G37.)
.to A.o- 1671.]
EELIGION.
321
Poor Socrates — who next more memoi-able : — •
Uy what he taught, and suffered for so doing,
For truth's sake suffeiing death unjust, lives now
Equal in fame to proudest conquerors.
Yet if for fame and glory aught be done.
Aught suffered ; if young African for fame
His wasted country freed from Punic i-age,
The deed becomes unpraised, the man at least,
And loses, though but verbal, his reward.
Shall I seek glory then, as vain men seek.
Oft not deserved f I seek not mine, but His
Who sent me, and thereby witness whence I am.' "
To Satan's plea that God Himself seeks glory, Christ
fervently replies, lea-i-ing the tempter struck w-itli
tTiilt of his own sia, for he himself, insatiable of
glory, had lost all. But next he m-ges upon Christ
His right to the throne of DaWd, and that for love
of His enslaved people He should reign soon. " The
happier reign, the sooner it begins : Eeign then,
what canst thou better do the while f " The reply is
that all things are test fulfilled in their due time.
God's time is to be waited for, His trials borne.
" ' \Miat if He hath decreed that I shall first
Be tried in humble state, and things adverse,
By tribulations, injuries, insfilts.
Contempts, and scorns, and snares, and violence,
Suffering, abstaining, quietly expecting,
Without distrust or doubt, that He may know
^Vhat I can suffer, how obey ! Who best
Can suffer, best can do : best reign, who first
Well hath obeyed ; just trial, ere I merit
My exaltation, without change or end.
But what concerns it thee, when I begin
3Iy everlasting kingdom ? why art thou
Solicitous ? what moves thy inquisition ?
Knowest thou not that my rising is thy fall.
And my promotion will be thy destruction ': ' "
Satan replies that he is eager for the worst, but
■why should Christ be .slow to seek the best. He
does not know what the World means. Let Him see
it. Then Satan takes Chi-ist up a high mountain,
and .shows the martial power of the Parthians.
Eome and Parthia are the two great powers outside
Judea. He must ally himself ^\^th one. Chi-ist
answei-s that when His time has come He shall
not need Satan's
" ■ politic maxims, or that cumbersome
Luggage of war there shewn me, argument
Of human weakness rather than of strength.' "
The closing thought is still of waiting God's own
time for the deliverance of His people.
" ' To His due time and providence I leave them.'
So spake Israel's true King, and to the Fiend
'ila.de answer meet, and made void all his wiles.
So fares it when with truth falsehood contends."
The thml book of " Paradise Eegained " thus end-
ing, the fourth and last opens vnth Satan p:vssing from
perplexed pause to renewal of his efTorts. From the
105
west side of the same mountain he shows imperial
Eome, and tempts with a fidler mastery. Tibeiius
is lost in lust at C'aprea;.
" 'With what ease,
Endued with regal virtues as Thou art.
Appearing, and beginning noble deeds,
ilightest Thou expel this monster from his throne,
Xow made a sty, and, in his place ascending,
A victor people free from servile yoke 1
And with my help Thou mayest ; to me the power
Is given, and by that right I give it Thee.
Aim therefore at no less than all the world ;
Aim at the highest : without the highest attained.
Will be for Thee no sitting, or not long.
On DaWd's throne, be prophesied what will.' "
Christ replies unmoved ; bitt Satan then impudently
exalts his gift, ofl'ers the whole world, but claims
worship for it. To the rebuke thus brought upon
himself, Satan replies abashed, but he next seeks to
temjrt with fame for wisdom.
" ' As Thy empire must extend,
So let extend Thy mind o'er aU the world
In knowledge, all things in it comprehend.' "
He shows Athens, and dilates upon its intellectual
pre-eminence. The msdom of Christ answers that
" ' He who receives
Light from above, from the fountain of light,
Iso other doctrine needs, though granted true.' "
But these, what can they teach, and not mislead 1 -
" ' Much of the soul they talk, but aU awn'.
And in themselves seek viilue, and to themselves
All glory arrogate, to God give none ;
Eather accuse Him, under usual names.
Fortune and Fate, as one regardless quite
Of mortal things. Who therefore seeks in these
True Wisdom, finds her not, or, by delusion.
Far worse, her false resemblance only meets.
An empty cloud. However, many books,
Wise men have said, are wearisome ; who reads
Incessantly, and to his reading brings not
A spirit and judgment equal or superior,
And what he brings, what needs he elsewhere seek ? —
Uncertain and unsettled still remains,
Deep versed in books and shallow in himself.
Crude or iutoxicate, collecting toys
And trifles for choice matters, worth a sponge ;
As children gathering pebbles on the shore.' "
Su- Lsaiic Xewton applied that last line to his own
sense of the relation between all he knew and all the
knowable. Though it was knowable, few knew that
he was quoting Milton. In its subdued tone and
ethical purpose -'Paradise Eegained ' has to "Para-
dis3 Lost " in some sense a relation like that of the
story of the wanderings of Ulysses to the ocory of the
Fall of Troy, but the song is of a wisdom beyond
that of Ulysses, and its calm note of trust in God
attunes alf the chief relations of man's life to earth
and heaven. Looking to its theme and purpose, as
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[a.d. 1660
the liglit struck in dark clays for England that
had caused some to despair, Milton might at the end
of his life dwell especially upon "Paradise Regained,"
with the especial regard he is said to have had for
it. We who can interpret the events of Milton's
latter days by help of those which followed, and
which Milton could not have foretold, know that
his quiet tmst in God was justified. In that which
seemed the very hopelessness of the situation lay
the elements of a safe rescue. Had Charles II.
been a better and a wiser man, and had his brother
John Milton.
(From a ForiYait in. Crayon taken about 1666.)
James not helped to dissipate faith in an absolute
monarchy, Enghmd could not have passed, fourteen
or fifteen years after the death of Milton, through a
bloodless Revolution to a settlement of the relations
between Crown and People that allowed de^•elop-
ment, with growth of cultui'e, into the full powers of
civil liberty.
But we have yetto speak of the close of " Paradise
Regained." Of Christ firm against eveiy temptation,
Satan asks,
" ' Since neither wealth nor honour, arms nor arts,
liingdom nor empu-e pleases Thee, nor aught
Bj' me proposed in life contemplative
Or active, tended on by glory or fame.
What dost Thou in this world 'i "
Life of affliction was then contrasted with the ease
refused, and the patient Son of God was left alone in
a dark night compassed with terrors.
" ' Sorrows and labour.s, opposition, hate
Attends Thee, scorns, reproaches, injuries,
Viol'^nce and stripes, and lastly cruel death.
A kingdom they portend Thee, but what Idngdom,
Real or allegoric, I discern not ;
Nor when; eternal sure, as without end.
Without beginning ; for no date prefixed
Directs me in the staiTy rubric set.'
So saying he took — for still he knew his power
Not }'et expired — and to the wilderness
Brought back the Son of God, and left Him there,
FeigTiing to disappear."
" And either tropic now
'Gan thunder, and both ends of heaven ; the clouds.
From many a horrid rift, abortive poured
Fierce rain with lightning mixed, water with fire
In ruin reconciled ; nor slept the winds
Within their stony caves, but rushed abroad
From the four hinges of the world, and fell
On the vexed wUdemess, whose tallest pines,
Though rooted deep as high, and sturdiest oaks
Bowed their stitf necks, loaden with stormy blasts,
Or torn up sheer. Ill wast Thou shrouded then,
O patient Son of God, j-et only stoodest
Unshaken ! Nor yet stayed the terror there ;
Infernal ghosts, and hellish furies round
En\nroned Thee ; some howled, some yelled, some
shrieked.
Some bent at Thee their fiery darts, while Thou
Satest unappalled in calm and sinless peace.
Thus passed the night so foul ; till Horning fail-
Came forth with pilgrim-steps, in amice ' gray.
Who with her radiant finger stilled the roar
Of thunder, chased the clouds, and laid the winds.
And grisly spectres, which the Fiend had raised.
To tempt the Sou of God with terrors dire.
And now the sun, with more effectual beams.
Had cheered the face of earth, and di'ied the wet
From drooping plant, or dropping tree ; the birds,
Who all things now behold more fresh and green,
After a night of storm so ruinous.
Cleared up their choicest notes in bush and spray,
To gratulate the sweet return of mom."
Satan also returns and tempts vainly to impatience
tlien angrily admits Jesus to be proof against tempt-"
tion, but will try whether indeed He be " wnW
naming Son of God by voice from hea'V'en."
a-
worth
' So saying he caught Him up, and, without wing
Of hippogrif, bore through the air sublime,
Over the wilderness and o'er the plain ;
Till underneath them fair Jerusalem,
The Holy City, lifted high her towers ;
And higher yet the glorious Temple reared
Her pUe, far off appearing like a mount
Of alabaster, topped with golden spires.
There, on the highest pinnacle, he set
The Son of God, and added thus in scorn :
' There stand, if Thou wilt stand ; to stand upright
Will ask Thee skill, I to Thy Father's house
Have brought Thee, and highest placed ; highest is bcsL
Now shew Thy progeny ; if not to stand.
Cast Thyself down ; safely, if Son of God :
For it is written, " He will give command
Concerning Thee to His Angels, in their hands
They shall uplift Thee, lest at any time
Thou chance to dash Thy foot against a stone." '
To whom thus Jesus : — ' Also it is written,
" Tempt not the Lord thy God." ' He said, and stood;
But Satan, smitten with amazement, fell.'
' Amice, a priest's robe of fine linen. See Note 1, page 200. Used
also for any liglit flowing robe, Latin " amictus," au outer garment;
TO A.D. 1671.]
RELIGION.
323
Satan returned in dismay to his joyless band, while
angels bore the Saviour to a table of celestial food,
and hymned His victory. Man now can prevail
through Christ, and by vanquishing temptation can
I'egain lost Paradise. But the last lines of the poem
2iass from the angels' song of triumph to the meekness
of the Saviour.
" Thus they the Son of God, our Saviour meek.
Sung victor, and from heavenly feast refreshed
Brought on His way with joy : He, unobserved,
Home to His mother's house private returned."
Not only among maintainers of what they held to
be the " good old cause " were questionings here and
there that touched tlien faith in God. Among those
who during the Commonwealth had lived in France,
influenced by a polite society that affected criticism
and wit, while wanting the essentials of both, the
sphit of reverence was often weakened. The newly-
developed middle class was showing the energies of
France in writere of its own, whom tlie polite world
•claimed as theu's, but whose lead the polite world was
too weak to follow; and the corruption of society in
•Church and State was already jirompting the new
generation of bold thinkere to doubts aiming at a
search for truth by testing all beliefs, doubts lightly
accepted by the triflers as indications in them of a
fashionaWe sort of wit. It was to meet this spirit
of doubt tliat Edward Stillingfleet, then Eector of
Sutton in Bedfordshire, produced early in the reign
of Charles II. his ''Origines Sacra?; or, a Rational
Account of the Grounds of Christian Faith, as to the
Ti-uth and Divine Authority of the Scriptures, and
the matters therein contained.'' This book was
puljlished in 1G62, when Stillingfleet was twenty-
seven years old. He was born in 1635, at Cran-
boume, in Dorsetshii'e, graduated at St. John's
College, Cambridge, and oljtained his rectory of
■Sutton in 1657. In 1659 Edward StUlingfleet pub-
lished " Irenicum, a Weapon Salve for the Church's
Wounds, or the Divine Right of Paiticular Forms of
Church Government cli.scussed." In the dedication
of his " Origines Sacrse" to his most honoured friend
and patron Sir Roger Burgoyne, Stillingfleet wi-ote : —
Were all who make a show of religion in the world reaUy
such as they pretend to he, discom'ses of this nature would he
no more seasonable than the commendations of a great beauty
to one who is already a passionate admirer of it ; but on the
contrary, we see how common it is for men first to throw dirt
in the face of religion, and then persuade themselves it is its
natural complexion ; they represent it to themselves in a
shape least pleasing to them, and then bring that as a plea
why they give it no better entertainment.
It may justly seem strange, that true religion, which con-
tains nothing in it but what is truly noble and generous,
most rational and pleasing to the spirits of all good men.
should yet suffer so much in its esteem in the world, through
those strange ani imcoath wizards' it is represented under:
some accounting the life and practice of it, as it speaks of
subduing our wUls to the will of God (which is the substance
Yizards, masks.
of all religion), a thing too low and mean for their rank and
condition in the world; while others pretend a quarrel against
the principles of it as unsatisfactory to human reason. Thus
religion suffers with the Author of it between two thieves,
and it is hard to define which is more injurious to it, that
■which questions the principles, or that which despiseth the
practice of it. And nothing certainly will more incline men
to believe that we Hve in an age of prodigies, than that there
should be any such in the Christian world who should account
it a piece of gentUity to despise religion, and a piece of reason
to be Atheists. For if there be any such things in the world
as a true height and magnanimity of spuit, if there be anv
solid reason and depth of judgment, they are not only con-
sistent with, but only attainable by, a true generous spirit of
religion. But if we look at that which the loose and pro-
fane world is apt to account the gi-eatest gallantry, we shall
find it made up of such pitiful ingredients, which any skilful
and rational mind will be ashamed to plead for, much less to
mention them in competition with true goodness and un-
feigned piety. For how easy is it to observe such who would
be accounted the most high and gallant spirits, to quarrj- on
such mean prey which only tend to Siitisfy their brutish
appetites, or flesh revenge with the blood of such who have
stood in the waj- of that airy title, honour 1
In the following " Preface to the Reader," the
plan of the book is thus stated : — •
As the tempers and geniuses of ages and times alter, so
do the arms and weapons which Atheists employ against
religion ; the most popular pretences of the Atheists of our
age have been the irreconcilableness of the accoimt of times
in Scripture with that of the learned and ancient heathen
nations ; the inconsistency of the belief of the Scriptures with
the piinciples of reason ; and the account which may be given
of the origin of things from principles of philosophy without
the Scriptures : these three therefore I have particularly set
myself against, and directed against each of them a several
book.
In the first I have manifested that there is no groimd
of credibiUty in the account of ancient times given by any
heathen nations different from the Scriptures, which I have
with so much care and diligence inquiied into, that from
thence we may hope to hear no more of men before -Idam to
salve the authority of the Scriptures by, which yet was in-
tended only as a design to imdeimine them. But I have not
thought the frivolous pretences of the author of that hypo-
thesis worth particular mentioning, supposing it sufficient to
give a clear account of things without particular citation of
authors, where it was not of great concernment for under-
standing the thing itself.
In the second book I have undertaken to give a rational
account of the grounds, why we are to believe these several
persons who in several ages were employed to reveal the
mind of God to the world; and mth gi-eater particularity
than hath yet been used, I have insisted on the persons of
Moses and the prophets, our Sa\-iour and his apostles, and in
ever>- of them manifested the rational eridences on which
they were to be beUeved, not only by the men of their own
age, but by those of succeeding generations.
°In the third book I have insisted on the matters themselves
which are either supposed by, or revealed in, the Scriptures ;
and have therein not only manifested the certainty of the
foundations of all religion which lie in the being of God and
immortahty of the soul, but the undoubted truth of those
particular accounts concerning the origin of the universe, of
evil and of nations, which were most liable to the Atheist's
324
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1660
exceptions, and have therein considered all the pretences of
pMlosophy, ancient or modem, which have seemed to con-
tradict any of them ; to which {mraitissre loco) ' I have added
the evidence of Scripture history in the remainder of it in
heathen mj-thology, and concluded all with a discourse of
the excellency of the Scriptm-es.
This is a passage from tlie thii-d book of Stilling-
fleet's argument against the Atheism of his time. It
forms section eight of the first chapter : —
THE CONCURRENCE OF ATOMS.
As the Atheist must admit those tilings himself which"hc
rejects the being of God for, so he admits them upon far
weaker grounds than we do attribute them to God. If any-
thing may be made evident to man's natural reason concern-
ing the existence of a being so infinite as God is, we doubt
not but to make it appear that we have great assurance of
the being of God ; but how far must the Atheist go, how
heartily must he beg, before his hypothesis either of the for-
tuitous concom'se of atoms or eternity of the world will be
granted to him. For if we stay tUl he proves either of these
by e\'ident and demonstrative reasons, the world may have an
end before he proves his atoms could give it a beginning ; and
we may find it eternal, « parte post," before he can prove it
was so « parte ante. For the proof of a Deity, we appeal to
his own faculties, reason and conscience; we make use of
arguments before his eyes : we bring the imiversal sense of
mankind along with us : but for his principles, we must
wlioUy alter the present stage of the world, and crumble the
whole universe into little particles ; we must gi-inil the sun
to piowder, and by a new way of interment turn the earth
into dust and ashes, before we can so much as imagine how
the world could be framed. And when we have thus far
begged leave to imagine things to be what they never were,
we must then stand by in some iniinitc space to beholil the
frislrings and dancings about of these little particles of matter,
till b}- their frequent rencounters and jostUngs one upon
another, they at last link themselves together, and run so
long in a round till they m.ake whirlpools enough for sim,
moon, and stars, and all the bodies of the universe to emerge
out of it. But what was it which at first set these little
]iarticle3 of matter in motion ? Whence came so great variety
in them to produce such wonderful diversities in bodies as
there are in the world ? How came the.se casual motions to
hit so luckily into such admirable contrivances as are in the
universe ? AVhen once I see a thousand blind men run the
point of a sword in at a key-hole without one missing : when
I find them all frisking together in a spacious field, and
exactly meeting all at last in the very middle of it : when I
once find, as Tully speaks, the Annals of Ennius fairly written
in a heap of sand, and as Kepler's wife told him, a room full
of herbs moving up and down, fall down into the exact order
of saUets, I may then think the atomical hypothesis probable,
and not before. But what evidence of reason or demonstra-
tion have we that the great bodies of the world did result
from such a motion of these small particles ? It is possible
to be so, saith Epicurus ; what if we grant it possible ? can
no things in the world be, which it is possible might have
been otherwise ? WTiat else tliinks Epicurus of the genera-
1 Mantissa loco, by way of over-weigrht. Mantisa or mantissa was a
Tuscan word meamner .in addition to tlie weight in the scale. Thence
it took the second sense of gain or profit.
^ A parte post, from the close of the argimient ; d parte ante, from
the beginning.
tions of things now ? they are surh eirtainly as the world
now is, and yet he believes it was once otherwise. Blust
therefore a bare possibility of the contrary make us deny om-
reason, silence conscience, contradict the universal sense of
mankind bj" excluding a Deity out of tlie world ? But whence
doth it appear possible ? Did we ever find anji,hing of tho
same nature with the world produced in such a manner by
such a concourse of atoms ? Or is it because we find in
natural beings, how much these particles of matter serve to
solve the phenomena of nature ? But doth it at all follow,
because now under Divine providence which wisel)' orders the
world, and things in it, that these particles with their several
afliections and motion, may give us a tolerable account of
many appearances as to bodies, that therefore the universe
had its original merely by a concretion of these without any
Divine hand to order and direct their motion ? But of this
more, when we come to the creation of the world ; our design
now is onlj' to compare the notion of a Deity and of tho
Atheist's hypothesis, in point of perspicuity and evidence of
reason: of which let any one who hath reason judge. Thus
we see how the Atheist in denying a Deity must assert some-
thing else instead of it, which is pressed with the same, if not
greater diificidties, and proved by far less reason.
In 1665 Stillingfleet became Rector of St. Andrew's,
Holboru, and he had risen to be Dean of St. Paxil's
and Chaplain in Ordinary to his Majesty, when, in
opposition to Dr. Owen, Richard Baxter, and others,
he published, in 1681, a volume on " The Unreason-
ableness of Separation ; or an Impartial Account of
the History, Nature, and Pleas of the Present Separa-
tion from the Communion of the Church of Ensrland."
111 the long controversial preface to this book, he
declared his judgment, " That a causeles.s breaking
the peace of the Church we live in, is really a great
and as dangerous a sin as murder, and in some
respects aggravated beyond it." One of Stillingfleet's
adversaries had been tempted by this spirit ill a
sermon of his to recall his more tolerant writing in
earlier days, and compare the Rector of Sutton with
the Dean of St. Paul's. One of the fears he now ex-
jn-essed as a check upon altering the laws against
Dissent, was " the danger of breaking all in pieces by
toleration." In 1689 Edward Stillingfleet was made
Bishop of Worcester. He died m 1699, and the
last incident in his literary life was a controversy
with Jolni Locke, whom he accused of undermining
Christian faith.
John Wilkins was a divine with a strong interest
in scientific studies. He was born in 161-1. the son
of a goldsmith at Oxford, graduated in the University
of Oxford, sided with the Parliament in the Civil Wai-,
and signed the Covenant. He was made warden of
Wadham College at the end of the reign of Charles I.,
and in 1656 married a sister of Oliver Cromwell.
He became master of Trinity College, Cambridge,
in 1659. From this oflice he was ejected at the
Restoration, and he was the appointed preacher to
the Honourable Society of Gray's Inn and minister
of St. Lawrence Jewry. He was one of the first
fellows of the Royal Society and member of the
Council. He had written, at the age of twenty-four,
an argument to show that the moon was ]irol)al)ly
inhabited, and he did not hold it impossible that the
TO A.D. 1672.]
RELIGION.
325
inhiibitunts of tliis earth micrlit discover a way of
getting to the moon. John AVUkins also \\Tote to
maintain tlie Copernican system, and prove •the eartli
a planet. In lO-tl he had published an ingenious
system of cipher-writing, and his house was crowded
as a museum with scientific curiosities. The Duke of
Buckingham having become his friend at court, Dr.
"Wdkins was made Dean of Ripon, and in 1668
Bishop of Chester. In the same year he published
the most ingenious of his books — an attempt to
apply jiliilosophy to the establishment of a language
common to all nations — " An Essay towards a Real
Character and a Philosophical Language. Bishop
Wilkins died in 1672, the year after the publication
of "Paradise Regained." A volume of sermons by
him was collected and published in 1682. He sought
to reconcile the contending parties in the Church,
and devised a plan for the reception of Presbji;erian
mioistere into the Church of England by a form of
ordination to which they might be willing to assent.
In the same spirit he preached peace. This passage
is from a sermon by BLshop WUkius, on the text,
" Let your moderation be kno\\ai unto all men, the
Lord is at hand," Philippians iv. 5.
THE DUTY OF MODER.^TION.
'Tis the duty of Chiistians to give signal testimony of their
equity and moderation upon all occasions of difference and
contest with one another : not to insist upon the utmost
rigour of things, but to he ready to comply with all such
gentle and prudent expedients as may help to heal and
accommodate the differences amongst them.
Though this word moderation do but seldom occur in
Scripture, being scarce anywhere else used but here : yet
that which is the substance and meaning of it is frequently
commanded, and the contrary thereunto proliibited, under
different expressions in other places of .Script ro-e. This some
conceive to be the sense of that place, Eccles. vii. 16, " Be not
righteous over much, neither make thyself over wise, why
shouldst thou destroy thyself " (i.t.,) insist not upon the ut-
most extremity of things, as if it were wisdom to take aU the
advantages you could from the strict letter of the law. This
were the readiest way to destroy yourself by teaching other
men to do the like against you ; there being no safety for any
one. if everj' one must use another according to the utmost
rigour. Prov. xix. 11, " It is the glory of a man to pass over
a transgression." Men may think to get the repute of
strictness and zeal by being rigid and severe towards the
failings of others : but 'tis a much more glorious thing to
show gentleness and forbearance towards them ; it argues
a man to have a noble and generous mind, and a real sense of
humanity.
There are several other expressions to this purpose in the
Xew Testament. As Ephes. iv. 1, 2, "I beseech }-ou that
ye walk worthy of that vocation wherewith ye are called, in
all lowliness and meekness, with long suffering, forbearing
one another in love." Terse 32, ".\nd be ye kind to one
another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God
for Christ's sake hath forgiven you."
PhU. ii. 3, " Let nothing be done through strife or vain
glory, but in lowliness of mind let each esteem others better
than themselves." Ver. 14.
Gentleness is reckoned as "the fruit of the Spirit," Gal. v.
22. A mark of that "wisdom which is from above," .Jam.
iii. 17, an inseparable property of "the servant of the Lord,
who must not strive, but be gentle, shewing all meekness to
aU men," 2 Tim. ii. 24.
"Finally, brethren, ha-STiig compassion one of another, be
pitiful, be courteous, not rendering evil for e%dl, or railing
for raUing, but contrariwise blessing," 1 Pet. iii. 8, 9.
It were easy to back these precepts by several examjiks
out of Scripture. That of Abraham's caniage in the contest
betwixt him and his nephew Lot, who for peace' sake was
willing to recede from his own right, and give him his choice,
that " there might be no strife betwixt them, because they
were brethren," Gen. xiii. 8.
That of our Sa\-iour in his yielding to pay tribute for the
avoiding of offence, to which in strictness he was not obhged,
Mat. xvii. 27. He was the Great Exemplar, as of all others
so particularly of this Christian grace. " I beseech you,
brethi-en, by the meekness and gentleness of Christ," 2 Cor.
:;. 1.
St. Paul himself was as eminent for the practice of this
duty as for the pressing of it upon others : in his " becoming
all things to all men," 1 Cor. ix. 22, and in " pleasing all men
in all things, not seeking his own profit, but the profit of
many, that they might be saved," 1 Cor. x. 33.
Suitable to this was that carriage of the council of the
Apostles, Act. XV., in their not insisting upon the strict right
of things, but accommodating those controversies of the
Piimitive times about the Jewish rites, by such a moderate
expedient as might most effectually heal and compose those
difl'erences.
Among the friends of John Wilkias, and also of
John Milton, was Robert Boyle, born in 1626, the
year of Bacon's death, and a leader among those
who in the next generations ajiplied to the advance
of science Bacon's method of experimental search
into nature. Robert Boyle was the seventh son
of Richard Boyle, who died Earl of Cork, having
founded the fortime of the family by acquiring
enormous wealth in Ireland. Richard Boyle had
.seven sons and eight daughters, and was able to
leave a handsome estate to each of them. Robert
remained unmarried; lived with his eldest sister,
Lady Ranelagh, for companion and housekeeper;
■n-ithtbew from the strife of jiarties ; and pursued the
study of chemistry so energetically, that he made for
himself a distinguished place in the histoiy of its
progi-ess. He published many scientific treatises,
and was the honoured friend of the chief men of science
of his day, who would have made him president of
the Royal Society if he had not refused to bind hjm-
.self by' the test and oaths required on taking office.
He refused also to take orders, though profoundly
religious, and assured of rapid promotion in the
Church. He never named God without reverent
pause, he was active in societies formed for dift'usion
of the Gospel, enabled Burnet to write his " History
of the Reformation," blended a living religion with
his scientific writing, and in his " Sceptical Chemist"
reasoned with those men of science who " are wont
to endeavour to evince their siilt, sulphur, and mer-
cury as the true principles of things." Of some of
his books religion only was the theme. Robert
Boyle lived until 1691. This passage is from a
volume on " the Style of the Holy Scriptures," pub-
lished in 1663 : —
326
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1660
PROFANE WIT.
Hero I thought to pass on to another argument, hut (to
express myself in David's words) while I was musing, the
tire burned, and my zeal for the Scripture, together with the
thai'ity it has taught mo to exercise even towards its opposers,
suffers me not, with either silent or languid resentments, to
see how much that incomparable book loses of the opinion of
leas discerning men, upon the account of their disrespects
who are (whether deservedly or not) looked upon as wits.
And therefore, to what I have represented to invalidate the
authority of those few persons, othersvise truly witty, that
undervalue the Scriptxrre, I am obliged to add, that besides
them, there is a number of those that slight the Scripture,
who are but looked upon as wits, without being such indeed :
nay, who many of them would not be so much as mistaken
for such, but for the boldness they take to own slighting of
the Scripture, and to abuse the words o£ it to irreligious
senses, and perhaps, passing to the impudence of perverting
inspired expressions, to deliver obscene thought. But to
knowing and serious men, this prevaricating with the Scnp-
ture will neither discredit it, nor much recommend the profane
prevaricator ; for a book being capable of being so misused,
is too unavoidable to be a disparagement to it. Nor wUl
any intelligent reader undervalue the charming poems of
Virgil or of Ovid, because by shuffling and disguising the
expressions some French writers have of late been pleased
out of rare pieces to compose whole hooks of what they call.
Vers Burlesques,'' designed by their ridiculousness to make
their readers sport. And on the other side, to abuse dis-
membered words and passages of any author to meanings he
never dreamed of, is a thing so easj', that almost any man may
have the wit to talk at that profane rate, that will but allow
himself the sauciness to do so. And indeed experience shows,
that if this vice itself do not make its practisevs suspected of
the being necessitous of the quality they put it on to be
thought masters of, yet at least persons intelligent and pious
will not be apt to value any discourse as truly witty that
oannot please the fancy without oifending the conscience, and
will never admire his plenty that cannot make an entertain-
ment, without furnishing out the table with unclean meats :
and considering persons will scarce think it a demonstration
of a man's being a wit, that he will venture to be damned to
ibe thought one. And that which aggravates these men's
profaneness, and leaves them excuseless in it, is, that there
are few of these fools (for so the wise man calls them that
" make a mock of sin") that "have said in their hearts that
there is no God," or that the Scripture is not His word;
their disrespect to the Scripture springing from their vanity,
mot their incredulity. They affect singularity, for want of
1 Vir?il was travestied by Paul Scarron, wlio (lied in 1660. Scan-on
was imitated in England by Cbarles Cotton, who published in l&}4
the first book, and in 1672 the first and fourth books of " Vir^ile
'Travestie." There is not much to be said for its wit. Thus Charles
■Cotton travestied, in the fourth book, Dido's pledge to .tineas
<' Dixit, et in mensam laticum libavit honoreui," &c.
" With that she set it to her nose.
And oil at once the ninikin goes ;
No drops beside her muzzle failing,
Until that she had supped it all in ;
Then turning *t topsey on her thumb,
Says, Look, here's supemaculiun.
.53ueas, as the story tells,
And all the rest did bless themselves
To see her troll off such a pitcher,
And yet to have her face no richer.
By Jove, quoth he, knocking liis knuckles,
I'd not drink with her for shoe buckles.'*
anything else that is singular; and finding in themselves |
strong desires of conspicuousness, with small abilities to |
attain it, they are resolved with Erostratus, that fired
Diana's temple, to be talked of for having done so, to acquire
that considerableness by their sacrilege, which they must
despair of from their parts. And indeed there want not
many who have so little wit as to cry up all this sort of
people for great wits. And as withes," whilst they are sound
grow imregarded trees ; but when they once are rotten, shine
in the night : so many of these pretenders, whilst they were
not very profane, were (and that justly) esteemed very dull ;
but now that their parts are absolutely polluted and per-
verted, they grow conspicuous, only because they are grown
depraved: and I shall make bold to continue the comparison
a little further, and observe, that as this rotten wood shines
but in the night, so many of these pretenders pass for wits
but amongst them that are not truly so. For persons really
knowing can easily distinguish betwixt that which exacts
the title of wit from our judgments, and that v/hich but
appears such to our cori'uptions. And how often the dis-
course we censure is of the latter soi-t, they need not be
infomied that have observed, how many wUl talk very
acceptably in derogation of religion, whom upon other
subjects their partiallest friends acknowledge very dull; and
who are taken notice of for persons that seldom say anything
well, but what 'tis ill to sav.
Gilbert Slieklon, who became Arclibishop of
Canterbury iii 1663, and died, nearly eighty years
old, in 1677, published nothing but one sermon.
He spent sixty-six thousand pounds in beneficence
and charity. One monument of his liberality is
the Sheldonian Theatre at Oxford, in which the
University now holds annual commemoration of its
benefactors. Archbishop Sheldon was of the mind
of those who believed that Church unity should be
enfoi'ced, and he had two successive chaplains, who
published extreme opinions in that direction. One
was Thomas Tomkyns, who hesitated over the
licensing of Milton's " Paradise Lost" when he came
to these lines in the first book, describuig Satan : —
'• His foi-m hath not yet lost
All her original brightness, nor appear' d
Less than Archangel ruined, and the excess
Of glory obscured : as when the sun, new risen,
Looks through the horizontal misty air,
Shorn of his beams ; or from behind the moon.
In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds
On half the nations, and with fear of change
Perplexes monarchs."
Mr. Tomkyns, as Archbishop's chaplain and licenser,
was in some loyal perplexity about tliese lines. As
his contribution to the Church controversj'-, Thomas
Tomkyns wi-ote a tract entitled " The Inconveniences
of Toleration," and was succeeded in his office of
chaplain to Archljisho]) Sheldon by Samuel Parker,
who published in 1670 a "Discour.se of Ecclesias-
tical Polity," designed, as he said, to defend " the
authority of the Civil Magistrate over the con-
sciences of his f;'.;l)jects in matters of religion."
and to show " the mischief and inconveniences of
" TVithe {rirst-Euglish "witiiie"), willow, twisted rod.
TO A.D. 16j(.]
RELIGION.
327
toleration." Tliis and a preface by Parker to
Ai'clibisbop Bramhall's " Viudication of tbe Bisbops
from tbe Presbyterian Cbarge of Popery," were
tbe ^\^■itillnp answered on bebalf of liberty of con-
science by Andrew Marvell ' in a prose satire, witb
a title taken from tbe popular new plaj- of its time,
tbe Duke of Bnckingbam's " Eebearsal." Wben
threatened for tbis — it was called " Tbe Rebearsal
Ti'ansprosed " — Marvell published a second part, witb
tbe threat printed on bis title-page. Tbe courtiers
whom Marvell wished to influence were only to be
reached by satire, and were more likely to read a book
if it were named after a play than if it had a more
serious title. On tbe other liand, wben advocates of
supreme authority desii-ed to get a hearing from tbe
other side, they found use in a title derived from the
Bible. In 1675 Dr. Turner, IN [aster of St. John's
College, Cambridge, attacked Dr. Herbert Croft,
Bishop of Hereford, for having written a tract called
" The Naked Truth, or tbe Trae State of the Primi-
tive Church," in which he urged that the attempts to
compel uniformity in details bad failed, that as a
confession of faitli the Apostles' Creed had sufficed
for tbe Primitive Church, and that we ought to ask
no more. Dr. Fell, also, Bishop of Oxford, wrote
against Bishop Croft, comparing him to Judas.
Mai'vell satirised Dr. Turner's attack upon " Tbe
Naked Truth " in a piece named after a character in
what then was tbe new play," " Mr. Smii'ke, or the
Divine in Mode, " and it is noticeable that although
master of satu-e, and using it as tbe weapon for tiiith
most eflective against his antagonists in a frivolous
time, Marvell ended each of bis two satires with
eai-ne.st expression of bis sense of its unwortbiness.
At tbe close of tbe second part of "' Tbe Eebearsal
Transprosed," he quoted, with warm approbation.
Bacon's protest against tbe intermixture of Scripture
and scurrility in tbe Mari)relate controversies ; and
at the close of " Mr. Smu'ke," he quoted from tbe
Preface to the " Ecclesiastical Polity," Hooker's
saj'ing that "the time will come when three words
uttered with charity and meekness shall receive a far
more blessed reward than tbi-ee thousand volumes
written with disdainful sharpness of wit."
Thus men were debating while the House of Com-
mons, not wholly on patriotic gi-ounds, forced tbe king
to ^^'itbdraw bis Declaration of Indulgence. Tbe
House also passed, in March, 1673, a Test Act,
requii'ing all persons who bore any office, civil oi'
military, to take tbe oaths of supremacy and allegi-
ance, and to receive the Sacrament according to the
usages of tbe Church of England, within three
months after their admittance, in some public church,
upon Sunday, immediately after divine service and
sermon. Tbis act deprived tbe king's brother, the
Duke of York, of bis office of Lord High Admiral.
In 1677 tbe pretended discovery of a Popish Plot by
the infamous Titus Oates led to increased severitv
^ Andrev: Marvell. See Shorter En^rlisli Poems, pa^es .319, 320.
^ Sir Georfje Etlaere^re's " Man of Mode, or Sir Foplin^ Flutter,"
in wliicli there 13 a. very smr.ll part for Mr. Smirk, n subservient
chaplain.
against tbe Roman Catholics. In spite of tbe efforts
made for his exclusion, the king's brother, tbe Duke
of York, succeeded him in February, 1685, as
James II. ; and by his endeavours to ovemde tbe
law, brought on, in about three yeai-s, the final expul-
sion of the Stuarts, and settlement of the limitation
of tbe English crown.
Richard Baxter, who, in 1672, was fi-ee for a time
to preach, settled in London, and built a meeting-
house in Oxendon Street, but after tbe Indulgence
was withdrawn, the preaching was forbidden. In
1682, he says, newly risen from extremity of pain,
be was suddenly seized in his hou.se by a poor -violent
informer and many constables and officers, who
rushed in and apprehended him, and served on him
one warrant to seize on bis person for coming \vithin
five miles of a corporation, and five more warrants to
distrain for a hundred and ninety pounds, for five
sermons. His physician. Dr. Cox, then saved him
from imprisonment by representing the infirmity of
his health. In 1685, after a trial before Judge
Jeffreys, who addressed him brutally from the bench,
Baxter was condemned to two years' imjjrisonment
for sedition, but, by tbe intei'ference of Lord Powis,
was discharged after sis months' confinement. He
tiled m 1691, aged seventy-six.
In 1676 Roljert Barclay, then twenty-eight years
old, was confined as a Quaker in a prison so dark
that he and his fellow-prisonere could not see the
food given to them, unless a door were set open or
a candle brought. In the same year appeared in
Latin at Amsterdam, and afterwards in English,
Robert Barclay's "Apology for tbe True Christian
Divinity, as the same is held forth and preached by
the People calletl in scorn Quakei-s, being a full
Explanation and Vindication of tbeii- Principles and
Doctrines."
ISiAC Baekow.
From Hic Portrait pre/i.icd (o las " Scnnoiis against Eril-Spcaiting " (1678).
Isaac Barrow died in 1677 at tbe age of fort^-nme.
He bad been not only Professor of Greek at Cam-
bridge, but also Lucasian :Mathematical Lecturer, in
328
CA8SELL'S LIBRAEY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1660
which office he was succeeded by Isaac Newton. In
1672 BaiTow was made Master of his College,
Triuity, aud he was Vice-Chaucellor of the Univer-
sity at the time of his death. He was mathematician
as well as divine. "Several Sermons against Evil-
Speaking," by Isaac Barrow, D.D., were published in
1678, the year after liis death. Tlie sermons are ten
in number, and full of true wisdom. Their texts
tell their subjects. (1) " If any man offend not in
word, lie is a perfect man," James iii. 2. (2) " Nor
foolish talking, nor jesting, which are not convenient,"
Ejjhes. V. 4. This is a discrimmatiou of the fit and
unfit forms of the " facetiousness " much aimed at
in Charles II. 's time. (3) "But above all things,
my brethren, swear not," James v. 12. (-1) " To
speak evil of no man," Titus iii. 2. (5 and 6)
"He that uttereth slander is a fool," Prov. x. 18.
(7) "Speak not evil of one another, brethren,"
James iv. 11. (6) "Judge not," Matthew vii. 1.
(9 and 10) "And that ye study to be quiet, and to
do your own business," 1 Thess. iv. 11. The fol-
lowing passage is from the fourth sermon : —
THE STYLE OF CONTROVERSY.
In defence of truth, and maintenance of a good cause, we
may observe, that commonly the fairest language is most
proper and advantageous, and that reproachful or foul terms
are most improper and prejudicial. A calm and meek way of
discoursing doth much advantage a good cause, as arguing
the patron thereof to have confidence in the cause itself, and
to rely upon its strength ; that he is in a temper fit to ap-
prehend it himself, and to maintain it ; that he propouudeth
it as a friend, wishing the hearer for his own good to follow
it, leaving him the liberty to judge, and choose lor himself.
But rude speech, and contemptuous reflections on persons, as
they do signify nothing to the question, so they commonly
bring much disadvantage and damage to the cause, creating
mighty prejudices against it. They argue much impotency in
the advocate, and consequently little strength in what he
maintains; that he is Httle able to judge well, and altogether
unapt to teach others. They intimate a diflidence in himself
concerning his cause, and that, despaii'ing to maintain it by
reason, he seeks to uphold it by passion ; that, not being able
to con'i'ince by fair means, he would bear down by noise and
clamour ; that, not skilling to get his suit quietly, he would
extort it by force, ol)truding his conceits violently as an
enemy, or imposing them arbitrarily as a tvTant. Thus doth
he really disparage and slur his cause, however good and
defensible in itself.
A modest and friendly style doth suit truth; it, like its
author, doth usually reside (not in the rumbling wind, nor
in the shaking earthqiiah; nor in the raging Jire, but) in
the small still voice : sounding in this, it is most audible,
most penetrant, and most effectual : thus propounded, it is
willingly hearkened to ; for men have no aversation from
hearing those who seem to love them, and wish them well.
It is easily conceived ; no prejudice or passion clouding the
apprehensive faculties : it is readily embraced ; no animosity
withstanding or obstructing it. It is the sweetness of the lips,
which (as the wise man telleth us) increaseth learning ; dis-
posing a man to hear lessons of good doctrine, rendering him
capable to understand them, insinuating and impressing them
upon the mind. The affections being thereby unlocked, the
passage becomes open to the Reason.
But it is plainly a very preposterous method of instructing.
of deciding controversies, of begetting peace, to vex and
anger those concerned by ill language. Nothing sui'cly doth
more hinder the efficacy of discourse, and prevent conviction,
than doth this course, upon many obvious accounts. It doth
first put in a strong bar to attention ; for no man waUingly
doth afford an ear to him whom he conceiveth disaffected
toward him ; which opinion harsh words infallibly will pro-
duce. Xo man can e.'ipect to hear truth from him whom ho
apprehendeth disordered in his own mind, whom he seeth
rude in iiis proceedings, whom he taketh to be imjust in his
dealing ; as men certainly wUl take those to be who presume
to revile others for using their own judgment freely and
dissenting from them in opinion. Again, this coui-se doth
blind the hearer's mind, so that ho cannot discern what he
that pretends to instruct him doth mean, or how ho doth
assert his doctrine. Truth will not be discerned through the
smoke of wrathful expressions ; right being defaced by foul
language wUl not appear; passion being e.xcited wiU not
suffer a man to perceive the sense, or the force of an argu-
ment. The will also thereby is hardened, and hindered from
submitting to truth. In such a case, non persuadehis, ctiamsi
persiiaseris ; ' although you stop liis mouth, you cannot subdue
his heart ; although he can no longer fight, yet he never will
yield : animosity raised by such usage rendcreth him invin-
cibly obstinate in his conceits and coui'ses. Briefly, from
this proceeding men become unwilling to mark, unfit to
apprehend, indisposed to embrace any good instruction or
advice : it maketh them indocile and intractable, averse from
better instruction, pertinacious in theh opinions, and refrac-
tory in theh ways.
Every man (saith the wise man) shall hiss his lips that
giveih a right answer : but no man siu'ely will bo ready to
kiss those lips which are embittered with reproach, or defiled
with dirty language.
It is said of Pericles, that with thundering and lightning he
put Grccee into confusion : such discourse may serve to eon-
found things, it seldom tendeth to compose them. If Reason
will not pierce, Rage wiU scarce avaU to diive it in. Satiii-
cal vu-ulency may ve.x men sorely, but it hardly ever soundly
converts them. Fetv become wiser or better by ill words.
Childien may he fi-ighted into compliance by loud and severi-
increpations ; but men are to be allui-ed by rational persuasion
backed with coui'teous usage : they may be sweetly diawn,
they cannot be violently di-iven to change their judgment and
Ijractice. Whence that advice of the Apostle, With meekness
instruct those that oppose themselves, doth no less savour of
wisdom than of goodness.
Ralph Cudworth, who was two years younger than
Baxter, was in 10-14 Master of Clare Hall, and in
1054 Master of Christ's College, Cambridge. He
publishetl in 1678 a folio of more than 900 pages,
containmg the first pai-t — there were to have been
three parts — of " The Intellectual System of the
Universe." In this first part the title-page set forth
that " All the Reason and Philosojihy of Atheism is
confuted, and its Impossibility demonstrated." Tlio
root of the wliole book was a <lesire to reason against
" the Fatal Necessity of all actions and events, which
u]ion whatever grounds oi' princii)les maintained,
will serve the de.sign of Atheism, and undermine
Christianity and all religion ; as talcing away a.U
* " Tou will not pprsuade, even thougli you mny have persuaded "
— will not persuade io a duty o/ which you may have persuaded hiiu.
RELIGION.
329
wiiilt and blame, piinisliments and rewards, and
plainly rendering a Day of Judgment ritliculous ;
and it is e\'ident," says Cudworth, " that some have
pursued it of late in order to that end." The volume
published is a very learned one, in which Cudworth
traces the reasonings for and against the existence of
God through all ancient philosophies. I quote a
j)assage, in which, after proposing the three principal
Attributes of the Deity, which are, Infinite Good-
ness, with Fecundity ; Infinite Knowledge and Wis-
dom ; Infinite Active and Perceptive Power, Cud-
worth thus expands
THE IDEA OF GOD.
Nevertheless, if we would not only attend to what is barely
necessarj' for a dispute mth Atheists, but also consider the
Siitisfaction of other free and devout minds, that are hearty
and sincere lovers of this most admirable and most glorious
Being, we might ventui-e, for their gratification, to propose a
vet more full, free, and copious description of the Deity, after
this manner. God is a being absolutely perfect, unmade,
or self-originated, and necessarily existing, that hath an in-
finite fecimdity in Him, and virtually contains all t hin gs ; as
also an infinite benignity or overflowing love, uninWdiously
displaying and communicating itself, together with an im-
partial rectitude or nature of justice ; who fuUy comprehends
Himself and the extent of His own fecundity ; and therefore
all the possibilities of things, their several natures and re-
spects, and the best frame or system of the whole : who hath
also infinite active and perceptive power : the fountain of
all things, who made all that could be made, and was fit to
bo made, producing them according to His own nature (His
essential goodness and wisdom), and therefore according to
the best pattern, and in the best manner possible, for the
good of the whole ; and in reconciling all the variety and
contrariety of things in the universe, into one most admirable
and lovely harmony.
Lastly, who contains and upholds all things, and governs
them after the best manner also, and that without any force
or ■\"iolence they be all naturaUy subject to His authority,
and readily obeying His laws. And now wo see that God is
such a being, as that if He could be supposed not to be, there
is nothing whose existence a good man could possibly more
wish or desire.
Dr. Cudworth died in 1688, leaving one daughter,
who inherited her father's papers, mamed Sir Francis
Jlasham, and was one of the most cordial friends of
John Locke in his latter years.
Robert Leigh ton, son of the Alexander Leigh ton who
suffered cruelly for writing " Zion's Plea" and " The
Looking Glass of the Holy War," was bom in 1613,
and educated in Edinburgh. In 1643 he became
minister of Ne^VDottle, near Edinburgh, then left
the Presbyterian for the Episcojjal Church, became
Princij)al of the University of Edinburgh, and then
Bishop of Dumblane. The heat of dissension between
Episcopal and Presbyterian Christians drove Leighton
to London, but he was persuaded to go back as
Archbishop of Glasgow. A year's experience of the
feuds associated with that office caused him to with-
draw finally, and he spent his last years cjuietly in
106
Sussex, where he died in 1684. Robert Leighton
was one of the best preachers of his time, if not the
best after Jeremy "Taylor died, in the year of the
publishing of " Paradise Lost," 1667. This passage
is from a sermon of Leighton's, upon
HOPE AMIDST BILLOWS.^
" I will not be afraid, though ten thousands of the people
set themselves against me round about," says DaWd; and
lest you think him singular, in the 46th Psalm it is the joint
voice of the whole Church of God: '-We will not fear,
though the eaith be removed, and though the mountains be
carried into the midst of the sea ; though the waters thereof
roar and be troubled ; though the mountains shake with the
swelling thereof. There is a river, the streams whereof shall
make glad the city of God ; the holy place of the tabemaclea
of the Most High. God is in the midst of her ; she shall not
be moved." This is the way to be immovable in the midst of
troubles, as a rock amidst the waves. When God is in the
midst of a kingdom or city. He makes it firm as Mount Sion,
that cannot be removed. When He is in the midst of the
soul, though calamities thi'ong about it on all hands and roar
like the biUows of the sea, yet there is a constant calm
within, such a peace as the world can neither give nor take
away. On the other side, what is it but want of lodging
God in the soul, and that in His stead the World is in the
midst of men's hearts, tliat makes them shake hke the leaves
of trees at every blast of danger':' What a shame is it,
seeing natural men, by the strength of nature and by help of
moral precepts, have attained such imdaunted resolution and
courage against outward changes, that yet they who would
pass for Christians, are so soft and fainting, and so sensible
of the smallest alterations ! The advantage that we have in
this regard is infinite. 'WTiat is the best gi'ound-work of a
philosopher's constancy, but as moving sands in comparison
of the rock that we may build upon 'i But the truth is, that
either we make no provision of faith for times of trial, or, if
we have any, we neither know the worth nor the use of it,
but lay it by as a dead unprofitable thing, when we should
most use and exercise it. Notwithstanding all oui- frequent-
ing of God's House and our plausible profession, is it not too
tme, that the most of us either do not at all furnish our-
selves with those spuitual ai-ms that are so needful in the
militant life of a Christian, or we learn not how to handle
them, and are not m readiness for service r— as was the case of
that improvident soldier, whom his commander found mend-
ing some piece of his armour when they were to give battle.
It were not amiss, before afflictions overtake us, to trj- and
train the mind somewhat by supposmg the very worst and
hardest of them ; to say. What if the waves and billows of
adversity were sweUed and flowing m upon me? could I
then beUeve ? God hath said, " I wiU not fail thee, nor for-
sake thee," with a heap of negations ; " In no wise, I wiU
not " He hath said, " When thou passest through the fire
and through the water, I will be with thee." These I know,
and can discom-se of them ; but could I repose and rest upon
them in the day of trial? Put your souls to it. Is there
any thing or person that you esteem and love exceedmgly i
-sa.y. What if I should lose this? Is there some evil that
is naturally more contrary and terrible to you than many
others ? Sparc not to present that to the imagination too,
and labour to make Faith master of it beforehand, in case it
1 Its text is "Yet the Lord will command His loving-kjndness in
the daytime, and in tlie nit.'ht His some shall be with me, and my
prayer imto the God of my life." <Ps. xlu. 8.)
330
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1667
should befall you ; and if the iirst thought of it suuro you,
look upon it the oftener, tiU the visage of it become familiar
to you, that you start aud scare no more at it. Nor is there
any danger in these thoughts. Troubles cannot be brought
the nearer by our thus thinking on them, but you may be
both safer and stronger by breathing and exercising of your
faith in supposed cases. But if you be so tender-spirited
that you cannot look upon calamities so much as in thought
or fancy, how would you be able for a real encounter ? No,
surely. But the soul that hath made God his stay can do
both. See it in that notable resolution of the prophet, Hab.
iii. 17: "Although the fig-tree shall not blossom, neither
shall fruit be in the vines : the labour of the olive shall fail,
and the fields shall yield no meat ; the flock shall be cut off
from the fold, and there shall be no herd in the stalls : yet I
will rejoice in the Lord, I wiU joy in the God of my salva-
tion. The Lord is my strength" — and in that saj-ing of
David, Ps. xxiii. 4 : " Yea, though I walk through the
valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou
art with me ; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me." You
sec how faith is as cork to his soul, keeping it from sinking
in the deeps of afflictions. Y'ea, that big word which one'
says of his morally just man, is true of the believer : " Though
the verj- fabric of the world were falling about him, yet
would he stand upright and undaunted in the midst of its
ruins."
In this confidence, considered in itself, we may observe (1)
tlie object of it, " The loving kindness of the Lord ;" (2) the
manner or way by which he expects to enjoy it, " The Lord
win command it;" (3) the time, " In the day." The object ;
•• His loving kindness." He says not, "The Lord wiU com-
mand my return to the House of God," or, " wiU accomplish
liiy deliverance from the heavy oppression and sharp re-
proaches of the enemy," which would have answered more
particularly and expressly to his present griefs, but, " will
command His loving kindness." jVnd the reason of his thus
expressing himself, I conceive to be two-fold. First, in the
assurance of this, is necessarily comprised the certainty of all
other good things. This special favour and benignity of the
Lord, doth engage His power and wisdom, both which you
know are infinite, to the procurement of every thing truly
good for those whom He so favours. Therefore it is, tliat
David chooses rather to name the streams of particular
mercies in this their li%Tng source and fountain, than to
specify them severally. Nor is it only thus more compendious,
'out the expression is fuller too, which are the two great ad-
vantages of speech. And this I take to be the otlier reason
^-a man may enjoy great deliverances and many positive
Ijenefits from the hand of God, and yet have no share in " His
loving kindness." How frequently doth God heap riches,
and honoiu-, and health on those He hates ; and the common
gifts of the mind too, wisdom and learning ; yea, the common
gifts of His own Spirit; and give a fair and long day of
external prosperity to those on whom He never vouchsafed the
least glance of His favourable countenance ! Y'ea, on the
contrary, He gives aU those specious gifts to them -with a
secret curse. As He gave a king in wrath to His people, so
He often gives kingdoms in His wrath to kings. Therefore
1 Horace, Odes, iii. 3.
" Justum et tenacem propositi virum
Non civium ardor prava jubeutium
Non viUtias iastantis tyranni
Mente quatit solida ....
« » » * - •
Si fractus illabitur orbis.
Iinpavidxuu ferieiit ruinflD."
David looks higher than the very kingdom which God
promised him and gave liim, when he speaks of " His loving
kindness." In a word, he resolves to sokce himself with the
assurance of this, though he was stripped of aU other com-
forts, and to quiet his soul herein, till deliverance .should
come ; aud when it should come, and whatsoever mercies
with it, to receive them as fruits and effects of this loving
kindness; not prizing them so much for themselves, as for
the impressions of that love which is upon them. And it is
that image and superscription that both engages and moves
him most to pay his tribute of praise. And truly this is every-
where David's temper. His frequent distresses and wants
never excite him so much to desire any particular comfort in
the creature, as to entreat the presence and favour of God
Himself. His saddest times are when, to his sense, this favour
is eclipsed. " In my prosperity I said, I shall not be moved."
And what was his adversity that made him of another mind?
"Thou didst hide thy face, and I was troubled." This
verifies his position in that same psalm, " In thy favour is
life." Thus, in the 63rd Psalm, at the beginning, "My soul
thirsteth for Thee, in a dry land where no water is ;" not for
water where there is none, but, " for Thee, where no water
is." Therefore he adds in verse 3, " Thy loving kindness is
better than life." And all that be truly wise arc of this
mind, and will subscribe to his choice. Let them enjoy this
loHng kindness and prize it, because, whatever befalls them,
their happiness and joy is above the reach of all calamities.
Let them be derided and reproached abroad, yet still this
inward persuasion makes them glad and contented ; as a rich,
man said, though the people hated and taunted him, yet when
he came home and looked upon his chests, " Egomet mihi
plaudo domi."- With how much better reason do believers
bear our external injuries ! What inward contentment is
theirs, when they consider themselves as truly enriched with
the favour of God ! And as this makes them contemn the
contempts that the world puts upon them, so likewise it
breeds in them a neglect and disdain of those poor trifles
that the world admires. The sum of their desires is, as the
C)'nic's was of the sunshine, that the rays of the love of God
may shine constantly upon them. The favourable aspect and
large proft'ers of kings and princes would be unwelcome to
them, if they should stand betwixt them and the sight of
that Sim. And truly they have reason. A\Tiat are the
highest things the world affords ;- What are great honours
and great estates, but great cares and griefs well dressed and
coloured over with a show of pleasure, that promise content-
ment and perform nothing but vexation ? That they are not
satisfying is evident ; for the obtaining of much of them doth
but stretch the appetite, and teach men to desire more. They
are not solid neither. WiU not the pains of a gout, of a
strangury, or some such malady, to say nothing of the-
worst , the pains of a guilty conscience, blast all these delights ?
'\\'hat relish finds a man in large revenues and stately build-
ings, in high preferments and honourable titles, when either
his body or his mind is in anguish ': And besides the empti-
ness of all these things, j-ou know they want one main point,
continuance. But the loving kindness of God hath all
requisites to make the soul happy. " O satisfy us early with
2 " ut qiiidaiu memoratur Atbenis,
Sordidus ac dives, populi contemnere voces
Sic solitus : Poiiulas me sibilat, at niibi plaudo
Ipse domi, simul ac nummos coutemplor in area."
(Horace, Sat. I., i. 64—67.)
(As it is recorded tkat one among tlie Athenians, sordid and rich,
TTis thus used to contemn the voices of the people : The people
hissei me, but at home I applaud mj self , and contemplate the
nionc^j in my chest).
TO A.D. 16S8.]
RELIGION.
331
Thy goodness or mercy,' says Moses, " that we may rejoice
and he glad all our days," Ps. xc. 14. There is fulness
in that for the vastest desires of the soul — •■ Siitisfy us;"
there is solid contentment — that begets true joy and gladness ;
and there is permanency — "all our diiys." It is the only
comfort of this life, .and the assurance of a better.
John Drydeii — in whose mind, ■\\-ith a bias towards
authority, opinion tended towards Absolutism in the
State and Catholicism in the Church — in accordance
with his natural bent, became avowetUy a Roman
Catholic in James II. 's reign. Already, in Novem-
ber, 1682, his point of view was Roman Catholic,
■when his " Religio Laici " closed with these lines : —
" Faith is not built on disquisitions vain ;
The things we must believe are few and plain :
But since men will believe more than they ne
And even,- man will make himself a creed,
In doubtful questions 'tis the safest way
To learn what unsuspected ancients say ;
For 'tis not likely we should higher soar
In search of Heaven than all the Church before ;
Nor can we be deceived, unless we see
The .Scripture and the Fathers disagree.
If after all they stand suspected still,
(For no man's faith dei)ends upon his will,)
'Tis some relief, that points not cleai-lj- known
AVithout much hazard ma}' be let alone ;
And after hearing what our Church can say,
If still our reason runs another way,
That private reason 'tis more just to curb
Than by disputes the public peace disturb.
For points obscure are of small use to leara :
But common quiet is mankind's concern."
There is the natural issue of this reasoning in
Dryden's sun-ender of private judgment in the
"Hind and Panther," published in April, 1687, a
tlialogue between beasts upon the questions of the
Churches ; between the milk-white Hind, type of the
(^'hurch of Rome, and the spotted Panther, type of
■the Church of England.
" ^^^lat weight of ancient witness can prevail,
If private reason hold the public scale ?
15ut, gracious God, how well dost Thou provide
For erring judgments an unerring guide I
Thy throne is darkness in the abyss of light,
A blaze of glory that forbids the sight.
O teach me to believe Thee thus concealed,
.\nd search no farther than Thyself revealed ;
But her alone for my director take,
A\'hom Thou hast promised never to forsake I
My thoughtless youth was winged with vain desires ;
My manhood, long misled by wandering fires,
Followed false lights ; and when their glimpse was gone.
My pride struck out new sparkles of her own.
Such was I, such bj- nature still I am ;
Be Thine the glory and be mine the shame !
Good life be now my task ; my doubts are done :
^Vhat more could fright my faith than Three in <1nc '. "
was one of the .seven bi.shoi>s who in May, 1688. pro-
tested against a repetition by King James II. of his
illegal Declaration of Indulgence. The king ordered
it to tie read in all places of worship in London on
Sunday, the 20th of May, and in the country on the
3rd of June. On the 18th of May, a protest was
signed on behalf of a great body of the clergy by
William Sancroft, Archbishop of Canterbury, and
six bishops, of whom one was Thomas Ken, Bishop
of Bath and Wells. Ken, bom in 1637, was the
sou of an attorney. His eldest sister became Izaak
Walton's second wife. He lived, when a boj', with
Izaak Walton, and was helped in life by George
Morley, Bishop of Winchester, Izaak Walton's son-
in-law, who died in 168-1. Young Thomas Ken
went to Winchester School, and thence to Oxford.
He was already, as an Oxford student, poet and
musician, pla^inug on the lute, ^■iol, and organ. Soon
after the Restoration Ken became Rector of Easton
Parva, in E.ssex, and chaplain to Bishoj) ilorlej',
with whom Izaak Walton and his family were then
domesticated. Ken ol)tained also a fellowship of
Winchester College. In 1667, year of the publi-
cation of " Paradise Lost," the Bishop of Winchester
gave Ken the rectory of Brightstone, in the Isle of
Wight, and it was in the Isle of Wight that the
Rector of Brightstone wrote the Morning and
Evening Hymns for his own use. He sang them
himself to his hite. morning and evening.
Tliomas Ken, author of one of the most faniOiar
pieces of English sacred verse, the " Evening Hymn,"'
Thomas Ken. (From a Contemporary Print
MORSISG HYMX.
Awake, ray soul 1 and with the sun,
Thv daily stage of duty run ;
Shake off duU sloth, and jo>-ful rise.
To pay thy morning sacrifice.
Thy precious time misspent, redeem :
Each present day thy last esteem ;
Improve thy talent with due care.
For the great day thyself prepare.
332
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
Fi.D. 1688
In conversation be sincere,
Keep conscience as the noontide clear ;
Think how all-seeing God thy ways
And all thy secret thoughts siu-veys.
By influence of the light divine
Let thy own light to others shine ;
Eefleet all heaven's propitious rays
In ardent love and cheerful praise.
Wake, and lift up thyself, my heart.
And with the angels bear thy part,
Who all night long unwearied sing
High praise to the eternal King —
I wake, I wake ! — ye heavenly choir,
May your devotion me inspire ;
That I like you my age may spend,
Like you may on mj* God attend.
May I, Ukc you, in God delight.
Have all day long my God in sight,
Perform, like you, my Maker's will —
Oh may I never more do ill.
Had I your wings, to heaven I'd fly;
But God shall that defect supply ;
And mj- soul, winged with warm desire.
Shall all day long to heaven aspire.
All praise to Thee, who safe hast kept,
And hast rcfx'eshed me whilst I slept.
Grant, Lord, when I from death shall wake,
I may of endless light partake.
I would not wake, nor rise again.
Even heaven itself I would disdain,
Wert not Thou there to be enjoyed,
And I in hymns to be employed.
Heaven is, dear Lord, where'er Thou art :
Oh never then from me depart ;
For to my soid 'tis hell to be
But for one moment void of Thee.
Lord, I my vows to Thee renew.
Disperse my sins as morning dew ;
Guard my first springs of thought and will.
And with Thyself my spirit fill.
Direct, control, suggest, this day.
All I design, or do, or say ;
That all my powers, with aU their might.
In thy sole glory may imite.
Praise God, from whom all blessings flow,
Praise him, all creatures here below ;
Praise him above, ye heavenly host.
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
EVENING HYMN.
All praise to thee, my God, this night,
For all the blessings of the light !
Keep me, O keep me. King of kings.
Beneath thine ow7\ almighty wings.
10
20
30
40
50
Forgive me. Lord, for thy dear Sou,
The iU that I this day have done ;
That with the world, myself, and Thee,
I, ere I sleep, at peace may be.
Teach me to live, that I may .dread
The grave as little as my bed ; 10
To die, that this vile body may
Else glorious at the awful day.
Oh may my soul on Thee repose.
And may sweet sleep mine eyelids close —
Sleep, that may me more \-igorous make,
To serve my God when I awake.
When in the night I sleepless Ue,
My soul with heavenly thoughts supply :
Let no iU dreams disturb my rest.
No powers of darkness me molest. 20
DuU sleep !— of sense me to deprive ;
I am but half my time alive.
Thy faithful lovers, Lord, are grieved
To lie so long of Thee bereaved.
But though sleep o'er my frailty reigns.
Let it not hold me long in chains ;
And now and then let loose my heart.
Till it an Hallelujah dart.
The faster sleep the senses binds.
The more unfettered are our minds ; 30
Oh may my soul, from matter free.
Thy loveliness unclouded see.
Oh when shall I, in endless day.
For ever chase dark sleep away ;
And hymns with the supernal choir
Incessant sing, and never tire !
Oh may my Guardian, while I sleep,
Close to my bed his vigils keep,
His love angelical distil.
Stop all the avenues of ill. 40
May he celestial joy rehearse.
And thought to thought with me converse ;
Or in my stead, all the night long,
Sing to my God a grateful song.
Praise God, from whom all blessings flow,
Praise him, all creatures here below ;
Praise him above, ye heavenly host.
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
In 1681, Ken published a "Manual of Prayers foi-
the Scholar.s of Winchester College." He was made
Bishop of Bath and Wells not many days before
the death of Charles II. On the 8th of June, 1688,
he was among the seven bishops committed to the
Tower for seditious libel. On the 30th of June,
the day of the acquittal of the seven bishops, a
messenger was sent to invite William of Orange,
who landed in Torbay on the .5th of November.
William and Mary became King and Queen of
England on the "iSth of February, 1689. But
TO i.D. 1711.J
EELIGION.
333
William Sancroft, Archbishop of Canterbuiy, and
foiu- more of the seven, includuig Ken, refused to
tate the oaths of allegiance to the new sovereigns,
and, with about four hundred clergymen and mem-
bei-s of the imiversity, they were deprived. Ken
was housed and cai'ed for by his friend Lord Wey-
mouth, at Longleate House, until his death in 1711.
In these latter years he was siiflering excruciating
pain from chronic disease, and " for many yeai-s
travelled with his shroud in his portmanteau, as
what he often said might be as soon wanted as any
other of his habiliments." During these years of
suflfering he wrote several poems entitled " Ano-
dynes," of which these are two : —
PAIN.
Since 'tis God's will, Pain, take your course.
Exert on me yoiu' utmost force —
I well God's truth and promise know.
He never sends a woe,
But His supports divine
In due proportion with the affliction join.
Though I am fraUest of mankind,
And apt to waver as the wind —
Though me no feeble bruised reed
In weakness can exceed —
My soul on God relies.
And I your fierce, redoubled shocks despise.
Patient, resigned, and humble wills
Impregnably resist all ills.
My God will guide me by His light.
Give me victorious might :
No pang can me invade
Beneath His wing's propitious shade.
EASE.
In pity my most tender God
Now takes from me His rod ;
And the transporting Ease I feel,
Enkindles in me ardent zeal.
That love, joy, praise, may all combine.
To sing iafinity of love di\Tne.
My love, joy, praise, all powers within.
Your heavenly task begin 1
My love shall ever keep on wing.
Incessantly shall heaven- ward spring ;
Love, the beloved stiU keeps in mind,
Loves all day long, and will not be confined.
CHAPTER XI.
From the English Revolution to the Death
OF Queen Anne. — Tillotson, Locke, Burnet,
Steele, Addison, Blackmore. Isaac Watts, ant)
Others. — a.d. 1689 to a.d. 1714.
John Dryden remained firm to his principles, and
died a Roman Catholic, on May-day of the year
1 700. There is a paraphrase by him of the hymn to
the Holy Ghost, "Veni, Creator Spiritus," said to
have been written in the fourth century by St.
Ambrose, for Pentecost. In the year 1100 it was
inserted in the office for the consecration of a bishop,
and afterwards into that for the ordination of priests.
It was retained, as opening part of the same cere-
mony, in the Lutheran churches. This is Dryden's
Paraphrase : —
VEXi, creator spiritus.
Creator Spirit, by whose aid
The world's foundations first were laid.
Come, visit every pious mind ;
Come, poiu- thy joys on human kind;
From sin and sorrow set us free.
And make Thj- temples worthy Thee.
source of uncreated light.
The Father's promised Paraclete !
Thrice holy fount, thrice holj' fire.
Our hearts with heavenly love insphe ;
Come, and Thy sacred unction bring
To sanctify us whOe we sing.
Plenteous of grace, descend from high,
Rich in Thy sevenfold energy !
Thou strength of His Almighty hand.
Whose power does heaven and earth command ;
Proceeding Spirit, our defence.
Who dost the gift of tongues dispense.
And crownst Thy gift with eloquence ;
Refine and piu-ge our earthly parts ;
But, oh, inflame and fire our heai-ts I
Our frailties help, om- vice control,
Submit the senses to the soul ;
And when rebellious they are grown,
Then lay Thy hand, and hold them down.
Chase from our minds the infernal foe.
And Peace, the fruit of Love, bestow ;
And lest our feet should step astray.
Protect and guide us in the way.
Make us eternal truths receive,
And practise aU that we believe :
Give us Thyself, that we may see
The Father and the Son by Thee.
Immortal honour, endless fame.
Attend the Almighty Father's name :
The Saviour Son be glorified.
Who for lost man's redemption died :
And equal adoration be.
Eternal Paraclete, to Thee.
The religious aspect of the Revolution as it was
regarded by a leader among the clergy who most
favoured it, may be found in "A Thanksgi\-mg-
Sermon for our Deliverance by the Prmce of
Orange," preached at Lincoln's Iim Chapel, by Dr.
John'rillotson, on the 31st of January, 1689.
John Tillotson (whose great-grandfather had
chanaed the family name from Tilston to Tillotson)
was eldest of three sons of a clothier at Sowerbv, in
Yorkshire, and was born there in 1630. He entered
Clare Hall, Cambridge, in 1647, commenced B.A.
in 1650, and M.A. in 16.54. His tutor had been a
Nonconformist who was among those m controverey
with Stillingfleet. Writings of Chilhngworth had
much influence upon his mind, and he had a long
personal friendship with Dr. John Wilkms. lu
334
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
163G or the beginning of 1657 Tillotson left college
to he tutor at Ford Abljey, Devonshire, to tJio son of
Eilniuinl Priileanx, who was then Cromwell's At-
torney-General. At the Restoration, Tillotson had
been ordainetl, and acted with the Presbj-terians, but
lie submitted to the Act of Uniformity. Tillotson
was curate at C'heshunt from 1661 to 1672, with
which office he held others, including that of preacher
4it Lincoln's Inn. To this he was elected in No-
vember, 1663, and he liked it so well that he made
Lincoln's Inn his head-quarters. He took gi-eat
John Tillotsox. (From, the Portrait be/on his Woiis ; 1701.)
ipaius with his sermons, endeavouring to make them
clear and unatl'ected in their style and reasoning.
Several of his early sernKms, like that of 166i, on
•" The Wisdom of being Religious," which he en-
larged before publication into a small treatise, were
■directed against the growing tendency to Atheism.
Under Charles II., Tillotson became Dean of Canter-
iliury, and chaplain to the king, who did not like him.
Dean Tillotson warmly s\ipported the liill for the
■exclusion of the Duke of York, yet both he and
his friend Gilbert Burnet sought to persuade Lord
William Russell, before his execution, to acknowledge
the unlawfulness of resistance to authority, and as
Lord Russell's chaplain, Mr. Samuel Johnson, after-
wards put it, " to bequeath a legacy of slavery to
liis countrv." But Tillotson I'ecovered gi'ound, and
l)ecame a trusted friend of Lady Russell. At the
Revolution this is the reference to political e\'ents in
his Thanksgiving-Sermon, on a text from Ezra ix. 1.3,
14 : — "And after all that is come upon us for our
e.vil deeds, and for our great trespass, seeing that
Thou our God hast punished us less than our ini-
quities deserve, and hast given us such deliverance
4is this ; should we again Ijreak thy commandments,
and join in affinity with the people of these abomina-
tions, wouldst not Thou be angry with us till Thou
hadst consumed us, so that there should be no remnant
aiQi- escaping?"
THE GREAT DELITEEANCE OF 168?.
The case in the text doth very much resemble ours. And
that in three respects. God hath sent great j udgments upon
us for our evil deeds and for our great trespasses : He hath
punished us less than our iniquities have deserved, and hath
given us a very great and wonderful deliverance.
1. God hath inflicted great judgments upon us for our evil
deeds, and for our great trespasses. Great judgments, both
for the quality, and for the continuance of them. It shall
suffice only to mention those which are of a more ancient
date. Scarce hath any nation been more calamitous than this
of ours, both in respect of the invasions and conquests of
foreigners, and of our own civil and intestine divisions. Four
times we have been conquered; by the Romans, Saxons,
Danes, and Normans. And our intestine divisions have like-
wise been great and of long continuance. Witness the Barons'
Wars, and that long and cruel contest between the two
Houses of York and Lancaster.
But to come nearer to our own times, what fearful judg-
ments and calamities of war, and pestilence, and fire, have
many of us seen ? and how close did they follow one another ?
'What terrible havoc did the sword make amongst us for
many years ? And this not the sword of a foreign enemy,
but a civil war ; the mischiefs whereof were all terminated
upon ourselves, and have given deep wounds, .and left broad
scars upon the most considerable families in the nation.
. . . . A/ta sedcut chnlis viilnera (Icxtra.^
This war was drawn out to a great length, and had a
tragical end, in the murder of an excellent king ; and in the
banishment of his children into a strange country, whereby
they were exposed to the arts and practices of those of another
religion ; the mischievous consequences whereof we have
ever since sadlj' laboui'cd under, and do feel them at this day.
And when God was pleased in great mercy at last to put
an end to the miserable distractions and confusions of almost
twenty years, by the happy restoration of the royal family,
and our ancient government ; whieh seemed to promise to U8
a lasting settlemrnt, and all the felicities we could wish : yet
how soon was this bright and glorious morning overcast, by
the restless and black designs of that sure and inveterate
enemy of ours, the Church of Kome, for the restoring of their
religion amongst us. And there was too much encourage-
ment given to this design, by those who had power in their
hands, ,ind had brought home with them a secret goodwill
to it.
For this great trespass, and for our many other sins, God
was angry with us, and sent among us the most raging
pestilence that ever was known in this nation, which in the
space of eight or nine months swept away near a third part
of the inhabitants of this vast and populous city, and of the
suburbs thereof; besides a great many thousands more in
several parts of the nation." But we did not return to the
Lord, nor seek Him for all this.
And thei-efore the very next year after, God sent a terrible
and devouring fire, which in less than three daj's' time laid
the greatest part of this great city in ashes. And there is too
1 Lucon's *' Pharsalia," Lk. i.. Hue 32 —
" Nor tliou, tierce Pyn-hus, nor the Punic bands,
This waste have made ; no sword could reiich so far ;
T><xp fierce t/ic ifouudjj received, in civii iror."
(May's "Lacan."J
Tillotson, quoting from memoir, wrote "nument " for " sedent, "
2 The plainie of 1665: in which year there were DT,.^^ funerals in
the City of London within the Bills of Mortality ; and of these,
68,596 were of persons who died of the plague, besides many of whom
no aecount was given by the parish clerks, and who were privately
biuned.
»■]
RELIGION.
335
much reason to believe that the enemy did this ; that per-
petual and implacable enemy of the peace and happiness of
this nation.'
And even since the time of that dreadful calamity, which is
now above twenty years agone, we have been in a continual
fear of the cruel designs of that party, which had hitherto
been incessantly working underground, but now began to
show themselves more openly ; and especially since a prince
of that religion succeeded to the crown, our eyes have been
ready to fail us for fear, and for looking after those dreadful
things that were coming upon us, and seemed to be even at
the door. A fear which this nation could easily have rid
itseU' of, because they that caused it were but a handful in
comparison of us, and could have done nothing without a
foreign force and assistance ; had not the principles of
humanity, and of our religion too, restrained us from violence
and cruelty, and from everything which had the appearance of
undutif ulness to the government which the providence of God
had set over us. An instance of the like patience, under the
hke provocations, for so long a time, and after such visible
and open attempts upon them, when they had the laws so
l)laialy on their side, I challenge any mition or church in the
world, from the verj' foundation of it, to produce. Insomuch,
that if God had not put it into the hearts of our kind neigh-
bours, and of that incompai'able prince who laid and conducted
that great design with so much skill and secrecy, to have
appeared so seasonably for our rescue, our patience had in-
fallibly, without a miracle, been our ruin. And I am sure if
oui' enemies had ever had the like opportunity in their hands,
and had over-balanced us in numbers but half so much as we
did them, they would never have let it slip ; but would long
since have extirpated us utterly, and have "made the remem-
brance of us to have ceased from among men."
And now if you ask me, for what sins more especially God
hath sent all these judgments upon us ? it will not, I think,
become us to be very particular and positive in such determi-
nations. Thus much is certain, that we have all sinned and
contributed to these judgments; every one hath had some
hand, more or less, in pulling down this vengeance upon
the nation. But we are aU too apt to remove the meritorious
cause of God's judgments as far as we can from ourselves
and our own party, and upon any slight pretence to lay it
upon others.
Yet I will ventui'e to instance in one or two things which
may probably enough have had a more particular and im-
mediate hand in drawing down the judgments of God upon us.
Our horrible contempt of religion on the one hand, by our
infidelity and profaneness : and our shameful abuse of it on
'he other, by our gross hj-pocrisy, and sheltering great
vvickedness and immoralities under the cloak and profession
of religion.
And then, great dissensions and divisions, great imchari-
tableness and bitterness of spirit among those of the same
religion ; so that almost from the beginning of our happy
Heformation the enemy had sown these tares, and by the un-
wearied malice and arts of the Church of Rome, the seeds of
dissension were scattered very early amongst us ; and a sour
humour had been fermenting in the body of the nation, both
upon account of religion and civil interests, for a long time
before things broke out into a ci^'il war.
' Tlie report was that tlie Koman Catholics had plotted to hnm
London. Pope expressed his indignation at this in his reference to
the inscription on the Monument, cut in 1681, erased under James IL ,
re-cut under William III., and finally erased in 1831.
•* Where London's column, pointing at the skies.
Like a tall bully lifts the head and lies."
(" On the Use of Eiches.")
And more particularly yet ; that which is called the great
trespass here in the te.\t, their joining " in affinity with the
people of these abominations," by whom they had been
detained in a long captivity, this, I say, seems to have had,
both fi-om the nature of the thing, and the just judgment of
God, no small influence upon a great part of the miseries and
calamities which have befallen us. For had it not been for
the coimtenance which Popery had by the mamages ami
alliances of our princes, for two or three generations together,
with those of thiit religion, it had not probably had a con-
tinuance among us to this day. A\Tiich vrill, I hope, now be
a good warning to those who have the authority to do it,
to make effectual provision by law for the prevention of the-
like inconvenience and mischief in this nation for ever.
2. Another parallel between our case and that in the text
is, that God hath puni.shed us less than our iniquities did
deserve. And this acknowledgment we have as much reason-
to make for ourselves, as Ezra had to do it in behalf of the
Jews ; ' ' Thou our God hast punished us less than our iniqui-
ties deserve." Thou, our God, hast punished us; there is the-
reason of so much mercy and mitigation. It i.s God, and not
man, with whom we have to do ; and therefore it is that we,
the children of men, are not consumed. And it is our God
likewise, to whom we have a more peculiar relation, and with
whom, by virtue of oui- profession of Christianity, we are in
covenant. " Thou our God hast punished us less thira our
iniquities deserve." He might justly have pom-ed forth all His
wrath, and have made His jealousy to have smoked against
us, and have blotted out the remembrance of us from under
heaven : He might have given us up to the will of our
enemies, and into the hands of those -n-hose tender mercies
are cruelty : He might have brought us into the net which
they had spread for us, and have laid a terrible load of
atfliction upon our loins, and suffered insolent men to ride
over our heads, and them that hated us with a perfect hati'ed
to have had the rule over us : but He was graciously pleased
to remember mercy in the midst of judgment, and to repent
Himself for His servants, when He saw that their power was
gone, and that things were come to that extremity, that wt-
were in all human probability utterly unable to have wrought
out our own deUverance.
3. The last parallel between our case and that in the text
is the great and wonderful deliverance which God hath
-wrought for us. And whilst I am speaking of this, " God is
my witness, whom I serve in the Gospel of His Son," that I
do not .say one word upon this* occasion in flattery to men,
but in true thankfulness to Almighty God, and constrained
thereto from a just sense of His great mercy to us all, in this
marvellous deliverance, in this mighty salvation which He
wrought for us. So that we may say -with Ezra, "Since
Thou our God hast given us such a deliverance as this : " so
great that we know not how to compare it -with anything but
itself. God hath given us this deliverance. And therefore,
" Not imto us, O Lord, not unto us, but to Thy name be tho
praise." For Thou knowest, and we are aU conscious to
ourselves, that we did nowise deserve it ; but quite the con-
trary. God hath given it, and it ought to be so much the
welcomer to us, for coming from such a hand. "It is the
Lord's doing," and therefore ought to be the more " mar-
vellous in our eyes." It is a deliverance full of mercy, and
I had almost said, full of miracle. The finger of God was
^ibly in it ; and there are plain signatures and characters
upon it, of a more immediate divinity interposition. And if
we wUl not wisely consider the Lord's doings, we have reason
to stand in awe of the threatenings of His : " Because they
regard not the -vvorks of the Lord, nor the operation of His-
hands, He shall destroy them, and not buUd them up."
336
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. :
It was a wondertul dulivcrance indeed, if we consider all
tho cu-cumstances of it : the greatness of it ; and the strange-
ness of the means whereby it was brought about ; and the
suddc:mess, and easiness of it.
Tho greatness of it : it was a great deliverance from the
greatest fears, and from tho greatest dangers : tho apparent
and imminent danger of the saddest thraldom and bondage,
civil and spii-itual ; both of soul and body.
And it was brought about in a very extraordinary maimer,
and by very strange means : whether we consider the great-
ness and difficulty of the enterprise ; or the closeness and
secrecy of the design, which must of necessity be com-
municated at least to tho chief of those who were to assist
and engage in it ; especially the Estates of the United I'ro-
vinces, who were then in so much danger themselves, and
wanted more than theii' own forces for their own defence and
security : a kindness never to be forgotten by the English
nation. And besides all this, the difficulties and disappoint-
ments which happened, after the design was open and
manifest, from the uncertainties of wind and weather and
many other accidents impossible to be foreseen and prevented.
And yet in conclusion a strange concurrence of all things on
aE sides, to bring the thing which the providence of God
intended to a happy issue and effect.
And we must not here forget the many worthies of our
nation, who did so generously run all hazards of life and
fortune, for the preservation of our religion and the asserting
of our ancient laws and liberties.
These are all strange and unusual means ; but, which is
stranger yet, the very counsels and methods of our enemies
did prepare the way for all this, and perhaps more effectually
than any counsel and contrivance of our own coidd have
done it. For even the Jesuits, those formal politicians by
book and rule, without any consideration or true knowledge
of tho temper, and interest, and other cii-cumstances of the
people they were designing upon, and had to deal withal ;
and indeed without any care to know them ; I say, the
Jesuits, who for so long a time, and for so little reason, have
affected the reputation of the deepest and craftiest statesmen
in the world, have upon this gi'eat occasion, and when their
whole kingdom of darkness lay at stake, by a more than
ordinary infatuation and blindness, so outwitted and over-
reached themselves in their own counsels, that they have
really contributed as much, or more, to our deliverance from
the destruction which they had designed to bring upon us,
than all our wisest and best friends coidd have done.
And then, if wc consider further, how sudden and sur-
prising it was, so that we could hardly believe it when it was
accomplished : and like the childi'cn of Israel, " When tho
Lord turned again the captivity of Zion, we were like them
that di-eamed." When all things were driving on furiously,
. ind in great haste, then God gave an unexpected chock to
'the designs of men, and stopped them in their full career.
AVTio among us could have imagined, but a few months ago,
.so happj' and so speedy an end of our fears and troubles ?
tiod hath at once scattered all our fears, and outdone aU our
hopes by the greatness and suddenness of our deliverance.
' ' that men would praise the Lord for His goodness, and for
His wonderful works to the children of men."
And lastly, if we consider the cheapness and easiness of
this deliverance. All this was done without a battle, and
almost without blood. All the danger is, lest we should
loathe it, and grow sick of it, because it was so very easy.
Had it come upon harder terms, and had we waded through
a red sea of blood, we would have valued it more. But
this surely is great wantonness and, whatever we think of it,
one of the highest provocations imaginable : for there can
hardly be a fouler and blacker ingratitude towards Almighty
God, than to slight so gr-eat a deliverance, only because it
came to us so easily and hath cost us so very cheap.
I will mention but one cii'cumstance more, which may not
be altogether imworthy our observation : that God seems, in
this last deliverance, in some sort to have rmited and brought
together all the great deliverances which he hath been pleased
to work for tliis nation against all the remai-kable attempts
of Popery, from tho beginning of our Reformation. Our
wonderful deliverance from the formidable Spanish invasion
designed against us, happened in the year 1588. And now
just a hundred years after, God was pleased to bring about
this last great and most happy deliverance. That horrid gun-
powder conspiracy, without precedent and without parallel,
was designed to have been executed upon the fifth day of
November ; the same day upon which his Highness the Prince
of Orange landed the forces here in England which he
brought hither for our rescue. So that this is a day every
way worthy to be solemnly set apart and joyfully celebrated
b)' this chm-ch and nation, throughout all generations, as
the fittest of all other to comprehend, and to put us in mind
to commemorate all the great deliverances which God hath
wrought for us, from Popery, and its inseparable companion.
Arbitrary Power. And we may then say with the holy
psalmist, "This is the Lord's doing, it is marvellous in oui'
eyes. This is the day which the Lord hath made : we will
rejoice and be glad in it."
As Dean of Canterbury, Dr. Tillotson exercised
arcliiepiscopal jurisdiction after su.spension of the
primate, Dr. Sancroft, for refusal of tlie oaths ap-
pointed by the Act of Parliament of the 24th of
April. The same oaths were i-efused by Dr. Ken,
Bishop of Bath and Wells, and by the Bishops of
Worcester, Gloucester, Peterborough, Chichester,
Ely, and Norwich. Sancroft was deprived of his
office in 1690, and Tillotson succeeded him as Arch-
bishop of Canterbury in 1691. Tillotson's age was
then sixty-one, and he died in 1694.
King William oifered in Parliament to excuse
the oath to the non-juring clergy on condition
that Dissenters might be excused the sacramental
test ; but the legislature overruled his wish for an
even-handed policy of toleration. The old discord
about Unity continued, and a small series of non-
juring bishops, in a separate free church, continued
to exercise their fiuictions and consecrate non-juring
priests down to the year 1779, when Dr. Gordon,
the last of the line of non-juring bishops, died. The
breach might have been healed after the death of
James II. in 1701, if the Act of Abjuration had not
requu-ed acknowledgment of William as king by
right of law as well as Ijy fact of possession.
George Hickes, best known in literature for his
studies of First English and the Northern languages
of Europe, was one of the chiefs of the non-jurors.
He was born in 1642 at Newsham, Yorkshire,
educated at Noi-thallerton School and St. John's
College, Oxford, became D.D. both of St. Andrews
and of Oxford, and in 1683 was made Dean of
Worcester. One of the most energetic of the non-
jiirors, he was deprived of his church offices at the
Revolution, openly opposed the government, and had
to leave the country. In 1694 he was consecrated
by three of the non-juring bishops to a new bishopric
TO A.D. 17M.]
KELIGION.
337
in the sepai'ate chtirch, that of Thetford. Before the
end of the centiuy all pi-oceediiigs against Dr. Hickes
■were staved, out of respect to his position as a
scholar. He died in 1715.
Another of the non-juroi's, an earnest and ener-
getic ^VI■iter, was Jeremy Collier, bom in 1650, and
educated in Ipswich school anil at Caius College,
Cambridge. He had a rectory in Suflblk, and was
lecturer at Gray's Inn before he got iuto trouble by
liis opposition to the Revolution. He died outlawed
in n'26. At the close of the century Jeremy Collier
led an attack npon the Immorality and Profaneness
of the Stage, and tliis controversy continued for two
or thi-ee years. Jeremy Collier also wrote some
good " Moral Essays " and an Ecclesiastical History.
William Penji, born in 1644, son of an admiral,
and educated at Christchurch, Oxford, had suil'ered
pereecution in his earlier life for turning Quaker, and
^vTote in prison at the age of twenty-five " No Cross
no Crown." In 1670 he inherited his father's estate,
and in 1681 obtained a gi-ant of New Netherlands,
thenceforward called Pennsylvania. In 1694 Penn
published " A Brief Accomit of the Rise and Pro-
gi'ess of the People called Quakers," and there was
published in the same year the " Journal of George
Fox," the founder of their brotherhood, who died in
1690. Penn (Ued in 1718.
John Locke, (Fi-oih the Portraii prefixed to his Works in 1703.)
John Locke was nearly of the same age as Dryden,
John Dryden ha\"ing been born in August, 1631,
and John Locke in August, 1632. Locke was bom
at Wrington, in Somersetshii-e ; his father served in
the Parliamentary wars under Colonel Popham, by
whose advice the boy was sent to Westminster
School. From Westminster he passed, in 1651, to
Christchurch, Oxford, where he felt the impulse
then given to scientific research by Bacon's philo-
sophy. He made medicine his study, and by accident
was brought into close fiiendly relation to Lord
Ashley, attenvards Earl of Shaftesbuiy. In 1668
107
Locke became one of the Fellows of the Royal
Society, and in 1673 he was Secretary to a Commis-
.sion of the Board of Trade over which Shaftesbury
was President. He was with Shaftesbmy when
Charles II. was seeking his life, and afterwards went
to Holland. Shaftesbury died in 1683, but Locke
remaiired at Amsterdam, and for a time at Rotter-
dam, in close association ^^•ith Philip Van Limborch,
Jean le C'lerc, and other leaders of the Chm-ch of the
Remonstrants, which had been established by Jacob
Hai-mensen (Ai-minius).' He was wi-iting upon
" Toleration " at the time of the English Revolution,
and returned to Ensland m the shii> that brought the
Prmcess Mary. He then published his " Essay
concerning Human Understanding," and Ids " Two
Treatises of Government," in wliich he laid down the
principles of the Revolution. In 1691 Locke, whose
health was very delicate, foui^d a pleasant home at
Gates, in Essex, the residence of Sir Francis ilasham
and his wife. Lady INIasham had been known to Locke
some yeai-s before as liis friend Dr. Cudworth's only
daughter Damaris. In 1693 he published "Some
Thoughts concexTung Education," which had a gi-eat
and wholesome influence upon home-life in England,
while his wisdom and honesty were made ser\'iceable
to the state. The later writings of Locke, imtil his
death in 1704, were chiefly religious. In 1695 he
published a treatise on " The Reasonableness of
Chi'istiauity " — this di'ew its evidence chiefly fi'om
the Gospel narrative ; and his last work came of
an endeavour to gi'ound his faith also npon study of
the Epistles of St. Paul — " Aji Essay for the Under-
standing of St. Paul's Epistles Ijy consulting St. Paul
himself."
In the fii-st year of the Revolution John Locke
drew up for himself and some of his friends these
RULES FOR A SOCIETV OF PACIFIC CHRISTIANS.
1. We think nothing necessary to be known or beKeved
for salvation, but what God hath revealed.
2. "We therefore embrace all those who, in sincerity,
receive the word of truth revealed in the Scriptuie, and obey
the light which enlightens every man that comes into the
world.
3. We judge no man in meats, or drinks, or habits, or
days, or any other outward observances, but leave every one
to his freedom in the use of those outward things which he
thinks can most contribute to build up the inward man in
righteousness, holiness, and the true love of God and his
neighbour, in Christ Jesus.
4. If any one find any doctrinal parts of Scripture difficult
to be imderstood, we recommend him — 1st, The study of the
Scriptures in humility and singleness of heart ; 'Jnd, Prayer
to the Father of lights to enlighten him ; 3rd, Obedience to
what is already revealed to him, remembering that the prac-
tice of what we do know is the surest way to more know-
ledge; our infallible guide haWng told us, "If any man
will do the wiU of him that sent me, he shall know of the
doctrine." 4th, We leave him to the advice and assist-
ance of those whom he thinks best able to instract him;
no men or society of men having any authority to impose
their opinions or interpretations on any other, the meanest
1 See Note 1, page iW3.
338
UASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.u. 1GS8.
Christian, since, in matters of religion, every man must
know and believe and give an account for himself.
.5. We hold it to lie an indispensable duty for all Chiistians
to maintain love and charity in the diversity of contrary
opinions : by which charity we do not mean an empty sound,
but an effectual forbearance and goodwill, carrving men to a
communion, fi-iendship, and mutual assistance one of another,
in outward as well as spiiitual things ; and by debarring all
magistrates from malring use of their authority, much less
their sword (which was put into their hands only against
evil-doers), in matters of faith or worship.
6. Since the Christian religion we profess is not a notional
science, to furnish speculation to the brain or discourse
to the tongue, but a rule of righteousness to inilueuce our
lives, Christ having given Himself "to redeem us from all
iniquity, and purify unto Himself a people zealous of good
works," we profess the only business of our public assem-
blies to be to exhort, thereunto laying aside all controversy
.and speculative questions, instruct and encourage one another
in the duties of a good life, which is acknowledged to be the
great business of true religion, and to pray God for the
assistance of His Spirit for the enlightening our understanding
and subduing our corruptions, that so we may retm-n unto
Him a reasonable and acceptable service, and show our faith
by oiu- works, proposing to om'selves and others the example
of our Lord and Saviour- Jesus Christ, as the great pattern
for our imitation.
7. One alone being our Master, even Christ, we acknow-
ledge no masters of our assembly ; but if any man in the
spirit of love, peace, and meekness, has a word of exhorta-
tion, we hear him.
S. Nothing being so oppressive, or having proved so fatal
to unity, love, and charity, the first great characteristical
duties of Christianity, as men's fondness of their own
opinions, and their endeavours to set them up, and have
them followed, instead of the gospel of peace; to prevent
those seeds of dissension and division, and maintain imity in
the difference of opinions which we know cannot be avoided
— if any one appear contentious, abounding in his own sense
rather than in love, and desirous to di-aw followers after
himself, with destruction or opposition to others, we judge
him not to have learnt Chi-ist as he ought, and therefore not
fit to be a teacher of others.
9. Decency and order in our assemblies being dii-ected, as
they ought, to edification, can need but very few and plain
rules. Time and place of meeting being settled, if anj'thing
else need regulation, the assembly itself, or four- of the
ancientest, soberest, and discreetest of the brethren, chosen
for that occasion, shall regulate it.
10. From every brother that, after admonition, walketh
disorderly, wo withdi'aw ourselves.
11. We each of us think it our duty to propagate the
doctrine and practice of universal goodwill and obedience in
all places, and on all occasions, as God shall give us oppoi'-
tunity.
Gilbert Burnet was born at Edinburgh in 1G43,
and educated at Aberdeen ; he studied also for a
few months in Oxford and Cambridge, worked at
Hebrew in Holland, and in 1665, at the age of
twenty-two, became Divinity Professor in Glasgow.
He was a hard worker, i-ose at four in the morning
to his studies, and continued the practice iintU it
was forbidden by the infirmities of age. His life
was troubled by church dissensions and the strife of
politics, in wliich he gave offence by opposition to in-
tolerance and despotism. Burnet was preacher at the
Rolls Chapel when he began, with aid from Robert
Boyle, his '■ History of the Reformation." He caused
the dissolute Earl of Rochester to die a Christian, and
was Ijy his friend Lord Russell when he died on the
scaffold. Then Burnet was deprived of his preacher-
shij), and was abroad till he returned to England
with William of Orange as hLs chaplain. In the
next year he was made Bishop of Salisbuiy. His
ability, industry, and warmth of feeling had made
him a foremost man of his party. He could not
avoid judging others as a partisan, and from partisans
upon the other side he has suffered many a harsh judg-
ment. As bishop, Burnet lived in his diocese, and
paid close attention to its duties. He died in 1715,
leaving evidence of his ability and industry and
of his living interest in the gi-eat controversies of his
time, not oidy iu his " History of the Reformation
of the Church of England," but also iu a " History
of his own Times," that Ls full of important detail,
although bitterly ridiculed by Pope and Swift. It
ends with the year 1713, and there is added to it
an Adch-ess to Posterity, written in 170!^, when
Burnet thought that he was near the end of his
labour. It closes vnth the following words on the
.STUDY AND PRACTICE OF RELIGION.'
I will conclude this whole Address to Posterity with that,
which is the most important of all other things, and which
alone will carry every thing else along with it ; which is to
recommend, in the most solemn and serious manner, the
Study and Practice of Eeligion to all sorts of Men, as that
which is both the Light of the World, and the Halt of tlie
Earth. Nothing does so open our Faculties, and compose and
direct the whole Man, as an inward Sense of God, of his
Authority over us, of the Laws he has set us, of his Eye ever
upon us, of his hearing oui' Prayers, assisting our Endeavoiu's,
watching over our concerns, and of his being to judge and to
reward or punish us in another State, according to what we
do in this : Nothing will give a Man such a Detestation of
Sin, and such a Sense of the Goodness of God, and of our
Obligations to Holiness, as a right Understanding and a fimi
Belief of the Christian Religion : Nothing can give a Man so
calm a Peace within, and such a firm Security against all
Fears and Dangers without, as the Belief of a kind and wise
Providence, and of a future State. An Integi-ity of Heart
gives a Man a Courage, and a Confidence that cannot bo
shaken : A Man is sure that, by living according to the
Rules of Religion, he becomes the wisest, the best and
happiest Creature, that he is capable of being: Honest
Industry, the employing his Time well, and a constant
Sobriety, an undcfiled Purity and Chastity, with a quiet
Serenity, are the best Preservers of Life and Health : So
that, take a Man as a single Indi'i'idual, Eeligion is his
Guard, his Perfection, his Beauty, and his Glory : This will
make him the Lir/ht of the World, shining brightly, and en-
lightening many round about him.
Then take a Man as a Piece of Mankind, as a Citizen of
the AVorld, or of any particular State, Eeligion is indeed
then the Salt of the Earth : For it makes ever}' Man to be to
all the rest of the World, whatsoever any one can with
1 This passage is printed as in the first edition (1724), reproducinir
capitals, italics, spelliut,', punctuation, &c., that it may serve fnr
specimen of EngUali as it was written early in the eighteenth century.
TO A.D. 1714.1
RELIGION.
339
reason wish or desire him to he. He is true, just, honest and
faithful in the whole Commerce of Life, doing to aU others,
that which he would have others do to him : He is a Lover of
Mankind, and of his Country : He may and ought to love
some more than others ; but he has an Extent of Love to all,
of Pity and Compassion, not only to the poorest, but to the
worst ; for the worse any are, they are the more to be pitied.
He has a Complacency and Delight in all that are truely,
tho' but defectively good, and a Respect and Veneration for
all that are eminently so : He mourns for the Sins, and
rejoices in the Virtues of all that are round about him : In
every Relation of Life, Religion makes him answer all his
Obligations : It wUl make Princes just and good, faithful to
their Promises, and Lovers of their People : It will inspire
Subjects with Respect, Submission, Obedience anc Zeal for
their Prince : It wiU sanctify Wedlock to bo a State of Chris-
tian Friendship, and mutual Assistance : It -n-ill give Parents
the truest Love to their Children, with a proper Care of their
Education : It v\-ill command the Returns of Gratitude and
Obedience from Children : It wiU teach blasters to be gentle
and careful of their Servants, and Servants to be faithful,
zealous, and diligent in their Master's Concerns : It will
make Friends tender and true to one another ; it wUl make
them generous, faithful and disinterested : It wiU make Men
Uve in their Neighbourhood, as Members of one common
Body, promoting first the genci'al Good of the A\Tiole, and
then the Good of everj- Particular, as far as a Man's Sphere
can go : It wiU make Judges and Magistrates just and
patient, hating Covetousness, and maintaining Peace and
Order, without respect of Persons : It will make People live
in so inoffensive a manner, that it wiU be easy to maintain
Justice, whilst Men are not disposed to give Distiu'bance to
those about them. This wiU make Bishops and Pastors faith-
ful to their Trust, tender to their People, and watchful over
them ; and it wiU beget in the People an Esteem for theii'
Persons, and their Functions.
Thus Religion, if truely received and sincerely adhered to,
woiUd prove the greatest of aU Blessings to a Nation : But by
EeUgion, I understand somewhat more than the recei^-ing
some Doctrines, tho' ever so true, or the professing them,
and engaging to support them, not without Zeal and Eager-
ness. What signify the best Doctrines, if Men do not Uve
suitably to them; if they have not a due Influence upon
their Thoughts, their Principles, and their Lives f Men of
bad Lives, with soiuid Opinions, are self condemned, and lie
under a highly aggravated GuUt : nor wiU the Heat of a
Party, arising out of Interest, and managed with Fury and
Violence, compensate for the iU Lives of such false Pre-
tenders to Zeal; whUe they are a Disgrace to that, which
they profess and seem so hot for. By ReUgion I do not mean,
an outward CompHance with Form and Customs, in going to
Church, to Prayers, to Sermons and to Sacraments, with an
external Shew of Devotion, or, which is more, with some in-
ward forced good Thoughts, in which many may satisfy
themselves, while this has no visible effect on their Lives,
nor any inward Force to subdue .and rectify their Appetites,
Passions and secret Designs. Those customarj- performances,
how good and useful soever, when weU understood and
rightly directed, are of little value, when Men rest on them.
and think that, because they do them, they have therefore
acquitted themselves of their Duty, tho' they continue stiU
proud, covetous, fuU of Deceit, Envy and Malice : Even
secret Prayer, the most effectual of aU other means, is designed
for a higher end, which is to possess our Minds with such a
constant and present Sense of Dii-ine Truths, as may make
these Uve in us, and govern us ; and may draw down such
Assistances, as may exalt and sanctify our Natures.
So that by ReUgion I mean, such a Sense of divine Truth,
as enters into a Man, and becomes a Spring of a new Nature
within him ; reforming his Thoughts and Designs, purifying
his Heart, and sanctifj-ing him, and governing his whole
Deportment, his Words as weU as his Actions ; conrincing
him that, it is not enough, not to be scandalously vicious, or
to be iimocent in his Conversation, but that he must be
entii-ely, imiformly and coiist;uitly pure and vertuous, ani-
mating him ^\-ith a Zeal, to be stUl better and better, more
e min ently good and exemplary, using Prayei-s and aU out-
waid Devotions, as solemn Acts testif)-ing whiit he is in-
wardly and at heart, and as Methods instituted by God, to
be stiU advancing in the use of them further and further,
into a more refined and spiritual Sense of di%-ine Matters.
This is true ReUgion, which is the Perfection of Human
Nature, and the Joy and DeUght of every one, that feels it
active and strong within him ; it is true, this is not arrived
at aU at once ; and it wiU have an unhappy aUay, hanging
long even about a good JIan: But, as those iU Jlixtures are
the perpetual Grief of his Soul, so it is his chief Care to
watch over and to mortify them ; he wul be in a continual
Progi'ess, stiU gaining grouud upon himseU : And, as he
attains to a good degree of Purity, he wiU find a noble Flame
of Life and Joy growing upon him. Of this I write with
the more Concern and Emotion, because I have felt this the
true and indeed the only Joy, which runs thro' a Man's
Heart and Life : It is that which has been for many Years
my greatest Support ; I rejoice daily in it ; I feel from it the
Earnest of that supreme Joy, which I pant and long for ; I
am sure there is nothing else can afford any true or compleat
Happiness. I have, considering my Sphere, seen a great deal
of aU, that is most shining and tempting in this World : The
Pleasures of Sense I did soon nauseate ; Intrigues of State,
and the Conduct of Affairs have something in them, that is
more specious ; and I was, for some Years, deeply immersed
in these, but stiU with Hopes of refoi-miug the World, and of
making Mankind wiser and better : But I have found. T/itt
u-hieh is crooked cannot be iiinde straight. I acquainted my
self with Knowledge and Learning, and that in a great
VarietT, and with more Compass than Depth : but tho' JTis-
dom excelkth Folly, as much as Light does Dar/.ness ; yet, as it
is a sore Trarail, so it is so very defective, that what is icanf-
ing to compleat it, cannot be numbered. I have seen that tvjo
u-ere better than one, and that a threefold Cord is not easily
loosed; and have therefore cultivated Friendship -with much
Zeal and a disinterested Tenderness : but I h.ive found this
was also Vanity and Vexation of Spirit, tho' it be of the best
and noblest sort. So that, upon great and long Experience,
I coiUd enlarge on the Preacher's Text, Vanity of Vnnities,
and all is Vanity; but I must also conclude with him : Fear
God, and keep his Commandments, for this is the All of Man,
the 'N^'hole both of his Duty, and of his Happiness. I do
therefore end aU, in the Words of Darid, of the Truth of
which, upon great Experience and a long Observation, I am
so fuUy assured, that I leave these as my last Words to
Posterity: " Come ye Children, hearken unto me; I icill teach
" >/o!i the Fear of the lord ; what Man is he that desireth Life,
"and loreth many Days, that he may see Good; keep thy
" Tongue from Eril, and thy Zips from speaking Guile ; depart
" from Eril, and do Good, seek Peace and pursue it. The Eyes
"of the Lord are upon the Rightcons, and his Ears are open to
" their Cry ; but the Face of the Lord is against them that do
"Eril, to cut off the Remembrance of them from the Earth.
" The Righteous cry, and the Lord hcareth, and delirereth them
" out of all their Troubles. The Lord is nigh unto them that
" are of a broken Seart, and saveth such as be of a contrite
" Spirit."
340
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
1.A-D. 1691
Simon Patrick was Bishop of Chichester when, in
1691, he was translated to Ely. He wrote on the
Lord's Supper " Mensa My.stica," and a book in sup-
jjort of their belief to satisfy believers, called " The
Witnesses of Christianity, or tlie Certainty of our
Faith and Hope." In 1691, when Simon Patrick
was made Bishop of Ely, Thomas Tenison was made
Bishop of Lincoln, and in 1691: Tenison succeeded
TOlotson as Archbishop of Canterbury. Tillotson
had recommended him as a successor, because he
was liberal in spirit and had been proved faithful in
the discharge of duty.
There began at this time an active controversy
on the Doctrine of the Ti'inity. Thomas Firmin, a
friend of Tillotson, and a benevolent and wealthy
London merchant, became zealous for the difl'usion
of tracts favourable to Unitarian opinions. Two of
these were answered by Dr. Sherlock, who was non-
juror at the Revolution, but complied aftei-wards.
In 1691, the year after his book on the Trinity
appeared, Sherlock was made Dean of St. Paul's.
He died ur 1707, aged sixty-six. William Sherlock
argued that there was no salvation outside the
Catholic faith, as set forth in the Athanasian
Creed. The controversy spread. Dr. John Wallis
entered into it as a mathematician. Dr. Robert
South, in 1693, attacked Sherlock for the too sophis-
ticated method of his explanation. In 169.5 John
Toland, an Irishman who had been bred as a Roman
Catholic, published a tract called " Christianity not
Mysterious," that spread the controversy farther.
His book was burnt by order of the Irish House of
Parliament, and he was called a Jesuit and a Socinian.
As he had applied in his own way some principles
of Locke's jihilosophy, the veteran Edward Stilling-
fleet, Bishop of Worcester, the most energetic con-
troversial writer in the Church, attacked John Locke,
making him answerable for doctrines that he had not
taught, because they liad been associated with first
principles drawn from his " Essay concerning Human
Understanding." Locke replied; Stillingfleet replied
again ; Locke answered a second and a third time.
George Bull, a pious and amiable man, who was
made Bishop of St. David's in 170.5, and died in
1708, had written, in 1685, a Defence of the Nicene
Creed, and he %vi-ote again on the same subject.
William Beveridge was made Bishop of St. Asaph in
1701-, and died, aged seventy-one, in 1707. He left
a large body of sermons, in which the active piety of
his own life is reflected.
Dr. Samuel Clarke, son of an alderman of Nor-
wich, educated at Norwich and at Cains College,
Cambridge, published notes upon Nevrton's philosophy
at the age of twenty-two. He was for twelve years
chaplain to the Bisho]> of Norwich, who gave him
the living of Drayton in Norfolk. Robert Boyle
died in 1691, a week after his sister and life-com-
panion. Lady Ranelagh. By his ■will he left provision
for annual lectures by divines who were to be " ready
to satisfy real scruj>les, and to answer such new
objections and diificulties as might be started, to
which good answers had not been made." They
were also to preach eight sermons in the year, on
the first Monday of every month except June, July,
August, and December, for the proof of the Clu-is-
tian religion against infidels, " not descending lower
to any controversies that are among Christians."
The first Boyle lecturer was Richard Bentley, chosen
when only twenty-eight years old. He gave, with
great efl'ect, a course in 1692, and another in 169-1.
Samuel Clarke gave the Boyle lectures in 1704,
taking for subject the Being and Attributes of God,
and he gave a course again in the following year,
on the Evidences of Natural and Revealed Religion,
aj-gued from the " fitness of things." He aftei-wards
pleased Newton gi'eatly by a translation of his optics,
and became chajilain to Queen Anne and Rector of
St. James's, Westminster. He had been accused of
Arianism, because he said that he had only read the
Athanasian Creed once, and then by mistake ; but in
1712 he published a work on the Doctrine of the
Trinity. This was condemned by the Lower House
of Convocation as unorthodox in its method of in-
terpretation, and inconsistent with the Athanasian
Creed. Dr. Clarke had no wish to excite division,
and submitted himself in terms which were held to
be no recantation of his views, although suflicient
when accompanied with a promise to preach no more
in the sense objected to. Di-. Clarke died in 1729.
The new and bolder questioning of religion and of
God Himself, as well as of church doctrines, which
becomes a feature of our literature in the times of
which we are now speaking, had several sources.
One was in the critical wit of a dissolute court in
the time of Charles II., when men influenced by
the French reaction against extravagance of style and
thought in literature, followed the king's example in
exalting pleasures of the sense. With minds thixs
lowered in aim, while trained in a form of critical
acuteness that had its good as well as its bad use,
they satirised extravagance, but fell also out of
accord with all true exaltation of thought ; for every
libertine called himself a " man of parts " or " man
of sense," and looked on a character for wit as
inconsistent with a character for religious feeling
or domestic worth. Thus in Sir George Etherege's
comedy of the " Man of Mode," Dorimant, who
repi-esents the licentious fine gentleman of Charles
II. 's day, says of his intimacy with Bellair, who
is well bred, complaisant, seldom impei-tinent, and
as he says " by much the most tolerable of all the
young men that do not abound in wit," that they
are intimate because " it is our mutual mterest
to be so ; it makes the women think better of his
understanding, and judge more favoiu'ably of my
reputation ; it makes him pass upon some for a man
of veiy good sense, and I upon others for a very
civil person." What the cant of the day thus called
" good sense " was commonly pai-ted from religion ;
and antagonism to the Puritans after the Restoration
made it ungentlemanly to be known to pray. Richard
Steele, in Queen Anne's reign, attacked in the "Tatler"
tliis fashion which had been transmitted to his day,
and spoke in playful earnest of a young gentleman
who gave himself much trouble to be thought an
atheist, though it could be proved upon him that
every night before going to bed he said his prayers.
But there was another form of doubt that instead of
accomj)anying the degradation of man's life sprang
from a generous reaction against it. This was the
TO A.D. 1714.]
RELIGION.
3-tl
form of scepticism that had power ; ami this could be
met only by those who opposed to it, with respect
for its sincere desii'e for truth, a frank sincerity and
thorough earnestness. In France and elsewhere the
prevalent corruptions of society extended to the
Church, and doctrines were enforced by an a^jtliority
too often itself contemptible in honest eyes. Self-
seeking teachers, who lived evil lives, discredited the
faith of which they made themselves the absolute
dictators. They provoked doubts which they were
utterly incompetent to answer, and already before the
close of the seventeenth century the literature of
Em-ope .showed the clear begimiings of a revolt that
afterwards prompted many, in extreme reaction
against blind authority, to sweep from theii' minds all
that they had been taught by rote, and seek by fearless
exercise of reason to tind out for themselves absolute
truth. Strong reaction tends to excess. Resentment
against superstition has caused many who have been
very near to it to give themselves to infidelity. The
fiji'st combat of the Red Cross Knight, when parted
from Una, was with Sansfoy. Resentment against
religion, plied as a trade, with greed and hypocrisy,
drove into strong opposition many able, earnest men.
Bold thinkers and enthusiasts urged reason and elo-
quence against tlie faith itself, which had been thus
discredited. An argument was rising that no longer
dealt wth questions of " fixed fate, free will, fore-
knowledge absolute," but struck at the root of all
belief in God. Men were asking whether the world,
as it was, could be the work of a just God ; whether
there was a God. If they believed in God, they ques-
tioned with the boldest freedom whatever authority
required them to believe as to His nature, or the
revelation of His will to man.
In the "Tatlers" and "Spectators" of Queen Amie's
reign, Steele and Addison sought to check the lower
social influences that made war upon religion and an
honest life. They wrote papers that battled against
such fashions as the habitual scofling against marriage,
swearing, duelling, and this they did in a genial s^jirit
that set the examjile of the wholesomer life they endea-
voured to restore to honour among "men of sense."
They dared to be religious, and showed that it was
possible to be religious Nvithout gi-oan, critical witli-
out .sneer, witty without offence. Richard Steele
had, under conditions that increase our honour for
the little piece, begun his manly career as a \vi-iter
with a pamphlet called " The Christian Hero ; or,
No Principles but those of Religion Sufficient to make
a Great Man." In this he showed that the true
Christian heroism, which dares take Christ for the
gi-eat examj)le, and live up to tlie teacliing of the
Sei-mon on the Mount, is far above the heroism of the
ancients, who were just then lauded especially in
French-classical literature. I take from " The Chris-
tian Hero," published in 1701, this passage containing,
with comment, a short paraphrase of
Paul's epistle to philemon.
It were endless to cnuinerate these excellences and 'beauties
in his writings ; hut since they were all in his more public and
ministerial office, let's see him in his private life. There is
nothing expresses a man's particular character more fuUy
than his letters to his intimate friends ; we have one of that
nature of this great Apostle to Philemon, which in the modern
language would perhaps run thus : —
" Sir, — It is with the deepest satisfaction that I everj'
day hear you commended for your generous hehavioui- to all
of that faith in the articles of which I had the honour and
happiness to initiate you ; for which, though I might presume
to an authority to ohUge your compUance in a request I am
going to make to you, yet choose I rather to apply myself to
you as a friend than an Apostle, for with a man of your
great temper, I know I need not a more powerful pretence
than that of my age and imprisonment. Yet is not my peti-
tion for m}-self, but in behalf of the hearer, youi- servant
Onesimus, who has robbed you and ran away from you. "What
he has defrauded you of, I will be answerable for ; this shall
be a demand upon mo ; not to say that you owe me your very
self. I called him your servant, but he is now also to be
regarded by you in a greater relation, even that of your
fellow- Christian ; for I esteem him a son of mine as much as
your self ; nay, methinks it is a certain pecuhar endearment
of him to me, that I had the happiness of gaining him in my
confinement. I beseech you to receive him, and think it an
act of Providence that he went away from you for a season,
to return more improved to yom' service for ever."
This letter is the sincere image of a worth}', pious, and
brave man, and the ready utterance of a generous Cluistian
temper. How handsomely does he assume, though a prisoner ?
How humbly condescend, though an Apostle ? Could any
request have been made, or any person obliged with a better
grace ? The very criminal servant is no less with him than
his son and his brother. For Christianity has that in it, whicli
makes men l^ity, not scorn the wicked, and by a beautiful
kind of ignorance of themselves, think those wretches their
equals ; it aggravates all the benefits and good offices of life,
by making them seem fraternal ; and the Christian feels the
wants of the miserable so much his O'wn, that it sweetens the
pain of the obliged, when he that gives does it with an air
that has neither oppression or superiority in it, but had rather
have his generosity ajipcar an enlarged self-love than diffusive
bounty, and is always a benefactor with the mien of a receivei.
Steele and Addison will be more ftdly represented
in the volume of this Library answering to that
of Shorter English Poems, which will contain a series
of the best pieces of Prose that are short enough
to be given complete. But the tone and pm-pose of
their writing were so essentially religious, that each
of them must be represented here. This is a pajjcr
of Addison's, written in July, 1714 (No. 574 of the
" Spectator," and here given as printed in the first
editions), on
COXTENT.
I was once engaged in Discourse with a Sosienis'urii about
t!ie great Secret. As this kind of Men (I mean those of them
who are not professed Cheats) are over-run with Enthusiasm
and Philosophy, it was very amusing to hear this religious
Adept descanting on his pretended Discovery. He talked of
the Secret as of a Spirit which lived within an Emerald, and
converted every thing that was near it to the highest Perfec-
tion it is capable of. It gives a Lustre, says he, to the Sun,
and Water to the Diamond. It irradiates cverj' Metal, and
enriches Lead with all the Properties of Gold. It heightens
Smoak into Flame, Flame into Light, and Light into txlory.
He fm-ther added, that a single Ray of it dissijjatcs Pain, and
Care, and M(>lancholy from the Person on whom it falls. In
short, says he, its Presence naturally changes every Place
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[a.d. 1712
into a kind of Hiaven. After ho had gone on for some Time
in this unintelligible Cant, I found that he jumbled natui-al
and moral Ideas together into the same Discourse, and that
his great Secret was nothing else but Content.
This Virtue does indeed produce, in some measure, all
those Effects which the Alchymist usually ascribes to what he
calls the Philosopher's Stone ; and if it does not bring Riches,
it does the same thing, by banishing the Desire of them. If
it cannot remove the Disquietudes arising out of a Man's
JMind, Body, or Fortune, it makes hira easie binder them. It
has indeed a kindly Influence on the Soul of Man, in respect
of ever}- Being to whom he stands related. It extinguishes
all Murmur-, Eepining, and Ingratitude towards that Being
■who has allotted him his Part to act in this World. It
destroys all inordinate Ambition, and every Tendency to
Corruption, with regard to the Community wherein he is
placed. It gives Sweetness to his Conversation, and a per-
petual Serenity to all his Thoughts.
Among the many Methods which might be made use of for
the acquiring of this Virtue, I shall only mention the two
following. First of all, A Man should always con.sider how
much he has more than he wants ; and Secondly, How much
more unhappy he might be than he really is.
First of all, A Man should always consider how much he
has more than he wants. I am wonderfully pleased with the
Reply which Aristippiis made to one who condoled him upon
the Loss of a Farm, TJ'/i;/, said he, / have three Farms still,
and you have but one ; so that I ought rather to be affiieted for
yon, than you for me. On the contrary, foolish Men are more
apt to consider what they have lost than what they possess ;
and to fix their Eyes upon those who are richer than them-
selves, rather than on those who are imder greater Difficulties.
All the real Pleasures and Conveniences of Life lie in a narrow
Compass ; but it is the Humour of Mankind to be always
looking forward, and straining after one who has got the
Start of them in Wealth and Honour. For this Reason, as
there are none can be properly called rich, who have not more
than they want ; there arc few rich Men in any of the politer
Nations but among the middle Sort of People, who keep their
Wishes within their Fortunes, and have more Wealth than
they know how to enjoy. Persons of a higher Rank live in
a kind of splendid Poverty, and are perpetually wanting,
because instead of acquiescing in the solid Pleasures of Life,
thej- endeavoui- to outvyone another in Shadows and Appear-
ances. Men of Sense have at all times beheld with a great
deal of Slirth this silly Ciame that is plaj-ing over their
Heads, and by contracting their Desires, enjoy aU that secret
Satisfaction which others are always in quest of. The Truth
is, this ridiculous Chace after imaginary Pleasures cannot be
sufficiently exposed, as it is the great Source of those E\'ils
which generally undo a Nation. Let a Man's Estate be what
it wiU, he is a poor Man if he does not live within it, and
naturally sets himself to Sale to any one that can give him
his Price. "UTien Pittaeu^, after the Death of his Brother
who had left him a good Estate, was offered a great Sum of
Money by the King of Lyd'in, he thanked him for his Kind-
ness, but told him he had ali-eady more by Half than he knew
what to do with. In short, Content is equivalent to Wealth,
and Luxury to Poverty ; or, to give the Thought a more
agreeable Tui-n, C'uufent is natural Wealth, says Socrates ; to
which I shall add, Luj-ury is arti^fieial Poivrty. I shall there-
fore recommend to the Consideration of those who are always
aiming after superfluous and imaginary Enjoyments, and will
not be at the Trouble of contracting their Desires, an excellent
Saying of Bion the Philosopher ; namely, That no Man has so
much Care, as he who enilearours after the most Happiness.
In the second Place, every one ought to reflect how much
more unhappy he might be than he really is. The former
Consideration took in all those who are sufficiently provided
with the Means to make themselves easie ; this regards such
as actually lie under some Pressure or Misfortune. These
may receive great Allegation from such a Comparison as the
imhappy Person may make between himself and others, or
between the Misfortune which he suffers, and greater Misfor-
tunes which might have befallen him.
I like the Story of the honest Dutchman, who, upon break-
ing his Ley by a Fall from the Mainmast, told the Standers-
by. It was a great Mercy that 'twas not his Keck. To which,
since I am got into Quotations, give me leave to add the
Saying of an old Philosopher, who, after having invited some
of his Friends to dine ■n-ith him, was ruffled by his Wife that
came into the Room in a Passion, and thi'ew down the Table-
that stood before them; Erery one, says he, has his Calamity,
and he is a happy Man that has no yreater than this. We find
an Instance to the same Purpose in the Life of Doctor Sani-
mond, written by Bishop Fell. As this good Man was troubled
•with a Complication of Distemjiers, when he had the Gout
upon him, ho used to thank God that it was not the Stone ;
and when he had the Stone, that he had not both these Dis-
tempers on him at the same time.
I cannot conclude this Essay without observing that there
was never any System besides that of Christianity, which
could effectually produce in the Mind of Man the Virtue I
have been hitherto speaking of. In order to make us content
with our present Condition, many of the ancient Philosophers
tell us that our Discontent only hurts ourselves, without
being able to make any Alteration in our Circumstances;
others, that whatever Evil befalls us is derived to us by a
fatal Necessity, to which the Gods themselves are subject;
whilst others very gravely tell the Man who is miserable,
that it is necessary he should be so to keep up the Harmony
of the Universe, and that the Scheme of Providence woiild be
troubled and perverted were he otherwise. These, and the
like Considerations, rather silence than satisfy a T\Ian. They
may shew him that his Discontent is unreasonable, but are by
no means sufficient to relieve it. They rather give Despair
than Consolation. In a Word, a Man m_ight reply to one of
these Comforters, as Anyustus did to his Friend who advised
him not to grieve ior the Death of a Person whom he loved,
because his Grief could not fetch him again: It is for that
rcry Season, said the Emperor, that I grieve.
On the contrary. Religion bears a more tender Regard to
humane Nature. It prescribes to every miserable Man the
Means of bettering his condition ; nay, it shews him, that the
bearing of his Afflictions as he ought to do will naturally end
in the Removal of them : It makes him easie here, because it
can make him happy hereafter.
Upon the whole, a contented Mind is t*he greatest Blessing
a Man can enjoy in this World ; and if in the present Life
his Happiness arises from the subduing of his Desires, it will
arise in the next from the Gratification of them.
Addison's relis^oiis feeling raised his appreciation
of Sir Ricliard Blackmore'.s poem on " The Creation,"
which owed also to its fjood purpose Samuel John-
son's endorsement of the jn-aise of Addison. Sir
Richard Blackniore, who died in 1729, had obtained
his knighthood as physician to William III. He wrote
several epics, and among other })oenis a " Paraphrase
of the Book of Job," <tc. Blackmore's "Creation: A
Philosophical Poem, Demonstrating the Existence
and Providence of a God," was publislied in 1712. In
the first of its Seven Books of rhymed lieroic couplets^
1
ro i.D. iru.j
RELIGION.
343
lie poem opens ^vith evidence of God's Existence
irom the marks of His ^Visdom in the Eai'th and
Sea. In the second book the same evidence is de-
rived from the Stai-s, the Phmets, and the Ah: The
thii'd book treats of the speculations by wliich it has
1 H-en sought to explain Creation without a Creator.
The fourth book argues especially against the theoiy
if Creation by a fortuitous concurrence of Atoms.
The tifth book reasons man's need of a God from his
-(■rrows upon earth, and ai'gues against the Fatalists.
I'he sixth book argues God's Existence from the
< reation of Man, and the Supreme Wisdom dis-
]ilayed in his Structure. The seventh book asserts
l-hidence of the Creator in the Instincts of Animals
;aid from the contemjilation of the IVIind of Man,
;ind closes wath a Hymn to the Creator. From the
third book of the poem I take these lines upon
illXD IN CREATION,
Sometimes by Nature youi- enligMened school
Inteuds of things the imiversal whole.
Sometimes it is the order that comiects,
And holds the chain of causes and effects.
Sometimes it is the manner and the way \
In which those causes do their force convey >
And in effects their energy display. /
That she's the work itself you oft assert,
As oft th' ai-tificer, as oft the art.
That is, that we may Xature clearly ti-ace
And by your marks distinctly know her face,
She's now the building, now the architect,
And now the rule which does His hand direct.
But let this Empress be whate'er you please ;
Let her be all, or any one of these,
She is with reason, or she's not, endued;
If you the first affirm, we thence conclude
A God, whose being you oppose, you grant ;
But if this mighty queen does reason want,
How could this noble fabric be desigu'd
And fashion" d by a mater brute and blind Y
Could it of art such miracles invent,
And raise a beauteous world of such extent ?
Still at the helm does this dark pilot stand, ,
And with a steady, never-erring hand, f
Steer all the floating worlds, and their set i
course command ? '
That clearer strokes of mastei-ly design,
Of mse contrivance, and of judgment sliine
In all the parts of nature, we a.ssert,
Than in the brightest works of human art :
And shall not those be judged th' effect of thought,
As well as these with skUl inferior wrought 't
Let such a sphere to India be convey'd,
As Archimcde or modem Huygens ' made ;
WiE not the Indian, though untaught and rude,
This work th' effect of wise design conclude ':
1 Arcliimedes, who lived RC. 287—212, is said to have produced
among his mechanical inventions a sphere showing the movements of
the heavenly bodies. The famous philosopher, Christian Huygens,
bom at the Hague in 1629, died in 1695. He published in 1658 his
invention of the pendulum clock. A Huygens clock that is said to
have cost the Duke of Buckingham a thousand guineas, was sold at
Stowe for fifty .one guineas in l&i8.
Is there such skill in imitation shown.
And in the things we imitate, is none ?
Ai-e not our arts by artful nature taught,
With pain and careful obser\-ation sought ?
Behold the painter, who with Xature «es,
See his whole soul exerted in his eyes I
He views her v;irious scenes, intent to trace
The master lines that form her tinish'd face :
Are thought and conduct in the copy clear,
While none in all th' original appear ?
Isaac Watts.
From a Painting (about 1714) in Dr. WUliam^'s Library.
Isaac Watts published in Queen Anne's reign his
" HoriB LyricK " and " Hymns." " The Psalms of
David imitated in the Language of the New Testament
and applied to the Chixstiau State and Worship," and
his " HvTuns and Spiritual Songs," tii-st appeared in
1719, and Lii 1720 his " Divine and Moral Songs for
Children." He was bom at Southampton in 1674,
the son of a Nonconformist .sc!ioolma.ster. At the
ace of twenty-two he became tutor to the son of
Sir John Hartopp, and in 1702 he succeeded Dr.
Chaimcey as a preacher in Mark Lane. His health
failed in 1712, and after that year he lived chieUy
with his friends Sh- Thomas and Lady Abney at
Stoke Newington and Theobalds. He wa.s not '-Dr."
Watts tmtil 1728, when he was made D.D. by the
Universities of Edinburgh and Aberdeen. He died
in 1748, the same year as the jwet Thomson. This
poem is among the " Horje Lyric* :"^
SINCERE PR.\ISE.
Almighty JIaker, God !
How wondrous is thy name !
Thy glories how diffus'd abroad
Through the Creation's frame !
Nature in every dress
Her humble homage pays.
And finds a thousiind ways t' express
Thine undissembled praise.
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CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[i.o. 1714
In native white and red
The rose and Uly stand,
And, free from pride, their beauties spread,
To show thy skilful hand.
The lark mounts up the sky,
With unambitious song,
And bears her Maker's praise on high
Upon her artless tongue.
My sold would rise and sing
To her Creator too.
Fain would my tongue adore my King,
And pay the worship due.
But pride, that busy sin.
Spoils all that I perform ;
Curs'd pride, that creeps securely in,
And swells a haughty worm.
Thy glories I abate,
Or praise thee with design ;
Some of the favours I forget.
Or think the merit mine.
The very songs I frame
Ai'e faithless to Thy cause.
And steal the honours of Thy Kame
To build their own applause.
10
20
30
Create my soul anew.
Else all my worship's vain ;
This wTetched heart will ne'er be
Until 'tis form'd again.
true,
40
Descend, celestial fire,
And seize me from above ;
Melt me in flames of pure desire,
A sacrifice to love.
Let joy and worship spend
The remnant of my days.
And to my God, my soul, ascend.
In sweet perfumes of praise.
Familiar as household wortls are some of the lines
from Watts's " Di%-ine Poems for Children," as in
this, for example : —
AGAINST QUARRELLING AND FIGHTING.
Let dogs delight to bark and bite.
For God hath made them so ;
Let bears and Uons growl and fight.
For 'tis their nature too.
But, children, you should never let
Such angiy passions rise :
Your little hands were never made
To tear each other's eves.
Let love through all your actions run.
And all your words be mild ;
Live like the blessed Vu'gin's son,
That sweet and lovely child.
10
His soul was gentle as a lamb ;
And as his stature grew,
He grew in favour- both with man
And God his Father too.
Now Lord of All he reigns above.
And from His heavenly throne
He sees what children dwell in love.
And marks them for His Own. 20
AGAINST IDLENESS AND MISCHIEF.
How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey aU the day
lYom every opening flower ?
How skilfully she builds her cell !
How neat she spreads the wax I
And labom's hard to store it well
With the sweet food she makes.
In works of labour or of skill,
I would be busy too ; 10
For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.
In books, or work, or healthful play.
Let mj- first* years be past.
That I may give for every day
Some good accoimt at last.
Fi'om among Watts's adaptations of the Psalms of
David '"to the Christian state and worship," this nuiy
lie taken as an example. It is the Seventy-first
Psalm rendered as the
PRAYER AND SONG
Of the Afffd Christian.
God of my childhood and my youth.
The guide of aU my d;iys,
I have declar'd thy heavenly truth,
And told thy wondi'ous ways.
Wilt Thou forsake my hoary hairs.
And li>ave my fainting heart !'
Who shall sustain my sinking years
If God my strength depart 1
Let me thy jiower and truth proclaim
To the siuwi^Tng age,
And leave a savour of Thy Name
^\'hen I shall quit the stage.
The land of silence and of death
Attends my ne.xt remove ;
Oh may these poor remains of breath
Teach the wide world thy love.
PAUSE.
Thy righteousness is deep and high,
Unsearchable thy deeds ;
Thy glory spreads beyond the sky,
And all my praise exceeds.
10
20
TO A.D. 173?.]
RELIGION.
345
Oft have I heard thv thieatenin^ roar,
And oft endur'd the grief ;
SOXG FOR MORSIXG OR EVESIXG.
But when thy hand hiis prest me sore,
Thy grace was my relief.
My God, how endless is thy love !
Thv gifts are everv evening new ;
By long experience hare I known
Thy sovereign power to save :
And morning mercies from above
Gently distil like early dew.
At thy command I venture do«-n
Secui'ely to the grave.
Thou spreadst the curtains of the night.
Great Guardian of my sleeping hours ;
"WTien I lie buried deep in dust,
My flesh shall be thv care ;
Thy sovereign word restores the Ught,
And quickens all my diowsy pow'rs.
These withering limbs ^vith Thee I trust
To raise them strong and fair.
I }-ield my powers to thy command.
To Thee I consecrate mv davs ;
One of the " Hyums " is on the other column.
Perpetual blessings from thine hand
Demand perpetual songs of praise.
AspiKATiojr Fettered.
{Ornament from the First Volume of Buniefs *• History of His Chen Time," 1724.)
CHAPTEE XII.
From the Death of Qceex Axxe to the French Eevolutiox. — Joseph Butlee, Whitefield,
Wesley, Samuel Johxsox, C'owper, axd Others. — a.d. 171i to a.d. 1789.
The '•' Psalms and Hj-nms " of Isaac Watts, from
which quotation was made at the close of the last
chapter, were published in the reign of George I.
During this reign also other men, of whom we
have ah-eady spoken, laboured still ; but it was not
a time rich in religious thought. Edward Yoimg,
whose " Night Thoughts " were WTitten in the reign
of George II., l^iegan liis career a.s a religious poet
in the reign of George I., and out of this reign
we may pa,ss at once, with a short recognition of
Young's earlier vei-ses. Edward Young was bom
in 168-1 at Upham, in Hampshire. His father was
a clergyman, who liecame chaplain to WUliam and
Maiy, and Dean of Saiiim ; but he died in 1 705,
dui-ing liis son Edward's boyhood. Young was
eduaited at Winchester School, and went in 1703 to
Oxford, where he was first at New College, and then
at Coi-pus, wliich he left in 1708, on being nomi-
nated by Ai-chbLshop Tenison to a law Fellowsliip
at AU Souls'. In 1714 he took his degree of B.C'.L.
He became Doctor of Ci^Tl Law in 1719. HLs fii'st
serious jxiem was in three books, and had for its
subject the Last Day. It was finished in 1710 and
published in 1 7 1 3. It was soon followed by a shorter
poem founde<l on the story of Lady Jane Grey,
called " The Force of Religion, or Vanqmshed Love,"
which appeared a little while before Queen Anne
108
died. Yoimg left the office of tutor to the young
Lord Burleigh to enjoy the patronage of the ilar-
quis PhUip, who became, in 1718, Duke of AMiarton.
In 1719 Young puljUshed a Paraphrase of pait of
the Book of Job, and in 1725 he begiin to publish
his satu-es upon " Love of Fame : the Univei-sal
Passion." The fifth of this series of satu-es was pub-
lished in 1727, the sLxth in 1728. From the fifth
satire, addi-essed to Woman, I take these lines upon
A WOSLAX's beauty.
But adoration ! give me something more.
Cries Lyce, on the borders of thieescore.
Nought treads so sOent as the foot of Time ;
Hence we mistake our autumn for our prime.
'Tis greatly ^-ise to know, before we're told,
The mehncholy news, that we grow old.
Autumnal Lyce carries in her face
Memento mori to each pubUc place.
Oh how yoiu- beating breast a mistress warms
■S\Tio looks through spectacles to see your charms !
^Tiile rival undertakers hover round
And with his spade the sexton marks the ground.
Intent not on her own but others doom.
She plans new conquests, and defrauds the tomb.
In vain the cock has svunmon'd sprites away.
She walks at noon, and blasts the bloom of day ;
346
CASSELL'S LIBRAEY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 17U
Gay rainbow siiks her mellow charms infold,
And nought of Lycc but herself is old.
Her giizzled locks assume a smii'king grace,
And art has levell'd her deep-fm-row'd face.
Her strange demsind no mortal can approve,
AVe'll ask her blessing, but can't ask her love.
She grants indeed a lady may decline
(AH ladies but herseU) at ninety-nine.
Oh how unlike her was the sacred age
Of prudent Portia ! Her gray hairs engage,
■Whose thoughts are suited to her life's decline;
Virtue's the paint can make the wrinkles shine.
That, and that only can old age sustain ;
"Which yet all wish, nor know they wish for pain.
Then please the best ; and know, for men of sense,
Youi' strongest charms are native innocence.
Arts on the mind, like paint upon the face,
Fright him that's worth your love from )-our em-
brace.
In simple manners all the secret lies ;
Be kind and vii-tuous, you'll be blest and wise.
Vain show and noise intoxicate the brain.
Begin with giddiness and end in pain.
Affect not empty fame and idle praise.
Which all those wretches I describe betrays.
Your sex's giorj' 'tis to shine unknown;
Of all applause, be fondest of your own.
Beware the fever of the mind ! that thirst
"With which the age is eminently cui-sed.
To drink of pleasure but inflames desii-e,
And abstinence alono can quench the tire,
Take i)ain from life and teiTor from the tomb.
Give peace in hand and promise bliss to come.
"When Hemy Sacheverell was impeached for his
two political sermon.s, jireaclied at Derby and St.
Paul'.s, in August and November, 1709, Benjamin
Hoadly, rector of St. Peter's-le-Poor, was declared
to have deserved well of the State for advocacy of
those princiiJes of the Revolution which Sacheverell
attacked, and early in the reign of George I. Mr.
Hoadly was made Bishop of Bangor. After the
Jacobite rising of 1715, the new Bishop of Bangor
wrote a treatise entitled " A Preservative against
the Principles and Practices of the Nonjurors in
Church and State." It was directed against two
principles — namely, that only hereditaiy princes in
the direct line can have claim to the throne, and that
the lay power cannot deprive bishops. Tliis argu-
ment was followed, in March, 1717, by a sermon on
" the Nature of the Kingdom or Church of Christ,"
pi-eached before the king, upon the text " My king-
dom is not of this world," in which he declared that
no earthly body has right of restriction or intei--
ference by penalties in matters of faith. From this
book and thLs sermon by Dr. Hoadly, Bishop of
Bangor, arose a hot argument known as the " Ban-
gorian Controversy." The Lower House of Con-
vocation lost no time in issuing a " Representation "
of what it regarded as the dangei'ous tendency of
the Bishop of Bangor's arguments. The bishop who
especially represented the form of opinion on ci\-il
and religious policy to which Hoadly opposed himself,
was Francis Atterbmy. He had been chaplain to
Queen Anne, Dean of Carlisle, and Dean of Chiist-
church, and in 1713 was made Bishop of Rochester
and Dean of Westminster. After the accession of
George I. he warmly opposed the Whig government,
and, suspected as a zealous Jacobite of favoiu-ing the
Pretender, he was sent to the Tower in August, 1 722.
In March of the following year he was arraigned
before the House of Commons, and in May sentenced
to deprivation of all his ecclesiastical preferments, and
banishment for life. He left England in June, 1723,
meeting at Calais Boliugbroke, who had then ob-
tained leave to return. Atterbmy died abroad in
1732. His sermons were published in 1740.
While the spirit of religion suflered much thi-ough
bitterness of controversy on its forms, bold question-
ing continued, which looked more and move to the
innermost life of religion and society. Authoiity,
especially in France, associated with corruption, lost
respect ; and many earnest men were on theii' way
to doubt whether the whole fabric of civilised society
were not a helpless complication of untruths, and faith
in God Himself a superstition. A wild stream of
thought was broadening and rolling on towards a
Revolution that would touch the interests of Europe.
The I'eaction against formalism and insincerity affected
the most vigorous minds, whatever theu' tendencies
of thought. Pope, who imder Queen Anne had
written about writing, and spent wit on the theft of
a lock of hair, after earning money in the reign of
George I. by translation of Homer, grew with the
time in which he lived, deepened in thought as the
years passed over him, and under George II. dealt in
Moral Essays with the higher duties of life, and in
his " Essay on Man " sought, in accordance with the
argument of Leibnitz's "Theodicee," to meet the new
questioning of God's ju.stice in the order of the world.
In 1731 his Epistle to the Earl of Burlington on
Taste satirised the misuse of wealth, in that false
luxury against which many minds were then rebel-
ling. It was followed in 1732 by another Moral
Essay — lus Epistle to Lord Bathm'st on the Use of
Riches. It was here that Pope paid honour to the
memory of John Kyiie, of Ross, in Herefordshii-e,
who died in 1724, aged eighty-seven, after a life spent
in bettering that corner of the world in which he
lived. His own estate was not large, but he could
achieve much by awakening in those about him a will
to assist his enterprises for the common good.
HIS NEIGHBOUKS' FRIEND.
But all our praises why shoidd lords engross ?
Rise, honest 3Iuse ! and sing the Man of Ross :
Pleased Vaga' echoes through her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.
1 Vaga, the Wye. Eoss is a town of about 3,000 inhabitants, hean-
tifiiUy placed by the Wye, on the top of a precipice, twelve miles from
Hereford. The tail, *' heaven-directed spire " of the church, rising
from amouer trees, is seen from afar. John Kyrle, who was boni at
Ross in 1637, in a honse yet standing, cared for the beauty of the
churchyard and planted elms. It is said that when two of the
elms were afterwards cut down, by order of a dull chiu-chwarden,
the roots started off vigorous shoots that pierced the wall under-
RTound, and came up in the church within the i-ew that had been
Kyrle's.
A.D. 1738.]
EELIGION.
347
A\Tio hirng with woods yon mountain's sultrj- brow r
From the drj" rock who bade the waters flow,
Not to the >-kios in useless columns toss'd,
Or in proud falls magnificently lost.
But clear and artless, pouring through the plain
Health to the sick, and soLice to the swain.
AVhose causeway parts the vale with shady rows ?
Whose seats the weary traveller repose ?
I Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise ?
" The 3Ian of Ross," each lisping babe replies.
Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread !
The Man of Ross di%'ides the weekh' bread :
He feeds yon alms-house, neat, but void of state,
■Where Age and Want sit smiling at the gate ;
Him portion'd maids, apprenticed oi'phans bless'd.
The yoimg who labour, and the old who rest.
Is any sick 'r the Man of Ross relieves,
Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes, and gives.
Is there a*^'ariance ? enter Tjut his door,
Balk'd are the courts, and contest is no more.
Despairing quacks with curses fled the place.
And vile attorneys, now an useless race.
B. Thrice happy man ! enabled to pursue
What all so wish, but want the power to do !
Oh say, what siuns that generous hand supply ?
MTiat mines to swell that boundless charity ?
F. Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear,
This man possess'd — five hundred pounds a year.
Blush, Grandeur, blush ! proud courts, withdraw your
blaze,
Ye little stars, hide your diminish'd rays !
B. And what 1- no moniunent, inscription, stone ?
His race, his form, his name almost unknown ':
P. "Who buUds a church to God, and not to fame.
Will never mark the marble with his name :
Go, search it there, where to be bom, and die,
Of rich and poor makes all the history ;
Enough, that Virtue fill'd the space between ;
Proved, by the ends of being, to have been.
In tlie yeai- of the publication of this Essay (1732)
Pope piiblislied also the fii-st two Epistles of his
"Essay on Man;" in the following year the thu-d
Epistle of that seiies, and his Characters of Men. In
1734: followed the fom-th Epistle of the "Essay on
Man," and the series was closed in 1738 with
THE UXIVERSAL PRAYER.
Father of all I in every age.
In every cUme adored.
By saint, by savage, and by sage,
Jehovah, Jove, or Lord !
Thou great First Cause, least understood,
A\"ho aU my sense confined
To know but this, that Thou art good,
And that myself am blind ;
Yet gave me, in this dark estate,
To see the good from ill ;
And, binding nature fast in fate,
Left free the human will.
^Tiat conscience dictates to be done,
Or warns me not to do :
This, teach me more than hcU to shun ;
That, more than heaven pursue.
^\■hat blessings Thy free bounty gives,
Let me not cast away ;
For God is paid when man receives ;
To enjoy is to obey.
1 ct not to earth's contracted span
Thy goodness let me bound.
Or think Thee Lord alone of man,
^\1len thousand worlds are roimd :
Let not this weak, unknowing hand
Presume Thy bolts to throw.
And deal damnation round the land
On each I judge Thy foe.
If I am right. Thy grace impart,
StiU in the right to stay ;
If I am wrong, oh teach my heart
To find that better way !
Save me alike from foolish pride.
Or impious discontent
At aught Thy wisdom has denied
Or aught Thy goodness lent.
Teach me to feel another's woe.
To hide the fault I see ;
That mercy I to others show,
That mercy show to me.
Mean though I am, not wholly so.
Since quicken'd by Thy breath ;
Oh lead me, wheresoe'er I go.
Through this daj-'s life or death !
This day, be bread and peace my lot :
AU else beneath the sun
Thou know'st if best bestow'd or not,
And let Thy will be done.
To Thee, whose temple is all space,
WTiose altar, earth, sea, skies,
One chorus let all Being raise !
All Nature's incense rise !
Pope's "Essay on Man" appeared in the yeare
1732-34, to be completed by the addition of "The
Univereal Prayer" in 1738. Butler's " Analogy of
Religion, Natiu-al and Revealed, to the Constitution
and Coiu'se of Natiu-e" was publislied in 1736, and
represents endeavour of a different kind to meet the
foi-m of doubt against which the " Essay on Man"
was dii'ected.
Joseph Butler, the son of a Presbyterian trades-
man, was bom at Wantage in 1692. He was taught
for a time by Jeremiah Jones, of Tewkesbury, under
whom he had Isaac Watts for a .schoolfellow. He
was to be trained for the ministry outside the Esta-
blished Church, but turned to the Church, and
entered Oriel College, Oxford. Before he left school,
Butler had ^\^•itten remarks on the argument of Dr.
Samuel Clarke's fii-st Boyle Lecture. At college he
foiTued a close friendship with Edward Talbot, son
of the Bishop of Durham, to whose good offices he
was indebted for some of his steps towards advance-
ment in the Church. In 1718 Joseph Butler became
.348
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1734
jii-eaclier at the Rolls, and in 1724 rector of Stan-
hope. In 1726 he gave up his office at the Rolls
Chapel, and went to live in his rectory. He next
became chaplain to Lord Chancellor Talbot, and in
1736 Clerk of the Closet to Queen Caroline. This
was his position when he pulilished his " Analogy,"
one of the most valued aids to the cause of
religion furnished by the Chm-ch of England in the
eighteenth century. Two years aftei-wards, in 1738,
Joseph Butler was made Bishop of Bristol. He
Joseph BuTLEr.. (F/om a Portrait in Dv. Waiiams's Librarij.)
was made also Dean of St. Paul's, in 1746 Clerk of
the Closet to the king, and in 17-50 was translated
to the bishopric of Durham. He died two yeai-s
iifterwards.
Joseph Butler's " Analogy of Religion, Natural
and Revealed, to the Constitution and Course of
Nature" is dedicated to Lord Chancellor Talbot,
and consists of an Introduction and two Parts. A
preliminary Advertisement to the reader thus refers
to the fashion of thought against which Butler
dii'ected his reasoning : —
It is come, I know not how, to Ije taken for granted, by
many jiersons, that Chi-isti.-mity is not so much as a subject
of inquiry; but that it is now at length discovered to be
fictitious. And accordingly they treat it as if, in the present
age, this were an agreed point among all people of discern-
ment; and nothing remained but to set it up as a principal
bubject of mirth and ridicule, as it were by way of reprisals,
for its ha\-ing so long interrupted the pleasm-es of the world.
On the contrary, thus much, at least, will be here found, not
taken for granted, but proved, that any i-easonable man, who
wiU thoroughly consider the matter, may be as much assured,
as he is of his own being, that it is not, however, so clear a
case that there is nothing in it. There is, I think, strong
evidence of its truth ; but it is certain no one can, upon
principles of reason, be satisfied of the contrary. And the
practical consequence to be drawn from this is not attended
to by every one who is concerned in it.
The Introduction touches on the nature of pro- «
bability from observations of likeness, and the degrees
of presumption, opinion, or full conviction which it
will necessarily produce in every human mind. •' I
shall not," Butler says —
I shall not take upon me to say how far the extent, com-
pass, and force of analogical reasoning can be reduced to
general heads and rules, and the whole be formed into a
system. But though so little in this way has been attempted
by those who have treated of om- intellectual powers, and
the exercise of them, this does not hinder but that we may
be, as we unquestionably are, assured that Analogj' is of
weight, in various degrees, towards determining our judg-
ment and om- practice. Nor does it in any wise cease to be
of weight in those cases, because persons, cither given to
dispute, or who require things to be stated with greater
exactness than our faculties appear to admit of in practical
matters, may find other cases in which 'tis not easy to say
whether it be or be not of any weight ; or instances of
seeming analogies, which are really of none. It is enough
to the present puii^ose to obseri-e that this general way of
arguing is e^-idently natural, just, and conclusive. For
there is no man can make a question but that the sun will
rise to-morrow ; and be seen, where it is seen at all, in the
figure of a circle, and not in that of a square.
Hence, namely, from analogical reasoning, Origen has with
singular sagacity observed that " he who behoves the Scripture
to have proceeded from Him who is the Author of Nature,
may well expect to find the same sort of difiicidties in it, as
are found in the constitution of Nature.'' And in a hke way
of reflection it may be added, that he who denies the 8crip-
tiu-e to have been from God upon account of these diffioUties,
may, for the very same reason, deny the world to have been
foi-med by Him. On the other hand, if there be an Analogy
or hkeness between that system of things and dispensation of
Providence, which revelation informs us of, and that system
of things and dispensation of Providence, which experience
together with reason infoi-ms us of, i.e., the known course of
nature ; this is a presumption that they have both the same
author and cause ; at least, so far as to answer objections
against the former's being from God, di'awn from anj-thing
which is analogical or similar to what is in the latter, which
is acknowledged to be from Him : for an Author of Natm'e is
here supposed."
It is just, he says, to argue from known fticts to
others that are like them ; " from that part of the
Divine Government over intelligent creatures which
comes inider our \"iew, to that larger and more
general government over them wliich is beyond it ;
and from what is present to collect what is likely,
credible, or not incredible, will be hereafter." Some
not attending to what is the fact in the constitution
of natm-e, idly speculate on what the world might
be had it been framed otherwise than it is. But we
have not faculties for this kind of speculation. We
are not even judges of " what may be the necessary
means of raising and conducting one person to the
highe.st perfection and happiness of his nature. Nay,
even in the little aftairs of the present life we find
men of diflerent educations and ranks are not com-
petent judges of the conduct of each other." Let us
turn then, says Butler, to experience,
TO A.D. ir36.j
RELIGION.
349
And let us compare the known constitution and course
of things with what is said to he the moral system of
nature ; the acknowledged dispensations of Providence, or
that government which we find ourselves under, with what
Eeligion teaches us to helieve and expect ; and see w^hether
they are not analogous and of a piece. And upon such a
comparison, it will I think be found that they are very much
so, that hoth may be traced up to the same general laws, and
resolved into the same principles of Divine conduct.
The Analogy here proposed to be considered is of pretty
large extent, and consists of several parts ; in some more, in
others less, exact. In some few instances perhaps it may
amount to a real practical proof ; in others not so. Yet in
these it is a confii-mation of what is proved other ways. It
will undeniably show, what too many want to have shown
them, that the system of Keligion, both natural and revealed,
considered only as a system, and prior to the proof of it, is
not a subject of ridicule, unless that of Nature be so too.
And it will afford an answer to almost all objections against
the system both of Xatural and Kevealed Eeligion ; though
not perhaps an answer in so great a degree, yet in a very con-
siderable degree an answer, to the objections against the
evidence of it ; for objections against a proof, and objections
against what is said to be proved, the reader will observe are
different things.
Xow the divine government of the woi'ld, implied in the
notion of religion in general and of Chixstianity, contains in
it : That mankind is appointed to live in a future state ; that
there, every one shall be rewarded or punished ; rewarded or
pimished respectively for all that behaviour here, which we
comprehend under the words vii-tuous or vicious, morally
good or evil : that our present life is a probation, a state of
trial, and of discipline, for that future one, notwithstanding
the objections which men may fancy they have, from notions
of necessity, against there being any such moral pkn as this
at all ; and whatever objections may appear to lie against the
■wisdom and goodness of it, as it stands so imperfectly made
known to us at present : that this world being in a state of
apostacy and wickedness, and consequently of ruin, and the
sense both of their condition and duty being greatly corrupted
amongst men, this gave occasion for an additional dispensa-
tion of Providence ; of the utmost importance ; proved by
miracles ; but containing in it many things appearing to us
strange and not to have been expected; a dispensation of
Providence, which is a scheme or system of things ; carried
on by the mediation of a diNine person, the Messiah, in order
■to the recovery of the world ; yet not revealed to all men,
nor proved with the strongest possible evidence to all those
to whom it is revealed ; but only to such a part of mankind,
and with such particular e%'idence as the ■wisdom of God
thought fit. The design, then, of the following treatise ■will
be to shew, that the several parts pi^incipaUy objected against
in this moral and Christian dispensation, including its
scheme, its publication, and the proof which God has afforded
us of its truth ; that the particular parts principally objected
against in this whole dispensation are analogous to what is
experienced in the constitution and course of Xature or Pro-
\-idence; that the chief objections themselves which are
alleged against the former are no other than what may be
alleged ■with like justness against the latter, where they are
found in fact to be inconclusive : and that this argument
from Analogy is in general unanswerable, and imdoubtedly of
■weight on the side of religion, notwithstanding the objections
■which may seem to lie against it, and the real ground which
there may be for difference of opinion, as to the particular
degree of weight which is to be laid upon it. This is a
general account of what may be looked for in the foUo^wing
treatise. And I shall begin it ■with that which is the founda-
tion of all our hopes and of all our feara : all our hopes and
fears, ■which are of any consideration ; I mean a future life.
Having thus explained the pui-pose and plan of
his book, Butler proceeds to the -work itself, which
is in two pai-ts, one treating of Natui-al, the other of
Revealed Religion.
The Fii-st Pai-t begins by inquuing what the
Analogy of Natm-e suggests as to the eifect which
death may or may not have upon us, and whether
it be not from thence probable that we may survive
this change. Having reasoned out the credibility of
a futm-e life, he says, "That which makes the c^uestion
to be of so gi-eat impoi-tance to us is our capacity for
happiness and misery, and the supposition that our
happine.ss and misery hereafter depends upon our
actions here." His next chapter, therefore, ai-gues
fi-om analogy " Of the Government of God by
Rewards and Punishments ; and particularly of the
latter."
Eeflections of this kind are not without their terrors to
serious persons, the most free from enthusiasm, and of the
greatest strength of mind ; but it is fit things be st,ated and
considered as they really are. And there is, in the present
age, a certain fearlessness with regard to what may be
hereafter under the government of God, which nothing hut
an universally acknowledged demonstration on the side of
atheism can j ustify ; and -n-hich makes it quite necessary that
men be reminded, and if possible made to feel, that there is
no sort of groimd for being thus presumptuous, even upon
the most sceptical principles. For may it not be said of any
person upon his being bom into the world, he may behave so
as to be of no service to it but by being made an example of
the woful effects of ■vice and foUy ? That he may, as any
one may, if he will, incur an infamous execution from the
hands of civil justice ; or in some other course of extrava-
gance shorten his days, or bring upon himself infamy and
diseases worse than death f So that it had been better for
him, even with regard to the jjresent world, that he had
never been bom. And is there any pretence of reason for
people to think themselves secure, and t:dk as if they had
certain proof, that, let them act as Ucentiously as they ■wUl,
there can be nothing analogous to this, ■with regard to a
future and more general interest, under the providence and
government of the same God 'i
Tlie subject of the next chapter is the moi-al
government of God in rendering to men according
to theii- deeds ; the next treats of a state of proba-
tion, as implying trials, diihculties, and danger.
The thing here insisted upon is, that the state of tml
which Eeligion teaches us we are in is rendered credible by
its being throughout uniform and of a piece -with the general
conduct of Providence towards us. in aU other respects within
the compass of our knowledge. Indeed, if mankind, con-
sidered in their natural capacity as inhabitants of this ■n-orld
only, found themselves from their birth to their death in a
settled state of security and happiness, ■without any solicitude
or thought of their own : or if they were in no danger of
being brought into inconveniences and distress, by carelcss-
ness^'or the folly of passion, through bad example, the
treachery of others, or the deceitful appearances of things :
were this oiu- natural condition, then it might seem strange,
350
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1721
and be some presumption against the ti-utli of Eeligion, that
it represents our future and more general interest, as not
secure of course, but as depending upon our behaviour, and
requiring recollection and seU-govemment to obtain it. For
it might"be aUeged, "What you say is our condition in one
respect is not in any wise of a sort with what we find by
experience our condition is in another. Our whole present
interest is secured to our hands, without any solicitude of
ours ; and why should not our future interest, if we have
any such, be so too ••" But since, on the contrary, thought
and consideration, the voluntary dcnjing ourselves many
things which we desire, and a course of behaviour far from
being always agreeable to us, are absolutely necessarj^ to our
acting even a common decent and common prudent part, so
as to pass -n-ith any satisfaction through the present world,
and be received upon any tolerable good terms in it : since
this is the case, all presumption against self-denial and
attention being necessarj- to secure our higher interest is
removed. Had we not experience, it might, perhaps
speciouslv, be urged, that it is improbable an>-thing of hazard
and danger should be put upon us by an Infinite Being, when
everything which is hazard and danger in our manner of
conception, and wiU end in error, confusion, and misery, is
now ah-cady certain in his fore-knowledge. And indeed,
why anj-thuig of hazard and danger should be put upon such
frail creatures as we are, may well be thought a difficulty in
speculation, and cannot but be so tUl we know the whole, or,
however, much more of the case. But BtUl the Constitution
of Nature is as it is. Our happiness and misery are trusted
to our conduct, and made to depend upon it. Somewhat,
and, in many circumstances, a great deal too, is put upon us,
either to do or to suffer as we choose. And all the various
miseries of life, which people bring upon themselves by
negligence and folly, and might have avoided by proper care,
are instances of this, which miseries are beforehand just as
contingent and undetermined as their conduct, and left to be
determined by it.
These observations are an answer to the objections against
the credibility of a state of trial, as implj-ing temptations,
and real danger of miscarrying with regard to our general
interest, under the moral government of God ; and they shew,
that if we are at all to be considered in such a capacity, and
as having such an interest, the general Analogy of Providence
must lead us to apprehend ourselves in danger of miscaiTying,
in different degrees, as to this interest, by our neglecting to
act the proper part belonging to us in that capacity. For
we have a present interest under the government of God
which we experience here upon earth. And this interest,
as it is not forced upon us, so neither is it offered to our
acceptance, but to our acquisition : in such sort as that wo
are in d.inger of missing it, by means of temptations to
neglect, or act contrary to it, and without attention and self-
denial, must and do miss of it. It is then perfectly credible
that this may be our case with respect to that chief and final
good which Religion proposes to us.
Tlie fifth cliapter continues the consideration of
the state of Probation, by turning to the question
how we came to be placed in it, and arguing from
the Analogy of Nature that it was intended for moral
discipline and improvement. The sixth chapter
argiies that the opinion of the Fatalist, who sees
necessity in Nature, judged by the Analogy between
Nature "and Religion, does not warrant the opinion
that there is no such thing as Religion ; that if upon
the supposition of freedom the evidence of Religion
be conclusive, it remains so upon the supposition of
necessity. The last chapter of the Firet Book is
related to the argument of Pope's " Essay on Man,"
in showing reason from Analogy to believe that we-
misjudge through ignorance of the gi-eat whole,
whereof we see only a part. It is " of the Govern-
ment of God, considered as a Scheme or Constitution,,
imperfectly comprehended," and it opens thus : —
Though it be, as it cannot but be, acknowledged, that the
Analogy of Natiure gives a strong credibility to the general
doctrine of religion, and to the several particular things con-
tained in it, considered as so many matters of fact ; and
likewise that it shows this credibility not to be destroyed by
any notions of necessity : yet stOl, objections may be insisted
upon, against the wisdom, equity, and goodness of the dii-ine
government implied in the notion of Eeligion, and against the
method by which this government is conducted ; to which
objections Analogy can be no direct answer. For the credi.
bility or the certain truth of a matter of fact does not
immediately prove anj-thing concerning the wisdom or good-
ness of it ; and Analogy can do no more, immediately or
directly, than show such and such things to be true or
credible, considered only as matters of fact. But stiU, if,
upon supposition of a moral constitution of nature and a
moral government over it. Analogy suggests and makes it
credible, that this government must be a scheme, system, or
constitution of government, as distinguished from a number
of single unconnected acts of distributive justice and good-
ness ; and likewise, that it must be a scheme, so imperfectly
comprehended, and of such a sort in other respects, as to
afford a direct general answer to all objections against the
justice and goodness of it : then Analogy is remotely of gi-eat
service in answering those objections, both by suggesting
the answer, and showing it to be a credible one.
Kow this, upon inquin,-, will be found to be the case. For,
first, upon supposition that God exercises a moral govern-
ment over the world, the analogj- of His natural govenmient
suggests and makes it credible that His moral government
must be a scheme quite beyond our comprehension ; and this
affords a general answer to all objections against the justice
and goodness of it. And, secondly, a more distinct observa-
tion of some particular things contained in God's scheme
of natural government, the like things being supposed, by
analog}-, to be contained in His moral government, wlU
farther shew how little weight is to be laid upon these
objections.
The Second Part of Butler's "Analogy" turns
from Nature to Revelation, reasoning tii-st of its
necessity, and of the importance of Clu-istianity,
whereof natural religion is the foundation and prin-
cipal part, but not in any sense the whole. The
argument in the second chapter is " Of the supposed
Presumption against a Revelation considered as
miraculous." Butler here gives reasons for saying,
I find no appearance of a presumption, from the Analogy
of Xature, against the general scheme of Christianity, that
God created and im-isibly governs the world by Jesus Christ,
and by Him also will hereafter judge it in righteousness, i.e.,
render to every one according to his works : and that good
men are under the secret influence of His Spirit. 'UTiether-
these things are, or are not, to be called miraculous, is,
perhaps, onlv a question about words; or, however, is of no
moment in the case. If the Analogy of Nature raises any
TO A.D. 1736.]
EELIGIOX.
351
presumption against this general scheme of Christianitj', it
must he either because it is not discoverable by reason or
experience, or else because it is unlike that course of natui-e
■n-hich is. But Analogy raises no presumption against the
truth of this scheme upon either of these accounts.
Tlie next chaptei- argues that Analogy makes
credible that a revelation must appear liable to
objections ; and the next considei-s Christianity by
Analogy with the course of Nature as, like it, a scheme
or constitution imperfectly comprehendecL The fifth
chapter of this Second Part argues from Analogy tlie
probability " of the particular system of Chris-
tianity ; the appointment of a Mediator, and the
redemption of the world by Him." The next subjects
of like argiunent are the want of universality in
Revelation, and the stipposed deficiency in the proof
of it ; the particular e\idence for Christianity ; and,
lastly, of the objections which may be made against
iii-.guuig from the Analogy of Nature to Religion. In
the coiu'se of hLs answer to these objections, Butler
says —
The design of this treatise is not to vindicate the character
•of God, but to show the obligations of men; it is not to
justify His Proridence, but to show what belongs to us to do.
These ai'e two subjects, and ought not to be confounded.
And though they may at length run up into each other, yet
observations may inmiediately tend to make out the latter,
which do not appear, by any immediate connection, to the
purpose of the former, which is less our concern than many
■seem to think. For, first, it is not necessary we should
justify the dispensations of Providence against objections
any farther than to shew that the things objected against
may, for aught we know, be consistent with justice and good-
ness. Suppose, then, that there are things in the system of
this world, and plan of Providence relating to it, which taken
alone would be unjust ; yet it has been shewn unanswerably,
that if we could take in the reference which these things
may have to other things present, past, and to come, to the
whole scheme, which the things objected against are parts of,
"these very things might, for aught we know, be found to be,
not only consistent with justice, but instances of it. Indeed,
it has been shewn, by the Analogy of what we see, not only
possible that this may be the case, but credible that it is.
And thus objections drawn fi'om such things are answered,
and Providence is vindicated, as far as religion makes its
vindication necessary.
One cause of the decline of faith, against which
"these arguments were directed, was a lowering of
the chief aims of life. Among those who.se example
had influence, French influence in and after the
time of Charles II. had quickened the development
of a vain code of "honour" that made certain fomis
of lust and mm-der gentlemanly, displaced personal
religion, and debased men instead of raising them.
Religious life counted for Little, even among theo-
logians ; it wa.s almost lost in the conflict about
fonns. A deep sense of this evil led in England to
another foi-m of reaction, which had John and Charles
Wesley and George Whitefield for its leaders.
John Wesley was the second son of the Rev.
Samuel Wesley, and the father of Samuel Wesley
had been a John, who i3ufi"ered persecution as a
Nonconformist clergyman. Samuel Wesley studied
in his youth at an academy for Dissentei-s kept by
Mr. Veal, in Stepney ; but while there, he turned to
the Established Church, gave up the support he was
receiving, walked to Oxford, and entered himself as
a "poor scholar" at Exeter College. He suppoited
himself by teaching and writing, and was a curate
when he married Susannah Annesley, who, like
Samuel Wesley, hax;l a Nonconformist minister for
father, and had turned to the Established Church.
Of the nineteen children of this maniage, three sons
and three daughtei-s grew up. When the Revolution
was eflected, Samuel Wesley wiote in its defence,
and obtained the living of Epworth, in Lincoln-
shire. His wife did not accept the Revolution, but
said nothing. It was only in the year before King
William died, that her husband missed her "Amen"
to the prayers for the king. He questioned her, and
found that she would not recognise WUliam III. as
the true king ; whereupon Samuel Wesley refused
to live with her till she was loyal, left lier, and
did not return to her until after King William'.s
death. John Wesley, eleven years younger than his
brother Samuel, was the firat child bom after this
period of separation. He was born at Epworth on
the 17th of June, 1703. When John Wesley was
.six years old, his father's house was biu-nt in the
night, and all of the household, including parents
and eight childi-en, were with difliculty saved. Little
John had been left forgotten in the nui-seiy, scrambled
on a chest to the window, and was saved — for the
house was a low one — by a man's climbing to him
upon the shoulders of another. The moment after
he had been rescued the roof fell in. Remembering
this, John Wesley afterwards had a house on fire
engraved under one of his portraits, with the motto,
" Is not this a brand plucked out of the burning i"
At the time of the tire, John's yoimger brother
Chaiies, who lived to share his spuitual work, was
an infant two months old.
John Wesley's mother was a devout woman, and
when her husband left liLs parish and went to London
to attend Convocation she read prayers at home, to
which parishioners were gradually dra^^■n, untU her
hiLsband objected that her ministration " looked
particular." She replied, " I grant it does ; and so
does almost eveiything that is serious, or that may
any way advance the glory of Cod or the salvation
of souls, if it be performed out of a pulpit or in the
common way of convei-sation ; because in our corrupt
age the utmo.st care and diligence has been used to
banish all discom-.se of God or spiritual concerns out
of society, as if religion were never to appear out of
the closet, and we were to be ashamed of notliing so
much as confessing ourselves to be Christians." The
narrow escape of her son John from tire made his
mother resolved to take especial pains \\ith his reli-
gious training.
Jolm Wesley was educated at Charterhouse School,
and Charles at Westminster, when one of the usliei-s
there was Samuel, the eldest brother, who had been
to Christ Church, Oxford. At seventeen, John
Wesley went from Chaiterhouse School to Christ
Church. He was lively, acute in argument, and,
like his father and his two brothers, could write
352
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1725
verse. As the time came for taking orders, his
mother urged liim to make religion the business of
his life. He applied himself then closely to the study
of divinity. The book by which he was most influ-
enced was Jeremy Taylor's " Rules for Holy Living
and Dying." He ascribed to the influence of Jeremy
Taylor the resolve to dedicate all his life to God,
" all my thouglits and woids and actions ; being
thoronglily convinced there was no medium, but that
every jiart of ray life (not some only) must either be
a sacriflce to God or myself." John Wesley, whose
yoimger brother Charles had followed him to Christ
Church, was ordained in 1725, and obtained a
fellowship at Lincoln College in 1726. Tlie change
of college enabled him to break with the acquaint-
ances at Christ Church who had ceased to be congenial,
and to know none in Lincoln College but such as, he
afterwards said, " I had reason to believe woi;ld help
me on the way to heaven." In his new college he
was appointed Greek Icctui-er and modei-ator of the
classes. There were disputations six times a week,
which caused him to observe closely the process of
argimient, and gave him skill in the detection of
fallacies. His religious feeling had deepened, and
he desired seclusion for devout thought, when the
gi-owing infirmities of his fiither called John Wesley
to Wroote to act as his father's curate. He held the
curacy t^'O years, and during this time he took priest's
orders, but the conditions of his fello\vshi2> then
recalled him to Lincoln College. Before his return
he had lieen impressed by the words of a friend, who
said to liim, " Sir, you wish to serve God and go to
heaven. Remember you camiot serve Him alone ;
you must therefoi-e find comi>anions or make them.
The Bible knows nothing of solitary religion."
When Jolm returned to Oxford, he found that Ids
younger brother Charles had already formed for him
such a body of companions. Just liefore Charles
Wesley went to Christ Church he had declined an
offer of ado])tion by a namesake in Ireland on con-
dition of his living vnt\i his patron. The fortune he
thus lost went to the gi-andfather of the Duke of
Wellington, who took the name of Wesley or Wel-
lesley, and wa.s first Earl of Moniington. Chai-les
was of a lively temper, and when John left Oxford
for Wroote he had not succeeded in bringing his
brother into his own state of religious feiTour. But
while John was curate at Wroote, Charles at Oxfoi'd
suddenly became strict in religious observances, and
at once associated himself with others who agreed
to live by Christian rule and take the sacrament
every week. These associates were soon ridiculed
as " Sacramentarians," "Bible-moths," the "Godly
Club." One of the names given to them had been
applied sometimes before in a sense like that given to
" Precisian " and " Puritan," and this wa-s " Methodist. "
Jolm Wesley thought that the name had been given
with reference to an ancient sect of physicians that
!iad been so called. When John Wesley returned to
Lincoln College, his standing at the Univereity, his
religious earnestness, and his seniority to Charles,
caused him to become the leader of this new society,
and he was styled by those who laughed at it, " the
Father of the Holy Club." It was a society of
about fifteen, who visited the sick and the prisonei-s,
fasted on Wednesdays and Fridays, practised strict
examination, and sti-ove " for a recovery of the image-
of God." When, after a while, the question arose-
whether John Weslej- should not applj' for the next
presentation to liis fother's living of Epworth, to
keep the house foi- his mother and sisters, and take
his position in the Church, liLs enthusiasm was
ah-eady sti'aining towards a larger field of action, and
no fi^mily reasoning, however jjrudent, conquered his
resolve to go on in the way of life to which Ids heart
was given. John Wesley's fether died in April,
173.5.
Of the young Oxford Methodists -who shared the
enthusiasm of the Wesleys, the mo.st famous in after
years was George Wliitetield, -whose sketch of liis own
life begins with an account of the frowardness of his
childhood, from the time of his bii'th in Gloucester
in the month of December, 1714, at the Bell Inn.
But, he says, —
I had early some con-victions of sin. and once I rememher,
when some persons (as they frequently did) made it their
husiness to tease me, I immediately retired to my room, and
kneeling down, -with many tears, prayed over that psalm
wherein David so often repeats these words, "But in the
Name of the Lord wUl I destroy them." I was always fond
of being a C'lerg\-man, used frequently to imitate the llinisters-
reading prayers, &c. Part of the money I used to steal from
my parent I gave to the poor, and some books I privately
took from others (for which I have since restored foui-fold) I
remember were hooks of devotion.
About the tenth }-ear of my age, it pleased God to permit
my Mother to many a second time. It proved what the
"World would call an imhappy match, but God overruled it
for good.
A\"hen I was about twelve, I was placed at a school called
St. Mary de Crj-pt, in Gloucester, the last Grammar School I
ever went to. Having a good elocution, and memory, I was-
remarked for making speeches before the corporation at their
annual visitation. But I caimot say I felt any drawings of
God upon my soul for a year or two, saving that I laid out
some of the money that was given me on one of those tore-
mentioned occasions in buying Ken's " Manual for Winchester-
Scholars," a book that had much affected me when my brother
used to read it in my mother's troubles, and which, for some
time after I bought it, was of great benefit to my soul.
Before he was fifteen George 'NAniitefield asked that
he might be taken from school, since he had no hope
of a University education.
My mother's circumstances being much on the decline, and
being tractable that way, I from time to time began to assist
her occasionally in the public-house, till at length I put on
my blue apron and my snuffers, washed mops, cleansed rooms,
and, in one word, became a professed and common di-awer.
Notwithstanding I was thus employed in a large inn, and
had sometimes the care of the whole house upon my hands,
}'et I composed two or three sermons, and dedicated one of
them in particular to my elder brother. One time I remem-
ber I was verj- much pressed to self-examination, and found
myself vei-^- unwilling to look into my heart. Frequently I
read the Bible when sitting up at night. Seeing the boys go
liy to school has often cut me to the heart. And a dear
youth (now with God) would often come entreating me,
when serving at the bar, to go to 0.\ford. My general
answer was, "I wish I could."
•EO A.B- 1735]
RELIGION
353
After Whitefiekl liiul spent a year in this way, his
mother failed, and was obliged to leave the inn; but
it was made over to a son who had been bred to the
business, and who then married. George remained
at the " Bell " as an assistant, imtil he foimd that he
could not agree with his brother's wife ; for that
cause he left, and went to his eldest brother at Bristol.
There his religious enthusiasm deepened for a time,
and he resolved never again to serve in a public-
house. He kept this resolve when he returned to
Gloucester, " and therefore," he says, " my mother
gave me leave, though she had but a little income, to
have a bed upon the ground, and live at her Jiouse,
till Providence should point out a place for me."
Having Kved thus for some considerable time, a young
student who was once my schoolfellow, and then a Servitor
of Pembroke College, Oxford, came to pay my Mother a visit.
Amongst other conversation, he told her how he had dis-
charged aU College expenses that quarter, and received a
penny. UiJon that my Mother immediately cried out, " That
will do for my Son." Then turning to me, she said, "Will
you go to Oxford, George ?" I replied, " AVith all ni}- heart."
A\Tiereupon, having the same fiiends that this young student
had, my Jlothcr, •n-ithout delay, waited on them. They pro-
mised their interest to get me a Servitor's place in the same
College. She then applied to my old master, who much
approved of my coming to school again.
When near his seventeenth year, Whitefiekl re-
solved to prepare himself for taking the Sacrament
ou Christmas Day.
I began now to be more and more watchful over my
thoughts, words, and actions. The following Lent I fasted
Wednesday and Friday thirty-si.x hours together
Kear this time I dreamed that I was to see God on Jlount
Sinai, but was afraid to meet him. This made a great im-
pression upon me : and a gentlewoman to whom I told it,
said, " George, this is a Call from God."
For a twelvemonth I went on in a round of duties, re-
cei^•ing the Sacrament monthly, fasting frequently, attending
constantly on public worship, and praj-ing often more than
twice a day in private. One of my brothers used to tell me,
" He feared this would not hold long, and that I should forget
all when I came to Oxford."
At eighteen Whitefiekl went to Pembroke College,
Oxford, ill the desired way, a friend lending ten
pounds to pay the first expense of entering.
Soon after my admission I went and resided, and found my
having been used to a public-house was now of service to me.
For many of the Servitors being sick at my first coming up,
by my diligent and ready attendance I ingratiated myself
into the gentlemen's favour so far, that many who had it in
their power chose me to be their Servitor. This much lessened
my expense ; and indeed God was so gracious that with the
profits of my place, and some little presents made me by my
kind tutor, for almost the first three j-ears I did not put all
my relations together to above £24 expense
I now began to pray and sing psalms thrice every day,
besides morring and evening, and to fast everj' Friday, and
to receive the Sacrament at a parish church near our College,
and at the Castle, where the despised Methodists used to
receive once a month.
109
The young men so called because they lived by Kule and
Method, were then much talked of at Oxford. I had heard
of and loved them before I came to the University ; and so
strenuously defended them when I heard them reviled by the
students, that they began to think that I also in time should
be one of them.
For above a twelvemonth my soul longed to be acquainted
with them, and I was strongly inclined to follow their good
example, when I saw them go through a ridiculing crowd to
receive the holy Sacrament at St. Mary's. At length God
was pleased to open a door. It happened that a poor woman
in one of the workhouses had attempted to cut her throat
but was happily prevented. Upon hearing of this, and
knowing that both the 3Ir. Wesleys were ready to every
good work, I sent a poor aged apple-woman of our College to
inform Mr. Charles Wesley of it, charging her not to discover
who sent her. She went ; but, contrary to my orders, told
mj- name. He having heard of my coming to the Castle and
a Parish Church Sacrament, and having met me frequently
walking by mj-self, followed the woman when she was gone
away, and sent an invitation to me by her, to come to break-
fast with him the next morning.
I thankfully embraced the opportunity. He put into my
hands Professor Franks' Treatise against the Fear of Man;
and in a short time let me have another book entitled " The
Life of God in the Soul of Man."
At my first reading it, I wondered what the author meant
by saj-ing, " That some falsely placed EeUgion in going to
Church, doing hurt to no one, being constant in the duties of
the closet, and now and then reaching out their hands to give
alms to their poor neighbours." Alas! thought I, "If this
be not EeUgion, what is ? " God soon shewed me. For in
reading a few lines further, that " true Religion was an Union
of the Soul with God, or Christ formed within us," a ray of
divine Kght instantaneously darted in upon my soul, and from
that moment, but not till then, did I know that I must be a
new creature.
Upon this I had no rest tiU I wrote letters to my relations,
acquainting them there was such a thing as the Xew Birth.
I imagined they would have gladly received them. But,
alas ! they thought that I was going beside myself, and by
their letters confirmed me in the resolutions I had taken not
to go down into the country, but continue where I was, lest
that by any means the good work which God had begun in
my soul might be obstructed.
Charles Wesley, now become Whitefield's friend,
introduced him to the rest of the Methodists. Like
them he lived by rule, and sought to gather up the
fragments of his time that none might be lost. He
took the sacrament every Sunday at Christ Church,
fasted on Wednesdays and Fridays, -s-isited the sick
and the prisoners, and made it a custom to spend an
hour every day in outward acts of charity. Then,
he says, —
I dally imderwent some contempt from the Collegians.
Some have thi-own dirt at, and others took away their pay
from me. And two friends, that were very dear to me, soon
orew shy of and forsook me. My inward sufferings were of
a more e.xercising natuie God only knows how
many nights I have lain upon my bed. groamng under what
I felt. Whole davs and weeks have I spent Mng prostrate
on the gi-ound, in sQent or vocal prayer; and ha^^ng nobody
to shew me a better way, I thought to get peace and punty
by outward austerities. Accordingly by degrees I began to
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CASSELL'S LIBRAEY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE
[A.D. 1735
leave off eating fruits and such like, and gave the money I
usually spent in that way to the poor. Afterwards I always
chose the worst sort of food, though my place furnished me
with variety.
Tlien he detected spiritual pride iii this kind of
humility, and began to seclude himself, even from his
religious friends, to leave all for Christ's sake. At
last Charles Wesley came to his room, warned him
of the danger he was running into if he would not
take advice, "and recommended me to his brother
John, Fellow of Lincoln College, as more experienced
than himself. God gave me/' says Whitefield, " a
teachable temper; I waited upon his brother, who
advised me to resume all my externals, though not to
depend on them in the least, and from time to time
lie gave me dii-ections as my pitiable state requii-ed."
espousals, a daj- to be had in everlasting remembrance. At
first my joys were like a spring tide, and as it were overflowed
the banks. Go where I would, I could not avoid singing of
psalms almost aloud.
The buoyancy of returning health settled again
into the natural and wholesome course of life, or as
Whitelield wrote, "Afterwards it became more settled,
and, blessed be God, saving a few casual intervals,
have abode and increased in my soul ever since."
Samuel Wesley, the elder, died in 1735, when the
age of liis son John was thu-ty-two, and George
Whitefield's age was about twenty-one. After his.
father's death, John Wesley came to London to
present to Queen Caroline the Dissertations upon
Job, which the old gentleman had scarcely lived to
finish.
TUL CUiKILliUoUSE IN WesLEV'S TiJIE. [F.;,in Ji.M f (u joCs - l{isl.J,-:j uf lundn,,,- UJj.j
Soon after this the Lent came on, which our friends kept
very strictly, eating no flesh during the six weeks, except on
Saturdays and Sundays. I abstained frequently on Saturdays
also, and ate nothing on the other days (except on Sunday)
but sage-tea without sugar, and coarse bread. I likewise
constantly walked out in the cold mornings, till part of one
of my hands was quite black. This, with my continued
abstinence, and inward conflicts, at length so emaciated my
body, that at Passion week, finding I could scarce creep up-
stairs, I was obliged to inform my kind tutor of my condition,
who immediately sent for a physician to me.
This caused no small triumph amongst the gownsmen, who
began to cry out " What is his fasting come to now 'r " But,
however, not\vithstanding my fit of sickness continued six or
seven weeks, I trust I shall have reason to bless God for it
through the endless ages of eternity.
It was at the end of the seventh week from the
beginnuig of this illness that Whitefield felt like
Christian when his burden fell in presence of the
Cross.
The weight of sin went off ; and an abiding sense of the
pai-doning love of God, and a full assurance of faith broke in
upon my disconsolate soul. Surely it was the day of my
To the close of his life it was a delight of John
Wesley when he came to London to pay a visit
to the old school-buildings and i)laygromad of the
Chartei-house, where ho had been under-fed and
fiigged, but not the less had left the place peopled
for all his after days with happy I'ecollections of a
boy's life among boys. As Wesley advanced in
yeai-s and grew in spu-itual life, outward austerity
abated, and his gentleness of heart must have made
pleasant to the boys of a new generation these occa-
sional visits from an old Carthusian who was making
great stir in the world. Times had changed since
the first old Carthusians — twenty-four monks of a
rigid order — were settled here in a priory built upon
ground bought for interment of the plague-stricken
in 1349, and in which there had actually been buried
fifty thousand of the victims of that memorable jiesti-
lence. The dissolved priory, with a great house built
on its site liy the Duke of Norfolk, was bought of the
Duke of Norfolk's son by Thomas Sutton, and re-
founded by him in James I.'s reign as a school for
boys and a home for eighty decayed gentlemen — in
this country the noblest private benefaction of its
day or any day before it. Tin; history of the place
, 1735.]
EELIGION.
355
itself iniglit join witli his o^vii boyish recollections of
it in making for John Wesley a visit to Charterhouse
always one incident of a return to London.
Soon after his return to London, in the year
1735, Wesley's attention was drawn xevy strongly to
James Oglethorpe's plan of a settlement in Georgia.
James, third son of Sir Theophilus Oglethorpe, was
born in the year 1689, completed his early educa-
tion at Corpus Christi CoUege, Oxford, and appears
then, while stUl very yoiing, to have served as a
gentleman volunteer abroad, before entering the
EngUsh army as an ensign in 1710. In 1714 he
was Captain-Lieutenant of the first troop of the
Queen's Life Guards, and afterwards he served abroad
as aide-de-camp to Prince Eugene. In 1718 he
returned to England, and soon afterwards, on the
death of a brother, succeeded to the famil}' estate at
Westbrook, near Godalming. In October, 1722, he
entered Parliament as member for Haslemere. In
1729, he began his career of beneficence as a reformer
of prisons. A friend of Oglethorpe's who fell into
poverty had been carried to a sponging-house attached
to the Fleet Prison. Wliile he could fee the keeper,
he was allowed the liberty of the rules ; when he
could do so no more, he was forced into the sponging-
house, at a time when small-pox i-aged among its
inmates. Oglethorpe's friend, an accomplished man,
had never had small-pox, and pleaded for his life
that he might be sent to another sponging-house, or
to the jail. His petition was refused ; he was forced
in, caught smaU-pox, and died, leaving a large family
in distress. The member for Haslemere then brought
the subject before Parliament, oljtained a Jail Com-
mittee, and was named its chau'man. Pauiful dis-
closiu'es were made in the reports of the committee,
and some vigorous action was taken vipon them. It
is to the labour of this Jail Committee in 1729 that
James Thomson referred in the folloAving passage then
added to his " Winter," a poem which had been first
published in 1726, followed by "Summer" in 1727,
"Spring" in 1728, and "Autumn" in 1730; when
the four poems were collected as " The Seasons," and
followed by the closing Hjonn.' It was then that
Thomson added Ms tribute to the labours of Ogle-
thorpe's Jail Committee in 1729 : —
And here can I forget the generous band,
WTio, touch' d with human woe, redressive search'd
Into the horrors of the gloomy jail,
Uupity'd, and unheard, where misery moans ;
Where sickness pines ; where thii'st and hunger burn,
And poor misfortune feels the lash of vice ?
While in the land of liberty, the land
Whose every street and public meeting glow
With open freedom, little tyrants rag'd :
Snateh'd the lean morsel from the starving mouth ;
Tore from cold wintry Unibs the tatter'd weed;
Even robb'd them of the last of comfoiis, sleep ;
The free-bom Briton to the dimgeon chained,
Or, as the lust of cruelty prevail' d.
At pleasure mark'd him with inglorious stripes ;
And crush' d out lives, by secret barbarous ways,
That for their country would have toil'd, or bled.
1 See "Shorter Engliali Poems," pages 364, 365.
great design! if executed well.
With patient care, and wisdom-temper' d zeal:
Ye sons of mercy ! yet resume the search ;
Drag forth the legal monsters into light,
Wrench from theii' hands oppression's iron rod.
And bid the cruel feel the pains they give.
Much still untouch'd remains; in this rank age,
Much is the patriot's weeding hand required.
The toils of law (what dark insidious men
Have cumbrous added to perplex the truth,
And lengthen simple justice into trade).
How glorious were the day that saw these broke,
And every man within the reach of right.
After such effectual follo^ving of that doctrine of
Christ which had caused the Wesleys and their- com-
panions at Oxford to make prison visiting a part of
the ser\-ice of God,- Oglethorpe proceeded to the
enterprise that brought the Wesleys into close relation
■with him.
The borderland in North America between the
English province of South Carolina and the Spanish
pro\Tnce of Florida was a debatable gi-ound on
which there had been schemes for forming a new
colony from England, as one of the schemes said,
" in the most delightful coimtry of the universe."
Such scheming suggested to Oglethorpe a plan of
his- own that he had energy and ability enough to
carry out. He would form a colony on this gi'ound,
south of the Savaimah River, for the restoration
to social happiness and usefulness of ruined gentle-
men who had in this country become poor debtors.
With tills olyect in \iew, Oglethorpe obtained the
support of men with influence and money, and jiro-
ciu-ed, in Jime, 1732, a charter for the settlement
of the proposed colony, which was to be called
Georgia, in honour of King George II. Parliament
granted £10,000; and the associates who formed the
corporation caused themselves to be shut out by their
charter from all pereonal profit. All money obtained
was to be applied to the maintenance, transport, and
establishment of the selected colonists, on fertile land
that cost them nothing and would repay abundantly
their labour. A pamphlet published by James
OglethorjJe to exjjlain his scheme, thus tells who were
to be
THE FIRST COLONISTS OF GEORGIA.
Let us cast our eyes on the multitude of unfortunate
people in this kingdom, of reputable families and Uberal
education: some undone by guardians, some by lawsuits,
some by accidents in commerce, some by stocks and bubbles,
some by suretyship ; but all agree in this one circumstance
that they must either be burthensome to their relations, or
betake themselves to Uttle shifts for sustenance which, it is
ten to one, do not answer their purposes, and to which a well-
educated person descends with the utmost constraint. These
are the persons that may reUeve themselves and strengthen
Georgia by resorting thither, and Great Britain by theu-
departure.
I appeal to the recollection of the reader— though he be
opulent, though he be noble— does not his own sphere of
acquaintances furnish him with some instances of such
2 Matthew xxt. 34 — tS.
356
CASSELL'S LIBEARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1735
persons as have been here described ? Must they starve ?
What honest heart can bear to think of it ? Must they be
fed by the contributions of others ? Certainly they must,
rather than be suffered to perish. I have heard it said, and
it is easy to say so, ' Let them learn to -n-ork ; let them subdue
their pride, and descend to mean employments; keep ale-
houses, or coffee-houses, even sell fruit, or clean shoes, for an
honest livelihood.' But alas ! these occupations, and many
others like them, are overstocked already by people who
know better how to follow them than do they whom we have
been talking of. As for labouring, I could almost wish that
the gentleman or merchant who thinks that another gentle-
man or merchant in want can thrash or dig to the value of
subsistence for his family, or even for himself ; I say I could
wish the person who thinks so were obliged to make trial of
it for a week, or — not to be too severe — for only a day. He
would then find himself to be less than the fourth part of a
labourer, and that the fourth part of a labourers wages could
not maintain him. I have heard a man may learn to labour
by practice ; 'tis admitted. But it must also be admitted
that before he can learn he may starve. Men whose wants
are importunate must try such expedients as will give imme-
diate relief. 'Tis too late for them to begin to learn a trade
when their pressing necessities call for the exercise of it.
Prisons were ^^sited by a committee of the trustees
of tlie colony, to obtain the discharge of poor debtors
who deserved their help. Another committee selected
colonists, who were put thi-oiigh military drill, that
they might be able to hold their own in their new
home, and serve also the political purpose of fixing
an unsettled frontier. There was to be no slave-
labour in the colony. Wlien the first shipload of
colonists, thii'ty-five families, numbering one hundred
and twenty persons, was ready to sail from Gravesend,
Oglethorpe resolved to give up ease at home, and go
with them to secure the success of his undei-taking.
Ha\'ing made it a condition that he should receive
no payment in any form, he was empowered to
act as a colonial governor, and left for Georgia in
November, 1732. The writer of a published account
of a voyage from Charleston to Savannah, in March,
1733, thus tells how he found the governor laying
the foundations of his colony : —
Mr. Oglethorpe is indefatigable, and takes a vast deal of
pains. His fare is indifferent, ha's-ing little else at present
but salt pro\'isions. He is extremely well beloved by all the
people. The title they give him is Father. If any of them
are sick, he immediately ■v'isits them, and takes great care of
them. If any difference arises, he is the person who decides
it. Two happened while I was there and in my presence ;
and aU the parties went away to outward appearance satis-
fied and contented with the determination. He keeps a strict
discipline ; I neither saw one of his people drunk nor heard
one swear all the time I have been here. He does not allow
them rum, but in lieu gives them English beer. It is sur-
prising to see how cheerfully the men go to work, considering
they have not been bred to it. There are no idlers here';
even the boys and girls do their part. There are four houses
already up, but none finished ; and he hopes, when he has got
more sawj-ers, to finish two houses a week. He has ploughed
up some land, part of which is sowed with wheat, which is
come up and looks promising. He has two or three gardens,
which he has sowed with divers sorts of seeds, and planted
thyme, with other pot-herbs, and several sorts of fruit-trees.
He was palisading the town round, including some part of
the Common. In short, he has done a vast deal of work for
the time, and I think his name deserves to be immortalized.
The eight tribes of the Lower Creek Indians who
were settled beside Oglethoi-jae's colony were very
friendly. They were well-gi'own men, great hunters,
and woi-shipjiers without idolatry of a Supreme
Being whom they called Sotolycate, He-who-sitteth-
above. They welcomed the white brothers who
oflered frienclship, and believed they had come for
the good of the red brothers, to whom they could
bring knowledge. One of the chiefs, Tomo Chachi,
said at the treaty-making : —
When these white men came, I feared that they would
drive us away, for we were weak ; but they promised not to
molest us. We wanted com and other things, and they have
given us supplies ; and now, of our small means, we make
them presents in return. Here is a buffalo skin, adorned
with the head and feathers of an eagle. The eagle signifies
speed, and the buffalo strength. The English are swift as
the eagle, and strong as the buffalo. Like the eagle they flew
hither over great waters, and, like the buffalo, nothing can
withstand them. But the feathers of the eagle are soft, and
signify kindness ; and the skin of the buffalo is covering,
and signifies protection. Let these, then, remind them to
be kind, iind protect us
Having successfully laid tlie foundations of the
state of Georgia, James Oglethorpe returned to
England in the sprmg of 1731, bringing with him
Tomo Chachi, with his ^vife and nephew, and some
other native chiefs. They reached England in June.
Tomo Chaclii went to court, and presented eagle-
feathers to King George II. Poems were written,
and the Gentleman s Magazine offered a prize for a
medal to commemorate Mr. Oglethorpe's benevolence
and patriotism. They were introduced also to the
Archbishop of Canterbury, and to him Tomo Chachi
expressed the desire of his people for religious know-
ledge. After a stay of foiu- months in England these
natives were sent home to spread the impression
they had received of English culture and of English
kindness. Their coming had also iii this coimtry
di'awn friendly attention to theii' people, and Ogle-
thorpe's desire now was to bring the Gospel home to
them. John Wesley's father had received personal
kindness from Oglethorpe, who also at this time
put down his name as a subscriber for seven large
paper copies, at three guineas each, of the old
gentleman's " Dissertationes in Librum Jobi," with a
portrait of the author seated in the character of Job.
In the last year of his life, Samuel Wesley, the elder,
wi-ote from Epworth, on the 6th of July, 1734,
" Honoured Sir, may I be admitted, while such
ciowds of our nobility and gentry are pouring in theu-
congi-atulations, to press my poor mite of thanks into
the presence of one who so well deserves the title of
Universal Benefactor of Mankind. It is not only
j'oiu- valuable favours, on many accounts, to my son,
late of Westminster " (Samuel, the eldest son), " and
myself, when I was a little pressed in the world, nor
your extreme charity to the poor prisonei-s ; it is not
these only that so much demand my warmest acknow-
TO A.D. 17:>S.]
RELIGION.
357
ledgements, as vovir disinterested and luimovable
attacliment to your country, and your raising a new
colony, or rather a little world of your own, in the
midst of a wild wood and uncultivated desert, where
men may live free and happy, if they are not hindered
I'V their own stupidity and folly, in spite of the
uiikindness of their brother mortals." In August,
1735, John Wesley, being in London, after his
father's death, with copies of the Latin Dissertations
I m the Book of Job, was urged by a friend. Dr.
Bm-ton, of Corpus C'hristi College, who was one of the
trustees for the colony of Georgia, to aid Oglethorpe
in his good work, by going out as missionary to the
><ettlei's and Indians. He was introduced to Ogle-
thorpe by Dr. Burton, hesitated, but was persuaded
even by his widowed mother to assent. Wesley then
took counsel with William Law, the author of the
■■ Serious Call," whose counsel in a former time had
influenced his life. William Law, born in North-
amptonshii'e in 168G, was educated at Emmanuel
College, Cambridge, but had been prevented by some
scruples from taking order.s. He lived a retired life
until his death in 1761, and acquired gi-eat influence
as a writer on religious subjects. His most popular
book was "A Serious Call to a Devout and Holy
Life." John Wesley depended much upon Law's
counsel in the earlier part of his career, but after-
wards thought his religious teaching insufficient.
Having now taken ad\"ice from Law, Wesley agreed
to go to Georgia with his brother Charles and two
yoimg men, one of them another of the young Oxford
Methodists, Benjamin Ingham. Charles Wesley had
meant to spend his life as a college tutor, but was
now ordained, and went to Georgia, as .secretary to
the governor. In October, 173.5, Oglethorpe and
the Wesleys sailed from England with two vessels
carrying 220 carefully selected English emigi-ants,
and about sixty Salzburgers who had been expelled
by their Roman Catholic Government, and other
poor Protestants from Germany, among whom were
twenty-six Mora\-ians, led by Da-\-id Nitschmann.
The Moldavians went to join some of their brethi-en
from HeiTnhut, who had gone out the preceding year.
The calm and simple piety of these Moravians drew
John Wesley into close companionsliip with them.
They never resented injury or insult, and were
without fear of death. In a storm that set many
screaming, and made Weslej' fear because he doubted
whether he was fit to die, the Moravians calmly
sang their psalms. " Are you not afraid ] " Wesley
asked one of them. He replied, " I thank God, no."
" Are not your women and children afraid V " No ;
our women and children are not afraid to die." From
the Moravians Wesley ch-ew lasting impressions of
what the spirit of a religious community should be
and could be. At Savannah, John Wesley observed
their behaviom* in the settlement. " We were in one
room -with them," he says, " from morning to night,
unless for the little time .spent in walking. They
were always employed, always cheerful themselves,
and in good humour with one another. They had
put away all anger, and strife, and wrath, and bitter-
ness, and clamour, and evil speaking." John Wesley
had been unwillLng to part from his friends in
England, but in Georgia he wrote, " From ten friends
I am awhile secluded, and God hath opened me a
door into the whole Mora\ian Church."
John Wesley drew attentive congregations to his
preaching in Savannah, and caused them to ab.staui
from fine dressing for church and come in plain clean
linen or woollen. He and one of his friends taught
each a school. Some of the boys in the other school
went barefoot, and were looked down ujion by those
who were shod. Wesley asked his friend to change
schools for a time, and astonished the boys of the
school tainted 'with vanity by coming among them
himself without any shoes and stockings. A little
persistence in this lesson caused bare feet to be no
longer a mark for scorn. The Wesleys abstained
from meat and wine, and caused some difficulty by
their asceticism, l:>y insisting upon baptism with im-
mersion and by rigid adherence to the letter of the
rabric of the English Church ; but John was also
forming the most serious of his parishioners into a
society for strictest observance of religious duties.
His conscientious strictness caused John Wesley
at last to leave Georgia, He had been tempted
to wish for marriage with the niece of the chief
magistrate of Savannah. The young lady for a time
courted him by affecting tenderness of conscience
that called for ghostly counsel, but at last gave up
the thought of becoming Mrs. Wesley, took another
husband, and then became, in the chaplain's opinion,
so worldly that, on one Sunday, he pul>licly refused
to admit her to the communion. This caused much
scandal in Savannah, and the lady's husband obtained
a warrant against John Wesley for defamation of
character. The case was prolonged, and managed
with the pm-pose of obliging Wesley to quit Georgia,
and he was thus really driven to leave the colony,
after having preached there for a year and nine
months. When he anived at Deal, early in February,
1738, he had been absent from England two years
and four months. George Whitefield had just left
Deal for Georgia, and narrowly missed meeting
Wesley.
Whitefield, during Wesley's absence in Georgia,
and after the illness which left him with a sense
of religion happier than it had been, although not
less intense, was helped by a Su- John Philips, in
London, with promise of an annuity of £30 a year
if he stayed in Oxford and carried on the work
which otherwise might fail through the departure of
John and Charies Wesley. For change of air while
seeking complete recovery from illness, he went home
to Gloucester, where he still ^isited the poor and
prayed with the prisoners. Dr. Benson, Bishop of
Gloucester, observed him and asked his age. It was
little more than twenty-one, and although he had
resolved not to ordain any below the age of twenty-
thi-ee, the bishop ordained Whitefield, helped him
mth a little money, and let him retm-n to Oxford,
mth the annuity from Sir John Philips in place of a
cure. But now" that Wliitefield was ordained, occa-
sions arose for liis preaching, and when he preached,
his youth and fair jiresence— for wlien young, he
was "slender, somewhat tall, fan-, and well-featured,
with dark blue eyes— aided the charm of his native
eloquence and devout zeal towards the spiiitual. He
called upon liis hearers to be born again, and shape
358
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 17:
God's image within themselves, iu musical accents,
with charm of a gi'aceful manner and fit action, while
none could doubt that his whole soul, full of love to
God and man, was uttering itself from his lips.
Often his tears flowed and his body quivered with
emotion ; always he preached with power, " like
a lion," as one said, like a prophet who does not
doubt that the message he delivers is from God.
When at last he had been moved by letters from
those men of his Oxford community who had gone
to preach in Georgia, Whitefield resolved to follow
them and join their work. He parted from his
friends at Gloucester, and preached in Bristol to
larger congi'egations on the week-days than at other
times could be gathered on Sundays. When he
went a second time to Bristol, he was met by a
crowd a mile out of the city, led in with rejoicing,
and blessed as he passed through the street. In
London, constables had to be placed at the door of
chiu-ches to control the throng that pressed to hear
the heavenly-minded youth. He preached for the
charity children, and added to their funds a thousand
pounds. He was embraced in church aisles, beset
for his autograph in religious books, and at his last
sermon in London, before he left for Georgia, the
congregation wept aloud.
Whitefield landed at Savannah on the 7th of May,
1738, and then wrote in his journal, —
Though we have had a long, yet it has been an exceeding
pleasant voyage. God, in compassion to my weakness, has
sent me but few trials ; and sanctified those he hath sent me.
I am now going forth as a sheep amongst wolves; but he
that protected Abraham when he went out not knowing
whither he went, will also guide and protect me ; and
therefore I c<annot close this part of my journal better than
with iVIr. Addison's translation of the 23rd Psalm : —
" The Lord my pasture shall prepare,
And feed me with a shepherd's care ;
His presents shall my wants supply.
And guard mo with a watchful eye :
My noon-day walks he shall attend,
And all my midnight hours defend.
" Wlien in the sultry glebe I faint.
Or on the thirsty mountain pant.
To fertile vales and dewy meads
My weary wand' ring steps he leads ;
Where peaceful rivers soft and slow,
Amid the verdant landscapes flow.
" Though in the paths of death I tread,
With gloomy hoiTors overspread,
My stedfast heart shall fear no ill,
For thou, O Lord, art with me still ;
Th}' friendly crook shall give me aid,
And guide me thi-ough the dreadful shade.
" Though in a bare and rugged way
Thi-ough de\'ious lonely wilds I stray.
Thy bounty shall my pains beguile ;
The barren wilderness shall smile.
With sudden gxeens and herbage crown'd,
And streams shall murmur all around."
Addison had died in 1719, aged forty-seven.
An-ived at Savannah, Whitefield took the place of
Wesley, sat by the death-bed of Tomo Chachi, taught
there, and visited for a few clays Frederica, at the
other end of the colony. At the end of August
AVhitetield left Savannah, with a promise to retvu-n.
He went home to receive priest's orders, and obtain
money for an Orphan House. The congregation at
Savannah had grown, and although he had service
twice a day, there was never a night in which the
church-house was not nearly full. On the voyage
home, storms and contrary wiirds delayed the vessel,
and caused its oflicers to lose their reckoning. Pro-
visions failed, and daily rations were reduced to an
ounce or two of salt beef, a pint of water, and a cake
made of flour and skimmings of the pot. Upon this
Whitefield wrote in his diary : —
Blessed be God for these things, I rejoice in them daUy.
They are no more than what I expected, and I know they
are preparatives for future mercies. God of His intinite
mercy humble and try me, till I am rightly disposed to
receive them. Amen, Lord Jesus, amen.
It pities me often to see my brethren, lying in the dust,
as they have done these many weeks, and exposed to such
straits ; for God knows both their souls and bodies are dear
unto me. But thanks be to God, they bear up well, and
I hope we shall all now learn to endure hai'dships, like good
soldiers of Jesus Christ.
Sunday, Nov. 12. — This morning the doctor of our ship
took up the Common-Prayer Book, and observed that he
opened upon these words, " Blessed be the Lord God of
Israel, for He hath visited and redeemed his people." And
so indeed He has, for about 8 o'clock this morning news
were brought that our men saw land, and I went and was a
joj-ful spectator of it myself. The air was clear, and the sun
arising in full strength, so that 'tis the most pleasant day I
have seen these many weeks. Now know I that the Lord
w-iU not always be chiding, neither keepeth He his anger for
ever. For these two or thi'ee days last past, I have enjoyed
uncommon serenity of soul, and given up my will to God.
And now He hath brought us deUverance. From whence I
infer, that a calmness of mind, and entire resignation to the
Divine will, is the best preparative for receiving divine
mercies. Lord, evermore make me thus minded !
As soon as I had taken a view of the land, we joined
together in a prayer and psalm of thanksgiving, and already
began to reflect with plcasiu'e on our late straits. Thus it
will be hereafter : the storms and tempests of this trouble-
some world will serve to render our haven of eternal rest
doubly agreeable.
The land seen was the coast of Ireland. On the
8th of December, 1738, Geoi-ge WTiitefield reached
London again, and he ends the section of his journal
published in 1739, which tells these experiences,
■with the following
HYMN.
Shall I, for fear of feeble man.
Thy Spirit's course in me restrain ?
Or undismay'd in deed and word.
Bo a true witness to my Lord ?
Awed by a mortal's frowTi, shall I
Conceal the Word of God most high ?
TO A.D. 1739.]
RELIGION.
359
^1
ri
How then before Thee shall I dare
To stand, or how thy anger hear ?
Xo ; let man rage ! since Thou wilt spread
Thy shadowing wings around my head :
Since in all pain thy tender love
Will stUl my sweet refreshment prove.
Saviour of men ! thy searching eye
Does all my inmost thoughts descry :
Doth aught on earth my wishes raise ?
Or the world's favour, or its praise ?
The love of Christ does me constrain,
To seek the wand' ring souls of men :
■With cries, entreaties, tears to save.
To snatch them from the gasping grave.
For this let men revile my name,
No cross I shun, I fear no shame :
All hail, reproach, and welcome pain !
Only thy terrors, Lord, restrain.
ily Ufe. my blood I here present,
n for thy truth they may be spent :
Fulfil thy sov'reign counsel, Lord :
Thy will be done ! thy name ador'd !
Give me thy strength, O God. of power !
Then let -nands blow, or thunders roar.
Thy faithful witness will I be —
'Tis fix'd ! I can do aU through Thee !
Wliitefiekl published in the same year (1739) a
" Continuation " of his jom-nal " from his Arrival
in London to his Departure from thence on his way
to Georgia." This is prefaced by lines from Charles
Wesley
TO THE REVEREND MR. GEORGE WHITEFIELD.
Brother in Christ, and well belov'd.
Attend, and add thy pray'r to mine ;
As Aaron caU'd, yet inly mov'd,
To minister in things divine.
Faithful, and often own'd of Giod,
Vessel of grace, by Jesus us'd ;
Stir up the gift on thee bestow'd.
The gift by hallow' d hands transfus'd.
Fully thy heavenly mission prove,
And w^'e thy own election sure;
Eooted in faith, and hope, and love.
Active to work, and firm t' endm-e.
Scorn to contend with flesh and blood,
And trample on so mean a foe ;
By stronger fiends in vain withstood,
Daimtless to nobler conquests go.
Go where the darkest tempest low'rs.
Thy foes, triumphant wrestler, foil ;
Thrones, principalities, and powers,
Engage, o'ercome, and take the spoil.
The weapons of thy warfare take,
With truth and meekness arm'd ride on ;
Mighty, through God, hcU's Idngdom shake,
Satan's strong holds, through God, pull dow7i.
Humble each vain aspiring boast,
Intensely for God's glory bum ;
Strongly declare the sinner lost,
SeH-righteousness o'ertum, o'ertum;
Tear the bright idol from his shrine,
Nor sirffer him on earth to dwell,
T' usurp the place of blood di-s-ine.
But chase him to his native hell.
Be aU into subjection brought ;
The pride of man let faith abase,
And captivate his every thought.
And force him to be sav'd by grace.
Charles Wesley.
Whitefield now found that the Wesleys had been
spreading their o^vn religious fervour. They had but
lately found the rest of soul which they attributed
to an actual conversion of which the exact time
could be assigned. Charles Wesley first attained
the efficient faith that gave as.surance of his justi-
fication, after a second return of pleurisy, and his
bodily strength grew from the same hour. John
Wesley was still weighed down by a sense of sin, luitil
the evening of the 24th of May, when he was at a
meeting in Aldersgate Street, where Luther's preface
to the Epistle to the Romans was being read. Then
Wesley writes : —
About a quarter before nine, while he was describing the
change which God works in the heart through faith in Christ,
I felt my heart strangely warmed ; I felt I did trust in Christ,
Christ alone, for salvation : and an assui'ance was given me,
that He had taken away mi/ sins, even mine, and saved me
from the law of sin and death. I began to pray with aU my
might for those who had in a more especial manner despite-
fuUy used me and persecuted me. I then testified openly to
all there what I now first felt in my heart. But it was not
long before the enemy suggested, " This cannot be Faith, for
where is thy joy?"
But in the contest of mind that followed Faith pre-
vailed. Jolm Wesley, after his New Birth, sought
evidence of the power of faitli by walking on foot
through Germany to the settlement of the Moraviims
at Herrnhut, and on the way talked with then- chief,
Count Zinzendorf, and his company of disciples at
Marienborn. After a fortnight's stay at Herrnlmt,
Wesley returned to London, and found that his
brother Charles had gathered about him a society of
thirty-two persons, much troubled witldn and ^\^th-
out by questionings. John Wesley then strengthened
his brother's work. They were still firm members of
the Church, even urging on the Bishop of London
the propriety of the re-baptism of Dissenters. Dr.
Potter, Archbishop of Canterbury at this time, in an
interview with John AVesley, gave him counsel, upon
the value of which he laid stress in his later yeare :
" If you desire to be extensively useful, do not spend
your time and strength in contending for or against
360
CA88ELLS LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1739
svLch. tilings as are of a disputable nature ; but iii
testifying against open notorious vice, and in pro-
moting real, essential holiness."
When George Whitetield, now twent3'-four years
old, returned to London, and joined in the work of
the Wesleys, lie found opposition, was refused by
some clergy tlie leave he asked to preach in their
jnilpits for his Orphan House, but again stirred
thousands by his preaching. On one Sunday, after
preaching to twelve thousand people, he spent the
niffht in religious communion at a love-feast in Fetter
Lane till four in the morning, when he went to pray
with a sick woman. Whitetield went to Oxford in
January, 1739, to be ordained, and preached, sur-
rounded by attentive gownsmen of all degrees.
When he returned to London he read a pamphlet
written against himself by a clergyman, and his
record on the following Sunday is —
Sunday, January 21.— Went this moiTiing and received the
sacrament at the hands of tlic minister who wrote against
me. Blessed be God, I do not feel the least resentment
against, but a love for him. For I believe he has a zeal
for God, thougli, in my opinion, not according to knowledge.
Oh that I could do him any good !
Preached twice witli great power and clearness in my voice
to two thronged congregations, especially in the afternoon,
when I believe near a thousand people were in the church-
yard, and hunih-eds more returned home that could not
come in. Thus God magnifies his power, most when most
opposed.
Expounded twice afterwards, where the people pressed
most vehemently to hear the Word. God enabled me to speak
with the demonstration of the Spirit, and with power, and
the remainder of the evening filled me with a humble sense
of His infinite mercies. I think I am never more humble
than when exalted. By the grace of God I am what I am.
Oh that I could be thankful !
In February, Wliitefield went to Bristol, and on
the 17th preached his first sermon in the open air to
colliers at Kingswootl. The hearers were then up-
wards of two hundred ; a week later he had in the
same place four or live thousand hearers. He had
returned at ten in the morning from a visit to Bath,
and records —
About eleven, went, as usual, and preached a written
sermon at Newgate, and collected two pounds five shillings
for the prisoners. Many, I believe, were much affected.
To God be all the glory.
After dinner, I was taken very ill, so that I was obliged to
lie upon the bed ; but, looking upon it only as a thorn in the
tlesh, at three I went, according to appointment, and preached
to near four or five thousand peojjle, from a mount in Kings-
wood, with great power. The sun shone very bright, and the
people standing in such an awful manner round the mount,
in the profoundest silence, filled me with an holy admiration.
Blessed be God for such a plentiful harvest. Lord, do Thou
send forth more labourers into thy harve.st.
This done, God strengthened me to expound to a society
without Lawford's Gate, and afterwards to another in the
city, and afterwards to a third. And I spoke with more
freedom the last time than at the first. AVhen I am weak,
then am I strong.
This is Whitefield's record of a Sunday at Bristol
nine days later: — ■
Sifiidni/, March 4. — Rose much refreshed in spirit, and gave
my early attendants a warm exhortation as usual. Went to
Newgate, and preached with great power to an exceedingly
thronged congregation. Then hastened to Hannam Mount,
three miles fi-om the city, where the colliers live altogether.
God highly favoured us in the weather. Above four thousand
were ready to hear me ; and God enabled me to preach with
the demonstration of the Spirit. The ground not being high j
enough, I stood upon a table, and the sight of the people who
covered the green fields, and their- deep attention pleased me
much. I hope that same Lord, who fed so many thousands
with bodily bread, will feed all their souls with that bread
which cometh down from heaven : for many came from far.
At four in the afternoon I went to the mount on Kose-
green, and preached to above fourteen thousand souls ; and
so good was my God, that all could hear. I think it was
worth while to come many miles to see such a sight. I spoke,
blessed be God, wath great freedom ; but thought all the
while, as I do continually when I ascend the mount, that
hereafter I shall suffer as well as speak for my blaster's sake.
Lord, strengthen me against that hour. Lord, I believe (O
help my unbelief !) that Thy gTace wUl be more than suflicient
for me.
In the evening I expounded at Baldwin Street Society, but
could not get up to the room without the utmost difficulty,
the entry and court were so much thronged. Blessed be God,
the number of hearers much increases ; and as my day is, so
is my strength. To-night I returned home much more re-
freshed in my sjnrits than in the morning when I went out.
I was full of joy, and longed to be dissolved, and to be with
Jesus Christ ; but I have a baptism first to be baptised with.
Father, Thy wiU be done. This has been a Sabbath indeed
to my sold 1
Wliitefield excited like enthusiasm among the
Welsh, whom he visited before his i-eturn to London
at the close of April. Open-air preaching was con-
tinued as part of his system. He was preparing for
his return to Georgia when the number of listeners
to his open-air preaching on Kemiington Common
and Moorfields began to be reckoned by tens of
thousands. On Sunday, Ajiril 29, he preached in
the morning to a great concourse at IMoorlields, then
went to church as a worshipper, heard a sermon
against himself on the text " Be not righteous over-
much," and then jjreached in the evening on Keii-
nington Common to an audience of thirty thousand.
" The wind being for me, it carried the voice to the
extremest part of the audience." I give one entry
more : —
Sunday, May 6. — Preached this morning in Moorfields to
about twenty thousand people, who were vcrj' quiet and
attentive, and much affected. Went to public worship morn-
ing and evening ; and at six preached at Kennington. But
such a sight never were my eyes blessed with before. I
beUeve there were no less than fifty thousand people, near
four-score coaches, besides great numbers of horses ; and
what is most remarkable, there was such an awful silence
amongst them, and the Word of God came with such power,
that all, I believe, were pleasingly surprised. God gave me
great enlargement of heart. I continued ray discourse for an
hour and a half; and when I returned home, I was filled
TO A.D.'1741.]
RELIGION.
361
with such lore, peace, and joy, that I cannot express it. I
bcliere this was partly owing to some opposition I met with
yesterday. It is hard for men to kick against the pricks.
The more they oppose, the more shall Jesus Chi-ist he exalted.
Our adrersaries seem to be come to an extremitj-, while for
want of arguments to con\'ince, they are obliged to call out
to the civil magistrate to compel me to be silent ; but I be-
lieve it will be difficult to prove our assemblies in the fields
to be either disorderly or Ulegal. But they that are bom
after the flesh, must persecute those that are bom after the
Spu-it. Father, forgive them, for they know not what they
do.
Johu Wesley followed Wliitefiekl to Bristol, where
he was received and rutroduced hj him. The physical
results of the emotion caused by Wesley's preaching
— ecstasies that were always excited by liim — seemed
mu-acnlous to many, and distinct manifestations of
the New Birth. Wesley formed male and female
bands of Christians, who were to meet weekly for
prayer and confession of their faults to one another,
and since a larger room than could be had was needed
for the meetings of the societies, on the 1 2tli of May,
1739, the first stone of the first Methodist meeting-
house was laid at Bristol ; but this was without any
thought of separation from the ser-sdces of the
Established Church. The fii'st separation was from
the Moravians, between whom and Wesley differences
of opinion and practice became manifest. Wliitefiekl
returned to Georgia in 1739, visited several pro\-Lnces
in America, preaching to gi'eat audiences, and re-
turned in 17-1:1. During his absence there was
some correspondence between Wesley and Whitefield
upon points in the doctrine of election, Wlutefield
holding it and Wesley not holiUng it in Calvinistic
form. This caused them to work thenceforward apart
John Weslet. (From the Portrait by J. Jnckson, H.A.)
from one another. Then followed the erection of
more buildings for prayer-meetmgs, and theii- settle-
ment not on triistees, which would have made the
preachers depentlent on the people, but on John
110
TV esley himself as acknowledged head and director of
the Christian society he had established. All ortho-
dox Christians might join the society. Methodism did
not aim at establishment of a separate church, but at
the knitting of Chi-istians into a bond of unity which
should consist in the resolve really to forsake the
world wherever its requii-emeuts were in conflict with
known Christian duty. It was a society of men who
bomid themselves to help each other to form really,
as far as man is able, the image of God withm the
soul.
The following hymn was written by John Wesley
for the Kingswood colliers, to whom he preached
when at Bristol : —
HYilN FOR THE KIXGSWGOD COLLIERS.
Glory to God, whose sovereign gTace
Hath animated senseless stones,'
Called us to stand before His face.
And raised us into Abraham's sons.
The people that in darkness lay.
In sin and en'or's deadly shade,
Have seen a glorious gospel day
In Jesu's lovely face displayed.
Thou only, Lord, the work hast done,
And bared thine arm in all our sight.
Hast made the reprobates thine own
And claimed the outcasts as thy right.
Thy single arm. Almighty Lord,
To us the great Salvation brought.
Thy Word, thine all-creating Word,
That spake at first the World from nought.
For this the saints lift up their voice,
And ceaseless praise to Thee is given ;
For tliis the hosts above rejoice :
We raise the happiness of heaven.
For this, no longer sons of night.
To Thee oui- thanks and hearts we give ;
To Thee, who called us into light.
To Thee we die, to Thee we live.
Suffice that for the sca.son past
Hell's hon-id language fiUed oui- tongues.
We all thy words behind us cast,
And lewdly sung the drunkard's songs.
But the power of Grace divine !
In hynms we now om- voices raise,
Loudly in strange Hosannas join.
And blasphemies are turned to praise.
Praise God, from whom ptrre blessings flow,
Praise Him all creatures here below.
Praise Him above, ye heavenly host,
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
1 Wlien Wlutefield preached to these colliers, he said, " The first
discovery of their beins affected was to see the white glitters made by
their tears, which fell plentifully down their black cheeks as they came
from their coalpits."
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CASSELL'S LIBEARY OF ENGLISH LITERATUEE.
[i.D. 1741
Anci this is a hymn of Wesley's
ON THE ADMISSION OF ANY PERSON INTO THE
SOCIETY.
Brother in Christ, and well beloved,
To Jesus and his servants dear,
Enter and shew thyself approved,
Enter, and find that God is here.
'Scaped from the World, redeemed from sin,
By fiends pursued, by men abhorred,
Come in, poor fugitive, come in,
And share the portion of thy Lord.
Welcome from Earth! — Lo, the right hand
Of fellowship to thee we give ;
With open arms and hearts we stand,
And thee in Jesus' name receive.
Say, is thy heart resolved as ours ?
Then let it bum with sacred love ;
Then let it taste the heavenly powers,
Partaker of the joys above.
Jesu attend ; Thyself reveal !
Are we not met in thy great Name ?
Thee in the midst we wait to feel,
We wait to catch the spreading flame.
Thou God, who answerest by fire.
The spirit of burning now impart,
And let the flames of pure desire
Rise from the altar of our heart.
Truly our fellowship below
With Thee and with our Father is :
In Thee eternal life we know
And Heaven's imutterable bliss.
In part we only know Thee here.
But wait thy coming from above, —
And I shaU then behold Thee near.
And I shall all be lost in love.
The following passages are from a tract by John
Wesley, printed and published at Bristol in 1747,
and sold for a penny, under the title of
THE CHARACTER OP A METHODIST.
To the Reader.
Since the name first came abroad into the world, many
have been at a loss to know what a Blothodist is : AVhat arc
the Principles and Practice of those who are commonly called
by that name ; and what the distinguishing marks of this
sect, which is everii-where spoken of ?
And it being generally believed that /was able to give the
clearest account of these things (as ha-\-ing been one of the
first to whom that name was given, and the person by whom
the rest were supposed to be directed), I have been called
upon, in aU manner of ways and with the utmost earnestness,
so to do. I yield at last to the continued importunity, both
of friends and enemies ; and do now give the clearest account
I can, in the presence of the Lord and Judge of Heaven and
Earth, of the Principles and Practice whereby those who are
called Methodists are distinguished from other men.
I sa}', those who are called Methodists ; for let it be well
observed, that this is not a name which they take to them-
selves, but one fixed upon them by way of reproach, without
their approbation or consent. It was fii-st given to three or
four young men at Oxford by a student of Chiistchm'ch :
either in allusion to the ancient sect of physicians so called
(from their teaching that almost all diseases might be cured
by a specific method of diet and exercise), or from their
obser^'ing a more regular method of study and behavioui-
than was usual with those of their age and station.
I shall stUl rejoice (so little ambitious am I to be at the
head of any sect or party) if the very name might never be
mentioned more, but be buried in eternal oblivion. But if
that cannot be, at least let those who will use it know the
meaning of the word they use. Let us not always be fighting
in the dark. Come, and let us look one another in the face.
And perhaps some of you who hate what I am called, may
love what I am (by the Grace of God) : or, rather what I
follow after, if that I apprehend that for which I am also
apprehended of Christ Jesus.
1. The distinguishing marks of a Methodist are not his
opinions of any sort. His assenting to this or that scheme
of religion, his embracing any particular set of notions, his
espousing the judgment of one man or another, are all quite
wide of the point. AVhosoever, therefore, imagines that a
Methodist is a man of such or such an opinion, is grossly
igTiorant of the whole afl^air ; he mistakes the truth totallj'.
We believe, indeed, that all Scriptui-e is given by Inspiration
of God ; and herein we are distinguished from Jews, Turks,
and infidels. We beUeve this written Word of God to be
the only and sufficient Rule, both of Christian faith and
practice ; and herein we are fundamentally distinguished
from those of the Romish Church. We believe Christ to be
the Eternal Supreme God ; and herein are we distinguished
from the Socinians and Arians. But as to all opinions which
do not strike at the root of Christianity, we think and let
think. So that whatsoever they are, whether right or
wrong, they are no distinguishing marks of a Methodist.
2. Neither are Words or Phrases of any sort. We do not
place our Religion, or any part of it, in being attached to any
peculiar mode of speaking, any quaint or uncommon set of
expressions. The most obrious, easy, conunon words wherein
oiu' meaning can be conveyed, we prefer before others both
on ordinai-y occasions and when we speak of the things of
(iod. We never, therefore, -naUingly or designedly deviate
from the most usual way of speaking, unless when we express
Scriptm-e truths in Scripture words (which, we presume, no
Christian will condemn). Neither do we affect to use any
particular expressions of Scripture more frequently than
others, unless they are such as are more frequently used by
the inspii-ed writers themselves. So that it is as gross an
error to place the marks of a Methodist in his Words as in
Opinions of any soi't.
3. Nor do we desire to be distingxiished by actions, customs,
or usages of any indifferent natiure. Our religion does not
lie in doing what God has not enjoined, or abstaining from
what He hath not forbidden. It does not lie in the form of
our apparel, in the posture of our body, or the covering of oiu-
heads ; nor yet in abstaining from marriage, nor from meats
and di'inks, which arc all good if received with thanksgi%'ing.
Therefore, neither will any man, who knows whereof he
affirms, fix the mark of a Methodist here ; in any actions or
customs purely indifferent, imdetermined by the Word of
God.
4. Nor, lastty, is he to be distinguished by lajdng the whole
stress of religion upon any single part of it. If you say,
TO A.D. 17-47.]
EELIGIOK
363
"Yes, he is; for he thinks we are saved by faith alone," I
answer, you do not understand the terms. By salvation, he
means holiness of heart and life. And this he affirms to spring
from true faith alone. Can even a nominal Christian deny it ?
Is this placing a part of religion for the whole ? Do we then
make void the law through faith ? God forbid ! Yea, we
establish the law. . . .
0. What then is the mark ? Who is a Methodist, according
to your own account ? I answer : A Methodist is one who
has the love of God in his heart, b}^ the Holy Ghost given
unto him ; one who loves the Lord his God with all his heart,
and with all his soul, and -n-ith aU his mind, and with all his
strength. . . .
6. He is therefore happy in God, yea, always happy, as
having in Him a well of water springing up into everlasting
life, and overflowing his soul with peace and joy. . . .
He rejoiceth, also, whenever he looks forward, in hope of
the glory that shall be revealed. . . .
7. And he who hath this hope thus full of immortality, in
everything giveth thanks, as knowing that this (whatsoever
it is) is the will of God, in Christ Jesus, concerning him.
From Him, therefore, he cheerfully receives all, sajdng, Good
is the will of the Lord, and whether the Lord giveth or taketh
away, equally blessing the name of the Lord. . . .
8. For, indeed, he prays without ceasing. It is given him
always to pray and not to faint. Xot that he is always in a
house of prayer, though he neglect* no opportunity of being
there. Neither is he always on his knees, although he often
is, or on his face, before the Lord his God. Nor yet is he
always crj-ing aloud to God, or calling upon Him in words :
for many times the Spirit raaketh intercession for him with
groans that cannot be uttered : but at all times the language
of his heart is this : Thou brightness of the eternal glory,
unto Thee is my mouth, though without a voice, and my
silence speaketh to Thee. . . .
9. And while he thus always exercises his love to God by
prayer without ceasing, rejoicing evermore, and in everj-thing
giving thanks, this commandment is written in his heart :
that he who loveth God love his brother also ; and he accord-
ingly loves his neighbour as himself ; he loves every man as
his own soul. . . .
10. For he is pure in heart. The love of God has purified
his heart from all revengeful passions, fi'om en%-j", malice, and
wrath, from every unkind temper or malign affection ; it hath
cleansed him fi-om contention. . . . For all his desire is
unto God, and to the remembrance of His name.
1 1 . Agreeable to this, his one desire is the one design of his
life, namely, not to do his own will, but the will of Him that
sent him. . . .
12. And the tree is known by its fruit ; for as he loves
God, so he keeps His commandments. ... It is his
daily crown of rejoicing to do the will of God on earth as
it is done in heaven.
13. Whatsoeverhedoth, it isaUto the glorj-of God. . . .
Nor do the customs of this world hinder his nmning the race
which is set before him. He knows that rice does not lose its
nature, though it become ever so fashionable ; and remembers
that every man is to give an account of himself to God. He
cannot, therefore, even foUow a multitude to do evil ; he
cannot fare sumptuously every day, or make provision for the
flesh to fulfil the lusts thereof. He cannot lay up treasures
upon earth, no more than he can take fire into his bosom. He
cannot adorn himself on any pretence with gold or costly
apparel. He cannot join in or countenance any diversion
■which has the least tendency to vice of any kind. He cannot
speak evil of his neighbour, no more than he can lie, either
for God or man. He cannot utter an unkind word of any
one ; for love keeps the door of his lips. He cannot speak
idle words ; no corrupt communication ever comes out of his
mouth. . . .
Lastly, as he has time, he does good unto all men, unta
neighbours and strangers, friends and enemies, and that in
every possible kind. . .
These are the principles and practices of our sect ; these
are the marks of a true Methodist. By these alone do those
who are in derision so caUed desire to be distinguished from
other men. If any man say, " Why, these are only the
common fundamental principles of Christianity ! " thoii hast
said : so I mean : this is the very truth, I know they are no
other ; and I would to God both thou and all men knew that I
and all who foUow my judgment do vehemently refuse to be
distingui.shed from other men by any but the common prin-
ciples of Christianit}-. ... By these marks, by these
fruits of a living faith, do we labom- to distinguish ourselves
from the unbeUeving world, from all those whose minds or
lives are not according to the Gospel of Christ. But from
real CTiristians, of whatsoever denomination they be, we
earnestly desire not to be distinguished at all, nor from any
who sincerely foUow after what they know they have not yet
attained.
G-eorge Wliitefield b.ving established in 1740 his
Oi-phan House at Savannah, under the name of
Bethesda, made another tour in America, and
returned to England in March, 1741. He then
began to foiiu societies of Calvinistic Methodists, his
separation from Wesley having been occasioned by-
Wesley's rejection of the doctrrae of predestination
in its Calvinistic form. Wesley inclined rather to
the views of Harmensen.^ The fii-st meeting-houses
George WHrrEFTELD.
From fhe Portrait before his Worlcs published in 1771.
built for the societies that Wliitefield founded were
the Tabernacles in iloorfields and Tottenham Court
road. Continuing his work as an itinerant preucher,
Wliitefield founded societies in many parts of Eng-
1 See Note 1, piige 2S3.
364
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LiTERATURE.
[a.d. 1740
land and Scotland. In 1742 lie visited Wales, which
is still a stronghold of his followers. At Abergavenny
he married a Welsh lady, a widow, who died in
1768. The marriage was unhapjiy.
At the age of forty-cue Charles Wesley was mai-ried
happily in Brecknockshire to Miss Sarah Gwynne.
John married, about 1750, a widow with four chil-
dren and a fortune, which he caused to be settled on
herself. This lady plagued Wesley for twenty years
with violent and causeless jealousy, and then abruptly
left him. Slie lived ten years after the separation.
Between 1744 and 1748 Whitefield was again
absent on a visit to America. He then became
chaplain to Selina, Countess of Huntingdon. Before
his return from a seventh visit to America, George
Whitefield died, twenty years before John Wesley,
of an asthmatic attack, at Boston, in 1770.
John Wesley cUed on the 2nd of March, 1791,
in the sixty-fifth year of his ministry, and eighty-
eighth year of his age. During moi-e than fifty years
that he had spent in caiTyiug his influence for good
from place to place, he travelled about four thousand
five hundred miles a year, chiefly on horseback. He
had also for more than fifty years preached two,
three, or four sermons a day, that is to say, more
than forty thousand during his ministry ; and he left
behind him an organised religious society of 550
itinerant preachers and 140,000 members, in the
United Kingdom and America.
Pope's "Essay on Man," ' Butler's "Ajialogy," and
Wesley's preaching, all arose out of the reaction
against stagnant religion, and the scepticism which
had that for one of its sources. Wesley's success
was due to the living power of an intense faith
brought du-ectly into contact with large masses of the
people. His plea for lives that really worked out
into actions the essential duties of a Christian had
not only its hundred and forty thousand answers
from men who understood and felt this direct way
of liringing the Bible home to them, but among
thousands of those who disapproved of Wesley's
teacliiiig, by the image of a living faith that he upheld
with enthusiasm unabated during half a centiuy of
public work, reHgious life insensibly was quickened.
" The Ruins of Rome," by the Rev. John Dyer,
whose "Grongar Hill" had been published iii 1726,
appeared about the time when Wesley began to
preach, and tliree or four years after the " Essay on
Man" and Butler's "Analogy." The date is 1740,
and its quiet, religious spirit represents culture and
taste thoughtfully spent upon reflection on the transi-
tory glories of the world. John Dyer, who earlier
in life had trained himself for a career in art,
and visited Rome, sketclied with his pencil what he
better illustrated with his pen at a time when he
was about to enter the Church as a clergyman. He
began in 1740, at Calthorp, in Lincolnshii-e, with
a living of £80 a year. For ten years he had no
better income, and at his richest, Dyer received from
two li^-ings only .£250 a year. The following lines
contain the main thought of his poem : —
1 See " Shorter English Poems," pp. 368—70.
EniNS OF EOME.
From ihc lilustratmi in Dijer's Poems (1761).
KUINS OF EOME.
See the tall obelisks from Memphis old,
One stone enormous each, or Thebes convey'd;
Like Albion's spnes they rush into the skies.-
And there the temple, where the summon'd state
In deep of night conven'd : ev'n yet methinks
The vehement orator in rent attire
Persuasion pours, Ambition sinks her crest,
And lo the villain, like a troubled sea
That tosses up her mire ! Ever disguis'd.
Shall Treason walk ? shall proud Oppression yoke
The neck of Virtue ? Lo the wretch, abashed,
Sclf-betray'd Catiline !
O Liberty,
Parent of Happiness, celestial born ;
When the first man became a living soul.
His sacred genius thou ; be Britain's care ;
With her, secure, prolong thy lov'd retreat ;
Thence bless mankind ; while yet among her sons,
Ev'n yet there are, to shield thine equal laws,
"^Tiose bosom kindle at the sacred names
Of Cecil, Raleigh, AValsingham and Drake.
May others more dcUght in tuneful airs :
In masque and dance excel ; to sculjituT'd stone
Compare line 51 of " Grongar Hill : "—
** Eusbing from the woods, the spires
Seem from hence ascending fires,"
■50 A.D. 1791.]
EELIGIOX.
365
Give with superior skill the li\-iiig look ;
More pompous piles erect, or pencU soft
AVith -n-armer touch the visionarj' board :
But thou, thy nobler Britons teach to rule ;
To check the ravage of tyrannic sway ;
To quell the proud; to spread the joys of peace,
And various blessings of ingenious trade.
Be those our arts ; and ever may we guard,
Ever defend thee with undaunted heart.
Inestimable good ! who giv'st us Truth,
Whose hand uploads to light, divinest Truth,
Array'd in ev'ry charm : whose hand benign
Teaches unwearied toil to clothe the fields,
And on his various fruits inscribes the name
Of Property : nobly hailed of old
By thy majestic daughters, Judah fair.
And Tyrus and Sidonia, lovely njTnphs,
And Libya bright, and aU-enchanting Greece,
Whose num'rous tow^ls and isles, and peopled seas,
Rejoiced around her lyre ; th' heroic note
(Smit with sublime delight) Ausonia caught,
And planned imperial Kome. Thy hand benign
Reared up her tow'ry battlements in strength ;
Bent her wide bridges o'er the swelling stream
Of Tuscan Tiber : thine those solemn domes
Devoted to the voice of humbler prayer ;
And thine those piles undecked, capacious, vast.
In days of dearth where tender Charity
Dispensed her timely succours to the poor.
Thine too those musically-falling founts
To slake the clammy Up ; ado^vn they fall,
Musical ever ; while from yon blue hUls
Dim in the clouds, the radiant aqueducts
Turn their innumerable arches o'er
The spacious desert, brightening in the sun,
Proud and more proud in their august approach
High o'er irriguous vales and woods and towns,
GUde the soft whispering waters in the wind.
And here united pour their sUver streams
Among the figured rocks, in murmuring falls,
Musical ever. These thy beauteous works :
And what beside f eUcity could teU
Of human benefit. More late the rest ;
At various times their turrets chanced to rise.
When impious tyranny vouchsafed to smile.
Behold by Tiber's flood, where modern Rome
Couches beneath the ruins : there of old
With arms and trophies gleamed the field of Mars ;
There to their daily sports the noble youth
Rushed emulous ; to fling the pointed lance ;
To vaidt the steed ; or with the kimlling wheel
In dusty whirlwinds sweep the trembling goal ;
Or wrestling, cope with adverse swelling breasts.
Strong grappling arms, close heads and distant feet ;
Or clash the Hfted gauntlets : there they formed
Their ardent virtues : in the bossy pUes,
The proud triumphal arches, aU their wars,
Their conquests, honours, in the sculptures live.
And see from ev'ry gate those ancient roads.
With tombs high verged, the solemn paths of Fame :
Deserve they not regard ? O'er whose broad flints
Such crowds have roUed, so many storms of war ;
So many pomps ; so many wond'ring realms :
Yet stui thro' mountains pierc'd, o'er valleys rais'd,
In even state to distant seas around
They stretch their pavements. Lo the fane of Peace,
Built by that prince, who to the trust of power
Was honest, the delight of human kind.
Thi-ee nodding aisles remain ; the rest an heap
Of sand and weeds ; her shrines, her radiant roofs.
And columns proud, that from her spacious floor.
As from a shining sea, majestic rose
An hundred foot aloft, like statelj^ beech
Around the brim of Dion's glassy lake.
Charming the mimic painter : on the walls
Hung Salem's sacred spoils ; the golden board,
And golden trumpets, now concealed, entombed
By the sunk roof. — O'er which in distant view
The Etruscan moimtains swell, with ruins crowned
Of ancient towns ; and blue Soracte spires,
W^rapping his sides in tempests. Eastward hence,
Nigh where the Cestian pyramid divides
The mould' ling wall, behold yon fabric huge,
WTiose dust the solemn antiquarian tm-ns.
And thence, in broken sculptures cast abroad,
Like Sybil's leaves, coUects the builder's name
Rejoiced, and the green medals frequent found
Doom Caracalla to perpetual fame :
The stately pines, that spread their branches wida
In the dun ruins of its ample haUs,
Appear but tufts ; as may whate'er is high
Sink in comparison, minute and vile.
These, and unnumbered, yet their brows uplift,
Rent of their graces ; as Britannia's oaks
On Merlin's mount, or Snowdon's rugged sides.
Stand in the clouds, their branches scatter'd round.
After the tempest ; Mausoleums, Cirques,
Naumachios, Forums ; Trajan's column tall.
From whose low base the sculptures wind aloft,
And lead thi-ough various toils, up the rough steep.
Its hero to the skies ; and his dark tower
WTiose execrable hand the city fu-ed.
And while the di'eadful conflagration blazed.
Played to the flames ; and Phrebus' lettered dome :
And the rough reliques of Caiinre's street.
Where now the shepherd to his nibbling sheep
Sits piping with his oaten reed ; as erst
There piped the shepherd to his nibbling sheep,
When the humble roof Anchises' son explored
Of good Evander, wealth-despising king.
Amid the thickets. So revolves the scene;
So Time ordains, who rolls the things of pride
From dust again to dust. Behold that heap
Of mould" ring urns (their ashes blown away.
Dust of the mighty) the same story tell ;
And at its base, from whence the serpent gUdes
Down the green desert street, yon hoary monk
Laments the same, the \-ision as he views.
The sohtary, sUent, solemn scene,
WTiere Caesars, heroes, peasants, hermits lie,
Blended in dust together ; where the slave
Rests from his labours; where the insulting proud
Resigns his power ; the miser drops his hoard ;
WTicre human folly sleeps.— There is a mood,
(I sing not to the vacant and the young)
There is a kindly mood of melancholy.
That wings the soul, and points her to the skies.
When tribulation clothes the child of man,
WTien age descends with sorrow to the grave,
'Tis sweetly soothing sympathy to pain,
A gently wakening caU to health and ease.
How musical ! when all-devouring Time,
306
CASSELL'S LIBRAEY OF ENGLISH LITEEATURE.
[a.d. 1740
Here sitting on his tltrone of ruins hoar,
While winds and tempests sweep his various Ij-re,
How sweet thy diapason, Melancholy 1
Cool evening comes ; the setting sun displays
His visible great round between yon towers,
As through two shady cliffs ; away, my iluse,
Though yet the prospect pleases, ever new
In vast variety, and yet delight
The many-figured sculptui-es of the path
Half beauteous, half effaced. The traveller
Such antique marbles to his native land
Oft hence conveys ; and every realm and state
With Rome's august remains, heroes and gods.
Deck their long galleries and \vinding groves ;
Yet miss we not th' innumerable thefts,
Yet still profuse of graces teems the waste.
Suffice it now th' EsquUian mount to reach
With wearj' wing, and seek the sacred rests
Of Maro's humble tenement ; a low
Plain wall remains ; a little sun-gilt heap.
Grotesque and \^'ild ; the gourd and oUve brown
Weave the light roof : the gourd and olive fan
Theii' am'rous foliage, mingling with the viae,
Who drops her purple clusters through the green.
Here let him lie, with pleasing fancy soothed :
Here flowed his fountain ; here his laurels grew ;
Here oft the meek good man, the lofty bard,
Framed the celestial song, or social walked
With Horace and the ruler of the world.
Happy Augustus 1 who so well inspired
Could'st thi'ow thy pomps and royalties aside,
Attentive to the wise, the great of soul,
And dignify thy mind. Thrice glorious days,
Auspicious to the Muses I Then revered,
Then haUow'd was the foimt, or secret shade,
Or open mountain, or whatever scene
The poet chose to tune the ennobling rime
Melodious ; e'en the rugged sons of war.
E'en the rude hinds revered the poet's name:
But now — another age, alas ! is ours.
Yet ■n-ill the Muse a little longer soar,
Unless the clouds of care weigh do\vn her wing.
Since nature's stores are shut with cruel hand.
And each aggrieves his brother ; since in vain
The thirsty pilgrim at the fountains asks
The o'erflowing wave. Enough — the plaint disdain.
Dr. Edward Young, wlio took orders in 1727, and
became chaplain to Creorge II., was presented by his
college, ill 1730, to the rectoiy of WelT\'T,m, Herts,
and married, in 1731, Lady Elizabeth Lee, the
daughter of the Earl of Lichfield, and widow of
Colonel Lee. Young's wife had, by her former
marriage, a daughter, who was manied, in 173.5, to
Mr. Temple, son of Lord Palmerston. She died at
Lyons, of consumption, when on the way to Nice for
warmer climate, in the following year, 1736. Young
was with her at the time ; as he says in the " Night
Thoughts :"
" I flew, I snatched her from the rigid north.
And bore her nearer to the sun."
This step-daugliter is tlie NarcLssa of the tliird
book of Young's " Night Thoughts." The Philander
of the poem is her husband, Mr. Temple, to whom
Dr. Young was warmly attached, and who, after
mawying again, died in 1740. The poet's wife,
Lady Elizabeth, followed in 1741, and these three
deaths were the occasion of the " Night Thoughts on
Life, Death, and Immortality." Of the nine books,
eight are headed " The Complaint," and the ninth is
" The Consolation." Thus the whole poem opens : —
NIGHT THOUGHTS.
Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep !
He, like the world, his ready visit pays
"WTiere fortune smQcs ; the wretched he forsakes :
Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe.
And lights on lids unsullied with a tear.
From short (as usual) and disturbed repose,
I wake : how happy they who wake no more !
Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the grave.
I wake, emerging from a sea of dreams
Tumultuous ; where my wrecked desponding thought
From wave to wave of fancied misery
At random drove, her helm of reason lost :
Though now restored, 'tis only change of pain,
(A bitter change I) severer for severe :
The day too short, for my distress ! and Night,
Even in the zenith of her dark domain.
Is sunshine to the colour of my fate.
Night, sable goddess ! from her ebon throne,
In rayless majesty, now stretches forth
Her leaden sceptre o'er a slmnb'ring world :
Silence, how dead ! and darkness, how profound !
Nor eye, nor listening ear an object finds:
Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the general pulse
Of life stood stUl, and Nature made a pause;
An awful pause ! prophetic of her end.
And let her prophecy be soon f ulfUled ;
Fate '. drop the curtain ; I can lose no more.
Silence and darkness 1 solemn sisters I twins
From ancient night, who nxirse the tender thought
To reason, and on reason build resolve
(That column of true majesty in man).
Assist me : I will thank you in the grave ;
The grave, your kingdom : there this frame shall fall
A \-ictim sacred to youi' drears- shrine.
But what are ye ? — Thou, who didst put to flight
Primajval silence, when the morning stars
Exulted, shouted o'er the rising ball ;
Thou ! whose Word from solid darkness struck
That spark, the sun ; strike wisdom from my soul ; I
My soul which flies to Thee, her trust, her treasure, •
As misers to their gold, while others rest.
Through this opaque of nature, and of soul.
This double night, transmit one pit)"ing ray.
To lighten and to cheer. lead my mind
{A mind that fain would wander from its woe).
Lead it through various scenes of life and death ;
And from each scene the noblest truths inspire.
Nor less inspire my conduct than my song ;
Teach my best reason, reason ; my best will,
Teach rectitude ; and fix my firm resolve
Wisdom to wed, and pay her long arrear.
Nor let the vial of thy vengeance, poiired
On this devoted head, be poured in vain.
The bell strikes one. We take no note of tims.
But from its loss. To give it then a tongue,
Is mse in man. As if an angel spoke,
I
TO A.D. 1743.]
KELiaiON.
367
I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright,
It is the knell of my departed hours.
'\\1iere are they ? with the years beyond the flood.
It is the signal that demands dispatch ;
How much is to he done ? my hopes and fears
Start up alarmed, and o'er life's narrow verge
Look down — on what ? a fathomless abyss ;
A dread etemit}', how surel\- mine !
And can eternity belong to me,
Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour i"
How poor, how rich, how abject, how august,
How complicate, how wonderful is man ':
How passing wonder He, who made him such f
'Who centred in our make such strange extremes ?
From different natures marvellously mi.'ct.
Connection exquisite of distant worlds \
Distinguished link in beluga's endless chain !
Midway from nothing to the Deity I
A beam ethereal, sullied, and absorpi^'.
Though sullied and dishonoured, still divine !
Dim miniature of greatness absolute !
An heir of glory ! a frail child of dust !
Helpless inunortal ! insect infinite I
A worm ! — a god ! — I tremble at myself,
And in myself am lost ! at home a stranger,
Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast,
And wond'ring at her own : how reason reels !
O what a miracle to man is man.
Triumphantly distressed! what joy, what dread!
Alternately transported, and alarmed !
■What can preserve my life !-■ or what destroy ?
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave :
Legions of angels can't confine me there.
'Tis past conjecture ; all things rise in proof :
While o'er my limbs sleep's soft dominion spread,
■What though my Soul fantastic measures trod
O'er fairy fields ! or mourned along the gloom
Of pathless woods; or, down the craggy steep
Hurled headlong, swam with pain the mantled pool ;
Or scaled the clilf ; or danced on hoUow winds,
"With antic shapes, wild natives of the brain •■
Her ceaseless flight, though devious, speaks her nature
Of subtler essence than the trodden clod :
Active, aerial, towering, unconfined,
LTnfettcred with her gross companion's fall.
Ev'n silent night proclaims my soul immortal :
Ev'n silent night proclaims eternal day :
For human weal Heaven husbands aU events ;
Dull sleep instructs, nor sport vain dreams in vain.
A\'Tiy then their loss deplore that are not lost 'i
Why wanders wretched thought their tombs around,
In infidel distress ? Are angels there ?
Slumbers, raked up in dust, ethereal fire ?
They live ! they greatly live a life on earth
Unkindled, unconceived ; and from an eye
Of tenderness, let heavenly pity fall
On me, more justly numbered with the dead.
This is the desert, this the solitude :
How populous, how vital, is the grave !
This is creation's melancholy vault,
The vale funereal, the sad cypress gloom ;
The land of apparitions, empty shades !
All, all on earth is shadow, all beyond
Is substance. The reverse is folly's creed :
How soUd all, where change shall be no more !
All tki-ouah our lives we look towards a future : —
All promise is poor dilatory man.
And that through every stage ; when young, indeed,
In fidl content, we sometimes nobly rest,
Unanxious for ourselves : and only wish,
As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise.
At thirty man suspects himself a fool ;
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan :
At fifty chides his infamous delay,
Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ;
In aU the magnanimity of thought
Eesolves ; and re-resolves : then dies the same.
And why ? because he thinks himself immortal :
AU men think aU men mortal but themselves ;
Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate
Strikes thi-ough their wounded hearts the sudden dread;
But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air,
Soon close ; where passed the shaft no trace is found :
As from the wing no scar the skj' retains ;
The parted wave no furrow from the keel ;
So dies in human hearts the thought of death :
Even with the tender tear which nature sheds
O'er those we love, we di'op it in their grave.
Can I forget Philander ? That were strange ;
m)' fuU heart ! But should I give it vent.
The longest night, though longer far, would fail,
And the lark Usten to my midnight song.
Memory of Pliilander animates the thoughts of
Night the Second, on Time, Death, and Frieud.ship.
Night the Thii'd dwells on Narcissa's memory. The
subject of the Fourth Night is the Christian Triumph
over Death : —
Oh, ye cold-hearted, frozen formalists !
On such a theme 'tis impious to be calm ;
Passion is reason, transport temper, here !
ShaU Heaven, which gave us ardour, and has shown
Her own for man so strongly, not disdain
■What smooth emoUients in theology
Recumbent vii-tue's downy doctors preach,
Thiit prose of piety, a lukewarm phrase ?
Kise odours sweet from incense uninflamed 'i
Devotion, when lukewarm, is undevout ;
But when it glows, its heat is struck to heaven,
To human hearts her golden harps are strung ;
High heaven's orchestra chaunts Amen to man.
Tlie theme of the Fifth Night is the Relapse into
gi-ief:—
'Tis vain to seek in men for more than man.
Though proud in jiromise, big in previous thought.
Experience d.amps our triumph. I, who late.
Emerging from the shadows of the grave,
■Where grief detained me prisoner, mounting high
Threw wide the gates of everlasting day,
And caUed mankind to glory, shook oft pain,
Jlortahty shook off, in ether pure.
And struck the stars : now feel my spirits fail ;
They drop me from the zenith ; down I rush.
Like him whom fable fledged with flaxen wings.
In soiTow di-owned— but not in sorrow lost.
How wretched is the man who never mourned !
1 dive for precious pearl in sorrow's stream :
Not so the thoughtless man that only grieves ;
Takes all the torment and rejects the gain,
(Inestimable gain !) and gives Heaven leave
To make him but more wi-etehed, not more -n-ise.
368
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a,d. 1742
Tlie Sixth and Seventh Nights of the poem dwell
in two parts on the nature, proof, and importance of
Immortality, under the title of '• The Infidel Re-
claimed." The 2ioem hei'e rises to the consequences
of Man's Immortality ; and the Eighth Night has
for its theme " Virtue's Apology, or the Man of the
World Answered ; in which are considered the Love
of This Life, the Ambition and Pleasiu-e, with the
Wit and Wisdom, of the World : "—
And has all nature, then, espoused my part ?
Have I brihcd heaven, and earth, to plead against thee ':
And is th)- soul immortal ? — what remains ?
All, all, Lorenzo ! — make immortal, blest.
TJnblest immortals ! — what can shock us more ?
And yet, Lorenzo still affects the woiid ;
There stows his treasure ; thence his title draws,
Man of the World ! (for such wouldst thou be called :)
And art thou pi-oud of that inglorious style ?
Proud of reproach ? for a reproach it was,
In ancient days, and Christian ; — in an ago,
When men were men, and not asham'd of Heav'n,
Fired their ambition, as it crowned their joy.
Sprinkled with dews from the Castalian font.
Fain would I re-baptize thee, and confer
A pui-er spirit, and a nobler name.
The " Night Thoughts" are, in fact, only another
form of the reply to failing faith ; and though their
tone is not that of a deep enthusiasm, they have a
manifest affinity to other forms of the religious
reasoning and feeling of their- day. Lines like these
might express thoughts of Wesley : —
No man is happy, till he thinks, on earth
There breathes not a more happy than himself ;
Then envy dies, and love o'erflows on all ;
And love o'erflowing makes an angel here :
Such angels all, entitled to repose
On Him who governs fate. Though tempest frowns.
Though nature shakes, how soft to lean on Heav'n !
To loan on Him, on whom archangels loan !
With inward eyes, and silent as the grave,
They stand collecting every beam of thought.
Till their hearts kindle with divine delight ;
For all their thoughts, like angels, seen of old
In Israel's dream, come from, and go to, heav'n :
Hence, are they studious of sequestered scenes ;
While noise and dissipation comfort thee.
Were all men happy, revellings would cease,
That opiate for inquietude within.
Lorenzo ! never man was truly blessed,
But it composed, and gave him such a cast
As folly might mistake for want of joy.
A cast unlike the triumph of the proud ;
A modest aspect, and a smile at heai't.
U for a joy from thy Philander' s spring !
A spring perennial, rising in the breast.
And permanent as pure ! no turbid stream
Of rapturous exultation sweUing high ;
Which, like land floods, impetuous pour a while,
Then sink at once, and leave us in the mire.
What does the man, who transient joy prefers ?
What, but prefer the bubbles to the stream ?
The Ninth and Last Night, the " Consolation," is
occupied with contemplation of God in the xdsible
heavens, and of man as part of the great harmony : — ■
Amidst m)- list of blessings infinite.
Stand this the foremost, " That my heart has bled."
'Tis Heaven's last effort of good- will to man ;
'\\Ticn pain can't bless. Heaven quits us in despair.
^^^lo fails to grieve, when just occasion calls.
Or grieves too much, deserves not to be blest ;
Inhuman, or effeminate, his heart :
Kcason absolves the grief, which reason ends.
May Heav'n ne'er trust my friend with happiness,
Till it has taught him how to bear it well.
By pre^-ious pain ; and make it safe to smile !
Such smiles are mine, and such may they remain ;
Nor hazard their extinction, from excess.
5Iy change of heart a change of style demands ;
The Consolation cancels the Complaint.
And makes a convert of my guilty song.
As when o'er-laboured, and inclined to breathe,
A panting traveller, some rising groimd.
Some small ascent, has gained, he turns him round,
And measures with his eye tho various vale,
The fields, woods, meads, and rivers he has past ;
And, satiate of his journey, thinks of home.
Endeared by distance, nor affects more toil ;
Thus I, though small, indeed, is that ascent
The Muse has gained, review the paths she trod ;
Various, extensive, beaten but bj' few ;
And, conscious of her prudence in repose.
Pause ; and with pleasure meditate an end,
Though stiU remote ; so fruitful is ray theme.
Through many a field of moral, and divine,
The Bluse has strayed ; and much of sorrow seen
In human ways ; and much of false and vain ;
Which none, who travel this bad road, can miss
O'er friends deceased full heartily she wept ;
Of love di^dne the wonders she displayed ;
Proved man immortal ; showed the source of joy ;
The grand tribunal raised ; assigned tho bounds
Of human grief : in few, to close the whole.
The moral muse has shadowed out a sketch,
Thoiigh not in form, nor with a Raphael stroke,
Of most our weakness needs believe, or do,
In this our land of travel, and of hope,
For peace on earth, or prospect of the skies.
A\'Tiat then remains ? — ilueh, much ! a mighty debt
To be discharged : these thoughts, Night ! are thine ;
From thee they came, Uke lovers' secret sighs,
"While others slept. So, Cjmthia (poets feign)
In shadows veiled, soft-sliding from her sphere.
Her shepherd cheered ; of her enamoured less,
Than I of thee. — And art thou still imsung.
Beneath whose brow, and by whose aid, I sing ?
Immortal silence l^Where shall I beg-in ?
AVhcre end ? or how steal music from the spheres.
To soothe their godiless ?
These are the closing lines of the " Night
Thoughts : "—
Thus, darkness aiding intellectual light,
And sacred silence whispering truths cUvine,
And truths divine converting pain to peace.
My song the midnight raven has out-winged.
And shot, ambitious of unbounded scenes.
Beyond the flaming limits of the world.
TO A.D. 1747.]
EELIGION.
369
Her gloomy flight. But what avails the flight
Of fancy, wheu our hearts remain below ?
Virtue abounds in flatterers, and foes ?
'Tis pride to praise her ; penance to perform.
To more than words, to more than worth of tongue,
Lorenzo ! rise, at this auspicious hour ;
An hour, when Heaven's most intimate with man ;
When, like a falling star, the ray dii-ine
Glides swift into the bosom of the just ;
And just are all, determined to reclaim ;
"UTiich sets that title high, within thy reach.
Awake, then ; thy Philander calls : awake I
Thou, who shalt wake, when the creation sleeps ;
When, like a taper, all these suns expii-e ;
When time, like him of Gaza, in his wTath,
Plucking the pUlars that support the world,
In nature's ample ruins lies entombed;
And midnight, universal midnight, reigns.
A jweiu on " The Grave," by Eobert Blair, cousin
of Hugh Blair, who vvi-ote upon Rhetoric, was pro-
duced at the same time as the " Night Thoughts,"
with like purpose, and published in IZ-tS. Its
author was minister of Athelstaneford, in East
Lothian, and was succeeded in that ministry by
•John Home, author of the play of " Douglas."
Blaii-'s " Grave " was as popular as the " Night
Thoughts," and went in a few years through eight
editions. Those dead forms of the time, which
]irovoked many an effort to revive the soul within
them, or to sweep them away and replace them
with a young vigorous life, produced a gloom, often
[lassing into sickness of luiud, that is manifest in
life and literatm-e during the half century before the
French Revolution. There was an appetite for
sombre thought, and among Englishmen of genius
more of insanity, or of a state of mind that bor-
dered on insanity, than at any time before or since.
Young foiled to descrilje in cheerful notes i-eligious
cheerfulness ; and Blah-, however healthy his desire
to paint death as the gate of life, is very conscious of
the ehiu'chyard gloom, although he may not share
the instinct he thus paints : —
The wind is up. Hark, how it howls ! Jlethinks
TiU now I never heard a sound so dreary :
Doors creak and windows clap, and night's foul bird.
Rocked in the spire, screams loud.
Quite round the pile a row of reverend elms.
Coeval near with that, aU ragged show.
Long lashed by the rude winds ; some rift half down
Their branchless trunks : others so thin at top
That scarce two crows can lodge in the same tree.
Strange things, the neighbours say, have happened here :
Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs ;
Dead men have come again and walked about ;
And the great beU has toUed, unrung, untouched.
Oft in the lone churchyard at night I've seen,
By glimpse of moonshine chequering through the trees,
The schoolboy, with his satchel in his hand,
Whistling aloud to beai' his courage up.
And lighth' tripping o'er the long flat stones,
With nettles skirted and with moss o'ergrown.
That tell in homely phrase who lie below.
Sudden he starts : and hears, or thinks he hears.
The sound of something passing at his heels.
Ill
Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind him
TUl, out of breath, he overtakes his fellows,
"Who gather round and wonder at the tale
Of horrid apparition.
William Collins, who died insane in 1759, pub
lished his Odes in 17-17, at the age of sis-and -twenty.
When, in April, 1746, the rising of '4.5 in Scotland
for the young Pretender was crushed on Culloden
Jloor, and cruel executions for rebellion followed,
■with the disembowelling of victims and the burning
of then- hearts, Collins expressed sympathy for the
fellow-countiymen fallen in battle, and clesii-e foi
mercy to the vanquished, in two of his Odes.
ODE,
Written in the beginning of the year 17-46.
How sleep the brave who sink to rest
By all their countrj-'s wishes bless'd?
WTien Spiing with dewy fingers cold
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould.
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung ;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung ;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that ^^Taps their clay ;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell, a weeping hermit, there !
ODE TO MERCY.
Strophe.
thou, who sit'st a smiling bride
By Valour's armed and awful side.
Gentlest of skj--bom forms, and best adored :
TXTio oft with songs, divine to hear,
AVinn'st from his fatal grasp the spear,
And hid'st in -m-eaths of flowers his bloodless swordi
Thou who, amidst the deathful field,
By god-like chiefs alone beheld.
Oft -with thy bosom bare art found,
Pleading for him, the youth, who sinks to ground :
See, Mercy, see, -with pure and loaded hands,
Before th}- shrine my country's genius stands.
And decks thy altar still, though pierced with many s
wound.
Antistrophe.
\\Tien he whom even our joys provoke.
The fiend of nature joined his yoke.
And rushed in -wrath to make our isle Ms prey :
Thy form, from out thy sweet abode,
O'ertook him on his blasted road.
And stopped his wheels, and looked his rage away.
1 see recoil his sable steeds.
That bore him swift to salvage deeds.
Thy tender melting eyes they own ;
O ilaid, for all thy love to Britain shown,
■Where Justice bars her iron tower
To thee we bmld a roseate bower ; [throne !
Thou, thou shalt ride, our Queen, and share our monarch's
Samuel Johnson, after publishing, in 1749, '• Ths
370
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[i.D. 1749
Vanity of Human Wishes,"' began, on the 20th of
March, 1750, the Rambler, a series of essays in the
form established by the Tatler and Spectator, but in
spii'it and substance all his own. It was continued
every Tuesday and Saturday until the 17th of March,
1752, when the approaching death of his wife dis-
abled him for work. She died eleven days after-
wards. The English of the Eambkr represents that
earlier manner of his in which Johnson developed
to its utmost the theory of style then dominant.
He was not the founder of the custom of emplo}-ing
long words, Latin in origin, constructing periods
and balanced sentences, avoiding the familiarities of
.speech a.s low. That writers should do so was the
doctrine of the day, estaljlished by the ascendancy of
a French criticism born in artificial times. In the
Rambler Johnson only pushed the current doctrine
US to style to its legitimate conclusion. As the
times changed he gi-ew ^\^th them, and the prose of
Johnson's " Lives of the Poets," written late in life,
was as distinctly prose of 1780 as the Rambler was
the prose of a date thirty years earlier. But at no
period of Samuel Johnson's life was liis sinceiity
aflected by the part of the vocabulary fi'om which
he drew his language : whether long or short as to
their syllables, his words as to then- meaning were
measured to his thouffht ■with a conscientious desii'e
SAiirEL JuH^■S'J^^
ukL-;, 17otjj
for truth. He prayed before writing; and although so
imlike Milton in tendencies of thought that he failed
in an endeavour thoroughly to understand him, there
is perhaps not another man in literature of whom it
is so evident that, like !Milton, he endeavoured to
" do aU as in his gi-eat Taskmaster's eye." This was
Johnson's prayer before he began the Rambler : —
PRAYER ON THE " RAMBLER."
Almighty God, the giver of all good things, without whose
help all lahour is ineffectual, and without whose grace all
' See " Shorter English Poems," pages 375 — 8.
wisdom is foUy ; grant, I beseech Thee, that in this my
undertaking, thy Holy Spuit may not be withheld from me,
but that I may promote thy glory, and the salvation both of
myself and others ; grant this, Lord, for the sake of Jesus
Christ. Amen.
The concern of the Rambler is with the true
%\isdom of life. Its essays reproduce, with a gi-ave
kindliness and scholarly variety of thought, the
essentials of Christian duty. All that he saw in the
world concerned Johnson only as it touched the life
of man. Two Christmas Days occm-red during the
issue of this series of essays. The first fell on a
Tuesday, one of his publishing days, and the theme
of that essay was a practical discussion of Christ's
doctrine, " Whatsoever you would that men should
do unto you, even so do unto them." " Of the
di\-ine Author of our religion," he said in that essay,
"it is impossible to peruse the evangelical histories
without observing bow little he favoiu-ed the vanity
of inquisitiveness, how much more rarely he con- ,
descended to satisfy curiosity than to relieve distress, i
and how much he desii-ed that his followers should
rather excel in goodness than in knowledge."
In the following year his Tuesday Rambler ap-
peared on the day before Christmas Day, and his
topic then was
THE FORGIVENESS OF INJURIES.
No vicious dispositions of the mind more obstinately resist
both the counsels of jiliilosophy and the injunctions of reh-
gion, than those which are complicated with an opinion of
dignity ; and which we cannot dismiss without leaving in the
hands of opposition some advantage iniquitously obtained, or
suffering from our own prejudices some imputation of pusil-
lanimity.
For this reason scarcely any law of our Redeemer is more
openly transgressed, or more industriously evaded, than that
by which He commands His followers to forgive injuries, and
prohibits, under the sanction of eternal misery, the gratifica-
tion of the desfre which every man feels to retm-n pain upon
him that inflicts it. Many who could have conquered their
anger, are imable to combat pride, and pursue offences to
extremity of vengeance, lest they should be insulted by the
triumph of an enemy.
But certainly no precept could better become Him, at
whose birth peace was proclaimed to the earth. For what
would so soon destroy all the order of society, and deform
life with \-iolence and ravage, as a permission to every one to
judge his own cause, and to apportion his ovm recompense
for imagined injuries ?
It is difficult for a man of the strictest justice not to favour
himself too much in the calmest moments of sohtary medita-
tion. Everj' one wishes for the distinctions for which thousands
are wishing at the same time, in theii- own opinion, with
better claims. He that, when his reason operate' in its full
force, can thus, by the mere prevalence of self-love, prefer
himself to his fellow-beings, is very unlikely to judge equit-
ably when his passions are agitated by a sense of wrong, and
his attention wholly engrossed by pain, interest, or danger.
WTioever arrogates to himself the right of vengeance shows
how little he is qualified to decide his own claims, since he
certainly demands what he would think unfit to be granted
to another.
Nothing is more apparent than that, however injured, or
however provoked, some must at last be contented to forgive.
TO A.B. 1752.]
RELIGION.
371
For it can never be hoped that he who first commits an
injurr will contentedly acquiesce in the penalty required :
the same haughtiness of contempt or vehemence of desire
that prompt the act of injustice, will more strongly incite its
justification ; and resentment can never so exactly balance
the punishment with the fault, but there will remain an
overplus of vengeance which even he who condemns his first
action will think himself entitled to retaliate. ANTiat then
can ensue but a continual exacerbation of hatred, an unex-
tinguishable feud, an incessant reciprocation of mischief, a
mutual vigilance to entrap, and eagerness to destroy ?
Since, then, the imaginary right of vengeance must be at
last remitted, because it is impossible to live ia perpetual
hostility, and eqxiaUy impossible that, of two enemies, either
should first think himself obliged bj" justice to submission, it
is surely ehgible to forgive early. Every passion is more
easily subdued before it has been long accustomed to posses-
sion of the heart ; every idea is obliterated with less difficulty,
as it has been more slightly impressed, and less frequently
renewed. He who has often brooded over his wrongs, pleased
himself with schemes of malignity, and glutted his pride with
the fancied supplications of humbled enmity, will not easily
open his bosom to amity and reconciliation, or indulge the
gentle sentiments of benevolence and peace.
It is easiest to forgive while there is yet little to be
forgiven. A single injury may be soon dismissed from the
memory ; but a long succession of ill offices by degrees asso-
ciates itself with every idea : a long contest involves so many
circumstances, that every place and action will recall it to the
mind, and fresh remembrance of vexation must stUl enkindle
rage and irritate revenge.
A wise man will make haste to forgive, because he knows
the true value of time, and will not suffer it to pass
away in imnecessary pain. He that willingly suffers the
con-osions of inveterate hatred, and gives up his days and
nights to the gloom of maUce.and perturbations of stratagem,
cannot surely be said to consult his ease. Resentment is a
union of sorrow -nith malignity, a combination of a passion
which all endeavour to avoid with a passion which all concur
to detest. The man who retires to meditate mischief, and to
exasperate his own rage ; whose thoughts are employed only
on means of distress and contrivances of ruin ; whose mind
never pauses from the remembrance of his own sufferings,
but to indulge some hope of enjoying the calamities of
■•uother, may justly be numbered among the most miserable
or human beings, among those who are guilty without reward,
who have neither the gladness of prosperity nor the cabn of
innocence.
Whoever considers the weakness both of himself and others
will not long want persuasives to forgiveness. We know not
to what degree of malignity any injury is to be imputed; or
how much its guilt, if we were to inspect the mind of him
that committed it, would be extenuated by mistake, precipi-
tance, or negligence. We cannot be certain how much more
we feel than was intended to be inflicted, or how much we
increase the mischief to ourselves by voluntary aggravations.
We may charge to design the effects of accident ; we may
think the blow violent only because we have made ourselves
delicate and tender ; we are on every side in danger of error
and of guilt, which we are certain to avoid only by speedy
forgiveness.
From this pacific and harmless temper, thus propitious to
others and ourselves, to domestic tranquillity and to social
happiness, no man is withheld but by pride, by the fear of
being insulted by his adversarj-, or despised by the world.
It may be laid down as an unfaiUng and universal axiom,
that "aU pride is abject and mean." It is always an igno-
rant, lazy, or cowardly acquiescence in a false appearance
of excellence, and proceeds not from consciousness of our
attainments, but from insensibility of our wants.
Nothing can be great which is not right. Nothing which
reason condemns can be suitable to the dignity of the human
mind. To be driven by external motives fom the path which
our own heart approves, to give way to anything but con-
viction, to suffer the opinion of others to rule our choice or
overpower our resolves, is to submit tamely to the lowest and
most ignominious slavery, and to resign the right of direct-
ing our own lives.
The utmost excellence at which humanity can arrive is a
constant and determinate pursuit of virtue, without regard to
present dangers or advantage ; a continual reference of every
action to the Divine will ; an habitual appeal to everlasting
justice ; and an unvaried elevation of the intellectual eye to
the reward which perseverance only can obtain. But that
pride which mam', who presume to boast of generous senti-
ments, allow to regulate their measures, has nothing nobler in
view than the approbation of men, of beings whose superiority
we are xmder no obligation to acknowledge, and who, when we
have courted them with the utmost assiduity, can confer no
valuable or permanent reward; of beings who ignorantly
judge of what they do not understand, or partially determine
what they never have examined ; and whose sentence is there-
fore of no weight till it has received the ratification of our
own conscience.
He that can descend to bribe suffrages like these at the
price of his itmocence ; he that can suffer the delight of such
acclamations to withhold his attention from the commands of
the universal Sovereign, has little reason to congratulate
himself upon the greatness of his mind. '^Tienever he awakes
to seriousness and reflection, he must become despicable in
his own eyes, and shrink with shame from the remembrance
of his cowardice and foUy.
Of him that hopes to be forgiven it is indispensably
required that he forgive. It is therefore superfluous to
urge any other motive. On this great duty eternity is sus-
pended, and to him that refuses to practise it the throne of
mercy is inaccessible, and the Saviour of the world has been
bom in vain.
These are three prayers by Johnson : —
ox THE DEATH OF MY WIFE.
April 21, 1752.
Almighty and most merciful Father, who lovest those
whom Thou punishest, and turnest away thy anger from the
penitent, look down with pity upon my sorrows, and grant
that the affliction which it has pleased Thee to bring upon
me may awaken my conscience, enforce my resolutions of a
better life, and impress upon me such conviction of thy power
and goodness, that I may place in Thee my only felicity, and
endeavour to please Thee in all my thoughts, words, and
actions. Grant, Lord, that I may not languish in fruitless
and unavailing sorrow, but that I may consider from whose
hand aU good and evil is received, and may remember that I
am punished for my sins, and hope for comfort only by
repentance. Grant, merciful God, that by the assistance
of thy Holy Spirit I may repent, and be comforted, obtain
that peace which the world cannot give, pass the residue of
my life in humble resignation and cheerful obedience ; and
when it shall please Thee to call me from this mortal state,
resign myself into Thy hands with faith and confidence, and
finaUy obtain mercy and everlasting happiness, for the sase
of Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
372
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1752
April 25, 1752.
Lord, our heavenly Father, almighty and most merciful
God, in whose hands are Ufe and death, who givest and
takest away, castest down and raisest up, look with mercy on
the affliction of thy unworthy servant, turn away thine anger
from me, and speak peace to my troubled soul. Grant me
the assistance and comfort of thy Holy Spirit, that I may
remember with thankfulness the blessings so long enjoyed
by me in the society of my departed wife ; make me so to
think on her precepts and example, that I may imitate what-
ever was in her life acceptable in thy sight, and avoid all
bj' which she offended Thee. Forgive me, merciful Lord,
all my sins, and enable me to begin and perfect that reforma-
tion which I promised her, and to persevere in that
resolution, which she implored Thee to continue, in the
purposes which I recorded in thy sight, when she lay dead
before me, in obedience to thy laws, and faith in thy word.
And now, Lord, release me from my sorrow, till me \vith
just hopes, true faith, and hoi)' consolations, and enable me
to do my duty in that state of life to which Thou hast been
pleased to call me, without disturbance from fruitless grief,
or tumultuous imaginations ; that in all my thoughts, words,
and actions, I may glorify thy Holy Name, and finally
obtain, what I hope Thou hast granted to thy departed
servant, everlasting joy and felicity, through our Lord Jesus
Christ. Amen.
Mai/ G, 1752.
O Lord, oui- heavenly Father, without whom all purposes
are fi-ustrate, all efforts are vain, grant me the assistance of
thy Holy Spirit, that I may not sorrow as one without hope,
but may now return to the duties of my present state with
humble confidence in thy protection, and so govern my
thoughts and actions, that neither business may withdraw
my mind from Thee, nor idleness lay me open to vain
imaginations ; that neither praise may fiU me with pride, nor
censure with discontent ; but th;it in the changes of this life,
I may fix my heart upon the reward which Thou hast pro-
mised to them that serve Thee, and that whatever things are
true, whatever things are honest, whatever things are just,
whatever are pure, whatever are lovely, whatever are of good
report, wherein there is virtue, wherein there is praise, I
may think upon and do, and obtain mercy ;md everlasting
happiness. Grant this, Lord, for the sake of Jesus Christ.
Amen.
Our Father, &c. — The grace. Sec.
May 6.— I used this service, written April 24, 25, May 6, as
preparatory to my return to life to-morrow.
The following note, made eighteen years later, on
the anniversary of her death, represents Johnson's
life-long lidelity to his wife's memory : —
Wednesday, March 28, 1770.
This is the day on which, in 1752, I was deprived of poor
dear Tetty. Haiing left oft" the practice of thinKng on her
with some particular combinations, I have recalled her to my
mind of late less frequently ; but when I recollect the time in
which we lived together, my grief for her departure has not
abated : and I have less pleasure in any good that befalls me,
because she does not partake it. On many occasions, I think
what she would have said or done. When I saw the sea at
Brighthclmstone, I wished for her to have seen it with me.
But with respect to her, no rational wish is now left, but
that we may meet at last where the mercy of God shall make
us happy, and perhaps make us instrumental to the happiness
of each other. It is now eighteen years.
After his wife's death, in March, 1752, John.son
had still the care of his old mother at Lichfield.
In 1755, when his age was forty, his Dictionary
was published, and for the good of its title-page,
to satisfy the booksellers, a degree of M.A. was now
given to him by Oxford, and Dublin made him. '
LLD. From that date he was "Dr. Johnson" to
his friends. In April, 1758, he began, under the
name of " The Idler," a series of weekly essays in the
Universal Chronicle. In January, 1759, his mother
died, at the age of ninety. This was his prayer : —
Jan. 23.
The day on which my dear Mother was buried.
Almighty God, merciful Father, in whose hands are life
and death, sanctify unto me the sorrow which I now feel.
Forgive me whatever I have done unkindly to my mother,
and whatever I have omitted to do kindly. Make me to
remember her good precepts and good example, and to reform
my life according to thy Holy Word, that I may lose no more
opportunities of good. I am sorrowful, O Lord ; let not my
sorrow be without fi-uit. Let it be followed by holy resolu-
tions, and lasting amendment, that when I shall die like my
mother, I may be received to everlasting life.
I commend, Lord, so far as it may be lawful, into thy
hands, the soul of my departed mother, beseeching Thee
to grant her whatever is most beneficial to her in her present
state.
Lord, grant me Thy Holy Spirit, and have mercy upon
me, for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen.
And, Lord, grant unto me that am now about to return
to the common comforts and business of the world, such
moderation in all enjo>Tnents, such dihgenoe in honest labour,
and such purity of mind, that, amidst the changes, miseries,
or pleasui-es of Ufe, I may keep my mind fixed upon Thee,
and improve every day in grace, till I shall be received into
thy kingdom of eternal happiness.
Johnson was j)oor, and to pay for his mother's
funeral, and clear the little debt she left behind her,
he wi'ote, in the spring of 1759, his tale of " Rasselas,"
which has been called a " Vanity of Human Wishes "
in prose.
The worth of Samuel Johnson had made him,
though poor and ungainly, a power in literature, and
in society his outward roughness of manner could
not hide from any who came near to him the real
tenderness of Ms natiire. Indignant at the pre-
valent coiTuption, he had defined a "pension" in his
Dictionary as " an allowance made to any one without
an equivalent. In England, it is generally understood
to mean pay given to a state hireling for treason to
Ills coimtry." And he had defiiied " Pensioner " as
" a slave of state hired by a .stipend to obey his
master." But to friends of Johnson his poverty
seemed a reproach to the country he had seized, and
interest was made, ^vithout his knowledge, that
secured for him in 1762 a pension of £300. It was
a difficult duty to break this news to him. After a
pause of deep thought, he recalled his definition of a
pensioner, and was told that " he, at least, did not
come under it." He then deferred his answer for
A.n. 17153
RELIGION.
373
,lay. Next day he accepted the pension, and
- use he made of it showed what had been the
rent of his thought. He had felt in his earlier
:^er the hard gi-ipe of poverty, and had not been
red by his experience. It made him compassionate
othei-s in like strait. No man, said one who knew
..;:ii, loved the poor Kke Dr. Johnson. His own
pei-sonal expenses did not reach £100 a year, but his
house in Bolt Comt after the receipt of the pension
became a home for as many helpless as he could
support and aid. In the gairet was Robert Levet,
who had been waiter at a French coffee-house, and
had become a poor surgeon to the poor. He was
unable to help himself, when Johnson became his
friend, and gave him a share of his home, with
freedom to exercise his art fi-eely in aid of the poor.
Levet was Johnson's companion at breakfast, lived
with him for thiity years, and died under his
shelteiiag care, never allowed to think of himself
as a poor dependent, never so regarded by true-
hearted Samuel Johnson. When he died, Johnson,
who himself cb-ew near- his end and saw fi-iend after
friend passing away, thus tenderly recalled the
memory of poor Robert Levet : —
ox THE DEATH OF DR. ROBERT LEVET.
Condemned to Hope's delusive mine.
As on we toil from day to day.
By sudden blasts, or slow decline.
Our social comforts drop away.
Well tried through many a varying year,
See Levet to the grave descend,
OfBcious, innocent, sincere,
Of every friendless name the friend.
Yet still he fiUs affection's eye,
Obsciirely wise and coarsely kind ;
Xor lettered arrogance deny
Thy praise to merit unrefined.
When fainting nattire called for aid.
And hovering death prepared the blow,
His vigorous remedy displayed
The power of art without the show.
In misery's darkest cavern known.
His useful care was ever nigh.
Where hopeless anguish poured his groan.
And lonely want retired to die.
No summons mocked by chill delay,
No petty gain disdained by pride ;
The modest wants of every day
The toil of every day suppUed.
His virtues walked their narrow round.
Nor made a pause, nor left a void ;
■And svire th' Eternal master found
The single talent well employed.
The busy day, the peaceful night,
Unfelt, imcounted, glided by :
His frame was firm— his powers were bright,
Tho' now his eightieth year was nigh.
Then with no fiery, throbbing pain,
No cold gradations of decay,
Death broke at once the yital chain.
And forced his soul the nearest way.
On the gi-oimd-floor of his house in Bolt Court,
Johnson provided a room for Anne Williams, who
had been a friend of his wife's. She wa.s blind.
When Jolmson's wife was alive and they lived in
Gough Square, Miss Williams, the daughter of an
old Welsh doctor, came to London for an operation
on her eyes, and stayed with the Johnsons. The
result was complete blindness, and Jolmson's active
compassion. For thirty years he stood between her
and all worldly cbstre.ss. She scolded and stuttered,
but had a cultivated mind. Her temper was so bad
that Johnson bribed the maid to bear it patiently
with an extra half-cro^vn a week. He himself Ixxre
it -without thinking it a trial, and said of Anne
WUliams after her death, "Had she possessed good
humour and prompt elocution, her universal cmiosity
and comprehensive knowledge woidd have made her
the delight of all who knew her."
Di-. Samuel Swinfen, who had lodged with Johnson's
father at Lichfield, had been the godfather from whom
Johnson took his Cluistian name, and had been kind
to him in liis youth. Dr. S-svinfen's daughter, having
manied 'Mr. Desmouluis. a w^iting-master, who died,
became a widow sti-uck with poverty; and to her
also, in her aifliction, Dr. Johnson held out a helping
hand. He di-ew her into his ark at Bolt Court, gave
her a home and half-a-guinea a week, and listened
benignly to her quarrels with Miss Williams and
Robert Levet. There was a Miss Cannich»l also
sheltered, and a negro Frank.
Though a stout Tory on the religious side of his
natui-e, for with intense feeling of the need of religion
he was sensitive to every ciy of danger to the Chm-ch,
a sturdy sense of independence caused his reverence
for authority to be all subordinated to his highest
reverence for the authority of Christ. AU men were
brethren to him, and his abhon-ence of negi'o slavery
caused him to startle a company in which he was,
when asked for a toast, by ckinking "To the next
insun-ection of the negroes." Johnson's fnend. Dr.
Bathiu-st, had indulged in a negi-o boy footman,
Frank, whom he became too poor to retam. Johnson
took him, nominallv as his black servant, actually
as his black fiiend. He would show that the despised
negi-o had a soul within him ; sent Frank to school,
wi?.te to him as " Dear Francis," and signed huusetf
"affectionately vours." When he was older, Frank
was seized one day by the pres.s-gang, and ^^th
extreme anxiety Johnson used all energies to seciu-e
his I'GCOVGl'V*
Not one of these companions was allowed to
feel dependence; most of them had soiired tempers
and thev quan-elled with one another, but eachfelt
the whole sweetness of Johnson's natm-e. ^Vhen
he was asked why he bore with them so ciuietly,
his answer was, "If I did not shelter them no
one else would, and they would be lost for want.
There was another "pensioner" in his household the
cat He observed that she lilced oysters, and he
would go out himself to buy them for her, -est il
374
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
Li.n. 1765
servants were put to the trouble they should gi-udge
the cat her enjoyments, dislike her, and use her ill.
When Johnson took his walk in Fleet Street, he
found his way into sad homes of distress which had
been made kno^\-n to him by Levet, or found by his
own kind eyes. He ■vdsited the sick and the sad,
helped them, and interceded for them with his
friends. He always carried small change in his
pocket for the beggars ; and if told that they
would only spend it upon giii, thought it not
wonderful that they should be driven even in that
way to tiike the bitterness of life out of theii' mouths.
He was slow to blame those who were tried by
adversity. He himself had been tried sorely, and
had risen nobly above every degrading inliuence ; but
he knew what trial meant, and he wi-ote from his
heart at the close of Iiis life of Savage, " Those are no
projier judges of his conduct, who have shunbered
away theii- time on the downi of plenty ; nor will any
wise man presume to say, ' Had I been in Savage's
condition, I should have lived or written better than
Savage.' " When Johnson was himself sometimes in
want of a dinner, after his first coming to London, he
would slip pennies into the hands of ragged children
asleep at night on the door-sills, that when they woke
in the morning they might find the possibility of
breakfast. One night he found a wretched and lost
woman so lying, worn by sickness; carried her on his
back to his own home ; had her cared for until health
was restored : and then found her an honest place in
life. Thus it was that Samuel Johnson had learnt
Christ.
A scrofulous constitution, that had from early life
tended towards afiection of the brain, made Jolmson
from youth onward dread insanity. The frequent
ivccessions of involuntary melancholy, the twitches
of his limbs, even his way of feeding, were physical,
Ijeyond his control, and noted by him as symptoms
of a possible extinction of his i-eason. Of his eating
he said to Boswell, " Madmen are all sensual in the
lower stages of the distemper ; they are eager for
gratifications to soothe their minds, and divert their
attention from the misery they suffer." For a
large part of Johnson's life the manful struggle was
agauLst poverty without and disease ^^ithin. When
relieved of the pressure of po\'erty, there remained
always the other battle. The health of a vital
religion was sustained in him : ana it is not impro-
bable that this was the stay which kept his mind from
failing. It cleared life of the irritation of small feuds.
The wit-combat of conversation in which Johnson
was eager, and thi-ough eagerness seemed overbear-
ing, was a pleasure to him. It bred no resentments.
If he gave oflence, anrl thought he had been reallv
rade, he would ask pardon, even \vith tears. If, after
that, a gi-udge was shown to him, he paid no heed to
it, feeling with Shakespeare's A^alentine —
" WTio by repentanrr is not satisfied,
Is nor of heaven nor earth, for these are pleased ;
By penitence the Eternal's wrath's appeased,"
His rectitude also kept Johnson from vain repinings.
Ilie physical hypochondria he could not banish, but
lie could deny it aid from his own nature. " I hate
a complainer," he said ; and he was intolerant of
those complaints about small personal discourforts or i
privations that implied a want of thought for the \
distress of others. Mrs. Thrale, after a di-onght, once i
■^vished for rain to lay the dust. " I cannot bear," ■
said Johnson to her, " when I know how many
families will perish next -ndnter fi-om the scarcity of
bread that the present drjTiess will occasion, to hear
ladies sighing for showers only that theii' complexions
may not sufl'er from the heat, or theii' cloth from the
dust."
In 1765, Johnson wi'ote in his diary on Easter
Day, " My memory grows confused, and I know not
how the days pass over me. Good Lord, deliver
me !" His Shakespeare appeared in that year,
and in the next, aged fifty-eight, he was confined to
his room for weeks together, and declared himself on
the verge of insanity. In 1770, he published Ids
first political pamphlet. In April, 1774, he lost a
friend he loved by the death of Oliver Goldsmith. In
1777, when his age was sixty-nine, he was asked by
a deputation from the booksellers to write lives of
poets, to be prefixed to new editions of their works,
and name his price. He a.sked only two himdred
pounds. " But," said Boswell, " if they ask you to
preface the works of a dimce, will you do it ?" — " Yes,
su', and say that he was a dunce." In 1781, at the
age of seventy-three, Johnson finished his " Lives of
the Poets ;" his chief thought about them was that
he " hoped they had been penned in such a manner
llii*^ . W.
III I'M
Sasitel Joh>'sok
as might tend to the promotion of piety." In 1782
Levet died. In 1783 Miss Williams died, and
Johnson had a stroke of palsy. In 178-1: he died
himself, suflei-ing much from dropsy.
This was Johnson's prayer on taking the sacrament
for the last time in life, on Sunday, December 5,
1784, eight days before his death : —
A lmi ghty and most merciful Father, I am now. as to
human eyes it seems, about to commemorate, for the last
TO i.D. 17S4.]
RELIGION.
375
time, the death of thy Son Jesus Christ, our Saviour and
Redeemer. Grant, Lord, that my whole hope and confi-
dence ma}- he in his merits, and thy mercy ; enforce and
accept my imperfect repentance ; make this commemoration
available to the confirmation of my faith, the establishment
of my hope, and the enlargement of my charity ; and make
the death of thy Son Jesus Christ effectual to my redemption.
Have mercy upon me, and pardon the multitude of my
offences. Bless m}- friends; have mercy upon aU men.
Support me, by thy Holy Spirit, in the days of weakness,
and at the hour of death ; and receive me, at my death, to
everlasting happiness, for the sake of Jesus C'hi'ist. Amen.
To the last lie strove anxiously to hold his reason
firm. He turned his prayers iuto Latin for assurance
that he still retained his fttculties. When opiiun
was given, he asked whether it would prolong life,
because, if so, he was bound to take it. He was
told that it was given only to assuage pain, and
said, " Then I will take no more, for I wish to meet
my God ■with an unclouded mind." On the 13th of
December, 1784, he pronounced the words, '■'■Jam
morituncs" (" Now about to die "), and fell iato a
soft sleep ; and in that sleejj he died.
In the year of Johnson's death, "WiUiam Cowper
finished his poem of " The Task." Cowjjer was bom
in 1 731 , son of the Rev. .John Cowper, rector of Great
Berkhampstead, and chaplain to George II. After
the death of his mother, when he was six years old,
he had a sensitive boy's experience of school life ; left
Westminster School in 1748, and was articled to a
solicitor. His leisure time was often spent at the
1 house of an imcle in Southampton Row, and he was
after a time half-engaged to Theodora, one of his
cousins there. In the chambers he took in the
Temple, at the age of twenty-one, the tendency to
insanity presently began to show itself, and it always
appeared in the form of religious despondency, with
impulse to self-destruction. In an account of his
early life written after 1765, he says : —
I was struck, not long after my settlement in the Temple,
with such a dejection of spii-its, as none but they who have
felt the same can have the least conception of. Day and
night I was upon the rack, l}"ing down in horror, and rising
up in despair. I presently lost all relish for those studies to
which I had before been closely attached ; the classics had no
longer any chaiTas for me; I had need of something more
salutary than amusement, but I had no one to direct me
where to find it.
At length, I met with Herbert's poems; and, gothic and
uncouth as they are, I yet found in them a strain of piety
which I could not but admii'e. This was the only author I
had any delight in reading. I pored over him all daj- long ;
and though I found not in them what I might have foimd —
a cure for my malady — yet it never seemed so much alleviated
as while I was reading him. At length, I was ad^-ised by a
very near and dear relative to lay him aside, for he thought
such an author more Ukely to nourish my disorder than to
remove it.
In this state of mind I continued near a twelvemonth,
when, ha\-ing experienced the inofiicacy of aU human means,
I at length betook myself to God in prayer. Such is the
rank our Redeemer holds in our esteem, that we never resort
to Him but in the last instance, when all creatures have failed
to succour us ! My hard heart was at length softened, and
my stubborn knees brought to bow. I composed a set of
prayers, and made frequent use of them. Weak as my faith
was, the Almighty, who will not break the bruised reed, noi
quench the smoking flax, was graciously pleased to hear me.
A change of scene was recommended to me, and I
embraced an opportunity of going -with some friends to
Southampton, where I spent several months. Soon after our
arrival we walked to a place called Freemantle, about a mile
fi-om the town. The morning was clear and calm, the sun
shone bright upon the sea, and the country on the borders of
it was the most beautiful I had ever seen. We sat down
upon an eminence, at the end of that arm of the sea which
runs between Southampton and the New Forest. Here it
was that on a sudden, as if another sun had been kindled
that instant in the heavens, on purpose to dispel sorrow and
vexation of spirit, I felt the weight of all my misery taken
off; my heart became hght and joj-ful in a moment; I
could have wept with transport, had I been alone. I must
needs believe that nothing less than the Almighty fiat could
have fiUed me with such inexpressible dehght ; not by a
gradual dawning of peace, but as it were with a flash of His
life-giving countenance. I think I remember something like
a glow of gratitude to the Father of mercies for this unex-
pected blessing, and that I ascribed it to His gracious
acceptance of my prayers. But Satan and my own wicked
heart quickly persuaded me that I was indebted for my
deliverance to nothing but a change of scene, and the amusing
varieties of the place.
In 1754, when Cowper was called to the Bar,
Theodora's father refused to sanction an engagement
to his daughter.
Cow[)er had only a small post as Commissioner of
Bankrupts, which provided him with £60 a year, and
he was evidently unable to make way as a barrister.
But a cousin, Major Cowper, oflered him, in 1763,
the otEces of Clerk of the Journals of the House of
Lords, and of Reading Clerk and Clerk of Committees,
to which he had a right of presentation. Cowper
tells the nei-vous anxieties with which he accepted
the ofl'er. He had said to a friend that if the Clerk
of the Journals of the House of Lords should die, he
hoped to succeed him, and the recollection of this
hope weighed on him as murder. There was oppo-
sition to the nomination, and Cowper ivas called
upon to prove his fitness ; preparation for tliis loaded
him with misery. He went to Margate, and almost
recovered health. He came back, had again _ to
prepare liimself, by acquiring knowledge of his duties,
for some questioning upon them, and again his reason
began to fail. Then there appeared that symptom^ of
hLs insanity wliich afterwards became associated with
it — a tendency to self-destruction. Wilham Cowjjer
himself thus recalled the painful experience : —
I considered Ufc as my property, and therefore at my own
disposal. Men of great name, I observed, had destroyed
themselves, and the world stUl retained the profoundest
respect for their memories. But above aU, I was persuaded
to beUeve that if the act were ever so unlawful, and even
supposing Christianity to be true, my misery in heU itself
would be more supportable.
I well recoUect, too, that when I was about eleven years
of ao-e, my father desired me to read a vindication of self-
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CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1703
murder, and give him my sentiments upon the question. I
did so, and argued against it. My father heard my reasons,
and was silent, neither apjiroving nor disapproving ; from
■ivhence I inferred that he sided -n-ith the author against me ;
though, all the time, I believe the true motive for his conduct
was that ho wanted, if he could, to think favourably of the
state of a departed friend, who had some years before
destroyed himself, and whose death had struck him with the
deepest affliction. But this solution of the matter never once
occurred to me, and the circumstance now weighed mightily
with me.
At this time I fell into company, at a chop-house, with an
elderly, well-looking gentleman, whom I had often seen there
before, but had never spoken to. He began the discom-se,
and talked much of the miseries he had suffered. This
opened my heart to him : I freely and readOy took part in
the conversation. At length, self-murder became the topic ;
and in the result we agreed that the only reason why some
men were content to drag on their sorrows with them to the
grave, and others were not, was that the latter were endued
with a certain indignant fortitude of .sph-it, teaching them
to despise life, which the former wanted. Another person
whom I met at a tavern told me that he had made up his
mind about that matter, and had no doubt of his liberty
to die as he saw convenient ; though, by the way, the same
person, who has suffered many and great afflictions since, is
still alive. Thus were the emissaries of the throne of dark-
ness let loose upon me. Blessed be the Lord, who has
brought much good out of all this evil ! This concun-ence
of sentiment in men of sense, unknown to each other, I
considered as a satisfactory decision of the question, and
detei-mined to proceed accoi'dingly.
One evening in November, 1763, as soon as it was dark,
affecting as cheerful and unconcerned an air as possible, I
went into an apothecary's shop, and asked for a haU-ounce
phial of laudanum. The man seemed to observe me narrowly ;
but if he did, I managed my voice and countenance so as to
deceive him. The day that required my attendance at the
bar of the House being not yet come, and about a week
distant, I kept my bottle close in my side-pocket, resolved to
use it when I should be conWnced there was no other way
of escaping. This, indeed, seemed evident ab'eady ; but I
was willing to allow myself every possible chance of that
sort, and to protract the horrid execution of my purpose till
the last moment. But Satan was imjiatient of delay.
The day before the period above mentioned arrived, being
at Richards' coffee-house at breakfast, I read the newspaper,
and in it a letter, which, the further I perused it, the more
closely it engaged my attention. I cannot now recollect the
purport of it ; but before I had finished it, it appeared demon-
stratively true to me that it was a libel or satire upon mo.
The author appeared to be acquainted with ray purpose of seU'-
destruction, and to have written that letter on purpose to
secm'o and hasten the execution of it. My mind, j)robably,
at this time, began to be disordered. However it was, I was
certainly given up to a strong delusion. I said witliin
myself, "Your cruelty shall be gratified; you shall have
your revenge." And flinging down the paper in a fit of
strong passion, I rushed hastily out of the room, directing
my steps towards the fields, where I intended to find some
house to die in ; or, if not, determined to poison myself in a
ditch, when I should meet with one sufficiently retired.
Before I had walked a nule in the fields, a thought struck
me that I might yet spare mj' life : that I had nothing to
do but to sell what I had in the funds (which might be done
in an hour), go on board a ship, and transport myself to
i?ranoe. There, when every other way of maintenance
should fail, I promised myself a comfortable asylum in some
monastery, an acquisition easily made by changing my
religion. Not a little pleased with this expedient, I retui'ned|
to my chambers to pack up all that I could at so short a
notice ; but while I was looking over the portmanteau my
mind changed again, and self-mui'der was recommended to
mo once more in all its advantages.
Not knowing where to poison myself — for I was liable to
continual interruption in my chambers from my laundress;
and her husband — I laid aside that intention, and resolvedj
upon drowning. For that purpose I immediately took a;
coach, and ordered the man to drive to the Tower Wharf, i
intending to throw myself into the river from the Custom-
house Quay. It would be strange should I omit to observe
here how I was continually hurried awaj' from such places
as were most favoui'able to my design, to others where it was
almost impossible to execute it : from the fields, where it
was improbable that anything should happen to prevent me,
to the Custom-house Quay, where everrthing of that kind
was to be expected; and this by a sudden impulse, which
lasted just long enough to call me back to my chambers, andi
which was then immediately withdi-awn. Nothing ever
appeared more feasible than the project of going to France,
till it had served its pui-pose. and then, in an instant, itj
appeared impracticable and absurd even to a degree of
ridicule.
My life, which I had called my own, and claimed as ai
right to dispose of, was kept for me by Him whose property
indeed it was, and who alone had a right to dispose of it.
This is not the only occasion on wliich it is proper to makei
this remark ; others will offer themselves in the course of
this narrative so faii'ly that the reader cannot overlook them.
I left the coach upon the Tower Wbarf, intending never tO;
retui-n to it ; but upon coming to the quay I found the water
low, and a porter seated upon some goods there, as if on
pirrpose to prevent me. This passage to the bottomless pit
being mercifully shut against me, I retm-ned to the coach,
and ordered the man to diivc back again to the Temple. I;
drew up the shutters, once more had recourse to the laudanimi,
and determined to drink it oft' dii-ectly ; but God had other-
wise ordained. A conflitt that shook me to pieces suddenly
took place ; not properlj j trembling, but a convulsive agita-
tion, which deprived me in a manner of the use of my limbs ;
and my mind was as much shaken as my body. Disti-acted
between the desire of death and the dread of it, twenty times
I had the phial to my mouth, and as often received an irre-l
sistible check ; and even at the time it seemed to me that an
invisible hand swayed the bottle downwards as- often as I set
it against my lips. I well remember that I took notice of
this cu-cumstance with some surprise, though it eft'ccted no:
change in my purpose. Panting for breath, and in an hor-
rible agony, I flung myself back into a corner of the coach.
A few drops of the laudanum which had touched my lips,
besides the fiuuos of it, began to have a stupefying eft'eot
upon me.
Eegretting the loss of so fair an opportunity, j'et utterly
unable to avail myself of it, I deternuned not to live ; and,
already half-dead with anguish, I once more rctiu-ned to the
Temple. Instantly I repaii-ed to my room, and having shut
both the outer and inner door, prepared myself for the last
scene of the tragedy. I poui-ed the laudanum into a small
basin, set it on a chair by the bedside, half-undressed myself,
and laid down between the blankets, shuddering with horror
at what I was about to perpetrate. I reproached myself
bitterly with f oUy and rank cowardice, for having suffered the
fear of death to influence me as it had done, and was filled ;
with disdain at mj'own pitiful timidity. But stiU something
17C5.]
RELIGION.
S7f
seemed to 0%'en'ale me, and to say, " Think what you are
doing ! Consider, and live."
At length, however, with the most confirmed resolution, I
reached forth my hand towards the basin, when the fingers of
hoth hands were so closeh" contracted as if bound with a cord,
and became entirely useless. Still, indeed, I could have made
shift with both hands, dead and lifeless as they were, to have
raised the basin to mj- mouth, for my arms were not at aU
affected. But this new difficulty struck me with wonder ; it
had the air of a Divine interposition. I lay down in bed again
to muse upon it, and while thus employed I heard the key
turn in the outer door, and my laundress's husband came in.
By this time the use of my fingers was restored to me. I
started up hastily, dressed mj'self, hid the basin, and affecting
as composed an all' as I coidd, walked out into the dining-
room. In a few minutes I was left alone ; and now, unless
God had evidently interposed for my preservation, I should
certainly have done execution upon mj-self , having a whole
afternoon before me.
Both the man and his wife being gone, outward obstruc-
tions were no sooner removed than new ones arose within.
The man had just shut the door behind him, when the con-
vincing Spirit came upon me, and a total alteration in
my sentiments took place. The horror of the crime was
immediately exhibited to me in so strong a light, that, being
seized with a kind of fuiious indignation, I snatched up the
basin, poured away the laudanum into a phial of foul water,
and, not content with that, flimg the phial out of the window.
This impulse, having served the present purpose, was with-
drawn.
I spent the rest of the day in a kind of stupid insensibility,
undetermined as to the manner of d}-ing, but stiQ bent on
self-miu'der as the only possible deliverance. That sense of
the enormity of the crime, which I had just experienced,
entirely left me : and unless my eternal Father in Chiist
Jesus had interposed to disannul my covenant with death, and
my agreement with hell — that I might hereafter be admitted
into- the covenant of mercy — I had at this time been a
companion of devUs, and the just object of His boundless
vengeance.
In the evening a most intimate friend called upon me, and
felicitated me on the happy resolution, which he had heard I
had taken, to stand the brunt, and keep the office. I knew
not whence this intelligence arose, but did not contradict it.
We conversed awhile, with a real cheerfulness on his part,
and an affected one on mine ; and when he left me, I said in
my heart, " I shall see thee no more." . . .
I went to bed, as I thought, to take my last sleep in this
world. The next morning was to place me at the bar of the
House, and I determined not to see it. I slept as usual, and
awoke about three o'clock. Immediately I arose, and by the
help of a rush-light, found my penknife, took it into bed
with me, and lay with it for some hours directly pointed
against my heart. Twice or thrice I placed it upright under
my left bi'east, leaning all my weight upon it ; but the point
was broken off square, and it would not penetrate.
In this manner the time passed tiU the day began to break.
[ heard the clock strike seven, and instantly it occurred to me
that there was no time to be lost. The chambers would soon
be opened, and my friend would call upon me to take me with
liim to TVestminster. "Now is the time," thought I, "this
is the crisis ; no more dallying with the love of life." I
irose, and, as I thought, bolted the inner door of my chambers,
but was mistaken ; my touch deceived me, and I left it as I
found it. My preservation indeed, as it will appear, did not
depend upon that incident ; but I mention it, to show that the
good providence of God watched over me, to keep open every
112
way of deliverance, that nothing might be left to hazard,
Not one hesitating thought now remained ; but I fell greedily
to the execution of my purpose. My garter was made of a
broad scarlet binding, -nath a sliding buckle, being sewn to-
gether at the end : by the help of the buckle I made a noose,
and fixed it about my neck, straining it so tight, that I hardly
left a passage for my breath, or for the blood to circulate ; the
tongue of the buckle held it fast. At each corner of the bed
was placed a wreath of carved work, fastened by an iron pin,
which passed up thi-ough the midst of it. The" other part of
the garter, which made a loop, I slipped over one of these,
and hung by it some seconds, drawing up my feet under me,
that they might not touch the floor ; but the iron bent, and
the carved work sUpped off, and the garter \vith it. I then
fastened it to the frame of the tester, winding it round, and
tying it in a strong knot. The frame broke short and let me
down again. The third effort was more likely to succeed. I
set the door open, which reached within a foot of the ceiling ;
and by the help of a chair I could command the top of it ;
and the loop being large enough to admit a large angle of the
door, was easily fixed so as not to slip off again. I pushed
away the chair with my feet, and hung at my whole length.
While I hung there, I distinctly heard a voice say three times,
" ' Tis over ! " Though I am sure of the fact, and was so at
the time, yet it did not at aU alarm me, or affect my resolu-
tion. I hung so long, that I lost aU sense, all consciousness
of existence.
When I came to myself again, I thought myself in heU ;
the sound of my own dreadful groans was all that I hoard ;
and a feeling, like that produced by a flash of Ughtning, just
beginning to seize upon me, passed over my whole body. In a
few seconds I found myself fallen with my face to the floor.
In about half a minute I recovered my feet, and reeUng, and
staggering, stumbled into bed again. By the blessed provi-
dence of God, the garter which had held me till the bitterness
of temporal death was passed, broke, just before eternal death
had taken place upon me. The stagnation of the blood under
one eye, in a broad crimson spot, and a red circle about my
neck, showed plainly that I had been on the brink of eternity.
The latter, indeed, might have been occasioned by the pressure
of the garter ; but the former was certainly the effect of
strangulation ; for it was not attended with the sensation of
a bruise, as it must have been, had I, in my fall, received one
in so tender a part. And I rather think the cii'cle round my
neck was owing to the same cause ; for the part was not ex-
coriated, nor at all in pain.
Soon after I got into bed, I was surprised to hear a noise
in the dining-room, where the laundress was lighting a fire.
She had found the door imbolted, notwithstanding my design
to fasten it, and must have passed the bed-chamber door while
I was hanging on it, and yet never perceived me. She heard
me fall, and presently came to ask if I were well ; adding she
feared I had been in a fit. I sent her to a friend, to whom I
related the whole affair, and dispatched him to my kinsman,
at the coffee-house. As soon as the latter arrived, I pointed to
the broken garter, which lay in the middle of the room ; and
apprised him also of the attempt I had been making. His
words were, " My dear 3Ii-. Cowper, you terrify me ; to be
sm-e you cannot hold the office at this rate. "UTiere is the
deputation?" I gave him the key of the drawer where it
was deposited; and his business requiring his immediate
attendance, he took it away with him ; and thus ended all
my connection with the Parliament House.
In December it became necessary to place Cowper
in an asylum at St. Albans, whei'e he remained for
eighteen months under the care of Dr. Cotton, a
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CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1765
'
juclicious and kind-liearted physician. During the
fii-st months of his stay there, he suflered under the
terrible depression of such religious melancholy as
is represented in the narrative just quoted, and in
these verses, written by him luider like conditions : —
LINES WRITTEN UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF DELIRIUM.
Hatrc-d and vengeance, — my eternal portion
Scarce c;vn endure delay of execution, —
Wait with impatient readiness to seize my
Soul in a moment.
Damned below Judas ; more abhorred than he was,
Who for a few pence sold his holy Master I
Twice-betrayed Jesus me, the last delinquent,
Deems the profanest.
Man disavows and Deity disowns me,
Hell might afford my miseries a shelter ;
Therefore, Hell keeps her ever-hungry mouths all
Bolted against me.
Hard lot ! encompassed with a thousand dangers ;
Weary, faint, trembling with a thousand teiTors,
I'm called, if vanquished, to receive a sentence
Worse than Abiram's.
Him the \andictive rod of angi-y Justice
Sent quick and howling to the centre headlong ;
I, fed with judgment, in a ticshly tomb, am
Bm-ied above ground.
In June, 1765, William Cowper left St. Albans.
He had resolved, and others had resolved with him,
that he was uirfit for the stir of life in London.
Therefore his small office of Commissioner of Bank-
rupts was resigned ; and members of his family
joined in a subscription for liis maintenance, of
which a lawyer, hLs dear friend and schoolfellow,
Joseph HOI, acted as treasurer. Cowper's brother
had a Fellowsliip at Cambridge, and found for him
quiet lodgings at Huntingdon, where they could
see each other every week by alternate visits of one
to Huntiui'don and the other to Cambridge. A
keeper from St. Albans, to whom Couqier had
become attached, went wth him as servant. Thus
WLUiam Cowper tells of his first days in Hunting-
don : —
I repaired to Huntingdon the Saturday after my arrival
at Cambridge. My brother, w'ho had attended me thither,
had no sooner left me than, finding myself suri'oimded by
strangers, and in a strange place, my spirits began to sink,
and I felt (such was the backslidings of my heart) like a
traveller in the midst of an inhospitable desert, without a
friend to comfort or a guide to direct mo. I walked forth
towards the close of the day in this melancholy frame of
mind, and having walked about a mile from the town, I felt
my heart at length so powerfully drawn towards the Lord
that, ha\'ing gained a retired and secret nook in the comer of
a field, I kneeled down under a bank, and poured forth my
complaints before Him. It pleased my Saviour to hear me,
in that this ojipression was taken off, and I was enabled to
trust in Him that careth for the stranger, to roll my burden
upon Him, and to rest assiu-ed that, wheresoever He might
cast my lot, the God of all consolation would still be with
me. But this was not all. He did more for me than either
I had asked or thought.
The next day I went to church for the first time after my
recovery. Throughout the whole service I had much to do to
restrain my emotions, so fully did I see the beauty and the
glory of the Lord. My heart was full of love to all the con-
gregation, especially to them in whom I observed an air of
sober attention. A grave and sober person sat in the pew
with me. Him I have since seen and often conversed with,
and have found him a pious man, and a true servant of the
blessed Redeemer. While he was singing the psalm I looked
at him, and observing him intent on his holy employment, I
could not help saying in my heart, with much emotion,
" Bless you, for praising Him whom my soul loveth 1 "
Such was the goodness of the Lord to me that He gave me
" the oil of joy for mourning, and the garment of praise for
the spirit of heaviness ; " and though my voice was silent,
being stopped by the iutenseness of what I felt, yet my soul
sung within me, and even leapt for joy. And when the
gospel for the day was read, the sound of it was more than I
could well support. Oh, what a word is the Word of God,
when the Spii'it quickens us to receive it, and gives the
hearing ear and the understanding heart ! The harmony of
heaven is in it, and discovers its Author. The parable of the
prodigal son was the portion of Scripture. I saw myself in
that glass so clearly, and the loving-kindness of my slighted
and forgotten Lord, that the whole scene was realised to me,
and acted over in my heart.
I went immediately after church to the place where I had
prayed the day before, and found the relief I had there
received was but the earnest of a richer blessing. How shall
I express what the Lord did for me, except by saying that
" He made all His goodness to pass before me ?" I seemed
to speak to Him " face to face, as a man converseth with his
friend," except that my speech was only in tears of joy, and
"groauings which cannot be uttered." I could say, indeed,
with Jacob, not "how di-eadful," but how lovely "is this
place ! This is none other than the house of God."
Four months I continued in my lodging. Some few of the
neighbours came to see me, but their visits were not very
frequent ; and in general I had but little intercourse except
with my God in Christ Jesus. It was He who made my
soUtude sweet, and the wilderness to bloom and blossom as
the rose ; and my meditations of Him were so delightful, that
if I had few other comforts, neither did I want any.
One day, however, towards the expiration of this period, I
found myself in a state of desertion. That communion which
I had so long been able to maintain with the Lord was sud-
denly interrupted. I began to dislike my solitary situation,
and to fear I should never be able to weather out the winter
in so lonely a dwelling. Suddenly a thought struck me,
which I shall not fear to call .a suggestion of the good
providence which brought me to Huntingdon. A few months
before, I had formed an acquaintance with the Kev. 3Ir.
LTnwin's famUy. His son, though he had heard that I r.ather
declined society than sought it, and though 3Irs. Unwin her-
self cUssuaded him from visiting me on that account, was yet
so strongly incUned to it, that, notwithstanding all objections
and arguments to the contran,', he one day engaged himself,
as we were coming out of church after morning prayers, to
drink tea with me that afternoon. To my inexpressible joy,
I found him one whose notions of reUgion were spiritual and
lively ; one whom the Lord had been training up from his
infancy for the service of the temple. We opened our hearts
to each other at the first interview, and when we parted I
immediately retired to my chamber, and prayed the Lord,
who had been the Author, to be the Guardian of our friend-
A.D. 1767.]
RELIGION.
379
ship, and to grant to it fervency and perpetuity even unto
death ; and I doubt not that my gracious Father heard this
prayer also.
The Sunday following I dined with him. That afternoon,
while the rest of the family was withdrawn, I had much
discourse with Mrs. Unwin. I am not at liberty to describe
the pleasure I had in conversing with her, because she will be
one of the tirst who will have the jierusal of this narrative.
Let it suffice to say I found we had one faith, and had been
baptized with the same baptism.
When I returned home, I gave thanks to God, who had so
graciously answered my prayers by bringing me into the
society of Christians. She has since been a means in the
hand of God of supporting, quickening, and strengthening
me in my walk with Him. It was long before I thought of
any other connection with this family than as a friend and
neighbour. On the day, however, above mentioned, while I
was revoh-ing in my mind the nature of mj' situation, and
beginning for the first time to find an irksomeness in such
retirement, suddenly it occurred to me that I might probably
find a place in 3Ir. Unwin's family as a boarder. A }-oung
gentleman, who had lived with him as a pupil, was the day
before gone to Cambridge. It appeared to me at least possible
that I might be allowed to succeed him. From the moment
this thought struck me, such a tumult of anxious solicitude
seized me, that for two or thi-ee days I could not divert my
mind to an}' other subject. I blamed and condemned myself
for want of submission to the Lord's wiU ; but stUl the
language of my mutinous and disobedient heart was, " Give
me the blessing, or else I die."
About the third evening after I had determined upon this
measure, I at length made shift to fasten my thoughts upon
a theme which had no manner of connection with it. While
I was pursuing my meditations, Mr. Unwin and family quite
out of sight, my attention was suddenly called home ag,ain by
the words which had been continually plaj-ing in my mind,
and were at length repeated with such importunity that I
could not help regarding them — " The Lord God of truth
wUl do this." I was effectually convinced that they were
not of my own production, and accordingly I received from
them some assui-unce of success : but mj- unbelief and fearf ul-
ness robbed me of much of the conrfort they were intended to
convej' ; though I have since had many a blessed experience
of the same kind, for which I can never be sufficiently thank-
ful. I immediately began to negotiate the affair, and in a
few days it was entii-ely concluded.
I took possession of my new abode November 11, 1765. I
have found it a place of rest prepared for me by God's own
hand, where He has blessed me with a thousand mercies and
instances of His fatherly protection, and where He has given
me abundant means of furtherance in the knowledge of our
Lord Jesus, both by the study of His own word, and com-
munion with His dear disciples. May nothing but death
interrupt our union !
Peace be -with the reader, through faith in our Lord Jesus
Christ. Amen !
In a letter written in October, 1766, Cow^jer thus
describes the daily course of life with the Uuwius at
Huntingdon : —
I am obliged to you for the interest you take in my
welfare, and for 5"0ur inquiring so particularly after the
manner in which my time passes here. As to amusements — I
mean what the world calls such — we have none; the place
indeed swarms with them, and cards and dancing are the
professed business of almost all the gentle inhabitants of
Huntingdon. We refuse to take part in them, or to be
accessaries to this way of murdering our time, and by so
doing have acquired the name of Methodists. Ha%-ing told
you how we do not spend our time, I will next say how we do.
We breakfast commonly between eight and nine ; till eleven,
we read either the Scripture or the sermons of some faithful
preacher of those holy mysteries ; at eleven we attend divine
service, which is performed here twice ever}' day ; and from
twelve till three we separate, and amuse ourselves as we
please. During that inten-.al I either read in my own apart-
ment, or walk, or ride, or work in the garden. We seldom
sit an hour after dinner, but if the weather permits, adjourn
to the garden, where with Mrs. Unwin and her son I have
generally the pleasure of religious conversation till tea-time.
If it rains, or is too windy for walking, we either converse
within doors, or sing some hynms of Martin's collection, and
by the help of Mrs. Unwin's harpsichord make up a tolerable
concert, in which our hearts, I hope, are the best and most
musical perfoimers. After tea we sally forth to walk in good
earnest. 3trs. Unwin is a good walker, and we have generally
travelled about four nules before we see home again. When
the days are short, we make this excursion in the former part
of the day, between church-time and dinner. At night we
read and converse, as before, tUl supper, and commonly finish
the evening either with hj-mns or a sermon, and last of all
the family ai-e called to prayers. I need not tell you that
such a life as this is consistent with the utmost cheerfulness ;
accordingly we are all happy, and dwell together in unity as
brethren. Jlrs. Unwin has almost a maternal affection for
me, and I have something very like a filial one for her, and
her son and I are brothers. Blessed be the God of oui- salva-
tion for such companions, and for such a life ; above all for a
heart to like it.
In June of the next year, 1767, Mr. Un-nin was
killed by a fall from Ids horse, leaving a -nidow and
two childi-en — a son and daughter. The son was then
in a curacy; the daughter soon afterwards marrietl
the vicar of Dewsbiuy. Mrs. Unwin resolved to
move, and in the following September went with
Co^vjoer to live at Olney, where the incumbent was
non-resident, and the curate was the Rev. John
Newton.
John Newton has left a considerable body of
published writings, but he is remembered chiefly for
the relation in which he stood to "William Cowjier.
His life was remarkable. He was born in 1725.
His father was for many years master of a ship in
the Mediterranean trade, and was Governor of York
Foi-t, in Hudson's Bay, when he died in 1750. John
Newton's mother was a Scottish Dissenter, who
died when he was seven yeare old, but had taught
him, he said, at the age of four, to read well and
to " repeat the answers to the que.stions in the
Assembly's Shorter Catechism, -svith the proofs ; and
all Dr. Watts' smaller catechisms and his children's
hjnnus." WTien the child's father returned from sea,
after the mother's death, he married again, had a
son by his next -n-ife, sxnd neglected his sou John.
John was sent to a school at Stratford for two yeare
only, suflered to nm about the streets, and treated
severely when at home. The son who was thus
neglected said of the father —
I am persuaded he loved me, but he seemed not willing
that I should know it. I was with him in a state of fear and
380
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1742.
bondage. His sternness, together with the severity of my
school^iastor, -broke and overawed my spu-it, and ahnost made
me a dolt; so that part of the two years I was at school,
instead of making progress, I nearly forgot all my good
mother had taught me.
The day I was eleven years old, I went on board my
father's ship in Long EeaA. I made five voyages with him
to the Mediterranean. In the course of the last voyage, he
left me some months at AUcant, in Spain, with a merchant, a
particidar friend of his, with whom I might have done well,
if I had behaved well. But by this time my sinful jiropen-
eities had gathered strength by habit : I was very wicked,
and therefore very foohsh; and being my own enemy, I
seemed determined that nobody should be my friend.
My father left the sea in the year 1742. I made one
voyage afterwards to Venice before the mast ; and soon after
my return, was impressed on board the ffaru-ieh.
His father's friend, the Liverpool merchant, had
offered to send John Newton out to Jamaica, but
before going he ^dsited in Kent some friends of his
mother's (at whose house she had died), and fell in
love with tlie eldest daughter, a gii-1 of fourteen,
for whom both the mothers in their hearts had
destinetl him. He dared not tell his fatlier that he
could not go away for four or five years to Jamaica,
but remained with his friends untU the ship had
sailed withoiat him. Then he made a voyage to
Venice as a common saUor. He came back in
December, 1743, and went to his fi-iends in Kent.
Then he was taken by the press-gang on board tlie
Harwich; and as the French fleet was hovering on
our coasts, release was not to be obtained, but his
father obtained recommendations that secured him
the position of a midshipman. After a year or two,
he deserted, was caught, flogged, and degi-aded from
his rank of midshipman. After hard experiences
on board the I/nrwich, Newton was exchanged at
Madeii'a into a Guinea sliip bound for Sierra Leone.
The captain knew John Newton's fsither, and would
have been kind if the youth had been well-behaved.
Befoi-e lea\'ing Sierra Leone the captain died.
Newton had forfeited also the goodwill of the
mate, -who succeeded in command ; and to avoid the
risk of being put again on board a man-of-war in
the West Indies, he resolved to remain in Africa,
and hoped to thrive by buying slaves from the in-
terior for sale to sliips at an advanced price. He
began by engaging himself in the service of such
a slave-dealer.
My new master had formerly resided near Cape Mount,
but he now settled at the Plantanes, upon the largest of the
three islands. It is a low, sandy island, about two miles in
circumference, and almost covered with palm-trees. We
immeiliately began to build a house, and to enter upon trade.
I had now some desire to retrieve my lost time, and to exert
diligence in what was before me ; and he was a man with
whom I might have lived tolerably weD, if he had not been
soon influenced against me: but he was much under the
direction of a black woman, who lived with him as a \vife.
She was a person of some consequence in her own country,
and he owed his first rise to her interest. This woman (I
know not for what reason) was strangely prejudiced against
me from the first ; and what made it stiU worse for me, was
a severe fit of illness, which attacked me very soon, before I
had opportunity to show what I could or would do in his
service. I was sick when he sailed in a shallop to Eio Nuna,
and he left me in her hands. At first I was taken some care
of ; but, as I did not recover very soon, she grew weaiy, and
entii-cly neglected me. I had sometimes not a little diflSculty
to prociu-e a draught of cold water, when bm-ning with a
fever. My bed was a mat, spread upon a board or chest, and
a log of wood my piUow. WTien my fever left mo, and my
appetite returned, I would gladly have eaten, but there was
no one gave unto me. She lived in plenty herself, but hardly
allowed me sufficient to sustain life, except now and then, when,
in the highest good humour, she would send me victuals in
her own plate, after she had dined ; and this (so greatly was
my pride humbled) I received with thanks and eagerness, as
the most needy beggar does an alms. Once, I well remember,
I was called to receive this bounty from her own hand ; but,
being exceedingly weak and feeble, I dropped the plate.
Those who live in plenty can hardly conceive how this loss
touched me ; but she had the cruelty to laugh at my dis-
appointment ; and though the table was covered -with dishes
(for she lived much in the European manner), she refused to
give me any more. My distress has been at times so gxeat,
as to compel me to go, by night, and pull up roots in the
plantation (though at the risk of being punished as a thief),
which I have eaten raw upon the spot, for fear of discovery.
The roots I speak of are very wholesome food, when boiled
or roasted, but as unfit to be eaten raw in any quantity as a
potato. The consequence of this diet, which, after the first
experiment, I always expected, and seldom missed, was the
same as if I had taken tartar emetic ; so that I often returned
as empty as I went : yet necessity ui'ged me repeat the trial
several times. I have sometimes been relieved by strangers ;
nay, even by the slaves in the chain, who secretly brought
me victuals (for they durst not be seen to do it) from their
own slender pittance. Next to pressing want, nothing sits
harder upon the mind than scorn and contempt : and of this
likewise I had an abundant measure. When I was very
slowly recovering, this woman would sometimes pay me a
visit, not to pity or relieve, but to insult me. She would
call me worthless and indolent, and compel me to walk, which
when I coidd hardly do, she would set her attendants to
mimic my motions, to clap their hands, laugh, throw limes
at me ; or, if they chose to throw stones (as I tliink was the
case once or twice), they wei-e not rebuked: but, in general,
though all who depended on her favour must join in her
treatment, j-et, when she was out of sight, I was rather
pitied than scorned, by the meanest of her slaves. At length
my master retiUTied from his voyage; I complained of 0]
usage, but he could not believe me ; and, as I did it in her
hearing, I fared no better for it. But in his second voyage
he took me with him. We did pretty well for a while, till a
brother-trader he met in the river persuaded him that I was
unfaithful, and stole his goods in the night, or when he was
on shore. This was almost the only vice I could not be justly
charged with : the only remains of a good education I could
boast of, was what is commonly called honesty ; and as fat
as he had entrusted me, I had always been true ; and though
my great distress might, in some measure, have excused it, I
never once thought of defrauding him in the smallest matter.
However, the charge was believed, and I condemned without
evidence. From that time he likewise used me very hanUy.
Wlienever he left the vessel I was locked upon deck, with a
pint of rice for my day's allowance: and if he stayed longer,
I had no "relief tiU his return. Indeed, I believe I should
have been nearly starved, but for an opportunity of catching
fish sometimes. WTien fowls were killed for his own use, I
seldom was allowed any part but the entrails, to bait my
TO A.D. 17-18.]
EELIGION.
381
hooks with : and at what we call slack water, that is, about
the changing of the tides, when the current was still, I used
irenerally to fish (for at other times it was not practicable),
,ind I very often succeeded. If I saw a fish upon my hook,
my joy was little less than any other person may have found,
in the accomplishment of the scheme he had most at heart.
Such a fish, hastily broiled, or rather half burned, without
sauce, salt, or bread, has afforded me a delicious meal. If I
caught none, I might, if I could, sleep away my hunger till
the next return of slack water, and then try again. Nor did
I suffer less from the inclemency of the weather and the want
of clothes. The rainy season was now advancing ; my whole
suit was a shirt, a pair of trousers, a cotton handkerchief
instead of a cap, and a cotton cloth about two j-ards long, to
supply the want of upper garments : and thus accoutred, I
have been exposed for twenty, thirty, perhaps near forty
hours together, in incessant rains, accompanied with strong
gales of wind, mthout the least shelter, when my master was
on shore. I feel to this day some faint returns of the violent
pains I then contracted.
After a year of this experience, Jolin Newton
entered the service of another trader in the same
island, whose confidence he won, and whose agent he
became at a slave-station upon a river by the coast.
Tlien he was foimd by a captain who had instructions
to invite him home. On the way home, during a
storm, in March, IT-tS, he believed that the work of
his conversion was begun. They landed on the coast
of Ireland when theu" very last victuals were boiling
in the pot, and, said Newton, " About this time I
began to know that there is a God who hears and
answers prayer." Tins is a part of the account of
the near danger of shipwreck given by him in. an
" Authentic Narrative " of his earHer lijfe, forming a,
series of letters : —
But now the Lord's time was come, and the conviction I
was so unwilling to receive, was deeply impressed upon me
by an awful dispensation. I went to bed that night in my
usual security and injifiereuce, but was awakened from a
sound sleep by the force of a violent sea which broke on
board us ; so much of it came down below as filled the cabin
I lay in with water. This alarm was followed by a cry from
the deck, that the ship was going down or sinking. As soon
as I could recover myself, I essayed to go upon deck ; but
was met upon the ladder by the captain, who desired me to
bring a knife with me. While I returned for the knife,
another person went up in my room, who was instantly
washed overboard. We had no leisure to lament him, nor
did we expect to survive him long ; for we soon found the
ship was filling with water very fast. The sea had torn
away the upper timbers on one side, and made a mere wreck
in a few minutes. I shall not affect to describe this disaster
in the marine dialect, which would be understood by few ;
and therefore I can give you but a very inadequate idea of it.
Taking in all circumstances, it was astonishing, and almost
miraculous, that any of us survived to relate the story. We
had immediate recourse to the pumps ; but the water increased
against our efforts. Some of us were set to baling in another
part of the vessel ; that is, to lade it out with buckets and
pails. We had but eleven or twelve people to sustain this
service ; and, notwithstanding aU we could do, she was fuU,
or very near it : and then, with a common cargo, she must
have sunk of course ; but we had a great quantity of bees-
wax and wood on board, which were specifically lighter than
the water ; and as it pleased God that we received this shock
in the very crisis of the gale, towards morning we were
enabled to employ some me:ins for our safety, which succeeded
beyond hope. In about an hour's time, the day began to
break, and the wind abated. We expended most of our
clothes and bedding to stop the leaks (though the weather
was exceedingly cold, especially to us, who had so lately left
a hot climate) ; over these we nailed pieces of boards, and at
last perceived the water abate. At the beginning of this
hurrj', I was little affected. I pumped hard, and endeavoured
to animate myself and companions : I told one of them, that
in a few days this distress would serve us to talk of over
a glass of wine; but he being a less hardened sinner than
myself, repHed, with tears, " No ; it is too late now." About
nine o'clock, being almost spent with cold and labour, I went
to speak with the captain, who was busied elsewhere, and
just as I was returning from him, I said, almost without any
meaning, " If this will not do, the Lord have mercy upon us."
This (though spoken with Uttle reflection) was the first desire
1 had breathed for mercy for the space of many years. I
was instantly struck with my own words ; and as Jehu said
once, " What hast thou to do with peace ? " so it directly
occurred, "What mercy can there be for me ?"
Images of sea and storm often reom-red afterwards
in Ne\vton's preaching and in his pai-t of the " Oluey
Hymns," as here ; —
THE STORM HUSHED.
'Tis past — the dreadful stormy night
Is gone, with all its fears !
And now I see returning light —
The Lord, my Sun, appears.
The tempter, who but lately said,
I soon should be his prey.
Has heard my Sa\-ioui-'s voice, and fled
With shame and grief away.
Ah ! Lord, since Thou didst hide Thy face,
■WTiat has my soul endur'd ?
But now 'tis past, I feel thy grace.
And all my wounds are cur'd !
Oh wondrous change ! but just before
Despair beset me round,
I heard the Lion's horrid roar,
And trembled at the sound.
Before corruption, giiilt, and fear,
My comforts blasted fell ;
And unbelief discover'd near
The di-cadful depths of hell.
But Jesus pitied my distress,
He heard my feeble cry,
Reveal' d his blood and righteousness,
And brought salvation nigh.
Beneath the banner of His love
I now secure remain ;
The tempter frets, but dares not move,
To break my peace again.
382
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1730
Lord, since Thou thus hast broke my hands,
And set the captive free,
I would devote ray tongue, my hands,
lly heart, my all, to Thee.
But, however religious he became, Johu Newton
went on \\-itli the slave-trade. He returned to Guinea
as mate of a ship, and liis business there was to sail
in the long-ljoat from i)lace to place and buy slaves.
When he came home, he manied, in February, 1750,
tlie fair maid in Kent, and sailed again in 1750,
commander of a slave-ship, on board which he
studietl Latin, and established pulilic worship, on tliis
as on other voyages. So completely did Newton
at-cept the custom of his trade, that he writes, " I
never knew sweeter or more frequent hours of Di^-ine
communion than in my two last voyages to Guinea,
when I was either almost secluded from society on
shipboard, or when on shore among the natives." In
1754, when about to saO on another voyage, John
Newton had an apoplectic fit. He remained at
home, and obtained, after a short time, the post of
tide-surveyor in Liverpool. At last John Ne^rton
resolved to give himself entirely to religion, and
enter the Church. He was refused ordination until
17G4, when the curacy of Ohiey was oifered to him,
and he was examined and ordained by the Bishop
of Lincoln. Tlie Rev. Moses Brown, vicar of Obiey,
had a large family, and was in money dil&culties ;
he, therefore, held the living, and let the vicarage,
while he lived at Blackheath to earn a little more
as Chaplain of Morden College.
Thus it happened that the Rev. John Newton,
a.s curate of Oluey, had sole charge of the parish,
and had been there aljout tlu'ee years when, ia the
month of September, 1767, Mi-s. IJnwiu and Cowjjer
became resident in the place. Cov^iaer was much
with Ne\\i;on, assisted at his prayer-meetings, and
assisted also in the charitable outlay of £200 a year
given by a generous Russian merchant, Mr. John
Thornton. But Cowper gi-adually fell again into
religious melancholy. The death of his brother, in
March, 1770, aflected liim deeply. He spoke of him
afterwards in that book of " The Task " called " The
Timepiece : " —
' I had a brother once —
Peace to the memory of a man of worth,
A man of letters, and of manners too ;
(Jf manner sweet as Virtue always wears
When gay good nature dresses her in smiles.
He graced a college, in which order yet
Was sacred ; and was honoured, loved, and wept
By more than one, themselves conspicuous there."
In 1771, the Rev. John Ne-n-ton proposed to
Williana Cowper that they should share in the com-
position of a book of hymns " for the promotion of
the faith, and comforting sincere Christians." But
they were not published imtil 1779, and before they
appeared Cowjier had once more sufiered for a time
the extinction of his reason. The loss was gi-adual,
but in 1773 Cowiser again attempted his life. A
mamage with Mrs. Unwin liad been agi-eed upon
but a few months before. The return of in-sanity,
with the deep religious gloom that was in his case
its accompaniment, a gloom unnatural to him when
in health, put aside every possibility of marrying.
It was not until 1776 that Cowper again used his
pen. At the end of 1779 Mr. Newton left Olney
for London to take the City living of St. Mary Wool-
noth, and it was in the earlier part of the same
year that the "Olney Hymns" appeared. Those
contributed by Cowjjer (marked with a C) are full of
touching reference to the condition from which he
had escaped when he was writing them. This for
example : —
LIGHT SHINING OUT OF DARKNESS.
God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perfoi-m ;
He plants His footsteps in the sea.
And rides upon the storm.
Deep in imfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill.
He treasures up His bright designs,
And works His sovereign will.
Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mere}", and shall break
In blessings on your head.
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for his grace ;
Behind a frowning pro\"idence
He hides a smiling face.
His purposes will ripen fast.
Unfolding every hour ;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the tlower.
Blind unbelief is sure to err.
And scan His work in vain :
God is His own interjiroter,
And He will make it plain.
In another hymn he repudiates the dread of
Di\'ine wi-ath that had been a part of Ms disease : —
PEACE AFTER A STORM.
When darkness long has veiled my mind.
And s milin g day once more appears.
Then, my Redeemer, then I find
The folly of my doubts and fears.
Straight I upbraid my wandering heart,
And blush that I should ever be
Thus prone to act so base a part.
Or harbour one hard thought of Thee.
Oh ! let me then at length be taught
What I am still so slow to learn ;
That God is Love, and changes not.
Nor knows the shadow of a turn.
TO A.D. 1781.]
RELIGION.
383
Sweet truth, and easy to repeat 1
But when my faith is shai'ply tried,
I find myself a learner yet.
Unskilful, weak, and apt to slide.
But, my Lord, one look from thee
Subdues the disobedient wiU,
Drives doubt and discontent away.
And thy rebellious worm is still.
Thou art as ready to forgive
As I am ready to repine ;
Thou, therefore, all the praise receive ;
Be shame and self-abhorrence mine.
Here, again, Cowper hymiis of his retii-ement from
the world : —
RETIREMENT.
Far from the world, Lord, I flee.
From strife and tumult far :
From scenes where Satan wages still
His most successful war.
The calm retreat, the silent shade,
With prayer and praise agree ;
And seem by Thy sweet bounty made
For those who follow Thee.
There, if Thy Spirit touch the soul.
And grace her mean abode.
Oh '. with what peace, and joy, and love,
She communes with her God !
There like the nightingale she pours
Her solitary lays ;
Nor asks a witness of her song,
Xor thirsts for human praise.
Author and Guardian of my Hfe,
Sweet source of light divine.
And — all harmonious names in one —
My Saviour ! thou art mine 1
What thanks I owe Thee, and what love,
A boundless, endless store.
Shall echo through the realms above,
"WTien time shall be no more.
Let us add to these one of the hymns written by
Newton : —
THE NAME OF JESUS.
How sweet the name of Jesus sounds
In a believer's ear !
It soothes his sorrows, heals his wounds.
And drives away his fear.
It makes the wounded spirit whole.
And calms the troubled breast ; .
'Tis manna to the hungry soul,
And to the weary rest.
Dear name I the rock on which I build,
3Iy shield and hiding-place ;
My never-failing treas'ry, fill'd
With boundless stores of gi-ace.
By thee my prayers acceptance gain,
Although with sin defiled ;
Satan accuses me in vain,
And I am owned a child.
Jesus ! my Shepherd, Husband, Friend,
My Prophet, Priest, and King ;
My Lord, my Life, my Way, my End,
Accept the praise I bring.
Weak is the effort of my heart.
And cold my wannest thought ;
But when I see Thee as Thou art,
I'll praise Thee as I ought.
Tin then I would Thy love proclaim
With ev'ry fleeting breath ;
And may the music of Thy name
Refresh my soul in death.
In December, 1780, Cowjoer, at the suggestion of
Mrs. Unwin, who sought healthy occupation for his
mind, began to wi-ite poems for publication in a book.
" The Progi-ess of Error," " Truth," " Table Talk."
" Expostulation," were soon wi-itten. When the
publisher — the Rev. John Newton's publisher, to
whom Newton had recommended Cowper — asked for
more verses to bring the volume to a proper size,
because "The Progress of Error" concerned Faith,
CowiJer promptly added " Hope " and " Charity,"
both written in a fortnight. The book was finished
in Jtily, 1781. "Conversation" and '"Retirement"
were vvi-itten and added while it was being printed.
A preface was written by jVIi-. Newton, but this was
so alarmingly serious that, at the request of the
publisher, it was withdrawn, and fii-st appeared before
the fifth edition.
A lively human interest in all that concerned the
true welfare of humanity fills Cowper's verse with
references to topics of the time. HLs love of freedom
was intense, and when not under the cloud of disea.se
no man could feel more keenly the liberty wherewith
Christ had made him free. In the dialogue of ''Table
Talk " Co\vper wrote —
. . . JB. Vigilant over all that He has made,
Kind Providence attends -n-ith gi-acious aid.
Bids equity throughout His works prevail.
And weighs the nations in an even scale ;
He can encourage Slavery to a smile.
And fill with discontent a British isle.
A. Freeman and slave then, if the case be such.
Stand on a level,— and you prove too much.
If all men indiscriminately share
His fostering power and tutelary care.
As well be yoked by Despotism's hand.
As dwell at large in Britain's chartered land.
B. No. Freedom has a thousand channs to show.
That slaves, howe'er contented, never know.
The mind attains beneath her happy reign
The growth that Nature meant she should attain ;
The varied fields of science, ever new.
Opening and wider opening on her view.
She ventures onward with a prosperous force,
While no base fear impedes her in her course.
384
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[i.D. 1783
Religion, richest favour of the skies,
Stands most revealed before the freeman's eyes ;
No shades of superstition blot the day,
Liberty chases aU that gloom away ;
The soul, emancipated, imoppressed.
Free to prove all things, and hold fast the best.
Learns much, and to a thousand listening minds
Communicites with joy the good she finds
Courage in arms ; and, ever prompt to show
His manly forehead to the fiercest foe,
Glorious in war, but for the sake of peace,
His spirits rising as his toils increase.
Guards well what arts and industry have won,
And Freedom claims him for her first-bom son.
Slaves fight for what were better cast away,
The chain that binds them, and a tjTant's sway :
But they that fight for freedom, undertake
The noblest cause mankind can have at stake, —
Religion, virtue, truth, whate'er we call
A blessing, freedom is the pledge of all.
In the poem on " Ti-utli " Cowper thus asserts the
sense that -n-as always strong in him when relieved
of physical depression, the sense of the cheerfulness
of true religion : —
Artist, attend ! — your brushes and your paint —
Produce them — take a chair, — now di'aw a Saint.
Oh, soiTowful and sad ! the streaming tears
Channel her cheeks, — a Niobe appears.
Is this a saiut ? Tlirow tints and all away !
True piety is cheerful as the day :
Will weep indeed, and heave a pitying groan
For others' woes, but smiles upon her own.
^\^lat purpose has the King of Saints in view ?
WTiy falls the Gospel like a gracious dew ?
To call up plenty from the teeming earth.
Or curse the desert with a tenfold dearth ?
Is it that Adam's oifspiing may be saved
From servile fear, or be the more enslaved ?
To loose the Unks that galled mankind before,
Or bind them faster on, and add still more ?
The freebom Christian has no chains to prove.
Or, if a chain, the golden one of love.
No fear attends to quench his glowing fires,
^^*hat fear he feels his gratitude inspires.'
Shall he, for such deliverance freely wi-ought.
Recompense ill ? He trembles at the thought.
His Master's interest and his own combined
Prompt every movement of his heart and mind ;
Thought, word, and deed, his liberty evince.
His freedom is the freedom of a prince.
Thus also in " Retii-ement," the closing poem of
his hook, published in March, 1782, Cowiier contrasts
his sickness with his health : —
Man is a harp whose cords elude the sight.
Each yielding harmony, disposed aright ;
The screws reversed (a task which if He please
God in a moment executes with ease)
Ten thousand thousand strings at once go loose.
Lost, till He tune them, all their power and use.
Then neither heathy wilds, nor scenes as fair
As ever recompensed the peasant's care,
Nor soft declivities with tufted hiUs,
Nor \-iew of waters turning busy mills,
Parks in which Art preceptress Nature weds.
Nor gardens interspersed with tiowerj- beds,
Nor gales, that catch the scent of blooming groves
And waft it to the moiimer as he roves.
Can caU up life into his faded eye
That passes aU he sees unheeded by.
No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels ;
No cure for such, till God, who makes them, heals.
And thou, sad sufferer under nameless Ul,
That yields not to the touch of human skill.
Improve the kind occasion, understand
A Father's fi-own, and kiss His chastening hand.
To thee the day-spring, and the blaze of noon.
The purple evening and resplendent moon.
The stars, that, sprinkled o'er the vault of night,
Seem drops descending in a shower of light,
Shine not, or undesired and hated shine.
Seen through the medium of a cloud like thine : —
Yet seek Him, in His favour Uf e is f oxmd ;
All bliss beside, a shadow or a sound.
Then Heaven, eclipsed so long, and this dull Earth,
Shall seem to start into a second birth ;
Nature, assuming a more lovely face.
Borrowing a beauty from the works of grace,
Shall be despised and overlooked no more.
Shall fill thee with delights imfelt before ;
Impart to things inanimate a voice.
And bid her mountains and her hills rejoice ;
The sound shall run along the winding vales.
And thou enjoy an Eden ere it falls.
' " He that loveth not knoweth not God, for God is love.
There is no fear in love ; but perfect love casteth out fear : because
fear hath torment. He that feareth is not made perfect in love. We
love Him hecause He iirst loved us."— 1 John iv. 8, 18, 19.
i
While busy upon this book, Cowper made Lady
Austen's acquaintance, of which came " John Gilpin,"
and liLs chief poem, "The Task," produced in 1785 —
four years before the fall of the Bastille.- " The
Task " caused Cow|5er's cousin, Lady Hesketh, sister
of his early love, to break a sOence of nineteen years.
Her husband, Sii' Thomas Hesketh, had died in
1782, and in 1786 Lady Hesketh went to OLney.
She persuaded Cowjier and Mrs. Unwin to find
Olney dull, and in November they moved to a more
cheerful house at Weston Underwood, where they
had a friend for landlord. An addition of £.50
a year to liLs income came also from an unknown
friend, who seems to have been Theodora. But in
1787 Cowper was ill again, from January to June,
and then again attempted suicide. In 1788, Lady
Hesketh again visited him ; he was busy upon a
translation of Homer into blank vei-se, which was
published in 1791, and for which he was paid a
thousand pounds. In the December of that year,
Mi-s. Unwin had an attack of paralysis. Cow|)er
had been united to work on an edition of Milton.
William Hayley had been asked to write a " Life ol
IMUton " for another edition of his works. Hayley
and Cowper being, therefore, sjjoken of as rivals.
- See the volume in this Library containing
Poems," pp. 399 — toi.
'Shorter English
TO A.D. 19X).]
EELICTIO^".
385
Hayley wrote to Cowper, whom until then he had
not known, and there was established friendly fellow-
ship between them. Visits were exchanged, and
Co^\'pe^ spent six weeks with Hayley at Eartham.
The best English ti-anshitions of the Latin poems of
Milton were the profluce of this fellowship. But
Mrs. Unwin became worse. Cowper sank again into
insanity. The king granted liim a pension of £300,
when the sufferer hardly knew what it meant. In
October, 1796, they removed to East Dereham, where
Mi-s. Un^in died. For the rest of his life Cowper's
only chance of health was in the sustained care of
his friends to supjaort his mind by occupation of it.
In March, 1799, he finished the revision of his
Homer, and he died on the 25th of April, 1800.
CHAPTER Xni.
From the Feenx-h Eevolutiox to the Accession
OF Queen Victoria. — Prie-stley, Palet, Heber,
Chaljiees, Wordsworth, Keble, and Others.
A.D. 17S9 TO A.D. 1837.
Joseph, the son of Jonas Prie.stley, who was a cloth-
di'esser at Birstal Fieldhead, near Leeds, was born in
1733. His mother died when he was sis years old,
and he was adopted by Mi-s. Keigliley, a sister of hLs
father's. He learnt Latin and Greek at the local
gi'ammar-school, and Hebrew in the holidays. He
worked also at Chaldee, Syriac, and Ai-abie, besides
French, German, and Italian, His health was
delicate ; while he was a schoolboy his limgs were
not sound. When nineteen he joined the academy
at Daventry, now incorporated -vrith. Xew College,
London. He wa.s to enter the ministry, and had
been trained in Cah-inistic opinions, but as a youth
inclined rather to the different opinions of Harmensen
(Axminius). The minister of the congi-egation in
which he attended with liis aunt had refused young
Priestley the communion, because he had doubts on
the subject of original sin and on eternity of punish-
ment. At the Daventry Academy, where he was
trained for the ministry under the successor of Dr.
Doddridge,^ young men were required to study both
sides of each argument ; on many subjects there was
di\-ision of opinion, and the side usually taken by
Priestley was not the orthodox. As a student he
began to write liis " Institutes of Natural and Re-
vealed Religion," of which the fom- parts were pub-
lished in 1772-3—4, seventeen or eighteen yeai-s after
he had left the Training College. Priestley began
the ministry at Needham Market, in Suffolk, -nith a
stipend of £30 a year, and sought pupUs at half-a-
guinea a quai-ter, who might be boarded for £12
a year-. He was not orthodox enough for his con-
gregation, and was the less successful as a preacher,
because he had an impediment of speech. After thi-ee
Dr. Philip Doddridge, who died at the age of fortj-nine, in 1751,
a close friend of Dr. Samuel Clarke. " The Rise and Progress of
Religion in the Soul/' was the most popular of his works, and some
5f the Hymns written by him are very good. His influence was great
IS a trainer of young men '.for the dissenting ministry, and several of
lis pupils abandoned the doctrine of the Trinity.
143
years at Needham Market, Prie-stley moved in 1758
to NantT,vich, where he had another congi-egation, and
succeeded better in obtaining pupils. At Nant-n-ich
his interest in scientific inquiiy deepened, and he
saved money enough to buy an air-pump and an elec-
trical machine. In 1761, Priestley, aged twenty-
eight, left Nantwich to become teacher of languages
and belles kttres in the academy at Waiiington. At
Warrington he maiiied Miss Wilkinson, the daughter
ofaWelshii-onmaster. In 1767, Priestley, who had for
his interest in science just been made a Fellow of the
Royal Society, -s-isited London, and was introduced to
Benjamin Franklin, who aided him with books for hi*
" Histoiy and Present State of Electricity, -srith Ori-
ginal Experiments," which appeared before the clo.se
of the same year. He obtained also at this time the
degree of LL.D. from the L^niversity of EdinburgL
It was in the same year 1767 that Priestley left
Wai-iington, and was engaged for jMUl-lull Chajjel,
Leeds. At Leeds, in the next year, he began the
com-se of investigations that led to his discover}-, in
1774, of oxygen gas, which he called dephlogistieated
an-. Other important discoveries followed. In 1773
Dr. Prie-stley had become libraiian and hteraiy com-
panion to the Earl of Shelbm-ne, with £250 a year
and a house. He travelled with Lord Shelbm-ne,
and at Paris was introduced to the chief men of
science, who told hiTn he was the only sensible man
they knew who believed in Chiistianity. In 1780
Lord Shelbume parted from Priestley, giving him an
annuity of £150 a year, and Priestley then became
minister to the chief Dissenting congregation at
Birmingham. He was still publishing from time
to time the results of his scientific inquiiies, and in
1780 there appeared an answer to such arguments
against religion as he had heard at Paris, in his
" Letters to a Philosophical Unbehever, containing
an Examination of the Piincipal Objections to the
Doctrines of Natural Religion, and especially those
contained in the writings of Mr. Hume." In 1787,
Priestley added a treatise on the " State of the Evi-
dence of Revealed Religion, with Animadvei-siona
on the two last chapters of the fii-st vohune of Mr.
Gibbon's History of the Decline and Fall of the
Roman Empii-e." Fifty-six years old, and the author
of many scientific and religious books, this was
Priestley's position at Birmingham at the outbreak
of the French Revolution in 1789.
William Paley was ten yeai-s yoimger than Joseph
Priestley. He was bom in Jul\-, 1743, at Peter-
borough, where his father was a minor canon.
William Paley the elder presently resigned his min or
canom-y to become head-master of the school of
Giggles^vick, in Yorkshii-e. There William, his eldest
.son, was taught until November, 1758, when, at the
age of fifteen, he was admitted to Christ's College,
Cambridge, as a sizar. He did not go into residence
at once, but studied mathematics xmder a private
tutor, and joined his college in October, 1759. In the
following December he was appointed to a scholai-sliip
from Giggleswick school, and was also elected scholar
on the college foundation, and appointed to the exhi-
bition founded by Sir Walter Mildmay. In ilay,
1761, he was also elected to the Bunti-y Scholarsliip.
For two years he was a somewhat idle student : then
386
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.lr. 1763
came a change, the maiiuer of which he, has thus
himself clcscribei.1 : —
I spent the first two years of mj' undergraduatesWp happily,
■but unprofitably. I was constantly in society, where we were
not immoral, but idle and rather expensive. At the commence-
ment of my third year, however, after having left the usual
party at rather a late hour in the evening, I was awakened at
five in the morning by one of my companions, who stood at
my bedside and said, " Paley, I have been thinking what a
d d fool you are. I could do nothing, probably, were I
to try, and can afford the life I lead ; you could do every-
thing, and cannot afford it. I have had no sleep during the
whole night on account of these reflections, and am now come
solemnly to inform you, that if you persist in your indolence,
I must renounce your society." I was so struck with the visit
and the risitor, that I lay in bed great part of the day, and
formed my plan. I ordered my bed-maker to prepare my fire
every evening, in order that it might be Ughted by myself. I
arose at five, read during the whole of the day, except such
hours as chapel and hall required, allotting to each portion of
time itspeouUar branch of study; and just before the closing
of the gates (nine o'clock) I went to a neighbouring coffee-
house, where I constantly regaled upon a mutton chop and a
dose of milk-punch. And thus, on taking my bachelor's
degree, I became senior wrangler.
This was m 176.3, when Paley's age was twenty.
As he was too young to take orders, lie became
assistant at Greenwich iii a school which prepared
pupils for the army and navy. He practised very
strict economy to enable himself to pay some college
debts that he brought \vitli him. After three years
of work in the academy, he left it and took deacon's
orders ; but he remamed in Greenwich as private
tutor to a widow's son, and became assistant^curate
to the \-icar. In 1766, Paley obtained a fellowship
on the foundation of his college, and completed the
degree of JM.A., his age then being twenty-three. In
October, 1767, when his pujiil at Greenwich went to
Cainlu-idge, Paley returned to his college, took private
pupils in Cambridge, was ordained priest, and in
17(58 was made one of the two assistant-tutors of his
college (the other being John, son of Edmund Law,
the l>ishop of Carlisle), under the sole tutor. Dr.
Shepherd. In 1771 he was appointed one of the
Whitehall preachers. In 1775 Paley was jjresented
by his friend, Dr. Edmund Law, Bishop of Carlisle,
to the rectory of Musgrave, in Westmoreland, a living
of £60 a year. In 1776 he vacated his fellowship by
marrj-ing Miss Jane Hewitt, of Carlisle, and was
presented in December to the vicarage of Dalston, in
Cumberland, worth £90 a year, holding Musgrave
still. In 1777 he resigned Musgrave on being pre-
sented by the Dean and Chapter of Carlisle to the
vicarage of Appleby, in Westmoreland, worth about
£300 a year. He then resided for sLx months of the
year at Appleby, and six at Dalston. In 1780 there
was an addition of .£400 a year to liis income by his
collation to the fourth prebendal stall in the church
of Carlisle. His old fellow-tutor, John Law, had
been presented by liis father to the vicarage of
Warkworth and to a prebendal stall at Carlisle, and
l^^eo ' A ; , ''^'"' '"■'''^'' Arclideacon of Carlisle. In
1/8J Archdeacon Law became an Irish bishop, and
Paley, succeeding to the office Law vacated, became
archdeacon at the age of thirty-nine. His time was
now spent partly at Dalston, and partly at Carlisle,
where, in 1785, the office of chancellor of the cUocese
was added to his preferments.
It was in this year, 1785, that Paley published his
"Elements of Moral and Political Philosophy," a
book formed by the recasting of lectures that he had
formerly given at Christ's College. It provoked much
controversy. One of its lines of thought was developed
iu 1788, when Archdeacon Paley wrote a letter
advocating abolition of the slave-trade ; and in 1789
he addressed to the committee formed to secure its
abolition, " Arguments against the unjust pretensions
of slave-dealers and holders to be indemnitied by
pecuniary allowances at the public expense in case
the slave-trade should be abolished." This was not
published.
In 1790 William Paley pulilished his argument
for the authenticity of the Scri[itures, entitled, " Hora3
Pauliiiifi ; or, the Truth of the Scripture History of
St. Paul evinced by a Comparison of the Epistles
which bear his Name with the Acts of the Apostles,
and with one another." In 1702 he was instituted to
William Palet.
From a Portrait da Sir IFiltiam Becchij, inrfix-ed to PaUy's TTorts (1819).
the vicarage of Addingham, near Great Salkekl, worth
about £U0. He had at this time eight children,
and had lost his wife in the preceding year.
_ The stir caused in England by the French Revolu-
tion led Paley to publish as a separate pamphlet the
chapter on the British Constitution from his " Moral
and Political Philosophy." Although it had been
wi-itten ten years before the fall of the Bastille, and
only set forth the doctrines illustrated by the English
Con.stitution, there were many who regarded this
reprint as a sign of sjTnpathy with disorder. But
Paley was not an enthusiast. He was an amialile,
clear-headed Englishman, who had made the Church
his profession, and was glad to rise in it; whose bent of
mind was opposed to an undue exercise of authority
TO A.D. 1805.]
RELIGION.
387
in politics and religion ; \vho had no leaning towards
tecluiical theology, bnt sought in his writings, as far
as his light served, to meet the deniers of God, who
in his day abounded, by argument from Natm-e and
by e^-idences of the truth of Revelation. He pub-
lished in 1794 his "Evidences of Christianity," and
was made sub-dean of Lincoln. In the following
year he took his degree of D.D., and was presented
to the valuable rectory of Bishop Wearmouth. He
then divided his time between Lincoln and Bishop
Wearmouth. He suflered much from ill health while
writing his " Natiu'al Theology ; or, E\ddence of the
Existence and Attributes of the Deity collected from
the appearances of Nature." This ajipeared in 1802,
and Paley died in 1805, aged sixty-two.
Paley's " View of the Evidences of Christianity "
is directed against that form of doubt which had its
ablest expression among us in David Hume's argu-
ment against the credibility of miracles. Hume died
in 1776. In the " Preparatory Considerations " to
his " Evidences," Palej- -^Tote : —
JIi-. Hume states the case of miracles to be a contest of
opposite improbabilities, that is to say, a question whether it
be more improbable that the mu-acle should be true, or the
testimony false ; and this I think a fair account of the con-
troversy. But herein I remark a want of argumentative
justice, that, in describing the improbabUity of miracles, he
suppresses aU those circumstances of extenuation which
result from our knowledge of the existence, power, and dis-
position of the Deity, his concern in the creation, the end
answered by the miracle, the importance of that end, and its
subserWcncy to the plan pm-sucd in the work of nature. As
Jlr. Humo has represented the question, miracles are ahke
incredible to him who is previously assured of the constant
agency of a Divine Being, and to him who beUeves that no
such Being exists in the universe. They are equaUy incredible,
whether related to have been -wTOught upon occasions the
most descr\Tng, and for purposes the most beneficial, or for
no assignable end whatever, or for an end confessedly trifling
or pernicious. This surely cannot be a correct statement.
In adjusting also the other side of the balance, the strength
and weight of testimony, this author has prorided an answer
to everj' possible accumulation of historical proof, by teUing
us that we are not obliged to explain how the story or the
evidence arose. Now I think that wo are obliged; not,
perhaps, to show by positive accounts how it did, but by a
probable hj-pothesia how it might so happen. The existence
of the testimony is a phenomenon. The truth of the fact
solves the phenomenon. If we reject this solution, we ought
to have some other to rest in ; and none even by our adver-
saries can be admitted, which Ls not consistent with the
principles that regulate himran affairs and human conduct at
present, or which makes men then to have been a different
kind of beings from what they are now.
But the short consideration which, independently of every
other, convinces mo that there is no soUd foundation in Mr.
Himie's conclusion is the following. AVhen a theorem is pro-
posed to a mathematician, the first thing he does with it is to
trj- it upon a simple case : and if it produce a false result, he
is sure that there must be some mistake in the demonstration.
Now to proceed in this way with what may be called Mr.
Hume's theorem. If twelve men, whose probity and good
sense I had long known, should seriously and circumstantially
relate to me an account of a miracle wrought before their
eyes, and in which it was impossible that the}' should be
deceived : if the governor of the country, hearing a rumour
of this account, shoidd caU these men into his presence, and
offer them a short proposal, either to confess the imposture,
or submit to be tied up to a gibbet ; if they should refuse
with one voice to acknowledge that there existed any false-
hood or imposture in the case ; if this threat were communi-
cated to them separately, yet with no different effect ; if it
was at last executed ; if I myself saw them, one after another,
consentmg to be racked, bm-nt, or strangled, rather than give
up the truth of their account ; still, if Mr. Hume's rule be
my guide, I am not to beheve them. Now, I undertake
to say that there exists not a sceptic in the world who would
not beheve them, or who would defend such increduhty.
Instances of spurious miracles supported by strong apparent
testimony undoubtedly demand examination. Mr. Hume has
endeavoirred to fortify his argument by some examples of
this kind. I hope in a proper place to show that none of
them reach the strength or circumstances of the Christian
evidence. In these, however, consists the weight of his
objection. In the principle itself I am persuaded there is
none.
Paley's argument is di\-ided into three parts. The
first part treats " of the direct historical E^ddence of
Christianity, and wherein it is distingviished from
the evidence alleged for other miracles;" and it argues
for two propositions :
1. That there is satisfactory evidence that many, pro-
fessing to be original witnesses of the Christian miracles,
passed their hvcs in labours, dangers, and sufferings, volun-
tarily undergone in attestation of the accounts which they
dehvered, and solely in consequence of then- behef of those
accounts; and that they also submitted, from the same
motives, to now rules of conduct.
2. That there is not satisfactory evidence that persons pro-
fessing to be original witnesses of other miracles, in their
nature as certain as these are, have ever acted in the same
maimer, in attestation of the accounts which they dehvered,
and properly in consequence of their belief of those accounts.
Paley's second part treats of " the Auxiliary
E\'idences of Christianity in Prophecy, the Morality
of the Gospel, the Candour of the Writers of the
New Testament, the Identity and Originality of
Christ's Character, the conformity of the facts occa-
sionally referred to with the state of tilings in those
times, undesigned coincidences, and the history of
the Resurrection." The third part considers some
popular objections.
Joseph Priestley, at the time of the fall of the
Bastille, was settled in Birmingham as pastor of a con-
gregation known as the New Meeting; he cultivated
science and maintained the religious life, but with
gi-eat boldness and acuteness of reasoning questioned
doctrines that the Church held to be vital. In 1782
he had published at Birmingham, in two volumes,
"An History of the Corruptions of Christianity," dedi-
cated to the Rev. Theophilus Lindsey. Theophilus
Lindsey, born in Cheshire in 1723, and educated at
St. Jolm's College, Cambridge, resigned the -s-icarage of
Catterick in 1773, because he could no longer teach
the doctrine of the Trinity. He came to London,
and established in Essex Street, Strand, a Unitarian
Chapel, in which he conducted ser^-ice with use of a
Hturgy altered by Dr. Sauniel Clarke from that of
388
CASSELL'S LIBRAEY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a-d. 171
the Established Church. In this chapel Lindsey
preached when Priestley dedicated to hiui his work
on the "Corruptions of Christianity," and he was
minister there until a few yeare before his death
in 1808. In 1802 Lindsey published " Conversations
on the Divine Government," showing that everything
is from God, and for the good of all. His successor
in the pidpit at Essex Street Chapel was Dr. Disney,
another clergyman who had left the Established
Church because he could not teach the doctrine of
theTi-inity; and in 180.5 Dr. Disney was followed
by Tliomas Belsham, bom in 1750, the son of a
Presbyterian minister at Bedford. Thomas Belsham
Joseph Peiestlet. (,From Charles Knight's " Gallery of Portraits.")
was trained for the Presbjrterian ministry, and
appointed tutor in its college at Daventry, but was
convinced by the arguments of Priestley, and seceded
in 1789. He was founder in 1791 of a " Unitarian
Society for promoting Christian Knowledge and the
Practice of Vii-tue." In 1794 he succeeded Priestley
as Unitarian minister at Hackney, but left Hackney
for Essex Street in 1805, and continued pastor there
for twenty-one yeara. He was an active religious
writer, and lived to the age of seventy-nine.
In the dedication of his " Historv of the Con-up-
tions of Christianity" to Theophilus Lindsey,
Priestley wrote : —
Dear Friend,— Wishing as I do that mv name may ever
be connected as closely with yours after death as we have
heeu connected by friendship in life, it is with peeuHar satis-
faction that I dedicate this work (which I am willing to hope
will be one of the most useful of my pubHcations) to you. To
your esamplu of a pure love of truth, and of the most fearless
integnty m asserting it, evidenced by the sacrifices you have
made to it, I owe much of my own wishes to imbibe the same
spmt ; though a more favourable education and situation in
Ute, by not givmg me an opportunity of distinguishing myseH
as you have done, has Hkewise not exposed me to the temp-
tation of acting otherwise; and for this I wish to be truly
thankful. For since so very few of those who profess the
same sentiments with j-ou have had the courage to act con-
sistently -n-ith them, no person, whatever he may imagine he
might have been equal to, can have a right to presume that he
would have been one of so small a number.
Ko person can see in a stronger light than you do the
mischievous consequence of the corruptions of that religion
which you justly prize as the most valuable of the gifts oi
God to man : and therefore I flatter myself it will give you
some pleasui-e to accompany me in my researches into the
origin and progress of them, as this will tend to give aU the
friends of pure Chiistianity the fullest satisfaction that they
reflect no discredit on the revelation itself ; since it will be
seen that thev* all came in from a foreign and hostUe quarter.
It wiU likewise aiford a pleasing presage that our religion
will, in due time, purge itself of everj'thing that debases it,
and that for the present prevents its reception by those who
are ignorant of its nature, whether living in Christian
countries, or among Mahometans and heathens.
The more opposition we meet with in these labours, the
more honourable it will be to us, provided we meet that oppo-
sition with the true spirit of Christianity ; and to assist us in
this we should frequently reflect that many of our opponents
are probably men who wish as well to the Gospel as we do
ourselves, and really think they do God service by opposing
us. Even prejudice and bigotry, arising from such a prin-
ciple, are respectable things, and entitled to the greatest
candour. If our religion teaches us to love our enemies,
certainly we should love, and, from a principle of love, should
endeavour to convince, those who, if they were only better
informed, would embrace us as friends.
The time will come when the cloud which, for the present,
prevents our distinguishing our friends and our foes, wtU be
dispersed, even that day in which the secrets of all hearts will
be disclosed to the view of all. In the meantime, let us think
as favourably as possible of all men, our particular opponents
not excepted ; and therefore be careful to conduct all hostility
with the pleasing prospect that one day it will give place to
the most perfect amity.
You, my friend, peculiarly happy in a most placid, as well
as a most determined mind, have nothing to blame yourscU
for in this respect. If, on any occasion, I have indulged too
much in asperity, I hope I shall, by your example, Icam to
coiTect myself, and ■without abating my zeal in the common
cause.
As we are now both of us past the meridian of life, I hope
we shall be looking more and more beyond it, and be pre-
paring for that world where we shall have no errors to combat,
and consequently where a talent for disputation will be of no
use ; but where the spirit of love wiU find abundant exercise ;
where all our labours will be of the most friendly and bene-
volent nature, and where our emploj-ment will be its own
reward.
Let these views brighten the evening of our lives, that
evening which will be enjoyed with more satisfaction as the
day shall have been laboriously and well spent. Let us then,
■nHthout reluctance, submit to that temporary rest in the
grave which our -n-ise Creator has thought proper to appoint
for all the human race, our Saviour himself not whoUy
excepted, anticipating with joy the glorious morning of the
resurrection, when we shall meet that Saviour whose precepts
we have obeyed, whose spirit we have breathed, whose reli-
gion we have defended, whose <nip also we may, in some
measure, have drank of, and whose honours we have asserted,
without making them to interfere with those of His Father
and our Father, His God and our God, that supreme, that
great and awful Being to whose will He was always most
TO A.D. ISOi.]
EELIGIOK
389
perfectly submissive, and for whose um-ivalled prerogative he
always showed the most ardent zeal.
Priestley's " History of the Corruptions of Chris-
tianity," wiitten as a sequel to his " Institutes of
Isatiu-al and Revealed Religion," was supplemented
in 17S7 with more detailed evidence, infoiu- volumes,
of "An History of Early Opinion concerning Jesus
Christ, compiled from original writei-s : proving that
the Christian Church was at first Unitarian." He
gatheied the material for this work by firet reading
the oiiginal writers from whom evidence was to be
drawn, " without looking into any modem author
whatever." Then, he says, " having collected and
aiTanged these materials, funushed by these original
authors, I applied myself to the reading of all the
modem writers of any reputation for learning in
ecclesiastical history, whether their opinions were
the same with mine or not. But the addition that
I made to my own collection of authorities by this
means amounted to very little — not more than about
twenty or thii-ty, and those, in genei-al, of no great
consequence."
In 1791, a mob at Birmingham, excited by demm-
ciatious against Priestley, upon occasion of a celebr-a-
tion of the fall of the Bastille, on the 14th of July,
showed its " talent for di.sputation " by biu-ning the
meeting-house in which he preached, then another
meeting-house of the Dissenters, then Priestley's
dwelling-house, with his libi-aiy and his MSS., his
laboratory, and his philosopliical instruments, and
then burning or damaging the houses of some other
Dissentei-s. William Cow])er wrote fi'om "Weston
on the 2nd of August following, to a clergyman, the
Rev. W. Bagot, " You live, I think, in the neigh-
bourhood of Bir-mingham, — what must you have
felt on the late alarming occasion i You, I suppose,
could see the lir-es fi-om your ■windows. We, who
only heard the news of them, have trembled. Never,
sure, was religious zeal more detestably manifested,
or more to the prejudice of its own cause." The fury
passed, and Bu-mingham has since paid honoiu- to
the memory of Priestley, by r-aising to him a gi-aceful
statue which was uncovered ^\ith every circum.stance
that could he held to mark an emphatic recognition
of his genius and woi-th.
Thus driven fi-om Bumingham in 1791, Piie.stley
went to London, and succeeded Dr. Richard Price as
pastor of the Gravel-pit Meeting-house, at Hackney.
Dr. Price had died La the preceding March. He was
bom in Glamorganshire, in 1723, and had distin-
guished himself not only as a preacher, but as a con-
tributor to the "Philosophical Transactions of the
Royal Society." He was a friend of the Americans
when they were forced into the war that led to Inde-
pendence, and took deep interest, as his life closed, in
the hopes awakened by the fall of the BastUle. As
successor to Dr. Price, Priestley remained scarcely
three years in London. Pei-secuted for his religious
as well as for his political doctiines, Priestley, after
coming to London, stOl battled with the scepticism
that had spread from France. He pulilished a series
'of " Letters to the Philosopher-s and Politicians of
France on the subject of Religion," and a set of
" Discourses on the Evidences of Revealed Religion."
But the spuit of controvei-sy was fierce, even among
men of science ; for some Priestley believed too much,
for some too little. Scientific friends dropped from
him. Most of the membei-s of the Royal Society,
high as his place was among discov£rei-s, avoided
him ; and in April, 1794, Dr. Priestley, with the wife
and chUcben who had always maintained peace and
love within their- home, left England for America.
The last words of his last sermon at Hackney were
addressed to the stranger-s present, and tlius he
closed : " Whether, then, you come as friends or as
The Statue of Peiesiley at BLRiiixGaAii.i
enemies, whether we shall ever see one another's
faces again or not, may Gtod, whose pro%idence is
over all" bless, preserve, and keep us. Above all, may
we be preserved in the paths of ^ir•tue and piety, that
we mav have a happy meeting in that world where
erTor and prejudice will be no more ; where all the
ground of the paiiy distinctions wliich subsist here
will be taken away ; where every misundei-standing
will be cleared up, and the reign of truth and of
vir-tue will be for ever estabUshed." Dr. Pnestley's
home thenceforth was at Noi-thumberiand, in Penn-
sylvania, untU his death in Febrniary, 1804. "WTien
he was dying he had his gi-andchildren about him.
In the evening, says their father, "after prayers
1 From a photograph kindly lent for engraving by the sculptor,
F. J. Williamson, of Esher.
390
CASSELL'S LIBRAEY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1789
they -wished him a good night, and were leaving the
room. He de.su-ed them to stay, spoke to each of
them separately. He exhorted them all to continue
to love each other. "And you, little thing,"
speaking to Eliza, " rememl;>er the hymn you learned,
'Bii-ds in thm- little nests agree.' I am gomg to
sleej) as well as you ; for ileath is only a good, long,
sound sleep in the gi-ave. and we shall meet again."
■John We.sley himself did not insist more than
Joseph Priestley upon love as the \'ital air without
which Christianity could not exist. The best answer
to scepticism was the endeavour really to set up the
Christian life within the Christian Church. The young
men at Oxford who were influenced like the Wesleys
by William Law's " Serious Call to a Devout and
Holy Life," and endeavoured against all ridicule of
the world to carry it out to the full extent of Law's
interpretation of a Christian's duty, placed love in the
centre of their system. " If religion," said William
Law, " teaches us anything concerning eating and
(kinking, or si)ending our time and money ; if it
teaches us how we are to use and contemn the world ;
if it tells us what tempers we are to have in common
life, how we are to be disposed towards all people,
how we are to behave towards the sick, the poor,
the old, and destitute ; if it tells us whom we are to
treat with a particular love, whom we are to regard
with a particular esteem ; if it tells us how we
are to treat our enemies, and how we are to mortify
and deny ourselves ; he must be very weak that can
think these parts of religion are not to be observed
with as much exactness as anj- doctrines that relate
to prayers. It is very observable that there is not
one command in the Gosjiel for public worship ; and
perhaps it is a duty that is least insisted on in Scrip-
ture of any other. The frequent attendance at it is
never so much a.s mentioned in all the New Testa-
ment ; whereas that religion or devotion which is to
govern the ordinaiy actions of our Ufe is to be foimd
in almost every verse of Scripture." Law .suggested
thi-ee daily periods of private prayer besides the first
mornmg and last evening devotions, and a theme for
each. At nine o'clock the prayer should seek to
quicken the spii-it of humility. At noon the duty
dwelt on should be universal love ; and at three it
should be resignation to the -will of God. Wlieu
dwelling upon this duty of love, Law wrote, " You
will perhaps say, How is it possible to love a good
and a bad man in the same degi-ee 1 Just as it's pos-
sible to be as just and faithful to a good man as to
an evil man. Now are you in any difficulty about
perfoi-ming justice and faithfulness to a bad man l
Are you in any doubts whether you need be so just
and faithful to him as you need be to a good man ?
Now why Ls it that you are in no doubt about it ? 'Tis
because you know that justice and faitlifulness are
founded upon reasons that never vary or change, that
have no dependence upon the merits of men, but are
foimded in the nature of things, in the laws of God,
and therefore are to be observed with an equal exacts
ness towards good and bad men. Now do but tliink
thus justly of charity, or love to your neighbour, that
It IS founded upon reasons that vary not, that have
no dependence upon the merits of men, and then you
will find it as possible to perform the same exact
charity as the same exact justice to all men, whether
good or bad." This note had been taken up by the i
Wesleys and Whitefield, and its music was felt by
Cowjjer and by many an earnest soul within and
without the clnu-ches. Thousands whose forefathers
had been Puritans of the Old Teistament were now
Puritans of the New.
We have seen how John Wesley was influenced
early in his career as a reformer, by the New Testa-
ment Puritanism of the Moravian Brethren. John
Cemiick, a fellow-worker with Wesley and White-
field in the Methodist school among the colliers at
Kuigswood, near Bristol, joined the Moravians and
went to Ireland in 1746, where he foimded a settle-
ment of Moravian Brethi-en, called Grace Hill, at
Ballymena, in the county of Antrim. Here he
kinclled a like zeal in the heai-t of a young man of
the vOlage, John Montgomery, who in 1757, at the
age of twenty-three, was received into communion by
the Moravians at Grace Hill, and became a preacher
among them. He married, in 1768, Mary Blackley,
daughter of another member of the same community,
and the eldest son of this marriage, born in November,
1771, three months after the death of the first child,
a daughter, was James Montgomery, the poet. When
he was born, his father had just settled at Ir%Tne, in
Ayi'shii-e, as pastor of a small Moravian congi'egation
there, the first that had been formed in Scotland.
When James Montgomery was little more than four
years old, his parents returned with him and their
newly-born second son Robert to the settlement at
Grace Hill ; and there was another infant brother,
named Ignatius, when James, not seven years old,
was taken to Yorkshii-e and put to school in the
Moravian settlement, called, after a town in Moravia,
Eulneck, about six miles from Leeds. Six years
afterwards, in 1783, the younger boys, Robert and
Ignatius, were also left at Fuhieck, because John
Montgomery was going with his wife as missionaiy
to the slave-di'ivers and slaves of Barbadoes. The
Moravians are remarkable for the pm-e devotion of
then- missionaries, who have gone out alone and
unpaid to Greenland, to the huts of the American
Indians, or of the negi-o slave, and to the far wUds of
Tartary.
James Montgomery, who was destined by his
parents for his father's calling, received his first
impulse towards poetry when he was with some of
the boys at Fulneck, who sat under a hedge and
heard one of the Brothers read Blair's " Grave."
Devotion to poetry grew in him with little to feed it,
because works of imagination are seldom admitted
into a Moravian school. He began, indeed, by imitat-
ing hymns of the Moravian collection. Montgomery
became occupied with his own thoughts, seemed
indolent, and was at last held to be probably unfit
for the ministry. For a time, at least, he should be
put to a business, and in 1787, at the age of sixteen,
he was placed with a Moravian who kept a small
retaU shop as a fine bread baker, at Mu-field, near
FulnecL Here James Montgomery wrote verse for
a year and a half, ha\'ing plenty of leisure, and
fi'om this place he departed with all his MSS. and
a. single change of Imen. New clothes had been
given to him, but as he did not think he had
TO A.D. 1795.]
RELIGION.
391
faii'ly earned them, lie went away in Lis old clothes,
and had three shillings and sixpence in his pocket.
When he had got as for as Wentworth, he found
service again in a general store at Watli, with the
consent of the kind-hearted Mora\"ian he had left,
who gave him a good character, supplied him with
some monej% and sent him the clothes he had left
Ijehind. James Montgomery was then a grave youth
of eighteen, never absent from his duty in the shop,
but tilling up all leisure time with the production of
MSS. His cliief friend was a neighbouring stationer
who had book parcels sometimes from Paternoster
Row. He represented literature, approved of Mont-
gomery's poems, and sent a parcel of them to " the
Row" -svith recommendations of their author, who was
following to find a publisher. Montgomery left Wath
in 1790 for Paternoster Row, where Mr. Han-ison, to
whom he had been introduced, declined to publish
his poems, but kindly oflered him a situation in his
shop. The poet still Avi-ote. Advised to try prose, he
tried a novel, tried an Eastern tale, failed, parted from
the shelter he had found in Paternoster Row, and
went back to the general store at Wath. His parents
meanwhile were suffering hard fortvuies at Barbadoes
and Tobago. At Tobago there was, in the summer of
1790, a mutiny of soldiers, who set the town on fire,
and in the follo'wing August a great hurricane. In
October, the poor missionary's wife died of fever,
after seven days' Ulness. In the following June, John
Montgomery followed her, and the young jjoet in
England became fatherless and motherless. Of the
last daj-s of the missionaiy in Tobago a comrade of
the mission wrote home : " You may easily believe
that our late brother's illness, which lasted sixteen
weeks, put us to no small inconvenience. The room
in which the negroes meet was the only place in
which we coidd lodge him, and we have no other
dining-room."
In ilarch, 1792, Montgomery, who was twenty-one
years old, read in the Sheffield Register an advertise-
ment for a clerk in a counting-house. He answered
it, and went in April to Sheffield as a clerk in the
employment of Joseph Gales, publisher of the Sheffield
Register, who was an enterpi-ising jM-inter, bookseller,
and auctioneer. Montgomery was soon an active
writer in the Sheffield Register, and shared the best
hopes of young and ardent minds that saw in the
French Revolution a gi-eat means for the regenera-
tion of society. At a meeting of the " Friends of
Peace and Reform " gathered in Sheffield on the
Fast Day, in February, 1794, this hymn, written for
the occasion by young James Montgomery, was dis-
tributed, and sung by the assembled thousands : —
HYJIJT.
O God of Hosts, Thine car incline,
Eegard our prayers, our cause be Thine :
When orphans cry, n-hen babes complain,
When widows weep, canst Thou refrain ?
Now red and terrible, Thine hand
Scourges with war our guilty land ;
Europe Thy flaming vengeance feels,
And from her deep foundations reels.
Her rivers bleed like mighty veins.
Her towers are ashes, graves her plains ;
Slaughter her groaning valleys tills,
And reeking carnage melts her Mils.
O Thou, whose awful word can bind
The roaring waves, the raging wind,
JIad tyrants tame, break down the high
Whose haughty foreheads beat the sky,
ilake bare Thine ai-m. great King of ICings 1
That arm alone salvation brings :
That wonder-working ai-m which broke
From Israel's neck the Egyptian yoke.
Eiu-st every dungeon, every chain !
Give injured slaves their rights again!
Let truth prevail, let discord cease.
Speak — and the world shall smile in peace !
In July, 1794, Joseph Gales left Sheffield to escape
prosecution for a letter in the Register. James
Montgomery, with help of money from a gentleman
whom he had not before kno%yn, and who became a
sleeping partner, bought the presses, types, and good-
will of the printing business, which was continued
by the fii'm of James Montgomery and Co. On the
4th of July the Sheffield Register was born again,
with an emblem of the world's hope m its new title,
the Sheffield Iris. In January, 1795, Montgomery
was tried at Doncaster, charged with printing, for a
street-hawker, " A Patriotic Song, by a Clergyman
of Belfast," which contained the stanza —
" Europe's fate on the contest's decision depends;
Most important its issue will be :
For shoiUd France be subdued, Europe's liberty ends;
If she triumplis, the world will be free."
James Montgomery. (From a Portrait taken in 1806.)
Montgomery was sentenced for this to three months'
imprisonment in York Castle, and a tine of £20. In
392
CASSELL'S LIBRAEY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1795
York Castle he wrote the vei-ses published in 1797
as "Prison Amusements;" and making Sheffield his
home, as his judgment and power ripened, Mont-
womeiy not only made the Sheffield Irk one of the
best journals in the provinces, but won more and
more attention an a poet. After he had published
other i)oems, "The Ocean" in 1805, and "The
Wanderer in Switzerland" in 1806, the abolition of
the African slave-trade in 1807 caused James Mont-
gomen' to write a poem in four parts on the " West
Indies." The giaves were there of his father and
mother, who had died in the service of God ; and
while he painted in the fii-st three books of this poem
with generous symi)athy the wrongs suffered by the
negro in the rise and progress of the traffic that his
countiy had jmt out her hand to stay, he opened the
fourth book with lines that must come to the heart
of those who remember what he knew of the devoted
lives of the Moravian nussionaries, to whom he thus
paid honour : —
MORAVIAN MISSIONS.
Was there no mercy, mother of the slave.
No friendly hand to succour and to save,
"While commerce thus thy captive tribes oppressed.
And lowering vengeance Unger'd o'er the west ?
Yes, Africa! beneath the stranger's rod
They found the freedom of the sons of God.
When Europe languish'd in barbarian gloom.
Beneath the ghostly tjTanny of Rome,
■WTiose second empire, cowled and mitred, burst
A phccnix from the ashes of the first ;
From Persecution's piles, by bigots tired,
Among Bohemian mountains ' truth retired ;
There, 'midst rude rocks, in lonely glens obscure,
She found a people scattered, scorned, and poor,
A little flock through quiet valleys led,
A Christian Israel in the desert fed.
While ravening wolves, that scorned the shepherd's hand.
Laid waste God's heritage thi'ough everj' land.
With these the lovely e.xile sojourned long;
Soothed by her presence, solaced by her song.
They toiled through danger, trials, and distress,
A band of virgins in the wilderness,
With bm-ning lamps, amid their secret bowers.
Counting the watches of the weary hours,
In patient hope the Bridegi-oom's voice to hear,
And see his banner in the clouds appear :
But when the mom returning chased the night,
These stars, that shone in darkness, sunk in light :
Luther, like Phosphor, led the conquering day,
His meek forerunners waned, and passed away.
Ages roUed by, the turf perennial bloomed
O'er the lorn relics of those saints entombed ;
' The Morarian Brethrea trace their descent from the Bohemian
reformers of the time of Huss. They had since that time endured in
their own country many persecutions before they were or!T.anised in
1722 by Count Zinzendorf at a settlement which they called Hermhut
(the Lord's Shelter), in Upper Lusatia. Since that date they have
been reorganised as a society of Brethren who hold property in
common, and seek to live only as servants of God. The charm of
their religious peace and their unselfish energy is felt by all who
come much into contact with them
No miracle proclaimed their power divine,
No kings adorned, no pilgrims kissed their shrine ;
Cold and forgotten in the grave they slept :
But God remembered them : — their Father kept
A faithful remnant ; — o'er their native clime
His Spirit moved in His appointed time.
The race revived at His almighty breath,
A seed to serve Him, from the dust of death.
' ' Go forth, my sons, through heathen realms procLiim
Mercy to sinners in a Saviour's name : "
Thus spake the Lord : they heard and they obeyed : —
Greenland lay wrapt in nature's heaviest shade ;
Thither the ensign of the cross they bore ; I
The gaunt barbarians met them on the shore ; I
With joy and wonder hailing from afar.
Through polar storms, the light of Jacob's star.
Where roll Ohio's streams, Missomi's floods.
Beneath the umbrage of eternal woods,
The Red Blan roamed, a hunter- warrior wild ;
On him the everlasting Gospel smiled ;
His heart was awed, confounded, pierced, subdued,
Di\Tnely melted, moulded, and renewed ;
The bold base savage, nature's harshest clod,
Rose from the dust the image of his God.
And thou, poor Negro I scorned of all mankind ;
Thou dumb and impotent, and deaf and blind ;
Thou dead in spirit ! toU-degi'aded slave.
Crushed by the curse on Adam to the grave;
The messengers of peace, o'er land and sea,
That sought the sons of sorrow, stooped to thee.
The captive raised his slow and sullen eye ;
He knew no friend, nor deemed a friend was nigh.
Till the sweet tones of Pity touched his ears.
And Mercy bathed his bosom with her tears ;
Strange were those tones, to him those tears were strange.
He wept and wondered at the mighty change.
Felt the quick pang of keen compunction dart,
And heard a small still whisper in his heart,
A voice from heaven, that bade the outcast rise
From shame on earth to glory in the skies.
From isle to isle the welcome tidings ran ;
The slave that heard them started into man :
Like Peter, sleeping in his chains, he lay,
The angel came, his night was turned to day :
" Arise ! " his fetters fall, his slumbers flee ;
He wakes to Ufe, he springs to liberty.
A little later in the poem, after celebration of the
men who had battled for the ending of this wi-ong —
Gran^ille Sharp (who established against opposition
the law of the Constitution that there are no slaves in
England, and a negro found in England must, there-
fore, be free), Clarkson, Wilbeiforce, Pitt, and Fox —
Montgomery remembers the pui-e love of liberty in
Cowper, and exclaims — •
Lamented Cowper ! in thy path I tread ;
! that on me were thy meek spiiit shed 1
The woes that wiing my bosom once were thine ;
Be all thy virtues, all thy genius, mine !
Peace to thy soul ! thy God thy portion be ;
And in His presence may I rest with thee I
TO A.D. 1854.]
RELIGION.
393
James Montgomery's chief poem was " Tlie World
before the Flood," published in 1S14. He died in
Aprd, 1854, his last work ha\'iiig been a volume of
" Original Hymns."
Reginald Heber, who died in 1S26, aged forty-
three, is remembered among writers of a generation
earlier than that with which some of the most
' vigorous of his contemporaries are associated. He
was really thi-ee years younger than Dr. Chalmers,
who lived more than twenty years longer, and seems,
therefore, to us the younger man. Reginald Heber
was liorn in Api-il, 1783, at INIalpas, in Cheshii'e.
He was made familiar with the Bible from his earliest
years, and it is said that he could, when five yeai'S
old, generally tell where any passage quoted from
it would be fovmd. He was also from early years in-
quisitive for knowledge of all kmds, and was never
seen in a passion. As a schoolboy, he found liLs chief
recreation in books ; but his livelmess and kindliness,
and readiness as a teller of good stories, kept him
always on the best terms with his schoolfellows. He
was still studying the Bible dady, and at sixteen or
seventeen considered Hooker's " Ecclesiastical Polity "
his fiivourite book. As a schoolboy, he was distin-
guished for his skill in composition. In 1800 he
went to Oxford, and joined Brasenose College, where
an elder brother was, as his father had been, a
Fellow. In his fii-st year he won the University
prize for Latin verse with a "Carmen Seculare" upon
the beginning of the Nineteenth Century. Palestine
was given as the subject for an extra prize in English
verse. Heber worked so hard at it that he brought
on an attack of illness, and was confined to his bed
for a few days when the poem was only half done ;
but he finished it, and won the prize with one of the
very best poems ever written by a young man upon
such an inducement. Its quality, and the profound
earnestness with which it was read by the young
student in 1803 — his age then being twenty — raised
the audience to enthusiasm at the public recitation.
This is the poem : —
PALESTINE.
Reft of thy sous, amid thy foes forlorn,
Mourn, widow'd Queen, forgotten Sion, mourn !
Is this thy place, sad City, this thy throne,
■Where the wild desert rears its craggy stone?
\Vhile suns unblest their angry lustres fli n g.
And way-worn phgTims seek the scanty spring ? —
Where now thy pomp, which kings with envy view'd?
Where now thy might, which all thoso kings subdu d ?
No martial myriads muster in thy gate ;
No supphaut nations in thy Temple wait ; 10
No prophet bards, thy ghttering comts among.
Wake the full IjTe, and swell the tide of song :
But lawless Force, and meagi-e Want is there,
And the quick-darting eye of restless Fear,
AVhUe cold ObUvion, 'mid thy ruins laid,
Folds his dank wing beneath the ivy shade.
Ye guardian saints ! )'e warrior sons of heaven.
To whose high care Jud«a's state was given !
O wont of old your nightly watch to keep,
A host of gods, on Sion's towery steep ! 20
If e'er your secret footsteps linger still
By Sdoa's fount, or Tabor's echoing hill ;
If e'er yom- song on Salem's glories dwell.
And mourn the captive land you loved so well ;
(For oft, 'tis said, in Kedi-on's palmy vale
Mysterious harpings swell the midnight gale.
And, blest as balmy dews that Hermon cheer,
Melt in soft cadence on the pilgrim's ear) ;
Forgive, blest spirits, if a theme so high
Mock the weak notes of mortal minstrelsy ! SO
Yet, might }"Our aid this anxious breast inspire
With one faint spark of Milton's seraph fire.
Then should my Muse ascend with bolder flight,
And wave her eagle-pliunes exulting in the hght.
happy once in heaven's peculiar love,
DeHght of men below, and saints above !
Though, Salem, now the spoiler's ruffian hand
Has loos'd his hell-hounds o'er thy wasted land ;
Though weak, and wholm'd beneath the storms of i»te,
Thy house is left unto thee desolate ; 40
Though thy proud stones in cumbrous ruin fall.
And seas of sand o'ertop thy mould'ring wall ;
Yet shall the Muse to Fancy's ardent -i-iew
Each shadowy trace of faded pomp renew :
And as the seer on Pisgah's topmost brow
With ghstening eye behold the plain below,
With prescient ardour di'ank the scented gale.
And bade the opening glades of Canaan hail ;
Her eagle eye shall scan the prospect wide,
From Carmel's cliffs to Almotana's tide SO
The flinty waste, the cedar-tufted hill.
The hquid health of smooth Ardeni's rill ; '
The grot, where, by the watch-fire's evening blaze,
The robber riots, or the hermit prays ;
Or where the tempest rives the hoary stone,
The wintry top of giant Lebanon.
Fierce, hardy, proud, in conscious freedom bold,
Those stormy seats the warrior Druses hold ;
From Norman blood their lofty line they trace,
Their Hon courage proves their generous race. 60
They, onlv they, while aU around them kneel
In sullen homage to the Thi-acian steel.
Teach their pale despot's waning moon to fear
The patriot ten-ors of the mountain spear.
Yes, valorous chiefs, while yet your sabres shine,
The native guard of feeble Palestine,
Oh, ever thus, by no vain boast dismay' d.
Defend the bhthright of the cedar shade !
What though no more for you th' obedient gale
Swells the white bosom of the Tyrian saU ; 70
Though now no more yom- gUtt'ring mai-ts unfold
Sidonian dyes and Lusitanian gold ;
Though not for you the pale and sickly slave
Forgets the Ught in OpMi-'s wealthy cave ;
Y'et yours the lot, m proud contentment blest,
Where cheerful labour leads to tranquil rest.
I Ardmi-sriU. In the days of poetic "diction," few geographioa.
names escaped the dissnuse of false finery. If a man meant " Jordan
it did not foUow that he woiUd say " Joi-dan." The Hebrew lettei^
"Tarden" would flow smoothly as Ardeni. Notes were m thoso
days an essential part of the equipment of a published poem The
poet had, therefore, a place in which he informed he r^der what he
meant by "Almotana's tide" and "Ardeni's oU. Young Heh^
was only doing what the taste of the time required, and he could have
quoted Aristotle on the elevating character of a few straiige «-ords m
a composition. The old woman was of one mind with fine critics of
her day when she found benefit to her soul ti-om the mere heai-ing of
" that blessed word ' Mesopotamia,' " which it was her good foituiie
not to imderstand.
394
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1803.
80
Xo roliber rage the ripening hai-%-est knows ;
And unrestrain'd the generous %Tntage flows :
Kor less your sons to manliest deeds aspire,
And Asia's mountains glow with Spartan fire.
So when, deep sinking in the rosy main,
The western Sun forsjikcs the S)-riau plain,
His waten,- rays refracted lustre shed,
And pour "their latest light on Carmel's head.
Yet shines your piaise, amid siu-rounding gloom,
As the lone' lamp that trembles in the tomb :
For few the souls that spurn a tyrant's chain.
And small the bounds of freedom's scanty reign.
As the poor outcast on the cheerless wild,
Arabia's parent, clasped her fainting child, 90
And wandered near the roof, no more her homo,
Porbid to hnger, yet afraid to roam :
My sorrowing Fancy quits the happier height.
And southw:u-d throws her half-averted sight.
For sad the scenes Juda;a's plains disclose,
A dreary waste of undistinguish'd woes :
See War untir'd his crimson pinions spread,
And foul Eevenge that tramples on the dead !
Lo, where from far the guarded fountains shine,
Thy tents, Nebaioth, rise, and Kedar, thine I 100
'Tis yours the boast to mark the stranger's way,
And spur your headlong chargers on the prey,
Or rouse your nightly numbers from afar.
And on the hamlet pour the waste of war ;
Nor spare the hoaiy head, nor bid your eye
Revere the sacred smile of infancy.
Such now the clans, whose fiery coursers feed
Where waves on Kishon's bank the whisp'ring reed ;
And theirs the soil, where, curling to the skies,
Smokes on Samaria's mount her scanty sacrifice ; 110
"WTiile Israel's sons, liy scorpion curses driven,
Outcasts of earth, and reprobate of heaven.
Through the wide world in fi-iendless exile stray.
Remorse and shame sole comrades of their way.
With dumb despair their countiy's wrongs behold.
And, dead to glory, only bum for gold.
Thou, their Guide, their Father, and their Lord,
Lov'd for Thy mercies, for Thy power adored 1
If at Thy name the waves forgot their force.
And refluent Jordan sought his trembling source ; 120
If at Thy Name like sheep the mountains fled,
And haughty Sirion boVd his marble head ; — ■
To Israel's woes a pitj-ing ear incline.
And raise from earth Thy long-neglected vine !
Her rifled fruits behold the heathen bear.
And wild-wood boars her mangled clusters tear.
Was it for this she stretched her peopled reign
From far Euphrates to the western main ?
For this o'er many a hill her boughs she threw.
And her wide arms like goocUy cedars grew ? 130
For this, proud Edom slept beneath her shade.
And o'er th' Arabian deep her branches play'd ?
feeble boast of transitory power !
Vain, fruitless trust of Judah's happier hour !
Not such their hope, when through the parted main
The cloudy wonder led the warrior tram :
Not such their hope, when thi-ough the fields of night
The torch of heaven difJus'd its friendly light :
Not, when fierce conquest urg'd the onward war.
And hurl'd stem Canaan from his iron car : 140
Nor, when five monarchs led to Gibeon's fight,
In rude array, the harness' d Amorite :
Yes — in that hour by mortal accents stay'd,
The lingering Sun his fiery wheels delay'd ;
The lloon, obedient, trembled at the sound,
Curb'd her pale car-, and check'd her mazy round!
Let Sinai tell— for she beheld His might,
And God's own darkness veUed her mystic height ;
(He, cherub-borae, upon the w-hiiiwind rode.
And the red mountain like a furnace glow'd) : 150
Let Sinai tell — but who shall d:u'e recite
His praise, His power, eternal, infinite ? —
Awe-struck I cease ; nor bid my strains aspire.
Or serve His altar with unhallow'd fire.
Such were the cares that watched o'er Israel's fate.
And such the glories of their infant state.
— Triumphant race ! and did your power decay ?
FaU'd the bright promise of your early day 'i
No ; — by that sword, which, red with heathen gore,
A giant spoil, the strijiling champion bore ; 160
By him, the chief to farthest India known.
The mighty master of the ivory throne ;
In heaven's own strength, high towering o'er her foes.
Victorious Salem's lion banner rose :
Before her footstool prostrate nations lay,
And vassal tyrants crouch'd beneath her sway.
— And he, the kingly sage, whose restless min d
Through nature's mazes wander'd unconfin'd;
WTio ev'ry bird, and beast, and insect knew.
And spake of ever}- jilant that quaffs the dew ; 170
To him were known — so Hagar's oft'spring teU — ■
The powerful sigil and the starry spell.
The midnight call, hell's shadowy legions dread.
And sounds that burst the slumbers of the dead.
Hence all his might ; for who could these oppose .'
And Tadmor thus, and Syrian Balbcc rose.
Yet e'en the works of toUing Genii fall.
And vain was Estakhar's enchanted wall.
In frantic converse with the mournful wind.
There oft the houseless Santon rests reclin'd ; 180
Strange shapes he views, and drinks with wond'ring
ears
The voices of the dead, and songs of other years.
Such, the faint echo of departed "praise.
Still sound Ai-abia's legendary lays ;
And thus their fabling bards delight to tell
How lovely were thy tents, Israel !
For thee his iv'ry load Behemoth bore.
And far Sofala teem'd with golden ore ;
Thine all the arts that wait on wealth's increase.
Or bask and wanton in the beam of peace. 190
WTien Tyber slept beneath the cj-press gloom.
And sUenee held the lonely woods of Rome ;
Or ere to Greece the builder's skill was kno'mi.
Or the light chisel bnish'd the Parian stone ;
Yet here fair Science nui's'd her infant fire,
Fann'd by the artist aid of friendly Tyre.
Then tower'd the palace, then in awful state
The Temple rear'd its everlasting gate.'
• Walter Scott, after tlie poem was finished, heard Heber read it,
and enjoyed it greatly, hut called attention to the omission of a ix)int
in the original narrative of the building: of the Temple that \va3
sti-iidntrly poetical: "There was neither hammer, nor ase, nor any
tool of ii-on heard in the house, wliile it was in building" (1 Kings
vi. 7). Heber at once added the next reference to " majestiu silence."
A.D. 1803.]
EELIGIOK
395
Xo workman steel, no pond'rous axes rung ;
Lite some tall palm the noiseless fabric sprung. 200
Majestic silence ! — then the harp awoke,
The cymbal clang' d, the deep-voic'd trumpet spoke;
And Salem spread her suppliant arms abroad,
View'd the descending flame, and bless'd the present
God.
Nor shrunk she then, -when, raging deep and loud,
Beat o'er her soul the billows of the proud.
E'en they who, dragg'd to Shinar's iiery sand,
Till'd with reluctant strength the stranger's land ;
Who sadly told the slow-revolving years.
And steep'd the captive's bitter bread with tears ; — 210
Tet oft their hearts with kindling hopes would bum,
Their destin'd triumphs, and their glad retiu-n,
And their sad Ijtcs, which, silent and unstrung,
In mournful ranks on Babel's willows hung,
Would oft awake to chant their future fame,
And from the skies their ling' ring Sariour claim.
His promis'd aid could every fear controul ;
This nerv'd the warrior's arm, this steel'd the martyr's
soul 1
Nor vain their hope : — Bright beaming through the
sk}-.
Burst in full blaze the Day-spring from on high , 220
Earth's utmost isles exulted at the sight,
And crowding nations drank the orient light.
Lo, star-led chiefs AssjTian odours bi-ing.
And bending Magi seek their infant King !
Mark'd ye, where, hov'ring o'er His radiant head,
The dove's white wings celestial glory shed ?
Daughter of Sion ! vii'gin queen I rejoice !
Clap the glad hand, and lift th' exulting voice !
He comes, — but not in regal splendour drest,
The haughty diadem, the Tj-rian vest ; 230
Not arm'd in flame, aU-glorious from afar,
Of hosts the chieftain, and the lord of war :
Messiah comes : — let furious discord cease ;
Be peace on earth before the Prince of Peace !
Disease and anguish feel His blest controul.
And howling fiends release the tortured soul ;
The beams of gladness heU's dark caves illume,
And Mercy broods above the distant gloom.
Thou palsied earth, with noonday night o'erspread I
Thou sick'ning sun, so dark, so deep, so red I 240
Ye hov'ring ghosts, that throng the starless air,
■Why shakes the earth f why fades the light? declare!
Are those His limbs, with ruthless scourges torn ?
His brows, all bleeding with the twisted thorn ?
His the pale form, the meek forgi\Tng eye
Raised from the cross in patient agony ?
— Be dark, thou sun, — thou noonday night arise.
And hide, oh hide, the dreadful sacrifice I
Ye faithful few, by bold affection led.
Who round the Saviour's cross your sorrows shed, 250
Not for His sake your tearful vigils keep : —
Weep for your country, for your children weep I
Vengeance ! thj- fiery wing their race pursued ;
Thy thirsty poniard blush'd \rith infant blood.
Rous' d at thy call, and panting stUl for game,
The bird of war, the Latian eagle came.
Then Judah raged, by rufiian Discord led,
Drunk with the steamy carnage of the dead :
He saw his sons by dubious slaughter fall.
And war without, and death within the wrdl. 260
Wide-wasting Pkgue, gaunt Famine, mad Despair,
And dire Debate, and clamorous Strife was there :
Love, strong as Death, retained his might no more.
And the pale parent drank her children's gore.
Yet they, who wont to roam th' ensanguined plain.
And spurn with feU deUght their kindred slain;
E'en they, when, high above the dusty fight,
Their burning Temple rose in lurid light,
To theii- loved altars paid a parting groan,
And in their country's woes forgot their own. 270
As 'mid the cedar com-ts, and gates of gold,
The tramijled ranks in miry carnage roU'd,
To save their Temple everj' hand essay' d.
And with cold fingers grasp'd the feeble blade :
Through their torn veins reriving furj- ran,
And Ufe's List anger warmed the d_\-ing man 1
But hearier far the fetter'd captive's doom :
To glut with sighs the iron ear of Rome :
To swell, slow-pacing by the cai-'s taU side.
The stoic tjTant's philosophic pride ; 280
To flesh the lion's rav'nous jaws, or feel
The sportive fury of the fencer's steel;
Or pant, deep plung'd beneath the sultry minS;
For the Ught gales of bahny Palestine.
Ah ! fruitful now no more, — an empty coast,
She mourned her sons enslaved, her glories lost :
In her wide streets the lonely raven bred.
There barked the wolf, and dire hyrenas fed.
Yet midst her towery fanes, in ruin laid,
The pilgrim saint his mui-nim'uig vespers paid ; 290
'Twas his to climb the tufted rocks, and rove
The chequered twilight of the olive grove ;
'Twas his to bend beneath the sacred gloom.
And wear with many a kiss Messiah's tomb :
While forms celestial fiUed his tranced eye,
The day-light dreams of pensive piety.
O'er his still breast a tearfid fervour stole.
And softer sorrows charmed the mourner's soul.
Oh, lives there one, who mocks his artless zeal ?
Too proud to worship, and too wise to feel i 300
Be his the soul with wintry Reason blest.
The dull, lethargic sovereign of the breast !
Be his the life that creeps in dead repose.
No joy that sparkles, and no tear that flows !
Far other they who rear'd yon pompous shrine.
And bade the rock with Parian marble shine.
Then hallow'd Peace renewed her wealthy reign.
Then altars smoked, and Sion smiled again.
There sculptm-ed gold and costly gems were seen,
And aU the bounties of the British queen ; 310
There barb' reus kings their sandal' d nations led.
And steel-clad champions bowed the crested head.
There, when her fiery race the desert pour'd.
And pale Byzantium fear'd Medina's sword,
WTien coward Asia shook in trembling woe.
And bent appalled before the Bactrian bow ;
From the moist regions of the western star
The wand' ring hermit waked the storm of war.
Their limbs aU iron, and their soxils all flame,
A countless host, the red-cross warriors came : 320
E'en hoary priests the sacred combat wage,
And clothe in steel the palsied ai-m of age ;
"WMIe beardless youths and tender maids assume
The weighty motion and the glancing plume.
396
CASSELL'S LIBEARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1803
In sportive pride the warrior damsela wield
The pond'rous falcliion and the sun-like shield,
And start to see their armour's iron gleam
Dance with blue lustre in Tabaria's stream.
The l)lood-rcd banner floating o'er their van,
All madly blithe the mingled myi'iads ran : 330
Impatient Death beheld his destin'd food,
And hov'ring vultures snuff'd the scent of blood.
Not such the nimibers, nor the host so dread,
By northern Brenn or Scj-thian Timur led.
Nor such the heart-inspiring zeal that bore
United Greece to Phrygia's reedy shore !
There Gaul's proud knights with boastful mien ad-
vance
Form the long line, and shake the cornel lance ;
Here, linked with Thrace, in close battalions stand
Ausonia's sons, a soft inglorious band; 340
There the stern Norman joins the Austrian train.
And the dark tribes of late-reviWng Spain ;
Here in black files, advancing firm and slow.
Victorious Albion twangs the deadly bow : —
Albion, — still prompt the captive's 'oTong to aid,
And wield in freedom's cause the freeman's generous
blade !
Ye sainted spirits of the warrior dead,
Whose giant force Britannia's armies led !
Whose bickering falchions, foremost in the fight,
Still ponr'd confusion on the Soldan's might ; 350
Lords of the biting axe .and beamy spear.
Wide-conquering Edward, lion Richard, hear I
At Albion's call your crested pride resume.
And burst the marble slimibers of the tomb !
Your sons behold, in arm, in heart the same.
Still press the footsteps of parental fame.
To Salem still their generous aid supply
And pluck the palm of Syrian chivalry !
When he, from towery JIalta's yielding isle.
And the green wati^rs of reluctant Nile, 360
Th' Apostate chief, — from Misraim's subject shore
To Acre's walls his trophied banners bore ;
When the pale desert mark'd his proud array,
And Desolation hoped an ampler sway ;
What hero then triumphant Gaul dismayed ?
What aiTU repelled the victor Renegade ? '
Britannia's champion !— bathed in hostile blood.
High on the breach the dauntless Seaman stood :
Achniring Asia saw th' unequal fight,— 369
E'en the pale crescent blessed the Christian's might.
d.ay of death ! thirst, beyond controul,
Of crimson conquest in th' Invader's soul!
The slain, yet warm, by social footsteps trod,
O'er the red moat suppKed a panting road ;
O'er the red moat our conquering thunders flew,
And loftier still the grisly rampire grew.
While proudly glowed .above the rescued tower
The wavy cross that marked Britannia's power.
Yet still destruction sweeps the lonely plain.
And heroes lift the generous sword in vain.
Still o'er her sky the clouds of anger roll.
And God's revenge hangs heavy on her soul.
380
» Sir Sidney Smith relievea Acre in 1799, and after resisting twelve
attempts by the French between Mai-ch 16 and May 20, compeUed
Bonapai-te to retire. x ^^
Yet shall she rise ; — but not by war restor'd.
Not built in mm-der, planted by the sword.
Yes, Salem, thou shalt rise : thy Father's aid
Shall heal the wound His chastening hand has made;
Shall judge the proud oppressor's ruthless sway,
And burst his brazen bonds, and cast his cords away.
Then on your tops shall deathless verdure spring.
Break forth, ye mountains, and ye valleys, sing ! 390
No more yom- thirsty rocks shall frown forloi-n.
The unbeliever's jest, the heathen's scoin;
The sultry sands shall tenfold harvests jaeld.
And a new Eden deck the thorny field.
E'en now, perchance, wide-waving o'er the land,
That mighty Angel lifts his golden wand,
Cotu'ts the bright vision of descending power,
ToUs every gate, and measures every tower ;
And chides the tardy seals that j'et detain
Thy Lion, Judah, from his destined reign. 400
And who is He ? the vast, the awful form,
Girt with the whii-lwind, sandal'd with the storm ?
A western cloud around His limbs is spread.
His crown a rainbow, and a sun His head.
To highest heaven He lifts His kingly hand.
And treads at once the ocean and the land ;
And, hark ! His voice amid the thunder's roar.
His dreadful voice, that Time shall be no more !
Lo ! cherub hands the golden courts prepare,
Lo I thrones arise, and every saint is there ; 410
Earth's utmost bounds confess their awful sway.
The mountains worship, .and the isles obey;
Nor sun nor moon they need, — nor da)', nor night ;-
God is their temple, and the Lamb their light.
And shall not Israel's sons exulting come,
Hail the glad beam, and claim theii' ancient home ?
On D.avid's thi-ono shall David's offspring reign.
And the di-y bones be warm with life again.
Hark ! white-robed crowds their deep hosannas raise,
And the hoarse flood repeats the sound of praise ; 420
Ten thousand hai-jis attune the mystic song.
Ten thousand thousand saints the strain prolong : —
" Worthy the Lamb ! omnipotent to save,
'WTio died, who lives, triumphant o'er the grave ! "
Two years later, in 1805, Reginald Heber
graduated, and obtained a Fellowship at All Souls'.
Next year he obtained the prize for an English essay
on "The Sense of Honour." Then he extended liis
education by a period of travel in Germany and
Russia, took ordei-s in 1807, and was made rector of
Hodnet, Shropshire, to which living his brother (for
his father died in 1804) had the presentation. As
Rector of Hodnet, Reginald Heber married in 1 809,
published a short poem on the war in Eui-ope, and
among other writings, began in 1811 the publication
of his Hymns for the Sundays and chief Holidays
of the Year in the Christian Observer. He became,
about 1817, a prebendary of St. Asaph, where his
wife's father was dean. It was in 1817 that Dr.
Thomas Chalmers published his .series of Discouises
on " The Christian Revelation, viewed in connection
with the modern Astronomy." Heber was delighted
with them, and wrote to a friend : " Have you read
Chalmers' Sermons? I can at present read littie
I
TO A.D, lS2i3.3
RELIGION.
397
else ; so miicli am I taken with the richness of the
matter, in sjjite of one of the worst styles that ever
matter was encumbered with, on this side of chaos.
I heartily wish that somebody would translate him
into French ; his arguments would do infinite good
to the cause of Chiistianity on the Continent ; and
his beauties are precisely of the kind which lose
Beginald Hebeb.
From flic Portraii prefixed in 1827 to his Memoirs published by hii Widow.
nothing by transfusion into another language, and
which would be extremely popular abroad." In 1819,
when Heber was paying a visit to his father-in-law,
the dean was to preach at Wrexham on behalf of the
Society for the Projiagation of the Gospel, and asked
Heber to wi-ite for him a hymn to be sung at the
close of the sermon. He ilid so, and the result was
this
MISSIONARY HYMN.
From Greenland's icy mountains,
From India's coral strand,
Where Afi-ic's sunny fountains
Roll down their golden sand ;
From many an ancient river,
From many a palmy plain,
They call us to deliver
Their land from error's chain.
TVTiat, though the spicy hreczes
Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle,
Though every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile ;
For vain w-ith la^■^sh kindness
The gifts of God are strewn ;
The heathen in his blindness
Bows down to wood and stone :
Shall we, whose souls are lighted
With wisdom from on high ;
Shall we to men benighted
The lamp of life deny ?
Salvation ! salvation !
The joyful sound proclaim.
Till each remotest nation
Has learnt Messiah's name!
Waft, waft, ye winds, his story,
And you, ye waters, roll,
Till, like a sea of glory,
It spreads fi-om pole to pole ;
Till o'er our ransomed nature
The Lamb for sinners slain.
Redeemer, King, Creator,
In bUss returns to reign.
About this time also Heber accepted a publisher's
commission to write a Life of Jeremy Taylor for an
edition of his Complete Works. In 1822 Heber was
chosen preacher of Lincoln's Imi, and in January,
1823, he was, appointed to the bishopric of Calcutta.
He was now himself joined to the number of the
missionaries. Of his life and travel in. India Bishop
Heber kept an interesting journal, which was pub-
lished. But after only three years of his ministra-
tion there, on the 3rd of April, 1826, after an addiess
to some native Chi'istians at Trichinopoly, he went
to a bath, which was filled by a spring beyond
his depth. After half an hour, as he had not yet
come out, his servant entered and found him lying
dead under the water. His death was ascribed to
apoplexy.
Thomas Chalmers was the sixth of fourteen chil-
dren of a dyer and shipowner at Anstruther, in
Fifeshire. He was born in March, 1780; educated
first in the parish school at Anstruther, then at the
University of St. Andrews, where he was trained in
theolog}% and at the age of nineteen was licensed to
preach. In 1799 and 1800 he studied at the Uni-
versity of Edinburgh, and showed a great interest in
mathematics and natural science. He assisted a
clei-gyman, assisted a mathematical professor, before
May, 1803, when, at the age of twenty-three, he
obtained a living of his own at Kilmany, in Fife-
shire, and joined to his clerical duties the not less
congenial work of a teacher of mathematics iind
chemisti-y at St. Andrews. In 1804 and 1805 he
was an unsuccessful candidate for professorships ; one
of Natural Philosophy, at St. Andi-ews, and one of
Science, at Edinburgh. In the -winter of 1809-10
the minister of Kilmany nan-owly escaped with his
life from serious illness; he recovered with a sense
of religion so much deepened by thought upon the
sick-bed that a new intensity of feeling came into
his preaching, and without putting away his pleasure
in scientific inquiries, they also became thenceforth
a part of his religious life. ' In 1812 he married, and
in 1813 an article on Christianity, that he had been
wi-itmg before his illness, appeared in the Edinhtrgh
EncydopcecUa. It was then developed into a some-
what larger work, and published separately as a
treatise on "The E\'idences of Christianity." In
1815, at the age of thirty-sLx, Chalmers left IvUmany
to become pastor of the Tron Church at Glasgow, and
the University of Glasgow gave him, in the follo^^'ing
398
CASSELL'S LIBRAKY OF ENGLISH LITEEATUEE.
[a.d. 1815
year, the decree of D.D. Chalmers was in Glasgow
for eisjlit vears, from 1815 to 1823, as miiiister, tirst
of the Trou pai-ish, and then of St. John's. During
this time his fame spread as that of the most power-
ful preacher in the kingdom. His was not the
eloquence that only wins the ear. He was per-
sonally ma.ssive and large-headed, and there was in
him a massive force of thought, a vigorous brain at
work, and a heart stiiTed by his theme. He gave to
his hearers, as he poured himself out in broad pro-
vincial Scotch, something to feel ^^'ith him while he
s]X)ke, of which the gi-eater part stayed to be thought
of afterwards. The Astronomical Discourses, that
we found Heber fascinated by, were delivered at
Glasgow, in 1816, as a series of week-day lectures
on " The Christian Revelation viewed in connection
•n-ith the ^Modern Astronomy." When published in
1817 the book became almost as popidar as one of
the Waverley Novels, of which the series had com-
menced three yeai-s before. Its design was to meet
astronomical objections to the truth of the Gospel,
and, as Chalmers expressed it, to " strip Infidelity of
those pretensions to enlargement and to a certain air
of philoso])liical gi'eatness, by wluch it has often
become so destructively alluring to the young, the
ardent, and the ambitious." The themes of the
seven discourses are, " A Sketch of the Modem
Astronomy ; " " The J\Iodesty of Tme Science ; "
"The Extent of the Divine Condescension;" "The
Knowledge of jNIan's Moral HLstoiy in the Distant
Places of Creation;" "The Sympathy that is felt
for Man in the Distant Places of Creation ; " " The
Contest for an Ascendancy over Man amongst the
Higher Orders of Intelligence ; " and " The Slender
Influence of Mere Taste and Sensibility in Matters
of Religion." The following passage is taken from
the last of these discourses, which has its text from
the thirty-third chapter of Ezekiel : — " And lo, thou
art imto them as a very lovely song of one who hath
a pleasant voice, and can play well on an instru-
ment : for they hear thy words, but they do them
not." The theme was apt for a time when there
was still undue stress being laid in life and literature
upon sentiment and sensibility.
RELIGIOUS SENSIBILITY.
Have you never heard any tell, and with complacency too,
how powerfully his devotion was awakened by an act of
attendance on the oratorio — how his heart, melted and sub-
dued by the influence of harmony, did homage to all the
religion of which it was the reliicle— how he was so moved
and overborne, thtit he had to shed the tears of contrition,
and to be agitated by the terrors of judgment, and to receive
an awe ujion his spii-it of the greatness and the majesty of
God— and that wTought up to a lofty pitch of eternity, he
could look down upon the world, and by the glance of one
commanding survey, pronounce upon the littleness and vanity
of all its concerns r Oh! it is very possible that all this
might thrill upon the ears of the man, and circulate a suc-
cession of solemn and affecting images around his fancy;
and yet that essential principle of his nature, upon which the
practical influence of Christianity turns, might have met
with no reaching and no subduing efficacy whatever to arouse
It. He leaves the exhibition, as dead in trespasses and sins
as when he came to it. Conscience has not wakened upon
him. Kepentance has not turned him. Faith has not made
anv positive lodgment within him of her great and constraiu-
inc reaUties. He speeds him back to his business and to his
family, and there he plays off the old man in all the entire-
ness of his uncrucified temper, and of his obstinate world-
liness, and of all those earthly and unsanctified affections
which are foimd to cleave to him with as great tenacity aa
ever. He is really and experimentally the very same man as
before ; and all those sensibilities which seemed to bear upon
them so much of the air and unction of heaven, are found
to go into dissipation, and be forgotten with the loveliness of
the song.
A Til id all that illusion which such momentary visitations of
seriousness and of sentiment throw around the character of a
man, let us never lose sight of the test, that " by their fi-uits
ye shall know them." It is not coming up to this test, that
you hear and are delighted. It is that you hear and do.
This is the gi-ound upon which the reality of your religion is
disciiminated now ; and on the day of reckoning, this is the
ground upon which your religion wiU bo judged then; and
that award is to be passed upon you, which wUl fix and per-
petuate your destiny for ever. You have a taste for music.
This no more impUes the hold and the ascendancy of religion
over you than that you have a taste for beautiful scenery, or
a taste for painting, or even a taste for the sensualities of
epicurism. But music may be made to express the glow and
the movement of devotional feeling ; and is it saying nothing
to say that the hcai-t of bim who listens with a raptiu:ed ear
is through the whole time of the performance in hannony
with such a movement ? '^^Tiy, it is saying nothing to the
purpose. Music may lift the inspiring note of patriotism,
and the inspiration may be felt ; and it may thrill over the
recesses of the soul, to the mustering up of all its energies ;
and it may sustain to the last cadence of the song the firm
nerve and purpose of intrepidity ; and all this may be realised
upon him who in the day of battle, and upon actual collision
with the dangers of it, tiuns out to be a coward. And music
may lull the feelings into unison with piety ; and stir up the
inner man to lofty determinations ; and so engage for a time
his affections, that as if weaned from the dust, they promise
an immediate entrance upon some great and elevated career,
which may carry him through his pilgrimage superior to
all the sordid and gi-oveUing enticements that abound in it.
But he turns him to the world, and all this glow abandons
him ; and the words which he hath heard, he doeth them not,
and in the hoiu- of temptation he turns out to be a deserter
from the law of allegiance ; and the test 1 have now specified
looks hard upon him, and discriminates him amid all the
parading insignificance of his fine but fugitive emotions, to
be the subject both of present guilt and of future vengeance.
The faithful application of this test would put to flight a
host of other delusions. It maj' be carried round amongst
all those phenomena of human character, where there is the
exhibition of something associated with religion, but which is
not religion itself. An exquisite relish for music is no test of
the influence of Christianity. Xeither are many other of the
exquisite sensibUities of our nature. When a kind mother
closes the eyes of her expiring babe, she is thron-n into a
flood of sensibility, and soothing to her heart are the sjtu-
pathy and the prayers of an attending minister. When a
gathering neighbourhood assemble to the funeral of an
acquaintance, one pervading sense of regret and tenderness
sits on the faces of the company; and the deep silence,
broken only by the solemn utterance of the man of God,
carries a kind of pleasing religiousness along -n-ith it. The
sacredness of the hallowed day, and all the decencies of its
observation, may engage the affections of him who lores to
TO A.D. 1S47.]
EELIGION.
399
walk in the footsteps of his father ; and even' recurring
Sabbath may bring to his bosom the charm of its regularity
and its quietness. Religion has its accompaniments ; and in
these there may be a something to soothe and to fascinate,
even in the absence of the appropriate influences of religion.
The deep and tender impression of a familj- bereavement is
not rehgion. The chm-m of aU that sentimentaUsm which
is associated mth many of its solemn and affecting services,
is not religion. They may form the distinct folds of its
accustomed drapery ; but they do not, any or aU of them put
together, make up the substance of the thing itself. A
mother's tenderness maj- flow most gracefully over the tomb
of her departed little one ; and she may talk the while of that
heaven whither its spirit has ascended. The man whom
death hath widowed of his friend may abandon himself to
the movements of that grief, which for a time will claim an
ascendancy over him ; and amongst the multitude of his other
reveries, may love to hear of the eternity where sorrow and
separation are unknown. He who has been trained, from his
infant days, to remember the Sabbath, may love the holiness
of its aspect, and associate himself with all its obser%'ances,
and take a delighted share in the mechiinism of its forms.
But, let not these think, because the tastes and sensibilities
which engross them may be blended with religion, that they
indicate either its strength or its existence within them. I
recur to the test. I press its imperious exactions upon you.
I call for fruit, and demand the permanency of a religious
influence on the habits and the history. Oh 1 how many who
take a flattering unction to their souls, when they think of
their amiable feehngs, and their becoming observations, with
whom this touchstone would, Hke the head of Medusa, put to
flight all their complacency ! The aiflictive dispensjition is
forgotten, and he on whom it was laid is practically as in-
different to God and to eternity as before. The Sabbath
services come to a close, and they are followed by the same
routine of week-day worldliness as before. In neither the
one case nor the other do we see more of the radical influence
of Christianity than in the sublime and melting influence of
sacred music upon the soul ; and all this tide of emotion is
found to die away from the bosom, like the pathos or like the
loveliness of a song.
Dr. Chalmers applied practical Christiamty to his
parish in Glasgow by forming organizations of
workers to ^"isit the poor, establish schools, and, as
far as nii<jht be, brins; relicrion into all its daily life.
He held religion — a religion of duty, not of sentiment
— -to be the .surest remed}- for the chief .social ills
that men had sought in other ways to le.ssen. Like
Wordsworth, he laid hold of the thought now under-
l^Tng the best work of the nineteenth centuj-y, that
the growth of all lies in the gi-owth of each; that the
way to tlie distant accomplishment of the best hope
'liat preceded the French revolution, hope of a new
1-1 for humanity, is only by the development of each
individual citizen; and in that development he held
i-eligion to be of all aids the one most needful. The
result of his experiment within his parish (that was,
iimong other tilings, to aid the poor without a poor-
aw), Chalmers published, together with the ideas
ipon which he based it, in quarterly tracts "On the
•■''hristian and Civic Economy of Large To^vns," which
appeared between 1819 and 1823. He wrote also in
1817 two articles on Pauperism in the Edhihvrrjh
Reviev}, which belong to the same effort to join
religion to the daily work of life. Li 1823, Thomas
Chalmers left the pidpit, and became Professor of
Moral Philosophy at St. Anch-ews; and after five
years in this office, he became, in 1828, Divinity
Professor at the University of Edinbm-gh. Li that
office he became a power in Edinburgh for the next
fifteen yeai-s. In 1833, he contributed to the series
of treatises called forth by the Earl of Bridgewater's
bequest of £8,000 for treatises to be written^iu proof
of the ^visdom and benevolence of the Deity, as
manifested in the works of Creation. The argument
was an-anged under eight heads, and a fit WTiter was
asked for a treatise illustrating each. The subject
accepted by Chalmers was " The Power, Wisdom,
and Goodness of God, as manifested in the Adaptation
of External Nature to the Moral and Intellectual
Constitution of Man."
In 18i3, Dr. Chalmers headed the .secession of four
hunch-ed ministers fi-om the Scottish Established
Church to foi-m a new Free Church. By this secession
Chalmers gave up his Divinity Professorship at the
University of Edinburgh, and became Principal and
Divinity Profes.sor at the new College, foimded by
the seceders. His was the master-spii-it in the
organization of the new Free Chui-ch of Scotland,
and at the age of six;t}'-seven he was about to take
part in one of its General Assemblies, when he
was found dead in his bed on the morning of the
31st of May, 1847.
The gi-oimd of separation of the Free Church
from the Scottish Establishment was an attempt
made by the party to wMeh Dr. Chalmers belonged
to put some check upon misuse of tlie patronage
of church liv-ings. Chalmers had been a power in
the Scottish Church Assembly, and had succeeded
there in passing, in the yeai- 1834, an Act which
allowed congi-egations to put a veto on the appoint-
ment of unwelcome ministei-s. This was regarded
on the other side as an illegal interference 'with the
rights of patrons, and a breach of established rela-
tions between Chiu-cli and State. The end to the
dispute was a resolve to recover at once the rights
claimed, in a separate Free Chm-ch. Dr. Chalmei-s
himself, at the time of the secession, thus stated his
case in a letter to Professor Sedgwick of Cambridge,
dated the 1.5th of March, 1844, and since included
in his published correspondence : —
THE SECESSION IX THE SCOTTISH CHURCH.
I shall undertake no more than to fill up this sheet by as
succinct and s}-noptical a statement as I can possibly give
within such narrow limits of our Scottish Church question.
For the sake of brevity let me present you with the leading
points in numerical order : —
1. The line of demarcation between the civil and the
ecclesiastical was a great topic of contention between the
Church and State in Scotland during nearly the whole of
the seventeenth century, which at length, after the perse-
cutions and the martyrdoms of twenty-eight years of the
reigns of Charles II. and James II., was terminated by the
Revolution Settlement.
2. By this Settlement, the relation in which the Church
and State stood to each other was definitely bid down. It
forms, in fact, the great charter of our constitutional law and
liberties, and was solenmly renewed and ratified by the
-irtidea of Union between the two kingdoms.
400
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
lA.D. 1804.
3. B)- this charter it is provided that the government of
the Church is distinct from that of the civil magistrate, and
the final jurisdiction in things spiritual was vested in our
ecclesiastical Com-ts. But ours being an Established Church,
questions occasionally arose which involved temporaUties
along with matters of purely ecclesiastical government ; and ,
so it°was further provided that, where on those questions the !
decisions of the civil and ecclesiastical Courts conflicted with
each other, the ci\'il decisions should infer only civil effects,
and the ecclesiastical only the ecclesiastical effects ; and tiU
within these few years nothing was of more familiar occui--
rence than the decisions of the Church Coui-ts taking effect
as to all matters of discipline, and ordination, and Church
government, and the contrary decisions of the Law Courts
takim; effect hy the forfeiture of the temporalities, and of
consequence the separation of the emoluments from the
duties of the pastoral office. This precluded the respective
powers from ever coming into collision, while they operated
powerfully and often wholesomely as a check upon each
other.
4. In 1712, or twenty-two years after the Revolution
Settlement, and five years after the Union, the Act of Queen
Aime, for the restoration of patronage, was passed. But for
more tlian a century after this, the great constitutional
principle of the separate jurisdictions of the two sets of
Courts— the civil and the ecclesiastical — and the confinement
of each within their own proper sphere, was observed invio-
lable. Contrary decisions were sometimes given on the same
question as before, but stiU the minister, whom the ecclesi-
astical Court admitted to any given cure, was charged with
all its duties, though if, unfortunately, as it occasionally
happened, the civil Court gave a decision adverse to his civU
rights as a minister, he behoved to relinquish the temporaUties
of the office.
5. And not till within these three or four years has the
discovery been made that the Act of Queen Anne did envelop
a contradiction to the principles of the Revolution Settlement
and the Aiticles of Union ; a discovery which ran as counter
to all the previous conceptions of the ci^-ilians as to the eccle-
siastics in this country — and upon which the ci\-il Courts
now do what, for a hundred and fifty years, they had never
offered to do — overrule the discipline, and ordinations, and
all the other judgments of our Ecclesiastical Court; thus
taking upon themselves the entire government of the Church
of Scotland.
6. On this discovery being made, an application came from
the Church to the Legislatui-e — the object of which was to
remodel that one law so as to bring it into union with that
prior and original constitution, upon which our Church
entered into union with the State in 1690, and Scotland
entered into union with England in 1707. It was in fact
asking of them nothing more than to rectify their own
blunder, so that no subsequent act of theirs should be
suffered to %-iolate the prior constitution which they them-
selves had ratified.
7. The application to Parliament was disregarded; and
when the Church was thus defeated in her attempts to
obtain redress on the gToimd of the British Constitution,
she had no other choice than to fall back on the ground
of her original principles, appeal to her own conscience,
and submit these anew to the decision of her own con-
science—that conscience which bore her honourably through
the struggles of the seventeenth century, and at length won
for her a constitution in which she could acquiesce : and so
she relinquishes her connection with the State, rather than
submit to the govei-nment of the civil power in those matters
which she deemed to be sacredly and peculiarly her own.
Parliament abolished patronage in tlie State Cliurcb
of Scotland by an Act passed in June, ISli.
1^^
I
Thomas Chalmers.
From a Portrait by Andrew Geddes (1821). Engraved for Dr. Hoiiiia's
" Life of Chahrters."
We liave followed Chalmers into the present reign,
but, tiu-ning now to the poets, go back to the earlier
years of the century for recognition of the religious
spirit of James Grahame, author of a poem on the
Sabbath. James Grahame, born in 1765, was five
years older than Wordsworth, but he died early, at
the age of forty-six, in 1811. He was born at
Glasgow, educated at the Univei'sity there, and bred
to the law, which he practised for a short time.
He inspired warm friendship in John Wilson, after-
wards " Christopher North " oi Blackwood's 3Iaf/aziiie.
Grahame was profoundly religious ; he is said to have
had an outward aspect that suggested one of the stern
old Puritans of the past, but to have been, as his
poetry shows that he was, full of the sweet spiiit of a
Clu'istian gentleness and love. He left the bar for
the Church, and died in 1811 em-ate of Sedgfield,
near Durham. His poem on the Sabbath, written
in 1804, was followed in 1806 by a poem on the
" Bii'ds of Scotland," expressing his obsen'ation of
nature, and tranquil enjoyment of the works of God.
Of the man whom Byron sneered at as " sepulchral
Grahame," and whose books he called " two volumes
of cant," the healthy, vigorous John Wilson \^Ti'ote in
lines ujion his death —
"Well I loved thee, even as one might love
An elder brother, imaged in the soul
With solemn features, half-creating awe,
But smiling still with gentleness and peace.
Tears have I shed when thy most mournful voice
Did tremblingly breathe forth that touching air
By Scottish shepherd haply framed of old.
Amid the silence of his pastoral hills.
Weeping the flowers on Flodden-field that died.
. Wept too have I, when thou didst simply read
TO A.!), isn.]
RELIGION.
40]
From thine own lays so simpty beautiful
Some sriort pathetic tale of human grief,
Or orison or h}Tnn of deeper love,
That might have won the sceptic's sullen heart
To gradual adoration, and belief
Of Him who died for us upon the cross.
Yea '. oft when thou wert well, and in the calm
Of thy most Christian spirit blessing all
■Who looked upon thee, with those gentlest smiles
That never lay on human face but thine ;
Even when thy serious eyes were lighted up
With kindling mirth, and from thy lips distilled
Words soft as dew, and cheerful as the davm,
Then too I could have wept, for on thy face,
Eye, voice, and smile, nor less thy bending frame
By other cause impaired than length of years.
Lay something that still turned the thoughtful'heart
To melancholy dreams, dreams of decay,
Of death and burial, and the silent tomb."
~^epulcliral in outward aspect as one marked for
! til, Grahame liad tlie freshest life within him.
'i the days when he began his career as a barrister
friend wrote —
" Yet even then,
Thy life was ever such as well became
One whose pure soul was fixed upon the Cross !
And when with simple fervent eloquence,
Grahame pled the poor man's cause, the listener oft
Thought how becoming would his visage smile
Across the house of God, how bcauteously
That man would teach the sa«ng words of Heaven ! "
The pure spirit of the writer adds an lui taught
■I- to Grahame's poem on the Sabbath. He
libes a Sabbath moi-ning in the country, the
id of the church bells, the gathering to prayer;
ks his sjTnpathy alike with the Scottish and the
^lish ser^ace, and with solitary worship of the
'herd boy upon the hills ; then paints the groups
iining over the hills from church, and compares
scene of peace with the old days of persecution.
1 lieu his theme of I'eligion widens ; he sees wor-
-iiippers in the hospital, in the prison; and condemns
u]'ital punishment of those who never have been
unlit their duty, condemns indiscriminate severity
i cfiminal law. The teaching that should have
jjiveited crime suggests transition from the prison
;o the Sunday-school, and Grahame, dwelling on
:he comparative mildness of the Jewish law, sings
lext of the old Jewish year of Jubilee. Then he
ibllows emigi'ants across the sea, and images the
Scottish worship in the far wilds of America ; the
■Sabbath of a man wrecked and alone upon a
lesert i.sland, and his release by a missionary ship
;hat approaches to the music of an old famihar
lymn. Then follows praise of the self-denial of
;he missionary, and transition from this ship to the
Jave-ship, with an appeal to England against the
mcouragement of slaveiy. A strain of liberty follows,
srith a return to his much loved Scotland : —
" Scotland ! much I love thy tranquil dales ;
But most on Sabbath eve, when low the sun
Slants through the upland copse, 'tis my delight.
Wandering, and stopping oft, to hear the song
115
Of kindled praise arise from iiumble roofs ;
Or, when the simple service ends, to hear
The lifted latch, and mark the grey-haired man.
The father and the priest, walk forth alone
Into his garden-plat, or little field.
To commune with his God in secret prayer,
To bless the Lord, that in his downward years
His children are about him. Sweet, meantime.
The thrush, that sings upon the aged thorn.
Brings to his view the days of youthful years.
When that same aged thorn was but a bush.
Nor is the contrast between youth and age
To him a painful thought ; he joys to think
His journey near a close, — heaven is his home.
More happy far that man, though bowed down
Though feeble be his gait, and dim his eye,
Than they, the favourites of youth and health.
Of riches, and of fame, who have renounced
The glorious promise of the life to come, —
Clinging to death."
The poem closes with a blessing on the active life
of Charity sustained by a true Sabbath spirit, and a
comparison of the first joy of hope m the resuiTectiou
to the first hearing of the song of the lark by a man
pent in cities : —
" How grateful 'tis to recoUect the time
When Hope arose to Faith ! Faintly at first
The heavenly voice is heard : then, by degrees,
Its music sounds perpetual in the heart.
Thus he, who all the gloomy winter long
Has dwelt in city-crowds, wandering afield
Betimes on Sabbath morn, ere yet the spring
Unfold the daisy's bud, delighted hears
The first lark's note, faint yet, and short the song,
Checked by the chill ungenial northern breeze :
But, as the sun ascends, another springs.
And still another soars on loftier wing.
Tin all o'erhead, the joyous choir unseen.
Poised welkin high, hamionious fills the air,
As if it were a link 'tween earth and heaven."
There is no gloom in Grahame's poetry. Blair's
"Grave" has little else, the hope beyond the gi'ave is at
the close faintly suggested in comjmrison with all the
unctuous dwelling on its actual coiruption. Grahame
sees only in death "the Sablxith of the tomb." His
love for man and bird and beast is everywhere in his
writing. In his " Birds of Scotland " he celebrates
the linnet and the mavis and the merle and all, and
has nothing but goodwill to the cuckoo, who has, on
the whole, been ill-befriemled lay the poets. One
passage from the "Birds of Scotland" we may taks
as chai'acteristic of its author : —
" I love the neighbourhood of man and beasts :
I would not place my stable out of sight.
No ! close behind my dwelling, it should form
A fence, on one side, to my garden plat.
What beauty equals shelter, in a clime
'Where wintry blasts witL summer breezes blend,
Chilling the day ! How pleasant 'tis to hear
December's winds, amid surrounding trees.
Raging aloud ! how grateful 'tis to wake.
While raves the midnight storm, and hear the sound
402
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[ad. 1803
Of busy grinders at the well-filled rack ;
Or flapping wing, and crow of chanticleer,
Long ere the hngering mom ; or houncing fiaUs,
That teU the dawn is near ! Pleasant the path
By sunny garden-wall, when aU the fields
Ai-e ehiU and comfortless ; or barn-yard snug,
Where flocking birds, of various plume, and chirp
Discordant, cluster on the leaning stack.
From whence the thresher draws the rustling sheaves.
Nature I all thy seasons please the eye
Of him who sees a Deity in aU.
It is His presence that difliuses charms
Unspeakable, o'er mountain, wood, and stream.
To think that He, who hears the heavenly choirs,
Hearkens complacent to the woodland song ; —
To think that He, who roUs yon solar sphere,
Uplifts the warbling songster to the sky ;
To mark His presence in the mighty bow
That spans the clouds, as in the tints minute
Of tiniest flower , to hear His awful voice
In thunder speak, and whisper in the gale ;
To know, and feel His care for all that lives ; —
'Tis this that makes the barren waste appear
A fruitful field, each grove a paradise.
Yes ! place me 'mid far stretching woodless wilds,
"Where no sweet song is heard ; the heath-hell there
"Would soothe my weary sight, and tell of Thee !
There would my gi'atefully uplifted eye
Survey the heavenly vault, by day, — bj' night.
When glows the firmament from pole to pole ;
There woidd my overflowing heart exclaim,
' Tlie heavens declare the glory of the Lord,
The fiiToament shews forth His handv work ! ' "
But of all poets of this time it was Wordsworth
wlio felt most deej)ly the relation of a love of outside
nature to a love of man, and the place of man in the
gi-eat liai-mony of creation. His work it was to show,
.a.s prophet of Nature —
" How the mind of man becomes
A thousand times more beautiful than the earth
(_)n which lie dwells, .ibove this frame of things
(A"\"liich, 'mid all revolution in the hopes
And fears of men. doth still remain unchanged)
In beauty exalted, as it is itself
Of quality and fabric more diWne."
"We have seen in another volume^ how "Words-
worth's active sympathy with the first hopes and
efforts of the French Revolution developed ijito
.strong and quiet sense of the one path to the fulfil-
ment of theu- aim. " Having gained," he said,
"A more judicious knowledge of the worth
And dignity of individual man .
Xo composition of the brain, but man
Of whom we read, the man whom we behold
"With our own eyes,— I could not but inquire —
Xot with less interest than heretofore.
' " Shorter English Poems," pages 417, US ; 434.
But greater, though in spirit more subdued —
"V\Tiy is this glorious creature to be found
One only in ten thousand ? What one is
"Why may not millions be ? "
The following ode was partly written in 1803, Ijut
there was an interval of two years in the writing
between the first four stanzas and the rest of the
poem : —
ODE.
Intimations of ImmortaUty from Recollections of early Childhood.'^
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every conunon sight,
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
Th(! glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore ; —
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can sec no morc>.
The rainbow comes and goes, 1 1>
And lovely is the Rose,
The Moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare,
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair ;
The sunshine is a glorious birth ;
But j-et I know, where'er I go.
That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound 20
As to the tabor's sound.
To me alone there came a thought of grief :
A timely utterance gave that thought relief.
And I again am strong :
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ;
No more shall grief of mine the season •\\Tong ;
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng.
The Winds come to me from the fields of flecp.
And all the earth is gay ;
Land and sea -JO
Give themselves up to joUity,
And with the heart of 5Iay
Doth every Beast keep holiday ; —
Thou Child of Joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, tliou happy
shepherd boy I
Ye blessed Creatures, I h.ave heard the call
Ye to each other make ; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
jSIy heart is at your festival, 40
My head hath its coronal.
The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all.
evil day ! if I were sullen
\\Tiile Earth herself is adorning,
This sweet May-morning,
And the Children are culling
On every side,
In a thousand valleys far and wide.
Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines wami.
2 See "Fauglian's " Retreat," pages 288, 289, of the present volume.
RELIGION.
403
And the Babe leaps up on liis Mother's arm : — 50
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear I
But there's a Tree, of man}-, one,
A single Field which I have looked upon.
Both of them speak of something that is gone :
The Pans}- at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat :
"WTiither is fled the visionary gleam ?
AMiere is it now, the glory and the dream ?
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting :
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, GO
Hath had elsewhere its setting.
And cometh from afar :
Xot in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glor}- do we come
From God, who is our home :
Heaven lies about us in our infancy 1
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But He beholds the Hght, and whence it flows 70
He sees it in his joy ;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
ilust travel, still is Xature's Priest,
And by the \-ision splendid
Is on his way attended ;
At length the ilan perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.
Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ;
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
And even with something of a Mother's mind, 80
And no unworthy aim.
The homely Nurse doth aU she can
To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,
Forget the glories he hath known.
And that imperial palace whence he came.
Behold the Child among his new-bom blisses,
A six years' Darling of a pigmy size !
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies.
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses.
With light upon him fi'om his father's eyes ! 90
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart.
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art ;
A wedding or a festival,
A mourning or a funeral :
And this hath now his heart.
And unto this he frames his song :
Then will he fit his tongue
To dialogues of business, love, or strife ;
But it w-ill not be long 100
Ere this be thrown aside,
And with new joy and pride
The little Actor cons another part ;
Filling from time to time his " hiunorous stage"
■With aU the Persons, down to palsied Age,
That Life brings with her in her equipage ;
As if his whole vocation
Were endless imitation.
Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
Thy Soul's immensity ; 110
Thou best Philosoi^her, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the bUnd,
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind, —
Slighty Prophet ! Seer blest !
On whom those truths do rest,
Which we are toiling all our hves to find.
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ;
Thou, over whom thy IramortaHty
Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave,
A presence which is not to be put by ;
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-bom fi'eodom on thy being's height.
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ?
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight.
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life I
120
130
O joy ! that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
That nature yet remembers
AVhat was so fugitive !
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction : not indeed
For that which is most worthy to be blest ;
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest.
With new-fledged hope stiU fluttering in his breast :—
Not for these I raise 140
The song of thanks and praise ;
But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings ;
Blank misgivings of a Creature
Moving about' in worlds not reaHsed,
High instincts before which our mortal Nature
Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised:
But for those first affections.
Those shadow}- recollections, liO
■Which, be they what they may.
Are yet the fountain Hght of aU our day,
Are yet a master light of all our seeing ;
Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence : truths that wake.
To perish never ;
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavom-.
Nor Man nor Boy,
Nor aU that is at enmity with joy, 160
Can utterly abolish or destroy '■
Hence in a season of calm weather
Though inland far we be.
Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither,
Can in a moment travel thither,
And see the ChUdi-en sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young Lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound !
We in thought will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play.
Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May '.
TVTiat though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight.
170
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CASSELL'S LIBEAEY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
"a.[.. 1806
Though nothing can hring hack the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower,
We will grieve not, rather find 180
Strength in what remains behind ;
In the primal sj-mpathy
Which having been must ever he ;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering ;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the jihilosophic mind.
And 0, ye Foimtains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves !
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 100
I only have relinquished one delight
To hve beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the Brooks which down their channels fret.
Even more than when I tripped hghtly as they ;
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
Is lovely yet ;
The Clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 200
Thanks to the human heart by which we live.
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
So little was Wordswortli's " Excureion " under-
stood in the days wlien it was written tliat a single
edition of 500 copies lasted the English public for six
year.s. The next edition of 500 it took seven years
to sell. Robert Sonthey heard of a critic who boasted
that he had crushed the "Hvcursion," and cried, "He
crash the ' Excursion ! ' Tell him he might as weU
ftmcy he could crush Skiddaw."
Wordsworth's friendship for Su- George Beaumont,
which gave rise to the " Ecclesiastical Somiets," had
its origin in 180.3. Sir George was then staying
with Coleridge, at Greta Hall, Keswick, and appre-
ciated Coleridge's friend, Wordsworth, whom he
liad not seen. Knowing Coleridge's desire to have
Wordsworth near him, Beaumont bought a piece of
ground on a beautiful sjiot at Apjjlethwaite, near
Keswick, and gave it to Wordsworth as a site for
a house that he might build there. Wordsworth
wrote his thanks, and asked to be steward only of
the land, and return it if he could not pitch his tent
upon it. Thus began a friendship that lasted until
Beaumont's deatli, in 1827. Sir George liad after-
wards a notion of building liimself a house near
Wordsworth, and bought Loughrigg Tarn. But
this scheme also came to nothing, the tarn was
re-sold, and the purchase-money placed at Words-
worth's disposal. He laid it out in the walling of
Grasmere Churchyard and planting the yew-trees,
in the .shade of which his g'l■a^•e long afterwards was
made. In 1821, when Wordsworth was staying
wth his friends, Sir George and Lady Beaumont,
at Coleorton, Sir George was about to build a church
on his estate. The church was the great daily topic
of the house, and this led to conversations on church
history. The impulse was thus given to the series
of "Ecclesiastical Sonnet.s," in which Wordsworth
traced the development of the English Church, and
dwelt on the religious life of England. Wordsworth
felt strongly the power of a calm religious intluence
in aid of tliat true individual development which was
to him the chief hope of the future. His experience
of the French Revolution led him to doubt the rest-
less .spii'it of outward change, and he felt truly that
the gains of civil liberty in England were due in
large measure to the religious si^irit that inspired the
battle.
OBLIGATIONS OF CIVIL TO RELIGIOUS LIBERTY.
Ungrateful Country, if thou e'er forget
The sons who for thy civil rights have bled !
How, like a Roman, Sidney bowed his head,
And Russell's milder blood the scaffold wet ;
But these had fallen for profitless regret
Had not thy holy Chm-ch her champions bred.
And claims from other worlds inspirited
The star of Liberty to rise. Nor yet
(Grave this witliin thy heart 1) if spiritual things
Be lost, thi-ough apathy, or soora, or fear,
Shalt thou thy humbler franchises support,
However hardly won or justly dear :
What came from heaven to heaven by nature clings.
And, if dissevered thence, its course is short.
The series of these " Ecclesiastical Sonnets " is
closed with a bold glance forward, preluded by
Somiets on Church-building. These are ujton Sir
George Beaumont's new church, built amidst the
grass and trees of his grounds. This, for example,
is the Sonnet on the Consecration and Enclosiu'e
of its Chiu'chyard : —
THE NEW CHURCHYARD.
The encircling groimd, in native turf arrayed,
Is now b}' solemn consecration given
To social interests, and to favouring Heaven,
And where the rugged colts their gambols played.
And wild deer bounded through the forest glade,
Unchecked, as when by merry Outlaw driven,
Shall hymns of praise resound at morn and even ;
And soon, full soon, the lonely Sexton's spade
Shall woimd the tender sod. Encincturo small.
But infinite its grasp of weal and woe !
Hopes, fears, in never-ending ebb and flow : —
The spousal trembling, and the " dust to dust,"
The prayers, the contrite struggle, and the trust
That to the jUmighty Father looks through all.
That is followed by Sonnets on English Cathedrals
and such piles as the Chapel of King's College,
Cambridge.
CATHEDRALS, ETC.
Open yoirr gates, ye everlasting PUes !
Tj-jjes of the spiritual Church which God hath reared:
Not loth we quit the newly-hallowed sward
And humble altar, 'mid your sumptuous aisles
To kneel, or thrid your intricate defiles.
Or down the nave to pace in motion slow
Watching, with upward eye, the tall tower grow
And mount, at every step, with living wiles
TO A.T>. 1850.]
RELIGION.
405
Instinct — to rouse the heart and lead the will
By a bright ladder to the world above.
Open your gates, ye Monuments of love
Divine 1 thou Lincoln, on thy sovereign hill !
Thou, stately York ! and Ye, whose splendours cheer
Isis and Cam, to patient Science dear !
The Nate and West Teansept, I.
Aj^d tliis is Wordswortli's closius; glance into the
luture : —
CONCLUSION.
^^^ly sleeps the future, as a snake enrolled,
foil within coil, at noon-tide ? For the Word
Yields, if with unprcsumptuous faith explored,
I'ower at whose touch the sluggard shall unfold
liis drowsy rings. Look forth ! — that stream behold,
Th.1t Stre.vm upon whose bosom we have passed
Floating at ease while nations have effaced
Nations, and Death has gathered to his fold
Long lines of might}' kings — look forth my Soul !
Nor in this vision be thou slow to trust.
The living AVaters, less and less \)y guUt
Stained and polluted, brighten as they roll,
Till they have reached the eternal City — built
For the perfected Spirits of the j ust !
Two years later, in 1823, Wordswortli addressed
to Lady Le Fleming a poem on the chapel or chiu'ch
she was then IjuiJdiug at Rydal, which was to be
Wordsworth's ])lace of jniblic worship during the rest
of his life, until his death in 1850. lu that year, on
Sunday, the 10th of March, he attended service at
Rydal Chapel for the last time. Between four and
five in the evening he set out to walk to Grasmere
in a keen north-east wind, lightly clad and looking
feeble. He was about on the two next days in cold
bright weather, called at a cottage, and sat down on
the stone seat of the porch to watch the setting sun.
On the 14tli came pain in the side ; on the 20th his
throat and chest were affected with severe inflam-
mation. His strength sank. On the 7th of Apiil
he was eighty years old, and was praved for in
Rydal Chapel. When his daughter Dora died in
1847 he wrote, " Our sorrow, I feel, is for life ; but
God's will be done." When he had now to be told
that his own course was closing, his wife gave him
the desired warnmg by whispering, " William, you
. are going to Dora." He died on the afternoon of
the 23rd, and was buried in Grasraere Churchyard.
A. tablet to his memory with a medallion of his head
in bas-relief was afterwards placed in Grasmere
Church, over the jjew he had once occupied there.
William Woedsworth. (From the Talkt in Gramcre CTiiirch.)
John Keble was born in 1792 at Fairford, in
Gloucestershire, the second child and eldest son of
the Rev. John Keble, who was vicar of Coin St.
Aldwin's, about three miles from Fairford, where he
lived in a house of his ovm. Keble's mother had
been Sarah Maule, daughter of the incumbent of
Ringwood, in Hamp.shu'e. The father educated the
son for college, and took him in 1806 to his own
college in Oxford, Corjnis Christi, where he obtained
a soholai'ship when not quite fifteen. He obtained a
Fellowsliip of Oriel, and took private jiupils before
he was oixlained. Then he assisted his father as
curate in charge of two small ])arishes, but was
recalled to take a Tutorship at Oriel. In May,
1823, his mother died, and in that year John Keble
left Oxford and joined his father at Faii-ford.
Having been a Tutor at Oriel for five years, dui-ing
which time he had twice served as Public Examiner,
and once as Master of the Schools, he returned to
the two little curacies, and to the aid and com-
panionship of his f;ither and his two sisters, whom
he called playfully his wife and hLs sweetheart,
Elizabeth and Mary Amie. Keble's father lived to
the age of ninety, venerated by his son. The elder
sister, Elizabeth, was delicate in health, gi-avely
gentle and affectionate — her, Keble called his wife.
The other sister, Mary Anne, with her own depths of
earnestness, was cheerful and playful as John Keble
himself could be ; they lived in a half sportive com-
panionship of love. In 1825 Keble became curate
of Hursley, where the incumbent was Archdeacon
Heathcote, who lived at Winchester. Sir William
Heathcote, who had just succeeded to the jiroperty
at Hurslev, and recommended Keble to the cui-acy,
406
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1825
found bim a house between his own park gates and
the church, which he set in order for him. His
brother Thomas, who had hitely mai-ried, took his
phice in tlie curacies at home. HLs sister Mary Anne
was one of his first visitoi-s in his new home, and also
an old college friend, who afterwards brought the
purest spirit of religion into the teacher's work at
Rugby, Thomas Arnold, then living "srith pupils at
Nimeham. " I have tried," wi-ote Keble, " the cozie
powers of the Hursley air, not only with Maiy Anne,
who has paid me a visit of five weeks ending the 9th
January, but also with Tom Ai-nold, who ran down
here like a good neighbour, and surveyed the premises
and the neighbourhood presently after Christmas.
How very unaltered he is, and how very comfoi-table
and contented ! he is one of the persons whom it
does one good to think of when I am in a grumbling
vein."
In September, 1826, John Keble's beloved play-
fellow sister, his "sweetheart" Mary Anne, died. He
had been writing for some years the poems which he
was about to publish as "The Christian Year." Upon
his sister's death he expressed his feeling in tender
verses, which were printed in the British Mcujazine
among those sacred poems by himself and others that
were collected in 183G into a volume published at
Derby as the " Lyra Apostolica." To generalise the
poem, he printed "brother" for "sister" in one
of the closing stanzas, but the " happy soul " passed
into the spirit world is that of the sister upon
whose funeral Keble wrote, with a full heart, of
BURIAL OF THE DEAD.
I thought to meet no more, so dreary seemed
Death's interposing veil, and thou so pure,
Thy place in Paradise
Beyond where I could soar,
Friend of this worthless heart ! hut happier thoughts
Spring like unbidden violets from the sod.
Where patiently thou tak'st
Thy sweet and sure repose.
The shadows fall more soothing : the soft air
Is full of cheering whispers like thine own; 10
^tOe Memory, by thy grave,
Lives o'er thy funeral day :
The deep knell dying down, the mourners' pause
"Waiting their Saviour's welcome at the gate, —
Siu-e with the words of Heaven
Thy spirit met us there.
And sought with us along th' accustomed way
The hallowed porch, and entering in, beheld
The pageant of sad joy,
So dear to Faith and Hope. 20
; hadst thou brought a strain from Paradise
To cheer us, happy soul, thou hadst not touched
The sacred springs of grief
More tenderly and true
Than those deep- warbled anthems, high and low.
Low as the grave, high as th' Eternal Throne,
Guiding through light and gloom
Our mourning fancies wild,
TiU gently, like soft golden clouds at eve,
Aroimd the western twilight, all subside 3ft
Into a placid Faith,
That even with beaming eye
Counts thy sad honours, coffin, bier, and pall ;
So many relics of a fraU love lost.
So many tokens dear
Of endless love begun.
Listen! It is no dream. Th' Apostle's trump
Gives earnest of th' Archangel's ; — calmly now
Our hearts )-et beating high
To that victorious lay, 40'
Most like a wan-ior's to the martial dirge
Of a true comrade, in the grave we trust
Our treasure for a while :
And if a tear steal down,
If human anguish o'er the shaded brow
Pass shuddering, when the handful of pure earth
Touches the coffin-lid ;
If at our brother's name.
Once and again the thought, " for ever gone,"
Come o'er us like a cloud, yet, gentle spright, .50
Thou tumest not away.
Thou knowest us calm at heart.
One look, and we have seen our last of thee.
Till we too sleep and our long sleep be o'er ;
O cleanse us, ere we view
That countenance pure again.
Thou, who canst change the heart, and raise the dead ;
As Thou art by to soothe our parting hour.
Be ready when we meet,
With Thy dear pardoning words. 60
Religious poems written at difierent times by John
Keble had multiplied, and for some time past he had
been wiiting others with the purpose of arranging
them into a harmonious volume, designed to aid in
the maintenance of a religious spirit in the English
Cluirch.
In June, LS27, was published the first edition of
" The Christiiin Year," a series of meditative jjoems
in which Keble dwelt on some incident or passage in
the lessons for the day on each Sunday and Holyday of
the year's service in the Cluirch of England. There
was no author's name upon the title-page, no preten-
sion in the manner of the publication, and Keble was
not a poet of the highest rank. But the religious
music of the book is true. John Keble's devotion
was deep and unaffected ; his love of God and man,
his pure domestic feeling that set his unamliitious
life in the midst of home associations of his child-
hood, his simple and pure sense of nature that had
caused him to delight in Wordsworth's poetry even
in his undergraduate days when it had few friends,
all make themselves felt. He had a cultivated mind,
poetic sensibilities, a natural grace in his whole
nature, and the charm of his religious purity. He
i.E. 1833.]
RELIGION.
407
10
\ i> really tlie first moving cause of a reaction at
, ixford tiiat carried some over to Eome; but his
devotion to the Church in all her ordinances was
so inseparable from a life that in aU its acts and
utterances looked to heaven, that in the hottest
strife of parties no man has supposed Keble to be
an enemy. Within twentv-six years after the
publication of the '-Christian Year" 108,000 copies
had been sold in forty-three editions. After Keble s
death there were in nine months seven editions or
11,000 copies sold. The spii-it in which Keble used
his "ift of sonc;, and which is at the soul of the best
poet'i-y of England— Chaucer's, Shakespeare's, Spen-
ser's, Milton's, Wordsworth's— whether or not its
themes be formally religious, is expressed in this
piece written for
PALM SUXDAY.
Ye whose hearts are beating high
With the pulse of Poesy,
Heirs of more than royal race,
Framed by Heaven's peculiar grace,
God's own work to do on earth.
(If the word be not too bold,)
Giving ^-irtue a new birth,
And a life that ne'er grows old-
Sovereign masters of aU hearts !
Know ye, who hath set your parts ?
He who gave you breath to sing,
By whose strength ye sweep the string,
He h.ith chosen you, to lead
His Hosannas here below ;—
Mount, and claim your glorious meed;
Linger not with sin and woe.
But if ye should hold your peace.
Deem not that the song would cease —
Angels round His glory-throne.
Stars, His guiding hand that own.
Flowers, that grow beneath our feet.
Stones in earth's dark womb that rest,
High and low in choir shaU meet,
Ere His Name shall be unblost.
Lord, by eveiy minstrel tongue
Be thy praise so duly sung.
That thine angels' harps may ne er
Fail to find fit echoing here :
"W'c the while, of meaner birth,
^\^l0 in that di\-inest spell
Dare not hope to join on earth,
Give us grace to Hsten well.
But should thankless silence seal
Lips, that might haH Heaven reveal ;
Should bards in idol-hynms profane
The sacred soul-enthralling strain
(As in this bad world below
Koblest things find vilest using].
Then, thy power and mercy show.
In vile things noble breath infusing.
Then waken into sound divine
The very pavement of thy shrine.
Till we," like Heaven's star-sprinkled floor.
Faintly give back wh;it we adore :
•20
30
10
Childlike though the voices he,
And \mtunable the parts,
Thou wOt own the minstrelsy,
If it flow from childlike hearts.
This is one of the poems written for a Saint's
Day:-
ST. Andrew's day.
When brothers part for manhood's race,
What gift may most endearing prove
To keep fond memory in her place,
And certify a brother's love '.
'Tis true, bright hours together told.
And bhssful dreams in secret shar'd,
Serene or solemn, gay or bold,
ShaU last in fancy unimpau-'d.
E'en round the death-bed of the good
Such dear remembrances wiU hover,
And haunt us with no vexing mood
When all the cares of earth are over.
But yet our craving spirits feel.
We shall live on, though Fancy die,
And seek a surer pledge— a seal
Of love to last eternally.
Who art thou, that wouldst grave thy name
Thus deeply in a brother's heart r
Look on tliis sain^;, and ieam to frame
Thy love-charm with true Chi-istian art. '20
First seek thy Saviour out, and dweU
Beneath the shadow of His roof,
TiU thou have scann'd His featm-es well.
And k-nown Him for the Chi-ist by proof;
Such proof as they are sure to find
AATio spend with Him their happy days.
Clean hands, and a self-ruling mind
Ever in tune for love and praise.
30
40
Then, potent with the speU of heaven,
Go, and thine cning brother gain.
Entice him home to be forgiven, ^
TUl he, too, see his Sa-s-iour plain.
Or, if hefore thee in the race,
Urge him with thine adv.ancing tread,
TiQ, Uke twin stars, with even pace.
Each lucid course be duly sped.
Ko fadins frail memorial give
To soothe his soul when thou art gone.
But wreaths of hope for aye to Uve,
And thoughts of good together done.
That so, before the judgment-seat,
Though changed and glorified each face,
Kot unremember'd ye may meet
For endless ages to embrace.
At the end of 1831, John Keble was noniinated
to^'tle PoW Professo-hip at Of rd' aiK^ gave
40
408
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[i.D. 1633
Assize Sermon at Oxford, and ixiblislied bis sermon,
with the title " National Apostasy." Dr. Newman
held the publication of this sermon to be the starting-
point of the i-eligious movement of 1833.
Of thLs we have next to speak, but may first add
a word or two upon the latter days of Keble. Be-
sides his edition of Hooker, and other writings, he
produced in 1846 another collection of poems, " Lyra
Innocentium," La which he looks at the doctrines of
the Church in association with child-life. Though
cliildless, he had a tender love for childhood. Keble's
father died in his ninetieth year, in January, 1835.
Later in the year the course of events advanced
Keble from the curacy to the vicarage of Hursley,
and in October, 1835, he married Miss Charlotte
Clarke, daughter of an old friend of his father's — a
lady whom he had kno^vn from childhood, and whose
mother had been for some years a widow. Keble
lived an active, happy life until March, 1866. In
the following May his wife was biuied by his side.
John Keble. (From a Photograph.)
The Oxford movement, which may be said to have
attained full vigour in 1833, was in some respects
the converse of that which began in the same uni-
versity with the Wesleys just a hundred years before.
In 1733, Wliitefield had been a year at Oxford, and
was associating himself with the small enthusiastic
liaud of Methodists, who were to have a lasting
iuHuonce on some of the forms of English religion^
The Wesleys and their followers held by the Church,
but laid more stress upon fellowship in realisation
ot the Christian life than upon ceremonial religion.
They were forced out of the Church of England,
Ithough not into antagonism with it. and^their
loctrinal opinions joined them in closest sympathy
with that part of the Church which had least sym-
pathy with Rome. They belonged to that section
ot religious thought which had been represented by
tue Puntaus of former time. The next great wave
ot enthusiasm that spread from Oxford, arose from
reaction against the continued strengthening of that
tendency in the Church against which Matthew
Parker, Whitgift, Laud, and others had contended.
When our Church parted from the Church of Rome,
there was a certain compromise, both as regards
ceremonial and doctrine, which led, as we Lave seen,
to active differences of opinion among Christians
equally devout. We need only recall the controversy
that gave ri.se to Hooker's "Ecclesiastical Polity."
In tlie eighteenth century the great balance of zeal
was so much against the Church .system of Rome
that it led even to a considerable secession from the
Church of England, due in great measure to the feeble
energies of a clergy that, if not touched with that
form of zeal, had, as a body, no other in which there
was united force. Such ornamental projirieties as
Blair's sermons were read with critical satisfaction,
though in the second half of the nineteenth century
no critic would assign them value. The sceptical spirit
in society was met with the reasoning of Butler, who
did value ecclesiastical forms, and was accused even
of a leaning to Catholicism, and by Paley, who was
thought to share the tendency of his time in having,
at least, no very great zeal for the establislied forms
of ceremonial and doctrine as such, however much he
valued them as aids to a useful religion. Unless a
type of thought which had run through the liistory of
many a past civil and religious stiiiggle was really
disappearing from amongst us, a reaction was in-
evitable. Given, in the nineteenth century, a few
men as completely possessed with enthusiasm for
their cause as the Wesleys were in the eighteenth,
and as far as there were men in England apt to yield
to the claim of supreme Church authority they couhl
spread their opinions. The movement, like that of
a century before, began at Oxford with about a dozen
men ; tlie.se, however, were not undergraduates, but
men matui'e in power, with variety of gifts.
The devout imagination of John Keble fiistened
strongly upon the ecclesiastical system of the Church ;
its ordained ministers were the only ministers ; its
sacraments had mystical power in themselves ; bap-
tismal regeneration was a mystery of God dependent
on the rite of the Church, and, loving children, he is
said to have held in his arms a child that he had
newly baptised, gazing down upon it with a tender
adoration of the mystery by which it had been made
clear from sin. This living faith in ceremonial shone
from a life [Hire and beautiful, and in Keble the ties
of home, and loving fidelity to its traditions as well
as to traditions of the Church, made that spiritual
life of love, which is the chief mark of Christianity,
his most obvious charaeteristic, and kept him within
the fold in which he had been born.
His friend, John Henry Newman, much influenced
by Keble at Oxford, was urged by the energies of a
vigorous mind to a foremost place in battle for the
cause to which he gave both heart and intellect. The
same vigour of mind caused him at last to accept the
logical conclusion of his argument, and find all that
he strove for by entering into communion with the
CUiurch of Rome. In the beginning of 1864, Charles
Kingsley, who felt deeply the Romeward tendency
of this reaction, expressed a belief that English
clerjrvmen had been deliberately drawn to Rome.
TO A.D. 1S6S.
RELIGIOTSI.
409
Dr. Newman defended himself by an Apologia,
wMcli was published in 1865, divested of the per-
sonality of controvei-sy, as " History of my Religious
Oijinions." He was brought up to take great delight
in reading the Bible, and recalls as faithfully as he
can the shifting religious impressions ia liis childhood
and youth. He was born in 1801, and is therefore
one year younger than the century. His father was
a banker in Lombard Street, and he was educated
at Killing School before he went to Trinity College,
Oxford, where he was elected to a scholarship when
very young. He graduated with classical honours
in 1820, and obtained a fellowship at Oriel. In
182.5 he became Yice-Prineipal to Dr. "V\Tiately, who
was then Principal at St. Alban's Hall, but gave up
that office in 1826, and became one of the tutoi-s of
his college. He then jareached his firet university
sermon ; in 1827 he was one of the public examiners
for the B.A. degree, and in 1828 he became Vicar of
St. Mary's. When the Fellows of Oriel had joined
in welcoming bim to theu' body, Newman wrote to
a friend at the time : " I bore it till Keble took my
hand, and then felt so abashed and unworthy of the
honour done me, that I seemed desii-ous of quite
sinking into the ground." In 1827 the appearance
of Keble's " Christian Year" had deepened his in-
fluence over his friends, and Newman found in it,
he said — as in Butler's "Analogy" — what may be
called, in a large sense of the word, the Sacramental
system; that is, the doctrine that material pheno-
mena are both the types and the instriunents of
real things unseen — a doctrine which embraces in its
fulness not only what Anglicans as well as Catholics
believe about sacraments, properly so called, but also
the article of " the Commimion of Saints," and like-
wise the "Mysteries of the Faith;" and also, as in
Butler, through the doctrine that Probability is the
guide of life, a sense of the logical cogency of Faith.
In December, 1832, Newman \isited ^^dth congenial
friends the south of Europe, and during that excur-
sion wi'ote most of the verses afterwards collected,
with verse of Keble and other fellow-thinkers, in the
"Lyi-a Apostolica." When he came home, in 1833,
the Oxford movement had commenced, and Newman
devLsed the plan of supporting it by a series of "Tracts
for the Times," addressed partly to the clergy, headed
" Ad Cleiauu," partly to Chm-chmen at large, headed
"Ad Populum." They were sold at the price of
twopence for an octavo sheet. The first Tract, sold
for a penny, was an addi-ess to the clergy, in foiu"
pages, of " Thoughts on the Ministerial Commission."
The clergy were called on to support their bishops
as successors of the Apostles, and oppose the world
by vu-tue of their o-mi apostolical descent, received,
through imposition of hands, from their l)ishops.
" All we who have been ordained clergy in the very
form of our ordination acknowledged the doctrine of
the apostolical succession. And for the same reason
we mu-st necessarily consider none to be reaUi/
ordained who have not thus been ordained. For if
ordination is a divine ordinance, it must be necessary ;
and if it is not a divine ortUnance, how dare we use
it i Therefore all who use it, all of vs, must con-
sider it necessary. As well might we pretend the
Sacraments are not necessary to salvation, while we
116
make use of the offices of the Litm-gy; for when
God appoints means of gi-ace, they are the means."
In the same year, 1833, wlien the "Tracts for the
Times" were begun, their foimder says: "I called
upon clergy in various parts of the countiy, whether
I was acquainted with them or not, and I attended
at the houses of friends where several of them wei-e
from time to time assembled. I do not think that
much came of such attempts, nor were they quite in
my way. Also I wrote various letters to clergymen,
which fared not much better, except that they adver-
tised the fact that a rally in favour of the Chiu-cli
was commeucmg." The second Tract argued that the
one Catholic Apostolic Chm-ch, of which the Sacra-
ments and the Communion are necessary to salvation
in the case of those who can obtain it, is the Church
thus formed by bishops, priests, and deacons. " And
when men say ' the day is past for stickling about
ecclesiastical rights,' let them see to it, lest they use
substantially the same arguments to maintain their
position as those who say ' the day is past for being
a Chi-istian-' " The next Tract was against any
alteration of the Liturgy; the next upon objection
to reading the bmial-service over those who are a
scandal to religion — an objection to be met not bj'
change of the ser\-ice, but by adherence to the words
of the Church introducmg it, and restoration of the
practice of excommunication. A note is added on
Episcopacy as the Principle of Unity. Following
Tracts dealt much mth the doctrine of episcopal suc-
cession, urged return to primitive practice, and re-
sisted all change in the way of innovation. As the
Ti-acts proceeded, interpretation by light of the past
led to argument, beginning in Tract 38 ("AdScholas"),
for a Via Media, "which met the objection that the
religious system here enforced and by some called
Apostolical was " like that against which our fore-
fathers protested at the Reformation." It is argued
in dialogue between "Laicus" and " Clericus" that
the Reformers of the sixteenth century held opinions
which many in the nineteenth account PopLsh ; " and
is it wonderful," asks " Clericus," " if such as I should
be called Popish, if the Church seiwices themselves
are considered so ? . . . Men seem to think that
we are plainly and mdisputably proved to be Popish,
if we are proved to diiier from the generality of
Churchmen, now-a-days. Upon which "Laicus"
says : —
X. AH, however, wiU aUow, I suppose, that our Refor-
mation was never completed in its details. The final judg-
ment was not passed upon parts of the Prayer Book. There
were, you know, alterations in the second edition of it pub-
lished in King Edward's time ; and these tended to a more
Protestant doctrine than that which had first heen adopted.
For instance, in King Edward's first book the dead m
Christ were prayed for; in the second this commemoration
was omitted. Again, in the first book the elements of the
Lord's Supper were more distinctly offered up to God, and
more formallv consecrated than in the second edition, or at
present. Had Queen Jlary not succeeded, perhaps the men
who effected this would have gone further.
C I behere they would ; nay, indeed they did at a subse-
quent period. They took away the liturgy altogether, and
substituted a Directory.
410
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1833
L. They ? the same men ?
C. Yea, the foreign party: who afterwards went by the
name of Puritans. Buccr, who altered in ICing Edward's
time, and the Puritans, who destroyed in King Charles's,
both came from the same religious quarter.
L. Ought you so to speak of the foreign Reformers? to
them we owe the Protestant doctiine altogether.
C. I like foreign interference as little from Geneva, as
from Rome. Geneva at least never converted a part of
England from heathenism, nor could lay claim to patriarchal
authority over it. 'Why could we not be let alone, and
suffered to reform ourselves '^
L. You separate them your creed and cause from that of
the Reformed Chm-chcs of the Continent ?
C. Not altogether ; Imt I protest against being brought
into that close alliance with them which the world now-a-
days would force upon us. The glory of the English Chui-ch
is, that it has taken the via media, as it has been called. It
lies between the (so-called) Reformers and the Romanists ;
whereas there are religious circles, and influential too, where
it is thought enough to prove an English clergyman unfaith-
ful to his Church, if he preaches anything at variance with
the opinions of the Diet of Augsburg, or the Confessions of
the Waldenses.
Many wliu were stirred by the deep-seated enthu-
.aiasm and various aliility of tlie leaders of this
movement found it difficult to accept all the counsel
they received and keep the Via Media, the Middle
Way. In the " History of his Religious Opinions "
Dr. Newman confesses, with the frank sincerity of
a man who seeks absolute truth, the touch of
polemical fierceness that was at this time in liis
zeal for his ojiLnions ; —
This absolute confidence in my cause, which led me to the
negligence or wantonness which I have been instancing, also
laid me open, not unfairly, to the opposite charge of fierce-
ness in certain steps which I took, or words which I pub-
lished. In the " Lj-ra ApostoHca," I have said that before
learning to love, we must "learn to hate;" though I had
explained my words by adding " hatred of sin." In one of
my first Sermons I said, " I do not shrink from uttering my
firm conviction that it would be a gain to the country were
it vastly more superstitious, more bigoted, more gloomy,
more fierce in its religion than at present it shows itself
to be." I added, of course, that it would be an absui-dity
to suppose such tempers of mind desirable in themselves.
The corrector of the press bore these .strong epithets tiU
he got to "more fierce," and then he put in the margin a
queni. In the very fii-st page of the first Tract, I said of
the Bishops, that, "black event though it would be for the
country, yet we could not ^^'ish them a more blessed ter-
mination of their course, than the spoiling of their goods
and raartjTdom." In consequence of a passage in my work
upon the Arian History, a Northern dignitarv wrote to
accuse me of wishing to re-estabHsh the blood and torture
of the Inquisition. Contrasting heretics and heresiarchs,
I had said, "The latter should meet with no mercy he
assumes the ofiice of the Tempter; and, so far forth as his
error goes, must be dealt with by the competent authority,
as If he were embodied evil. To spare him is a false and
dangerous pity. It is to endanger the souls of thousands,
and It IS uncharitable towards himself." I cannot denv that
this IS a very fierce passage; but Arius was banished, not
burned; and it is only fair to myself to sav that neither
at this, nor any other time of my life, not even when I was
fiercest, could I have even cut off a Puritan's cars, and I
think the sight of a Spanish auto-da-fe would have been the
death of me. Again, when one of my friends, of liberal
and evangelical opinions, wrote to expostulate with me on.
the course I was taking, I said that we would ride over him
and his, as Othniel prevailed over Chushan-rishathaim, King
of Mesopotamia. Again, I would have no dealings with
my brother, and I put my conduct upon a syllogism. I
said, " St. Paul bids us avoid those who cause divisions ;
you cause divisions: therefore I must avoid you." I dis-
suaded a lady from attending the marriage of a sister
who had seceded from the Anglican Church. No wonder
that Blanco Wliitc, who had known me under such different
circumstances, now hearing the general course that I M'as
taking, was amazed at the change which he recognised
Meanwhile he was losing as well as winning
friends, was exposed not only to the wrestle of
argument, but to the fierceness too common in all
religious contests, and that was not wanting in his
opponents. The inner spirit of the man who had
organised the movement in the Church which was
called, after the "Tracts for the Times," " Trac-
tarian," may be gathered from this poem of J. H.
Newman's in the " Lyra Apostolica : " —
Time was I shrank from what was right.
From fear of what was wrong ;
I would not brave the sacred fight,
Because the foe was strong.
But now I cast that finer sense
And sorer shame aside ;
Such dread of sin was indolence,
Such aim at heaven was pride.
80, when my Saviour calls, I rise
And calmly do my best ;
Leaving to Him, with silent eyes
Of hope and fear, the rest.
I step, I mount where He has led ;
Jlen count my baitings o'er ; —
I know them ; yet, though self I dread,
I love His precept more.
At the close of 1833 Dr. Pusey, who was Regius
Professor of Hebrew in the University, joined in the
movement. Edward Bouverie Pusey, born in 1800,
was son of the Hon. Philij) Bouverie, who had taken
the name of Pusey by royal licence. He had been
educated at Christ Cliurch, and he also became one of
the Fellows of Oriel, at a time when the Fellows of
Oriel represented a compact body of tlie best intellect
in the University. He became Regius Professor of
Hebrew and Canon of Christ Church in 1828. In
December, 1833, he contributed to the "Tracts for
the Times " the twenty-first of the series, on behalf
of Fasting — " Mortification of the Flesh a Scripture
Duty;" but it was not imtil 1835 and 1836 that he
became fully associated with the movement. His
four tracts, 67, 68, 09, and 70, entitled " Scriptural
Views of Holy Baptism, as established by the con-
sent of the Ancient Chui-ch, and contrasted with the
i.D. 1841.]
EELIGIOISr.
411
,x\>ti'm of Modern Schools," formed a volume of 400
ijauis, and passed through sevei'al editions. It was
introduced by a veree from Keble's " Christian
Year "—
" ^\^lat sparkles in that lucid flood
Is -svater, by gross mortals eyed ;
But seen by Faith, 'tis Blood
Out of a dear Friend's side."
The aim of the treatise was to enforce the doctrine
of Baptismal Regeneration — baptism being set forth
as the only spiritual New Birth — and the necessity
of Faith with Baptism to Salvation. Its ^\'l•iter said,
" St. Matthew records the words of the commission
given through the Apostles to the Church ; St. Mark
adds the awful sanction, ' He that believeth and is
baptised shall be saved ; and he that believeth not
shall be damned.' Our Lord thus states positively
what He had before to Nicodemus said negatively.
Tlirough Nicodemus, He warned us that without
Baptism there was no entrance into His Kingdom ;
here he tells us, that whoso believeth in Him shall
tlien have the blessings, which are in Him, imparted
to him if he be baptised." Dr. Pusey also established
the publication of a " Library of the Fathers " in
aid of a reaction towards past opinions in the Chm-ch,
and became thenceforth so prominently connected
with the movement, that its supportei-s were often
called bj' his name — " Puseyites." Dr. Pusey's
example caused Dr. Newman also to enter upon
larger works of publication.
CHAPTER XIV.
Forty Years under Victoria. — Newman, Arnold,
Maurice, Kingsley, Carlyle, Tennyson, Brown-
ing, AND Others. — a.d. 1837 to a.d. 1877.
The tendency towards Rome and the actual passing
over of yoimg clergymen into the Roman communion
after they had been for some time under his teach-
ing, caused Dr. Newman to consider how far he might
satisfy the consciences of those who, with Roman
opinions, felt unable to remain within the English
Church. The Thirty -nine Articles were said to be in
part levelled against the doctrines now associated
with the Via Media of the English Church as -^\^iters
of the Tnxcts wished it to be" Early in 1841 Dr.
Newman resolved to WTite a Tract for the purpose of
showing that the Thirty -nine Articles of the English
Church were elastic enough to include the opinions
at which he and his companions and followers had
now arrived. He says, " The actual cause of my
doing so was the restlessness, active and prospective,
of those who neither Hked the Via Media, nor my
strong judgment against Rome."
I had been enjoined, I think by my Bishop, to keep those
men straight, and I wished so to do: but their tangible
difSculty was subscription to the Articles ; and thus the
question of the Aiticles came before me. It was thrown in
our teeth ; " How can you manage to sign the iVrticles ? they
are directly against Rome." "Against Kome?" I made
answer. "What do you mean by 'Rome?'" and then i
proceeded to make distinctions, of which I shall now give
an account.
By "Koman doctiine" might be meant one of three
things: 1, the Catholic teaehiiiyoi the early centuries; or, 2,
the>)-«iff/ dogmas of Home as contained in the later Councils,
especially the Council of Trent, and as condensed in the
Creed of Pope Pius IV. ; 3, the adual popular beliefs and
iisaffcs sanctioned by Kome in the countries in conmmnion
with it, over and above the dogmas; and these I called
"dominant errors." Now Protestants commonly thought
that in all three senses, "Roman doctrine" was condemned
in the Articles: I thought that the Catholic teaching was
not condemned; that the dominant errors were; and as to the
formal dogmas, that some were, some were not, and that the
lino had to be di-awn between them. Thus, 1. The use of
Prayers for the dead was a CathoUc doctrine, — not condemned
in the Articles; 2. The prison of Purgatory was a Roman
dogma, — which was condenmed in them ; but the infallibility
of Ecumenical Councils was a Roman dogma, — not con-
demned; and 3. The fire of Purgatory was an authorised
and popular error, not a dogma, — which was condemned.
Further, I considered that the difficulties, felt by the per-
sons whom I have mentioned, mainly lay in their mistaking,
1, Catholic teaching, which was not condemned in the
Articles, for Roman dogma which was condemned; and 2,
Roman dogma, which was not condemned in the Articles,
for dominant error which was. If they went further than
this, I had nothing more to say to them.
A further motive which I had for my attempt, was the
desire to ascertain the ultimate point.* of contrariety between
the Roman and Anglican creeds, and to make them as few as
possible. I thought that each creed was obscured and mis-
represented by a dominant circumambient "Popery" and
" Protestantism."
The main thesis then of my Essay was this : — the Articles
do not oppose CathoUc teaching ; they but partially oppose
Roman dogma ; they for the most pait oppose the dominant
errors of Rome. And the problim was, as I have said, to
di-aw the line as to what they allowed and what they con-
demned.
Such being the object which I had in view, what were my
prospects of widening and of defining their meaning f The
prospect was encoui'aging ; there was no doubt at all of the
elasticity of the Articles: to take a pahnary instance, the
seventeenth was assumed by one party to be Lutheran, by
another Calvinistic, though the two intei-pretations were
contradictory of each other; why then should not other
Articles be drawn up with a vagueness of an equally intense
character ? I wanted to ascertain what was the limit of that
elasticity in the direction of Roman dogma.
Tlie result was, in February, 1S41, No. 90 of
the " Tracts for the Times," which made a very gi-eat
stir in the Churcli. It was headed "Remarks on
Certain Passages in the Thirty-nine Articles." The
storm raised by this Tract brought its ^^^iter face
to face -vvith his actual position. Confidence in him
was lost, but he had lost, he says, full confidence in
himself. He admitted doubt as to Ms future
opinions, and felt that this breaking of his influence
within the English Church had saved him from an
impossible position in the future. The bishops one
after another directed their charges against hun,
and he ^viites, "From tlie end of 1841, I was on
my death-bed as regards my membership with the
412
CASSELL'S LIBKARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
Li.u. 1£31
Anglican Church, though at the time I became aware
of it ouly by degrees." In October, 1845, Dr. New-
man m-ote to a number of friends a letter of which
tliis was the opening: —
Littkiiiorc, Oclobcr Sl/i, 184.3.— I am this night expecting
Father Dominic the Passionist, who, from his youth, has been
led to have distinct and direct thoughts, first of the countries
of the North, then of England. Aiter thirty years' (almost)
waiting, he was without his own act sent here. But he has
had little to do with conversions. I saw him here for a few
minutes on St. John Baptist's Day last year.
He is a simple, holy man ; and withal gifted with remark-
able powers. He does not know of my intention ; but I
mean to ask of him admission into the One Fold of Christ.
When Jolm Keble received the letter containing
this announcement he dreaded to open it, expecting
what it contained. He carried it about in his pocket,
and opened it at last in an old sandpit. When some
friend afterwards, during a walk, called attention to
the sandpit, he said, " AJi, that place is associated
with one of the saddest events in my Ufe ! "
John Henet Newman.
From a Photograi>k h>j Mr. H. J. Whitlock, BirmmgTiam.
The "Tom Arnold" who came as sunshine among
the earliest visitors to Keble at Hiu-sley grew to be
a power in aid of English religion, differing from
Keble not in that wliich lie himself distinguished from
" oi)inion " as " principle," although in latter years
opinion put an imagined distance between these
friends, whose goodwill dated from the days when
they had both been students of Corpus and Fellows of
Oriel. Thomas Arnold, flimous in after years as the
Head-master of Rugby, was born in 1795 at West
Cowes. His father, who was collector of customs there,
<lied when his seventh child and yoimgest son Thomas
was scarcely six yeai-s old. When eight yeai-s old
he was sent to a school at Warminster in Wiltshire,
and after four years there he went at the age of
twelve, in 1807, to Winchester School, where he
remained till 1811. He was then, in his sixteenth,
year, elected as a scholar at Corpus ChrLsti College,
Oxford. John Keble was fifteen when he obtained
his scholarship at the same college in 1807, and he
had obtained in 1810 his Fellowship at Oriel
Arnold, having graduated in 1814, obtained his
Fellowship in 1815, and gained the Chancellor's
prize for the two University Essays, Latin and
English, in 1815 and 1817. He had wi-itteu verse
as a boy, and still wi-ote it as exercise ; but a taste
for history caused him to fasten with relish at Oxford
on Herodotus and Thucydides, in whom he delighted
always. Delight in Thucydides caused Arnold after-
wards to become his editor. He was also thoroughly
at home in Aristotle, and often associated Aiistotle's
thoughts with the living truth of his own life. At
Oxford, Arnold was lively, ardent, earnest, and bold
of thought. In December, 1818, he was ordained
deacon, and in 1819 he began life in partnership
with a brother-in-law, who established a school at
Laleham, near Staines. Arnold settled there with
his mother, aunt, and sister ; and next year, in
August, 1820, he manied a clergyman's daughter who
was the sister of one of his most intimate school and
college friends. Nine happy years were spent at
Laleham. With the school was associated private
preparation of young men for the Universities.
Arnold began by taking chai-ge of such pupOs, and
also assisting in the school. Afterwards he made it
his whole business, without partnership, to prejjare
yomig men for Oxford. He helped the curate of
the place in church and workhouse, visited the parish
poor, was happy in the young life about him, and in
the domestic peace of home. To a friend who
thought of becoming private tutor, he wi'ote thus of
the calling, in 1831, when he was at Rugby : —
I know it has a bad name, but my wife and I always
happened to be fond of it, and if I were to leave Kugby for
no demerit of my own, I would take to it again with all the
pleasure in life. I enjoyed, and do enjoy, the society of
youths of seventeen or eighteen, for they are aU aUve in
limbs and spirits at least, if not in mind, while in older
persons the body and spirits often become lazy and languid
without the mind gaining any vigour to compensate for it.
Do not take your work as a dose, and I do not think you will
find it nauseous. I am sure you will not, if your wife does
not, and if she is a sensible woman, she will not cither if you
do not I should say, have your pupils a good
deal with j-ou, and be as familiar with them as you possibly
can. I did this continually more and more before I left
Laleham, going to bathe with them, leaping, and all other
gymnastic exercises within my capacity, and sometimes sailing
or rowing with them. They, I believe, alwaj"S liked it, and I
enjoyed it myseK like a bo}', and found myself constantly the
better for it.
In August, 1827, Dr. Wooll resigned the Head-
mastershij) of Rugby, which he had held for twenty-
one years. Arnold, late in the contest for the next
appointment, was induced to offer himself as a candi-
date. His testimonials were the last sent in and the
last read. Among them was one from Dr. Hawkins
which predicted that if Mr. Arnold were elected at
Rugby he would change the face of educatioii_
TO A.D. lS4o.'l
RELIGIOK
41c
i Liugliout all the pubHc schools of England. There
■; at that time a wide recognition of the need of
- uie reform. Dr. Hawkins's emphatic prophecy
ami the manner in which the other few testimonials
ke of Ai'nold's qualities of mind determined his
;tion. He received priest's ordere, entered on his
u-iice in August, 1828, and took his degree of D.D.
ill the following November.
Dr. Ai-nold's wondei-ful hold upon Paigby school
V IS not obtained immediately, and in the earlier
} are of his rule there were complaints made from
11 It side again.st him. But he had fiiTtmess of cha-
ruL-ter, he underetood the minds of boys, and had
fi supreme religious sense of his responsibility.
Dr. Arnold was religious not after the manner of
one of those professional divines of the eighteenth
centuiy who laboured to gi'ace then- calling with
the elegance of heavy rhetoric, and who are now
left unread ; but religion entered into his whole
nature. It was not something to talk about
foiTually ^^-ith his pupils, but a human reality of
which they felt the woi-th and power. It was a
strong early wish of his that religion, apart from aU
party feeling, could be made really the basis of our
common social life. He wished to see some great
influential journal joining the tone of men of the
world to a unifonnly Christian spii-it, and appearing
"to uphold good pi-inciples for then- own sake, and
not merely as tending to the maintenance of tilings
as they are. It would be," he said, " delightful to
see" a work sincei'ely Christian, which shoidd be
neither High Chiu-ch, nor what is called Evangelical."
He had even at one time a notion of writing a work
•on " Chiistian Politics, or the application of the
Gospel to the state of man as a citizen." At Rugby,
an outward aspect of sternness that awed younger
boys was partly an accident of feature, partly a result
of the deep earnestness with which he approached
his woi-k. The yoimg boys who were sent into the
school out of innocent homes were exposed there to
temptations of which he felt the peril, and Dr.
Arnold's fii-st object was to expel, as far as possible,
tlie spirit of evil from his boy community. He
allowed for the unfoi-med intellect and judgment in
a boy ; but had a deep sense of the perils to which it
was exposed. He did not punish natural stupidity ;
he encoiu-aged individuality of character, and sought
to train powei-s of thought in the boys under his
immediate care ; but evil or dishonourable acts
caused him to become pale with emotion. At his
•entrance upon his office he laid down a principle that
although expidsion from the school must be a rare
punishment for gi'eat oflences, cpiiet removal of those
lx)ys who could not themselves profit by the school
system and whose influence upon then- comrades was
injurious, must, especially at first, be often necessary.
He excited the surpii.se of some parents by asking
them to remove their sons ; but he took the utmost cai-e
to sejiarate this policy from any suggestion of disgi'ace
to the boys removed. He would often retain frientUy
interest in them, and of some he would explain to
the authorities of any college to which they were sent
that, although not fitted for school life, he believed
that they would do well in the University. For
a few years there were complaints occasioned by this
policy ; but as Dr. Arnold said to his boys on one
occasion, diu-ing the earlier part of his rale, when
they were dissatisfied with some removals — "It is
not necessary that this should be a school of three
hunch-ed, or one hunched, or of fifty boys^ but it is
necessaiy that it should be a school of Chi-istian
gentlemen." For lying he had no toleration. Ko
boy was allowed to add e%idence of a statement made
by him ; he was checked at once with the remai-k,
" If you say so that is quite enough — of ccmrse I
believe your word." The result was that truth was
spoken to him ; the boys felt that " it was a shame
to teU Arnold a lie — he always believes one." But
hong when discovered was punished severely ; among
the upper boys, if pereisted in, its penalty was not
l•emo^■al, but expulsion. He trusted in his Sixth
Form, sought in eveiy way to elevate its tone, and
utilised the system of fagging that he found in use,
by making the thirty boys of the Sixth (or highest)
Fomi ti'ansmitters of his own spirit throughout the
school. "When I have confidence in the Sixth,"
he said, at the end of one of his farewell addresses
to the boys, " there is no post in England which
I would exchange for this ; but if they do not
support me, I must go." One of his private ad-
dresses to his Sixth Foim ended thus : — " The state
of the school is a subject of congratidation to us all,
but only so far as to encom'age us to increa.sed exer-
tions ; and I am sure we ought all to feel it a subject
of most .sincere thankfulness to God : but we must
not stop here ; we must exert ourselves with earnest
prayer to God for its continuance. And what I have
often said before I repeat now : what we must look
for here is, fu-st, religious and moral principles;
secondly, gentlemanly conduct ; thii-dly, intellectual
ability.'' He honoured above all other things high
pi-inciple bent upon industrious cidtivation of low
natm-al abilities, and said, " If there be one thing on
earth which is tndy admii-able, it is to see God's
wisdom blessing an inferiority of natm-al powei-s,
where they have been honestly, truly, and zealously
cultivated." When speaking of a pupil who had
earned that praise, he said, " I would stand to that
man hat in hand." One day Dr. Arnold came to
the teaching of his Sixth Form from the deathbed of
one of the boys of the school. He felt a shock in
the ti-ansition from a solemn deathbed scene to the
school work, and reasoned to himself that there must
be fault in the school work if it seemed to him so
much less reliijious that he felt a contrast in ti-an.sition
to it from a deathbed. It must be, he thought, that
the presence of God is not felt in the school work as
we ought to feel it. And from that day he used after
the general school-prayer a special prayer for himself
and "the Sixth Fonu before they began the duties of
the day.
PRATER RE.\D EVERT MORXIXG IN THE SIXTH
FORM AT RIGBT.
Lord, who tv Thy holy Apostle hast taught us to do aU
thino-s in the name of the Lord Jesus and to Thy glory, give
Thy blessing, we pray Thee, to this our daily work, that we
may do it in faith, and heartily, as to the Lord and not unto
men. All our powers of body and mind are Thine, and we
414
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
1 A.D. 1832'
would fain devote them to Thy service. Sanctify them and
the work in which they are engaged ; let us not he slothful,
but fcn-ont in spirit ; and do Thou, Lord, so bless our
efforts that they may bring forth in us the fruits of true
wisdom. Strengthen the faculties of our minds, and dispose
us to exert them, but let us always remember to exert them
for Thy glory, and for the furtherance of Thy kingdom ; and
save us from all pride, and vanity, and reliance upon our
own power or wisdom. Teach us to seek after truth, and
enable us to gain it ; but grant that we may ever speak the
truth in love :— that while we know earthly tilings, we may
know Thee, and be known by Thee, through and in Thy Son
Jesus Christ. Give us tliis day Thy Holy Spiiit, that we
may be Thine in body and spirit, in aU our work and all our
refreshments, through Jesus Christ, Thy Son, Our Lord.
Amen.
Dr. Arnold obtained for the masterships at Rugby
a privilege of giving title to orders, but required that
the masters, whOe in the school, should have no
other cure of souls than that im])ortant one which
was a part of their office as teachers of the young.
When the office of scliool chaplain became vacant, he
claimed tliat it should — witliout its salary — be added
to that of the head-master, who, by virtue of liis
office, was the proper chaplain of the school. In his
preaching, as in his teaching and in Ms whole life's
work, there was the manliest simplicity. "It is a
most touching thing to me," he said to an old pupO,
" to receive a new fellow from his father — when I
think what an influence there is in this place for evil,
as well as for good. I do not know anything which
affects me moi'e." When it w-as suggested that
habit must lessen this feeling, he answered, " No ; if
ever I could receive a new boy from his father '
without emotion, I should think it was high time to '
be ofl'." This feelmg adding to the seriousness of his
face, caused the new boy only to tlmik what a stern j
man Dr. Ai'nold seemed to be. But as time went j
on, the dignity and beauty of the religious life in
a true man who cared for them, made some even
of those who came little into contact with the head-
master feel that he was a man they could cUe for.
He sought to encourage boys of all ages to come to
the communion-table in the college chapel, and in
ministering to tlie youngest of those who did so,
bent over them with a fatherly tenderness. His
sermons, always plain and to the purpose, were
listened to with fixed attention by the idlest boys,
and some would after service avoid their- companions,
to return alone with the thoughts that had been put
into their minds. But the religion he sought to
instil was that which out of thought biings action.
lie would have all be doing. " I always think," he
said, " of that magnificent sentence of Bacon, ' Li
this world, God only and the angels may be spec-
tatoi-s.' " This is one of Dr. Arnold's Rugby Sermons,
from a volume of tliem first published in 1832. It
belongs to the earlier time, when he felt more
frequently the need of ^v^estling with those evils of
a puljlic school life that it was his chief labour to
overcome. A cei-tain severity was felt in these
earlier sermons by some who, like the younger boys,
failed to distinguish between hardness of feeling and
iirmness of pui-pose : —
A SERMON IN EUGBY CHAPEL.
" Whoso shall otfead one of these little ones which tielieve in me,
it were better for bim tbat a millstone were banged about his nsckj
and that be were drowned in the depth of the sea." — Matt, xviii. 6.
You see, by the strong language which our Lord here uses,
that the sin which he is thi-catening in these words is a very-
great one ; — and he goes on to repeat the threat in the verse
following : — " Woe unto the world because of offences ; for it
must needs be that offences come, but woe to that man by
whom the offence cometh." Some of you, I trust, will know
already what the words mean, and will see directly what I am
going to turn them to ; — for it is a passage which I have often-
dwelt upon, as it is one which, while it is generally useful to
all persons, strikes especially at one of the greatest sins of
schools. But there are many, I dare say, who do not know
what it means, and who have never thought, when they heard
this solemn threat read in the church, that they were them-
selves some of the very persons concerned in it ; that they
were daily " offending," in the Scripture meaning of the word,
some of Christ's little ones. I could not indeed have chosen,
a text which came home more dii-ectly to your daily practice
than the one I have just read. I could not have noticed any
sin with which j'our consciences will tell you, the moment
that our Lord's words are explained to you, that you arc more
familiar. I proceed, therefore, to explain them ; and will
then apply them, in one or two common instances, to your
life and daily habits.
When our Lord speaks of offending one of these little
ones who believe in him, I should first say that the word
" offend," in common speech, has a very different meaning
from that in which the translators of the Bible have
here used it. You know that our translation was made
more than two hundred years ago ; so that it is not
wonderful that some words in the coirrse of that time have
changed their meanings. "Offend," in the text, and in many
other places in the New Testament, means to tempt or lead
another into sins : so that by " offending one of these little
ones," our Lord does not mean "vexing them," "making
them angry," or " ill-using them ; " but "tempting or leading
them into evU," or " thi'owing any hindi'ances in the way
of their doing what they ought to do." It is this which he
calls so \vicked, that it were better for us to die this moment
than be guilty of it. But now, by " little ones," whom are-
we to understand ? Jesus had just before taken a little child,
and set him in the midst, and told his disciples, that imlcss
they were converted, and became as little children, they
could not enter into the kingdom of heaven. And then he
says that " they must not mislead or tempt to evil one of
these little ones who believe in him." Now, a very little
chUd cannot believe iu Christ, because he cannot understand
much about him; and we know also that it must be a sin
to tempt any one to evU, whether thej- be really little children
in age or no. But the more like children they are, — that is,
the more ignorant, and simple-minded, and ready to believe
and do what others tell them, — so much the more wicked it is
to tell them wrong, or to hinder them from going right. It
applies, then, to any one who is young in character, even
though he should happen to be old in years ; but it applies
particularly to those who are at once young in years and
young in character. It applies, therefore, particularly to
those boys who are desirous of doing their duty, who have no
great confidence in themselves, but are ready to be guided by
others ; who are shy and timid, and unable to stand against
laughter or iU-usage. There are such in cverj' school ; and
it is the worst reproach of schools, and the most awful
responsibility for aU who are connected with them, to think
TO A.U. 1812.]
RELIGION.
415
that so many of them are utterly lost in consequence of the
temptations which they here meet with: they are " oileuded "
in the Scripture sense of the word, that is, thoy are laughed
or frightened out of their Sa\'iour's serince, and taught very
often, ere long, not only to deny their Lord themselves, but
to join in " offending " others, who are now as innocent as
once they were, and to di-aw them over to the worship and
serrice of Satan, to which their own souls are ah-eady
abandoned.
Kow, then, you see what the text means, and you feel how
it appUcs to you. You know that there are amongst you
many boys who remember and wish to keep the lessons that
they have received at home ; and you know, also, how much
it is the fashion of schools to teach just the contraiy. And
I wiU take two instances which will have come, I fear, often
■enough within the experience of j'ou all. I mean the case of
idleness, and the case of extravag.ance.
Fii-st, for idleness. There are boys who have either
never leamt, or have quite forgotten, all that may have been
told them at home of the duty of attending- to their school-
lessons. We know that there are boys who think all their
'lessons merely tiresome, and who are resolved never to take
any more trouble about them than what they cannot possibly
avoid. But being thus idle themselves, they cannot bear
that others should be more attentive. We all know the
terms of reproach and ridicule which are thi-own out against
a, boy who works in earnest and upon principle. He is
laughed at for taking unnecessary trouble, for being afraid
of punishment, or for wishing to gain favour with his
masters, and be thought by them to be better than other
boys. Either of these reproaches is one which a boy finds it
very hard to bear ; — he does not like to be thought afraid, or
plodding, or as wishing to court favour. He has not age, or
sense, or firmness enough to know and to answer, that the
only fear of which he need be ashamed is the fear of his
■ equals, the fear of those who are in no respect better than
himself, and have therefore no sort of right to direct him.
'To be afraid, then, of other boys is, in a boy, the same sort of
weakness as it is in a man to be afraid of other men : and
as a man ought to be equally ashamed of fearing men and
■ not fearing God, so a boy ought to be ashamed of fearing
boys, and also to be ashamed of not fearing his parents and
instructors. And as, in after life, the fear of God makes no
man do anything mean or dishonourable, but the fear of men
■does lead to all sorts of weakness and baseness: so amongst
boys the fear of their parents and teachers will only make
them manly, and noble, and high-spirited ; but the fear of
their companions leads them to everything low, and childish,
■and contemptible. Those boys, then, who try to make others
idle, and laugh at them for trying to please their masters,
-are exactly like the men who laugh at their neighbours for
being religious, and for living in the fear of God ; and both
-.are like the more hardened ruffians in a gang of thieves or
other criminals, whose amusement it is to laugh at the fear
■of justice, which beginners in crime have not yet quite got
over. In all these instances there is not only the guilt of
our own sin, but the far worse guilt of encouraging sin in
•others ; and as I showed you last Sunday how your school-
faults, although very trifling in worldly consequences, were
yet as serious in the sight of God as the faults in gro-wn men,
because they showed that you were not serving and loving
Him, but serving and loving evil ; so it may be said, without
the least going beyond the truth, that a boy who, being idle
himself, tries to make others idle also, is exactly " offending
one of those little ones who believe in Chi-ist," and is in the
daily habit of that sin which Chi-ist says it were better for
him to die directly than to be guilty of.
Again, with regard to extravagance, and the breach of
school regulations. There are some boys who, remembering
the wishes of their parents, are extremely unwilling to incur
debts, and to spend a great deal of money upon their own
eating, and drinking, and amusements. There are some, too,
who, knowing that the use of wine or any liquor of that sort
is forbidden, because the use of it among boys is sure to be
the abuse of it, would not \rish to indulge in anything of
the kind themselves. But they are assailed by the example,
and the reproaches and the laughter of others. It is mean,
and poor-spirited, and ungenerous, not to contribute to the
pleasures and social enjoyments of their companions; in
short, not to do as others do. The charge of stinginess, of
not spending his money liberally, is one which a boy is
particularly sore at hearing. He forgets that in his ciise
such a charge is the greatest possible folly. Where is the
generosity of spending money which is not your own, and
which, as soon as it is spent, is to be supplied again with
no sacrifice on your part? Where is the stinginess of not
choosing to beg money of j'our dearest friends, in order to
employ it in a manner which those friends would disapprove
of ? — for, after all, the money must come from them, as you
have it not, nor can you earn it for yourselves. But there is
another laugh behind : a boy is laughed at for being kept so
strictly at home that he cannot get money as he likes ; and
he is taught to feel ashamed and angry at the hard restraint
which is laid upon him. Truly that boy has gone a good
way in the devil's service who will dare to set another
against his father and his mother, who will teach him that
their care and authority are things which he should be
ashamed of. Of those who can do this, well may Christ say,
that " it were better for them that a millstone were tied about
their neck, and that they were drowned in the depth of the
sea." Yet these things arc done ; and the consciences of
many who now hear me -will say to the eye of Him who can
look into the inmost heart that they are the doers of them.
For you who are assailed by these and other such tempta-
tions, — for ymi, whom Christ calls His children, and whom
the devil and his servants would fain make ashamed of your
Father and your Lord,— for you, who are laughed at because
you wiH. not be idle, or drunken, or extravagant, or undutiful,
or in some way or other base and low-principled,— beware
lest you suffer yourselves to be " offended," that is, lest you
are laughed and frightened out of your eternal salvation.
After all, they that are ^-ith you are more and greater than
they who are against you,— all the wise and good and noble
among yourselves : all good and -n-ise and honourable men ;
aU blessed spuits that love the service of God, .-md delight to
aid those who are fighting in his cause ; and above all that
Holy and Eternal Spirit himself, your Comforter and mighty
DeU'verer, whose aid and perpetual presence with you was
pm-chased by your Redeemer's blood. Trust in these, and be
not afraid of all that hell and its servants can do to you.
Fear not them who k-iU the body, and after that have no
more that they can do to you : but rather fear Him who is
able to destroy both body and soul in hell.
In 1832 Dr. Arnold bouglit liimself a home for
vacation time and future retirement, or for his family
in Ccvse of his death, at Fox How, between Eydal
and Ambleside. His interest in public questions
all spraii!? from the same feeling that animated his
school work. As the opinions of the writei-s of the
" Tracts for tlie Times " came more and more to
represent a compact body of thought aiming at wliat
he could only look upon as a revi\al of past super-
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1S37
stition, bis opposition to tliem w=« strongly expressed
_never so strongly as in an article which appealed
in the EdUh^r.jh Review for Apn , bSG and which
the Editor of the Review entitled " The Oxford
M-ili-'nants." He also desii'ed Church unity with
all his soul. He would have had Government and
Cliurch to be v-ii-tually one, by basing the whole
social svstem upon Christian principles, and leaving
freedom to sectarian opinion. In 1839 he wrote—
" When I think of the Church I could sit down and
iiine and cbe." In 1841 the fourth volume of his
'sermons appeared. It was entitled " Christian Life,
its Helps and its Hindrances." It brought home to
many minds his view of Christianity in a way that
abated anger of opponents and increased the number
of his friends ; but he was combatant still for what
he held to be the Christianity of St. John and St.
Paul, and said, " It is because I so earnestly desire
the revival of the Church that I abhor the doctrine
of the priesthood." The gi-owing divisions in the
Church, and the character of the new reaction that
had spread from Oxford, caused him to express in
his last years a feeling almost of despair. His
sermon for Easter Day, 18i2, dwelt with unusual
severity on this ecclesiastical reaction, and in one
letter at this time he seemed disposed to give up
hope of a re.storation of peace in the Church, and
" to clmg, not from choice, but from necessity, to the
Protestant tendency of laying the whole stress on
Christian Religion, and adjourning his idea of the
Church siiie die." In August, IS-il, he had accepted
the Regius Professorship of Modern History at
Oxford, vacant by the death of Dr. Nares. On the
2nd of December he read his Inaugural Lecture to a
crowded autlience, among which were many of his
old Rugby pupils, listening with delight to their old
teacher. On the morning of Sunday, the 12th of
June, 1842, when work at Rugby was just over, the
boys were separatuig for then- holidays, and he wa-s
looking forward to his rest at Fox How, Dr. Arnold
died suddenly of imsuspected heart disease. His last
act when he went to rest on Saturday night, had
been to make this entiy in his diaiy : —
Sdtiir'ln;/ Ercning, June Wth. — The day after to-morrow is
my l)irth(l:vy, if I am permitted to live to see it — my forty-
seventh biithday since my birth. How large a portion of
my life on earth is already passed ! And then — what is to
follow this life ? How visibly my outward work seems con-
tracting and softening away into the gentler emploj-ments
of old age 1 In one sense, how nearly can I now say, ' Vi.^ ! '
Ajji I thank God that, as far as ambition is concerned, it is,
I trust, fully mortified ; I have no desire other than to step
back from my present place in the world, and not to rise to a
higher. StiU there are works which, with God's permission,
I would do before the night comcth; especially that great
work, if I might be pennitted to take part in it. But above
all, let me mind my o^vn personal work, — to keep myself
pure and zealous and believing, — labouring to do God's will,
yet not anxious that it should be done by me rather than by
others, if God disapproves of my doing it.
Tliat gi-eat work was labour towards the establish-
ment of a Church of England that should be one
with the State, and lea\-ing freedom for diversity of
ceremony and opinion, should unite all in avowed
maintenance of the gospel of Christ as the first
source of law and order among Clu-istians
Keble, Newman, Arnold, all came more or less
into relation with the vigorous good sense of Richard
Whately, who was then- senior at Oriel, but survived
Arnold, for he died Archbishop of Dublin in 1863.
Richard "Whately was born iu 1787, the youngest
of nine children of a prosperous divine. During
thi'ee years of his childhood, from the age of five or
sis, he had an enthusiasm for mental arithmetic,
and could work acciu'ately in his head any sum in
multiplication, division, and the rule of three, faster
than any one could do them on paper. The passion
afterwards wore off. His father died when he was
ten years old, and his mother then settled in Bath.
Wliately had also a strong boyish delight in specula-
tions upon government, civilisation, and otlier topics
that engage the thoughts of men. This habit of
thought remained, and as he had been a boy often
more occupied with his thoughts than with the small
things happening about him, so in after life he would
be beating out ideas in his head while ignorant of all
the details that provided small talk for his neighbours.
What had been shyness in the child, became abrupt-
ness ill the man, with intellectual energy and great sim-
plicity and kindliness of character. Whately entered
Oriel College, Oxford, and by Dr. Copleston, who
was then tutor there, his fearless liberality of thought
in directions not favoiu'ed by Oxford University
men was strengthened. He gi-aduated in 1808,
and in 1811 became Fellow of Oriel ; took his M.A.
degree in 1812, and remained at Oxford as a private
tutor. He was ordained deacon in 1814. In 1815
he took an invalid sister to Oporto, returned tc^
Oxford in the autumn, and spent the next years in
the University as private and public tutor. He was
a teacher skilled in the art of making pupils think.
In 1819 Whately met one argument of sceptics in
religion, that based upon defect of testimony, with a
pamphlet of " Historic Doubts relative to Napoleon,"
which showed how their method could be applied as
eflectually to the demolition of the recent evidence-
of certain truth, as to the remoter evidence of tiiith
which to him was equally certain. This pamphlet went
through many editions. In 1821 Whately mai-ried at
Cheltenham, but retumed to Oxford, and took pupils.
In 1822 he was appointed Bam])ton Lecturer, and
published the lectures he delivered " On the Use
and Abuse of Party Feeling in Religion." This was
his first published volume. He spoke afterwards of
the puljlication of these lectures as " breaking the
bridge behind him," and committing himself to a
long war against the e\^ he condemned. In 1822 a
living was given to him at Halesworth in Suflblk ;
he went to reside there, and worked hard for the
improvement of his people until the eflect of the
damp climate upon his wife's health, which some-
times brought her life into danger, obliged him to
leave. In 1 82.5 Whately took the degi-ee of D.D.,
and was appointed Principal of St. Alban's Hall.
He removed to Oxford, and for two or three years.
TO A.D. 1842.]
EELIGIOK
417
sjient the vacations at Halesworth, but the risk to
Lis wife's life became too manifest, and at last he
placed a curate in the rectory, and went alone to the
parish three or four times a year. St. Alban's Hall
had become a place of refuge for idlers, but Dr.
Whately began vigorous reforms. He had been
drawn to John Hemy Newman at Oriel. Newman
was of solitary, thoughtful habits, and Whately, who
had sympathies of his own with isolated thoughtful-
ness, had gi-eeted him one day in passing with the
courteous aisplication of a Latin saying — " Never less
alone than when alone." ^ Whately was fourteen
yeai's older than Newman, whose earnest thoughtful-
ness he so well appreciated that he made him his Vice-
Principal at St. Alban's Hall. " I owe him a gi-eat
deal," says Dr. Newman. " He was a man of gene-
rous and wann heart. While I was stQl awkward
imd timid, in 1822, he took me by the hand, and
acted the part to me of a generous and encom-aging
instructor. He emphatically opened my mind, and
taught me to think and use my reason. . . . He
had done his work to me, or nearly so, when he had
taught me to see with my own eyes and walk with
my own feet." But there was essential differenoe in
tendencies of mind that separated aftei-wards their
lines of work. In 182-5 Whately published a firsi;
series of Essays on religious subjects ; they were on
some of the Peculiarities of the Christian Religion.
In 1828, a second series was on some Difficulties in
the Writings of St. Paul, and on other parts of the
New Testament. A third series, in 1830, was on
the Errore of Romanism, traced to their Origin in
Human Nature. Meanwhile he had published in
1827 his "Elements of Logic," and in 1828 his
" Elements of Rhetoric."
Wbately's "Elements of Rhetoric" being specially
designed for students who were to recruit the ranks
of the clergy, was the firet book in wliich clergy-
men were plainly told that if they would bring the
truths of the Bible and their o^vn thoughts upon
ithem home to their hearers easily and clearly, and
[avoid " clergyman's sore throat," they must speak in
^heir natural voices. No manner of voice that man
can substitute for that which God has given him ^\'ill
do its work in any respect half as well. The clerical
voice that Whately did not succeed in banishing out
of chiu'ches, cannot be so well heard at a distance ;
has not a tenth or hundredth part of the power of
expressing lights and shades of thought that is in the
natural voice of man ; gives pain alike to the ear of
the hearer and the throat of the speaker, and is the
sole cause of affections of the throat. Dr. Whately
surprised some clergymen whom he persuaded to try
in reading-desk and pulpit the effect of the natural
voice which they had believed honestly to be in-
sufficient for effective utterance in a large buildmg.
' There is a kindly recollection of this in Dr. Newman's " History
of My EelisnoJis Opinions.' ' The reference is to a passage in the third
book of Cicero " De Officiis." " Cato tells us that Publius Scipio,
who was caUed Afrioanas the Elder, used to say that he was never
less at leisure than when at leisure, or less alone than when alone "—
"Nnnquam se minus otiosum esse, quam cum otiosus ; nee minus
solum, quam cum solus esset." Cicero's added comment strengthened
Whately's compliment in the allusion.
117
They came into large fortunes of ease and efficiency,
and had no more sore thi-oat ; for misuse of one of
the best gifts of God is the only cause of clergyman',s
sore throat in a fairly healthy man. A clerical
friend m-ged Whately much for an opinion as to his
reading of the Church ser\-ice, and he said at last,
" Well, then, if you really wish to know what I think
of your reading, I should say there are only two parts
of the service you read well, and those you read
faultlessly." "Which are they?" "They are,
' Here endeth the first lesson,' and ' Here endeth the
second lesson,' for those are the only parts which you
read in your natural voice and manner, which are
veiy good ; the rest is all artificial."
Dr. Whately was Professor of Political Economy at
Oxford from 1829 until 1831, when he was appointed
Archbishop of DubHn. At Oxford he had shocked
the false dignity of other dons by exliibiting some-
times in Christchurch jNleadows the accomplishments
of his spaniel " Sailor," whom he had taught to climb
to the top of a high tree overhanging the Cherwell,
utter a wailing yell, and drop into the river. When
the appointment to the archbishopric reached liim,
Whately was stajTng with Dr. Arnold at Rugby.
Arnold was among those who, at Oxford, had di-awn
most closely to Whately, and in after life it was a
special pleasure to the head-master of Rugby that the
Archbishop of Dublin should come sometimes to con-
firm his elder boys. Another visitor was staying at
the head-master's house when the offer of the arch-
bishopric came, and knew nothing about it till Dr.
Whately was showing him the performance of his
climbing dog. " Sailor " had got to the top of a tree
and began to yell, when Whately said, "What do you
think of that 1 " " I think," said the visitor, " that
some besides the dog, when they find themselves at
the top of the tree, would give the world to get
down again." " Then," said Dr. Whately, suddenly,
" Ai-noid has told you." " Told me what ] " " That
I have been ofi'ered the archbishopric of Duljlin."
Separated from all parties in the Church, Whately
accepted the difficult office as a sphere of duty. " I
am sure," Dr. Arnold said of him afterwards, " that
in point of essential holiness, as far as man can judge,
there does not live a truer Christian than Whately ;
and it does grieve me most deeply to hear people
speak of him as a dangerous and latitudinarian
character, because in him the intellectual part of his
nature keeps pace -n-ith the spiritual." His indepen-
dence of thought exposed him more or less to the
attack of parties on all sides. In a letter of 1832,
to Dr. Pusey upon his sermon on national judgments,
written in cholera time, Whately drew this distinc-
tion between labour to find what is orthodox, and
labour to find what is scriptural : —
ORTHODOX OR SCRIPTURAL?
You will find it a very nice point, indeed, to keep qnite safe
from all appearance of delation from orthodoxy, unless you
adopt the one sure and compendious expedient (which has,
however, its objections) of resolving, at aU events, to be
orthodox. You will understand, of course, that I do not use
the word in its et)-mological sense, to denote that which is
reaUy the true opuiion, in which sense no man can be certain
'418
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d, 1812
till the day of judgment who is orthodox; but in the ordinary-
acceptation of words, when we speak of orthodoxy, we are
understood to mean what is commonly accounted such, viz.,
the doctrine maintained by the majority of the most influen-
tial among theologians. These should be made the standard,
their mode of study copied, their interpretations adopted, by
one who is bent on being orthodox. He whose great object is
to be scriptural, should study the Scriptures with all the help,
indeed, of every kind that he can obtain, but with a thorough
<levotion to Ids object, and a resolution to sacrifice, if neces-
sary, anything or everything to that. Each may thus come
as near to his own object as the imperfection of the human
faculties will permit. And lot every one choose his own
standard ; but let no one aim at the unattainable and incon-
sistent object of serving two masters. Let him not say that
the Orthodox and the Scriptural are not adverse Hke God and
Mammon. It is not because they are necessarily hostile that
no man can serve two masters, but simply because they are
two, and not one. It is like seeking to make both gold and
silver the standard of currency. Their relative value varies but
seldom, and very slightly ; but the slightest variation throws all
accounts into confusion if we attempt to make both a standard.
In proportion as pure religion prevails in any age and country,
the orthodox and the scriptural approach towards coincidence,
and the adherents of each approach in respect of the doctrines
themselves which they maintain ; but still they go on diffe-
rent principles, like one man going by the clock and another
by the dial. And he who aims at conforming to each of two
standards is a double-minded man, and wUl be unstable in aU
his ways.
My heterodoxy consists chiefly in waiving a good many
subtle questions agitated by various " ans," and " ites," and
" ists," and in keeping clear of sundry metaphysical distinc-
tions relative to the mode of existence of the Di-vine and the
liuman mind, which are beyond my comprehension, and which
[ am disposed to think would have been brought down to the
level of it by Scripture, had they been necessary points of a
saving faith.
• The sy.stem of national education in Ireland, open
;to persons of all creeds, was established within a
year after Dr. Whately's appointment as Ai-chbishop
of Dublin, and lie was made part of it in all denun-
ciations. At the accession of Queen Victoria, Dr.
Whately was fifty years old, actively interested in
■questions that concerned the temporal and religious
well-being of Ireland, opposed always to the spirit of
intolerance, and himself free from it, as he was free
from insincerity or a false mannerism in act or voice.
'Two or three years after the Queen's accession. Dr.
Whately wi-ote to a friend : " I was at the Birthday
Drawing-room yesterday with the bishop and address.
The Queen reads beautifully ; I wish she would teach
some of my clergy." A dear friend. Dr. Dickenson,
who had lately been made Bishop of Meath, died in
18-i2, almost at the same time as Dr. Arnold, and
the two losses were sorely felt by Dr. Whately. Of
the.se friends he wrote in the first days of mourning
for them : " It is a blessing, and in some degree a
lasting one, when men of high intellect\ial powers are
sincere ChrLstians ; it tends to destroy the association
so apt to be formed between religion and silly super-
stition, or at least feeble understanding ; and of all
the highly-gifted men I have ever kno%vn, the two I
liave so lately been bereft of were the very best
Chi-istiaus. I mean that they were not merely
eminently good men, but men who made it their
constant business to bring their religion into their
daily life and chai-actei'. The two had some different
opinions from each other ; but tliey were strikingly
alike in making the Christian character — the Gospel
spirit embodied in the life — their great study.
' Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see
God,' and when they meet, in His presence, they
will know perfectly, and not care at all, which was
the nearest truth in his opinions here on earth."
In 18-55, Dr. Whately was busy upon his edition
of " Bacon's Essays, with Annotations," published at
the end of the next year, when he was on the verge
of seventy. While he was seeing it through the
jn-ess, palsy appeared in his left leg and arm. In
1859 he edited Paley's "Evidences" and "Moral
Philosophy," with amiotations. In March, 1860, Dr.
Whately's youngest daughter died in his house four
months after her mai*riage. His wife's death followed
in April. He was then broken in health. At the
end of the year the pi.lsy had extended to his i-ight
hand. Neuralgic gout appeared, and the rest of his
life was tried by much pain until his death at the age
of seventy-sLx, in October, 1863. An old friend who
saw him in those last years after his bereavement said,
" His countenance had changed, a singularly noble
and benevolent expression shone out as the earthly
frame dissolved. He looked like a picture by one of
the great old masters."
Richard Whately, in familiar talk and wi-iting,
was apt at apophthegm. Here are some of the
SAYINGS OF ARCHBISHOP WHATELY.
Preach not because you have to say something, but because
you have something to say.
We must watch as if all depended on our own vigilance,
and we must pray as Lf nothing depended on it.
I remember one of my parishiouers at Halesworth telling
me that he thought " a person should not go to church to be
made uncomfortable." I repUed that I thought so too ; but
whether it should be the sermons or the man's life that should
be altered, so as to avoid the discomfort, must depend on
whether the doctrine was right or wi-ong.
Happiness is no laughing matter.
It is a foUy to expect men to do all that they may reason-
ably be expected to do.
All men desire earnestly to have truth on their side : few
to be on the side of truth.
There are two things, each of which he will seldom fail to
discover who seeks for it in earnest : the knowledge of what
he ought to do, and a plausible pretext for doing what he
likes.
The phrase, " He is a very good fellow at the bottom," may
remind one of the story of a gentleman who was riding in a
remote Devonshii-e lane, and seeing a swampy-looking place
before him, called out to a rustic who was near, " I say,
master, is there a good firm bottom here ? " " Oh, yeas, sir,
that there be." He rode on, and soon plunged up to the
horse's girths. " Hilloa, you rascal ! didn't you tell me there
was a good firm bottom?" " Soa there be, sir, when you
comes to it ; but you bcan't half ways to the bottom yet ! " '
Though Whately wrote few verses, here is a little
Evening Hynm, formed by a verse of his own added
I
II
TO A.D. ISSS.J
EELIGION".
419
to a vei-se of Heber's, set to the beautiful Welsh air,
Ar hydd y uos : " —
EVENING HYMN.
God, that madest earth and heaven,
Dai-kness and light ;
A\'ho the day for toil hast given,
For rest the night —
May thine angel-guards defend us ;
Slumbers sweet thy mercy send us ;
Holj- dreams and hopes attend us.
This livelong night.
Guard us waking, guard us sleeping ;
And when we die,
May we in thy mighty keeping.
All peaceful lie.
When the last dread trump shall wake us,
Do not Thou, O Lord, forsake us,
But to reign in glory take us
With Thee on high.
In 1836, one result of the new movement of
tliiiufflit at Oxford, indicated by the " Tracts for
tlif Times," had been a censure by Convocation of
l)r. Hampden's appointment to the Regius Profes-
soi-ship of Divinity, on account of the teaching in his
" Bampton Lectures " and other ])ublications. The
censure was passed by a majority of one, and Dr.
Whately then said that the success of thi.s outbreak
was the first strengthening of the Tractarian party ;
that he had not anticipated anything so mon.strous ;
but if he had remained head of St. Alban's Hall " it
would never have taken place. Tliis is quite certain,
for my successor was one of the most violent of the
persecutors, and the measure passed the Board of
Heads by one vote." In November, 1847, Lord
Jolm Russell, in spite of this bygone censure, made
Dr. Ham])den Bishop of Hereford. A storm of
opposition then again arose, to which the Premier
declined to yield, upon the ground that withdrawal
of the appointment would be " virtually an assent
to the docti-ine that a decree of the University of
Oxford is a perpetual ban of exclusion against a
clergyman of eminent learning and irreproachable
life ; and that, in fact, the supremacy which is now
by law vested in the Crown, is to be transferred to
a majority of the members of one of our univer-
sities." The Bishop of Oxford, Dr. Hampden's
diocesan, who had joined the protest, afterwards
declared that since signing it he had read Dr.
Hampden's writings, and had not found in them the
heretical teaching they were supposed to contain.
This, and the drawing of attention to the great
public events of 1848, greatly abated the contro-
versy. Dr. Howley, Archbishop of Canterbury, who
might have refused to consecrate the new bishop,
died also, in February, 1848, in his eighty-second
year.
During the controversy, one of the most emphatic
defenders of Dr. Hampden was Julius Charles Hare.
Julius Hare, bom in 179.5, was the third of four
sons — Francis, Augustus, Julias, and Marcus — of
Francis Hare Naylor, of Hurstmonceaux Place, in
Sussex. Theii- mother was daughter to a Bishop
of St. Asaph. Augustus and Julius were the two
brothers whose names live in association with one
another as the authors of a volume rich in its variety
of well-worded, suggestive thought— " Guesses at
Truth," first published in 1826. Augustus, after
education at \Vinohe.ster and New College, Oxford,
where he became FeUow and Tutor, married, in
1829, upon his presentation to the college living of
Alton Barnes, in Wiltshire, wliich he held until his
death, in February, 1834. Failure of health had
driven him to Italy m 1833, and he died at Rome.
In 1835 his brother Julius published fifty-sbc of
his sei-mons, which are models of good preaching
to a coimtry congi-egation. Julius Hare, having an
illness at the age of nine, was taken from Tunbridge
School to travel with his parents in Germany. He
spent the winter of 1804-5 in Weimar, and returned
to England after his mother's death at Lausanne
in AprD, 1806. He was then sent to the Charter-
house School, and left the Cliarterhouse for Trinity
College, Cambridge, in 1812, where a brother of
Wordsworth's was then Master, and Julius Hare,
beginning with ridicule, came, before he had left
Cambridge, under the full influence of Wordsworth's
poetry. He lost his fother in 1815. In 1818 he
became Fellow of Tiinity ; then he read law for a
time with his brother Francis; went to Italy in
1821 for health ; and in 1822, on his return, accepted
a classical lectureship at Trinity. In 1824 he etUted
for Walter Savage Landor, who was iii Italy, the
first issue of Landor's '■ Imaginaiy Convei-sations."
Next year, he and his brother Augustus, emulous
of the Pensees of Pascal and the •' Characters " of
La Bniyfere, but not without much influence from
Herder, Lessing, and other Germans, began the
" Guesses at Truth," first published anonymously
in two volumes, in 1827.
Omitting its longer meditations, let us turn to
some of the short savinsrs in which the book
abounds : —
sayuigs m
GUESSES AT TRUTH.
JIan without religion is the creature of circumstances:
Religion is ahove all circumstances, and will Uft him up
above them.
Many men, however ambitious to be great in great things,
have been well content to be little in Uttle things.
Knowledge is the parent of love, wisdom love itself.
Thought is the wind, knowledge the sail, and mankind the
vessel.
In a mist, the heights can for the most part see each other,
but the valleys cannot.
A weak mind sinks under prosperity, as well as under
adversity. A strong and deep mind has two highest tides—
when the moon is at the fuU, and when there is no moon.
I was surprised just now to see a cobweb roimd a knocker,
for it was not on the gate of heaven.
Keligion presents few difficulties to the humble, many to
the proud, insuperable ones to the vain.
The difference between man's law and God's law is, that
whereas we may reach the highest standard set before us by
the former, the more we advance in stri\-ing to fidfil the
latter, the higher it keeps on rising above us.
\Mien a man is told that the whole of ReUgion and Morality
420
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.1). 1826
is summed uj) in two commandments, to love God and to love
our neighbour, he is ready to cry, like Charoba in " Gebir," at
the first sight of the sea, " Is this the mighty ocean? Is this
all?" Yes! all; but how smaU a part of it do your eyes
survey ! Only trust yourself to it ; launch out upon it ; sail
abroad over it : you will find it has no end ; it will carry you
round the world.
Among the pupils of Julius Hare at Trinity were
John Sterling and John Frederick Denison Maurice.
Mauiice and Sterling afterwai'ds became brothers-in-
law by marrying two sLsters, and the sLster of his
friend Maurice became afterwards the wife of Julius
Hare. In 1826 Hare was ordained. In 1832 he
accepted the living of Hurstmonceaux, which was in
the gift of his brother, and left Cambridge, where he
had been for the last ten years an influence — liimself
influenced, as much of the Cambridge thought then
was, by the later writings of Coleridge. His first
University sei-mon, " The Children of Light," which
was so long as not to be closed without audible signs of
impatience, was an earnest plea for religious thought
with heights and depths that were not in Paley.
When he went back in 18.39 to Cambridge, as Select
Preacher for the year, and gave his sermons on "The
Victory of Faith," he poured himself out at as gi-eat
length as before, but was heard to the end with fixed
attention as he maintained the purest spirit of the
Protestant Reformation, and of Luther's part in it,
which many of the Oxford leaders sought especially
to separate us from. In the following year, 1840,
Hare preached at Cambridge on " The Mission of the
Comforter," and published his sei-mons with notes,
of which one -written in vindication of Luther was
twenty-two pages long. Profoundly read in the
works of German theologian.s — his whole house was
one library — Hare was then perhaps more able than
any man in England to meet the attacks levelled, by
those who thought -svith Dr. Newman, against fellow-
ship of the English Chiu-ch with Protestantism of the
Continent. In the same year, 1840, Julius Hare was
made Ai-chdeacon of Lewes. He entered upon his
work with enthusiasm, and delivered charges of such
length that Bishop Blomfield said, "If I had been
one of his clergy, and been charged in that way, I
should have been like a gun — I should have gone
oS." Long as tliey were, he published them, elabo-
rately set with notes, so that they became upon all
matters, gi-eat and small, the result of his thought
and reading on what happened in the Church from
the year 1840 until his death in January, 1855.
Julius Hare's brother-archdeacon was Henry
Edward Manning, and the difiFerent intei-pretations
of Church doctrine and Church history by the two
archdeacons indicated something of the conflict which
had then arisen in the ChurcL
Henry Edward Manning, son of a London mer-
chant, was born in 1808, educated at Harrow and
at Balhol College, Oxford He became Fellow of
Merton, was one of the Select Preachers at Oxford,
and felt strongly the new impulse of thought repre-
sented by " Tracts for the Times." In 1834 he became
Rector of Lax-mgton and Grafilam in Sussex, and
m 1840, when Hare became Archdeacon of Lewes
Manning became Archdeacon of Chichester. While
opposing his colleague's opinions. Hare reverenced
his pure devotion to what he regarded as the highest
truth, and deeply felt Manning's secession in 1851 to
the Church of Rome. The accident that detennined
the secession of a clergyman whose ability and piety
soon made him one of the main pillars of the English
Roman Catholic Church, was another of the frequent
occasions of shai-]> conflict between opposite forms of
thought. Dr. Newman, Dr. Pusej', and those who
agreed with them, laid, as we have seen, utmost stress
ou the doctrine of Baptismal Regeneration. The
Bishop of Exeter refused to institute Mr. Gorham
to the living of Bampford Speke because he looked
upon him as unsound in that doctrine. Mr. Gorham
sought remedy in an ecclesiastical court, the Court of
Arches, which confirmed the decision of the bishop.
Mr. Gorham then appealed to the Judicial Com-
mittee of the Privy Council, which in March, 1850,
reversed the decision of the Court of Arches, and in
this judgment the two archbishops concurred. The
Bishop of Exeter published an angry pamphlet, in
which he formally excommunicated the primate for
the part he had taken in the matter, and there were
fom- editions of it sold in one day. Then followed
a great strife of tongues, and the Archdeacon of
Chichester was among those who were detennined by
thLs incident to break with the Church of England
and join the communion of the Church of Rome.
Tliere he found rest, and lived to be faithful to the
highest trusts.
The office of Roman Catholic Archbishop of West-
minster was established by the Pope, in September,
1850, when it was conferred upon Dr. Nicholas
Wiseman, whose previous title had been Bishop of
Melipotamus in partibus. Dr. Wiseman, bom in
1802, was of an Irish family. His father was a
merchant of Waterford and Seville, and he chanced
to be him.self born at Seville. He was educated at
Wateiford and at St. C'uthbert's College, Ushaw. In
December, 1818, he was one of the first members of
the English College at Rome ; and he was made a
Doctor of Divinity at Rome in 1824. In the College
at Rome he was Professor of Oriental Languages,
Vice-Rector, and then Rector, and he puldi.shed
"Horse Syriacse" upon Oriental manuscripts in the
Vatican. Finally he became, from the year 1850,
when he was created archbishop and cardinal, the
head of the Roman Catholic Church in England,
until his death, in 1865, when Dr. Manning became
his successor in the titular archbishopric, though the
latter was not made a Cai-dinal until 1875. Dr.
Manning at once became active in benevolent efforts
on behalf of the poor CathoUcs of London, and bought
a site for a cathedral as a memorial to Cardinal
Wiseman, of which he said that not a stone should
be laid till every poor Roman Catholic child in
London had its place in a free school. In aid of
higher education also, Dr. Manning planned, in
1871, a Roman Catholic ITniversity College, which
was opened at Kensington in 1874, and has begun
its work with marked efliciency.
It was in 1844 that Julius Hare man-ied the sister
of his old pupil and, from the Cambridge days
onward, his lifelong friend Maurice. On the 10th
of December, 1854, Hare preached in the chapel of
(
TO A.D. 1874.]
EELIGION.
421
IJiicoln's Inn upon the text, " Lift up your heads, O
\-i- gates, and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors."
Jlr died on tlie 23rd of the next month, hi.s last
\Mii-ds being an answer to a question of moving him
111 his bed, " Upward, upward."
John Frederick Denison Maurice was born in
1S(.I."), son of the Rev. Michael Maurice, a Unitarian
iiiiuister. He went to Cambridge iu October, 1823,
ii'iuing Truiity College, and afterwards Trinity Hall.
\Mien lie had qualified by examination for his
(I'gree, it was refused him, because he had scruples
us to suljscription, though he had upon all main
pniuts become in opinion a member of the Church
• 'i' Eingland. He therefore left Cambridge in May,
Hi' 7, and studied law in London, writing, mean-
while, an article or two in the Westminster Review,
:iud reviewing in the Atlieiioeuni. He became editor
lit' the Athenctum, in 1828, but had ceased to be
<o in the begmning of 1830, when he went to
Exeter College, Oxford. There he was borne for a
tiuie upon the rising tide of thought, and shared
the desire to bring new life into the Church, and to
establish unity. He was baptised in March, 1831,
and graduated at Oxford in the following November,
having spent the term before examination at a sister's
■death-bed. At Oxford, also, Maurice wrote a novel,
" Eustace Conway," which was sold to its publisher
in April, 1831, although not published untU 1834.
After graduating, he remained at Oxford as a private
tutor. He was ordained in January, 1833, and had
■a cui-acy at Babnall, near Leamington. Maurice's
partial sympathy with the enthusiasm of the Oxford
Cluu'ch reformere who wei'e supporting the " Tracts
for the Times," was wholly destroyed by Dr. Pusey's
treatise upon baptism. His tract entitled " Sub-
scription no Bondage," represented at this time his
.attitude towards Church questions of the day. In
1835, Mr. Maurice was appointed chaplain to Guy's
Hospital. In 1837 he married, and in 1838 he pub-
lished, in three vohimes, " The Kingdom of Christ,"
tlie work in which he first set forth his detailed
thoughts on the principles, constitution, and ordi-
nances of the Church. In May, 1840, Mr. Mamice
■was apjiointed Professor of English Literature at
King's College, London ; he was at that time taking
deep interest in educational questions, and editing
an educational magazine. Acquaintance with one of
the })est friends of his after life, Charles Kingsley,
was begun by a letter written in July, 1844. In
1845,Mrs. Maurice died. In 1846, Professor Maurice
■was ap])ointed Lecturer at Lincoln's Inn. He was
then delivering both the Boyle Lectures and the War-
burton Lectures, and was gathering fellow-workers
about him. The Warburton Lectures, on the founda-
tion of Bishop Warburton, were to extend over four
years, three lectures being delivered in each year and
printed. Professor Maurice's lectures in 1846 were
on the Epistle to the Hebrews, " with a preface con-
tauring a review of Mr. Newman's Theory of Develop-
ment." The theory reviewed was this : —
That the increase and expansion of the Christian Creed and
Ritual, and the variations which have attended the process in
the case of individual writers and churches, are the necessary
attendants on any philosophy or poUty which takes possession
of the intcUoct and heart, and has had any wide or extended
dominion ; that from the nature of the human mind, time is
necessary for the full comprehension and perfection of great
ideas; and that the highest and most wonderful truths,
though communicated to the world once for all by inspired
teachers, could not be comprehended all at once by the
recipients; hut as received and transmitted by minds not
inspired, and tlirough media which were human, have
required only the longer time and deeper thought for their
elucidation.
Professor Maurice in these lectures, and in all his
writings, dwelt upon the Bible as a book thi-ough
which God speaks directly to the natural hearts of
men as they are, and makes Himself felt as the
immediate Father of us all. Thus, for example, he
\vrites in one of these lectures on the Ejjistle to the
Hebrews : —
THE VOICE OF THE BIBLE.
This, I think, is the principle of the Bible, the principle
which goes through every part of it, that the unseen God is
actu.aUy riding over men ; that all orders of men are appointed
by Him, and are ruling under Him; that just so far as they
know this, and live and act in the faith of it, they are doing
their right work in the world, are helping to expound the
laws and principles of the Divine Government, are helping to
bring man into that service which is freedom. And that just
so far as they are not doing this, but are setting up their own
power and authority, and are working as parts of a system
instead of working as the servants of the U\ing God, just so
far are they false kings, and false priests, and false prophets
— misunderstanding the blessed order in which they are
placed— and hastening the dissolution of all that in it which
can be dissolved ; though, because God is, and his purposes
cannot change, that dissolution is itself but the instrument of
bringing out with greater clearness the real eternal principles
of this order.
Now, this statement may seem to Mr. Newman, and to a
great many others, a mere vague repetition of what they have
often heard before ; of what they have sneered at, and dis-
missed from their minds, as quite unsatisfactory and unmean-
ing. I am content that it should be so. But I am sm-e that
this which they reject is still the simple faith of hundreds of
poor men and women in all countries of the world, Romish
as weU as Protestant. I am sure that they have a belief, a
very deep-rooted, practical beUef, that the Bible sets forth
God as actuaUy speaking to men, as actuaUy ruling in the
midst of them. I am sure that they have no doubt that what
was true in the old time is true now; and that neither
Scripture, nor conscience, nor church, nor Holy See, deeply
and profoundly as they may reverence one or all, would seem
to them worth anything— the least comfort in their own
sorrows, the least relief from the scnsepf the misery and curse
of the world— if they did not think that the living God was
teaching them, and discipUning them, and holding converse
with them ; and that the whole course of society, amidst
all its strange contradictions, is as much testifying of His
presence as it did when the manna feU from heaven. And
it seems to me that we are arriving at a time when theolo-
gians must come to an understanding with these simple
people, when we must tell them plainly and straightly
whether we mean the same thing as they do or not; whether
our divinity is the assertion of the H^•ing God and of His
presence among men, or a substitute for that assertion;
whether, when we use the phrases of Scripture, we atUcH
422
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 18«
significance to those phrases, or merely look upon them as
belon!?ins to another period of the world. I do answer for
myseK, that I look upon the language of Scriptui-e as the
simplest, truest, most reasonable language of all that has ever
been uttered ; that I believe it teUs us not merely who sent
plagues upon Egypt, but who sends plagues now, and why
He sends them ; not merely what prophets, and kings, and
priests were in the old time, but what they are now, and how
He speaks in them. That they do not only show how He
taught tlie prophets of old to separate between the precious
and the vile in themselves, and to understand those judg-
ments of His, by which He separated between what was
precious and vile in the nation ; but that He has taught men
in all times, and will teach all who humbly desire His aid
now, first, to recognise that great battle between the flesh
and the Spirit in therasclves, then, if that be their vocation,
to trace it in history.
In 1846, Maurice ■was appointed Professoi- of
Divinity at King's College, London, and in 1847 be
married again. In 1848, the stir of public events
led to a movement in wliicli Maurice and his younger
friend, Charles Kingsley, were both active for bringing
the agitation among the working classes into close
relation with religion, and qviickenmg with spiritual
life the highest aspirations of the people. Meetings
of working men were held. Maurice's age was then
forty-three, and Kingsley's twenty-nine.
Chai'les Kingsley was born in 1819, son of the Vicar
of Holne, and boi'n in the vicarage on the border of
Dartmoor, in Devonshii-e. But he left Holne when
he wiis six weeks old, upon liis father's removal to the
curacy of Bui-ton-on-Tront, whence he again moved
to Clifton, in Nottinghamshire. Charles Kingsley's
father then held the rectory of Barnack for six years,
on the presentation of the Bishop of Peterborough,
with the understanding that he should vacate when
the bishop's son was old enough to take it. The
out-going rector of Barnack was then presented to
the living of Clovelly, and went to Clovelly when his
son Charles was eleven yeai-s old. There the minister
entered with warm sympathy into the daily work of his
little community. Out of experiences at Clovelly, the
life came afterwards into Charles Kingsley's j)athetic
song of the "Three Fishers." In 1831 he was sent
to a school at Clifton, and in 1832 he went to the
grammar-school at Helston, where the Rev. Dei-went
Coleridge, son of the poet, was then master. In
1836 his father left Clovelly for the rectory of St.
Luke's, Chelsea, to which he had been presented,
and Charles Kingsley became for the next two year.s
a student in the Faculty of Arts, at King's College,
London, walking to ancl fro every day from Chelsea.
In October, 1838, he entered Magdalene College,
Cambridge, obtained a scholarship, and was first, both
in classics and mathematics, at the May examinii-
tions. Like other youths fervent in feeling, intensely
earnest, and intensely tnie, Charles Kingsley suflere'd
trials of liis faith, and rose to noble lifeby "fastening
betimes on a true woman's love. At the "close of his
university course, he made up for lost time by six
months' hard reading, came out in 1842 high in
honours, was ordained, and took a curacy at Eversley,
in Hampshire. He won upon the little community
by his quick sympathy with the life of each, and by
cheery fellowship in theii- pleasures and their work.
Carlyle's " French Revolution " had been a power
over him at college, by intensifying his belief in
God's righteous government of the world. At
Eversley he now read another book, that had gi'eat
etiect u])on him, Maurice's " Kingdom of Christ."
In 1844 Kingsley married, and the rectory of
Eversley becoming vacant, when he was about to
remove to a curacy at Pimperne, the strong desire
of the jtarishioners secured his nomination to the
living. In that year the young rector of Eversley
asked some counsel of Mr. Maurice in a letter, and
the reply to it was the beginning of their friendship.
At the end of 1847, Charles Kingsley puldished " The
Saint's Tragedy," begun, when he left college, as a
prose life of St. Elizabeth of Hungary, and then
turned into a dramatic poem. It struck the key-
note of his work in after days, and will be described
in the volume of this series which illustrates English
plays.
Proliibition of a Refoi-m banquet in Paris caused
a rising of the people on the 24th of Febiiiary, 1848,
followed by the flight of the king and the abolition
of monarchy. But the new Provisional Government
was soon troubled with a fresh calamity. The rights
of labour were recognised on the 27th of February,
by instituting national workshops, in which all who
applied might get employment at the expense of the
state. A newly-elected Constituent Assembly met
on the 5th of May. In June, an endeavour was
made to draw back from the policy of the national
workshops. This caused an insurrection of the opera-
tives on the 22nd of June, with much bloodshed.
Paris was declared in a state of siege. General
Cavaignac was made Dictator. Eleven generals were
killed or wounded. The Archbishop of Paris, while
seeking to stay the carnage on the 27th of June, was
killed by a chance shot from the ban-icade on the
Place de la Bastille. On the 28th, the mob was at
last forced by the troops to surrender. Cavaignac
laid down his dictatorship, became President of the
Council, and on the 4th of July issued a short decree
for the suppression of the workshops. Side by side
■svith these events, there was in England also a great
SocialLst movement among uneducated working men.
The passing of the New Poor Law, in 1835, had led
to the formation, in 1836, of a Working Men's Asso-
ciation. Already in 1838 monster meetings were
held, and a charter was drawn up claiming manhood
suffrage, equal electoral districts, vote by ballot,
aiin'iial parliaments, with no property qualification,
and payment of members. Many supporters of this
charter — Chartists — ^^joined to these demands a claim
for the re-distriljution of jiroperty, and held it lawful
to obtain their demands by force, if they were un-
attainable by course of law. Stirred by the swiftness
of events in France, the leaders of the Chartists
menaced London by calling a monster meeting on
Kennington Common for the 10th of April, 1848,
before presenting to Parliament a monster jietition,
said to bear five or six million of signatures. The
situation was so grave that the Duke of Wellington
was placed in command on behalf of order. His
good management, the ser\-ices of a large body of
civilians as special constables, a wet day, and thr
TO i.3. 184S.]
RELIGION.
423
underlying sense of duty in Englishmen, that made
for peace even when it was misguided and perverted,
caused the meeting on Kennington Common to end
in peace; but the certainty of peace was not secui'ed.
|On the morning of the 10th of April, Charles
Kingsley came to London. Next day he wTote to
Mrs. Kingsley : — " Maurice is in great excitement.
. . We are getting out placards for the walls,
to speak a word for God with. ... I was up
till four thLs morning, writing postmg placards under
(Maurice's auspices, one of wliich is to be got out
to-morrow morning, the I'est when we can get money.
Could you not beg a few sovereigns somewhere, to
help these poor wretches to the truest alms 1 — to
words — texts from the Psalms, anything which may
keep one man from cutting his brother's throat to-
morrow or Friday I Pray, pray help us. Maurice
has given me the highest proof of confidence. He
has taken me into counsel, and we are to have meet-
ings for prayer and study, when I come up to London,
and we are to bring out a new set of real Tracts for
the Times, addressed to the higher orders." The
placard written by Kingsley, and posted on the walls
of London, on the morning of the 1 2th, ended with
these words : — " A nobler day is davming for Eng-
land, a day of freedom, science, industry. But there
will be no true freedom mthout virtue,' no true
science without religion, no true industry without
the fear of God, and love to your fellow-citizens.
Workers of England, be wise, and then you must be
free, for you will he fit to be free."
From that time Maiu'ice and Kingsley, Archdeacon
Hare, and many other zealous, earnest Englishmen,
made it then- chief public duty to strive for aid of the
people, by theii' trae enlightenment. On the 6th of
May, 1848, they began a j)aper called " Politics for
the People." Opponents listened on a sentence in a
letter which it contained, addressed to Chartists, by
Charles Kingsley. and signed " Parson Lot." He said,
" My only quarrel with the Charter is, that it does not
go far enough in reform," and every line that followed
was in enforcement upon the people of the need of
needs, reform within themselves. The very next sen-
tence warned them against " the mistake of fancying
that legislative reform is social reform, or that men's
hearts can be changed by Act of Parliament." The
whole aim, indeed, of these fellow-workers was to
urge the need of free citizens in a free state, citizens
whom the truth makes free. They enforced it in all
their writing, and they sought to aid in the raismg of
individual lives, wherever they could establish sympa-
thetic intercourse with working men. For the higher
education of women. Queen's College had been estab-
lished in Harley Street, by the energies of Professor
Maurice, who had begun simply with lectures to
governesses, and Charles Kmgsley, in May, 1848,
began to give weekly lectures upon English literature
there. Later in this year also, Kingsley was writing
" Yeast " in Eraser's Magazine. Before the year was
out his health gave way under the strain on all his
1 So tlie Attendant Spirit says, at the close of Milton's " Comus ;
" Mortals wlio would follow me.
Love Virtue, she alone is free."
energies, and he was obliged to seek health by a
long rest in Devonshire. When he went back to his
work in the summer of 1849, there was low fever
in Eversley, and after sitting up all night with a
labourer's wife who had a large family, and whose
life might be saved by faithful nm-sing, his health
again gave way, and he had to return to Devon-
shire. Before the end of the year, cholera was
in England, and Kingsley was working with all his
sold in battle for whatever might bi-ing health into
the poor man's home. He was then "thirty years
old. Dean Stanley said afterwards, in his funeral
sermon : —
It was the sense that he was a thorough Englishman — one
of yourselves, working, toiling, feeling with you, and like
you — that endeared him to you. Artisans and working men
of London, you know how he desired with a passionate desire
that you should have pure air, pure water, habitable dwel-
lings; that you should be able to share the courtesies, the
refinements, the elevation of citizens, and of Englishmen;
and you may, therefore, trust him the more when he told
you fi-om the pulpit, and still tells you from the grave, that
your homes and your lives should be no less full of moral
purity and Hght.
Chahles Einoslet.
From a Pliotograjjh. hij Messrs. Elliott and Frij, London.
We return to Frederick Denison Maurice, who
continued, after 1849, in alliance with Charles
Kingsley and others, to hold meetings of working
men, which gradually led to the establishment of
a Working Men's College, in 1854. During the
tumults in 1848, Professor Maurice, as Preacher
at Lincoln's Inn, delivered, in February, March, and
April, nine sermons on the Lord's Prayer, wliich
were published, and of which he said. " I wished in
these sermons to connect the Lord's Prayer with the
thoughts which are most likely to be occupying us
at this time. If they lead any to ask themselves
how their study of passing occurrences may be made
more serious and their worship more real, my pm--
pose in pubhshing them will be answered." In the
424
CASSELL'S LIBRAEY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. ISIS
following year, 1849, Professor Maurice delivered in
Lincoln's Inn Chapel nineteen sermons on " The
Prayer Book, considered especially in reference to
the Romish System." The following passage from
his sermon on the use of David's Psalms in the
Church Service, is characteristic of his way of
looking at the Bible as a Book of Life, in eveiy
sense, in wliich God speaks not as by passive instru-
ments, but by bringing His Spirit home to us through
the real words of real men ^\•ith their human faults
and passions and desires, — but the profound sense of
living God in all :
THE PSALMS.
Nothing is more puzzling to the person who reads the
Psalms merely as a student than the questions. Which of
these refer to the condition of the individual writer ? which
to the condition of tho Church generally 'f which may the
indiridual Christian adopt, without dishonesty or irreverence,
as the utterance of his own experience ; which must he refer
directly to Christ ? After centuries of commentaries on these
qiiestions, one is often inclined to thinly that they are more
unsettled than ever. The di^-ine rests upon his distinction of
Messianic and non-Messianic ; the historian hrings to hght
facts in the records of the Hebrew people which determine
them to a particular age. Tho popular reader resolves that
he will read himself into them, making Edom, Moab, Israel,
and Zion just what he likes them to be. And yet beneath aU
these perplexities of the understanding, there has through all
these ages been a strong and general con%-iction that every
historical fact respecting tho time in which the Psabn was
composed is of the greatest value ; that David must have
written what he did write as DaWd, and not in some fic-
titious character; that Christ must in some sense be the
subject not of a few of them, but of all ; that they do of
right belong to each human being. Whence has come this
settled and harmonious conviction, apparently so much at
variance with that uncertainty, and contradiction, and rest-
lessness, in the midst of which it exists? I answer: men
have got it from worship. So far as they have felt that
these Psahna were the best and most perfect expressions they
could find for a public united devotion, so far has there been
a reconcilement of difficulties which other experiments only
made more hopeless. For they could not have anything to
do with our worship if the writers of them did not refer
themselves and the whole universe to one centre. While
they do this, and we do it, we feel that they are meant for
us. But it is just the doing this which makes them so
strongly the property of their original owners. They are
driven about and tormented by innumerable enemies— per-
sonal enemies— they betake themselves, as their only help
and refuge, to one who is their friend. They are crushed
under a weight of oppressh-e accidents ; they must find one
who is always the same. They are crushed under giant
human ills. Death and heU are close to them, and are
mightier than themselves. What can they do but trust in
Him who has said to death and heU, "I will be your
plagues ? "
"These words must be real; they must have been felt by
those who spoke them," cries the worshipper, "because they
are so real to me, because they so exactly, express the burden
under which I am groaning. Personal enemies are pursuing
me; a load of petty anxieties is pressing upon me; these
same giant universal foes are threatening me every moment.
A ^V'V'^^ *° '^''"^^ t° fly from one as much as the ^ther
And there I find that I am not alone. My groan has been
uttered before; men thousands of years ago sought th»i|
deliverance I am seeking. And they did not pour out a
wild shriek into the ear of some unknown power. Thev
took refuge in a Being in whom they were sure they should
find a refuge; One who, they say, had awakened their
longing for Himself ; who had declared that there was a
bond, an everlasting bond, between them and Himself
What was that bond ? It seems as if the men who were
pouring out these prayers had a glimpse of it, and as if they
were feeling their way into the full apprehension of it. Does
not this church to which I have come signify that I may
have a fuller apprehension of it ? Does it not say that the
mysterj- has been revealed ? Does it not tell me of an actual
Living Person who is the bond, the perfect bond of peace,
between God and His creatiu-es, and between these creatures
as brethren of the same family ? Does it not teU mo of a
Daysman in whom we are reconciled, and can meet ? of One
in whom God looks upon us, and is satisfied ? " This truth
is working itself out in the mind of the Psalmist, as it must
work itself out in ours. The mere notion is nothing;
here we have the living process of discovery ; its stages of
doubt, clearness, vicissitude, fear, hope, rejoicing. The
Psalmist is rising through worship into a perception of the
right which he has to call us and aU in every age of the
world, his brothers ; we, through worship, come to under-
stand his difficulties ; in claiming that right he becomes our
interpreter, while we yet are better able to understand his
words than he was himself.
This wonderful reciprocation of benefits, this magnetic
communication between distant ages, is simply a fact. The
commonest experiences of our lives imply it. We could not
sympathise with Homer or any writer who grew up in circum-
stances altogether different from our own, if it did not exist.
Christianity interprets the fact, Christian worship substantiates
it for us, teaches us that the magnetism is a spiritual, not an
animal one. It is not produced by the excitement of meeting
together ; it is grounded upon that purpose of God which He
purposed when He created us in Christ Jesus, and which He
■will accomplish when He shall gather up all things together
in Him. By acts of worship, then, we come to understand
how that which is David's becomes ours in Him who is the
Son of David and the Son of God. The service brings before
us on the same day psalms written in the most diflterent
states of mind, expressive of the most different feelings. If
we have sympathised in one, it often seems a painful eflfort to-
join in the rest. And so it must, as long as we look upon,
prayers and praises as expressions of our moods, as long as
we are not joining in them because we belong to a family,
and count it our highest glory to lose oiu-sclves in it and in
Him who is the head of it. We must be educated into that
knowledge. It may he slow in coming, but till it comes, tho
Psalms are not intelligible to us : our Christian position is
not intelligible to us : we do not more than half enter into the
parts of the service which we seem to enter into most. Ther
touch certain chords in our spirits, but not the moat rich and
miisical chords. These do not belong to ourselves ; they are
human ; they answer to the touch of that Divine Spirit who
holds converse with tho spirit of a man which is in us.
It was this strong insisting on the human truth
Ln the Bible that caused controversialists to accuse
Matirice of unsound views upon inspiration.
In 1852 he published a volume of Lincoln's Inn
sermons upon " The Prophets and Kings of the Old
Testament," from one of which we may add to his
view of the Psalms a part of his comment upon the
Psalmist : —
TO A.D. 1872.]
RELIGION.
425
DAVID.
This, brethren, -was the man after God's own heart, the
in who thoroughly helieved in God as a lining and
J It eons Being, who in all changes of fortune clung to that
eviction; who could act upon it, live upon it; who could
.; himself up to God to use him as He pleased ; who could
little or great, popular or contemptible, just as God saw fit
: he should be ; who could walk on in darkness secure of
tidng but this, that truth must preraU at last, and that he
sent into the world to live and die that it might prevail ;
iwho was certain that the triumph of the God of Heaven would
be for the blessing of the most miserable outcasts upon earth.
Have we asked ourselves how the Scripture can dare to repre-
iBent a man with David's many failings, -n-ith that eager,
passionate temper which evidently belonged to him, with
all the manifold temptations which accompany a vehement
sympathetic character, with the great sins which we shall be
told of hereafter, as one who could share the counsels and do
(the will of a Holy Being r Oh I rather let us ask ourselves
•whether, with a plausible exterior, a respectable behaviour,
an unimpeachable deconun in the sight of men, we can ever
win this smile, hear this approving sentence. The words,
"Well done, good and faithful servant," are not spoken by
•the Judge of all now, will not be spoken in the last day, to
him who has found in his pUgrimage through this world no
enemies to fight with, no wrongs to be redressed, no right to
he maintained. How many of us feel, in looking back upon
acts which the world has not condemned, which friends have
perhaps applauded, " "We had no serious purpose there ; we
merely did what it was seemly and convenient to do, we were
llot yielding to God's righteous will ; we were not inspired by
His love." How many of us feel that our bitterest repentances
are to be for this, that all things have gone so smoothly
■with us, because we did not care to make the world better or
to be better ourselves. How manj' of us feel that those who
have committed grave outward transgressions — into which
we have not fallen because the motives to them were not
present -n-ith us, or because God's grace kept us hedged round
by influences which resisted them — may nevertheless have
had hearts which answered more to God's heart, which
entered far more into the grief and the joy of His Spirit, than
onis ever did.
Attacks had been made in a religious neu-spaper
npon Professor Maurice's theology, and in 18-51 the
Council of King's College, in which he was Di^^nity
Professor, appointed a committee of divines to
examine his writings. They did so, and reported
warmly in his favour ; but from that time he was
regarded as a heretic by one of the parties in the
Church. In 1853, Profes.sor Maurice publi'shed a
volume of " Theological Essays," written for the pur-
po.se of overcoming doubts of the Trinity. It was
said that in these essays he .showed a want of faith
ill hell, and was unsound upon the subject of eternal
punishment. In July, August, and September,
185.3, there was much controversy on this subject,
and in October Maurice was deprived of his Pro-
fessorship. In 1854 he was actively at work for
tlie creation of a college, and gave at WiUis's Eooms,
ill June and July, before fashionable audiences, sis
i ■"■tures upon " Learning and Working," in which
Ih- developed the design of the Working Men's
iJullege, then established. He thus described the
fellowship that had made the college, which was, in
118
the following November, to begin work never since
interrupted : —
IDEA OF A COLLEGE FOR WOEKIXG MEN'.
A club and a college are very different things : they may be
wide as the poles asunder. But a club of ordinary English-
men may become a college of intelligent, thoughtful men,
provided a human purpose take the place of a selfish one. . .
It is a conviction of this land which has led a few friends
of mine to propose a College for Working Men in the northern
part of London. They answer T\-ith tolerable exactness to the
description I have given of the persons from whom it ia
reasonable to demand such an effort. They are all at work
themselves, in occupations which they believe to be vocations,
and which they do not hold it would be right to forsake
under any plea of benevolence to their fellow-creatures. They
do not, therefore, aim at forming a guild or order of teachers.
Feedeeick Desisos MirEicE.
From a PfcotosrapH by Messrs. EUiott and Fry, London.
Thev are already admitted into their different guilds as
members of the Inns of Court, or the CoUeges of Surgeons or
Physicians, as Artists, as Jlinisters of the Gospel, as Trades-
men, as Operatives. What they believe is best for themselves
—best for the special fratemity to which they belong, in
respect of the work which it is pledged to do, as weU as of
the science which it is pledged to advance— is that they
should keep up an intercourse -n-ith men of different caUings.
and should do what in them Ucs, that those who are engaged
merely in manual labour should feel that also to be a high
callino-. They may differ among themselves about some of
the wlys in which this end should be accompHshed : they are
perfectly agreed that one of the ways, and the most effectual.
is to strive that the manual worker may have a share in aU
the best treasures with which God has been pleased to endow
them. They do not think they have any business to consider
how few of "these treasures they may possess in comparison
with manv of their contemporaries: by aU means let those
who have more rive more : all they have to do is to ask how
thev may make what thev have most useful, and how they
mav increase it bv communicating it. Their design is far
from ambitious. It is not to found a CoUege for the workers
42G
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 181?
of England, or of London. It is simply to make an expen-
ment, necessarily on a very smaU scale, in the neiglibourhood
which is nearest' to the places in which most of them are busy
during the day. If working and learning are to be combined,
learning must come to the door of the workshop and factory,
till the better day when it shall bo allowed to enter into them.
Maurice remained to the eud of his life the leading
sjjirit of the college thus begun. His acceptance
presently of the pulpit at Vere Street was followed
by another theological discussion. In 1866 he
was appointed Professor of Moral Philosophy at
Cambridge. He had distinguished himself as a
wi'iter on Moral Philosophy, by a work on " Moral
and Metaphysical Philosophy," in 1850; another,
on " Philosophy of the First Six Centuries," in
18.5.3; another, on "Medieval Philosophy; or, a
Treatise of Moral and Metaphysical Philosophy, from
the Fifth to the Fourteenth Century," in 1857 ; and
another, on " Modern Philosophy ; or, a Treatise of
Moral and Metaphysical Philosophy, from the Four-
teenth Century to the French Revolution, with a
Glimpse into the Nuieteenth Century," in 1862. In
1872 he died, and Charles Kingsley was among the
friends who followed him to his grave.
Kingsley had ^vl■itten novels that dealt with
essentials of human life and duty ; had worked for
the health of bodies and of souls ; had been made one
of the chaplains to the Queen in 1859, and in 1860
Professor of Modern History at Cambridge. He
had resigned that office in 1869, when he became a
Canon of Chester. At the end of that year he sailed
for the West Indies, and was at Eversley again
in the following ilarch. Of Maurice, he said, " I
had seen death in his face for, I may almost say,
two 3'ears past, and felt that he needed the great rest
of another life. Ajid now he has it." His own hour
of rest was then not distant. In 1873 he was offered
by ]Mr. Gladstone an exchange from the canonry at
Chester to a canonry at Westminster. In 187-i he
paid a visit to America; in January, 1875, he died.
We have seen that Samuel Taylor Coleridge was
among writers who touched the minds of earnest
young Cambridge students in the time of a new
trial of the foundations of religion. Coleridge
argued that where in the Bible God is said to have
spoken, and words are said to be His, they are so to
be taken ; and where the writers quote documents
and otherwise speak as from themselves, without
anywhere claiming to do more than tell the best
they know, they are also to be so understood.
Holding that the Bible contains the religion of
Christians, but not daring to say that whatever is
contained in the Bible Ls the Christian Religion,
Coleridge said that Scripture so received by a heart
answering to the Divine Word which speaks through
it, is a stronghold of spiritual life from which no
attacks of infidelity can ever drive the faithful
Christian. The soul to whose depths it has once
spoken answers back out of its depths with a con-
viction of its own that suiface criticisms have no
power to shake. He said of
THE bible:
In every generation, and wherever the light of revelation
has shone, men of all ranks, conditions, and states of mind
have found in this volume a eori'espondent for every move-
ment towards the Better felt in their own hearts. The needy
soul has found supply, the feeble a help, the sorrowful a
comfort; yea, be the recipiency the least that can consist
with moral life, there is an answering grace ready to enter.
The Bible has been found a spiritual world — spiritual, and
vet at the same time outward and common to aU. You
in one place, I in another, all men somewhere or at some
time, meet with an assurance that the hopes and fears, the
thoughts and yearnings that proceed from or tend to a right
spirit in us, are not dreams of fleeting singularities, no voices
heard in sleep, or spectres which the eye suffers but not per-
ceives. As if on some dark night a pOgrim, suddenly
beholding a bright star mo^-ing before him, should stop in
fear and perplexity. But lo ! traveller after traveller passes
by him, and each, being questioned whither he is going,
makes answer, " I am following j-on guiding Star '. " The
pOgTim quickens his own steps, and presses onward in confi-
dence. More confident stiU will he be, if bj- the way-side he
should find, here and there, ancient monuments, each with its
votive lamp, and on each the name of some former pilgrim,
and a record that there he had first seen or begun to follow
the benignant star.
No otherwise is it with the varied contents of the sacred
volume. The hungry have found food, the thirsty a living
spiing, the feeble a staff, and the ^■ictorious warfarer songs
of welcome and strains of music ; and as long as each man
asks on account of his wants, and asks what he wants, no
man will discover aught amiss or deficient in the vast and
many-chambered storehouse. But if, instead of this, an
idler or a scoffer should wander through the rooms, peering
and peeping, and either detects, or fancies he has detected,
here a rusted sword or pointless shaft, there a tool of rude
construction, and superseded by later improvements (and
preserved, perhaps, to make us more grateful for them) ;
which of two things will a sober-minded man, who from
his childhood upward had been fed, clothed, armed, and
furnished with the means of instruction from this very
magazine, think the fitter plan 'i "WUl he insist that the
rust is not rust, or that it is a rust sui generis, intentionally i
formed on the steel for some mysterious virtue in it, and i
that the staff and astrolabe of a shepherd astronomer are
identical with, or equivalent to, the quadrant and telescope
of Newton and Herschel? or will he not rather give the
curious inquisitor joy of his mighty discoveries, and the
credit of them for his reward ?
Whether Coleridge's ^•iew be right or wrong, may
not Christians show their inevitable difl'erences in
opinion upon such a point, and yet keep unbroken
that spirit of charity which is the very seal of their
religion ]
It is unbroken in the sermons of Frederick William
Robertson, who from 1847 to 1853 was incumbent of
Trinity Chapel, Brighton. The year after his appoiat-
ment was the year of Revolution, 1848, and Frederick
Robertson boldly applied religion to the problems of
the time, in lectures on the first book of Samuel, which
he had begun in January. He was -widely misunder-
stood, as with intense earnestness he sought to raise
the working men to Christian freedom. For him in
h'.s way, as for Arnold in his, and Mam-ice in his,
TO A.D. 1877.]
RELTGTOK
427
L'hrist was in all tilings the Sa'S'iour : Sa'S'iour of
individual souls ; and Savioiu- of society, by lifting
the souls that truly looked to Him into a fellowship
(if love where each should strive to do his highest
duty. Kobeitson tlied after much suflering of in-
T*nsest pain in August, 1853, at the age of thu-ty-
'■\en, and left a name that is now jileasant in the
eare of all his countrjTnen.
Fi-ederick Robertson has been ranked as the chief
of English jJi'eachers by Dean Stanley, than whom
no man has been more careful to point out that the
tiiie spu-it of Christianity is not the particidar
possession of any one part of the Christian world.
""Vl\\
Abthdk Penrhtn Stanley.
iVom a Phctograph h'j Ur. S. A. Walker, 6i, Margaret Street, Cavendish
Square, London,
Arthur Penrhyn Stanley, son of a Bishop of Nor-
wich, was born in 181.5, and was educated at Rugby
under Dr. Arnold, whose friend he remained, and
the history of whose life he told ia 1844. From
Rugby, Stanley went to Oxford with a scholarehip at
Balliol. He obtained the Newdegate Prize for an
English Poem on the " Gipsies," the Ireland Scholar-
ship, the English Essay Prize in 1839, and the
English Essay and Theological Piizes in 1840, when —
having graduated Avdth a First Class in. Classics in
1837 — he was made Fellow of University College.
For twelve years he was Tutor of his College, and it
was during this time that he published his life of
Arnold, a book widely read not only by the large
body of intellectual men who had gi-ateful recollec-
tions of Dr. Arnold's training, but by Englishmen of
all ranks, who found in it a record of manly religion
brought into relation ^^-ith the vital questions of their
day, a noble life set forth by one who was in fellow-
ship with its best aspirations. The same true sym-
pathy, at its best and deepest, has given a lasting
charm to Sirs. Kingsley's full and faithful record of
her husband's labours. In 184.5-6, Mr. Stanley was
Select Preacher at the University. In 1846 he pub-
lished "Stories and Essays on the Apostolical Age,"
and in 1850 a Memoir of Bishop Stanley. From 1851
to 18o8 he was Canon of Canterbury, and published,
besides other books, "Historical Memorials of Canter-
buiy" in 1854. He travelled in the East, and ap-
phed his experience to illustrations of the Scripture
in a volume published in 1855 upon "Sinai and
Palestine in connection with their Histoiy." Ia
1858 he was appointed Re.gius Professor of Ecclesia-s-
tical History at Oxford ; he was appointed also to a
Canom-y of Christ Church, and became Dean of
Westminster in 1863. In 1862 he accompanied the
Prince of Wales to Palestine, and added to other
published volumes of Sermons one of " Sermons
preached in the Ea,st." In 1867 he published
^' Historical Memorials of Westminster Abbey," and
in 1876 he completed -n-ith a third volume a series of
" Lectures on the History of the Jewish Church," of
which the earlier volumes had appeared in 1863 and
1865. HecUedin 1881.
We turn from Westminster to St. Paul's. An
accomplished scholar, who shares with men of veiy
diflerent degrees of cidture and forms of opinion a
zeal for highest tiiith, and one of the foremost among
living preachers, is Canon Liddon. Henry Parry
Liddon, born in 1830, was of Christ Church, O.xford,
where he gi-aduated in 1850. From 1854 to 1859
he was Vice-Princijial of the Theological College,
Cuddesdon. In 1866 he was Bampton Lecturer,
and he published in 1867 his eight Bampton Lec-
tures on the " Divinity of our Lord and Sa^■iou^
Jesus Chi-ist." In 1870 Dr. Liddon was made
resident Canon of St. Paul's, m London, and Dean
Ireland's Professor of Exegesis in the University of
Oxford. In Church cjuestions Dr. Liddon has inclined
to agree with those whose bent is towards the support
of authority : but ^\-ith the good churchmen of all
forms of opinion he has been idways most earnest in
upholding a true spu-it of religion. Canon Liddon's
place Ls with the most eloquent and earnest of the
younger generation of chiu-chmen in the year 1877.
These pages do not complete the illustration of
English Religion. It pervades our literature. It
is illustrated in every volume of this Library. StUl
wi-iter after -smter crowds upon the mind, and
nothing can be said that shaU not suggest how much
has been left unsaid.
Still also the Englishmen of foremost genius look
to the heart of life, and feel God present in His
world. Mr. Carlyle has lived to urge men to be
time, and to press "forward to the mark of their high
calling ; to shake off that torpor of spirit which sees
only as idle images and forms the daily incidents of
a life that has nothing, and least of all its indolences,
insignificant; man's inacti-vity being of all things
one of the most momentous in its issues. He has
awakened many a young mind over which the fatal
drowsiness was" stealing, and has sustained many an
elder in life's laljour. "" His words have been trans-
lated into deeds already through two generations of
souls grateful to him for liis sturdy help. Charles
Kingsley at Cambridge found Thomas Cariyle's
"French Revolution" one of the books which
beyond all othere made him feel God in the world,
and man's appointed duty.
The two English poets who had taken fii-mest hold
upon then- countrymen in the year 1850, when William
428
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1860
Wordsworth died, were Robert Browning and Alfred
Tennyson, both vigorous still in 1877. In the year
of the death of Wordsworth, each of these poets
produced a book that struck the old true note.
Mr. Browning's poem was entitled " Christmas
Eve and Easter Day." He imagined himself on a
rainy, gusty Christmas Eve taking shelter in the
porch of a poor little chapel on the skii-ts of a
common, "'Mount Zion,' with Love Lane at the
back of it." From squalid alleys and outlying
cottages in the gravel-pits, the poor and ignorant
flocked to the chapel, and passed him, looking at
him as they entered ; at last he left the porch and
entered too. Preacher and congregation were vulgar,
ignorant, noisy ; there was a hot smell in the place.
He slept, and tlreamed that he had flung out of it all,
and found on the common outside a lull in the rain
and wmd, and the moon risen :
" JI)' mind was full of the scene I had left,
That jjlaeid flock, that pastor vociferant,
— How this outside was pure and different ! "
How far better to worship God in presence of the
immensities of nature ! Let others seek God in the
narrow shrine. Be this way his. Then the moon
cast a wondrous arch of light, and there was a
vision of lieavenly beauty tilling liis soul as he
gazed with up-turned eyes :
" All at once I looked up with terror.
Ho was there.
He Himself with His hximan air.
On the narrow pathway, just before.
I saw the hack of Him, no more. —
Ho had left the chapel, then, as I.
I forgot all ahout the sky.
No face : only the sight
Of a sweeping garment, vast and white,
With a hem that I could recognise.
I felt no terror, no siu'piise.
My mind fiUed with the cataract.
At one hoimd, of the mighty fact.
I remembered. He did say
Doubtless, that, to this world's end.
Where two or three should meet and pra)',
He would be in the midst, their friend :
Certainly He was there with them.
And my pulses leaped for joy
Of the golden thought without alloy.
That I saw His very vestm-e's hem."
The dreamer pleaded in his dream that he might
not be left of Christ for having despised the friends
of Christ :
" Less or more,
I suppose that I spoke thus.
When, — have mercy. Lord, on us !
The whole Face turned upon me full.
And I spread myself beneath it
As when the bleacher spreads, to seethe it
In the cleansing sun, his wool, —
Steeps in the flood of noontide whiteness
Some defiled, discoloured web —
So lay I, saturate with brightness.
And when the flood appeared to ebb,
Lo, I was walking, light and swift, fl
With my senses settling fast and steadying, ™
But my body caught up in the whirl and drift
Of the vestui-e's amplitude, still eddying
On, just before me, stiU to be followed.
As it carried me after with its motion."
So they crossed the world, and the dreamer was
left upon the threshold of St. Peter's :
" Why sat I there on the threshold stone
Left till He return, alone,
Save for the garment's extreme fold
Abandoned still to bless my hold ? "
There also were gathered some to whom Christ
entered. Errors of Rome are not so dark that no
truth shines athwart them :
" Do these men praise Him f I will raise
My voice up to their point of praise !
I see the error, but above
The scope of error, see the love. —
Oh, love of those first Christian days ! "
Dwelling on love, and resolving to use intellect
too, the dreamer was next carried in the motion of
the robe to be left at the entrance-door of a lecture-
room in a German univei'sity. Through the open
door he had a glimpse of those who were waiting for
the Christmas Eve discourse of the professor, on the
Myth of Christ :
" And hero when the Critic has done his best,
And the Pearl of Price, at reason's test,
Lay dust and ashes Icvigable
On the professor's lecture-table,"
Tlie summary is,
" ' Go home and venerate the Jlyth
I thus have experimented with —
This Man, continue to adore him
Eathor than all who went before him,
And all who ever followed after 1 '
Surely for this I may praise you, my brother ;
Will you take the praise in tears or laughter ?
That's one point gained : can I compass another ?
Unlearned love was safe from spuming —
Can't we respect your loveless learning?"
Reflection followed in the dreamer's mind that
pointed to a mild indiflerentism. Then he found
himself suddenly in the honible stoi-m again, and
had lost his hold upon the vesture's hem, which he
recovered only upon conviction that
" Needs must there be one way, om- chief
Best way of worship : let me strive
To find it, and when found, contrive
My fellows also take their share !
This constitutes my earthly care :
God's is above it and distinct."
So the dream ends with an awaking in the little
ohapel in the spirit of Religion that leaves God to
judge tlie hearts of men, imites itself in brotherhood
to all who seek Him, and maintains the pure spirit
A.D. 1850.]
RELIGION.
429
if cliarity -svitliout losing sense of the personal need
of a definite belief and faitli in Clirist the Saviour.
Havmg as.sociated this view of Christian brother-
iiood with the birth of Christ, the poet then looks to
the immortality of man and judgment to come in the
rompanion piece based upon Christ's I'esurrection,
"Easter Day." "How very hard it is to be a
Christian!" is the opening thought. On an Easter
night he crossed the common by the chapel, question-
ing of faith, when in a vision the heaveu-s changed,
uud the Judgment Day had come,
" 'In very deed,'
(I uttered to mj-sclf) ' tliat Day ! '
The intuition burned away
All darkness from my spirit too :
There stood I, found and tixed, 1 knew.
Choosing the worlds
Then it seemed to him that his doom was to have
his choice. The world was his for ever. The beauty
I ti natiu'e was given him ; the highest charm of art.
Dissatisfied, he pined for knowledge, and it was
i;iven him to know. Still wi-etched, he cried,
" ' Behold, mj' spirit bleeds.
Catches no more at broken reeds, —
But lilies flower those reeds above :
I let the world go, and take love ! '"
The stern voice of the Jutlge smote him. Love
had been inextricably part of all that was about him
in the world, and he had set aside His love whereof
all came ; forgetting Who, through love, died in the
flesh for him. Then he prayed rii the vision to the
Love of God to give him hope :
" ' Be all the earth a wilderness !
Only let me go on, go on
StiU hoping ever and anon
To reach one eve the Better Land.'
Then did the Form expand, expand —
I knew Him through the di-ead disguise,
As the whole God within his eyes
Embraced me."
The vision ended, and again there was the daily
warfare of the world, again the sense how hard it is
to be a Christian :
" But Easter-Day breaks I But
Christ rises ! Jlercy every way
Is infinite, — and who can say ': "
In the same year with Robert Browning's
*' Clu-istmas Eve and Easter Day," appeared Alfred
Tennyson's " In Memoriam."
Arthur Heniy Hallam, son of Hemy Hallam the
historian, was born on the 1st of February, 1811 ;
Alfred Temryson in 1809. Arthur Hallam went to
Eton between the years 1822 and 1827 ; was in
Italy for eight months of the years 1827-28, and
went to Trinity College, Cambridge, in October,
1828. Alfred Tennyson entered to the same college
early m. 1829, and the friendship out of which the
poem sprang was then begun. Arthur Hallam had
a fine sense of Literature, pui-e aspu-ations, and a
poet's nature; of which there is clear evidence in the
verse included among the Memorials published after
his death by his father. His health was delicate,
and he was subject to sudden flushes of blood to the
head. This gave habitual and marked contraction
to his brow, which is a feature also in portraits of
Michael Angelo :
" And over those ethereal eyes
The bar of Michael Angelo."
Ai-thur Hallam took his degree, and in January,
1832, left Cambridge. He read law for a time in a
conveyancer's ofiice ; but when the health of another
member of the household caused his family to leave
England, he went to Germany with them, in August,
1833. He was at Viemia on the 15th of September,
1833, when a rush of blood to the head, more severe
than usual, ended his life suddenly, in the twenty-
thii-d year of liis age. The body was brought to
England, and buried m the church at Clevedon,
Somerset, the home of his maternal grandfather, Su'
Abi-aham Elton, of Clevedon Court. Had Aitlmr
Hallam lived, he was to have been married to a sister
of his friend'.s. His love for her is at the heart of
two of his published poems, and in one of these is a
reference to his delight in her harp-playing. He was
often in holiday seasons at the Somersby Vicarage,
in which his friend was born and bred, and there
is reference to this in the eightj'-ninth section of
"In Memoriam," recallmg the old happy days at
Somersby.
The poem of faith in innuortality, written In
Memory of tliLs parting of lives, is formed by a succes-
sion of little " swallow-flights of song," each coiiijdete
in itself as the expression of one mood of thought or
feeling, but all so arranged that they .shall represent
the rise of faith through a succession of thoughts
cii-cluig upward, from the grave to God. There is
also kept in view throughout the poem the course
of time through a given period. The action, so to
speak, extends from the winter of 1833 to the early
spring of 1836. The signiticMnce of times and sea-
sons is associated with the development of feeling
from the blank of desolation to a large and cheerful
tiiist in God's rule of the universe ; in the futuye of
man here and hereafter,— of each man, and of the
whole hiunan race.
The poem opens with a reference to ^Mr. Long-
fellow's " Ladder of St. Augustine," in which there
is a stanza that expresses musically the main thought
of " In Memoriam : "
" I held it truth, with him who sings
To one clear harp in divers tones,
That men may rise on stepping-stones
Of their dead selves to higher things.
But who shall so forecast the years
And find in loss a gain to match ?
Or reach a hand thi'o' time to catch
The far-off interest of tears ? "
Tills rising towards higher things is the purpose of
the poem indicated in its opening. It will seek to
reach a hand through time towards the fai'-ofi' interest
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[a.d. 1850
of tears. But in the first hour of bereavement there
must be the bitter sense of loss :
" Let Lovo el;isp Grief lest both he drowu'd,
Let Darkness keep her raven gloss."
The second section images in gloom the church-
yard yew with its roots among the dead. One of the
very few changes made in the poem since its first
publication, after long care to make it worthy of the
memory it cherished, was the addition of a section,
now the thirty-ninth, which blends a second picture
of the churchyard yew with the new thought to
wMch the poem is advancing :
" To thee too comes the golilen hour
When flower is feeling after flower."
The seventh section images in gloom the house
in Bedford Place :
" Dark house, by which once more I stand
Hero in the long unlovely street.
Doors, where my heart was used to beat
So quickly, waiting for a hand,
A hand that can be clasped no more —
Behold me, for I cannot sleep.
And like a guilty thing I creep
At earliest morning to the door.
He is not here ; but far away
The noise of life begins again,
And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain
On the bald street breaks the blank day."
In a section n^ar the close of the poem, the 119th,
the poet blends a second picture of liis friend's
home upon earth with the developed sense that he
still lives and loves, a fellow-worker in God's
world :
" Doors, where my heart was used to beat
Ho quickly, not as one that weeps
I come once more ; the city sleeps ;
I smell the meadow in the street ;
I hear a chirp of birds ; I see
Betwixt the black fronts long-withdrawn
A light-blue lane of early dawn,
And think of early days and thee.
And bless thee, for thy lips are bland
And bright the friendship of thine eye ;
And in my thoughts with scarce a sigh
I take the pressure of thine hand."
In the ninth, tenth, and eleventh sections the first
mood of grief carries the mind to the ship that brink's
home for burial at Clevedon the body of the dead •
and m the twelfth section there rises out of the
same dwelling upon the dead form borne over the
sea the cry, " Is this the end ^ Is tliis the end 1 "
Then begins the gradual transition to the answer
to the que.stion. First there is expression of the
natura mstmct of immortality. If the ship touched
Jand, the passengers came to shore :
' And if along with these should come
The man I held as half-divine ;
Should strike a sudden hand in mine,
And ask a thousand things of home ;
I should not feel it to be strange."
Upon this fir.st light suggestion that it is hard for
us to conceive extinction of a noble soul, follows a
natural image coi-responding to the first admission of
a thought allied to faith. There was a night of
storm :
" The forest crack'd, the waters curl'd,
The cattle huddled on the lea ;
And wildly dash'd on tower and tree
The sunbeam strikes along the world."
The arrival of the ship is in the seventeenth
section, the burial at Clevedon in the eighteenth and
nineteenth. Then follow notes of mourning love,
and recollection of the years from 1829 to 1833 :
" The path by which we twain did go,
Which led by tracts that pleased us well,
Thi-o' four sweet years arose and fell,
From flower to flower, from snow to snow."
These sections develope the himian sense of the
abiding of love, and the relation of love to the higher
life of man :
" I hold it true, whate'er befall ;
I feel it, when I sorrow most ;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at aU."
Thus we are led to the fii-st chiming oi thf
Christmas bells across the poem. It is Christmas,
1833, little more than three months after the be
reavement :
" This year I slept and woke with pain,
I almost wish'd no more to wake.
And that my hold on life would break
Before I heard those beUs again :
But they my troubled spirit rule,
For they controU'd me when a boy ;
They bring me sorrow touch'd with joy,
The mcrrv-, merry bells of yule."
Transition is now through the sacred associations
with the birth of Christ, that touch soitow ^vith joy,
still upward to thought " of comfort clasped in tnith
revealed."
The grief was fresh ; it was a sad Christmas Eve
in the home; but the songs of the mourners rose in
spu-itual life until they attained the truths to which
the poem is advancing :
" Our voices took a higher range ;
Once more we sang : ' They do not die
Nor lose their mortal sj-mpathy,
Nor change to us, although they change;
Eapt from the fickle and the frail
With gather'd power, yet the same,
Pierces the keen seraphic flame
Fi-om orb to orb, from veil to veil.'
A.D. 1S50.]
RELIGION.
431
Kise, happy mom, rise, holy mom.
Draw forth the cheerful daj' from night :
O Father, touch the east, and light
The light that shone when Hope was horn."
The next thoughts are of the raismg of Lazanis
aud of the faith in Him who
" wrought
With human hands the creed of creeds
In loveliness of perfect deeds.
More strong than all poetic thought ;
"Which he may read that hinds the sheaf,
Or huilds the house, or digs the grave,
And those wild eyes that watch the wave
In roarings round the coral reef."
The poet touches humbly on the mysteries of
■God:
" But hrooding on the dear one dead,
And all he said of things divine,
(And dear to me as sacred wine
To dying lips is all he said),
I murmur'd, as I came along,
Of comfort clasp'd in truth reveal'd ;
And loiter'd in the master's iield.
And darken' d sanctities with song."
With the mood now reached is associated progress
of the year to " the herald melodies of spring," and
the Llossoming of the churcliyard yew. The thought
next to be developed is the abiding of love not only
in tliose living here, but in those also who have been
removed by death to a new field of labour :
" And love will last as pure and whole
As when he loved me here in Time,
And at the spirituiil prime
Ee- waken with the dawning soul."
In sections 45, 46 and 47, faith in the continued
indi^•idual life of the soul is urged. The lost fiiend
does not blend with the universe as a drop fallen
into the ocean, but is still the same, retaining the
old memories, the old love. This is realised in the
yearning expres.sed by the fiftieth section, " Be near
lue," and the question that follows :
" Do we indeed desire the dead
Should stiU be near us at our side ?
Is there no baseness we would hide?
No inner vileness that we dread 'i "
With its answer:
" I wrong the grave with fears untrue :
Shall love be blamed for want of faith ?
There must be wisdom with great Death.
The dead shall look me thro' and thro'."
In the fifty-fourth .section there is a glance for-
ward, in the trust
" That good shall fall
At last — far off — at last, to all.
And every winter change to spring."
In succeeding sections the sense ofpei-sonal im-
mortality and of fellowship between the li\Tng and
the dead rises in strength of battle against every
doubt, until (in the 72nd) the poem reaches the
first anniversary of Arthur Hallam's death; the date,
therefore, is the 1.5th of September, 1834 ; and ju-e-
sently we reach the second Chiistmas — Christmas,
1834. With the New Year (in the 83rd section)
begins a fresh advance of thought that associates the
succession of years with renewal of hope, with calmei
thought of the dead, with strength born of the old
love for new friendships and for strenuous day labour,
with a larger sense of the " serene result" of all."
They whom death has for a time divided hold com.-
muuion still :
" My old affection of the tomb,
A part of stillness, j-eams to speak :
' Arise, and get thee forth and seek
A friendship for the years to come.
I watch thee from the quiet shore ;
Thy spirit up to mine can reach ;
But in dear words of human speech
We two communicate no more.'
And I, ' Can clouds of nature stain
The starry clearness of the free ?
How is it ? Canst thou feel for me
Some painless sympathy with pain ':'
And lightly does the whisper fall,
' 'Tis hard for thee to fathom this ;
I triumph in conclusive bUss,
And that serene result of all.' "
The battle against Doubt and Death Ls rising now
into the full Victory not of Knowledge, but of Faith.
The 87th section suggests the succession of life by a
■visit to Arthur Hallam's rooms at college, where
another name is on the door, with recollection of the
old days there of high discourse in which he took
his part.
The next section associates again a uatm-al image
with the prevalent feeling in that part of the poem to
which it belongs. Its thought is of the song of the
nightingale, whose passion, in the midmost heai-t of
grief, contains a secret joy :
"And I — my harp would prelude woe —
I cannot all command the strings :
The glory of the sum of things
Wm flash along the chords and go."
After softened recollection of the days of old at
Somersby in the 89th section, the next .shows what
is not meant by that succession of life in the genei-a-
tions of men which is to be ixssociated with the
poet's crowning expression of "the glory of the sum
of things." The 91.st blends something of this future
o-lory with the image of the dead :
" Come : not in watches of the night,
But where the simbeam broodeth warm,
Come, beauteous in thine after form,
And like a finer light in light."
432
CASSELL'S LIBEARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1850
And from this point the ])oem rises still, while
welcoming free conflict with honest doubt, the fear-
less strivmg after truth that gives strength to the
souL The 99th section brings the year 1835 to the
second anniversary of the death of Arthur Hallam,
the 15th of Sejitember. Through autumnal thoughts
of change of earthly associations, including a change
of home, we pass to the third and last Chi-istmas
included in the poem. And now the Christmas
thought is of the world as God, through Christ, shall
make it when the fulness of His time is come.
" Be neither song, nor game, nor feast ;
Nor harp lie touch'd, nor flute lie blown;
No diinee, no motion, save alone
What lightens in the lucid east
Of rising worlds by j-ondor wood.
Long sleeps the summer in the seed ;
Run out your measured arcs, and lead
The closing cycle rich in good."
Tlie next section (106th) associates the linging in
of the New Year (1836) with the ringing out of all
the ills yet to be conquered, and the ringing in of
that new " cycle rich in good :"
" Ring in the valiant man and free.
The larger heart, the kindlier hand ;
Ring out the darkness of the land.
Ring in the Christ that is to be."
Then follows, in the 107th section, a cheerful
celebration of Arthur Hallam's birthday, the 1st of
February ; and calm faith in the future of humanity
is blended with a thought implying the main duty of
life in the latter half of the nineteenth century, the
work involved in Wordsworth's question —
" What one is.
Why may not millions be ? "
We dare cherish the far ideal when we know that
there is no way to the attainment of it but by labour
of each of us, man, woman, and child, to live our own
lives faithfully and truly. It is only by the gi-owth
of many into what is now the life of few, that the
succession of the generations can at last lead to
"the closing cycle rich in good." Therefore, the
full expression of hope for the future of humanity is
framed by Mr. Tennyson as aspiration for the time
when all may be what Ai-thur Hallam was. Know-
ledge is below Wisdom :
" Let her know her place ;
She is the second, not the tir.st.
A higher hand must make her mild,
If all be not in vain ; and guide
Her footsteps, mo\-ing side by side
With Wisdom, hkc the younger cliild :
For she is earthly of the mind,
But Wisdom heavenly of the soul.
friend, who earnest to thy goal
So early, leaving me behind,
I would the great world grew like thee,
■V^Tio grewest not alone in power
And knowledge, but by 3-ear and hour
In reverence and in charity."
The poem closes fitly at the season of spring — -
extending thus over an imagined period from the
■winter of 1833 to the spring of 1836 — and its last
thoughts are of hope, with assured Faith through
Love ; with God felt, in full conviction of man's
immortality ; with certainty that all is moving God-
ward, and with the peace of God that passetli under-
standing.
But there is added to the poem, and it forms an
essential part of it, a song written for a sister's
man-iage some nine years after the death of Arthiu-
Hallam. The l>lessing on the marriage leads to-
prayer for the bii-th from it of new life that shall be
" A closer link
Betwixt \is and the crowning race
Of those that, eye to eye, shall look
On knowledge ; imder whose command
Is Earth and Earth's, and in their hand
Is Nature like an open book ;
No longer half-akin to brute,
For all we thought and loved and did.
And hoped, and suifer'd, is but seed
Of what in them is flower and fruit ;
Whereof the man, that with me trod
This i^lanet, was a noble tj-pe
Appearing ere the times were ripe.
That friend of mine who lives in God,
That God, which ever lives and loves,
One God, one law, one element.
And one far-off divine event,
To which the whole creation moves."
It is a divine event " far off;" but still the forward
movement may be felt. Among the days in which
we live, our Illustrations of English Religion end as
in the midst of the history of an unfinished war.
Unsubdued passions of men no longer require that
we shoidd biuld a church of stone, as Durham
Cathedral was built, in some defensible position,
adorned for God's ser^-ice and also strengthened to
meet attack of men who may come against it ^vit!l
the lance and bow. It is now war only of mind
against mind, where it was once also of body against
body ; but there is still much of the old temper
which in spii-itual battle — though it be for the besi
cause — turns victory itself into defeat ;
Not this the Exd, not yet the end of strife.
While Zeal that works for the good seed's increase
Adds bitter fei-ment to the bread of life.
Not yet has Righteousness the kiss of Peace.
nigh aims, true words, true deeds abounding still,
Our corn is good ; the fault is in the leaven :
That must be love, if we woiUd have God's wUl
Be done on earth as it is done in heaven.
A.D. 1877. 1
RELIGION.
433
' Peace upon earth, and goodwill towards men ; "
" I give you Peace, My Peace I leave with you ; "
Ours is the angel's song, the Lord's gift, when
No war for Truth can make our love less true.
rhe voices of our fathers gone before
Float back to us who struggle in the rear ;
Subdued by distance ever more and more,
The purest notes are those that reach the ear.
We tread where Csedmon, far before us, trod.
Where echoes are resounding yet his song :
'^' It is most meet that we should worship God,
Our great Creator. In Him ye are strong :
- ' Through the great deep where stormy watere flow
Your wa}' is safe, whatever ills pursue ;
Through the fierce furnace safe with Him you go,
As through the sunlight when it lifts the desv,
"' If ye have faith. Have faith ! " And are not these
Whispers of Bedc keard through our tread of feet ?—
'' Lift me, and let mo die upon my knees.
Where I prayed daily: so to die is sweet."
•* When you have tried all treasures. Truth is best :"
True Langland's music calls us, from above :
"' Whatever poison stabs, Love gives you rest
And health ; the Triacle of Heaven is Love."
Voice after voice, the frailties of the flesh
Dust with the flesh, still blends its purer strain
With oui' own speech, falls only to refresh.
Touches earth tenderly as summer rain,
Till earth, less hard about our stony way,
Smiles into life, loosens its iron grip,
And cumbered souls that languished in the clay
Shoot upward to find Heaven's companionship.
By him is Paradise Regained indeed
Who bears, with Christ, pain, famine, patient still ;
" Nor mind it, fed with better thoughts, that feed
Me hungering more to do my Father's will."
The voices of our fathers gone before
Stay here to help us with their music thus : —
What voice of ours, abiding evermore,
Shall help the dear ones who come after us ?
God of our children, whom we yearn to teach,
The lips we kiss, touch them from above ;
Turn Thou their babblings into manly speech
As strong to move through innocence to love.
Our days are few, but yet a little more
Help us to leave our childi-en, ere we die,
Of treasure added to the only store
That serves to build the home beyond the sky.
Desire is faint, we totter at the gate
Of this world's home in passing out to Thee :
When Thou art nearest we lament our fate,
Thy stretched out arm our dim eyes hardly see.
Teach, Father, God, our children how to pass
From earth to heaven as from home to home.
The earth they leave reflecting as a glass
Its image of the Peace to which they come.
DnRHAM CiTHZDRAL.
119
From IcichiKs " Dc Orvjino Typagraphicai Lipsiemis."
INDEXES.
I.-INDEX TO QUOTED WRITERS AKD PIECES.
Addison, .Joseph, 341, 3-12.
yElfric, 21— 'JS.
Alfection, True, from Browne's "Beligio Medici," 295, 29G.
Alcuin, 12, 13.
Aldhelm, 9, 10 ; An Invocation by, 10.
Alexander, Sir AV^illiam, 2G0, 261 ; AVilliara Drummond, To,
with !iis Epitaph, 200.
Alfred, King, 18 -20.
"All Stands in Change," by John Lydgate, 115, 116.
Analogy of Religion to Nature, Joseph Butler's, 348 — 350.
Andrewes, Lancelot, 238 — 240.
Andrew's Day, St., from John Keble's "Christian Year," 407.
Anger, Geoffrey Chaucer on, 10;^ — 106.
Arnold, Dr. Thomas, of Rugby, 412—416.
Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust, from a Sermon by Donne, 237.
Atoms, Concurrence of, from Stillingileet's " Origines Sacra;,"
324.
Audelay, John, 113, 114.
Augustine, Saint, A Legend of, from John Selden's ' ' Historic
of Tithes," 250, 251.
Aylmer, John, 175, 176.
Bacon, Francis, 183—190.
, Roger, 55, 56.
Bale, John, 160—103.
Barrow, Isaac, 327. 328.
Baxter, Richard, 298, 304- 309, 327.
Bede, 10—12 ; Close of his "Ecclesiastical History," 10, 11 ;
C'uthbert's Account of his Death, 11, 12.
Beginning of Marriage, In the, from Jeremy Taylor's Sermon
on " The RIaiTiage Ring," 288.
Behaviour in Church, from Mirk's " Instructions for Parish
Priests," 119, 120.
Bestiary, Tlie Substance of a, 56, 57.
Bible Translation, The Lord's Prayer from the Gospels in First
EngUsh, 17 ; Psalm Ixvii., from Nicholas of Hereford's
Version of the Old Testament, 75 ; Matthew, ch. vi. , from
Wiclif 's Ver.sion of the New Testament, 75, 76 ; Matthew,
ch. vi. , from Tyndale's Version of the New Testament, 147.
, The Voice of the, from Maurice's "Lectures on the
Epistle to the Hebrews," 421, 422.
— , The, from S. T. Coleridge, 426.
Birds of Scotland, James Grahame's, A Passage from, 401, 402.
Blackmore, Sir Richard, 342, 343.
Blair, Robert, 3159.
Bludy Serk, Robert Henryson's, 128, 129.
Boethius, First iMatre of, in Modern and First-English, 19, 20.
Book of Sports, The (a.d. 1633), 301, 302.
Boyle, Robert, 325, .326.
Breton, Nichohus, 247, 248.
Brothers Parted, John Keble's Poem for St. Andrew's Day,
from " The Christian Year," 407.
Browne, Thomas, 295, 296.
Browning, Robert, 428, 429.
Bunyan, John, 309—317 ; Autobiogr.aphical Passages from his
" Grace Abounding to the Chief of Smners," 309, 310.
Burial of the Dead, by Keble,from the " Lyra Apostolica," 406.
Burnet, Gilbert, 338, 339.
Burton, Nicholas, Cruel Handling and Burnmg of, from Fox's
" Acts and Monuments," 170 — 172.
Butler, Joseph, 347— 35L
C«dmon, 3 - 5 ; The Opening of his Paraphrase, 5 — 9.
Call for Christ, by Cynewulf, 15, 16.
Carlyle, Thomas, 427.
Cathedrals, &c. ,f rom"\Vordsworth's ' 'Ecclesiastical Somiets,"404.
Catholicism against Parties, Baxter's Association for, 305.
Chalmers, Thomas, 397—400.
Change by Death, The, from Jeremy Taylor's "Holy Dying,
286, 287.
Character of a Methodist, by John Wesley, 362, 363.
Chaucer, Geoffrey, 102 — 106.
ChilUngworth, William, 281.
Christ, Cynewulf's Call for, 15, 16.
, and the World, from Quarles's " Emblems," 275, 276.
Christian Love, from John Howe's Sermons, 292 — 295.
Christianity, AVilliam Paley's Evidences of, 387.
Christians, Pacific, Rules for a Society of, by Locke, 337, 338.
Christmas Day, John Milton's "Ode on the Morning of Christ's
Nativity, 270—273.
Christmas Eve and Easter Day, by Robert Browning, 428, 429.
Christ's Teaching of Nicodemus, from the " Ormulum," 49 — 52.
Victory, Giles Fletcher's, 243-- 246.
Church Divisions, A Direction from Baxter's Cure of, 307, 308.
, Future of the, from Wordsworth's "Ecclesiastical Son-
nets," 405.
Music and Preaching, from Roger Bacon's " Opus
Tertium," 55, 56.
Porch, Verses from George Herbert's, 266, 267.
, Prayer on Entering, from the " Private Prayers " of
Lancelot Andrewes, 239.
, Prayer for Peace in the, by John Hales, 297, 298.
Churchyard, The New, from William Wordsworth's "Eccle-
siastical Sonnets," 404.
Clergy ; Chaucer's Town Parson, 112, 113.
; John Arulelay's "Pastor Bonus," 114.
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 426.
Colet, John, 141—144.
Collect on Use of the Scriptures (a.d. 1.549), 158.
Collins, Willi.am, .369.
Concurrence of Atoms, from Stillingfleet's "Origines Sacrse,"324.
Constable, Henry, 214.
Content, an Essay by Addison, from the SpcrUitnr, 341, 342.
Conti-oversies of the Ghmxh of England, Francis Bacon on the,
184—190.
Controversy, The Style of, from Isaac Barrow's "Sermons
ag.ainst Evil-Speaking," 328.
Corrupt Patronage of Livings, from Hugh Lathner's Sermon on
"The Ploughers," 152, 15.3.
Corruption of Religious Orders, from the " Itinerary of Wales,"
by Giraldus Cambrensis, 43, 44.
Corruptions of Christianity, Joseph Priestley's History of the,
Dedication from, 388.
Covetousness, Hugh Latimer's Sermon on, 153—158.
Cowjier WUHam, 375 — 379, 382—385 ; Autobiogi-aphical Pas-
sages from,375 — 379; James Montgomery's Reference to, 392.
INDEX TO QUOTED WRITERS AND PIECES.
435
laiimer, Thomas, 158 — 160.
iMsIiaw, Kichiird, 278, 279.
n iition, aiiml iu, from Richard Blackmore's "Creation," 343.
n lie, Fierce the Plowmun's, 108—110.
riisados aud Pilgrimages to Jerusalem, from Thomas FuUer'a
••Holy War," 291, 292.
'ihhvorth, Ralph, 328, 329.
'iii-^or Mimdi, Passages from the, 69, 70.
'j uc%vidf, 15, 16.
1 1\ id, from a Sermon by J. F. D. Maurice, 425.
i lies, .John, 226—232.
th, To, from Robert Herrick's "Noble Numbers," 280.
-, The Change by, from Jeremy Taylors "Holy Dying,"
286, 287.
, The Eloquence of, from Raleigh's "History of the
World," 233.
of Josejih, from the early English Poem of " Genesis
and Exodus," 57, 58.
; Prayers of Samuel Johnson on the Death of his Wife,
371, 372 ; and of his Mother, 372 ; Lines by Samuel John-
son on the Death of Robert Levet.
of James Grahame, John Wilson's Poem on the, 400, 401.
Declaration concerning Lawful Sports ( A. D. 1633), 301, 302.
Departed Friends, from Vaughan's " Silex ScintUlans," 289.
Divisions in the Church, Reginald Pecock on, 125, 126.
; A " Direction " and " Three Ways of
Life," from Baxter's Cure of Chm-ch Divisions," 307, 309.
Dorme, John, 234 — 237.
Drayton, Jlichael, 211—213.
Drummond, William, of Hawthoi'nden, 259, 260.
Dryden, John, 331—333.
Duty of Moileration, from a Sermon by John WUldns, 325.
Dyer, John, 364 — 366.
Easter Day, .Slfric's Homily on, 22—25.
Sermon, by Lancelot Andrewes, 239, 240.
Poem by Browning, 428, 429.
" Ecclesiastical Polity," Richard Hooker's, 219—226.
Eloquence of Death, from Raleigh's ' ' History of tlie "World," 233.
" Emblems ; " The Preacher, from George Wither's, 275.
; Between Christ and the World, from Quarles's, 275, 276,
Enlarging of the Heart, The, from Christopher Harvey's
" Schola Cordis," 269.
Epigrams, Divine, from Crashaw's " Steps to the Temple," 279.
Evening Hymn, 'Thomas Ken's, 332.
, by Reginald He'oer and Richard MTiately, 419.
Prayer, by Lancelot Andrewes, 238, 239.
Evidences of Christianity, William Paley's, 387.
Evil Overcome with Good, from John Colet's Lectures on St.
Pauls Epistle to the Romans, 143.
" Faerie Queene," The First Book of Spenser's, 193—211.
Fau--Virtue, the Mistress of Philarete, Wither's, 2.55 — 258.
Faith, Deail and Living, A Homily on, by Cranmer, 159, 160.
Fisher, John, 136—141.
Fletcher, Giles, 243, 246.
Phmeas, 276—278.
Forgiveness of Injuries, from .Johnson's Extnhh'r, 371, 372.
Fortune of the Chm'ch, from WUliam Wordsworth's " Eccle-
siastical Sonnets," 405.
Fox, George, his Accovmt of his Mission, 296, 297.
, John, 170—172.
Freeman's Religion, The, from Cowper's "TalJe Talk."
Friends, Depai-ted, from Vaughan's " SUex Scintillans," 289.
Fuller, Thomas, 291, 292.
Galahad, Walter Map's, .37, 38.
"Genesis and Exodus," The Death of Joseph, from the Early
EngUsh Poem of, 57, -58.
Georgia, The Fii'st Colonists of, from a Pamphlet by James
Oglethorpe, &c., 355, 356.
GiraUlus Cambrensis, 42 — 45.
God, To his Dear, from Herrick's "Noble Numbers," 280.
, The Idea of, from Ralph Cudworth's " Intellectual
System of the Universe," 329.
Golding, Arthur, 213.
Gospels, Commentaries on the, in Wiclif's Time, 74, 75 ;
Matthew, ch. vi., from Wiclif's Bible, 75, 76 ; Matthew,
ch. vi. , from Tyndale's Bible, 147.
Grace for a Child, from Herrick's " Noble Numbers," 280.
Grahame, James, 400 — 402 ; John Wilson on the Death of, 400.
Grave, Lines from Robert Blair's Poem of the, 369.
Great Deliverance, The (a.d. 1688), TUlotson's Sermon on,
334 -336.
Gregory's Day, ^Ifric's Homily on, 25—28.
Pastoral Care, King Alfred's Introduction to, 18, 19.
Grey, Lady Jane, Roger Ascham's Account of, 175.
Grindal Edmund, 178—183.
Guesses at Truth, by Augustus and JuUus C. Hare, 419, 420.
Habakkuk, ch. iii., Michael Drayton's Version from, 212.
Hales, John, 297, 298.
Hall, Joseph, 281—285 ; from his Autobiography, 281, 282.
Hampole. Richard RoUe, Hermit of, 70, 7L
Hare, Juhus Charles, 419, 420.
Harington, John, 240, 241.
Hai-monie of the Church, Michael Drayton's, 211—213.
Harvey, Christopher, 269, 270.
Hawes, Stephen, 129—136.
Hayward, John, 248, 249.
Healing of the Nobleman's Son, Wiclif's Sermon on the, 71, 72.
Health and Sickness, from Cowi)er's " Retirement," 384.
Heart, The Enlarging of the, from Christopher Haxvey's
" Schola Cordis," 269.
Heaven our Home, by Robert Southwell, 192.
, Treasures in, from W. Alexander's "Doomsday," 261.
Heber, Reginald, 393—397.
Henryson, Robert, 127—129.
Herbert, Edward : Passages from his Autobiography, 262—264.
, George, 264—269. Richard Crashaw's Lines on Send-
ing Herbert's "Temple" to a Lady, 278, '279.
Heresy, The Charge of, from John Jewel's " Apology for the
Church of England," 174, 175.
Herrick, Robert, 279—281.
Hilarius, 38 — 42.
Hind and Panther, Lines from .John Di-yden's, 331.
Holy Places, Sajwulf's Visit to the, 28 — 31.
Spirit, Robert Herrick's Litany to the, 280.
HomUies. See Sermons.
Hooker, Richard, 214-2-26.
Hope amidst Billows, by Robert Leighton, .329 — 331.
Howe, John, 292—295.
Humility, from Robert Herrick's " Noble Numbers," 280.
Hymn to God the Father, by John Donne, 236.
to God, my God, m my Sickness, by John Donne, 236.
, Morning, by Thomas Ken, 331, 332.
, Evening, by Thomas Ken, 332.
, Veiii Creator, Dryden's Paraphrase, 333.
, Sincere Praise, by Isaac Watts, 343, 344.
~ fot Morning or Evening, by Isaac Watts, 343, 344,
on his Witness for God, by Whitefield, 358, 359.
for the Kingswood Colliers, by John Wesley, 361.
on the Admission of any Person into the Society, by
John Wesley, 362.
, The Storm Hushed, by John Newton, 381, 382.
, Light Shining out of Darkness, by Wilham Cowper, 382.
, Peace after a Storm, by William Cowper, 382, 383,
, Retirement, by Wdliam Cowper, 383.
, The Name of Jesus, by John Newton. 383.
, James Montgomery's, for a Sheffield Reform Meeting
(1794), 39L
, Missionary, by Reginald Heber, 397.
, Evening, by Reginald Heber and Richard 'Whately, 419,
I Would and I Would Not, by Nicholas Breton, 247, 248.
Idea of God, The, from Cudworth's " Intellectual System of
the Universe," 329.
Idleness and Mischief, Against, from Isaac Watts's "Divine
Poems for Children," 'M4.
Immortality, William Wordsworth's Ode on the Intimations of,
in Early Childhood, 402—404.
Injuries, The Forgiveness of, from Johnson's Samhler, 370, 371.
In Slemoriam, by Alfred Tennyson, 429—432.
Interlude of the Temptation of Our Lord, Bale's, 161—16.3,
Isaiah, chapter xU., filichael Draj-ton's Verses from, 211.
, ,, xvi., „ ,, ,, -1'-' '-13,
Jerusalem, Crusades and PUgrimages to, from Thomas Fuller's
" Holy War," 291, 292.
.lesus. The Name of, by John Newton, 383.
Jewel, John, 173—175.
Johnson, Samuel, 369 — 375.
Joseph of Arim.athea, The Legend of, 34, 35.
Keble, John, 405—408.
Ken, Thomas, 331—333.
King-craft, King Alfred on, 19.
Kingsley. Charies, 422, 423.
Knox, John, 103—168. His Letter to Mrs. Bowes, 166 ; to his
Bretluen in Scotland, 166—168.
Lancelot and Galahad, 36—38.
Langland, William, 77—102.
Latimer, Hugh, 150—158.
Laud, WUUam, 298- -303 ; liis Last Prayer, 303.
436
CASSELL'S LIBKAEY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
Lecture by John Jewel, Close of a, 173, 174.
Leighton, Kobert, 3211, 331.
Lent, To Keep a Trae, from Robert Hemck s "Noble lum-
bers," 2.S0, 281.
Letter of John Knox to Mrs. Bowes, 166.
to his Brethren in Scotland, 166 — 168.
. Ednumcl Grinilal to Queen Elizabeth, 178 — 183.
Kichard Hooker to the Arclibishop of Canterbury, 217.
John Donne to James I. , 234, 235.
- James I. to James Usher, 254, 255.
Liberty, Obligation of Civil to ReUgious, from WiUiam Words-
worth's '"Ecclesiastical Soimets," 204.
Libnary, jUcuin'.s Lines on a, 12.
Liildon, Heni-y FaiTy, 427.
Life, Three Ways of, from Richard Baxter's " Cure of Church
Divisions," 308, 309.
Light Shining out of Darkness, by Cowper, from "Olney
Hymns," 382.
Lindsay, David, 165.
Lindsey, TheophUus, Dedication to, of Priestley's " History of
the Corruption of Cliristianity," 388.
Linking in of Things Together, from Philip Sidney's Translation
of Du Plefois Mornay on "The Trueness of the Christian
ReUgion," 213, 214.
Litany to the Holy Spiiit, Robert Herrick's, 280.
Locke, John, 337- -331).
LoUard, A, described by John Audelay, 114.
Lord's Prayer, The, in First Enghsh, 17.
Love, Christian, from a Sermon by John Howe, 292 — 295.
, Married, from Jeremy Taylor's Sermon on the " Marriage
Ring," 288.
Lydgate, John, 114—119.
Malmesbury, William of, his Account of Aldhelm, 9, 10.
Man, and Man's Jledley, from Herbert's " Temple," 268, 269.
of Ross, from Alexander Pope's Epistle on the I'se of
Riches, ;t46, 347.
Mann3rng, Robert, of Brunne, 58 — 63.
Map, Walter, 3.")— 38.
Marriage and Manied Love, from Jeremy Taylor's Sermon on
the "Marri:ige Ring," 287, 288.
Maxirice, John Frederick Denison, 420 — 425.
Meditations, Joseph Hall's, 282, 285.
Mercy, William CoUins's Ode to, 369.
Methodist, The Character of a, by John Wesley, 362, 363.
amton, John, 270—273 ; 317- 323.
Mind in Creation, from Richard Black'nore's "Creation," 343.
Miracle-play of the Raising of Lazarus, by Hilarius, 39—42.
of Abraliam, from Wakefield Mysteries, 65 — 68.
Miracles of St. Swithin, from First-Enghsh, 20, 21 ; of St.
Kevin and St. Colman, from Giraldus Cambrensis, 42, 43.
Mu-k, John, 119, 120.
Missionary Hymn, by Reginald Heber, 397.
Moderation, The Duty of, from a Sermon by John WUkins,
325.
Montgomery, James, 390 — 392.
Moravian ISlissions, from James Montgomery's " West Indies,"
392.
More, Thom.as, 145, 146 ; More against Tyndale, 147, 148.
Morning Hymn, Thomas Ken's, 331, 332.
Prayer, by Lancelot Andrewes, 238.
Mother, Samuel Johnson's Prayer on the Burial of his, 372.
Music, Church, Roger Bacon on, 55.
Name of Jesus, The, by John Newton, 383.
Nature, The Fellowship of Man with, from James Grahame's
"Bbds of Scotland," 401, 402.
Newman, John Henry, 408 — 412.
Newton, John, 379—382.
"Night Thoughts," Edward Youngs, 366—369.
"Nosce Teipsum," John Davies's, 227, 232.
Nymph's Song in Praise of the Lover of Virtue, by Georce
Wither, 258, 259.
of the True Happiness, by WiUiam Drummond
of Hawthomden, 259, 260.
Oath of Supremacy, James Usher's Speech on the, 253, 2.54.
Ode on the Morning of Christ's Nativity, by Milton, 270—273.
to Mercy, by William CoUins, 369.
on the Intimations of Immortality in Early Childhood, by
WiUiam Wordsworth, 402 — 404.
Oglethorpe's Jail Committee, Lines on, from James Thomson's
"Seasons," 35.5.
Origines Sacra;, Edward Stillingfleet's, from the DecUcation of
and Preface to, 323, 324.
" Onnulum," A Sermon from the, 49 — 52.
Orthodox or Scriptural, from a Letter of Richard V.Ti.ately to
iAlward Bouverie Pusey, 417, 418.
Overcome EvU with Good, from John Colet's " Lectures on St
Paul's Epistle to the Romans," 143, 144.
Pacific Christians, Rules for a Society of, by Locke, 337, 338.
Palestine, by Reginald Heber, 393—396.
Paley, WiUiam, 3»5 — 387.
Palm Sunday, from John Keble's " Christian Year," 407.
"Paradise Regained," John MUton's, 317—323.
Parson, Chaucer's Good, 112, 113 ; John Audelay 's Good, 114.
Past and Present, from Selden's " Historie of Tithes," 250.
Pastime of Pleasm-e, The, by Stephen Hawes, 129—136.
Patronage of Livings, Corrupt, from Hugh Latimer's Sermon
on "The Ploughers," 152, 153.
Paul's Epistle to Philemon, Richard Steele's Paraphrase of, 34L
the Romans, John Colet's Summary of, 143.
Peace, from Nicholas Breton's " Characters," 248. _
, from Henry Vaughan's " SUex ScintiU:ms," 290, 291.
in the Church, Prayer of John Hales for, 297, 298.
after a Storm, by WiUiam Cowper, 382, 383.
Pearl, The, an Early EngUsh Poem, 106—108.
Pecock, Reginald, 120—127.
Piers Plowman, The Vision of, 78 — 102.
, The Crede of, 108—110.
, the Usurer, The Tale of, from Robert of Brunne's
"Handlyng Sinne," 59—63.
"PUgrimage of Man, "John Lydgate's Version of Guillaume de
Guilevile's, 117, 119.
PUgrim Fathers, John Robinson's FareweU Words to the, 304.
"PUgi-im's Progress," John Bunyan's, 311 — 317.
Plowman's Tale, The, 110—112.
Poor, Bishop, 46 — 48.
Pope, Alexander, 346, 347.
Pope, Tempor.al Jurisdiction of the, from John Donne's
"Pseudo-martyi-," 23."».
Pi-aise, Sincere, from Isaac Watts's " Horie Lyricse," 343, 344.
Prayer, Morning, by Lancelot Andrewes, 238.
.Evening, „ „ 238,239.
on Entering Church ,, 239.
for God's Mercy, by John Hayward, 249.
for Peace in the Chuich, by John Hales, 297, 298.
, Laud's Last, 303.
and Song of the Aged Christian, from Isaac Watts's
Ada^jtation of the Psalms, 344, 345.
, The Universal, from Pope's " Essay on Man," .347.
, Samuel Johnson's, on the Eamhler, 370 ; his Three
Prayers on the Death of his Wife, 371, 372 ; his Prayer on
the Death of his Mother, 372.
-, Thomas Arnold's, read every Morning with the Sixth
'The
Form at Rugby, 413, 414,
without Ceasing, from John Fisher's Treatise on
Need of Prayer," 137, 138.
Preacher, The, from George Wither's "Emblems," 275.
Preaching, Roger Bacon on, from his " Opus Tertimn," 55, 56.
, Neglect of, from Hugh Latimer's Sermon on " The
Ploughers," 153.
, Edmund Grindal's Letter to Elizabeth
on abridging the Nimnber of the Preachers, 178 — 183.
Prekte, the Busiest, in England, from Hugh Latimer's Sermon
on "The Ploughers," 151.
"Pricke of Conscience," Passages from R. RoUe's, 70, 71.
Priestley, Joseph, 385.
Profane Wit, from Robert Eoyle on " The Style of the Scrip-
tures," 326.
Prologue to Pecock's " Repressor," 123.
Prophesyings ; Edmund Grindal's Letter to Queen Elizabeth on
Suppressing the Prophesies, 178 — 183.
Psalm XV., in verse, by George Sandys, 278.
xxiii., in WiUiam of Shoreham's Version, 74.
, in verse, by Joseph Addison, 358.
— Ixvii., in First-EngUsh, 16, 17.
, in Early EngUsh, 74.
, in Nicholas of Hereford's Translation of the 014
Testament, 75.
box., in verse, by the Countess of Pembroke, 191.
Ixxi., adapted by Isaac Watts as Prayer and Song of the
Aged Christian, ;J44, 345.
Ixxix., in Richard RoUe's Version, 74.
Ixxxviii. , paraplu-ased by Henry Howard, 149.
cxxx., „ Thomas Wyat, 150.
Psalms, The, from Frederick Denison Maurice's Sermons oa
the Prayer Book, 424.
Pseudo-martyr, Dedication of John Donne's, 234, 235.
I^lr^)le Island, Phineas Fletcher's, 276 — 278.
Quarles, Fi-ancis, 262.
Quarrelling and Fighting, from Isaac >v atts's " Divine Poems
for Children," 344.
Quest of the Graal, The, 36, 37.
INDEX TO QUOTED WRITERS AND PIECES.
437
Kaleigh, Walter, 232, 233.
Bambler, Samuel Johnson's Prayer on the, 370.
Bed Cross Knight, The, from the " Faerie Queene," 193 — 211.
Keligio Laici, Lines from Dryden's, 331.
Eeligion, Cheerful, from Cowpers "Table Talk," 38:3, 3*4.
• of the Free, from Cowpers " Table Tall.-," 384.
, Study and Practice of, from Gilbert Burnet's
" Address to Posterity," 338, 339.
of the Utopians, from Thomas More's "Utopia," 146.
KeHgious Opinions, John Henry Newman's History of his, 410,
411.
. • Sensibility, from Thomas Chalmers's "Christian
Revelation viewed in Connection with the Modem Astro-
nomy," 398, 399.
"Repressor of Overmuch Blaming of the Clergy," Reginald
Pecock's, 122, 127.
Bequest to the Lord Protector, from Hugh Latimer's Sermon
on "The Ploughers," 152.
Retirement, by Cowper, from the " Olney Hymns," .383.
Retreat, The, from Vaughan's " Silex Sciutilhins," 288, 289.
Bevolution of 1688, John TUlotson's Sermon on the, 334 — 336.
Bobertson, Frederick WUliam, 426, 427.
Bobinsun, John, his Farewell Words to the Pilgrim Fathers,
304.
Radd, Dr., his Sermon before Queen Elizabeth, from Haring-
ton's " Brief View of the State of the Church," 240, 241 ;
his Speech in Convocation on Conformity, 242.
Rugby, Prayer with the Sixth Form at, 413, 414 ; Sermon by
Thomas Arnold, 414, 413.
Ruins of Rome, by John Dyer, 364 — 366.
Rules and Lessons, by Henry Vaughau, 289, 290.
for a Society of Pacific Christians, by Locke, 337, 338.
Sabbath, James Grahame's Poem on the, 401.
Saewulf's Visit to the Holy Places, 28—31.
" Sanctuarie of a Troubled Soul, " John Hayward's, 248, 249.
Sandys, George, Version of Psalm xv., by, 278.
Scripture, The Appeal to, from AVilliam Chillingworth's "Reli-
gion of Protestants," 281.
Seafarer, The, a First-English Poem, 13 — 15.
Secession in the Scottish Church explained by Thomas
Chalmers, 399, 400.
Selden, John, 249—252.
Sensibility, Religious, from Chalmers's "Christian Revelation
viewed in Connection with Modem Astronomy," 398, 399.
Sermon, jElfric's, on Easter Day, 22— 25.
— St. Gregory's Day, 25-28.
from the "Ormulum" on Christ's Teaching of Nico-
demus, 49 — -53.
by .John Wiclif on the Healing of the Nobleman's
Son, 71, 7'2.
, Part of a, by John "WicUf, "The Two Fishings of
Peter," 72, 73.
, Parts of Hugh Latimer's, of "The Ploughers," the
Busiest Prelate in England ; a Request to the Lord Pro-
tector, ; Corrupt Patronage of Livings ; Neglect of Preach-
ing, 1.51 — 153.
, by Hugh Latimer, on Covetousness, 153 — 158.
, by Thomas Cranmer, on Christian Faith, 159, 160.
, Part of a, by John Donne, ' ' Ashes to Ashes, Dust
to Dust," 237.
, by Lancelot Andrewes, on Easter Day, 239, 240.
, Dr. Rudd's, before Queen Elizabeth, described, 240,
, Part of a, by Richard Sibbes, The True Men of the
■World, 273—275.
■ , by Jeremy Taylor, In the Beginning of
Marriage, Married Love, 287, 288.
-, by John Howe, Christian Love, 292—295.
-, by John WUkins, The Duty of Modera-
-, by Isaac Barrow, The Style of Contro-
-, by Robert Leighton, Hope amid Billows,
24L
tion, 325.
versy, 328.
329—331.
-, by John Tillotson, The Great Dehverance
(A.D. 1688), ;»4— 330.
, by Thomas Amold, in Rugby Chapel, 414, 415.
-, Part of a, by J. Frederick Denison Maurice, on the
Psalms, 424.
Sibbes, Richard, 273—273.
Sickness and Health, from William Cowper's " Retirement,"
Sidney, Philip, 213, 214.
Sincere Praise, from Is:iac Watts's " Hone Lyric.-e," 343, 344.
Song for Morning or Evening, from Watts's " Hymns," 345.
Songs of the Faithful, by Jlichael Drayton, 211, 212.
Southwell, Robert, 191, 192.
Spenser, Edmund, 192—211.
Spiritual Consolation of John Fisher to his Sister Elizabeth
written in the Tower, 138 — 141. '
Spirituahtie, The, from David Lindsay's " Monarchic, •" 165.
Sports, The Book of (a.d. 1633), 301, 302.
Stanley, Arthur Penrhyn, 427.
Steele, Richard, 341.
Stillingfleet, Edward, 323, 324.
Storm Hushed, The, a Hymn by .John Newton, 381, 382.
Study and Practice of Kehgion, from Gilbert Burnet's " Ad-
dress to Posterity," 338, 339.
Style of Controversy, from Isaac Barrow's " Sermons against
Evil-Speaking," 328.
SuperUminare, from George Herbert's " Temple," 267.
Supei-stitions of the People, from Robert of Brunne's "Hand-
lyng Sinne," 58, 59.
Supremacy, James Usher's Speech on the Oath of, 253, 254.
Surrey, Henry Howard, Earl of, 149.
Swithin, St., Miracles of, from First-English, 20, 2L
Sylvester, Joshua, Thoughts from, 246, 247.
Taylor, Jeremy, 285—288.
Temptation of Our Lord, John Bale's Interlude on the, 131—
163 ; John Jliltons "Paradise Regained," 317 — 323.
Tennyson, Alfred, 429—432.
Thank God for AH, by John Lydgate, 114, 115.
Thomson, James, 355.
Three Ways of Life, from Richard Baxter's " Cure of Church
Divisions," 308, 309.
Tillotson, John, 333 -3:36.
Tithes, John Selden's Historic of, 250, 25L
Toleration, from Jere. y Taylor's "Liberty of Prophesying,"
286.
Town Parson, Chaucer's, 112, 113.
"Tracts for the Times," Passages from the, 409, 410.
Treasures in Heaven, from W. Alexander's " Doomsday,'' 261,
True Affection, from Browne's " Keligio Medici," 295, 296.
Men of the World, The, by Richard Sibbes, 273—275.
Two Fishings of Peter, from a Sermon by John Wiclif, 72, 73.
Tyndale, William, 146—148 ; in answer to Thomas More, 148.
Universal Prayer, from Pope's "Essay on Man," 347.
Usher, James, 252 — 255.
Utopians, ReUgion of the, from Thomas More's " Utopia," 146.
Vaughan, Henry, 288— 29L
Veni Creator Spiritus, Diyden's Paraphrase of the hymn, 333.
Virgiu Mary, Sonnet to the, by Henry Constable, 214.
Virtue, from George Herbert s " Temple," 268.
Virtues and Vices, A Chapter from .Alcuin's Book on, 12, 13.
Vision of Piers Plowman, The, by William Langland, 78—102.
Voice of the Bible, The, from J. Frederick Denison Maui ices
Lectures on the Epistle to the Hebrews, 421, 42'2.
Walton, Izaak, The Last Days of Donne, from, 236 ; Lines by,
to Christopher Harvey on his Synagogue, 269, 270.
Watts, Isaac, 343—345.
Wesley, John and Charles. 351—363. Charles Wesley s Lmes
to George ■^^"hitefield, ;i59.
•\Vhately, Richard, 416— 419 ; Saying of, 418. ,. , ,
■\Vhitefield, George, :i52 ; P.-issages from his Autobiography and
Journal, 352—354 ; 358, 360, 36L
Wiclif, John, 69, 71-77. _ ^ c^- ;-■, -yy
Wife, Samuel Johnson's Prayers on the Death of his, 3i 1, Ji J.
Wdkins, John, 324, 323.
Wishart, George. Character of, by Emery Tylney, 163.
Wither, George, 255— 259, 275. , „.,,- o.c
Woman's Beauty, from Edward Young s Satires, .Mo, 34b.
Women, The Rule of, from John Aylraer's " Harborowe for
Faithfull and Trewe Subjectes," 175, 176.
Wooing of Our Lord, The, by Bishop Poor, 46-48.
Wordsworth, WiUiam, 402-40.5. , ^ ^ ^ „ . ,o- .or
Working Mens College, Idea of a, by J. F. D. Maurice, 42o, «6.
World, The True Men of the, from Sibbes s Sermons, 273 — ii o-
Wrath', Geoffrey Chaucer on, 103—106.
Wyat, Thomas, 149, 150.
Ximenez on Translation of the Scriptures, 145.
Young, Edward, 345, 346; 366—369.
Zeal without Charity, from Jeremy Taylor's " Liberty of Pro-
phesying, "286.
438
CASSELL'S LIBEAEY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
IL-INDEX TO NOTES.
[lar^e Figures indicate Pages, and Small Figures give the numbers of the Notes upon them.']
A (one), no,'; 167,2
Abbot, Rev. Dr., 131, >
Abessa, 198, '
Abinsdon, Abbot of, 87, '°
Abraham, Mii-acle Flay of, 67. ^*
Abraid. 61, '»
Ac, M, > ; 95, 1
Acale, 111, 3 ^
Acouped, 60, ^
Acre, Sir S. Smith's Belief of,
396,'
Adonay, 65, '
Adonis, 272, ^
^gwhilc, 16, '
^Ifric on the Real Presence, 21, '
.ffimilius, Theodore, 263, •
.Ethel, 16, '
Again (against), 70, ^
Agauist the Hair, 247, >
Aggrate, 245, 3
Ai, 74, '
Air (heir), 128, «
Alcyone, 270, ^
Aldebaran, 198, *
Aldhelm's '* De Laiidibus Vir-
ginitatis," 10, '
Alfred, King, His Classification of
a People, 19, ^
All-to, 107, ♦
Almoner, St. John the, 59, '«
Amate, 209, '
Amice or Amis, 200, > ; 322, '
Ammon, Jupiter, 272, *
Anceane, 128, ^
And (also), 76, =; (if), 112, ';
115,1
Andette, 16, »
Ajidgyt, 16, 1
Audwlita, 16, >
Anglo-Saxon, Study of, 9, ' ; 16, '
Anubis, 272, '
Anyan, 236, '
Apert, 114, '
Appair, 149, '
Apposed, 80, *
Arches, Ad%'ocates of the, 82, 3
Archimedes, 343, '
Aideui's RiU, 393, i
Arius, 187, '
Arminians, 263, ' "
Arnold, Mr. Thomas, 71, ^ ; 75, '
Ascham's Account of Princess
Elizabeth, 176, *
As swithe, 61, ^
Assyrians, 28, 2
At (to), 114,8
Atti-y, li>4, *
Austin Friars, 78, *
Auto, and Auto da Fe, 171, ^
Awyrien, ll't, 13
Asrtree, 120, ^
Aywhore, 60, »
Baalim, 272, '
Babington, Mr. Churchill, 122, '
Bain (bathe), 149,'
BaU, Stephen, 110, "
Ballads, 78. «
Bandoun, 129, ®
Barm, 60, '
Bars, Castmg the, 120, ^
Base Com-t, l33, »
Baselarils, 85, 3
Bate (term in falconry), 276, *
Bayn (helpful), 67,"
Beald, 16, '
Bed (bid), 209,3
Behnvit to de, 128, "
Beir, 165, ">
Behve, 60, " ; 71, 1 ; belife, 68, '»
Ben hold (are esteemed), 93, «
Benimeth, 103, '
Beorhte, 16, i
Bere (noise). 119, »
Berserkr, 128, l
Bertram, Monk of Corbie, 21, '
Bestiary, An old English, 57, '
Bet (beaten), 67,13
Betake, 24, ' ; 114, 2
Betrasit with, 129, »
Bewi-ayiug, 60, '*
Beza, Theodore, 263, '
Bigly (convenient for dweUiug),
128, '»
Biseche, 123, ^
Bistiges, 74, '
Black Death, The, 80, '
Bleared, 78, "
BUu, 70, 1
Blissiau, 16, '
Bludy Serk, Henryson's, Original
Story of, 127, ^
Bocardo, 155, ^
Bode the qued, 60, »»
Body, Man's, as a Castle, 276, =
Boethius, Metrum I., 19, ^
Bohemian Church Reformers,
125,2
Bonched, 78, '
Bordes, 119, 3
Borrowit with, 129, ^
Bote, 107, 3 ; 109, 1
Boughts, 195, -
Bouu (ready), 67, «; Bun, 66, «
Bour, 128, 23
Brandred, 134, »
Brast, 66,27; 208,'
Brede, 107, '
Breu, 66, "
Bret-full, 109, =
Bretiguy, The Treaty of, 84, '
Brevet, 78, '»
Brewer, Prof. J. S., 44, ' ; 55, »
Brokages, 82, '3
Brute, Walter, 110, "2
Biyche, 62, '^
Brygge-a-bragge, 134, «
Bulls, The Pope's, 78, '
Bun (ready), 66, "; Boun, 67, «
Bnnyau's Apphcations of Scrip-
ture, 31u, 1
Burial, Pii-st English manner of,
27,1
But (unless), 62, 2 ; but if, 81, " ;
93,1"; iu4_i. bot gile, 128, "
Buxom, 82, 3
Byhoves leve, 70, 1^
CjEdmon, "Was he a herdsman ? 4, 1
, his Paraphrase and Para-
dise Lost, 7, 1 ; 8, 1
, Editions and 'Translations
of, 9, 1
Calvinism, 263, '
I Calypso, 199, 1
I Can (know), 59, l; 66,8
j Cardinal Virtues, The Four, 12, 1
' Carmelites, 78, **
t Cary, 109, '»
1 Case (in case, by chance), 63, *
Castle of Love, The, 54, 1
Catel, 59, « ; 84, 3
Cats, The Ships called, 29, 1
Censorship of Writers, 185, *
Censure, 185, 5 ; 250, 1
Certes, 66, «
Chastiseth (seeks to free fi'om
fault). 105. 6
Chateau d' Amour, Early Transla-
tion of the, 54, 1
Chest (strife), 82, " j 103, = ; 120, ♦
Chesun, 60, i"^
Church Dues, Sir David Lindsay
on, 165, 'I
Circe, Chai-ms against, 135, 1
Clavichord, 132, 2
Clavi-cimbal, Clavecin, Cemhalo,
132,2
Clepen, 58, '
Climacterical Year, The, 241, 1
Clouten, 92, 3
Compare, 201, 1
(Jon (inceptive), 107, ^
Contractions in Old English, 58, 3;
59,7^10 H. gg 20. 130 2 4 6 6 9.
2U,2 . . . . ,
Conversation, 186, 1
Conversion, The word, 26, 1
Cooper, Thomas, Bishop of Win-
chester, 185, 1
Corceca, 198, 2
Coi-pse, 250, 2
Correption, 123, 3
(Cosmos in the *' Ormulum," 50, 1
Countring, 165, *
Coverdale, Miles, 157, 2
Covered (cured), 72, *
Crowd (fiddle), 132, 2
Cunnand, 128, =2
Cymphans, 132, 2
Dan, 165, 2
Dare (maketh flowris dare), 116, 1
Davenant, John, 294, 1
De(die), 129,2
Deal, 23, 3 ; 81, " ; 141, 1 ; dele,
59,2; 60,6; doule, 111,12
Debonere, 62, 21
Dede (death), 66,=; 67,18
Defar, 133, »
Defendeth (forbids), 84,2; dg.
fended, 104, 7
Denies, 74, *; demen, 79, *
Denis, 165, '
Dereworthy, 80, i"
Despitous, 106, 2
Defray, 132, 1
Dever, 97, •
Deynous, 94, 7
Dicht, 128, 26
Digne, 61, 3
Dirige (dirge), 136, 1
Doddridge, Dr. Philip, 385, 1
Donatus, .aiUus, 131, ~
Donet, 131, 2
Donne's Monument in St. Paul's,
236,2
Dort, The Synod of, 263, 1
Doussemer, 132, 2
Dout, 62, 21
Douze piere, 116, 3
Dress, 107, 12 ; 117, 6
Drihten, 16, i
Dromonds, 29, 1
Droom, 209, *
Druery, 80, i»
Dulcimer, 132, 2
Dungering, 28, '6
Dungin down, 128, ^
Dury, John, 294, 3
Early English Tert Society, 18, 1
•cd final in verbs ending in d or t,
2.3,2; 299,2
Eft, 72, 1
Egesa, 16, 1
Ehzaheth, Queen, 152, i ; 176, •
Elizabethan Ti-anslatiou of on-
iric's Sermon on the Lord's
Supper, 22, S 6. 23, 1, i; On
St. Gregory's Day, 25, 1
Em-Chi-istian, 82, is ; 94, 3
Encheason, 67, 3
Esloin, 200, 3
Essoin, 200, ♦
Eve-chepings, 89, 3
Fffil, 16, 1
Fain, 82, «
Fait, 81, 1*
Paitour, 91, 1
Fame, Milton on, 320, '
Fare, 106, «
Fast (fixedly), 63, 3
Fatal, 130, 3
Fele(many), 60,2*
Peoffed. 82,8
Ferd, 68, 2
Ferly, 60, 12
Fire of London, 335, '
First EngUsh, Study of, 9, ' ; 16, ■
Fit, 196, 2
Play (frighten), 68, "
Plet, 119, »
Fletcher, Phineas, and Spenser,
246,1
rieting, 70, »
Plum, 70, 8
Poison, 62, 12
Pole, 16, 1
Fold (theearth), 128, 1'
Polled, 62, 2«
Ponde (seek, try), 61, 12 ; fonding,
63, 2 ; found, 66, 11 ; 67, 3
Pools' Badges, 134, 3
Forester, Peter, 235, '
Porrow, 129, 3
Porthi, 79, 3
Porivarned, 196, 3
Porwasted, 194, 2
Porwerd (worn out), 110, ■•
Por-why (because), 124,2
Foxtail (badge of a fool), 134, 3
Frame (profit), 62,"
Freedom, 423, i; of the Press,
185,-'
Freitour, 87,9; 109,*
Frely (deUghtful), 68, is
Prete, 82, I6
Friars, The Pour Orders of, 78, *
Pro, 67, 12
Pumivall, Mr. F. J., 18, 1 ; £8, '
Pyrre, 106, «
Galafres, 29, '
Gart, 66,24; 128,21
Gat (road), 60, 7
Gebletsa, 16, '
Gefea, 16, 1
Gemma Ecclesiastica, 44, 1
Geneva Bible, 212, 1
Genge (nations), 74, 2
Geond, 16, 1
Gery, 116, 2
Gesta Bomanorum, 127, 2
Geste, 58, 8
Get (child), 67,20
Ghast, 59, 12
Ghostly, 22, *
Gin (contrivance), 245, 2
Gledes, 103, 3
Glosing, 78, 6
Godwin, Francis, 205, 1
Gomar, Francis, 263, 1
Gome, 98, *
Grail (gravel). 204, '
Grain (dye), 109,7
Graithly, 110, '"; graythest, 81, i'
Greetand, 61, *
Grie (step), 167, 1
Griple, 201, »
Groflyuges, 68, 3
Grosart,Eev. A.B., 161,2;247,2;
269,1
Grosseteste, 54, 1 ; 72, 7
Grotius, Hugo, 263, '
GryU, 60, '
Gryse, 68, 1«
Giuleville's Poem, "Pflerinage
de 1 Homme," 119, 1
Gyane, 128, "3
Hahbath, 16, 1
Habergeons, 117, 8
Ha;ls, 16, 1
Hair, Against the, 247, '
Halcyons, 270, 2
Halliwell-PhUlipps. Mr. J. C.,
54, ' ; 113, 1 ; 114, '
Halowis, 74, 5
Halt (holds), 94, «
Halwes, 103, 6
Hansel, 59, '
Harde (" scare well harde"),
110,3
Harlot, 105, 3
Harmensen, Jacob, 263, 1
Harmony of the Spheres, 271, *
Hasardours, 104, -
INDEX TO NOTES.
439
Hatchet, Throwing the, 120, -
Hatren, 60, *
Hatte (was named), 94, '^
Hautem, 105.2
Have ^este, oS, ^
Healdan, 16, i
Heeld (poured), 7-4, ■<>
Heiideuess, 82, ^
Hent, 00, "
Here (their), 87,'; 92,3; her,
125,1
Hermits, The first, 145, i
Hests. 82, »"
Het, 07,-1
Hethyu,', 74, "
Hewe. 90, '
HidJis, 76, 1
HiL'kte (commanded), 94, i*
Hilarion, lib, i
Hdl, Nathaniel, 119, i
Hincmar, 21, l
Hing, 129, 3
His, him, its, 124, i ; 209, =
Hockshins, 110, i
Hodymoke, 120, '
Hokerly, 104, =
Holiness as a Virtue, Plato and
Aristotle on, 12, i
Homilies and Sermons, 180, ^
Hooker, Richard, and Reginald
Pecock, 124,3; iiis TOfe, 217, '
Horus, 272, '
Hour-glass, The Preacher's, 169,'
Hoars, 81, "
Housel, 22, 3
Hoyne, 66, "
Hugger mugger, 120, 7
Hussites, 125, 2
Huysens, Christian, ai3, '
Hy Thaste), 67,'; (high), 88, i;
he, 128, «
Icham, 1*4, '
Immortality, Argoment of So-
crates for, 142, 1
Implies, 201, 3
Indilferent, 183, ' ; 185, » ; indif-
ferently, 180, 1
Indured, 149, ^
Infere, 67, "
Inforced, 23, *
lusujTectious of 1549, 157, i
Intelligible (intellectual), 130, w
Inwit, 94, =»
Isis, 272, '
It, as a genitive, (J6, '^ ; his and
its, 124, 1 ; 209, »
Jack Nokes and Tom Stiles, 88, ^
Jackes stulfes, 117, '
James I. and the Book of Revela-
tions, 2//,i
Jangland, 60, 8 ; jangling, 105, ^
Japers, 105, *
Jaques, Shakespeare's, 275, i
Jealous, 59, ^
Jerome, Saint, 145, ^
John the Almoner, Saint, 59, i^
Jove (air), 194, a
Jowett, Professor, 142, '
Kennen, 81, i
Kest, 128, 16
Ket the Tanner, 157, •
Kind (nature), 72, i" ; kindly, 73,i ;
89, «; kind-wit, 90, 1
Knakkes, 105, w
Kyrle, John, 346, '
Lacky (find fault with), 96, '
Lad (led). 74, «
Laitis, 128, '
Langland, William, 77, '
Lares, 272, ^
Late (lately), 63, "
Layn (deceive), 67, ^"^
Leal, 90, "
Lede (man), 85, i
Leese (lose), 191, ^
Lef (heUeve),114,*
Lemures, 272, ^
Lend, 81, "^ ; lene (give), 94,9;
147,1
Leohte, 16, '
Lere, 67, " ; 81, =, 2' ; 117, = ; leres
(thou leres), 60, = ; lereth.
87, * ; 93, 2 ; 95, 1 J lering, 94, i'
Lesse (lie), 68,'=
Lest ("me lest"), 106.5
Lesteth, 57, =
Let (delay, hinder), 81, =» ; 117, i ;
153,1 ; lete, 61,' ; letten, 123,*:
274, 1
Leve (dear), 120, « : lief, 107, «
Lewed, 79, 2
Lief (dear), 107, ' ; leve, 120, «
Lieved (believed), 78, ' ; lieveth,
82, 18; let, 114, *; leyved, 88, =
Likame, 128, ^6
Lind, 81, '
Liquids in Dissyllables, 131, 1
List and lete, 70, ^
Lite (Urtle), 81,3; jyt,^ 128,1*
Loke thee, 81, 22
Lollards, 111), w
LoUed him, 110, "
Lomes, 77, -
Lore (lost), 61, ' ; 63, '
Losengerie, 105, 1
Loth, 62, 3
Lout, 62, 22
Loveloker, 106, '
Lucifer, FaU of, 5, 1
Lupton, Mr. J. H., 1-13, '
Liu'daue, 87, ^
Lusty, 128, '
Luthere (bad), 92, i
Lydgate, John, 130, 3
Lyflode, 77, 3
Lysse, 81, i*
Lythie, 247, 1
Making (verse writing), 108, 2
Malison, 105, 3
Man of Ross, The, 346, i
Mancus, Value of a, 19, 1
Mandeville, Sir John, Fable from,
116,*
Manna, The Hidden, 289, 1
Mantissa, 324, 1
Martial's Epigram " In Maxi-
mum," 253, 1
Mase, 80, 2
MaskeUass, 107, '3
Mass, 170, 1
Mayne, 72, ^
Medled (mixed), 94, 1=
Meeting (knowledge), 114, ^
Mene (mediator), 93, n
Ment, 66,2
Meroi, 80, *
Mere, 283, 1
Merk, 129, '
Mesel, 105, *
Mete (scanty), 110,2
MeuMe, 94, "
Meyn (complain), 68, ^
Mihtig, 16, 1
Mjlthe, 74, >
MUtsa, 16, 1
Miracle Plays, 64, '
Mischief (misfortune), 107, '
Misdid him, 62, 23
Mold, 85, 2
Moloch, 272, «
Moly, 135, 1
Mone (must), 129, 2 ; maa, 165, 3
Monopoli, 28, 2
Monument, London, Inscription
on the, 335, 1
Moravians, 392, 1
Morley, Bishop George, 263, 1
Morning Star, The, 289, 2
Morris, Dr. Richard, 18, 1 ; 48, 1 ;
57,i; 106,*
Morrow, 58, 1°
Morton, Thomas, 294, 2
Mote ("mighty to mote"), 81,'
Moton, 16, 1
Mozambique Channel, 236, 1
Muchel, 203, 2
Mun-ay, Mr. J. A. H., 18, •
Music of the Spheres, 271, *
Mycelnisse, 16, 1
Myug, 120, 5 , „ ,.
Myrc's Instructions tor Parish
Priests, 119,2
Namely (especially), 60, •= ; 105,';
nameliche, 93, "
Nar, 67, ' ; nas, 106, '
Neven, 66. "
Never a dele. 60, «
New Fair, 89, 3
Nice, 204, 3
Nigim, 60,2
Nile, The Gods of, 272, '
Ninefold Hai-mony of the Spheres,
271, ■
Nokyns, 68,
Nold, 61. 6
Nome, 62, is ; name, 63, '
Northward in Heaven, 5, 1
Nouns in First English, 16,
Noy, 59, 3
O (one), 118,1
Obeshing, 72, '
Of (=tor), 114, i"; 276,1
Ointment of PaUas, 135, i
Okerer, 59, i'
Oracles, Cessation of, at Birth of
Christ, 272, 1
Ord and end, 51, 1
Ore (ere), 63, i
" Ormulum," Metre of the, 49, 1
Osiris, 272, '
Other (=or),92, 8
Ought (owns), 84,3. (omied),
191,3
Our all quhair, 128, 13
Oiu-tuk, 128, 1'
Owes to Uf e, 75, 2
Pallas, Ointment of, 135, 1
Palmer, 89, *
Pan (crown), 86, 1
Paradise Lost and Csedmon's
Paraphrase, 7, 1 ; 8, 1
Pai-age, 107. "
Paramour, 128, 12
Party, 61, '
Pas, 59, *
Fussus 59 *
Paul, TThe 'first Hermit, 143, 1
Paust>!, 66, *
Pavys, 117, '
Payed (pleased) , 59, 13 ; to pay
(to satisfaction), 62, '; 90, s ;
114,'
Peace of the World at Birth of
Chi-ist, 270, 1
Peacock, Mi-. Edward, 119. ~
Pecock, Reginald, and Richard
Hooker, 124,3
Peise, 60, »
PencUlis, 117,2
Peor, 272, 3
Pen-ochioun, 165,'
Persoue (parson), 165, '
Pertelich, 87, 1
Peter ! (an exclamation), 89, 3
Peynible, 62, ■"
Pilgrimages of Man and of the
Soul, Gmlevile's, 119, 1
PiUe, 92, '
PiUoun, 126,1
PUloure, 111, '
Pined, 68, '
Pines, 67,2
Placard (a breast-plate), 131,2
Plague of 1665, 334, 2
Plained, 107, '
Plato on the Cardinal Virtues,
12,1; 19^2; on Inunoi-tality,
142,1
Plenerly, 62, "
Poke (bag), 93,9
Polde-headed, 163, '
Portess, 200^2
Prease, 111,2
Preise, 109,*
Prest (ready), 90, =
Prevent, 289, 1 ; prevented, 138, »
Price, 107, '"
Prog, 276, 2
Pronouns in First English, 17, 1
Provisors, 83, 1
Prynne's Lines on his Branding,
301,1
Pyed Coat, 134,3
Quarrel, 134, 1
Quart (safe keeping), 66, =3
Qued, 60, 1"
Queit (gay spirits), 129,3
Quh- in Scottish, 128,13; 129,*
Quickmire, luit, ^
-r-, sounded as a syllable, 136. 2
Radbert, 21, '
Rageman (roll), 79, 1 ; (name for
Satan), 98, 1
Ramus (Pierre de la Rami>e),
220,1
Rathe, 94, is ; rather, 94, 2
Eatramnns de Corpore et ban-
guine Domini, 21, 1
Eaught, 79, 1
Reason and Scripture, iM, 3
Rebeck, 132, 2
Recorder (the Musical Instru-
ment), 132,2
Rede, 60, l'; 62,'; 87, l^: 81, s.
93, S; 195,1
Regiment, 168, 1
Rely (reel), 92, «
Remonstrants, The, 263, 1
Reukes, 93, 3
Res (rush), 68,1'
Ribibour, 89, 2
Riches, 1.35, 2
Ring (reign), 128, »
Rottensis, 137, ■
Roses, How the first, came, 116, ■•
Rotheren, 110, 3
Rough, John, 164, '
Euel, 92, *
-s. Northern Plural in, 129, *
SabeUins. 187, 3
Sackbut, 132,2
Sadly, 114, «
Sakei-iug, 120, i
Salvage, 203, •
Sam (together), 211,1
Sandys's Ovid, 240, 2
Satire of the Three Estates,
Lindsay's, 165, n
Sanyo, 94, 22
Say (wooUen stuff), 201, "
Sayne, 66, 26
Scale, The Musical, 55,'
Scath, 201,6
Schaf, 110, 1*
Schede, 107, = ; shede, 111, »
Scho, 128, s, ■>
Schonder (in schonder schnke).
128, 18
Scott, Sir W., and Heber, 394, ■
Scripture and Reason, 124, 3
Seafarer, The, a First-English
Poem, 15. 1, 2
Second wit, 72, 3
See (seat), 129, "
Seggde, 49, 2 ; syggen, 87, 3
Seih . . . rather, 94, 2
Selden's Lines on a House-door,
249,1
Sele (time, season), 6-3, «; 63,*
Sely, 109,2; seilye, 165, 1 ; silly,
271,2
Sent (scent), 196, 1
Serk, 128, 1
Sermons and Homilies, 180, "
Sethen, 61, "
Seventh Years of Lite, au, ■
Sewed, 94, 1
Seyn, 68,5
Shai-land of Northampton, 273, '
Shent, 58, =
Shield of the Red Cross Knight,
207,1
Shrews, 103, *
Shrouds at St. Paul's, 151, ■
Sib, 90, 12
Sickemess make (give assurance),
62,*
Sim at the Stile, 88, >
Sir, 165, 2
Sisom-s, 82,1
Sith, 191,*
Siths, 93, 3
Siththen, 88, '
Skeat, Rev. W. W., 18, ■; 78,2;
110. IS
■Skill, 59, 1; 62, 18; skiUis, 67, ';
skills. 87, 3
Slee. 162, 3 ; slo, 68, 1
Sleithes, 82, 12
Smirke, Etherege's, Mr., 327, »
Smithie, 85, *
SneU, Rudolph, 263, 1
Soken, 82, "
Somdel to paye, 90, 3
Somerset House, 157, 1
Souble, 111, '
Soul, Socrates on the, 142, 1
Soyn ( soon) , 66. 18
Sparkled (sprinkled), 159, ■
Spheres, Harmony of the, 271, ♦
SpiU (destroy), 66,21
Sprete, 162, 1
Stelde, 6-2, i^ ; stede, 67, " ; sted,
209,2
Steps, 251,3
Stone, Putting the. 120, 2
Stots, The Four, 121, '
Stouud. 63,3
Sunimouers, 82,^
440
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
Swa 70 "
Sweet, kr. Henry, 18, '
Swelt, 204, 2
Swevening, 61, ®
Swinderby, WiUiam, 110, '^
Swink, 90, 3
Swithe, 60, 1 ; 61,2; 70,5
Sword of the Spirit, The, 134, •;
278,'
Sykeren, 90, »
Syllan, 16, 1
Syniphouies (musical instru-
ments). 132.2
Syne, 128, ^; 165, 8
Tabor. 132, '
Take (confide), 62, '
Tale (account), 80,'
Teind, 165, «
TeUen, 79, '
Tent (heed), 63, '^ ; 66. ■*
Tenterden Steeple and (Joodwin
Sands, 155,2
•th-, omitted in pronunciation,
59, '», » ; 130, 8
Thffis, 16, 1
Thammuz, 272, s
Than (=tben), 60, '»; 70, >»;
161,3; 271,1
Theod, 16, 1
There (— where), 79, '
This each, 58. « ; that each, 63, ♦
The (those), 77, «; (thess), 118, '
Tholmodness, 62, =»
Thomey Abbey, 122, '
Thnrt, 62, " ; thar, 67, '
Thnruh, 16, 1
Tide (tune), 68, "
TiU (prop up), 60,"
TiU(=to),68,i2; 299,1
To(=tm), 68, '3
Toft, 80, s
ToUere, 62, »
Tone (taken), 129,'
To party, on the, 60, •»
Tote, 109.3; iii,»; y-toted. 109, 3
Transubstantiation, 21, ' ; 22, W^;
23,i,«
Trast, 66, 12
Travesties, 326, =
Triacle, 81, «
Triana, 171, '
Troeznow, John de, 125, *
Trotevale, 58, 2
Trowen, 58, ' ; trowed, 72, 3
Tryphon, 272, ?
Tuly, 162, »
Twyn, 68, '
Tyne, 208,s
Typhon, 273, •
Tyte, 68,9
Unhid (without a prayer), 210, '
Unbuiom, 82, '
Uncouth, 195, 3
Underfongen, 84, *
Undemyme, 123, '
Unexpressive. 271. 3
Union, Christian, Scheme of,
294, 3 ; 295, 1
Universal Peace at Birth of
Christ, 270, 1
Unnethes, 70, ' : unneth, 104, 3 ;
uneath, 209, '
Untall, 111, 3
Unto (= untU), 66,"
Up trist, 93, «
Ure, 16, 1
Ut, Ee, Mi, Fa, Sol, La, 55, =
-I'., omitted in pronunciation, 58,3
Veray, 65, - ; verrey, 129, >"
Verbs m First English, 16, 1
Vemicle, 89, •
Veysey, Bishop, 157, '
Vild, 210, 1
Virgin Mary, the Castle of Love.
54, ' ; her Shrine at 'Walsing-
ham, 78, 3
Virtues, The Cardinal, 12, 1
Vizards, 323, <■
Vulgate, The, 145,2
Wsstm, 16, >
"Wage (be surety), 86, 2 ; (endure),
107, *
"Walsingham, Our Lady of, 78, 3
Warn. 78, =
Wanhope, 82, "
Want (do without), 273,=
"Ware ( lay out in bargaining), 62,3
WaiTaid, 202, '
"Warroke, 85. «
Waseled, 110, *
Watchful sted, 209, 2
Wawes, 107, ^
Wayten, 90, »
We ! (an exclamation ) , 67, 3
Weathering Stock, 276, 3
Weeds (di'ess), 82,"
Wegas, 16, 1
Weld, 59, >3
Well (as an intensine), 49, 3;
110,3
Wend (thought), 67, >3
Weorth. 16, '
Were (uncertainty), 60, 22 ; (strife
and confusion), 66, 3
Wertheode, 16, '
Westminster Abbev Towers, 279,'
Wex, 62,1'; 70,3
Weymouth, Dr. E. F., 54,'
WhaUy eyes, 200, 3
Whately and J. H. Newman, 417, '
Wher, 76, 3
Whereas (= to where), 198, 3
Whethen. 70. '
WhitefiekVs Preaching, 361, '
Wichfs English Works, 71, 2 ; his
Bible, 76, *
Wight (vigorous), 94, 21
Winter's Tale, Measure of a Song
in the, 49, 1
Wishing Wells, 78, 3
Wisse, 94, 3 ; wissen, 90, '<> ; 109, »
Wite (know), 72,2; 90^7. ,^t_
66, 22 ; wot, 82, ' ; wait, 165, = ;
witen, 82, ♦
Wite (blame). 111, i"; wyting,
112, 2 ; wijting, 123, 3
With (by), 129,", 12
Withe, 326,2
Withouten, 68, 13
Withsit, 94, 12
Wondit, 128, 2»
Won (wont), 67,2; wone (stay),
66,^; wone (custom), SS,"^;
wonne, 74, ^ ; woned (dwelt),
63, 1"; woneth, 80, »; 90. ';
wynnit, 128, »
Wood (mad), 62,2*; m, 11 ; 201,3
Worth (becomes), 96, 1 ; worthen,
110,6
Wow, 59, '
Wrey, 68, «
Wrie, 59, 3
Wright, Mr. Thomas, 28, ' ; 36, 1 ;
44, ' ; 57, 1
Wro, 111, «
Wyrd, 107, 2
Tare, 67, *
Tede, 61, 2 ; 62, 3 ; yode, 70, 2
Yerde, 106, 3
Ting (young), 128,*
To (yea), 63,9
Torn, 59, " ; yeme, 120, *
Toungest-teemed, 273, 2
Tpight, 208, 3
Y-toted, 109, 3
Twit, 84, •
Zabarella, Jacopo, 263,'
Ziska, 125, 2
IIL-INDEX TO SPECIMENS OF ENGLISH.
Host of the passages from old irriters in this uoliimc have such of their words as are still current English spelt in the iray that least ditierts atfcntion from
the thoughts they stand for; but in the /oiloa-ing pieces ai! accidents of speliinj, ic., have been left untouched, that they may serve as iUustrattons
of the language in successive periods ; —
EIGHTH CENTUKY.
First-English Metrical Version of Psalm Ixvii. .
The Lord's Prayer in First English ....
TENTH CENTURY.
First-English Version of a Metre of Boethius .
THIRTEENTH CENTURY.
Christ's Teaching of Nioodemus. — From the "Or-
mulum "
The Death of Joseph.— From " Genesis and E.xodus "
Psalm Lxra.— From a Northern Metrical Psalter
PAGE
16
17
20
49
57,58
74
FOURTEENTH CENTURY.
Psalm sxiii. — William of Shoreham's Version . . 74
„ budx.— Richard of H.ampole's Version . . 74
,, bn-ii.— Nichobs of Hereford's Version . . 75
The .SLxth Chapter of Matthew. — ■\VicUf 's Translation 75, 76
A Prophesy from Langland's " Vision of Piers Plow-
_ _"''^°" 87,88
The Town Parson, from Chancer .... 112
FIFTEENTH CENTURY.
Divisions in the Church. —From Pecock's"Kepres"or'' 1''5 l'>6
The Bludy Serk, by Robert Henryson . . . 128^ 129
SIXTEENTH CENTURY.
The Sixth Chapter of Matthew.— Tyndale's Transla-
tion .........
Character of George Wishart, by one of his Pupils .
The Spiritualtie. — From Sir David Lindsay's " Mon-
archie "......,.
John Knox to his Brethren in Scotland .
The Cruel Handlyng and Bumyngof Nicholas Burton.
— From Fox's " Acts and Monuments " .
Lady Jane Grey. — From Ascham's "Schoolmaster"
SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.
Dedication of Donne's " Pseudo-martyr " .
How Saint Augustine showed that a Lord of the
Manor must pay Tithes. — From Selden's
' ' Historic of Tithes "
The Enlarging of the Heart.— From Christopher
HaiTey's " Schola Cordis" . . . .
The Appeal to Scripture. — From 'William Chilling-
worth's " Religion of Protestants " .
The Book of Sports, as issued in 1033
147
163
165
16&-163
170—172
175
234—235
250, 251
269
281
301,302
EIGHTEENTH
Practice of Religion.
CENTURY.
Study and Practice of Religion. — From Gilbert
Burnet's Address to Posterity (1708)
338,339
CORRECTION.
In Note 2, on Page 138, far "the English version pubUshed in Elizabeth's reign.'^
ifas put into Latin for the first edition of Fishers collected works."
read, " the undated original version, wMcl
cassell's
Library of English Literature
English Plays
SELECTED EDITED AND ARRANGED
HENRY MORLEY
rr.0FESS0B OF English Liteeatvre at Ukiveksity College London.
Then to the well- trod Stage asoh.
If Jossos's leakxed sock de on.
Ok sweetest SHAKESPEiRE, FiNCT'S CHILD,
■Wadble his saiive woodnotes wild.
MiLlos : i'JIlcgro.
w
ITH ILLUSTRATIONS.
CASSELL & COMPANY, Liiiited
LOSVOS, PABIS, HEW YORK i UELBOCXSB.
fALL EIGHTS RESERVED.
Plan of a Gkeek Theatre. (From Fiti-uiiius.)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
Of Acted Pieces earlier than the First English Comedy, a.d. 1119 to a.d. 1535
PAGES
1—21
CHAPTER II.
The First English Comedy and Tragedy : " Ralph Roister Doister" and " Gorboduc," a.d. 1535 to a.d.
1562 ...........•••
21—65
CHAPTER III.
From the Date of the First English Tragedy to the Ye.ar in which it is supposed that Shakespeare
came to London. — a.d. 1561 to a.d. 1586 ......••■
63—110
CHAPTER IV.
From the Year in which it is supposed that Shakespeare came to London to the Year of the Death of
Marlowe. — a.d. 1586 to a.d. 1593 ....••••••
111—156
CHAPTER V
From the Death of Marlowe to the Death of Queen Elizabeth. — a.d. 1593 to a.d. 1603
156—210
CHAPTER "V^.
In the Reign of James I. — a.d. 1603 to a.d. 1625
211—270
CHAPTER "Vll.
T'ndee Charles I. and the Commonwealth. — a.d. 1625 to a.d. 1C60
270-321
VI
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER VIII.
Under Charles II. and James II.— a.d. 1660 to a.d. 1689
321—383
CHAPTER IX.
From the English Revolution to the French Revolution. — a.d. 1089 to a.d. 1789
383—430
CHAPTER X.
Since the French Revolution of 1789
430-434
Indexes : —
I. — Plays and Dramatists
II. — Notes
III. — Specimens or English
435—438
439—440
440
Gkfek Ccmelt. (From a Bas-relief in the Museum, Naples.)
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Plan of a Greek Theatre (from VitniTius) . . . v
Greek Comedy (from a Bas-relief in the Museum at
Naples) ........ ■vi
Roubiliac's Statue of Sliakespeare in the British
Museum ........ viii
Teaching the Actors (from a Mosaic in the House of
the Tragic Actor, Pompeii) 1
Initial (from the First Folio of Shakespeare) . . 1
The Nave, Chester Cathedral 2
A Miracle Play at Coventry 3
The Angel's Song at the Nativity (from Cotton MS.
Tiberius B. v. ) . . . . . . .12
Pity (from a Woodcut used by Wynkin de Words to
illustrate " Hycke Scorner " ) .... 12
Contemplation and Perseverance . . . .13
Imagination and Freewill . . . . . .13
Hycke Scorner 14
The Apothecarj- (from a Sketch by Holbein in
Erasmus's " Moriaj Encomium") . ... 19
The Palmer's Experience ...... 20
Ralph Roister Doister . . .... 22
Mathew Merygreeke ....... 23
Sladge Mumblecrust 26
The Scrivener 37
Goodluck Ketumed 44
Eton College 47
Old HaU of the Inner Temple 48
Armorial Device of the Inner Temple ... 48
Acting Terence 49
Strife (from a Relievo by Antonio Pollaiuolo) . . 51
A Dumb Show in the Time of Elizabeth ... 54
Talbot Inn Yard (Chaucer's Tabard) .... 65
Part of Old Whitehall Palace 74
Sj'racuse 75
The Ear of Dionysius 77
Ruins of the Ancient Theatre at Syracuse ... 88
The Globe Theatre 104
Properties of the Vice and Fool : Cap, Bauble. &c. . 110
Shakespeare's Birthplace at Stratford . . .111
The Free School at Stratford 112
Anne Hathaway's Cottage, Shottery .... 112
The Fool of the Old Play 114
Doctor Faustus . .116
The Song of Arion 130
Initial from Camden's " Britannia " . . . .
Room in which Shakespeare is said to have been Bom
Initial from Camden's " Britannia " .
William Shakespeare, from the Droeshuyt Portrait
The Bust of Shakespeare at Stratford
Chancel of Stratford Church, with Shakespeare'i
Monument .......
The Stratford Portrait of Shakespeare
Signatures of Shakespeare
Stratford Church
Arms granted to Shakespeare's Father in 1590 .
Richard Tarlton
Richard Burbage ......
The Fortune Theatre
Crispinus (Portrait of a Gentleman Pensioner, 1G05)
Captain Tucca (a Soldier in Buff Jerkin, from Salton
stall's " Navigator ■')
His Majesty's most Excellent Dog (a Watchman from
Dekker's " Lanthome and Candlelight " 1609)
Armour of the Reign of James I. . . .
Tailpiece (from a FoHo of Ben Jonson's Works)
Initial, from the same
Dress of a Masquer at the Court of James I.
Border (from the " Mirror for Magistrates," 1610)
Initial (from AVarner's " Albion's England," 1606)
Tailpiece (from KnoUes's "History of the Turks'
1610)
A Check used at the Red BuU .
Characters of the Old ItaUan Comedy
The Old Italian Pantaloon and Harlequin
Initial (from KnoUes)
Court of an Old Italian Palace .
Palace of the Podesta, Florence.
Funeral Hearse of James I.
Philip Massinger ....
Remains of a Roman Theatre at Orange
A Roman Couple ....
Domitian ..•■•■
A Roman Empress . • • •
Seated Minerva . . • • '
Actors of Comedy in Ancient Greece
Tragedy and Comedy (from a Roman Bas
Harefield Place
Frontispiece of Randolph's Poems, with his Portrait
relief)
rAOE
132
142
142
156
157
161
164
167
174
177
17S
179
188
193
201
207
209
210
211
214
232
238
247
247
248
248
248
249
269
270
271
271
273
275
277
284
294
307
308
313
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
322
326
327
PAGE
Holland's Leaguer (1632) 315
Theatre Checks of Drmy Lane and the Duke's
Theatre (1671) 321
Sir William Davenant
Front of the Theatre in Dorset Gardens (1673) .
Proscenium of the Dorset Gardens Theatre
Scenes in Settle's "Empress of Morocco" (1673)
A Fleet of Ships 351
A Moorish Dance 351
AMaskofHeU 352
The Reward of Treason 352
The Rival Queens (from a Frontispiece to Lee's Dra-
matic Works) • • 359
William Wycherley 359
Thomas Otway ........ 368
Theatre Checks of the Beginning of the Reign of
Jam'^3 II. ....... . 383
Old and New Haymarket Theatre . . . .411
Part of Old Craven House, site of the Olympic
Theatre
The Theatre in Tankard Street, Ipswich, where
Garrick first acted ....
David Ganick ......
Richard Brinsley Sheridan
Interior of Drurj- Lane Theatre (1794—1811)
Mrs. Siddons
Interior of the Haymarket Theatre (1821)
Painted Ceiling over the Pit of Goodman's Fields
Theatre
412
420
421
428
4.'>1
432
433
4. ■35
Note.— lu another volume of this Library, contaimug " Shortei-
Euglisli Poems," Portraits are given of Thomas Sackville
(p. 170), George Gascoigne (p. 184), Samuel Daniel (p. 254).
Ben Jouson (p. 267), George Chapman (p. 270), Francis
Beaumont and John Fletcher (p. 273), William Cartwright
(p. 293), Joliu Milton (p. 310), John Dryden (p. 333), aud also a
copy of the Chandos Portrait of Shakespeare (p. 2.51).
iiUUBU.lAC S tJTATUi: UF bMAKESi-EAKK. {British MllSfUjrl.)
Cassell's Library of English Literature.
Teaching the Actoks. {From a Mosaic in the House of the Tragic Actor, Powpcii.)
Ill— PL AYS.
CHAPTER I.
EARLIER THAN THE FlKST ENGLISH COMEDY, A.D. 1119 TO A.D. 1535.
Initial from the 1st Fnlio of
Shnl:esi)earc, 1G23.
will attempt first to
define tlie subject of tliis
volume. A jilay is the
story of one liuman
action, shown through-
out by imagined words
and deeds of the persons
concerned in it, artfully
developing a problem in
luiman life, and in-
geniously solving it after
having excited strong
natural interest and curiosity as to the manner of
solution. It must not be too long to be presented
to spectators at a single sitting.
A work wanting in any one of these requirements
is eitlier no play at all, or a bad play. It must be a
stoiy of action, not a recital of thought in the form
of dialogue ; and it must be the story of a single
action, its whole sequence of events bound together
by theii' relation of cavise or effect to the main
incident on which all turns. When two stories are
interwoven, they must be necessary to each other,
and so blended as to become one to tlie under-
.standing. This one story is not written to be only
read, but to be shown, the jjersons of it seeming
actually to appear and speak and act ; their words
and deeds must also be imagined for them, not
literallv repeated out of chronicles, and must be
121
shaped tliroughout by the poet's art to excite human
interest in the development of some problem of human
life. Mere imitation of a piece of life in dialogue is
not a play. The incidents shown must lie ingeniously
contrived to appeal to the natxiral feeliiigs of specta-
tors, they must tie a knot in human afiau-s more or
less intricate, excite curiosity as to the wa}- of its
untying, and tlien succeed in using the best force of
intellect to untie it fitly. As the work is to be
shown to .spectators, its length must be proportioned
to their physical power of sitting at ease to hear it
thi-ough ; and for right apiirehension of a play, when
read at home for the first time, it is necessary that
tlie reader should, like the spectator, not apjiroach it
till he knows that he has the time required for giving
his whole mind to it and taking all in at one sitting.
Full appreciation comes only by later study of detail,
but there can be no safe study of detail in any work
of genius before it has been allowed to make its
natural impression as a whole upon a mind simply
and unre.served]y receptive of its influence.
The first conditions of a true dramatic literature
were developed by the genius of ancient Greece, and
from analysis of the plays of ^Eschylus (who lived
from B.C. 525 to B.C. 456), Sophocles (b.c. 495 to
405), Euripides (b.c. 480 to 406), and others,
Aristotle (b.c. 384 to 322) drew in his Poetics, more
than two thousand years ago, the first critical ilis-
tinction of the parts of a good i)lay. The Greek
2
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[I
500
dramatists were imitated by the Romans, -svlio first
came into free contact with Greek literatui-e after
the taking of Tarentum in the year 272 B.C. The
first Latin play was produced by Livius Andi-onicus
in the year before Christ 2iO. Plays were wiitten
also by his contemporary, Cneius Naj\dus, the first
Roman poet of mark, a poet from whom Vii-gil did
not disdiiiu to borrow. A year after the prodxiction
of the first Roman play, Ennius was born, who wTOte
at least twenty-five tragedies — based upon Greek
example — of which only fragments remain. He died
in the year 1G9 B.C., outliving the great comic poet
Plautus, wlio died in the year before Christ 184-, and
of whom twenty comedies are extant. The comedies
of riautus, with those of Terence, wlio was about
nine years old when Plautus died, and the tragedies
of the Roman philosopher Seneca, who died by com-
mand of Nero A.D. 65, represented the old Latin
dramatic literature to medieval scholars who knev/
little of Greek ; and thus Plautus and Terence for
comedy, Seneca for tragedy, represented to most
scholars the old classical drama down even to Shake-
speare's time. Out of the study and imitation of
these plays in schools and universities the modem
drama most distinctly rose. It would so have arisen
if there had never been any Mii-acle Plays. It did not
in any waj' arise out of the Miracle Plays. Mii-acle
Plays tlid not pass into Morality Plays, nor did
Morality Plays afterwards pass into true dramas.
Mu-acle Plays are one tiling ; jSIoralities are another
thing : each form of writing has its own distinct
beginning, aim, and end. They are two diflerent
foi-ms of literature, one arising out of the church
ser^aces, the other an offshoot from the allegorical
didactic poem. When the two forms of literature
were both used, they were occasionally mixed, but
there never was a time at which one changed into the
other. Like the drama proper, they turn to account
the instinct for imitation that has, in a sense, made
actors of all children born into the world, and thus
they may claim cousinship with our drama that had
its beginning in the sixteenth century ; they are its
cousins, not its parents. Mii-acle Plays have been
descriljed, and examples of them have Iieen given, in
the volume of this Library which illustrates English
Religion. In the account there given' of the Shep-
herd's Play, which foi-med an interlude between the
Old Te.stameut and New Testament section of each
series, it was said that the series acted at Wakefield
— known as the Towneley Mysteries, because they
were first printed from a MS. in Towueley Hall-
included two such interludes, either of which might
be taken ; and that as one of them happens to de-
velop a short farcical story, which accidentally fulfils
the recpiisite conditions, it so becomes our earliest
kno\TO piece of acted drama. The other pieces of
this kind represent only jest and sport of the shep-
herds, until they hear the song of the angels, " Glory
to God in the Highest, and on earth peace, goodwill
towards men," when they fii-st mock, then are subdued,
follow the angels to kneel before the infant Christ in
the manger, |)resent then- simple ofierings, and rise
into a higher life. But in this North-Countiy jest, it
' Illustrations of English Religion, p. 65.
happens that the shepherd who especially playj the
clown's pai-t, is represented as a noted sheepstealer,
who steals a sheep. This act has consecpiences j
there is a rustic problem of life to be solved, and
a sequence of incidents that, however ridiculous,
contain the elements of a dramatic plot. We have
only to break off before the angels' song fivlls on the
shepherds' ears, and we may say that we have here
the first English play. A few words will suflice to
recall the times of the early Miracle Plays with which
it was connected. The first record of an acted
Miracle Play in this country is by Matthew Paris,
who accidentally speaks of a play of St. Catherine
that was to be acted at Dunstable in 1119, that is to
say, in the reign of Heni-y I. Tlie plays of Abelard's
pupil, the Englishman Hilarius, of which an example
was given among illustrations of English Religion in
tills Library, were produced in France at the end of
the reign of Stej)lien, or the beginning of the reign
of Henry II. In the reign of Henry III., and in
the year 1233, the parish clerks were formed into a
harmonic guild, which afterwards took much part in
the acting of Miracle Plays ; and near the close of
the same reign (a.d. 1264) Pope Urban IV. founded
the festival of Corpus Christi, which festival is
sujiposed aftei-wards to have given occasion for the
development of Scripture story by trade guilds,
The Nate, Chester Cathedral. (From. Onntrod'i " Histoi-j «l
Chester.")
among the laity, through long sequences of dramatic
action. In 1311, in the reign of Edward II., the
festival of Cor])us Christi was firmly established by
Pope Clement V.
It was probably in 1327 or 1328, at the beginning
TO i.D. 1328.]
PLAYS.
.f the reiguof Edward III., that the fii-st sequence of
Miracle Phiys acted not as aforetime in Latin, but in
English, was produced at Chester. Pialph Higden, a
i^mk of the great Abbey of St. Werburgh, to which
e city of Chester then seemed in the eyes of its
inmates but a suburb, obtained leave from the Po]ie
■ ■ I tell to the English people in this manner, through
iieir mother tongue, tlie chief events upon which
I 'liristian faith is founded. The great abbey is gone,
except its church, which is now the cathedral church
of Chester. But within the abbey the twenty-live
]ieces were written, to be acted by the trade guilds
nf the to^vn, beginning with the Fall of Lucifer,
jaesented by the tanners, and ending with the
wt'bstei's' play of Doomsday. The acting began
ihvays with the first play, before the Abbey gate
tli.it still remains in Northgate Street.
Two other long sequences of Mysteries remain to
;s : one of forty-two pieces, beginning with the
I reation and ending with Doomsday, said to have
l-cen written for the guilds of Coventry, which cer-
tainly did — as their old account-books sliow — pay
much attention to the telling of the Bible-story in
•'lis way The other is a set of thirty -two plays in
^orth-Comrtry cUalect, which external tradition and
mternal evidence show to have been acted in or near
the town of Wakefield. The plays or piigeants
were shown upon stages mounted upon wheels, so
that when acted in one part of the town they could
be rolled oft' to another. Thus a spectator seated in
one place on three successive days, would see pageant
after pageant, sho\\'ing to him in chronological order
scenes from Scripture that involved the vital facts
of his religion. :MiMute details of expenditure in
old books of the guilds of Coventry enabled a local
antiquary, Mr. Thomas Sharp, to explain very fully
the method of their representation, in a Dissei-tation
on the Coventry Mysteries published by private
subscription in 1825, and the frontispiece to liis work
was an attempt to realise the form of one of these
old street pageants. Each stage was fitted carefully
for the scene to be acted upon it. For the second
Sheplierd's Play m the Wakefield series, there woidd
be a part of the scaffolding divided from the rest
by a partition with a door ia it to represent Mak's
house ; the rest being regarded :is tlie coimtiy ia
which there were '• shepherds abiding in the field,
keeping watch over their flock by night."
A MlRALLE Pla\ at i UVEMRT
SHEPHERD'S PLAY.
From tlie Wakcfcld Mijstirks.
Primus Pastor. ' Lord, what these weathers- are cold
and I am ill happid ; ^
I am near hand dold,'' so long have I nappid :
' Primus Pasfor, SecundiB Posfoi-, Fii'st Slieplierd, Second Shepherd.
2 Weathers (weders), stormy winds. " Wedyi-, idem quod atonn."
(*' Promptorinm Parvuloi-uni.")
=* Sappid, clothed, wi-apped up. Icehindic " hjiipr,'* a douhlet,
allied, says Cleasby, to German "joppe" and French "jupe."
Icelandic '*hy]:>ja," to huddle the clothes on. In the Paston Letters,
John Paston writes to his wife, in September, li65, tor " ij clue of
worsted for dobletts, to happe me thys colde wynter." ("Paston
Letters," edited by James Gairdner, vol. ii., p. 235.)
"* I>ohl, stupefied. Of the same origin as dolt and as dull, in which,
My legs they fold, my finders are chappid.
It is not as I would, for I am aU lappid
In sorrow.
In storms and tempest,
Xow in the east, now in the west,
"Woe is him has ne'er rest
3Iid day nor morrow,*
But we siUy^ shepherds, that walks ? on the moor,
as Mr. Hensleigrh 'Wedsrwood says, "the radical idea is a stoppage of
the faculties or powers xJroper to the subject,"
5 Mon-ou; monling. ' SUhj (sely), simple, innocent.
" Walks. The piece, being in Northern English, contains many
examples of the Northern plural in s. lu the old Enerlish dialects,
a plural in s was characteristic of the Northern, a plural in en of
the MidLind, a plural in ct?i of the Southern.
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1300
In faith we are near hands out of the door ;
No wonder as it stands if we be ^joor,
For the tiltli of our land lies fallow as the floor,
As ye ken.
We are so hamid,'
For-taxid and raniid,-
We are made hand-tamid,
"With these gentlery men.
Thus they reave us our rest, Our Lady them wary.^
These men that are lord-fast * they cause the plough
tarry.
That men say is for the best we find it contrary.
Thus are husbands^ opprest, in point to miscariy,
On life.
Thus hold they us umler,
Thus they Tiring- us in blunder,
It were g-reat wonder,
And* e'er should we thiive.
For may he get a p.aint" sleeve or a brooch now-a-days,
Wo is him that him giiove, or once again says,'*
Dare no man him reprove,' what mastery he mays,
And yet may no man 'lieve one word that he says,
No letter.
He can make purveimce.
With boast and bragance.
And all 's through maintenance
Of men that are greater.
There shall come a swain as proud as a po,'"
He must borrow my wain, my plough also,
Then I am full fain to grant or" he go.
Thus live we in pain, anger, and wo,
By night and day ;
He must have if he langid ; '-
If I should forgang it,
I were better be hangid
Than once say him nay.
It does me good, as I walk thus by mine one,'^
Of this world for to talk in manner of moan.
To my sheep will I stalk and hearken anon.
There abide on a balk, or sit on a stone
Full soon.
1 Hamid (Uamyd), Uaraessed. The " hame" (Scottisli "haiins") is
defined iu Malm's edition of Webster's English Dictionaiy, as "one
of tbe tiv.i ciin-ed pieces of wood or metal in the haniess of a draught-
horse to wliich the traces are fastened, and which lie upon the collar,
or have pads attached to them fitting the horse's neck."
^ 2 For-l,ui(l and ramid, tixed to the uttennost and cried out upon.
"For" is intensive, as in "forlorn," and "ramed" from First-
English " hreman," to cry out. "T-rame" is still a common Tork-
shu-e word for being violently noisy. But " to rame " (roam, rove,
rob I means in Liucolnskii-e to plunder, and the sense here may be
" overtaxed and plundered."
' H'rir;/, curse. First-English "wergian."
* Iord-/.i»(, strong in lordliness, the suffix being the same as in
"stedfast," &c.
^ Htishaitd^, husbandmen. 6 And if.
" Paint, painted. The ei was not sounded, and often not written
m verbs having ( or d for their root-ending. It is often so in Shake-
speare.
« Again says, answers again, contradicts. When a man has once
set up a gay sleeve or a brooch, he counts himself a gentleman, and
will bear nothing that he dislikes.
» No man dares reprove him, whatever ah-s of mastery lie givei
himself. "
■° P.., peacock (" pavo "). n or, ere, hefore.
- Ij he !„„„,d, had set his mind on it, longed tor it. Compare
Genn.an " verlangeu," to desire.
" B„ ,„inc one, by myself. "One," First-Enriish ".an," formerly
rhymed with "moan." The pronunciation " ^-nn" is a modem cor-
XUpL]OU>
For I ti-ow, pardc.
True men if they be.
We get more company
Or " it be noon.
Secuiidiis Pastor. Benste" and Dominus ! n-liat may
this bemean ?
Why fares this world thus oft have we not seen.
Lord, these wethers are 'spiteous, and the weathers full
keen,
And the frost so hideous they water mine een.
No lie.
Now in drj-, now in wete.
Now in snow, now in sleet.
When my shoon freeze to my feet
It is not all easy.
But as far as I ken, or yet as I go.
We silly woodmen irre '^ mickle wo ;
We have soitow then and then, it fallis oft so.
Silly Capyll, our hen, both to and fro
She cackles.
But begin she to crok,
To groyne or to clock,'*
Wo is liinr of our cock.
For he is in the shekyls.'"
These men that are wed have not all their will,
\Mien they are full hard sted'* they sigh full still ;
God wot they are led full hard and full ill.
In bower nor in bed they say nought theretill,
This tide.
My part have I fun,'^
I know my lessfln.
Woe is him that is bun,-"
For he must abide.
But now late in our livis, a marvel to me.
That I think my heart rivis such wonders to see.
A\Tiat that destiny di-ivis it should so be.
Some men will have two wivls, and some men three.
In store.
Some are wo that has any ;
But so far can I,
Wo is him that has many,
For he feelis sore.
But young men of wooing, for God that you bought.
Be well ware of wedding, and think in your thought,
" Had I wist " -' is a thing it servis of nought ;
Mickle still mourning has wedding home brought.
And griofis,
With many a sharp shower.
For thou may catch in an hour
That shall savour full sour
As long as thou livis.
For, as e'er read I 'pistle, I have one to my fere--
As sharp as a thistle, as rough as a brere.
She is browed like a bristle, with a sour loten-' cheer ;
Had she once wet her whistle she could sing full clear
Her pater nostcr.
She is as great as a whale.
'* Benste, Benedicite. '^ Uy^, use, are inured to.
'^ To c\o]i. WTien a beu is about to lay, she is said to cockle ; when
she has ceased Laying, and wants to sit on her eggs, she is said to clock.
^' Is in the shel-ijls, has a shivering or shaking fit. In modei-u Scot-
tish dialect the form is " shiegle," a derivative from " shake."
1* Hard ,<!(«<!,, hard bested. ■') p,„,_ fo,m3 2" Bun, bound.
21 Had I M-iM, " If I had only known," an old proverbi.al jihrase for
the folly of wisdom after the event.
2- To mjfe,-e, for my mate. 23 Sour !o(pn, sour-leavened.
10 A.D. l-tCHl.J
PLAYS.
She has a gallon of gall,
By him that died for us all '.
I would I had run to ' I lost her.
Trillins Pastor. God look over the raw,- full deftly
ye stand.
SfCHiidiis Pastor. Yea, the devil in thy maw, so tariand,
Saw thou awro' of Daw ?
Primus Pastor. Yea, on a lea land
Heard I him blaw, he comes here at hand,
Not far ;
Stand stiU.
SeciiiiilKS Pastor. W'liy?
Primus Pastor. For he comes hope I.
Sicuiidas Pastor. He will make us both a lie
But if we be ware.''
Tcrtius Pastor. Christ's cross me speed and Saint
Nicholas,
Thereof had I need, it is worse than it was.
AVhoso could take heed, and let the world pass,
It is ever in dreed, and brittle as glass,
And slithis.^
This world fowre'' never so,
With marvels mo and mo,
Xow in weal, now in wo.
And aU things writhis."
Was never sin Noe flood such floodis seen,
AVindis and rain so rude, and stormis so keen.
Some stammerid, some stood in doubt, as I ween.
Now God turn all to good, I say as I mean,
For ponder :
Those floods so they drown,
Both in fields and in town,
And bears all down,
And that is a wonder.
We that walk on the nights our cattle to keep.
We see sudden sights when other men sleep.
Yet methink my heart lights — I see shrews peep ! *
Ye are two alle wights,' I will give my sheep
A turn.
But full ill have I ment,
As I walk on this bent,'"
I may lightly repent,
Mj- toes if I spurn. —
Ah, sir, God you save, and master min e .
A drink fain would I have and somewhat to dine.
Primus Pastor. Christ's curse, my knave, thou art a
ledyr hyne."
' To, till. 2 Eaic, row. ' A«:ro, ever aught
* He will cheat us both if we don't mind.
^ Slt(/iis, slippery. First-English "slith."
* Foicrc, fared. 7 Wntlds. awi-y.
8 I ue ihrcws i)eep. The first shepherd had spoken as he "walked
l)y his one," and ended with desire for company. The second shep-
herd in another part of the field has also heen speaking solitary
thoughts, when he was met hy the first shepherd, and addressed in
rostic fashion ; then the third shepherd enters, and speaks as one who
is alone until he sees the other two at hand, who are looking at him.
He takes them for thieves, thiuks he " sees shrews peex)," and is
running away when they meet him. Still terrified, he attests his
poverty by begging of them something to eat and drink.
9 AUc Kujhts. Perhaps this means two who are very vigorous,
*' wight" being not from First-English "wiht," a beins-, but the
woi-d spelt in the same way and common in old English, meaning
active, stvongy from the Icelandic " vig," of the same root as the Latin
" vig-or." ** All-" was in Icelandic a common prefix with the sense
ofrcriy. Perhaps "wights" is used in the sense of beings, and
" alle " may, as commonly suggested, stand for " old." But this
would not a?i'ee with a cowardly fear of them.
'" Bent, the coarse grass upon hillsides.
u Ledtjr hyne, bad servant. First-English "liith," e^H; "hiua," a
servant.
Secundua Pastor. WTiat, the boy Ust rave,i= abide unto
syne
We have made it.
Ill thrift on thy pate '.
Though the shrew came late
Y'et is he in state
To dine, if he had it.'»
Tertius Pastor. Such servants as I, that swettis and
swinkis,'''
Eats our broad full dry, and that me forthinkis : '»
We arc oft wot and weary when master-men winkis,'*
Yet comis full lately both dinners and drinkis ;
But neatly
Both om- dame and our sire,
When we ' ve run in the mire,
They can nip at our hii-e,
And pay us fidl lately.
But hear my truth, master, for the fare that ye make
I shall do thereafter work, as I take ;
I shall do a little, sir, and among ever lake,''
For yet lay my supper ne'er on my stomake
In fieldis.
Whereto should I threap ? '«
With my staft' can I leap.
And men say " light cheap
Letherly for-yieldis." "
Primus Pastor. Thou were an ill lad, to ride a
wooing
With a man that had but little of spending.
Secundus Pastor. Peace, boy, I bad, no more jangling,
Or I shaU make thee fuU rad,-" by the heaven's king!
With thy gaudis ; *'
Where are our sheep, boy ? We scorn."
Tertius Pastor. Sir, this same day at noon
I them left in the corn
AMien they rang laudis ; -•'
12 Jjist rave, wishes to rove. He is a bad servant because, alarmed
by the s'ght of two men at night iu the fields, he was running from
his charge, and he is bidden by the other two to wait " nuto sj-ne we
have made it" — until after we have come to an imderstanding with
one another.
'3 Though it is long after dinuer-tmie, he looks still as if he would
like to get his dinner.
1* Sieettis and sivinkis, sweats and toUs.
'5 Me forthinUs, I think ill, or despair, about ; First-English "for-
thencan."
16 WinUis, sleep.
"■' Lake, play. Fii-st-EngUsh " lie," play, sport ; a word still extant
iu vulgar English, and pronounced as of old, but siielt " lai-k." In
Cumberland and Westmoreland, excursionists to the Lake District are
sometimes called by the country people "lakers," not because they
have come to the lakes, but because they are out for a day's " lake,"
or i^leasure.
>' T/iiToj), vex myself. First-EngUsh " threapian," to afflict.
" Cheap wai-e pays badly. " Foryieldis," First-English " forgel-
dau," to repay.
»' Kad, afraid. Danish "rsed" and "red," fearful, timid. In
Modem Yorkshire dialect (Atkinson's Cleveland Glossary), to
"raddle " is to beat severely.
21 Gaudis, tricks. In the "Promptorium Pamilorum" (anEnglish-
Latm Dictionary of about A.D. 1+10) this word is interpreted as
" gawde or jape, lutga." In this place, in the Eomauce of the Seven
Sages, in Laurence Minofs poems, iu Chaucer's " Troilus and
Cressida" and "Pardoner's Tale." and Milton's " Penseroso,"
" gaud " or " gaudy " means trick or tricky. It is, in this sense, not
from "gaudium," but from the Cymric " g.ui," false, and its derivative
" geuawd," falsifjaug deception. The word is probably applied also in
this sense to cheap ornament of false gold and paste jewellery.
« We scorn. We talk jeeringly ;— we ai-e idling, let us give thooght
to our work.
" Wlicn theii rang laudis. There used to be in the Church seven
canonical " Hnurs " of prayer based on the sentence ui the llfth
Psalm, " Seven times a day will I praise thee." They were— ilatins.
CASSELL'S LIBEARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1300
They have pasture good, they cannot go wrong.
I'riiiuis Pastor. That is right, by the rood, those nights
are long ;
Yet I would, ere wc yode,' one gave us a song.
Sccundm Pnstor. So I thought as 1 stood, to mirth us
among.
Tcrtiiis Pastor. I grant.
Primus Pnstor. Let me sing the tenory.
Scciiiuliis Pastor. And I the treble so high.
Tertius Pastor. Then the mean falls to me ;
Let see how ye chant.
Tunc Utiriti Mak in clamidc se super toi/ani restitits.^
Mak. Now Lord, for thy namis seven, that made
both moon and stars
Well mo than I can neven,^ thy will. Lord, of me
tharnis ; ■*
I am all uneven, that movis oft my harnis,'
Now would God I were in heaven, for there weep no
bamis
So still.
Primus Pastor. Who is that pipis so poor ?
Mak. Would God ye wist how I foore ! ^
Lo a man that walks on the moor,
And has not all his will.
Secundus Pastor. Mak, where has thou gone ? tell us
tiding.
Tertius Pastor. Is he commen f ' then ilk one take to
his thing.
Et accipit clamidvni ab ipso.^
iLil;. WTiat, I he a yeoman, I teD you, of the king ;
The self and the same, sond fi'om a great lording,
And siehe.
Fie on you, go thee hence.
Out of my presence,
I must have reverence,
Why, who be ichef
between 3 aud 4 a.m. ; lauds, prime, terce, nones, vespers, and,
at midnight, comjiline. Lauds followed the matins in the early
morning.
1 Yode, went. First-English " eodon."
' (The shepherds having sung some three-part song) " then enters
Mak, clothed in a cloak over his dress." Mak, the shepherd clown
who is the chief character of the piece, derives his name from a word
implying foolishness, privation of power, aUied to Chaucer's " maat,"
a quahty of the imploring ladies whom Theseus, in the " Knight's
Tale," saw " so pitous and so maat." From this root are words with
the sense of dead, as in the Middle-Latin " matai'e," to kill ; driven
into a comer, as in "check-mate," "Shah-mat," the king is dead;
deprival of "bodily strength, weariness, the German " matt," tired ; of
spirit and life, in wine or beer said to be " matt ; " utmost deprival of
power of mind, Italitin " matto," English " mad ; " and " mak " in
Lower Saxon is the same word with a change of suffix ; appHed here
in some such sense as we have in " mad-cap."
3 Well more than I can name. TFcU was a common intensive,
and is so still in such combinations as " well nigh," " well on in
years," &c. Mo, Furst-English "ma," more. Newn, First-Enghsh
** neninan," to name.
•> Me tfmi-nis, I am in want of ; reflexive, as in Icelandic, where sk is
the reflexive suffix. " Tharnask," is to want, lack, or be without;
equivalent to " tharfnask." First-English " thearfau," to need.
'' Sanii.',, brain. First-English " hames."
' Would God ye knew how it went with me !
^ Is lie come ?
8 " And takes the cloak from him." Mak is unwrapped from the
disguise of his cloak.
» in.o le khe 1 Who am I ? Sti-ipped of his cloak, Mak tries to keep
himself disguised from those who know his character too well and
therefore, dashing his speech with a rustic Sontheni pronunciation
says " wyoman " for " yeoman," and " iche " for "I."
Primus Pastor. Why make ye it so quaint ':■ JIak,
ye do wrang.
Secundus Pastor. But, JIak, list ye sayntl''"' I trow
that ye lang ;
Tertius Pastor. I trow the shrew can paint, the devil
might him hang !
MaJc. I shall make complaint, and make you aU to
thwang "
At a word.
And teU e'en how ye doth.
Primus Pastor. But, JIak, is that sooth ?
Now take out that southern tooth
And set in a tord.
Secundus Pastor. JIak, the deU in your ee,'-
A stroke would I lene " you.
Tertius Pastor. Mak, know ye not me ? By [troth] I
could tell you.
Mak. God loke you ''' aU three, methought I had
seen you.
Ye are a fair company.
Primus Pastor. Can ye now mene you f '^
Secundus Pastor. Shrew, jape ;
Thus late as thou gois,
What will men suppois ?
And thou has an ill nois ''
Of stealing of sheep.
Mak. And I am true as steel, all men wayt,''
But a sickness I feel that holds me full hayt,'*
My belly fares not well, it is out of estate.
Tertius Pastor. Seldom lies the deil dead by the gate.
Mak. Therefore
Full sore am I, and iU,
If I stand stone stUl ;
I eat not a necdill
This month and more.
Primus Pastor. How faris thy wife ? by mj- hood,
how fai-is sho i '^
Mak. Lies weltring, by the rood, by the fire low,
And a house full of biood : slie di'inkis well too,
111 speed other good that she will do ;
But so
Eats as fast as she can.
And ilk year that comes to man
She brings forth a lakan,-"
And some years two.
'° List ye saijnt ? Do you want to try it with us (by deceptive talk)!
I believe you desire it. " Saynt, sayu it," may mean " say it," in the
sense of trying a disguised speech, or it may be say, in the sense of
essay or try. The third pastor then gives Mak credit for skill in
hy|)Ocrisy, and the word " shi*ew " (probably from " syrwan," to en-
snare, and not the same word with the " shi*ew " applied to a scolding
woman) was commonly applied in old English to niisdoers by trick or
deception.
" Diioatig, suffer, by telling yoiu- masters how you idle. " Thwang,"
from First-English " thwiugau," to force or compel, is another bit of
Mak's affected Southern speech.
*^ Ee, eye. " jjene^ give.
1* Lolic yoti, protect you. First-English " locan," to lock, protect
against harm.
15 Mciie you, recall to mind, remember us. Fii'st-English " mie'nan,"
to have in mind, remember. Mak had so far put off his comic affecta-
tion of being a king's yeoman from the South, as to tell his friends he
thought he had seen them before.
1^ .-lit, ill (tots, an ill reputation. You are noised abroad as a sheep-
stealer. What will men think, if you are seen out in the fields late at
night ?
" Waijt, know. '8 Bayt, hot.
" Sho, First-English "heo." she.
2'' Lakan^ something to dandle, a child ; from " lac," play.
TO A.D. 1400.]
PLAYS.
But were I not more gracious, and richer by far,
I were eaten out of house, and of harbar,
Tet is she a foul dowse, if ye come uar :
There is none that trows, nor knowis a war '
Than ken I.
Now ^-ill )-e see what I proffer.
To give all in my coffer,
To mom at next - to offer
Her head mass penny. ''
Secitiidiis Pastor. I wot so forwakid * is none in this
shire :
I would sleep if I taldd less to my hire.
Tcrtius Pastor. I am cold and nakid, and would have
a fire.
Primus Pastor.
the mire.
"Wake thou !
Secandns Pastor.
I am weary for-rakid,' and run in
Kay, I will lie down by.
For I must sleep truly.
TtrtUis Pastor. As good a man's son was I
As any of you.
But, ilak, come hither, between shall thou lie down.
Mak. Then might I let you bedene of that ye woidd
rowne.^
No drede.
Fro my top to my toe
Manus tuas conmiendo
Pontio Pilato,
Christ cross me speed.
Tunc surgit, paatoribua dormientibiia, et dicet;^
Xow were time for a man, that lacks what he wold.
To staUc pri\-ily then unto a fold,
And neemly ^ lo work then, and be not too bold,
For he might aby ' the bargain, if it were told
At the ending.
Now were time for to reUle ; '"
But he needs good counsel
That fain would fare well
And has but little spending.
* A u-ar, a worse.
* To morn at netf, to-morrow morning.
^ Ser head mass pennij, the penny offered at the mass said at her
burial.
* Foncakid, overwatched. The action here changes to the sleeping
of the shepherds. Thia one therefore says abruptly that he must
sleep, though the charge for it were deducted from his wages.
^ For-rakid, overwalked. The word *' raik " is still applied in
Scottish dialect especially to the walks of sheep and cattle. Icelandic
•' reta," to drive horses or cattle.
® "Then if I lay between you I might soon be in the way of what
you wished to whisper to one another." Then as he lies do\vn
between them, Mak says " No drede," never fear ; in a bungled Latin
sentence of prayer before sleep, instead of commending them into
the hands of God, says, " I commend your hands to Pontius Pilate,"
adds a short prayer before sleeping for himself, and affects to snore ;
while the representatives of the tired shepherds presently begin
BEoring with all their might.
" *' Then he rises, while the shepherds are sleeping, and shall
say."
' Seemly, with quick stealth. From First-English " niman," to
take or seize. In the Cleveland dialect of Yorkshire, the Eev. J. C.
Atkinson, in his admirable Glossary, registers these senses of the word
"nim " : (1) To catch up quickly ; thence, (2) to take or catch upon
the sly, to steal ; (3) To walk with quick or " mincing steps," as in the
phrase " The old lady goes niuuuing along."
'' Ahij means "re-buy," pay for; First-English "abicgan." The
same sense is in such modem phrases as " making one pay for it,"
"paying one out," &c. " Abide " is a different word.
'° RciUe, roll about, roam.
But about you a circle, as round a moon.
To " I have done that I will, till that it be noon,
That ye lie stone stiU, to that I have dojTie,
And I shall say theretill of good words a foj-ne : '^
On height
Over your heads my hand I lift.
Out go your een, fordo your sight,
But yet I must make better shift,
And it be right. —
Lord, what they sleep hard ! that may ye all hear."
Was I never a shephard, but now will I lere.'-'
If the ilock be scar'd, yet shall I nip near.
How I '* di-aws hitherward : now mends our cheer
From sorrow. —
A fat sheep I dare say,
A good fleece dare I lay.
Eft quite '^ when 1 may,
But this win I borrow.
How, Gill, art thou in ? Get us some light.
Vxor ejus. Who makes such din this time of the
night ?
I am set for to spin : I hope not I might
Rise a penny to win : I shiew them on hight.
So fares
A huswife '^ that has been
To be raisid '- thus between :
There may no note be seen
For such small charis.
Mak. Good wife, open the heck." Sees thou not
what I biing ':
Uxor. I may thole thee draw the sneck.'-* Ah, come
in, my sweeting.
Mak. Yea, thou thar not rok of-' my long standing.
l'.ror. By the naked neck are thou like for to hing.
Mak. Do way :
I am worthy my meat.
For in a strait can I get
More than they that swink and sweat
All the long day.
'' To, till. Mak burlesques an incantation by going about the
sleepers in a circle, within which their sleep is to be unbroken while
he steals theii" sheep.
12 Foi)ne, plenty. French "foison."
" How fast they are asleep ! you can all hear that by their snoring.
** Lere, leara.
" Hon- ; Here Mak is calling to the sheep, and when he gets near
enough seizes one at the words " now mends our cheer."
1' Ej'l qmte (eft whyte), pay again for it when I may, this I w.ll
borrow. Then Mak gets the sheep, which must be a real sheep, on
liis back, goes to the partition on the stage that separates what is
supposed to be the intei-ior of his cottage from the fields, and knocks
at it, as at his own door, to call TJxor ejus, his wife.
1' One who has been a huswife, mistress in a little farm.
18 Raisid, vexed, disturbed. Mak's poor wife has risen before morn-
ing, to earn a penny by her spinning ; but when the knocking comes at
the door, with an ill word for the rich, says she cannot hope to be left
undisturbed. Nobody has any regard—" there may no note be seen "—
for such small jobs ( " charis ") as hers : Furst-EngUsh " cerre." a turn.
Whence " char," in " charwoman." one who does a turn of work.
» Heck, the hatch. First-English " hffica," a hatch, ■tt'hen a door
opens in two parts, the upper half, in which is the latch, is called the
heck. The word is applied also to the inner door in a farm-house
which leads into the kitchen or hottseplace. But Mak's home is a poor
hut, and he is seeking entrance from outside.
» Addressed not as " GUI" with noise of knocking, but as "good
wife," she recognises Mak's voice, and says, " I may suffer thee to draw
the latch." First-English " thohan," to suffer; Icelandic "snugi,"
^ " %har not rek of. need not care about. " Thar," First-Enelish
" tharfan," to have need. Mak enters triumphant with his sheep,
aud the wife's first thought is of the penalty of sheep-stealing.
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1300
Thus it fell to my lot, Gill, I had such ijrace.
Uxor. It wcro a foul hlot to ho hangid for tho case.
JIak. I have scapid, Jelot,' oft as hard a glase.^
I'xor. But so long goes the pot to the water, men says,
At last
Comes it home broken.
Mai: WeU know I the token,
But let it never be spoken ;
But come and hell) fast.
I would he were flayn ; ^ I list well eat :
This twelvemonth was I not so fain of one sheep meat.
V.C01: Come they crc he be slain, and hoar the sheep
bleat ?
M(ik. Then might I be ta'cn : that were a cold swe;;t.
Go spar
The gate door.
Uxor. Yes, Mak,
For and ■* tliey come at thy back
Ma/{. Then might I by ^ for all the pack
The deU of the waur.
Uxor. A good horde '' have I spied, since thou can none.
Here shall wc liim hide, to ' tliey be gone ;
In my cradle abide. Let me alone,
And I shall Ue beside in childbed and groan.
MiiK: Thou red ; ^
And I shall say thou was light
Of a knave child ' this night.
Uxor. Now well is me, day bright
That ever I was bred.
This is a good gyse and a far cast ;
Yet a woman aviso helps at the last.
I wot ne'er who spies : again go thou fast.'"
Mit/i. But I come ere they rise, else blows a cold blast.
I will go sleep.
Yet sleeps all this mcncye.
And I shall go stalk " privily.
As it had ne'er been I
That can-ied their sheep.
1 Jdot, affectionate dunimitive for Jill or Gill. Gill, from Gilliau
(= Julyan, or Juliaua), a femiiuue Clii*istian uame, was ouce used :is
a representative uauje for a woman as familiarly as Jacl^ for a num.
2 Olasc, pursuit, or suit at law. The Rev. J. C. Atkinson'.s
Cleveland Glossai-y gives as Yorksliire dialect the verb "gleaso"
^from Teutonic words that mean glauoiuir or dartins: through) as " to
run rapitUy in sport or frolic, as children in piu'suit of their com-
panions in iiny game ; " and the noim " ^leasing " as a shai-p or rax>id
act of pursuit ; a suit at law, or damage generally.
5 Flayn, flayed. * .4mi, if.
2 B;/ = at>y, pay for it ; the vaiir, the worse. If they foimd me out,
because there are a pack of them, I should pay for it all the more
smartly.
•" Bordt', trick. " I have thought of a good trick, since you know
of none." And then she suggests hiding the sheep in the cradle, and
making the searchers believe it is her new-boi'n child.
■ To, till.
^ Thou red, 1*0 you get all ready. First-English " hrsd." ready,
quick. Then Mak's wife proceeds to wi'ap the sheep in swaddling
clothes as if it were a child — the sheep's natitral objections to the
process helping, no doubt, to amuse rustic spectators of the play.
9 Knave child, boy.
'^ Proud of the good disguise, and far-seeing contrivance, as she lays
the swaddled sheep in the cradle. Gill says that now she cares not
who comes to make search. Mak may go safe again.
" Stalk, go softly or warily (First-English " staslcan"). to lie down
as asleep between the shepherds as if he had never left them. After
the speech of Mak, his wife h,aving returned to her spinning-wheel,
all is quiet in the hut ; he goes back to his place between the sleep-
ing shepherds, slightly disturbs them in doing so, and the attention
of spectators is tm-ned to their waking, one with his mind at first
confused by sleep, his scraps of Latin prayer marking rustic' iffno-
rancej another waking at once lightly ; nud tho third roused in alarm
by his dream and by the stirring and speaking of the other two.
Primus Fustor. Resurrex a mortruis : — have hold my
hand.
Judas carnas dominus, I may not well stand :
My foot sleeps, and I water fastaud.
I thought that wc laid us full near England.
Scciiiidus Pastor, Ah yea !
Lord, what I have slept well !
As fresh as an eel :
As light I me feel
As leaf on a tree.
Tertius Pastor. Benste be herein. So me quakis
My heart is out of skin, what so it makis.
Who makes all this din!' So my browes blakis,
To the door will I win. Hark, fellows, wakis !
We were four :
Sec ye awre of Mak now ?
Primus Pastor. We were up ere thou.
Hccituclus Pastor. Man, I give God a vow
Yet yede he nawre.'-
Tcrtius Pastor. Methought he
skin.
Pritnns Pastor.
within.
Secuitdus Pastor.
was lapt in a woU
So are many hapt now, namely '•*
napt, me-
AAHicn we had long
thought with a gin "
A fat sheep he trapt, but he made no din.
Tertius Pastor. Be still :
Thy ibeam makes thee wood : '°
It is but phantom, by the rood.
Primus Pastor. Now God turn aU to good.
If it be His wiU.
Secundus Pastor. Rise, Mak, for shame .' thou lies
right lang.
Male. Now Chi'istis holy name be us emang,
What is this for ? Saint Jame, I may not well gang.
I trow I be the same. ..-Vh ! my neck has lien wrang.
Euogh,
Mickle thank. Since yester even
Now by Saint Steven
I was flayed with a sweven "'
ily heart out ofslogh."
I thought Gill began to crok, and travail full sad,
Welner '* at the first coek, of a young lad,
For to mend our flock : then be I never glad.
I have tow on my rock, more than e'er I had.
Ah, my head 1
A house full of young tharmis,"
The de'il knock out theii' harnis.-"
AVo is him has many barnis.
And thereto little bread.
I must go home, by yoiu- leave,, to Gill as I thought.
I pray you look my sleeve,'-' that I steal nought :
I am loath you to grieve, or from you take ought.
Tertius Pastor. Go forth, ill might thuu chefe ! -- —
Now would I we sought
This morn
*2 Yet yeic lie nau-rc, he has never gone yet.
^^ yaiuclr/, especially.
1* Gill, snare, or contrivance. Latin " ingeuium."
'5 ^Yood, Fii'st-English " w.kl." mad.
^^ Ylaijci u'iili a .^ureven, frightened by a dream.
" OMoijh, killed off. First-English " ofsl^an."
'^ Welner, well-nigh.
i» Tli.ir.ais, stomachs to be fed. First-English "thearm," ili'-
entrails.
20 Uarnis, brains. ^^ Search my sleeve.
^ in mi^ht (lioa chc/c. HI betide you. May you come to an ill end.
TO A.D. 1400.]
PLAYS.
That Tve had. all our store. ! '
Primtts Faster. But I will go before.
Let us meet.
Secundum Pastor. Where ?
Tertius Pastor. At the crooked thorn.
Mak. Undo this door \ who is here ? how long shall
I stand ?
Uxor ejus. Who makes such a here f - now walk in
the wenianj ! ^
Mak. Ah, Gill, whau cheer ? it is I, ilak, your
husbiind.
U.ror. Tht-n may we ho here, the de'U in a baud,
.Sir Gyle.
Lo, he comes with a lote''
As he were holden in the throat.
I may not sit at my note
A hand long while.
Muk. Will ye hear what fare she makes to get her
a glose,*
And do nought but lakis and close her toes.'
Uxor. A\Tiy, who wanders, who wakes, who comes,
who goes ':
"ttTio brews, who bakes 'i what makes me thus hose ':
.\ud than.
It is ruth to behold,
Xovv in hot, now in cold,
Full woful is the household
That wants a woman.
But what ends has thou made with the hyrdes,^ Mak ?
Mnk. The last words that they said, when I turned
my back.
They would look that they hare their sheep aU the pack.
I hope they will not be well payed,* when they their
sheep lack,
Perde.
C'lt/e (French "achever"), attain an object. The shepherd having
dismissed Mak with a word of contempt, suggests the nioming duty
of counting the flock to see that none hnve strayed or been stolen
during the night, and the play proceeds to illustrate exactly lililton's
pictui-e in " L' Allegro,"
'* every shepherd tells his tale
Under the hawthorn in the dale ; "
where " tells his tale " means, counts the number of his flock ; Fu-st-
English ** tael," a number, as in the " tale of bricks " required of the
Israehtes in Egypt.
• Store was a word appHed to sheep and cattle, and in Scotland still
a " store farm " is a farm chiefly for the pasturage of sheep.
- Bere, noise. Icelandic "byre," tempest. The shepherds having
left the stage, to meet under the hawthora, attention is tiuTjed to
Mak, who is in hot haste at his house-door, to prepare for the impend-
ing search.
3 Weniand, the waning moon. " WoXtt in the wcnidud .' " is an
exclamation wishing ill luck, for Gill again thinks it is a stranger who
is beating at her door. So in the play of " The Resurrection." in the
Wakefield series, Caiajjhas says to the centiurion who teUs the
miracle —
" Wend forth in the weniand,
And hold still thy clatter."
♦ iofc, face. First-English "hleor," the face; Icelandic "leeti,"
manner. So when in the old poem of " Genesis and Exodus," Joseph's
brethren having found their money in their sacks, retiu-n and are
brought before him with sad faces, it is said that the steward
" Iftdde hem alle to losepes biri,
Her non hadden tho loteu miri."
5 G!ose, a smooth word.
* " And does nothing but play and close her toes," as a cat in a
200d humoiu- that looks for a caress.
? Hji-des, shepherds. First-English "hyrde," a keeper, shepherd.
' Pat^ci, pleased, satisfied.
122
But howso the game gois,
To me they wiU suppois,
And make a foul noise,
And cry out upon me.
But thou must do as thou hight.
Uxor. I accord me theretiU.
I shall swaddle him right in my cradiU.
If it were a greater sleight, yet could I help tiU.
I will lie down straight. Come hap me.
Mak. I will.
Uxor. Behind.
Come C'oU and his marrow,
They wUl nip us full narrow.
Mak. But I may cry out harrow,
The sheep if they find.
Uxor. Hearken aye when they call : they wUl come
anon.
Come and make ready all, and sing by thine ovm,'
Sing lullay thou shall, for I must groan,
And cry out b}- the wall on Mary and John,
For sore.
Sing lullay on fast
Wlien thou hears at the last ;
And but I play a false cast,"*
Trust me no more.
Tertius Pastor. Ah, Coll, good mom : why sleeps
thou not r
Primus Pastor. Alas, that ever was I born ! we have
a foul blot.
A fat wether have we lorn.
Tertius Pastor. Mary, God's forhot.
Secundus Pastor. Who should do us that scorn ; that
were a foul spot.
Primus Pastor. Some shrew.
I have sought with my dogs
AU Horbury shrogs "
And of fifteen hogs '-
Found I but one ewe.
Tertius Pastor. Now trow me if ye will, by Saint
Thomas of Kent,
Either Mak or GiU was at that assent.
Primus Pastor. Peace, man, be stiU : I saw when he
went.
Thou slanders him ill ; thou ought to repent,
Good speed.
Secundus Pastor. Now as ever might I the,"
If I should even here de,
I should say it were he.
That did that same deed.
Tertius Pastor. Go we thither I red, and run on
oiur feet.
Shall I never eat bread, the sooth to I wit."
' Ba thine omn, to thyself.
1" If I do not play them a false trick.
11 Hoil»iu-!/ sJirO'isi. Hoi-bury is the name of a village two or three
miles fi-om Wakefield. Scroggs, " shroges," is a name for common
ground with low brushwood on it. " Scrog " is Northern EngUsh for
a stunted shnib. So in Gavin Douglas's prologue to the ninth Book
of the •' ^eid •■- _. ^^^jj j.^.jj .^ ^^^ ^^j.^^
To write of scroggis, broym, haddir or rammale "—
('• to write of stunted shrubs, broom, heather or twigs").
12 Hog.-*, sheep one year old.
" TJic, thrive. First-English " the(5n," to thrive.
i» Die sooth to I u-it, till I know the truth.
10
CASSELL'S LIBRAEY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1300
Friniiis P.istnr. Xor rlriuk iu my head with him till
I meet.
Sccund.ii Pastuy. 1 will rest in no stead, tiU that I
him u;ieet,
My brother,
One I will hight :
Till I see him in sight
Shall I ne'er sleep one night
There ' I do another.
Tertius Pastor. Will ye hear how they hack f
Our s\Te list croon.
Primus Pastor. Heard I never none crack
So clear out of tune.
Call on him.
Seciiiidiis Pastor. Mak '. undo your door soon,
Mak. Who is that spak, as it were noon
A loft •:
Who is that I say ?
Tcrtttis Pastor. Good fellows, were it day.
Mak. As far as ye may,
Good, speakis soft
O'er a sick woman's head, that is at malease,
I had Uever he dead or she had any disease.'
Uxor. Go to another stead ; I will not well wheeze.
Each foot that ye trode goes thorough my nese.
So hee '.
Primus Pastor. Tell us, Mak, if ye may,
How fare ye, I say ':
Mak. But are ye in this town to-day ?
Now how fare ye i
Ye have run in the mire, and are wet yit :
I shall make yovi a fire, if ye will sit.
A nurse would I hire ; think ye on yit.
Well quit is my hire, my (beam this is it.
A season,
I have bairns, if ye l;now.
Well mo than enew :
But we must di-ink as we brew,
And that is but reason.
I would ye dinid ei-e ye yode : ■■ methink that ye sweat.
Secundus Pastor. Nay, neither niendis our mode, drink
nor meat.
Mak. Why, sir, ailis you ought but good ?
Tertius Pastor. Yes, our sheep that we get,
Are stolen as they )-ode. Our loss is great.
Mak. Sirs, di-inkis.
Had I been there
Some should have bought it full sore.
Primas Pastor. Mary, some men trows that ye wore,-^
And that us forthinkis.
Secundus Pastor. Mak, some men trows that it should
be ye.
' Tlm-e, where. One tbiug he promises, that he will so follow up
Mak as never to sleep two nights iu the same place until he find him.
Then all three, after excited running about, are supposed to come to
Mak's door, at which they listen. Within, Mai, as his wife bade him,
IS sinijiug lullaby, and one shepherd says, —
= Will i/c?ie.irl,OH()if.)/ hack.' (Fu'st-Entrlish " haccan," tocut.hash),
that is, sing out of tune. Sir Thomas More apphed the term to
hesitating speech, and we still speak in vulgar English of "hacking
and hammei-ing " at words, also of a hackiu<r cough. " Will ye hear
how they hack ? It pleases onr sir to croon. *"
3 Disease, uneasiness, disturbance of ease.
* Yode, went. Mak, having admitted tlie searchers, affects fiieudly
hospitahty, and would have them dine before they go. Is sorry to
see the state they are iu.
' Some men think that you were, and that gives us mistrust.
Fir^it-English " treonnan." to trust or believe; " forthencan," to
misthink, mistrust, disdain.
Tertius Pastor. Either ye or your spouse ; so say we.
Mak. Now if ye have suspowse '' to Gyll or to me,
Come and rip our house, and then may ye see
AATio had her.
If I any sheep fot,''
Either cow or stot :
And GiU, my wife, rose not
Here since she lad her.
As I am and true and leal, to God here I pray,
That this be the first meal that I shall eat this day.
Primus Pastor. Mak, as have I ceylle,* arise thee,
I say,
He learned timely to steal that could not say nay.
Uxor. I swelt !
Out, thieves, from my wonis ! '
Ye come to rob us for the nonis.
Mak. Hear ye not how she gTOnis ?
Your heartis should melt.
Uxor. Out, thieves, from my bam ! nigh him not
thore.i"
Mak. Wist ye how she had fam," your hearts wotdd
be sore.
Ye do wrong, I you warn, that thus comis before
To a woman that has fame I but I say no more.
Uxor. Ah, my medylle I
I pray to God so mild.
If ever I you beguiled.
That I eat this child
That lies in this credylle.
Mak. Peace, woman, for God's pain, and cry not so :
Thou spills thy brain, and makis me full wo.
Secundus Pastor. I trow our sheep be slain, what find
ye two ?
Tertius Pastor. All work we in vain : as well may
we go.
But hattei-s '-'
I can find no flesh, ,
Hard nor nesh,''
Salt nor fresh :
But two toom''' plattei-s.
Quick cattle but this, tame nor wild.
None, as have I bliss, as loud as he smiled.
Uxor. No, so God me bless, and give me joj- of my
child.
Primus Pastor. We have marked amiss : I hold us
beguiled.
Secundus Pastor. Sir, done.
Sir, our lady him save.
Is your child a knave ? '*
Mak. Any lord might him have
This child to his son.
When he wakens he kippis,'' that joy is to see.
Tertius Pastor. In good time to his hippis,'" and in
^ Suspcncse, suspicion. 7 Yot, fetched or earned.
8 As have I ce'jUc, as have I (Fii-st-Euglish " sse'l ") prosperous time,
or blessing ; analogous to ** as I hope to be saved," or " so may I
thrive."
^ Wonis, dwelling.
'" Out, thieves, from my child ! do not go near to him there !
n Favn, fared. "If you knew how it had gone with her." First-
English " faran," to go ; past participle " faren."
'2 But hatters, except si)iders. Two shepherds here return from i
search over Mak's premises.
13 Ncsh, soft, tender. i* Toom, empty.
'^ Xaare, boy. Aa German "knabe."
"^ Kippis, catches. Icelaudic " kippa," to pull or snatch.
1" Iu Yorkshire an infant's napkius are called hippiwjs.
18 Cele, First-English "sjel," prosperous time. See Note 8.
:o i.i>. 14<Xi.;
PLATS.
11
But who was his gossyppis/ so soon rede ?
Jfak. So fair fall their lips.
Fiimiis Fastoy. Hark now, a lee.-
Mak. So God them thank,
Parkin, and Gibbon Waller, I say,
And gentle John Horn, in good fay,
He made all the gaiTay,^
■\Vith the great shank.
Sccuiidus Pastor, ilak, friends will we be, for we are
all one.
Mnli. We : now I hold for me, for mends get I none.'
Farewell all three : all glad were ye gone.
Tertius Pastor. Fair words may there be, but love
there is none
This year.
Primus Pastor. Ciave ye the thild anything f
Seciindiis Pastor. I trow not one farthing.
Tertiiis Pastor. Fast ag-aiu will I fling :
Abide ye me there.
Hak, take it to no grief, if I oome to thy bame.
Milk. Xay, thou does me great reprief, and foul has
thou fame.
Ta-tius Pastor. The child wUl it not grieve, that little
day stame.*
Mak, with your leave, let me give your bame
But sixpence.
JIak. Xay, do way : he sleeps.
Tertiiis Pastor. Methink he peeps.
Mak. When he wakens he weeps.
I pray you go hence.
Tertias Pastor. Give me leave him to kiss, and lift up
the clout. —
■What the devil is this ? He has a long snout 1
Primus Pastor. He is markid amiss. — AVe wait ill
about.
Seciindiis Pastor. HI spun weft, iwis,^ ay comis foul
out.
Ay, so ?
He is like to our sheep.
Tertius Pastor. How, Gib 1 may I peep ?
Primus Pastor. I trow, kind will creep
Where it may not go.
Secinidus Pastor. This was a quaint gawd ' and a far
cast.
It was a high fraud.
Tertius Pastor. Tea, sirs, was't.
Let bren this bawd, and bind her fast.
A false skawd * hang at the last ;
So shall thou. —
Will ye see how they swaddle
His four feet in the middle ?
Saw I never in a cryddle
A homid lad ere now !
' Gossippi>, sponsors.
= Lee, lie.
' (inn-ay, preparation. First-Enjlish "gearo," ready.
* The shepherds are leaving, and Mak refuses them a friendly part-
ing, but stands on his diimity. since there is no apology or compensa-
tion for the insult he has suffered in having his house searched as if
he were a sheepstealer.
^ Day .«firne, day-star.
* I\ns, certainly.
^ Gaicd. See Note 21, page 5.
' Skaad, scold.
2Iak. Peace bid I : what '. let be your fare :
I am he that him gat, and yon woman him bare.
Primus Pastor. WHiat de'il shaU he hat, JIak ? ' Lo,
31ak's heir.
Secundus Pastor. Let be all that. Now God give
him care,
I sagh.'"
Uxor. A pretty child is he
As sits on a woman's knee ;
A diUy down, perde.
To gar " a m;m lagh.'^
Tertius Pastor. I know him by the ear mark : that is
a good token.
Mak. I tell you, sirs, hark : his nose was broken.
Sithen told me a clerk, th.it he was forspoken."
Primus Pastor. This is a false wark. I would fain
be wroken.
Get weapon.
Xlxor. He was taken with an elf :
1 saw it myself.
When the clock struck tweU'
Was he forshapen.
Secundus Pastor. Ye two are well feft, sam in a stede.'*
Tertius Pastor. Syn they maintain tlnir theft, let do
them to dede.''
Mak. If I trespass eft, gird ofi my head.
With you wiU I be left.
Primus Pastor. Sii'S, do my rede.
For this trespass,
We will neither ban ne flite,
Fight nor chite.
But have done as tite.
And cast him in canvas.
Lord, what I am sore, in point for to brist.
In faith I may no more, therefore will I rist.
Secundus Pastor. As a sheep of seven score he weighed
in my fist.
For to sleep ajTvhore, methink that I list.
Tertius Pastor. !Sow I pray you.
Lie down on this green.
Primus Pastor. On these thefts yet I mene.'^
Tertius Pastor. WTiereto should ye teue ? '^
Do, as I say you.
Angeliis cantiit '• Gloria in excelsis:" postea dicat."
Angelas. Else, herdmen hend, for now is he bom
That shall take from the fiend that Adam had lom:
That warlow to shend, this night is he bora.
9 What shaU he be called. Mak ? (First-EngUsh " hitan, to name.)
The unrolling of tie sheep having proceeded on the stage unudst the
laughter of the people, when unroUed it is held up for adnuration as
Mak'sboy, "Lo, Mak'sheir!" i,.„,v
10 Sa.jh, say. » Ga^. make. ■= ^9^. 'angh.
" Forspol-en, bewitched. .
» Feft.m right possession ; m.n m a stcde, together m one place.
"Ton are weU matched couple to Uve together."
IB Do thcra (0 dcdc. put them to dcatk Mak is wULng ^ ha'.e hjs
head struct off if he tresi>asses again, and submits himseU to the
SiS^ Then the («de^co.uiselof the First Shepherd U that hey
neitheT?^a,v ne fl^Ae) cLe nor scold, fight nor chide, but l^ve done
" h th matter (^ tyM as soon .^ possible, and senle - * ^^^
tossin- him in a blanket, casting him in canvas. Thjs they do taU
they^e^ed. and then lie do.vn to rest. Upon their rest breaks
*^'^ Jfcnf medi?ate. First-English "mffimm." consider.have in mind.
i: Tnc res yourseU. Fiist-English " tyn.-u.." to irritate, vei.
IS lie Angel sings " Glory to God in the highest : afterwards he
shall say :
12
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
>.D. 1-100
The Angels Sokg at the XAXivnr. (From Cation MS., Tiha-ius, B, t.)
Tlie pl;iy now passes on to the slieplierds' reception
of the tidings of the birth of Clnist, then- homage and
theii- offering of simple gifts to the infant Jesus.
Moralities began to be acted among iis in the reign
of Hem-y VI., and, like the :Miracle Plays, sur^-ived
until the reign of Elizabeth. In a ^Morality some les-
son of duty was taught by personified qualities, with-
out artful development of a story. Take for example
HYCKE-SCORXER,
of which the old black-letter copy, printed by Wyn-
kyn de Worde, gave woodcuts of the characters.
These were engi-aved in Thomas Hawkins' " Origin of
the English Drama," and are here repeated. Fii'st
enters Pity, who blesses the audience, tells his name,
says that he sprang from the bosom of Christ and
lived in the heart of Mary, and on the cross made
man's en-and to he sped, " or el'es man for ever
shoidd have been forlorn."
Charity and I of true love leads the double reign,
"V\"hoso me lovetli damned ne'er shall be.
Of some virtuous company I would be fain.
For all that will to heaven needs must come by me.
Chief porter I am in that heavenly eity.
And now here will I rest me a little space,
Till it please Jesu of his grace
Some ■virtuous fellowship for to send.
Then entei-s Contemplation, and describes himself
His name is written foremost in the Book of Life,
and he is " brother to Holy Church that is our
Lordes wife."
John Baptist, Antony, and Jerome, with many mo,
Followed me here in holt, heath, and in wilderness ;
I, ever with them, went where they did go,
Night and day toward the way of rightwiseness ;
I am the chief lantern of aU holiness ;
Of prelates and priestes, I am their patron ;
No armure so strong in no distress,
Habergon, hebne, ne yet no jeltron.
To fight with Satan, I am the champion
That dare abide and manf uUy stand ;
Fiends fly awaye where they see me come.
But I will shew you why I came to this land ;
For to preach and teach, of Goddcs truth saws
Against Vice that doth rebel 'gainst Him and His laws.
I'ify-
God speed, good brother ! from whence came yon now ?
Contemplation.
Sir, I came from Perseverimce to seek you.
AMiy. sir, know you me ?
Contemplation.
Yea, sir, and have done long ; your name is Pity,
Pitif.
Your name fain would I know.
Contemplation.
Indeed I am called Contemplation,
That uses to live solitarily ;
In woods and in wilderness I walk alone.
Because I would say my prayers devoutly :
I love not with me to have much company.
But Perseverance oft with me doth meet
AATien I thick on thoughts that is fidl heavenly.
i.D. 1535.'
PLAYS.
13
P rseverance, therefore, is expected shortly, and does
>ently enter and declare himself. The three
whom he calls. Then entei-s Imagination, and tells
how he has just come fi-om .sitting in the stocks for
CoaiEMPLATIUX AND PeKSEVERaSCE.
Viitues having welcomed one another. Perseverance
asks Pity for news —
P.Vy.
Sir, such as I can I shall shew you :
I hare heard many men complain piteously.
They say they be smitten with the sword of poreity.
In every place where I do go :
Few friends poverty doth find.
And these rich men ben unkind ;
For their neighbours they will nought do.
Other tidings of Ul times are added, Contemplation
is told that there are few or none left — even of
the priests — who will meddle with him. Contem-
plation then parts from Ids fiiends; he has a great
errand elsewhere, and must \je gone, but he hopes to
come again. Immediately upon the departure of Con-
..emplation, one of the Vices — Freewill — comes upon
the scene, with much pretension. Room must be
made for him :
What, sirs, I tell you my name is Freewill,
I may choose whether I do good or ill ;
But for all that I will do as me list.
5Iy condition ye know not perde,
I can fight, chide, and be merry ;
Full soon of my company ye would be weary
An ye knew all.
What, fiU the cup and make good cheer,
I trow I have a noble here !
Who lent it me ?
And so Freewill pixweeds to lively picturing of his
dissolute life with Imagination for his comrade, after
DCAGIXATIOS ASD FeEEWILL.
his misdeeds, and suffered under the lash of a catch-
pole who had taken also his purse.
By'r leave he left me ne'er a penny :
So, nought have I but a buckle.
And yet I can imagine things subtle
For to get money plenty.
Tn Westminster Hall every term I am,
To me is kin many a great gentleman,
I am knowen in every eountre.
An I were dead, the lawyer s thrift were lost,
For this will I do if men would do cost.
Prove right wrong, and all by reason ;
And make men lose both house and land,
For all that they can do, in a little season •
■Peach men of treason privily I can ;
And when me list to hang a true man.
If they will me money teU
Thieves I can help out of prison,
And into lord's favour I can get me soon.
And be of their privy counsel.
But, Freewill, my dear brother.
Saw you nought of Hicke-scomcr ?
He promised me to come hither.
Freeicill.
Why, sir, knowest thou him ?
Imagination.
Tea, yea, man : he is full nigh of my kin,
And in >rewgate we dwelled together,
For he and I were both shackled in a fetter.
Then foUow siurgestions of the much hanging
of thieves on the^-'gi-eat fi-ame" that standeth at
14
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
La.I). 145(1
Tylmrn. But, says Imagination, they suffer because
tliey—
Could not convey ' clean ;
For an they could have carried bj' craft as I can,
In process of years each of them should be a gentleman.
Yet as for me I was never a thief.
If my hands were smitten off, I could steal with my
teeth ;
For, ye know well, there is craft in daubing,
I can look in a man's face and pick his purse.
And tell new tidings that was never true iwis,
For my hood is all lined with leasing.
J'nru-ltl,
Yea, but went ye never to Tyburn a pilgrimage ?
Im/rffination.
No iwis ; nor none of my linage :
For we bo clerkcs all, and can our neckverse ;-
And with an ointment the judges' hand I can grease
That will heal sores that be uncurable.
Frccicill.
'V\Tiy, were ye never found reprov^ble ?
Itnnglnatlon.
Y'es, ones I stole a horse in the feld,
And leapt on him for to have ridden my way,
At the last a bailie me met and beheld,
And bade me stand. Then was I in affray.
He asked me, whither with that horse would I gon ?
And then I told him, it was mine own.
He said, I had stolen him ; I said, Nay :
" This is,'' said he, " my brother's hackiiay ! "
For an I had not 'sensed me without fail,
By our lady, he would have led me straight to jaU.
And then I told him, the horse was Uke mine,
A brown bay, a long mane, and did halt behine,
Thus I told him, that such another horse I did lack ;
(And yet I never saw him, nor came on his back.)
•So I delivei-ed him the horse again,
And when he was gone then was I fain ;
For an I had not sensed me the better
I know weU I should have danced in a fetter.^
F)-ccwill.
And said ho no more to thee but so ?
Imfii/ination.
Yes, he pretended me much harm to do.
But I told him— that morning was a great mist.
That what horse it was I ne wist :
Also I said that in my head I had the msgrine
That made me dazzle so in mine eyne
That I mighte not well see,
And thus he departed shortly from me.
Freewill.
Yea, but where is Hicke-scomer now ?
Imagination.
Some of these young men hath hid him in
Their bosoms, I waiTant ye.
Let us make a cry, that he may us hear.
Freeivill.
How now, Hicke-scomer, appear !
I trow thou be hid in some comere.
Hiclce-scorner.
Ale the helm ale ver shot of vere sayle vera.
Frccicill.
AMiat is that, hark, he is a ship on the sea.
Siclce-scorner.
Uod speed, God speed ; who called after me ?
* Convey, tie wise it call. Steal ? foh ! a fico for
' As Pistol says,
the pkrase."
" Cm m,r nccki-c,-se, know our neckverse. In old time, when the
clergy claimed to he exempt from civU jurisdiction, one who pleaded
that he wa^ clerk was dem,auded by his ordinary, and escaped capital
or corporal punishment by the civil arm. The evidence that came to
be accepted as sufficient to give benefit of clergy was ability to read a
verse out of the Bible. As the reading of it saved a man f'om tang
^g. It was caUed h.9 neckverse. Benefit of clergy underwent varioi,s
7eVe^Tn ' 'f -^^'-^-^yof readirig was not abolished untU
«hln"wt !r„r,-^'"-'"' ^"^ ''""^"'^ " '■'"•"^- ^'-"^^ ^'^"e'- ttefts
«ian horse-steahng were then capital offences.
rlltEE-SCOKNEK.
Ijiuir/ination.
What, brother, welcome by this precious body,
I am glad that I you see,
'Twas tolde me that ye were hanged :
But out of what country come ye ?
Sieke'Scorner.
Sirs, I have been in many a country,
As in France, Ireland and in Spain,
Portugal, Seville also in Almaine ;
Fricsland, Flanders, and in Burgoyne,
Calabre, Poyle and Arragoyne,
Britain, Biscay and also in Gaseoyne,
Naples, Greece, and in mids of Scotland,
At Cape Saint Vincent and in the New found island,
I have been in Gene and in Cowe,
Also in the land of Rumbelow
4
TO A-D. 1535.]
PLAYS.
15
Three niile out of hell,
At Rhodes, Constantine, and in Babylondc,
In Cornewall and in N orthumberlonde,
Where men seethe rushes in gruel,
Yea, sir, in Chaldee, Tartar and Ind,
And in the land of women that few men doth find,
In all these countries have I be.
I'nriitl/.
Sir, what tidings have ye now on the sea ?
Sickf-scoi'tier.
We met of shippes a great na-i-y
Full of people that would into IrelUnd ;
And they came out of this countiy :
They will never more come to England.
Iinagimitiin).
A\Tience were the ships of them ': knowest thou none 'i
Hicke-scorner gives a list of ships with such names
as Michael, Gabriel, George, " the star of Saltash,"
with the Jesus of Plymouth ; having on board all
the good monks and nuns, Truth and his kins-
men. Patience, Meekness and Humility, Soberness,
Charity, Good Conscience, and Devotion —
True buyers and sellers and almsdeed doers.
Piteous people, that be of sin destroyers.
With just Abstinence and Good Counsellors,
filoumers for sin with lamentation.
And good rich men that help folk out of prison ;
True Wedlock was there also
With young men that ever in prayer did go.
The ships were laden with such unhappy company.
But at the last God shope a remedy ;
For they all in the sea were drowned,
And on a quicksand they struck to the ground ;
The sea swallowed them eveiy one,
I wot well alive there scaped none.
Imnf/biat'ton.
So, now my heart is glad and merri'.
For joy now let us sing derry, derry.
Hicke-Kcorncr .
Fellows, they shall ne'er more us withstand,
For I see them all drowned in the race of Ireland.
Fi-ccwill.
Yea, but yet hark, Hicke-scomer,
WTiat company was in your ship that came o'er ?
Hiche-scorner.
Sir, I will said you to understand
There were good fellows above five thous;ind.
And all they ben kin to us three.
There was Falsehood, Favel ' and Jollity,
Yea, thieves, with other good company.
Liars, backbiters, and flatterers the whill^
With many other of the devil's officers.
And Hatred, that is so mighty and strong.
Hath made a vow for e'er to dwell in Englond.
Then Hicke-Scomer, answering questions, says that
1 Favel, flatterj-.
the ship he came in was of London, a gi-eat and
mighty vessel called the Envy —
The owner of her is called 111 Will
Brother to Jack Potter of Shooter's Hill ;
and his own place in it was as keeper of a shop of
sensuality. Imagmation is delighted at the news,
and foresees for himself happy days of licen.se and
robbery. But Freewill ofl'ends Imagination lightly,
and the Vices show their quality in quan-el %vith
each other. Hicke-scorner cries out on Imagina-
tion —
Help, help, for the passion of my soul,
He hath made a great hole in my poll
That all my wit is set to the ground !
Alas, a leech for to help my wound !
Then Imagination is falling upon his brother Vice,
Freewill, when Pity enters upon the scene of riot —
Pity.
Peace, peace, sirs, I command you.
Imagination.
Avaunt, old churl ! whence comest thou ?
An thou make too much, I shall break thy brow
And send thee home again.
Pity.
Ah, good sir, the peace I would have kept fain ;
Mine office is, to see no man slain.
And where they do amiss to give them good counsel
Sin to forsake, and Goddes law them teU.
Imagination.
Ah, sir, I weened thou'dst been di'owned and gone;
But I have spied that there escaped one.
Hicke-scorner.
Imagination, do by the counsel of me,
Be agreed with Freewill, and let us good fellows be ;
And then as for this churl Pity,
Shall curse the time that e'er he came to land.
Imagination.
Brother Freewill, give me your hand.
So the Vices are agreed again.st Pity, and Imagi-
nation undertakes to pick a quarrel with him —
Make him a thief, and say he did steal
Of mine, forty poimd in a bag.
Now Pity is scorned, accused, and msulted by
Hicke-scorner and his companions, the Vices. They
charge him ^\-ith theft, fetter him, and bind him with
a halter. Pity warns them in vain against false
witness, and reminds Imagination in \Am that —
When. Death with his mace doth you arrest,
We all to him owe suit and service.
For the ladder of life he will thee down threst,
Then mastership may not help nor great office.
16
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1450
Freewill.
AVTiat, Death : an lie were he should sit by thee ;
Trow'st thou he be able to strive with us three ?
Nay; nay; nay.
■ImfJfiinatlon.
WeU, fellows, now lot us go our way,
For at Shooter's HiU we've a game to play.
Hiclie-scorner.
Good faith, I will tarn.- no longer space.
FreetcUl.
Beshrew him for me that's last out of this place !
So the Vices depart, leaving Pity bound, to bear
all ])atiently, and lament at lengtli o^'er the corrup-
tions of the time, with a recurring burden to lus
lament, — " worse was it never."
■ Alas, now is lechery called love indeed,
And murder named manhood in every need,
Extortion is called law, so God me speed: —
Worse was it never.
*******
There bo many great scomers.
For sin be few mourners ;
We've but few true lovers
In no place now-a-days.
Mayors and gentlemen bear hard against truth,
instead of correcting sin. God punishes with sore
sicknes.ses, men die suddenly of pestilence —
There be some sermons made by noble doctors ;
But truly the tiend doth stop men's ears,
For God nor good man some people not fears : —
Worse was it never.
All truth is not best said.
And our preachers now-a-days be half afraid.
^^'^len we do amend God would be well apayed : —
Worse was it never.
The other Virtues, Contemplation and Persever-
;uice, now join Pity, who tells them how he has been
liound in ii-ons by three jierilous men. They unbind
him. Perseverance is resolved, if the Vices return, to
exhort them to virtuous living, and bring them to
good life by the help of Contemplation. Contempla-
tion counsels Pity —
Do my counsel, brother Pity :
Go you, and seek them through the country.
In village, town, borough and city.
Throughout aU the realm of Knglond ;
^\'hen you them meet, lightly them arrest,
And in prison put them fest.
Bind them sure in irons strong.
For they be so fast and sotile
That they wiU you beguile
And do true men wrong.
Ptrscrerance.
Brother Pity, do as he hath said.
In every quarter look you espy.
And let good wateh for them be laid
In all the haste that thou can, and that privily ;
For an they come hither they shall not 'scape
For idl the craft that they can make.
Fity.
Well, then will I hie me as fast as I may
And travel thi-ough every country ;
Good watch shall be laid in every way
That they steal not into sanctuary.
Now fai-ewcll, brethi-en, and pray for me.
For I must go hence indeed.
Perseverance.
Now God be youi- good speed.
Cuiitemplation.
And ever you defend when you have need.
Pity.
Now brethren both, I thanke you.
But as soon as Pity has gone, Freewill enters with
boasting to Perseverance and Contemplation, who are
left upon the stage.
Freewill.
Make 3'ou room for a gentleman, sirs, and peace ;
Diougarde, seigneurs, tout le preasse,
And of your j angeling if you will cease,
I will tell you where I have been :
He tells in detail how he has been in Newgate
for stealing a cup from a tavern, but was released by
Imagination with help of a hundred pounds cunningly
stolen from an ajwthecary.
And now will I dance and make royal cheer I
But I would Imagination were here,
For he is peerless at need ;
Labour to him, sirs, if ye will your matters speed.
Now will I sing and lustily spring I
But when my fetters on my legs did ring
I was not glad, perde ; but now — Hey, trolly, lolly '.
Let us see who can descant on this same :
To laugh and get money it were a good game.
AMiat ! whom have we here ?
A priest, a doctor, or else a frere.
AMiat, Master Doctor Dotypoll.'
Cannot you preach well in a black bowl ?
Or dispute any di\-inity ?
If ye be cunning, I will put it in prefe :
Good sir, why do men eat mustard with beef ?
By question can you assoil me ?
Perseverance.
Peace, man, thou talkest lewedly.
And of thy living, I redo, amend thee.
Freewill.
Avaunt, caitiff, dost thou thoit- me I
I am come of good kin I tell thee.
' Dotiijiol!, dodipol, stupid-head; the dot heing the prefix from
which a bird is uamed for its ascribed stupidity Dottrel. DotjToU is
what Slielton, in " Colin Clout," calls " Doctor Daupatus." Latimer
writes, " Some will say our curate is nauijht. an ass-head, a dodypoll."
Ben Jonson, in " The Devil is an Ass," has a Wittipol, A comedy of
" The Wisdome of Dr. Dodjixjle " was printed in 160O.
2 Dosi thou thou nic ? In old days, and still in Shakespeare's time,
the use of the plural as a pronoun of respect was custoui.ary in English
TO A.D. 15^.]
PLAYS.
17
Freewill boasts of coi-rapt ancestry, is detained by
I Contemplation and Perseverance —
For thou troubled Pity, and laid on him felony.
Where is Imagination, thy fellow that was ':
Frt-eivill,
I defy you both. Will you arrest me ?
Perieveratue.
Nay, nay, thy great words may not help thee,
From us thou shalt not escape.
Freeicill.
Make room, sirs, that I may break his pate !
I will not be taken, for thorn both.
Cotttemplatio)! .
Thou shalt abide, whe'er thou be lief or loth ;
Therefore, good son, listen unto me.
And mark these wordes that I do tell thee :
Thou'st followed thine ov.-n will many a day,
And lived in sin without amendement ;
Therefore in thy conceit assay
To ask God mercy and keep his commandement
That on thee He will have pity.
And bring thee to Heaven, that joyful city.
Freewill is very restive at the voice of Contem-
plation. If his pleasiu'es were in hell, he would rim
thither for them. Perseverance and Contemplation
reason with Freewill, who boasts and bullies, draws
wit from his experience in Newgate, plays \\-ith the
risk of voyages to Shooter's Hill in search of fortune.
But yet we have a sure channel at Westminster,
A thousand ships of thieves therein may ride sui'e ;
For if they may have anchor hold, and gi'eat spending,
They may live as merry as any king.
Peraeveraiiee.
God wot, sir, there is a piteous living I
Then ye dread not the great Master above :
Son, forsake thy amiss for His love.
And then mayst thou come to the bliss also.
Freewill.
\Mij-, what would you that I should do ?
Contemplation.
For to go toward Heaven.
Freeteill.
Mar}-, an you wiU me thither bring
I would do after you.
Freewill now begins to repent, he presently asks
mercy for his past sin, which he forsakes, is told that
he needs no new name.
as in other coontries, and there was in conversation a distinction
between "joa" and "thou" like that stUi made in France between
'* vous " and " tn," or in Germany between " sie" and "du." It ^vas
still enstomary in the time of Charles I., when the QuaVers opposed
it as a piece of vain insincerity, find adopted " thou " in adtlressin^r any
"ringle person. The good sen-e of the Enel'sh people his since done
ill that the Society of Friends desired, by turning the phir.il pronoun
•nto a singular, and applying it eqiially to persons of all rtnks. We
Sly to a Duke " your Grace " and to a sweep " your brosinstick."
123
For all that will to heaven hie.
By his own freewill he must forsake foUy,
Then is he sure and safe.
Contemplation robes him in a new garment, and
he resolves never to leave the side of Perseverance,
Then enters
Iinnginatwu.
Huff, huff, huff ! Who sent after me ?
I am Imagination, full of joUity,
Lord, that my heart is Ught :
■WTien shall I perish ; I trow never,
Continiiiag in this strain, he asks presentlv after
his friend Freewill, and recognises him with astonish-
ment in his changed dress.
■ttliat, FreewiU, my own fere,'
Art thou out of thy mind r
Freewill.
God grant the way to heaven that I may find.
For I forsake thy company
Imagination, with many an interspersed oath,
wonders as Freewill calls upon him to forsake his
sin, and tells how Contemplation and Perseverance
have been coimseUing. Then the two Virtues counsel
Imagination also, and tell him of the love of Chiist
What is that to him, he asks,
I was ten year in Newgate,
And many more fellows with me sate.
Yet he never came there to help me, ne my company.
Contemplation.
Yes, he holp thee, or thou haddest not been here now,
Imagitiation.
By the mass I cannot shew you,
For he and I never drank together,
Yet I know many an alestakc-
He is stUl urged by Perseverance to seek heaven,
and answers ^vith stubborn derision, till Freewill
asks —
Imagination, wilt thou do "by the counsel of me f
Imagination.
Yea, sir, by my truth, whatsoever it be,
Freeicill.
Amend you, for my sake.
It is better betimes than too late.
How say you ': WiU you Godde's bests fulfil ?
Imagination.
I will do, sir, even as you will.
But, I prav you, let me have a new coat
When I have need, and in my purse a groat.
Then wUl I dwell with you still.
1 Fert. comrade.
= Ale^aUc, a pole or stake, wirh a garland or bunch of twigs at the
end of it, was once the sign of an open house of entertainment. Tlie
custom gave rise to the phrase still used for keeping open house,
" hanging out the broom."
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CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. :5D9
Fnrwill.
Beware ; for when thou art liuried in the ground
Fewe friendes for thee will he found.
Remember this still.
Imfi(ji/tatioti.
No thing I dread so sore as death,
Therefore to amend I think it be time.
Then he also asks mercy for his sins, is clothed
anew, named anew Good Remembrance, and exhoi'ted
by Freewill to wait on Per.severance, while Freewill
shall dwell ■with Contemplation.
Contemplation.
Well, are ye so both agreed ?
Imaffiuation.
Yea, sir, so God me speed.
I'ersevcrance
Sir, ye .shall wait on me soon.
And be God's servant day and night,
And in every place where ye become
Give good counsel to every wight :
An men ask your name, teD you — Remembrance,
That Godde's law keep truly every day;
And look that ye forget not repentance.
Then to Heaven ye shall go the next way ;
^Vllere ye shall see in the heavenly qiiere
The blessed company of saints so hoi}',
That lived devoutly while they were here :
Unto the which bliss I beseech God Almighty
To bring there your souls that here be present,
And unto vii'tuous living that ye may apply,
Truly for to keep his commandement.
Of all our mirthes here we make an end :
Unto the bliss of heaven Jesu your souls bring,
Amen.
Tliis, it will be seen, is a sermon in the form
of acted allegory, not a play ; and the true drama
cannot iu any sense lie said to have risen out ol
tJie Morality. There is, however, a sense in which
its rise was assisted by the development of another
early form of entertainment through personation of
cha,racters, the Interlude. To represent any jest or
serious thought in action that would help some great
luiil to entertain his guests agreeably for an hour
during the banquet or dessert after their dinner,
came to be in many a large household the care of
some of the great retinue of servants. A few of
them with skill for mimicry would make it a chief
business to perform such pieces ; and as the custom
spread, the writing of these "Interludes" became
a part of literature in the days of Henry VIII.
John Heywood was most foiiious as a producer
of them. John Heywood, perhaps born at North
Aluns in Hertfordshire, was a Roman Catholic, and
one of the friends of Sir Thomas More, who intro-
duced him to Henry VIII. He retained his iwst
at court under Edward VI. and Mary, and died
aoroad in 1565. For John Hevwood's Interlude of
THE FOUR l"s, '
Four servants of the household, ha^•ing learnt their
parts, would attire themselves severally as a Palmer,
a Pardoner, a Poticary, and a Pedlar. During the
banquet Palmer entered, and began to speak thus : —
Now God be here. Who keepeth this place i
Now, by my faith, I cry j'ou mercie ;
Of reason I must sue for grace,
ily rudeness shew'th me so homelie.
Whereof yoiu' pardon asked and won
I sue now, as com-tosy doth me bind.
To tell this, which shall bo begun
In order as may come best in mind.
I am a Palmer, as you see,
'WTiich of my life much part have spent
In many a far and fair country.
As pilgrims do of good intent.
He proceeds to a long list of the shrines he has
visited, and the next actor, who has entered meaiir
while, dressed as a Pai-doner, says at the end of it
all—
And when ye have gone as far as you can,
For all your labour and ghostly intent
Ye will come home as wise as ye went.
Pabiwr.
Why, sir, despise ye pOgi-image ?
Pnrdomr.
Nay, fore God, sir ; then did I rage ?
1 think ye right well occupied
To seek these saints on every side.
Also your pains I not dispraise it.
But yet I discommend your wit.
And the Pardoner's point of view presently appears.
He counts it want of ^vit
To seek so far, and help so nigh ;
Even here at home is remedy :
For at your door myself doth dwell
Wlio could have saved your soul as well
As all your wide wand'ring shall do,
Though ye went thrice to Jericho.
Now since ye might have sped at home.
What have ye won by running to Rome ?
Vabner,
If this be true that you have moved,
Then is my wit indeed reproved.
But let us hear first what ye are.
riirdoiier.
Truly I am a Pardoner.
riilmcr.
Truly a Pardoner, that may be true.
But a true Pardoner doth not ensue.
Right seld is it seen or never
That Truth and Pardoners dwell together.
The Palmer jiroceeds to point to the weak side ot
the Pardoner's calling, which the Pardoner himself
magnifies, the last part of his self-glorification lieing
iX) A.D. 1535.]
PLAYS.
19
leard by the actor who has entered while he .speaks,
1 1 dress of an Apothecary.
Give me but a penny or two pence,
And as soon .is the soul departeth hence,
In half an hour, or three-quarters at the most.
The soul is in hearen ^\nth the Holy Ghost.
Foticayif.
Send ye any souls to he.aven hy water ':
Pardoner.
If we do, sir, what is the matter ?
The Apothecary woukl go with him that way.
Palmer and Pardoner, he says, are both knaves beside
lim, in the way of getting sonls to heaven.
Xo soul, ye know, ent'reth heaven's gate
Till from the body he be separate :
And whom have ye knowen die honestly
Without help of the Poticary f
« » * * «
Since of our souls the multitude
I send to heaven, when all viewed
Who should best then altogithcr
Have thank of all their coming thither.
Prirdoitfr.
If ye killed a thousand in an hour space.
When come they to heaven dj-ing out of grace ?
The Apothecary.
From a Sketch hy Holbein in Erasmus's *' JforftF Encouiitiin/'
Fotkarij.
But if a thousand pardons about your neck were tied,
MTien come they to heaven if they never died ':
While they dispute, the fourth P, the Pedlar, enters,
and hears the clo.sing declaration to the Poticary,
" That at the least ye seem worse than we," and his
rejoinder, " By the mass, I hold us nought all
three."
Fcdlar.
By our Lady, then I have gone wrong ;
And yet to be here I thought it long.
F'jtuartj.
Brother, ye have gone wrong no whit,
I praise your fortune and your wit
That can dii-ect you so discreetly.
To plant you in this comiiany.
Thou a Palmer, and thou a Pardoner,
I a Poticary.
Pedlar.
And I a Pedkr.
Then the Foiu- P's are disposed for mirth. The
Pedlar is asked to tell what is in his pack, and does
so. The Pardoner finding the Pedlar much busied
with
Gloves, pins, combs, glasses unspotted.
Pomanders, hooks, and laces unknotted,
wishes to ask
What causeth this
That women after their uprising,
Be so long in their appareling ?
Pedlar.
Forsooth, women have many lets.
And they be masked in many nets,
As front-lets, fil-lets, part -lets, and brace-lets,
And then their bon-nets and their poy-nets.
By these lets and nets, the let is such
That speed is small when haste is much.
When the Pedlar invites liis conu-ades to buy, the
Palmer answere,
Xay, by my troth, we be like friars ;
We are but beggars, we be no buyers.
Pedlar.
Well, though this journey acquit no cost,
Yet think I not my labour lost :
For by the faith of my body
I like full well this company.
Up shall this pack, for it is plain
I came not hither for all gain.
Who may not play one day in a week
May think his thrift far to seek.
Devise what pastime that ye think best.
And make ye sure to find me prest.'
Then follows some lively burlesque t^ilk, intro-
ducing any four-part song they wish to sing. The
Pardoner thinks the song idle, and l-e^•ives his argu-
ment ^^itll the Palmer an.l Poticaiy as to the relative
worth of theii- callings. The three shall contend on
the matter, and the PecUar shall be judge. The
Pedlar comes to a conclusion that he is mjfit for a
judge upon the gi-eater mattei-s, but finds they have
all one excellence in common, in which he himself
boasts skill enough to Ije a judge, :uid tliat is l}-iug.
Let them contest for pre-eminence in that.
Palmer.
Sir, for lying, though 1 can do it.
Yet am I loth for to go to it.
> Prest, ready. French " pret."
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[a.d. IIM
Fedlar.
Ye have no cause to fear, behold,
For ye may lie uncontrolled.
» # »
Ye need not care who shall begin :
For each of you may hope to ^vin.
They agi-ee, and the Poticary, confident of victory,
hops with delight.
Pahmr.
Here were a hopper to hop for the ring !
But, sir, this gear go'th not by hopping.
Fotlcarij,
Sir, in this hopping I will hop so weel
That my tongue shall hop better than my heel :
Upon which hopping I hope, and not doubt it,
To hop so that ye shall hop without it.
The trial of skill is prefaced with absurdities
from the Pardoner in praise of his pretended relics,
inteniipted constantly by plaj-ful comments from
the others. Next comes the Poticary, with like
praise of his jihysics. Then the Poticary is called
on to open with his master lie. The Pardoner says
to him,
I am content that thou lie first.
Palnify.
Even so am I ; now say thy worst.
Now 1ft us hear of all thy lies
The greatest lie thou may'st devise,
And in the fewest words thou can.
loticari/.
Forsooth, you are an honest man.
Pedlar.
There said he much, but yet no lie.
Pardoner,
Now lie ye both, by oui- Lady.
Thou liest in boast of his honesty;
And he hath lied iu aifinning thee.
Poticary,
If we both lie, and you say true,
Then of these lies, your part adieu.
They proceed to work more puzzle out of this, and
the Pedlar resolves finally
That each of you one tale shall tell.
And which of you tell'th most marvel
And most unlikest to be true,
Shall most prevail, whate'er ensue.
Then the Poticary tells an extravagant story of a
cure of the living body ; the Pardoner cajis it \\-itli
an extravagant story of his visit to purgatory and
hell for the recovery of a dead soul. Being the soul
of a woman, it was granted readily bv Satan, who
said,
And if thou wouldst have twenty mo,
Wert not for justice they should go.
For all the devils within this den
Have more to do with two women
Thau with all the charge we have beside.
^\^lerefore if thou our friend wilt be tried
Apply thy pardons to women so.
That unto us there come no mo.
When the Palmer's turn comes he begins with com-
ment on the Pardoner's story, and expresses great
wonderment at the complaint of the devils that
they find women so troublesome.
Whereby much marvel to me ensu'th.
That women in hell such shrews can be.
And here so gentle as far as I see.
Yet ha\'f I seen many a mile.
And many a woman in the while.
No one good city, town or borough
In Christendom but I've been through.
And this I would ye should understand,
I have seen women five hundred thousand.
And oft -n-ith them long time have tarried.
Yet in all places where I have been.
Of all the women that I have seen,
I never saw nor knew in my conscience.
Any one woman out of patience.
The Palmer's Experience.
From a Sketch hy Holbein in Erasmus's " MorUs Encomium."
Poticari/.
By the mass, there is a great lie.
Pardojier.
I never heard greater, by our lady.
Pedlar.
A greater '. nay, know ye any so great ?
So the Palmer wins the award, and the piece ends
witji a few serious words from the Pedlar on religious
duty.
The rudeness of the incidental jesting in this piece
indicates the lower social tone that is always associated
with a joke welcome to men at the expense of women.
When only a few women of the nobility received
high intellectual training, and elsewhere throughout
society even the poor education given to boys was
almost denied to girls, women were really open,
thi-ough no fault of their o'\\ai, to jests upon character
10 A.D. 1541.1
PLAYS.
21
unsteadied l>y develojjed tliouglit. Their minds
really were sick through starvation, when they could
be ranged in ciiai-acter e\eii by George Herbert be-
tween the sick folks and the passionate. The honest
man, sang Herbeit, is he
Who when he is to treat
With sick folks, women, those whom passions sway.
Allows for that, and keeps his constant way.
Interludes then, as we see, were not true plays ;
and we shall liiid that the true modern drama did not
arise out of them. But the taste for such entertain-
ments led to the formation and training of skilled
companies of actors in tlie houses of gi'eat lords.
The skill that pleased in the gieat hall, pleased
also in the servants' hall, and was of a kuid that
would be welcome elsewhere, and might be exercised
with profit, if leave were obtained to amuse public
autliences. Leave, therefore, was inevitably sought,
and the interludes written for general audiences
touched many a question of Church or 8tate in wliich
the people were concerned. Authority then made
itself felt, the actors were placetl under restrictions,
and were liable to penalties for their infringement.
And so it was that when, at la?.t, the true ]jlays came
in, by a way of their own, there were companies of
actors eager to present them.
CHAPTER II.
The First Exgi.ish Comedy and Tr.\gedy: " E.\lph
Roister Doister" .\xd " Gorbodcc." — a.d. 1535
— A.D. L562.
The modern drama had its rise in the Universities of
Europe. In the Italian and other Universities the
plays of Seneca, Plautus, and Terence were studied
by learners of Latin, and at times wei-e acted upon
holiday occasions. For occasions of especial interest,
as for the entertainment of a princely patron who
might visit the University, the wittiest of its Latin
scholars would often write original plays, in Latin ;
consti-ucted in the manner of Seneca when they
were tragedies, and when comedies in the maimer of
Plautus and Terence. This had been usage for some
time before it occurred to anybody that such an
original play need not adtl evidence of Latin scholar-
ship to evidence of wit ; and that it might be written
in the mother-tongue, though it would still be con-
strticted Ln accordance with a Latin model. In Italy
this was first done ; indeed, the relation of Italian
to Latin had caused some to begin -svith the experi-
ment of writing plays in Latin words so chosen that
an Italian coulil make out the dialogue. Two such
tragedies were written at Padua by Albertino Mussato
early in the fourteenth century. The earliest known
comedy that was printed in any language of modern
Europe was a Latin comedy by Secco Polentone,
translated into Italian with its name changed fi-om
" Lusus Ebriorum " to "Catinia," and printed in
U72. In and after I486 plays of Plautus tramslated
into Italian, and some oiiginal plays in Italian, were
acted before Duke Ercole I. at Ferrara. One wa.s a
tragedy called " Panfila," fii-st printed in 1508 ;
another was a comedy by Boiardo caUed " Timone."
Original Latin plays were stiU produced. One of
the mo.st famous, the " Imber Aureus " of Antonio
Tilesio on the story of Danae, was acted in 1529,
and fii'st printed in 15-30. Ariosto wrote liLs fii-st
Italian comedy in 1498. It was in prose, and he
tm-ned it mto unrhpned verse. The plot was taken,
as he said, from " The Eunuch " of Terence and " Tlie
Captives" of Plautus. His other comedies 1>elong
to the early years of the sixteenth centuiy. Thn
first Italian tragedy that has kept a place in litera-
ture is the ''Sotbnisba" of Giovan Giorgio Trissino,
in unrhymed verse, finished in 1515, and printed in
1529. There had been an Italian tragedj' of less
mark on the same subject by Galotto del Canetto,
acted in 1502. Machiavelli, who died in 1527, wrote
three comedies in Italian. One of them is fi-oni
Plautus, one from Terence, and one is of his own
invention.
In England no advance had been made beyond
imitation of the Latins m Latin plays written by
Englishmen, when it occui-red, as it would seem, to a
head-master of Eton to take the next step. At large
public schools, as at the Univei-sities, Latin plays
were acted on s]iecial occasions. The custom has
survived at Westminster, in annual performance of
a play of Terence or Plautus befoi-e the Christma.s
holidays. A head-master able to give his boys a
Latin'play of his own wilting to act, probably <lid
so. As head-master of Eton — which office he tilled
between the years 1534 and 1541— L'dall may or
may not have substituted such a Latin play of his
own for Plautus or Terence at the performance,
which usually took place about the time of the feast
of St. Andrew ; but it seems cei-tiiinly to have
occun-ed to him that hLs boys might amuse them-
selves and their fathei-s and mothers a gi-eat (leal
more if he wi-ote them their- play in EngKsh.
Accordinglv he appeai-s to have given them " Ralph
Roister Doi-ster," and possibly one or two more.
There is no direct evidence that it was acted at
Eton, but some that is indirect, in addition to
strong prolmbility. This play could only have been
WTitten to be acted ; it was not lainted untd l-ibG ;
and its singidar freedom from the coarseness that
in its time seasoned jesting even before the most
select general audience, suggests the schoolmasters
sense of the reverence due to youth, and of what
woidd be unbecoming to his own position. Nicholas
Udall was of Coqius ChrLsti College, Oxlord. and m
eariier life made teaching of toys his profession.
He was about twenty-eight years old when he pub-
lished, for the use of liis boys, " Floures for Latm
Spekyn^'e," selected from the fii-st three comedies ot
Terence! and tran.slated into English. His repute
was high as a scholar, and in the following year,
when iie was not quite thirty, he was made head-
master of Eton School. " Ralph Roister Doister.
therefore, was probably produced in one "f the seven
years during wliich he held that othce. I daU had
Lutheran tendencies that caused him to assent to the
removal of images from the College chapel He was
charged vrith complicity in theft from the cliaix-1 ;
theotogic hatred added infamous impubitions that
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1534
would have ruined him for life had they been true.
But he left Eton, retaining a vicarage at Braintree
in Essex, and was in after life honoured at court, the
friend and companion of scholars, a leader in the work
of translating into English Erasmus's Paraphrase
of the New Testament, and Prebendary of "Windsor
under Edwaril VI., who also presented him to the
rectory of Calborne in the Isle of Wight. Udall
was appointed in 1554 to prepare Dialogues and
Interludes for Queen Mary. Al)0ut 1555 he was
made head- master of Westminster .School. But his
office ceased at the re-establishment of the monas-
tery by Mary in November, 1556, and he died in the
following month. His credit as a dramatist is wit-
nessed by the fact that when Queen Elizabeth visited
Cambridge in August, 1564, she was entertained
with " an English play called Ezekias, made by Mr.
Udall, and handled by King's College men only."
It is significant that Eton College and King's College,
Cambridge, were founded together by Henry VI.,
one to be as a seminary to the other ; King's being
the college at Cambridge to which, as WilUam
Lambai-de expressed it, " Eton sendeth annually her
ripe fruit." " Ezekias," therefore, may have been
another of the Eton plays, acted at King's College by
old Etonians who had taken parts in it during their
school-days. However it m?y be, " Ralph Roister
Doister," our first English comedy, was written by a
University man, a famous Latin scholar, who \vi-ote
a school-book fomied on Terence, was head-master of
Eton School, and also for a time of Westminster, and
■who derived his inspiration altogether from the Latin
comedy, through the use made of it in schools and
Univei-sities. Mysteries and ^Moralities contributed
nothing at all to its production. The hei'o is a
shallow fop of the reign of Henry VIII., and this is
the jilay.
EALPH ROISTER DOISTER.
The rroloijiir.
■WTiat craituvo i.s in health, either young or old.
But some mirtli with modesty will be glad to use,
As we in this Interlude shall now unfold ?
"WTierein all scurrility we utterly refuse ;
Avoiding sueh mirth wherein is abuse :
Knowing nothing more commendable for a man's recreation.
Than mirth which is used in an honest fashion.
For mirth prolongeth life, and causeth health ;
Mirth recreates our spirits, and voideth pensiveness ;
Mirth increasi^th amity (not hindering our wealth) ;
Mirth is to bo used both of more and less, '
Being mixed with virtue in decent comeliness.
As we trust no good nature can gainsay the same :
Which mirth we intend to use, a\-oiding all blame.
Tlie wise poets, long time heretofore,
lender merrj- comedies, secrets did declare,
AATierein was cimtained very Wrtuous lore,
"With mystm'ies and forewarnings verv rare.
Such to write, neither Plautus nor Terence did spare,
Which among the learned at this day bears the bell :
These, with such other, therein did excel.
' Men of all rauks. So of Macbeth Malcolm says, " Both more and
less have given hhu the revolt,"
Ralph Roister Doistee.
From (t Sketch by Holhcln in Erasmus's *'Morice Encomium."^
Our Comedy or Interlude, which we intend to play.
Is named Royster Doyster indeed,
V^Tiich against the vainglorious doth inveigh,
WTiose humour the roystiug sort ^ continually doth feed.
Thus, by your patience, we intend to jiroceed
In this our Interlude, by God's leave and grace :
And here I take my leave for a certain space.
ACT I.— Scene 1.
MiTHEW Merygreeke. He enierdh singing.
As long liveth the merry man, they say,
As doth the sorry man, and longer by a day ;
Yet the grasshopper, for all his summer piping,
Starveth in winter with hiuigry griping :
Therefore, another s;iid saw doth men advise —
That they be together both merry and wise.
This lesson must I practise, or else, ere long,
With me, Mathew Merygieekc, it will be wrong.
Indeed, men so call me, for, by him that us bought,
Whatever chance betide, I can take no thought.
Yet, wisdom would that I did myself bethink
Where to be provided this day of meat and cii'ink :
For, know ye that, for all this mci'ry note of mine,
He might appose me now, that should ask where I dine
My living lieth here and there, of God's grace.
Sometime with this good man, sometime in that place ;
Sometime Lewis Loj-trer biddeth me come near ;
Somowhiles Watkin Waster maketh us good cheer ;
Sometime Davy Diceplayer when he hath well cast
Maketh revel rout, as long as it will last ;
Sometime Tom Titivile'' maketh us a feast ;
* I apply these contemporary sketches of character to subjects
which they fit. They were sketched by Holbein as margiu-il notes to
the book, to express, as he read, various types of the folly satirised
by Erasmus.
3 Hie roystina sort. Royster's name is taken from an old word for a
swaggerer. Old French " rustre," a ruffian, from the rustaru or
rutarii, freebooters of France iu the eleventh century. Hector says,
in Shakespeare's " Troilus and Cressida "^
" I have a roysting cb;illeuge sent among
The dull and factions noliles of the Greeks."
* Tifjui?f was an old name for a worthless knave. Tutivilus was the
TO A.D. 1541.]
PLAYS.
23
"sometime with Sir Hugh Pye I am a bidden guest ;
Sometime at Nichol Nevei-thrive's I get a sop;
Sometime I am feasted with Biyan Blinkinsoppe ;
■< jmetime I hang on Hankyn Hoddydodie's sleeve ;
But this day on Ralph Royster Doyster's, by his leave:
For, truly, of all men he is my chief banker,
r.'jth for meat and money, and my chief sheet-anchor.
Forsooth, RoLster Doister in that he doth s;iy.
And require what ye will, ye shall have no nay.
But now, of Roister Doister somewhat to express.
That ye may esteem him after his worthiness.
In these twenty towns, ami seek thorn thi'oughout,
U not the like stock whereon to graft a lout.
All the day long is he facing and craking
Uf his great ,icts in fighting and fray-making ;
But, when Roister Doister is put to his proof.
To keep the Queen's peace is more for his behoof.
If any woman smile, or cast on him an eye,
Up is he to the hard e.'ti's in love, by-and-by ;
And in all the hot haste must she be his wife,
Else farewell his good days, and farewell his life :
JTtister Ralph Roister Doister is but dead and gone,
Except she on him take some compassion.
Then, chief of counsel must be JIathew Merygreeke, —
What, if I for marriage to such an one seek f
Then must I sooth it, whatever it is ;
For, what he saith or doth cannot be amiss.
Hold by his yea and nay, be his own white son :
Praise and rouse him well, and ye have his heart won;
Tot, so well liketh he his own fond fashions,
That he taketh pride of false commendations.
But such sport have I with him as I woidd not leesc,'
Though I should be bound to live with bread and cheese.
For, exalt him, and have him as ye lust, in deed ;
Yea, to hold his finger in a hole for a need.
I can with a word make him fain or loth ;
I can with as much make him pleased or wroth ;
I can, when I will, make him merry and glad ;
I ran, when me lust, make him sorry and sad ;
I can set him in hope, and eke in despair :
[ an make him speak rough, and make him speak fair.
I ;nt, I marvel I see him not all this same day ;
I will seek bim out. But lo ! he cometh this way.
I have yond espied him sadly coming.
And in love, for twenty pound, by his glumming.
ACT I— ScEXE 2.
Ralph Roisteb Doister ; Mathew Mertgbeere.
£. Roijster. Come, death, when thou wilt ; I am weary of
my life.
M. Mcnj. (I told you. I, we should woo another wife.)
R. Itoi/stcr. ^liy did (lod make me such a goodly person!'
-1/. .V<ri/. (He is in, by the week ; we shall have sport
anon.)
R. Rui/stcr. And where is my trusty friend, JIathew
Merygreeke ?
M. ilery. (I will make as I saw him not : he doth me
seek.)
R. Royster. I have him espied, me thinketh ; yond is he. —
Hough '. Mathew Merj'greeke, my friend, a word with thee.
M. Miry. (I will not hear him, but make as I had haste.)
Farewell, all my good friends, the time i.wny doth waste:
And the tide, they say, tarrieth for no man.
name of a demon who carried to hell all the words sbippo \
by the clergy in their services.
1 Leese, loi'e.
- m.in^led
R. Roijstcr. Thou must, with thy good counsel, help me,
if thou can.
M. ilcrij. God keep thee, worshipful Maister Roister
Doister,
And farewell the lusty Maister Roister Doister.
R. Royster. I must needs speak with thee a word jt
twain.
il. Mery. Within a month or two I will be here again.
Negligence m great affairs, ye know, may mar all.
Mathew IVIebtgbeeee
FfO/n a Sketch by Solhein in Erasmus's " Moria: Encomium."
R. Royster. Attend upon me now, and well reward thee I
shaU.
M. Mery, I have take my leave, and the tide is well
spent.
R. Roysttr. I die, except thou help; I pray thee be con-
tent.
Do thy part well now, and ask what thou wilt :
For, without thy aid, my matter is all spilt.
31. Mery. Then, to serve your turn I will some pains
take,
And let all mine own affairs alone for yom- sake.
S. Royster. My whole hope and trust resteth only in
thee.
M. Mery. Then can ye not do amiss, whatever it be.
R. Royster. Gramercies,' Merygreeke, most bound to thee
I am.
M. Mery. But, up with that heart, and speak out like a
ram;
Ye speak like a capon that had the cough now :
Be of good cheer : anon ye shall do well enow.
R. Royster. Upon thy comfort, I will all things wol"
handle.
M. Mery. So lo '. that is a breast to blow out a candle.
But, what is this great matter, I woidd fain know ?
We shall find remedy therefore, I trow.
Do ye lack money f you know mine old offers :
Ye have always a key to my purse and coffers.
R. Royster. ' I thank thee : had ever man such a friend !
M. Mery. Y'e give unto me : I must needs to you lend.
R. Royster. Xay, I have money plenty all things tc
discharge.
2 Gramercks, great thanks.
24
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[i.D. 1534
M. Mery. (That knew I right well, when I matle otfer so
large.)
B. Koijstir. But, it is no such matter.
M. May. A\"hiit is it, then ':
Are ye in danger of <lcl)t to any man ':
U ye be, take no thought, nor be not afraid :
Let them hardly take thouffht how they shall be paid.
li. Moi/Hter. Tut, I owe nought.
M. May. "WTiat then ? fear ye imprisonment ?
It. Roystir. No.
M. Ma-i/. No, I wist ye offend not so to be shent ; '
lUit, if ye had. the Tower could not you so hold,
Hut to break out at all times ye would be bold.
What is it r hath any man threatened you to beat "r
J{. Roystev. What is he that durst have put me in that
heat ':
He that beateth me, by his arms, shall well find
That I will not be far from him. nor rini behind.
M. Mery. That thing know all men, ever since ye over-
threw
The fellow of the lion which Hercules slew.
But what is it then 'r
R. Roysta: Of love I make my moan.
M. Mery. Ah, this foolish love ! will 't ne'er let us alone''
But, because ye were refused the last day.
Ye said ye would ne'er more be entangled that way.
1 would meddle no more, since I tind all so unkind.
R. Ruystir. Yea, but I cannot so put love out of my
mind.
M. Ma-y. But, is your love, tell me first, in anywise.
In the "way of marriage or of merchandise ?
If it may otherwise than lawful be found.
Ye get none of my help for an hundred pound.
R. Roystcr. No, by my troth, I would have her to my
wife.
M. Mery. Then are ye a good man and God save your
life :
And what or who is she, with whom ye are in love ;-■
R. Roy.stcr. A woman, whom I know not by what means
to move.
M. Mery. "WTio is it ?
. S. Royster. A woman vend.
M. Mery. What is her name ?
R. Royaler. Her yonder.
M. Ma-y. Whom ':
£. Royster. Mistress, ah —
M. Mery. Fie, fie, for shame !
Love ye, and know not whom;- but "heryond" — "awoman"?
We shall then get you a wife, I cannot tell whan.
R. Royaler. The fair woman that supped with us yester-
night;
And I heard her name twice or thrice, and had it right.
M. Mery. Yea, ye may see ye ne'er take me to good
cheer with you,
If ye had, T could have told you her name now.
R. Royslcr. I was to blame indeed, but the next time
perchance: —
And she dwelleth in this house.
M. Mery. VThat. Cliristian Custance P
R. Royster. Except I have her to my wife, I shall run
mad.
M. Mery. Nay, unwise, perhaps ; but I warrant you for
mad.
1 SJienl, shamed. First-EngUsli "scendan," to shame, confound,
reproacla.
M. Royster. I am utterly dead, unless I have ray desire.
M. 3Iery. AVhere be the bellows that blew this sudden
firo I'
K. Royster. I hear she is worth a thousand pound and
more.
M. Mery. Yea., but learn this one lesson of me afore :
.\n liundred pound of niarriage-nioney doubtless.
Is ever thirty pound sterling, or somewhat less;
So tliat lier thousand ])ound, if she be thrifty.
Is much neer about two liundied and fifty.
Howbeit, wooers and widows are never pool'.
R. Royslcr. Is she a widow ': 1 love her better there-
fore.
M. 3Iery. But I hear she hath made promise to another.
R. Royster. He shall go without lier, and - he were my
brotlu'r.
M. Mery. I have heard say, I am right well advised,
That she hath to Gawin Goodluek promised.
R. Royster. What is that Gawin Goodluek ':
M. Mery. A merchant man.
R. Royster. Shall he speed afore me ? Nay, sii'. by sweet
Saint Anne I
Ah, sir I " Backai'e ! '' quod IMortimer to his sow : •'
I will have her mine own self, 1 make God avow ;
For, I tell thee, she is worth a thousand pound.
M. Mery. Yet a fitter wife for yoiu' ma'ship might be
foimd ;
Such a goodly man as you might get one with hind.
Besides pounds of gold a thousand and a thousand,
And a thousand, and a thousand, and a thousand.
And so to the sum of twenty hundred thousand :
Your most goodly per.sonage is worthy of no less.
R. Royster. I am sorry God made me so comely, doubt
less ;
For that makcth me each-where so highly favoured.
And all women on me so enamotired.
M. Mery. Enamofired, quod you 'i have ye spied out
that ?
Ah. sir ! marry, now 1 I see you know what is what.
Enamoljred, ka ? ■* many, sir, say that again ;
But I thought not ye had marked it so plain.
R. Royslcr. Yes, each-wbeie they gaze all upon me, and
stare.
M. Mery. Y'ea, malkin, I warrant you, as much as they
dare.
And ye will not believe what they say in the street,
When your ma'ship pa.sseth by, all such as I meet.
That sometimes 1 can scarce find what answer to make.
" Who is this ':• " (saitb one) '• Sir Launcelot du Lake ■-"
" Who is this P great Guy of Warwick 'r " saith another.
" No " (saith I), " it is tlie thirteenth Hercules' brother."
" Wlio is this 'i noble Hector of Troy ? " saith the third :
" No, but of the same nest " (say I) " it is a bird."
•' ^^^^o is this 'i great Goliah, Sampson, or Colbrand '( "
" No " (say I), " but it is a brute of the Alie laud."
" MTio is this ? great Alexander ? or Charle le Maigne ? "
" No, it is the tenth worthy," say I to them again :
I know not if I sai<l well —
R. Royster. Yes, for so I am.
M. Mery. Y'ea, for there were but nine worthies before
ve came.
2 And, if.
3 This is given among his proverl>5 by John Heywood. Greuiio says
to Peti-nchio in the " Tnniiug of the Sbi'ew,"—
" Backare ; you are marvellous forward."
^ K", quotha.
TO A.D. 1541.]
PLAYS.
25
To some others, the third Cato I do you call ;
And so, as well as I can, I answer them all,
" Sir, I pray you what loi'd or great gentleman is this ? "
" Maister Ealph Roister Doister, dame " (say I), " y'wis." '
" Lord ! " (saith she then) " what a goodly man it is I
Would [that] I had such a husband as he is 1 "
" Lord ! " (say some) " that the sight of his face we lack ! "
" It is enough for you " (Siiy I) " to see his back ;
His face is for ladies of high and noble parages,
With whom he hardly 'scapeth great marriages : "
With much more than this, and much otherwise.
R. Roystir. I can thee thank, that thou can such answers
de\'ise :
But I perceive thou dost me tliroughly know.
M. Menj. I mark your manners for mine own learning, I
trow.
But such is your beaut}', and such are your acts,
Such is your personage, and such are j-our facts,
Th;it all women, fail- and foul, more and less.
They eye you, they lubbe you, they talk of you doubtless.
Your pleasant look maketh them all merrj-.
Ye pass not by, but they laugh till they be weary ;
Yea,' and money could I have, the truth to tell,
Of many to bring you that way where they dwell.
R. Roi/sier. Merj'greeke, for this thy reporting well of
me
M. Mery. '\\Tiat should I else, sir-? it is my duty,
pardee.
R. Roi/shr. I pi'omise thou shalt not lack, whUo I have a
groat.
M. Mtrij. Faith, sir, and I ne'er had more need of a new
coat.
R. Roi/stcr. Thou shalt have one to-morrow, and gold for
to spend.
M. Merij. Then, I trust to bring the day to a good end.
For, as for mine own part, having money enow,
I could live only with the remembrance of you.
But now to your widow, whom you love so hot.
R. Roi/ster. By cocke I thou sayest truth, I had almost
forgot.
M. Mcrij. What, if Christian Custance wiU not have
you, what ':
R. Royster. Have me ? yes. I warrant you — never doubt
of that :
I know she loveth me, but she dare not speak.
M. Mery. Indeed, meet it were somebody should it break.
R. Royster. She looked on me twenty times yesternight,
And laughed so
M. Mery. That she could not sit upright.
R. Royster. No, faith, could she not.
M. Mery. No, even such a thing I cast.
R. Royster. But, for wooing, thou knowest, women are
shamefast.
But, and " she knew my mind, I know she would be glad,
And think it the best chance that e'er she had.
M. Mery. To her, then, like a man, and be bold forth to
start :
Wooers ne'er speed well that have a false heart.
R. Royster. ^^^lat may I best do ?
M. Mery. Sir, remain ye a while :
Ere long one or other of her house will appear.
Ye Icnow my mind.
R. Royster. Yea, now hardly let me alone.
M. Mery. In the meantime, sir, if you jjlease, I wUl
home,
And call your musicians ; for, in this your case.
It would set you forth, and all your wooing grace.
Ye may not lack your instruments to play and sing.
R. Royster. Thou knowest I can do that
M. Mery. As well as an)-thing.
Shall I go call youi- folks, that we may show a cast ?
R. Royster. Yea, run, I beseech thee, in all i)0ssible haste.
M. Mery. I go. \_EjcU.
R. Royster. Yea, for I lo\-e singing, out of measure.
It comforteth my spirits, and doth me great pleasure.
But who Cometh forth yond from my sweetheart Custance ?
My matter fi-ameth well : this is a lucky chiince.
ACT I.— ScEHE 3.
Madge Mumbleceost, siiijiiung on the distaff: Tibet Talkapace,
sewing; Annot Alyface, tuittiiig; E. Eoistee.
M. Mumbl. If this distaff were spun, Margerie Mumble-
crust •
Tib. Tall;. Where good stale ale is, we '11 drink no water,
I trust.
M. Miinibl. Dame Custance hath promised us good ale and
white bread.
Tib. Talk. If she keep not promise, I will beshrew her
head.
But it will be stark night before I shall have done.
R. Royster. I wiU stand here awhile, and talk with them
anon.
I hear them speak of Custance, which doth my heart good ;
To hear her name spoken doth even comfort my blood.
M. Mumbl. Sit down to your work, Tibet, like a good
girl.
Tib. Talk. Nurse, meddle you with your spindle and your
whirl.
No haste but good, Madge Mumblecrust ; for, " WTiip and
whur,"
The old proverb doth say, " never made good fur."
M. Mumbl. Well, ye will sit down to your work anon, I
trust.
Tib. Talk. " Soft fii-e maketh sweet malt," good Madge
Mumblecrust.
M. Mumbl. And sweet malt maketh jolly good ale for the
nones.
Tib. Talk. Which wOl slide down the lane without any
bone*?- [Caiitet.^
Old brown-bread crusts must have much good mumbling ;
But, good ale down your throat hath good easy tumbling.
R. Royster. The jolhest wench that e'er I heard ! Little
mouse !
May I not rejoice that she shall dwell in my house ?
Tib. Talk. So, sirrah! now this gear beginneth for to
frame.
M. Mumbl. Thanks to God, though your work stand stiU,
your tongue is not lame.
Tib. Talk. And though your teeth be gone, both so sharp
and so fine.
Yet your tongue can run on pattens as well as mine.
M. Mumbl. Ye were not for nought named Tib Talkapace.
Tib. Talk. Doth my talk grieve you ? Alack ! God save
your grace !
M. Mumbl. I hold a groat, ye \vill di-ink anon for this
gear.
Tib. Talk. And I will not pray you the stripes for me to
bear.
M. Mumbl. I hold a penny, ye ^•ill diink without a cup.
Tib. Talk. 'NATiereinsoe'er ye drink, I wot ye drink all up.
^ Y'wis, or I ((, is = First-English " gewis,'
124
certainly.
2 And, if.
» Caiitet, Here let her sing.
26
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[a.d. 1534
All. All/face. By cock ! and well sewed, my good Tibet
Talkapace.
Talk. And e'en as well knit, my own Annot Alyfacc.
Tib.
See what a sort ' she keepeth that must be my
R. Soi/ster.
wife :
ShaU not I, when I have her, lead a merry life ?
Tib. Talk. Welcome, my good wench, and sit here by me
just.
An. All/face. And how doth our old beldame here, Madge
Mumblecrust ?
Tib. Talk. Chide, and find fault, and threaten to complain.
An. All/face. To make us poor girls shent, to her is small
gain.
M. Miimbl. I did neither chide, nor complain, nor threaten.
R. Roijster. It would grieve my heart to see one of them
beaten.
M. Miimbl. I did nothing but bid her work, and hold her
peace.
Tib. Talk. So would I, if you could your clattering cease;
But the de'il cannot make old trot hold her tongue.
An. Ahjface. Let all these matters pass, and we three sing
a song ;
So shall we pleasantly both the time beguile now,
And eke dispatch aU our works, ere we can tell how,
Tib. Talk. I shrew them that say nay, and that shall not
be I.
M. Mumbl. And I am well content.
Tib. Talk. SUig on then, by-and-by.
if. Royster. And I will not away, but listen to their song;
Tet, Merygreeke and my folks tarry very long.
Tib., An., and Margerie do sing here.
Pipe, merry Annot ; &c.
Trilla, TriUa, Trillarie.
Work, Tibet ; work, Annot ; work, llargerie ;
Sew, Tibet ; knit, Annot : .spin, JIargerie :
Let us see who will win the victory.
Tib. Talk. This sleeve is not willing to be sewed, I trow.
A small thing might make me all in the ground to throw.
Then they sing again.
Pipe, merry Annot ; &c.
TriUa, TriUa, Trillarie.
What, Tibet 1 what, Annot 1 what, Margerie !
Ye sleep, but we do not, that shall we try ;
Your fingers be numbed, our work will not lie.
Tib. Talk. If ye do so again, well ; I would advise you
nay.
In good sooth, one stop more, and I make holiday.
They sing the third time.
Pipe, merry Annot ; &c.
Trilla, Triila, Trillarie.
Now Tibet, now Annot, now Margerie ;
Now whippet apace for the master)- :
But it wiU not be, our mouth is so dry.
^ Sort, company ; from Latin " serere," to hind or join together. In
Mailowe's " Edward II," Young Mortimer says to the king—
" Who loves thee but a sort of flatterers ?"
'Shakespeare's " Eichard n." says in the abdication scene—
" Mine eyes are full of tears, I cannot see ;
And yet salt water bhnds them not so much
But they can see a sort of traitors here."
Tib. Talk. Ah, each finger is a thumb to-day, mcthink :
I care not to let all alone, choose it swim or sink.
They sing the fourth time.
Pipe, merry Annot ; &c.
Trilla, Trilla, Trillarie.
When, Tibet ? when, Annot I- when, Margerie ?
I will not, — I can not, — no more can I.
Then give we all over, and there let it lie !
\_Let her cast eluicn her work.
Tib. Talk. There it lieth; the -worst is but a curried coat :*
Tut 1 I am used thereto — I care not a groat.
An. Alyface. Have we done singing since r then will I in
again.
Here I found you, and here I leave both twain. [Exit.
il. Mtiinbl. Axxd I will not be long after. Tib Talk-
apace !
Tib. Talk. What is the matter r
M. Jliimbl. Yond stood a man all this space,
And hath heard all that e'er we spake together.
Tib. Talk. Marry, the more lout he for his coming
hither.
And the less good he can to listen maidens' talk.
I care not and I go bid bim hence for to walk :
It were well done to know what he maketh here away.
R. Royster. Now might I speak to them, if I wist what
to say.
Nay, we will go both of's, and see what
M.
R.
One that heard all vour talk .ind singing
Mnmbl.
he is.
Royster.
y'wis,
Tib. Talk. The more to blame you : a good thi-ifty
husbimd ^
Would elsewhere have had some better matters in hand.
R. Royster. I did it for no harm ; but for good love I
bear
To your dame. Mistress Custance, I did your talk hear.
And, mistress nurse, I will kiss you for acquaintance.
Madge Mumblecrust.
Froju a Sketch by Holbein in Erasmus's " Moria Encomium."
M. Mumbl. I come anon, sir.
Tib. Talk. Faith, I would our Dame Custance
Saw this gear.
* I can only be beaten.
* Husband, houseteeper.
A.D. 1511.]
PLAYS.
27
.U. Miimbl. I must first wipe all clean, yea, I must.
Tib. Talk. lU chieve it, doting fool, but it must be cust. '
^[. Mitmbl. God yelde you, sii-; chad- not so much, I chot
I j not when :
ll^e'er since chwas bom, ch\^'ine, of such a gay gentleman.
R. Roijster. I will kiss you too, maiden, for the goodwill
I bear ye.
Tib. Talk, No, forsooth 1 by your leave, ye shall not kiss
me.
S. Soyster. Yes, be not afeard ; I do not disdain you a
whit.
Tib. Talk. Why should I fear you ? I have not so Uttle
wit;
Te are but a man, I know very well.
S. Soijster. Why, then ':
Tib. Talk. Forsooth, for I will not : I use not to kiss men.
R. Soyster. I would fain kiss you too, good maiden, if I
might.
Tib. Talk, 'tt'hat should that need 'i
R. Eoijster. But to honour you, by this light.
I use to kiss all them that I love, to God I vow.
Tib. Talk. Yea, sir ? I pray you, when did you last
kiss your cow ?
E. Royster. Ye might be proud to kiss me, if ye were
wise.
Tib. Talk. What promotion were therein ';
R. Royster. Nurse is not so nice.
Tib. Talk. Well, I have not been taught to kissing and
licking.
R. Royster. Yet, I thank )-ou, mistress nurse, ye made no
sticking.
M. Mumbl. I will not stick for a kiss, ^\-ith such a man as
you.
Tib. Talk. They that list : I -nTll again to my sewing
now.
An. Alyfacc. {Enters oyoin.) Tidings hough 1 tidings I
Dame Custance gi'eeteth you well.
R. Royster. Whom ? me ':"
An. Alyface. You, sir ? No, sir ; I do no such tale tell.
R. Royster. But, and^ she knew me here.
All. Alyface. Tibet Talkapace,
Your mistress Custance and mine must speak with youi'
grace.
Tib. Talk. With me ?
An. Alyface. You must come in to her, out of all doubts.
Tib. Talk. And my work not half done ? a mischief on
all louts ! \_Ex. ambo.
R. Royster. Ah, good, sweet nurse.
if. Mninble. Ah, good, sweet gentleman.
R. Royster. WTiat l"
M. Maiiibl. Nay, I cannot tell, sir, but what thing would
you ?
R. Royster. How doth sweet Custance, my heart of gold
— tell me how ?
M. MuiiM. She doth vei-y well, sir, and commend me to
you.
R. Royster. To me ?
M. Miiiiibl, Yea, to you, sir.
R. Royster. To me, nui-se — tell me plain —
To meP
M. Mumbl. Yea.
R. Royster. That word maketh me aUve again.
1 Cust, kissed.
' Chad. I had ; Chot, I wot ; Ch>ras, I was ; CTu-inc, I ween.
3 And., if. So iu various places.
M. Mumbl. She commend me to one, last day, whoe'er it
was.
R. Royster. That was e'en to me, and none other, by the
mass.
M. Mumbl. I cannot tell you surely, but one it was.
R. Royster. It was I, and none other :— this cometh to
good pass.
I promise thee, nurse, I favour her.
M. Mumbl. E'en so, sii'.
R. Royster. Bid her sue to me for marriage.
M. Mumbl. E'en so, sir.
R. Royster. And surely for thy sake she shall speed.
M. Mumbl. E'en so, sir.
R. Royster. I shiiU be contented to take her.
M. Mumbl. E'en so, sir.
R. Royster. But at thy request, and for thy sake.
M. Mumbl. E'en so, sir.
R. Royster. And, come, hark in thine ear what to say.
M. Mumbl. E'en so, sir.
[Here let him tell her a great long tale in her ear.
ACT I.— Scene 4.
MATHEW MeKTGEEEKE ; DOBINET DoCGBTIE : HaRPAX ; EiLPH
EOTSTER ; ]\IabGEB1E MuMBLECECST.
M. Mcry. Come on, sirs, apace, and quit yourselves like
men.
Your pains shall be rewarded.
I). Bough. But, I wot not when.
M. Mery. Do your maister worship, as ye have done in
time past.
B. Dough. Speak to them : of mine office he shall have a
cast.
M. Mery. Harpax, look that thou do well too, and thy
fellow.
Sarpai. I warrant, if he will mine example follow.
M. Mcry. Curtsey, [rascals] I duck you and crouch at
every word.
D. Dough. Yes, whether our maister speak earnest or
bordc"
M. Mery. For this lieth upon his preferment indeed.
D. Dough. Oft is he a wooer, but never doth he speed.
M. Mery. But, with whom is he now so sadly rounding'
yond ?
D. Dough. With Xobs niccbecetur miserere fond.
Mery. God be at yom- wedding : be ye sped already ?
I did not suppose that your love was so greedy.
I perceive now j-e have chose of devotion ;
And joy have ye, lady, of your promotion.
R. Royster. Tush, fool! thou art deceived, this is not she.
M. Mery. Well, make much of her, and keep her weU, I
'\-ise ye.
I will take no charge of such a fair piece keeping.
M. Mumbl. What aileth thy fellow ? he driveth me to
weeping.
M. Mcry. What, weep on the wedding-day ? be merry
woman,
Though I say it, ye have chose a good gentleman.
R. Royster. Cock's nownes '. what meanest thou, man ';
tut, a whistle.
M. Mery. Ah, sir, be good to her ; she is but a gristle,
Ah, sweet lamb and coney.
* Bmde, jest. French "bonide."
5 J?oiiik!;ii;), whispering (First-En?Ush "mnlan"). Eunes were
words written, commimicated without soond, whence " runian " was
to speak under breath, secretly.
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[a.d. 1534
£. Royster. Tut ! thou art deceived.
M. Merij. Weep no more, lady, ye shall be well received.
Up with some merry noise, sirs, to bring home the bride !
R. Koijsfer. Gog's arms, knave ! art thou mad ? I tcU thee
thou art wide.
M. Mery. Then, ye intend by night to have her home
brought.
E. Royster. I tell thee, no.
M. Mery. How then Y
R. Royster. 'Tis neither meant ne thought.
M. Mery. What shall we then do with her ?
R. Royster. Ah, foolish harebrain !
This is not she.
M. Mery. No is ? Why then unsaid again :
And what young girl is this with your ma' ship so bold ?
R. Royster. A girl ?
M. Mery. Yea, I daresay, scarce yet threescore year old.
R. Royster. This same is the fair widow's nurse, of whom
ye wot.
M. Mery. Is she but a nurse of a house ? hence home, old
trot!
Hence, at once.
R. Royster. No, no.
M. Mery. What, an please your ma' ship,
A nurse talk so homely with one of your worship ?
R. Royster. I will have it so : it is my pleasure and will.
M. Mery. Then I am content. Nurse, come again, tarry
still.
R. Royster. What ! she will help forward this my suit, for
her part.
M. Mery. Then is't mine own pig's-nie, and blessing on
my heart.
R. Royster. This is our best friend, man.
M. Mery. Then teach her what to say.
M. Mum///. I am taught already.
M. Mery. Then go, make no delay.
R. Royster. Yet hark, one word in thine ear.
M. Mery. Back, sirs, from his tail !
R. Royster. Back, villains 1 will ye be privy of my coim-
sail?
M. Mery. Back, sirs ! so : I told you afore, ye would be
shent.
R. Royster. She shall have the first day a whole peck of
argent.
M. Miimb/. A peck ! Norn iiie Pat r is, have ye so much [to]
spare ?
R. Royster. Yea, anda cart-load therotc. or eisewereithare;
Besides other movables, household stufi and land.
M. Miimb/. Have ye lands too ?
R. Royster. An hundred marks.
M. Mery. Yea, a thousand.
M. Muml)l. And have ye cattle too ? and sheep too ?
R. Royster. Yea, a few.
M. Mery. He is ashamed the number of them to shew.
E'en round about him as many thousand sheep goes.
As he and thou and I too have fingers and toes.
M. Mioiib/. And how many years old be you ?
R. Royster. Forty at least.
M. Mery. Yea, and thi-ice forty to them.
R. Royster. Nay, thou dost jest.
I am not so old : thou misreckonest my years.
M. Mery. I know that : but my mind was on bullocks
and steers.
M. MiinM. And what shall I show her your mastership's
name is ?
R. Royster. Nay, she shall make suit, ere she know that
y'wis.
M. Mnmbl. Yet, let me somewhat know.
M. Mery. This is he, imderstand.
That killed the blue spider in Blanehcpouder land.
M. Mnmbl. Yea, [holy] William, zee law 1 did he zo, law?
M. Mery. Yea, and the last elephant that ever he saw,
As the beast passed by, he start out of a busk'.
And e'en with pure strength of anus pluckt out his great
tusk.
M. Mioiibl. Jesus Komoie Patris, what a tiling was that !
R. Roystir. Yea, but Jlerj-gi-eeke, one thing thou hast
forgot.
M. Mery. What ?
R. Royster. Of th' other elephant.
M. 3Iery. Oh, him that fled away ?
if. Royster. Yea.
M. Mery. Yea, he knew that his match was in place that
day.
Tut I he beat the king of crickets on Christmas Day,
Th.at he crept in a hole, and not a word to say.
M. Mnmbl. A sore man, by zembletee.
M. Mery. Why, he wrung a club.
Once in a fray, out of the hand of Belzebub.
R. Royster. And how when ilumfision
M. Mery. Oh, your coustreling
Bore the lantern a-field so before the gozeling —
Nay, that is too long a matter now to be told.
Never ask his name, nurse, I waiTant thee, be bold :
He conquered in one day from Rome to Naples,
And won towns, nurse, as fast as thou canst make apples.
M. Mumbl. O Lord ! my heart quaketh for fear, he is so
sore.
R. Royster. Thou makest her too much afeared, Mery-
greeke ; no more.
This tale would fear my sweetheart Custance right evil.
M. Mery. Nay, let her take hiin, nui-se, and fear not th^
de'STl.
But, thus is our song dashed. — Sirs, ye may home again.
R. Royster. No, shall they not. I charge you all, here to
remain.
The rillain slaves, a whole day. ere they can be found.
M. Mery. Couch on your man'owbones, [rascals], down to
the ground.
Was it meet he shoidd tarry so long in one place,
Without harmonj- of music, or some solace ?
Whoso hath such bees as your maister in his head
Had need to have his spiiits writh music be fed. —
By your maistership's license. [Flicks at him.']
R. Royster. AVhat is that ': a mote ?
M. Mery. No, it was a fool's feather had light on your coat.
R. Royster. I was nigh no feathers, since I came from my
bed.
M. Mery. No, sir, it was a hair that was fall from your
head.
R. Royster. My men come when it please them.
M. Mery. By your le.ave. [ Flieks at him again.]
R. Royster. \Vhat. is that ?
M. Mery. Your gown was foul spotted with the foot of a
gnat.
R. Royster. Their maister to ofltend they are nothing
afeared. — [M. fides at him ayaiii.]
What now ?
M. Mery. A lousy hair from your maistership's beard.
And, sir, for nm-se's sake, pardon this one offence.
Omnes Famit/tv.- We shsiU not after this shew the like
' Bust, bush.
* Omnes famnlcE^ all the servants.
TO A.D. 15*1.]
PLAYS.
29
£. Hc'/stfr. I pardon you this once ; and come, sing ne'er
the worse.
M. Mcri/. How like you the goodness of this gentleman,
nurse?
31. ilunihl. God save his maisterahip, that can so his men
forgive ;
And I will hear them sing ere I go, by his leave.
R. Royster. ^arry, and thou shalt, wench : come, we two
wiU dance.
M. MumbJ. Nay, I will by mine own self foot the song
perchance.
E. Roijstcr. Go it, sirs, lustUy.
M. Mitmbl. Pipe up a merry note.
Let me hear it plaj-ed, I wiU foot it for a groat. [ Content.
\_Xurse dancing.
Who so to marry a minion wife,
Hath had good chance and hap.
Must love her and cherish her all his life.
And dandle her in his lap.
If she will fare well, if she will go gay,
A good husband ever still.
Whatever she lust to do or to say.
Must let her have her own ■wiU.
About what affairs soever he go.
He must show her all his mind,
None of his counsel she may be kept fro',
Else is he a man unkind.
R. Eoyster. Now, nurse, take this same letter here to thy
mistress ;
_Vnd as my trast is in thee, ply my business.
M. Miiiiibl. It shall be done.
M. Merij. WTio made it 'i
R. Royster. I wrote it each whit.
M. Mcry. Then needs it no mending.
R. Royster. No. no.
M. Mery. No, I know your wit.
R. Royitir. I warrant it well.
Jtr. Miimbl. It shall be delivered :
But, if ye speed, shall I be considered?
M. May. Whough I dost thou doubt of that ?
i[. Miimbl. 'WTiat shall I have ?
M. Mery. An hundred times more than thou canst devise
to crave.
M. Miimbl. Shall I have some new gear? for my old is all
spent.
M. Mtry. The worst kitchen-wench shall go in ladies'
raiment.
M. Mitmbl. Yea ?
M. Mery. And the worst drudge in the house shall go
better
Than your mistrcs-; doth now.
jr. Mitmbl. Then I trudge with your letter.
R. Royster. Now may I repose me : Custance is mine
own.
Let us sing and play homeward, that it may be known.
M. Mery. But, are you sure that your letter is well
enough ?
R. Royster. I wrote it myself !
M. Mery. Then sing we to dinner.
[Sere they sing, and go out singing.
ACT I— ScESE 5.
CHBISTIAH CcSTiSCE ; MiKGEEIE MCMELECECST.
C. Cmtancc. "WTio took thee this letter, Margerle
Mumblecrust ?
! M. Mitmbl. A lusty gay bachelor took it me of trust.
And if ye seek to him, he wiU love your doing.
C. Custance. Yea, but where learned he that manner of
wooing ?
M. Mitmbl. If to sue to him you will any pains take.
He win have you to his wife (he saith) for my sake.
C. Custance. Some wise gentleman, belike. I am bespoken.
And I thought verily this had been some token
From my dear spouse, Gawin Goodluck, whom, when him
please,
God luckily send home, to both our hearts' ease 1
M. Mitmbl. A joUy man it is, I wot well by report.
And would have you to him for marriage resort.
Best open the writing, and see what it doth speak.
C. Custance. At this time, nurse, I wiU neither read nor
break.
M. Miimbl. He promised to give you a whole peck of
gold.
C. Custance. Perchance, lack of a pint, when it shall be
all told.
M. Mitmbl. I would take a gay rich husband, and I were
you.
C. Custance. In good sooth, Madge, e'en so would I, if 1
were thou.
But, no more of this fond talk now ; let us go in.
And see thou no more move me folly to begin ;
Nor bring me no more letters for no man's pleasure,
But thou know from whom.
M. Mitmbl. I warrant ye shall be sure.
ACT n.— SCESE I.
DOBINET DOUGHTIE.
B. Bough. "Where is the house I go to, before or behind ?
I know not where, nor when, nor how I shall it find.
If I had ten men's bodies, and legs, and strength.
This trotting that I have must needs lame me at length.
And now that my maister is new set on wooing,
I trust there shall none of us find lack of doing :
Two pairs of shoes a day will now be too Uttle
To serve me, I must trot to and fro so mickle.
'• Go bear me this token ; carry me this letter ; "
Now this is the best way ; now that way is better.
•■ Up before day, sirs, I charge you, an hour or twain :
Trudge, do me this message, and bring word quick again."
If one miss but a minute, then, his arms and woimds,
'■ I would not have slacked for ten thousand pounds.
Nay see, I beseech you, if my most trusty page
Go not now about to hinder my marriage."
So fervent hot wooing, and so far from wiving,
I trow, never was any creature living ;
With every woman is he in some love's pang;
Then up to our lute at midnight, twangledom twang.
Then twang with our sonnets, and twang with our dumps.
And heisho I from our heart, as heavy as lead lumps.
Then to our recorder, with toodlaloodle-poop.
As the owlet out of an ivy-bush should whoop.
Anon to our gittem, thrumpledum thrumpledum thnim,
Thrumpledum, thnunpledum, thrumpledum, thrumpledum,
thrum.
Of songs and ballads also he is a maker.
And that can he as finely do as Jack Eaker ;
Yea. and extempore will he ditties compose ;
Foolish Marsyas ne'er made the like I suppose ;
Yet must we sing them, as good stuff, I undertake,
Ai for .«Mch a penman is well fitting to make.
30
CASSELL'S LIBKARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
ri.D. 1534
" Ah, for these long nights I heigho ! when wiU it ho day ?
I fear ere I come, she will be wooed away; "
Then, when answer is made, that it may not be,
" O death, why comest thou not I' " by and by saith he.
But then, from liis heart to put away sorrow.
He is as far in with some new love ne.xt morrow.
But, in the mean season, we trudge and we trot.
From dayspring to midnight I sit not, nor rest not.
And now am I sent to Dame Chi-istian Custance ;
But I fear it will end with a mock for pastanee.'
I bring her a ring, with a token in a clout,
And, by all guess, this same is her house out of doubt.
I know it now perfect, I am in my right way :
And lo 1 yond the old nui'se, that was with us last day.
ACT II.— Scene 2.
Madge Mumblecrust ; Dobinet Doughtie.
M. Mumhl. I was ne'er so shook up afore, since I was
bom:
That cm' mistress could not have chid, I would have sworn.
And I pray God I die, if I meant any harm ;
But for my Ufetime this shall be to me a charm.
D. Doiirih. God you save and see, nurse ; and how is it
with you 'r
M. Mumbl. Marry, a great deal the worse it is, for such
as thou 1
D. Dough. For me ? A^Tiy so ?
M. Miimbl. ^\Tiy, were not thou one of them, say.
That sang and played here with the gentleman last d;xy ?
I). Dongh . Yes, and he would know if you have for him
spoken ;
And prays you to deliver this ring and token.
M. Mumhl. Now, by the token that God tokened, brother,
I will deliver no token, one nor other.
I have once been so shent for your maister's pleasure,
As I will not be again for all his treasure.
D. Bough. He will thank you, woman.
M. Mumhl. I will none of his thank. \Ex. M. Mumbl.
D. Dough. I ween 1 am a prophet ; this gear will prove
blank.
But what, should I home again without answer go ?
It were better go to Kome on my head, than so.
I ■btH tarry here this month but some of the house
Shall take it of me, and then I care not a mouse,
'iut yonder cometh forth a wench or a lad :
if he have not one Lombard's touch,- mj- luck is bad.
ACT II.— ScEKE 3.
Teopenie ; D. Dough. ; Tibet T. ; Annot Ai.
Trupenie. I am clean lost for lack of merry company ;
We 'gree not half well within, our wenches and I :
They will command like mistresses, they will forbid ;
If they be not served, Trupenie must be chid.
Let them be as merry now, as ye can desii'e,
With turning of a hand our mirth Ueth in the mire.
I cannot skill-* of such changeable mettle.
There is nothing with them but. In dock, out nettle.
D. Dough. WTiether is it better, that I speak to him
first,
Or he first to me ? It is good to cast the worst.
If I begin first, he will smell aU my purpose.
Otherwise I shall not need anything to disclose.
' Pastanee (French "passe-temps"), pastune.
' Of gold or silver. Tlie Lombards being bankers.
' Skill, find reason.
Trupenie. "WTiat boy have we j-onder ;- I will sec what
he is.
D. Dough. He cometh to me. — It is hereabout, y'wis.
Trupenie. Wouldest thou aught, friend, that thou lookest
so about ?
D. Dough. Yea ; but whether ye can help me of no, I
doubt.
I seek to one Mistress Custance, here dwelling.
Trupenie. It is my mistress ye seek to, by your telling.
D. Dough. Is there any of that name here, but she 'r
Trupenie. Not one in all the whole town that I know,
pardee.
D. Dough. A widow she is, I trow ?
Trupenie. And what and she be ?
D. Dough. But ensured to an husband ?
Trupenie. Yea, so think we.
D. Dough. And I dwell with her husband that trusteth
to be.
Trupenie, In faith then must thou needs be welcome
to me.
Let us, for acquaintance, shake hands togither,
And, whate'er thou be, heartily welcome hither. [Maids enter.
Tib. Talk. Well, Trupenie, never but flinging ?
An. Alijface. And frisking I'
Trupenie. Well, Tibet and Annot, still swinging and
whisking i
Tib. Talk: But, ye roil^ abroad.
An. Abjface. In the street everywhere.
Trupenie. Where are ye twain I' in chambers, when ya
meet me there ?
But, come hither, fools : I have one now by the hand,
Servant to him that must be our mistress' husband ;
Bid him welcome.
An. Abjface. To me truly is he welcome.
Tib. Talk. Forsooth, and, as I may say, heartily welcome.
D. Dough. I thank j'ou, mistress maids.
An. Algfacc. I hope we shall better know.
Tib. Talk. And, when will our new master come ?
D. Dough. Shortly, I trow.
Tib. Talk. I would it were to-morrow ; for till he resort.
Our mistress, being a widow, hath small comfort :
And I heard our nurse speak of an husband to-day,
Ready for our mistress ; a rich man and a ga}'.
And we shall go in our French hoods every day ;
In our silk cassocks (I warrant you) fresh and gay ;
In our trick f erdegews, and billiments ^ of gold ;
Brave in our suits of change, seven double fold.
Then shall ye see Tibet, sirs, tread the moss so trim ;
Nay, why said I tread ': ye shall see her glide and swim ;
Not lumperdee, clumperdee, like our spaniel Rig.
Trupenie. Marry, then, prickmedainty ; come, toast me a
fig-
Who shall then know our Tib Talkapace, trow ye ?
An. Alyfaee. And why not Annot Alyface as fine as she r
Trupenie. And what, had Tom Trupenie a father, or
none 'f
An. Algfaee. Then, our pretty new-come man wiU look
to be one.
Trupenie. We four I trust shall be a jolly merry knot.
Shall we sing a fitte^ to welcome our friend, Annot !'
* Roil, romp, ramble. "
5 Ferdcgncs and liniments, servants' forms of the French " Ter-
tngal " and of "habiliment." The old French "vertugal" was the
eorUer form of the great farthingale of Ehzabeth's time, which
derived its name from it.
« Fitte, from First-English " fitt," a song.
TO A.D. 1511.]
PLAYS.
31
An. All/face. Perchance he cannot sing.
D. DoKf/h. I am at all assayes.
Tib. Talk. By cock ! and the better welcome to ns always.
Here they sing.
A thing verj' fit
For them that hare wit,
And are fellows knit,
Servants in one house to he ;
As fast for to sit,
And not oft to flit.
Nor vary a whit,
But loA-ingly to agree.
Xo man complaining,
Nor other disdaining,
For loss or for gaining.
But fellows or friends to he ;
No grudge remaining.
No work refraining,
Nor help restraining.
But lovingly to agree.
No man for despite.
By word or by write.
His fellow to twite.
But further in honesty ;
No good turns entwite,'
Nor old sores recite,
But let all go quite.
And lo^-ingly to agree.
After di'udgerio.
When they be wearie.
Then to be merrie.
To laugh and sing they be free ;
With chip and chei-rie.
Heigh derry derrie.
Trill on the berrie,
Tib. Tali: Win you now in with us unto our mistress
SO- j
D. DoKijh. I have first for my maister an errand or two. |
But, I have here from him a token and a ring ; j
They shall have most thank of her, that first doth it bring. |
Tib. Talk. Marrj-, that wiU I |
Trnpenie. See and Tibet snatch not now.
Tib. Talk. And, why may not I, sir, get thanks as well
as you ;- {Exeat.
All. Alijface. Yet get ye not all, we will go with you
both,
And have part of your thanks, be ye never so loth.
[E.rcant omnes.
D. Dough. So my hands are rid of it, I care for no more.
I may now retiim home : so durst I not afore. \_Exeat.
ACT n.— Scene 4
C. CCSTANCE ; TiEET ; AnNOT AlYFACE ; TEUPEKIE.
C. distance. Nay, come forth all three ; and come hither,
pretty maid ;
Will not so many forewamings make you afraid ?
Tib. Talk. Yes, forsooth.
1 Eni\i-iie, answer with blame. First- Engrlish "edwitan," from
''ed" = Latin re-, and "witan," to blame. Thence also imtc or ticit.
C. Citstaitce. But stiU be a runner up and down :
StiU be a bringer of tidings and tokens to town ?
Tib. Talk. No, forsooth, mistress.
C. Custance. Is all your delight and joy
In whisking and ramping abroad, like a tom-boy ?
Tib. Talk. Forsooth, these were there too, .innot and
Trupenie.
Trnpenie. Y''ea, but j-e alone took it, ye cannot deny.
An. Alyfaee. Yea, that ye did.
Tib. Talk. But, if I had not, ye twain would.
C. Custance. You great calf, ye should have more wit, so
ye should.
But, why should any of you take such things in hand ':
Tib. Talk. Because it came from him that must be your
husband.
C. distance. How do ye know that ?
Tib. Talk. Forsooth, the boy did say so.
C. Cttstance. A\'hat was his name h
An. Alyfacc. We asked not.
C. Custance. No did ?
An. Alyfaee. He is not far gone, of likelihood.
Trnpenie. I will see.
C. Custance. If thou canst find him in the street, bring
him to me.
Trupenie. Yes. [Exeat.
C. Custance. Well, ye naughty girls, if ever I perceive
That henceforth you do letters or tokens receive.
To bring unto me, from any person or place,
Except ye first show me the party face to face,
Either thou or thou, full truly abye- thou shalt.
Tib. Talk. Pardon this, and the ne.xt time powder me in
salt.
C. Custance. I shall make all girls, by you twain, to
beware.
Tib. Talk. If I ever offend again, do not me spare.
But, if ever I see that false boy any more.
By your mistresship's license, I tell you afore.
I wUl rather have my coat twenty times swinged.
Than on the naughty wag not to be avenged.
C. Custance. Good wenches would not so ramp abroad,
idelly.
But keep within doors, and ply their work earnestly.
If one would speak with me. that is a man hkely,
Ye shall have right good thank to bring me word quickly ;
But, otherwise, with messages to come in post.
From henceforth, I promise you, shall be to your cost.
Get you in to your work.
Tib. and Annot. Yes, forsooth.
C. Custance. Hence, both twain.
And let me see vou play me such a part again !
[E^. Tib. and Annot.
Trupenie. Mistress, I have run past the far end of the
street.
Yet can I not yonder crafty boy see nor meet.
C. Custance. No?
Trupenie. Yet I looked as far beyond the people.
As one may see out of the top of Paul's steeple.
. C. Custance. Hence, in at doors, and let me no more be
ve.\t I
Trupenie. Forgive me this one fault, and Lay on for thl
next.
a distance. Now wUl I in too, for I think, so God mt
mend.
This will prove some foolish matter in the end. [Exeat.
i Ahye, pay for it. First-English " abiogan," to buy back.
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ACT III.— Scene 1.
Mathew Meetgbeeke.
jM. Ma-y. Now say this again : he hath somewhat to
doing '
"Which followeth the trace of one that is wooing :
■Specially that hath no more -n-it in his head,
Than my cousin Roister Doister withal is led.
I am sent in all haste to espy and to mark
How our letters and tokens are likely to wark.
Maistcr Kuistcr Doister must have answer in haste,
For he loveth not to spend much lahom- in waste.
Now, as for Christian Custance, by this light,
Though she had not her troth to Gawin Goodluck plight,
Yet, rather than with such a loutish dolt to marry,
I daresay would hve a poor life solitary.
But, fain would I speak with Custance, if I wist how.
To laugh at the matter. Yond cometh one forth now.
ACT III.— Scene 2.
Tibet ; M. Meetgreeke ; Christian Custance
Tib. Talk. Ah ! that I might but once in my life have a
sight
Of him who made us all ao ill shent ; by this light,
He should never escape, if I had him by the ear,
But, oven from his head, I would it bite or tear.
Yea, and if one of them were not enow,
I would bite them both off, I make God avow.
M. Mi-rij. (What is he, whom this Uttlo mouse doth so
threaten ?)
Tib. Talk. I would teach him, I trow, to make girls ahent,
or beaten.
M. Merit. (I will call her.) — Maid, with whom are ye so
hasty ?
Tib. Tiilk. Not with you, sir, but with a httlc wag-pasty.
A deceiver of folks, by subtU craft and guile.
M. Ma-i/. ;I know where she is : Dobinct hath -wTOught
some wile.)
Tib. Talk. He brought a ring and token, which he said
was sent
From our dame's husband, but I wot well I was shent ;
For, it liked her as well (to tell you no Kes)
As water in her ship, or salt cast in her eyes :
And yet, whence it came, neither we nor she can tell.
M. Mery. (We ahaU have aport anon : I like thia very
weU.)—
And, dwell ye here with Mistress Custance, fair maid ?
Tib. Talk. Yea, marry do I, sir : what would ye have
said."
U. Mery. A httle message unto her, by word of mouth.
Tib. Talk. No messages, by your leave, nor tokens, for-
sooth.
M. Mery. Then, help me to speak with her.
Tib. Talk. With a good wiU that.
Here she cometh forth. Now, speak ; ye know best what.
C. distance. None other life with you, maid, but abroad
to skip ?
Tib. Talk. Forsooth, here is one would speak with your
mistresship.
C. Castame. Ah, have ye been learning of more messages
now?
Tib. Talk. I would not hear his mind, but bade him show
it to you.
C. Custance. In at doors !
» The man lias aometliing to do who follows a wooer.
Tib. Talk. 1 am gone. \_Ex,
M. Mery. Dame Custance, God ye save !
C. Custance. Welcome, friend Merj-greeke : and what
thing would ye have ?
M. Mery. I am come to j-ou, a little matter to break.
C. Custance. But see it be honest, else better not to speak.
M. Mery. How feel ye yourself affected here of late ?
C. Custance. I feel no manner change, but after the old
rate.
But whereby do ye mean ?
M. Mery. Concerning marriage.
Doth not love lade you ?
C. Custance. I feel no such carriage.
M. Mery. Do ye feel no pangs of dotage ? Answer ma
right.
C. Custance. I do SO, that I make but one sleep all the
night.
But what need aU these words ?
M. Mery. Oh, [Mercy] ! will ye see
What dissembling creatui-es these same women be ?
The gentleman ye wot of, whom ye do so lov?
That ye would fain marry him, if he dui-st it move,
Among other rich widows, which are of him glad.
Lest ye for losing of him perchance might run mad.
Is now contented that, upon your suit making.
Ye be as one in election of taking.
C. Custance. What a tale is this ! — That I wot of !
Whom I love !
M. Mery. Y'ea, and he is as loving a worm again as a
dove.
E'en of very pity he is willing you to take.
Because ye shall not destroy yourself for his sake.
C. Custance. Marry, God j-ield his ma' ship ; whatever he he.
It is gentlemanly spoken.
M. Mery. Is it not, trow ye ?
If ye have the grace now to offer yourself, ye speed.
C. distance. As much as though I did ; tliis time it shall
not need.
But what gentleman is it, I pray you tell me plain,
That wooeth so finely 'i
M. Mery. Lo, where ye be again ;
As though ye knew him not.
C. Custance. Tush ! ye speak in jest.
M. Mery. Nay, sure the party is in good Icnacking
earnest.
And have you he will (he saith) , and have you he must.
C. Custance. I am promised during my life ; that is just.
M. Mery. Marrj-, so thinketh he, unto him alone.
C. Custance. No creature hath my faith and troth but one,
That is Gawin Goodluck : and if it be not he.
He hath no title this way, whatever he be,
For I know none to whom I have such word spoken.
M. Mery. Ye know him not, you, by his letter and
token 't
C. Custance. Indeed, true it is, that a letter I have.
But I never read it yet, as God me save.
M. Mery. Ye a woman ? and your letter so long unread !
C. distance. Y'e may thereby know what haste I have tc
wed.
But now, who is it for mj- hand ? I know by gueas.
M. Mery. Ah 1 well, I say.
C. Custance. It is Roister Doister, doubtless.
jl/. Mery. Will ye never leave this dissimulation f
Ye know him not ?
C. Custance. But by imagination ;
For, no man there is but a very dolt and lout
That to woo a widow would so go about.
TO A.U. 1541.
PLAYS.
33
Ht shall never have me his wife while he do live.
Jf. Mtrij. Then will he have you if he may, so mote I
1 thrive;
And he hiddeth you send him word hy me.
That ye humbly beseech him ye maj- his wife be.
And that there shall be no let in you, nor mistrust,
But to be wedded on Sunday next, if he lust ;
And biddeth you to look for him.
C. Ciistance. Doth he bid so r
JT Mery. WTien he cometh, ask him whether he did or no.
C. Ciistance. Go, say. that I bid him keep him warm at
home.
For, if he come abroad, he shall cough me a mome.'
My mind was vexed, I 'shrew his head, sottish dolt.
M. Mery. He hath in his head
C. Ciistance. As much brain as a birdbolt.
M. Mery. "Well, Dame Custance, if he hear you thus play
choploge-
C. Custance. "What will he ':
M. Mery. Play the de\-il in the horologe.
C. Custance. I defy him, lout.
M. Mery. Shall I tell him what ye say ?
C. Custance. Tea, and add whatsoever thou canst, I thee
pray,
And I will avouch it, whatsoever it be.
M. Mery. Then let me alone ; we will laugh well, ye
shall see:
It will not be long ere he will hither resort.
C. Custance. Let him come when him lust, I wish no
better sport.
Fare }"e well, I will in, and read my great letter :
I shall to my wooer make answer the better. [Exeat.
ACT m.— ScEKE 3.
MaTHEW MeETGEEEKE ; BOISTEB DOISTEE.
M. Mery. Now that the whole answer in my device doth
rest,
I shall paint out our wooer in colours of the best.
And all that I say shall be on Custance' s mouth,
She is author of aU that I shall speak forsooth.
But }ond cometh Eobter Doister now, in a trance.
S. Royster. Juno send me this day good luck and good
chance !
I cHxmot but come see how Merygreeke doth speed.
M. Mery. I will not see him, but give him a jut ^
indeed. —
I cr)' your mastership mercy I
R. Royster. And whither now ?
M. Mery. As fast as I could rim, sir, in post against you.
But why speak ye so faintly, or why are ye so sad ':"
R. Royster. Thou knowest the proverb, — because I cannot
be had.
Hast thou spoken with this woman ?
M. Mery. Yea, that I have.
R. Royster. And what, will this gear be ?
M. Mery. Xo, so God me save.
R. Royster. Hast thou a fl.at answer ?
M. Mery. Xay, a sharp answer.
R. Royster. "What f
M. Mery. Ye shall not (she saith), by her will, marry her
cat.
Yf are such a calf, such an ass, such a block,
Such a lilbume, such a hoball, such a lobcock ; '
' A mmne, a fool. * Choploge, chop-logic.
' Give him a jut^ run aarainst him.
* LiJhiime. a heavy, stnpid feUow ; hoiail, idiot ; lobcoct, lubher.
And, because ye should come to her at no season.
She despised your ma 'ship out of all reason.
" Beware what ye say " (ko= I) " of such a gent 'man '. "
" ^'ay, I fear him not " (ko she), " do the best he can.
He vaunteth himself for a man of prowess great,
"Whereas, a good gander, I dare say, may him beat.
And where he is louted and laughed to scorn.
For the veriest dolt that ever was bom ;
And veriest lubber, sloven, and beast,
Living in this world, fi-om the west to the east ;
Yet, of himself hath he such opinion.
That in all the world is not the like minion.
He thinketh each woman to be brought in dotage,
"With the only sight of his goodly personage :
Yet, none that will have biTn : we do him lout and flock.
And make him among us our common sporting-stock ;
And so would I now " (ko she) " save only because." ■
•' Better nay" (ko I) — " I lust not meddle with daws."
" Ye are happy " (ko I) '■ that ye are a woman.
This would cost ye your life in case ye were a man."
jE. Royster. Yea, an hundred thousand pound should not
save her life.
M. Mery. No, but that ye woo her to have her to your
wife;
But I could not stop her mouth.
R. Royster. Heigho ! alas !
M. Mery. Be of good cheer, man, and let the world pass.
R. Royster. "What shall I do or say, now that it wUl not
be?
M. Mery. Ye shall have choice of a thousand as good as
she;
An n ye must pardon her ; it is for lack of wit.
R. Royster. Yea, for were not I an husband for her fit 't
"Well, what should I now do ?
M. Mery. In faith, I cannot tell.
R. Royster. I will go home and die.
M. Mery. Then, shall I bid toll the beU ?
R. Royster. Ko.
M. Mery. God have mercy on your soul! ah, good gentle-
man!
That e'er you should thus die for an u n kin d woman !
"WUl ye drink once ere ye go ?
R. Royster. No, no, I will none.
M. Mery. How feel your soul to Grod ?
R. Royster. I am nigh gone.
M. Mery. And shall we hence straight ?
R. Royster. Yea.
M. Mery. Placebo dilexi.
Master Roister Doister will straight go home and die.
Placebo dilexi.
Our Lord Jesus Christ his soul have mercy upon:
Thus you see to-day a man, to-morrow John.
Yet, saving for a woman's extreme cruelty.
He might have Uved yet a month, or two, or three ;
But, in spite of Custance, which hath him wearied.
His ma' ship shaU be worshipfuUy buried.
And while some piece of his soul is yet him within,
Some part of his funerals let us here begin.
Dirige. He will go darkhng to his grave ;
Neque lux, neque crux, nisi solum cUnk ;
Never gen' man so went toward heaven, I think.
Yet, siK, as ve ^vill the bliss of heaven ^vin.
■When he cometh to the grave, lay him softly in ;
* Ko, quoth.
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[a.d. 15:M
And all men take heed, by this one gentleman,
How you set your love upon an unkind woman ;
For these women he all such mad peevish elves.
They will not be won, except it please themselves.
Good night, Roger, old knave ; Farewell, Roger, old knave;
Good night, Roger, old knave ; knave knap.
Nequando. Aiidivl voccm. Serjuicm mternam.
R. Roijster. Heigho 1 alas 1 the pangs of death my
heart do break.
M. Merij. Hold your peace, for shame, su- ! a dead man
may not speak.
'N'rquKndd : what mourners and what torches shall we have ?
Ji. Roijster. None.
M. Mery. Dirige. He will go darkling to his grave,—
Neque lux, ncqiie crux, iieqiw moiu-ners, neque clink,
He wiU steal to heaven, unkno\\'ing to God, I think ;
A porta iiifiri : who shall your goods possess 'f
R. Roijster. Thou shalt be my sectour,' and have all, more
and less.
M. Mcry. Requiem isternam. Jfow, God reward your
mastership,
And I will cry halfpenny dole for your worship.
Come forth, sirs ; hear the doleful news I shall you tell.
'\_He calls out Roister Doister's servants.
Our good maister here will no longer with us dwell,
But in spite of Custance, which hath him wearied.
Let us see his ma' ship solemnly buried ;
And while some piece of his soul is yet him within,
Some part of his funerals let us here begin.
Aadivi voccm. All men take heed by this one gentleman,
How you set your love upon an unkind woman ;
For these women be all such mad, peevish elves,
They will not be won, except it please themselves.
But in faith, Custance, if ever ye come in hell,
Maister Roister Doister shaU serve you as well. —
And will ye needs go from us thus in very deed ?
R. Roijster. Yea, in good sadness.
M. Merij. Now, Jesus Christ be your speed!
"Jood night, Roger, old knave 1 farewell, Roger, old knave !
Good night, Roger, old knave, knave knap !
Pray for the late Maister Roister Doister' s soul,
And come forth, parish clerk ; let the passing-bell toll.
\_Ad servos militis.-
Pray for your maister, sii'S : and for him ring a peal.
He was your right good maister while he was in heal.
The Peril of bells, raiiff hij the parish Clerk and
Roister Doister' s four men.
The first Bell, n Triple.— Whe-a. died he F When died he ?
The second. — We have him ! We have him !
The third. — Royster Doyster ! Royster Doyster !
The fourth Bell.— He Cometh ! He cometh !
The great Bill. Our own ! Oiu' own !
R. Roijxttr. Qui Lazariim.
Heighho !
M. Merij. Dead men go not so fast In Faradisum.
R. Roijster. Heigho !
M. Merg. Soft, hear what I have cast.
R. Rogster. I will hear nothing, I am past.
M. Merg. Whough ! weUaway '.
Ye may tarrj- one hour, and hear what I shall say.
Scdoiir, executor.
2 To Ralph's servants.
Ye were best, sir, for awhile to revive again,
AnA. quit them ere ye go.
R. Rogster. Trowest thou so ?
J/. Mirg. Y'ea, plain.
R. Rogster. How may I revive, being now so far past 'i
M. Mcry. I will rub youi- temples, and fet you again at
last.
R. Rogster. It will not be possible.
M. Merg. Y'es, for twenty pound.-"
R. Royster. Amis 1 what dost thou ?
M. Miry. Fet 3'ou again out of your sound.''
By this cross, ye were nigh gone indeed ; I might feel.
Your soul departing within an inch of your heel.
Now, foUow my counsel.
R. Royster. What is it ?
M. Merg. If I were you,
Custance should eft seek to me, ere I would bow.
R. Royster. Well, as thou wilt have me, even so will
I do.
M. Mery. Then, shall ye re^ave again for an hour or two.
R. Royster. As thou wilt : I am content, for a little
space .
M. Mery. Good hap is not hasty : yet in space com'th
grace.
To speak with Custance yourself, should be very well ;
"What good thereof may come, nor I nor you can tell,
But now the matter .standeth upon your marriage,
Ye must now take unto you-a lusty courage.
Ye may not speak with a faint heart to Custance.
But with a lusty breast and countenance,
That she may know she hath to answer to a man.
R. Royster. Yes, I can do that as well as any can.
M. Mery. Then, because ye nmst Custance face to fare
woo.
Let us sec how to behave yourself ye can do.
Ye must have a portly brag after j-our estate.
R. Royster. Tush I I can handle that af cer the best rate.
M. Mery. WeU done ; so lo 1 up, man, with your head
and chin :
Up with that snout, man : so lo I now ye begin.
So, that is somewhat like ; but prankie cote, nay whan r
That is a lusty brute ; hands unto your side, man :
So lo 1 now is it even as it should be ;
That is somewhat like, for a man of j'our degree.
Then must ye stately go, jetting up and down.
Tut 1 can ye no better sh.ake the tail of your gown ?
There lo ! such a lusty brag it is ye must make.
R. Royster. To come behind, and make oui'tsy, thou must
some pains take.
M. Mery. Else were I much to blame. I thank your
mastership ;
The Lord one day aUto begrime you with worship.
Back, su- sauce ! let gentlefolks have elbow-room.
Void, su's ! see ye not JIaister Roister Doister come I-
JIake place, my maisters.
R. Royster. Thou justlest now too nigh.
31. Mery. Back, all i-ude louts.*
R. Royster. Tush!
M. Miry. I cry your ma' ship mercy.
Hoighdagh ! if fair fine Mistress Custance saw you now,
Ralph Roister Doister were her own, I waiTant you.
R. Royster. Near an M. by your girdle f
' Here MeiTgi'eeke raps Mm smartly over the head.
* Sotoifl, swoon.
^ Merygreeke strikes Roister Doister as if in sweeping a clear road
before him.
TO A.l). 1541. j
PLAYS.
39
M. Mirii. Your good mastership's
Jlastership, were her own mistresship's mistresship' s.
Ye were take-up for hawks ; ye were gone, ye were gone :
But, now one other thiny- more yet I think upon
R. Soijster. Show what it is.
JT. Mery. A wooer, be he never so poor,
Must play and ;ing before his best bclove's door.
H..\v much more then you ;■'
E. Roijster. Thou speakest well, out of doubt.
il. Mery. And perchance that would make her the sooner
come out.
R. Royster. Go call my musicians ; bid them hie apace.
M. Mery. I will be here with them, ere ye can say trey
ace. \_Excat.
R. Royster. This was well said of Jlerygreeke, I love his
wit.
Before my sweetheart's door we will have a fitt.
That if my love come forth, I may with her talk :
I doubt not but this gear shall on my side walk.
But lo ! how well Merygreeke is returned sence.
M. Mery. There hath grown no grass on my heel since I
went hence ;
Lo ! here have I brought that shall make you pastance.
R. Royster. Come, sirs, let us sing, to win my dear love
Custance. [Canteiit.
I mun be married a Simday ; '
I mun be married a Sundaj' ;
Whosoever shall come that way,
I mun be married a Sunday.
Royster Doyster is my name ;
Eo)-ster Doyster is my name ;
A lusty brute I am the same :
I mun be married a Sundiiy.
Christian Custance have I found ;
Christian Custance have I found ;
A widow woith a thousand pound!
I mun be mareied a Sunday.
Custance is as sweet as honey :
Custance is as sweet as honey ;
I her lamb, and she my coney ;
I mun be married a Sunday.
When we shall make our wedthng feast,
A^Tien we shall make our wedding feast,
There shall be cheer for man and beast ;
I mun be married a Sunday.
I mun bo manied a Sunday, &c.
M. Mery. Lo, where she comcth I some countenance to
her make ;
And ye shall hear me be plain with her for your sake.
ACT III.— Scene 4.
CrSTANCE ; MeRTGEEEKE ; ROISTER DOISTER.
C. Custance. What gauding and fooling is this afore my
door ?
M. Mery. May not folks be honest, pray you, though they
be poor ?
C. distance. As that thing may be true, so rich folks may
be fools.
1 A Sunday, on Sunday ; as afire for on Hre.
R. Royster. Her t;ilk is as fine as she had learned in
schools.
M. Mery. Look partly toward her, and di-aw a little near.
C. distance. Get ye home, idle folks !
M. Mery. Why may not we be here ?
Nay, and ye will haze," haze ; otherwise, I tell you plain.
And win ye not haze, then give us our gear again.
C. distance. Indeed, I have of yours much gay things;
God save aU.
R. Royster. Speak gently unto her, and let her take all.
M. Mery. Ye are too tender-hearted. Shall she make us
daws?
Nay, dame, I will be plain with you in my friend's cause.
jB. Eoyster. Let all this pass, sweetheart, and accept my
service.
C. distance. I wUl not be served with a fool, in nowise.
^\Tien I choose an husband, I hope to take a man.
M. Mery. And, where will ye find one which can do that
he can 'i
Now this man toward you being so kind.
Why not make him an answer somewhat to his mind ?
C. distance. I sent him a full answer by you, did I not ?
M. Mery. And I reported it.
C. distance. Nay, I must speak it again.
R. Royster. No, no, he told it all.
M. Mery. Was I not meetly plain ?
R. Royster. Yes.
M. Mery. But, I would not teU all ; for, faith, if I had,
With you. Dame Custance, ere this hour, it had been bad ;
And not without cause : for this goodly personage
Meant no less than to join with you in marriage.
C. distance. Let him waste no more labour nor suit about
me.
M. Mery. Ye know not where your preferment lieth, I
see; —
He sendeth you such a token, ring and letter.
C. distance. Marry, here it is ; ye never saw a better.
M. Mery. Let us see your letter.
C distance. Hold I read it, if ye can ;
And see what letter it is to win a woman.
M. Mery.
" To mine own dear coney, bird, sweetheart, and pigsny.
Good Mistress distance, present these by and by."
Of this superscription do ye blame the stj-Ie ?
a distance. With the rest, as good stuff as ye read a
great while.
M. Mery.
" Sweet mistress, whereas I love you nothing at all,
Regarding your substance and richesse chief of all ;
For your personage, beauty, demeanour, and wit,
I commend me unto you never a whit.
Sorry to hear report of your good welfare.
For (as I hear say) such your conditions are,
That ye be worthy favom- of no Uving man ;
To be abhorred of every honest man.
To be taken for a woman inclined to vice ;
Nothing at aU to \-irtue giiHng her due price.
WTierefore, concerning marriage, ye are thought
Such a fine paragon as ne'er honest man bought.
And now, by these presents, I do you advertise
That I am minded to maiTv you in nowise.
For your goods and substance, I could be content
To take you as ye are. If ye mind to be my wife,
Ye shall be assured for the time of my life
» And 'je iciU haze, if you will have us.
36
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1534
I will keep ye right well from good raiment and faxe ;
Ye shall not be kept but in sorrow and care.
Ye shall In no wise live at your own libertie ;
Do and say what ye lust, ye shall never please me ;
But when ye are merry, I will be all sad ;
When ye are sorry, I will be very glad.
Wlien ye seek your heart's ease, I wiU be unkind ;
At no time in me shall ye much gentleness find ;
But all things contriirj- to your wiU and mind
Shall be done : otherwise, I will not be behind
To speak. And as for all them that would do you wrong,
I wiU so help and maintain, ye shall not live long.
Xor any foolish dolt shall cumber you, but I ;
I, whoe'er say nay, will stick by you till I die.
Thus, good Mistress Custauce, the lord you save and keep
From me, Royster Doyster, whether I wake or sleep.
Who favoureth you no less (ye may be bold)
Than this letter purporteth, which ye have imfold."
C distance. How, by this letter of love ? is it not fine ?
Jf. Jtoijster. By the arms of Calais, it is none of mine.
M. Mery. Fie ! you are foul to blame ; this is your own
hand.
C. distance. Might not a woman be proud of such a
husband ■■
M. Mery. Ah, that ye would in a letter show such
despite !
a. Royster. Oh, I would I had him here, the which did it
indite 1
M. Mery. Why, ye made it yourself, ye told me, by this
light !
JJ. Royster. Yea, I meant I wrote it mine own self yester-
night.
C. distance. Y'wis, sir, I would not have sent you such a
mock.
iJ. Royster. Ye may so take it ; but, I meant it not so, by
cock!
M. Mery. Who can blame this woman, to fume, and fret,
and rage ?
Tut, tut ! yourself now have marred your own marriage.
Well, yet. Mistress Custance, if ye can this remit ;
This gentleman otherwise may your love requitte.
C. Custance. No, God be with you both, and seek no more
to me. [E.ce(it.
R. Royster. Wough ! she is gone for ever, I shall her no
more see.
M. Mery. What, weep ? Fie, for shame ! And blubber P
For manhood's sake,
Never let your foe so much pleasure of you take.
Rather play the man's part, and do love refrain:
If she despise you, e'en despise ye her again.
R. Royster. By gosse, and for thy sake, I defy her indeed !
M. Mery. Yea, and perchance that way ye shall much
sooner speed ;
For, one mad property these women have in fey,'
When ye wiU, they will not ; will not ye ? then'wiU they.
Ah, foolish woman ! ah, most unlucky Custance !
Ah, unfortunate woman ! ah, peevish Custance,
Art thou to thine harms so obstinately bent,
That thou canst not see where lieth thine high preferment ''
Canst thou not love this man, which could love thee so well ?
Art thou so much thine own foe ?
R. Royster. Thou dost the truth tell.
M. Mery. WeU, I lament.
R. Royster. So do I.
' •'"/sy. in faith.
M. Mery. Wherefore ?
R. Royster. For this thing,
Because she is gone.
M. Mery. I mourn for another thing.
R. Royster. What is it, Merygreeke, wherefore thou dost
grief take ?
M. Mery. That I am not a woman myself, for your sake.
I would have you myself, and a straw for j-ond Gill,
And make much of you, though it were against my will.
I would not, I warrant you, faU in such a rage.
As so to refuse such a goodly personage.
R. Royster. In faith, I heartily thank thee, Merj'greeke.
M. Mery. And^ I were a woman
R. Royster. Thou wouldest to me seek.
M. Mery. For, though I say it, a goodly person ye be.
R. Royster. No, no.
M. Mery. Yes, a goodly man as e'er I did see.
R. Royster. No, I am a poor homely man, as God made
me.
M. Mery. By the faith that I owe to God, sir, but ye be.
Would I might, for youi- sake, spend a thousand pound
land.
R. Royster. I dare say thou wouldest have me to thy
husband.
M. Mery. Yea, and I were the fairest lady in the shire.
And knew you as I know you, and see you now here.
Well, I say no more.
R. Royster. Gramercies, with all my heart.
M. Mery. But, since that cannot be, will j'e play a wise
part ?
R. Royster. How should I ?
M. Mery. Refrain from Custance awhile now,
And I warrant her soon right glad to seek to you.
Ye shall see her anon come on her knees creeping.
And pray you to be good to her, salt tears weeping.
R. Royster. But what and - she come not ?
M. Mery. In faith, then farewell she.
Or else, if ye be wroth, ye may avenged be.
R. Royster. By cock's precious potstick, and e'en so 1
shall:
I will utterly destroy her, and house and all.
But, I would be avenged in the mean space
On that vile scribbler, that did my wooing disgrace.
M. Mery. Scribbler, ko you ? Indeed, he is worthy no
less.
I win call him to you, and" ye bid me, doubtless.
R. Royster. Yes, for although he had as many lives
As a thousand widows, and a thousand ^vive3,
As a thousand lions, and a thousand rats,
A thousand wolves, and a thousand cats,
A thousand bulls, and a thousand calves.
And a thousand legions, divided in halves,
He shall never 'scape death on my sword's point.
Though I shoidd be torn therefore joint by joint.
M. Mery. Nay, if ye wiU kill him. I will not fet him,
I will not in so much extremity set him.
He may yet amend, sir, and bo an honest man ;
Therefore, pardon him, good soul, as much as ye can.
R. Royster. WeU, for thy sake, this once with his life he
shall pass :
But, I win hew him all to pieces, by the mass.
M. Mery. Nay, faith, ye shall promise that he shall no
harm have.
Else I will not fet him.
R. Royster. I shaU, so God me save !
' And, if.
TO AD. 15il.]
PLAYS.
37
But I may chide him a good.
2[. Mill/. Yea, that do hardly.
R. Ro'ister. Go, then.
il. Mill/. I return, and bring him to you, hy-and-by. [Ex.
ACT III.— SCESE 5
EOISTEE DOISTEE ; MaTHEW ^VIERTGBEEEE ; SCEIVENEB.
R. Royster. What is a gentleman, but his word and his
promise 'r
I must now save this villain's life, in am-wise ;
And yet, at him already my hands do tickle,
I shall uneth^ hold them, they will be so fickle.
But lo, and ilerj'greeke have not brought him sence !
M. Mcrij. Nay, I would I had of my purse paid forty
pence.
Scriveiwr. So would I too; but it needed not that stound.
M. Mei-i/. But, the gent' man had rather spent five thou-
sand pound ;
For it disgraced him at least five times so .much.
Sertveiier. He disgraced himself, his loutishness is such.
R. Roijster. How long they stand prating ! Why com'st
thou not away 't
M. Ml I-;/. Come now to himself, and hark what he will
say.
Scrivener.
R. Royster.
Scrivener.
I am not afraid in his presence to appear.
Art thou come, fellow 'r
How think vou ': Am I not here ?
The Scrivenek.
Troin a Sketch by Holhcin in Em^iiius's '
MoriiB Encominnu'
R. Royster. What hindrance hast thou done me, and what
viUany I
Scrivener. It hath come of thyself, if thou hast had any.
R. Royster. AU the stock thou comest of, later or rather.
From thy first father's gi-andfather's father's father,
X'.r all that shall come of thee, to the world's end,
1 'i'jugh to threescore generations they descend,
' m be able to make a just recompense
For this trespass of thine, and this one oifence.
Scrivener. Wherein r
I:. Royster. Did not you make me a letter, brother ?
Scrivener. Pay the like hire, I will make you
another.
such
1 Vncth, mth difficulty. First-English " eathe," easily.
How say you, is this mine original, or no r
The selfsame that I ■m-ote out of, so mote I go.
Look vou on vour own fist, and I will look on
R. Royster. Xay I see, and these [rascal] Pharisees and
Scribes
Do not get their li\-ing by polling and bribes.
If it were not for shame
Scrivener. Nay, hold thy hands stiU.
M. Mery. Why, did ve not promise that ye would not him
spm;-2
Scrivener. Let him not spare me.
R. Royster. A\Tiy, wilt thou strike me again 't
Scrivener. Ye shall have as good as ye bring of me, that is
plain.
M. Mery. I cannot blame him, sir, though your blows
would him grieve ;
For he knoweth present death to ensue of all ye give.
R. Royster. WeU, this man for once hath purchased thy
pardon.
Scrivener. And, what say ye to me 'i or else I wiU be gone.
R. Royster. I say, the letter thou madest me was not
good.
Scrivener. Then did ye wrong copy it, of likelihood.
R. Royster. Yes, out of thy copy, word for word, I it
wrote.
Scrivener. Then, was it as you prayed to have it, I wote :
But in reading and pointing there was made some fault.
R. Royster. I wot not ; but, it made all my matter to
halt.
Scrivener.
R. Royster.
Scrivener.
this,
And let this man be judge whether I read amiss.
" To mine own dear coney, bird, sweetheart, and pigmy.
Good Mistress Citstance, present these by and by."
How now ? doth not this superscription agree ?
R. Royster. Read that is within, and there ye shall the
fault see.
Scrivener.
" Sweet Mistress, whereas I love you ; nothing at all
Regarding your riches and substance : chief of all
For your personage, beauty, demeanour, and wit,
I commend me imto you ; never a whit
Sorry to hear report of your good welfare :
For (as I hear say) such your conditions are,
That ye be worthy favom- ; of no liWng man
To be abhorred ; of every honest man
To be taken for a woman inclined to vice
Nothing at aU ; to virtue gi\-ing her due price.
Wherefore, concerning maniage, ye are thought
Such a fine paragon as ne'er honest man bought.
And now, by these presents, I do you advertise
That I am minded to marry you ; in nowise
For vour goods and substance; I can be content
To take you as ye are. If ye wiU be my wife,
Ye shaU be assured for the time of my life,
I will keep ve right well: fi-om good raiment and fare
Ye shaU not be kept : but, in sonw and care
Ye shaU in nowise Uve; at your own liberty.
Do and say what ye lust ; ye shall never please me
But when ve are merr>- : I will be aU sad
When ye are sorry ;' I wiU be very glad
2 SpiJI, destroy. w_,..
3 Siigjested probably by lines in a song of Sir Thomas "Wyat s-
" Wben ye be merry, fben I am glad ;
When ye be son-y, then I am sad ;
Such grace or fortune I would I had
Tou for to please, howeer I were bestad."
38
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[JD. 1534
When ye seek your heart's ease ; I will be unkind
At no time ; in me shall ye much gentleness find.
But, all things contrary to \our will and mind
Shall be done othcrvrise. I will not be behind
To speak ; and as for aU they that would do you wrong
(I wiU so help and maintain ye), shaU not live long.
Nor any foolish dolt shuU cumber you ; but I,
I, who e'er say nay, will stick by you till I die.
Thus, good Mistress Custanee, the Lord you save and
keep!
From me. Roister Doister, whether I wake or sleep,
■\^^lo favoureth you no less (ye may be bold)
Than this Ictttr purporteth which ye have unfold."
Now, sir, what default can ye find in this letter ?
if. Rotjster. Of truth, in my mind, there cannot be a better.
Scrivener. Then was the fault in readiag, and not in
writing,
No, nor, I daresay, in the fonn of inditing.
But, who read this letter, that it sounded so nought?
U. Mcri/. I read it in deed.
Scrivener. Ye read it not as ye ought.
S. Royster. Why, thou wretched villain, was all this same
fault in thee r
M. Merij. I knock your costard, if ye offer to strike me.
M. Eoi/stcr. Strikest thou indeed, and I offer but in jest?
M. Merij. Yea, and rap ye again, except ye can sit in
rest.
And I will no longer tarry here, me believe.
S. Royster. What, wUt thou be angrj-, and I do theo for-
give?
Fare thou well, scribbler ; I cry thee mercy indeed.
Scrivener. Fare ye well, bibbler, and worthily may ye
speed.
R. Royster. If it were another than thou, it were a knave.
M. Mery. Ye are another yourself, sir, the Lord us both
save;
Albeit, in this matter I must yom- pardon crave.
Alas ! would ye wish in mo the wit that ye have f
But, as for my fault, I can quickly amend :
I will show Custanee it was I that did offend.
R. Ruijster. By so doing her anger may be reformed.
U. Men/. But if by no entreaty she will be turned.
Then set light by her, and be as testy as she.
And do your force upon her with exti-emity.
R. Royster. Come on, therefore, let us go home in sad-
ness.
M. Mery. That if force shall need, aU may be in
readiness.
And as for this letter, hardly let all go ;
We will know whe'er .she refuse you for that or no.
l^xeant am.
ACT IV,— Scene 1.
Sim. Sueesby.
Sim. Sure. Is there any man but I, Sim Suresby, alone.
That would have taken such an enterprise him upon.
In such an outrageous tempest as this was.
Such a dangerous gulf of the sea to pass ?
I think, verily, Neptune's mighty godship,
W:i8 angry with some that was in our ship.
And, but for the honesty which in me he found,
I think for the other's sake we had been diowned.
But, fie on that sen-ant which for his maister's wealth
WiU stick for to hazard both his life and his health.
My maister, Gawin Goodluck, after me a day,
Because of the weather, thought best his ship to stay ;
And, now that I have the rough surges so well past,
God gi-ant I may find all things safe here at last :
Then will I think all my travel well spent.—
Now, the first point wherefore my maister hath me sent.
Is to salute Dame Christian Custanee, his wife
Espoused, whom he tend'reth no less than his Hfe.
I must see how it is with her, well or wrong,
And whether for him she doth not now think long.
Then to other friends I have a message or tway ;
And then so to return and meet him on the way.
Now will I go knock, that I may dispatch with speed
But lo ! forth Cometh herself happily indeed.
ACT IV.— Scene 2.
CSEISTIAN CUSTANCE ; SiM. SuRESBY.
C. distance. I come to see if any more stirring be here.
But what stranger is this, which doth to me appear ?
Sim. Sure. I will speak to her. — Dame, the Lord you save
and see. ,
C. Custanee. What, friend Sim Suresby? Forsooth,
right welcome ye be.
How doth mine own Gawin Goodluck, I pray thee tell ?
Sim-. Sure. WTien he knoweth of your health, he will be
l)erfect well.
C. Custanee. If ho have perfect health, I am as I would be
Sim. Sure. Such news will please him well. This is as it
should be.
C. Custanee. I think now long for him.
Sim. Sure. And he as long for j-ou.
C. Custanee. "When will he be at home ?
Sim. Sure. His heart is here e'en now ;
His body cometh after.
C. Custanee. I would see that fain.
Sim. Sure. As fast as wind and sail can carry it amain.
But what two men are j^ond coming hitherward ?
C. Custanee. Now, I shrew their best Christmiis cheeks,
both togctherwai-d !
ACT IV.— Scene 3.
CHRISTlUf CUSTANCE ; SlM. SUKESBY ; RaLFH EOISTER ; MaTHEW
Mertgkeeke; Trdpenie.
C. Custanee. CWbat mean these lewd fellows, thus to
trouble me still ?
Sim Suresby here, perchance, shall thereof deem some iU,
Alii shall suspect in me some point of naughtiness.
And they come hitherward).
Sim. Sure. What is their business ?
C. Custanee. I have nought to them, nor they to me, in
sadness.
Sim. Sure. Let us hearken them ; somewhat there is, I
fear it.
R. Royster. I will speak out aloud best, that she may
hear it.
M. Mery. Nay, alas 1 ye may so fear her out of her wit.
R. Royster. By the cross of my sword, I ■will hurt her no
whit.
M. Mery. WiU ye do no harm indeed? Shall I trust
your word ?
R. Royster. By Koister Doister' s faith I wiU speak but in
horde.'
<St»i. Sure. Let us hearken them : somewhat there is, I
fear it.
R. Royster. I wUl speak out aloud, I care not who hear it. —
Sirs, see that my harness, my tergat, and my shield.
Be made as bright now, as when I was last in field,
1 Borde, jest.
TO A.D. 1541.]
PLAYS.
39
A- white as I should to war again to-morrow :
I'l ir, sick shall I be, hut I work some folks sorrow.
Therefore, see that all shine as bright as Saint George
(Ir as doth a key newly come from the smith's forge.
[ «-ould have my sword and harness to shine so bright,
111 it I might therewith dim mine enemies' sight :
I would have it cast beams as fast, I tell you plain,
A^ iloth the glittering grass after a shower of rain.
And see that, in case I should need to come to arming,
All things may be ready at a minute's warning.
F'ji such chance ma)- chance in an hour, do ye hear ?
J/. Mcrij. As perchance shall not chance again in seven
year.
R. Soi/ster. 'Sow, draw we near to her, and hear what
shall be said.
.1/. Jlir;/. But I would not have you make her too much
afraid.
H. Soi/ster. Well found, sweet wife, I trust, for all this
your sour look.
C. Custance. Wife ! — why call ye me wife f
Sim. Sure. (Wife ! This gear goeth acrook).
.1/. Mcrij. Nay, Mistress Custance, I warrant you, our
letter
I* not as we read e'en now, but much better ;
Ami, where ye half stomached this gentleman afore,
I I a- this same letter ye wiU love him now therefore ;
Nor it is not this letter, though ye were a queen,
That should break marriage between you twain, I ween.
C. Cnsidiice. I did not refuse him for the letter's sake.
Pt. Soyster. Then, ye are content me for your husband to
take.
C. Custance. You for my husband to take ! Nothing less,
truly.
R. Soyster. Yea, say so, sweet spouse ; afore strangers
hardly.
A Merij. And though I have here his letter of love with
me.
Yet, his rings and tokens he sent, keep safe with ye.
C. Ciista>ice. A mischief take his tokens, and him, and
thee too ! —
But, what prate I with fools ? Have I nought else to do ?
Come in with me, Sim Suresby, to take some repast.
Sim. Sure. I must, ere I dimk, by your leave, go in all
haste
To a place or two, with earnest letters of his.
C. Custance. Then come drink here with me.
Sim. Sure. I thank you.
C. Custinice. Do not miss.
You shall have a token to your maister with you.
Sim. Sure: No tokens this time, gramercies. God bo
with you. [Exeat.
C. Custance. Surely, this fellow misdeemeth some ill in
me ;
■^Tiich thing, but' God help, wiU go near to spill^ me.
i?. Jioi/ster. Yea, farewell fellow, and tell thy maister
Goodluck,
That he cometh too late of this blossom to pluck.
Let him keep him there still, or at leastwise make no haste ;
As for his laboiu- hither he shall spend in waste.
His betters be in place now.
.V. Merij. As long as it will hold.
C. Custance. I wiU be even with thee, thou beast, thou
may'st be bold.
S. Hui/stcr. Will ye have us then ?
C Custance. I will never have thee.
* J5uf, unless.
2 SpiU, destroy.
S. Roijster. Then. wiU I have you.
C. Custance. No, the de'il shall have thee.
I have gotten this hour more shame and harm by thee,
Than all thy Ufe days thou canst do me honesty.
M. Mtrij. "V\Tiy, now may ye see what it com'th to in the
end.
To make a deadly foe of your most loving friend :
And, y'wis this letter, if ye would hear it now
C. Custance. I wUl hear none of it.
M. Mery. In faith, would ravish you.
C. Custance. He hath stained my name for ever, this is
clear.
H. Soyster. I can make aU as well in an hour
31. Mery. As ten year.
How say ye, wiU ye have him ?
C. Custance. No.
uV. Mery. WiU ye take him ?
C. Custance. I defy him.
M. Mery. At my word 'i
C. Custance. A shame take him !
Waste no more wind, for it will never be.
M. Mery. This one fault with twain shall he mended, ye
shall see.
Gentle Mistress Custance now, good Mistress Custance,
Honey Mistress Custance now, sweet Mistress Custance,
Golden Mistress Custance now, white Mistress Custance,
SUken Mistress Custance now, fair Mistress Custance.
C. Custance. Faith, rather than to marry with such a
doltish lout,
I would match myself with a beggar, out of doubt.
M. Mery. Then, I can say no more ; to speed we are not
like.
Except ye rap out a rag of your rhetorike.
C. Custance. Speak not of winning me ; for it shall never
he so.
R. Royster. Yes, dame, I will have you, whether ye will
or no.
I command you to love me ! wherefore should ye not ?
Is not my love to you chafing and burning hot 'i
M. Mery. To her I that is well said.
R. Royster. Shall I so break my brain,
To dote upon you, and ye not love us again ?
M. Mery. Well said yet.
C. Custance. Go to, thou goose !
R. Royster. I say, Kit Custance,
In case ye will not haze,^ well ; better yes, perchance.
C. Custance. Avaunt, lozell ! pick thee hence !
M. Mery. Well, sir, ye perceive.
For all your kind oiler, she will not you receive.
R. Soyster. Then .a straw for her, and a straw for her
again !
She shall not be my wife, woidd she never so fain ;
No, and though she would be at ten thousmd pound cost.
M. Mery. Lo, dame! ye may see what an husband ye have
lost.
C. Custance. Yea, no force ; * a jewel much better lost
than found.
M. Mery. Ah, ye will not believe how this doth my heart
wound.
How should a marriage between you be toward,
If both parties draw back, and become so fi-oward ?
R. Royster. Nay, dame, I will firo thee out of thy house.
And destroy thee and all thine, and that by and by."
M. Mery. Nay, for the passion of God, sir, do not so.
R. Royster. Yes, e.^cept she wiU say yea to that she said no.
1 jr.i.-c, " ba's," have us. « Xo force, no matter. = By and hy, at once.
40
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1534
C. Custaiicv. And what, be there no officers, trow we, in
town,
To check idle loiterers, brag-ging up and down ?
Where be they by whom vagabonds should be represt,
That poor silly widows might Ure in peace and rest ?
Shall I never rid thee out of my company ?
I wiU call for help. What ho 1 come forth, Trupenie !
Triipenie. Anon. 'SA'liat is }-our will, mistress ? Did ye
call me r
C. Ciistaiin: Yea : go, run apace, and, as fast as may be,
Pray Tristram Trusty, my most assured friend,
To be here by and by, that be may me defend.
Ti-Kpeitie. That message so quickly shall be done, by
God's grace,
That at my retuni, ye shall say, I went apace. [Exeat.
C. Ciistriiiec. Then shall we see, I trow, whether ye shall
do me hann.
B. Roijster. Yes, in faith. Kit, I shall thee and thine so
charm,
That all women incarnate by thee may beware.
C distance. Nay, as for charming me, come hither if thou
dare.
I shall clout thee till thou stink, both thee and thy train,
And coil ' thee mine own hands, and send thee home again.
a. Royster. Y'ea, sayst me that, dame ? Dost thou me
threaten ?
Go we, I will see whether I shall be beaten.
M. Mery. Nay, for the paishe- of God, let me now treat
peace ;
For, bloodshed will there be. in case tbis strife increase.
Ah, good Dame Custance, take better way with j'ou !
C. Custance. Let him do Ms worst '■
M. Mcry. Yield in time.
It. lioijst.r. Come hence, thou !
[Kreaiit Royster and Mery.
ACT IV.— Scene 4.
CHEISIUN CCSTAXCE ; AnNOT ALYFACE ; Tibet TALKiPACE ; M.
Mdmblecrust.
C. Custance. 8o, sin-ah ! If I should not with him take
this way,
I shoiUd not be rid of him, I think, tiU doom's-day.
I will call forth my folks, that, without any mocks,
K he come again, we may give him raps and knocks.
Madge Mumblecrust, come forth, and Tibet Talkapace ;
Yea, and come forth too, Mistress Annot Alyface.
An. Alyface. I come.
Tii. Talk. And I am here.
M. Mumbl. And I am here too, at length.
C. Custance. Like warriors, if need be, ye must show your
strength.
The man that this day hath thus beguiled you
Is Ralph Roister Doister, whom ye know well enow ;
The most lout and dastard that ever on ground trod.'
Tib. Talk. I see all folks mock him, when he goeth
abroad.
C. Custance. ^Vhat, pretty maid, will ye talk when I
speak ?
Tib. Talk. No, forsooth, good mistress.
C. Custance. WiU ye my tale break .'
f« ?°^'^^^'°^ '* °«^°« ™^°g round as a serpent or cable, belongs
^2v }:^ ^""P °' lanpiages; Portuguese "cotter," ItaliS
coshere, Latm " coUigare ; '■ when it means stir, or noise, ■■ What
a coil .s liere, it is another word, and from the Celtic. " CoiHedd "
m^Lraehc is stir, movement, or noise.
- Paishe, Pascha.
He threateneth to come hither, with all his force, to fight ;
I charge you, if he come, on him with all your might.
M. Mumbl. I, with my distaff, will reach him one rap.
Tib. Talk. And I, with my new broom, will sweep him
one swap ;
And then, with our great club, I mil reach him one rap.
An. Aly. And I, with our skimmer, will fling him one flap
Tib. Talk. Then, Trupeuie's fire-fork wiU him shrewdlj
fray:
And you, with the spit, may drive him quite .away.
C. Custance. Go, make all ready, that it may be e'en so.
Tib. Talk. For my part, I shrew them that last about it go.
\_Exeant.
ACT IV. -Scene 5.
Christian Custance ; Tkdpenie; Tkisteam Trusty.
C. Custance. Trupenie did promise me to run a great pace,
My friend Tristram Trusty to fet into this place.
Indeed, he dweUeth hence a good start, I confess ;
But yet, a quick messenger might twice since, as I guess,
Have gone and come again. Ah ! yond I spy him now.
Trupenie. Y'e are a slow goer, sir, I make God avow ;
My Mistress Custance will in me put all the blame ;
Your legs be longer than mine : come apace, for shame.
C. Custance. I can thee thank,'' Trupenie ; thou hast done
right well.
Trupenie. Maistress, since I went, no grass hath grown
on my heel :
But Maister Tristram Trusty, here, maketh no speed.
C. Custance. That he came at all, I thank him, in very
deed;
For, now have I need of the help of some wise man.
T. Trusty. Then may I be gone again, for none such
I am.
Trupenie. Y'e may be, by your going : for, no alderman
Can go, I dare say, a sadder ' pace than ye can.
C. Custance. Trupenie, get thee in ; thou shalt among
them know
How to use thyself like a proper man, I trow.
Trupenie. I go. [Ex.
C. Custance. Now, Tristram Trusty, I thank you right
much ;
For, at my first sending, to come ye never grutch.
T. Trusty. Dame Custance, God j-e save ; and, while my
life shall last.
For my friend Goodluck's sake ye sh.all not send in wast.
C. Custance. He shall give you thanks.
T. Trusty. I will do much for his sake.
C. Custance. But alack ! I fear, great displeasure shall he
take.
T. Trusty, \\nieref ore ?
C. Custance. For a foolish matter.
T. Trusty. ^ATiat is your cause ?
C. Custance. I am Ul accumbered with a couple of daws.
T. Trusty. Nay, weep not, woman ; but tell me what
your cause is.
As concerning my friend is anything amiss ?
C. Custance. No, not on my p.art ; but here was Sim
Suresby
T. Trusty. He was with me, and told me so.
C. Custance. And he stood by
" I can f/iM thank. To " ' can ' or ' con ' fowe) thanks " was a com-
mon Old English phrase. See "Shorter English Poems." page 93,
note 3.
* S(7(?<icr, weightier, more serious. Snd originally meant '* firm,"
"settled," *'fised," in that sense "serious," and "so," in latei
English "sorrowful."
TO A.D. IWl.J
PLAYS.
41
A\1iile Ealpli Roister Doister, with help of Merygreeko,
For promise of marriage did unto me seek.
T. Trusty. And had ye made any promise before them
twain f
C. Custance. Xo, I had rather be torn ia pieces, and slain.
Xo man hath my faith and troth, but Gawin Goodluck,
And that, before Suresby did I say, and there stuck ;
But of certain letters there were such words spoken
T. Triistij. He told me that too.
C. Ciistancc. And of a ring and token :
That Suresby, I spied, did more than half suspect.
That I my faith to Gawin Goodluck did reject.
T. Triistij. But was there no such matter, Dame Custance
iadeed ?
C. distance. If ever my head thought it, God send me ill
speed I
\Mierefore, I beseech you, with me to be a witness,
That in all my life I never intended thing less.
And what a brainsick fool Ralph Roister Doister is,
Yourself know well enough.
T. Trusty. Ye say full true, y'ms.
C. Custance. Because to be his wife I ne grant nor apply.
Hither will he come, he sweareth, by and by,
To kill both me and mine, and beat down my house flat ;
Therefore, I pray your aid.
T. Trustij. I warrant you that.
C. Custance. Have I so many years lived a sober life,
And showed myself honest, maid, widow, and wife,
And now to be abused in such a rile sort ?
To see how poor widows live, all void of comfort I
T. Trust)/. I warrant him do you no harm nor wrong
at all.
C. Custance. 'So, but Mathew Merygreeke doth me most
appal ;
That he woidd join himself with such a wretched lout.
T. Trusty. He doth it for a jest, I know him out of
doubt.
And here cometh Merygreeke.
C. Custance. Then shall we hear his mind.
ACT IV.— Scene 6.
MEBTOEEEKE ; CHEISIIAN C^STA^•CE ; Teist. Teustt.
M. Mery. Custance and Trusty both, I do you here well
find.
C. Custance. Ah I Mathew Merygreeke, ye have used me
well!
M. Mery. Now, for altogether, ye must your answer tell.
Will ye have this man, woman ? Or else, will ye not 'i
EUe will he come, — never boar so brim,' nor toast so hot.
C. Custance. But why join ye with him ?
T. Trusty. For mirth ':
C. Custance. Or else in sadness ?
M. Mery. The more fond- of }-ou both, hardly the matter
guess.
T. Trusty. Lo ! how say ye, dame P
M. Mery. Why, do ye think, Dame Custance,
That in this wooing I have meant ought but pastance ?
C. Custance. Much things ye spake, I wot, to maintain
his dotage.
M. Mery. But well might ye judge, I spake it all in
mockage ;
• Brim, ra^insr, fierce. Icelandic "brim," surf ; violent beating of
tbe sea upon the shore.
- Fonii, foolish, the first sense of the word. The modem sense is
ilerived from an unreasoning and excessive partiality for any one or
any thing.
126
For why ;- Is Roister Doister a fit husband for you ?
T. Trusty. I dare say ye never thought it.
M. Mery. Xo, to God I vow.
And did not I know afore of the insurance
Between Gawin Goodluck and Chi-istian Custance ?
And did not I, for the nonce, by my conveyance,
Read his letter in a wi-ong sense, for dalliance ?
That if you could have take it up at the fii-st bound,
Wo should thereat such a sport and pa,stime have fovmd,
That all the whole town should have been the merrier.
C Custance. Ill ache yom- heads bothl I was never
wearier,
Xor never more vext. since the first day I was bom.
T. Trust. But, very well I wist, he here did all in scorn.
C. Custance. But I feared thereof to take dishonesty.
M. Mery. This shovdd both have made sport, and showed
your honesty ;
And Goodluck, I ditre swear, your wit therein would Tow.
T. Trusty. Yea, being no worse than we know it to bo
now.
M. Miry. And nothing yet too Lite ; for, when I come to
him.
Hither wiU he repair with a sheep's look full grim.
By plain force and riolence, to drive you to j-ield.
C. distance. If ve two bid me, we will with him pitch a
field,
I and my maids together.
M. Mery. Let us see ; be bold !
C. Custance. Ye shaU see women's war.
T. Trusty. That fight wiU I behold.
M. Mery. If occasion serve, taking his part full brim.'
I will strike at you, but the rap shall Ught on him.
^Vhen we first appear
C. Custance. Then will I run away,
As though I were afeard.
T. Trusty. Do you that part well play,
And I win sue for peace.
31. Mery. And I wUl set him on ;
Then wiU he look as fierce as a Cotswold Hon.''
T. Trusty. But when go'st thou for him ?
M. Mery. That do I veiy now.
C. Custance. Ye shall find us here.
M. Mery. Well, God have mercy on you. {Ex.
T. Trusty. There is no cause of fear ; the least boy in the
street
C. distance. Nay, the least girl I have, will make him
take his feet.
But hark ! methink they make preparation.
T. Trust!/. No force,* it will be a good recreati6n.
C. distance. I will stand within, and step forth speedil.v.
And so make as though I ran away dreadfully.
ACT IV.— ScEXE 7.
E. EorsTEE ; M. Merygeeeke C. Custance ; D. Doughtie ;
Haepax; Teistras Teustt.
£. Soyster. Now, sirs, keep your ray,^ and see your
hearts be stout.
But where be these caitiffs f Methink they dare not rout."
How sayst thou, Merygreeke r ANTiat doth Kit Custance
say ?
M. Men/'. 1 am loth to tell you.
S. Royster. Tushl speak, man. Yea, or nay ?
s Brim, furiously.
5 A'o force, no matter.
« Ray, row. line, order.
" Rout, strike. Icelandic
« CofJwoId iion, sheep.
' rota," to stun by a blow.
42
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1534
Jf. Mery. Forsooth, sii-, I have spoken for you all that I
can;
But if ye win her, ye must e'en play the man ;
E'en to fight it out ye must a man's heart take.
li. Royster. Yes, they shall know, and thou knowest, I
have a stomach.
M. Miry. A stomach, quod you? yea, as good as e'er
man had.
R. Royster. I trow, they shall find and feel that I am
a lad.
M. Mery. By this cross, I have seen you eat your meat
as well
JtS any that e'er I have seen of, or heard tell.
A stomach, quod you J He that will that deny,
I know, was ne'er at dinner in your companf.
R. Royster. Nay, the stomach of a man it is that I mean.
M. Mery. Nay, the stomach of a horse or a dog, I ween.
R. Royster. Nay, a man's stomach, with a weapon, mean I.
M. Mery. Ten men can scarce match you with a spoon in
a pie.
if. Royster. Nay, the stomach of a man to try in strife.
M. Mery. I never saw your stomach cloyed yet in my
life,
if. Royster. Tush ; I mean in strife or fighting to tiy.
M. Mery. We shall see how ye will strike now, being
angr^.
if. Royster. Have at thy pate, then, and save thy head if
thou may.
M. Mery. Nay, then, have at yoxvc pate again, by this
day.
if. Royster. Nay, thou mayst not strike at me again, in
nowise.
M. Mery. I cannot in fight make to you such warrantise :
But, as for your foes here, let them the bargain buy.
if. Royster. Nay, as for they shall every mother's child
die.
And, in this my fume, a little thing might make me
To beat down house and all : and eUe, the de'il take me.
M. Mery. If I were as ye be, by gog's dear mother,
I would not leave one stone upon another.
Though she would redeem it with twenty thousand pounds.
if. Royster. It shall be even so, by his lily wounds !
M. Mery. Be not at one with her, upon any amends.
if. Royster. No, though she make to me never so many
fi-iends.
Not if all the world for her would undertake :
No, not God himself neither, shall not her peace make.
On, therefore ! march forward ! Soft, stay awhile yet.
M. Mery. On !
if. Roystet. Tarry.
M. Mery. Forth !
if. Royster. Back.
M. Mery. On !
if. Royster. Soft. Now forward set.
Hiiter C. CusTANCE.
C. Ciistance. What business have we here ? Out, alas,
alas ! '
if. Royster. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha !
Didst thou see that, Merygreeke, how afraid she was .'
Didst thou see how she fled apace out of my sight ?
Ah, good sweet Custance ! I pity her, by this light !
M. Mery. That tender heart of yours will mar altogether ;
Thus wiU ye be turned with wagging of a feather,
if. Royster. On, sirs, keep your ray.
* Here she runs away.
M. Mery. On, forth, while this gear is hot.
if. Royster. Soft ! the arms of Calais 1 I have one thing
forgot.
M. Mery. AVliat lack we now 'r
R. Royster. Retire, or else we be all slain.
M. Mery. Back, for the pashe of God ! back, sirs, back
again I
^\^lat is the great matter ?
if. Royster. This hasty forth-going
Had almost brought us all to utter undoing ;
It made me forget a thing most necessary.
M. Mery. Well remembered of a captain, by Saint Mary.
if. Royster. It is a thing must be had.
M. Mery. Let us have it then.
if. Royster. But I wot not where or how.
M. Mery. Then wot not I when.
But what is it ?
if. Royster. Of a chief thing I am to seek."
M. Mery. Tut ! so will ye be, when ye have studied a
week.
But tell me what it is.
if. Royster. I lack yet an headpiece.
M. Mery. The kitchen coUocavit'' the best hens to grease;
Eun, fetch it, Dobinet, and come at once withal.
And bi'ing with thee my jiotgun, hanging bj' the waU.
I have seen your head with it, full many a time,
Covered as safe as it had been with a serine : ■*
And, I warrant it save your head from any stroke,
E.Kcept, perchance, to be amazed * with the smoke :
I warrant your head therewith, except for the mist,
As safe as if it were fast locked up in a chist.
And lo, here our Dobinet cometh with it now.
i>. Dough. It will cover me to the shoulders well enow.
M. Mery. Let me see it on.
if. Royster. In faith, it doth meetly well.
M. Mery. There can be no fitter thing. Now ye must
us tell
"What to do.
if. Royster. Now forth in ray, sirs, and stop no more.
M. Mery. Now, Saint George to borrow 1 ^ Drimi, dub a
dub afore.
T. Trusty. What mean you to do, su- ? Commit man-
slaughter ?
if. Royster. To kill forty such is a matter of laughter.
T. Trusty. And who is it, sir, whom ye intend thus to
spill ?
if. Royster. Foolish Custance here forceth me against my
wUl.
T. Trusty. And is there no mean your extreme wrath to
slake ':'
She shall some amends unto your good ma' ship make.
if. Royster. I will none amends.
T. Trusty. Is her offence so sore ?
M. Mery. And ' he were a lout, she could have done no
more.
^ To seelt, wanting. In early Englisb, and still in Milton's time,
being " to seek " meant being deiicient in it.
* Kitchen collomvit, large kitchen pot. In Mr. Thomas Wright's
volume of "Vocabularies," " colok = cantharus," a large pot; and in
Halliwell's " Dictionary of Archaic Words," " coUock " is given as in
Northern dialect, a pail. A» all sorts of things find their way into
such a pot, TJdall plays on the analogy to Latin "collocare," and calls
it a " collocaTit."
* Serine, case, chest, box. Latin " acrinium," whence shrine.
5 Amazdd, stupefied. See " Shorter Eut-lish Poems," page 171
Note 1.
f' Tti harrow, for oiu: surety. First-English " borga," a surety.
' -4 lid, if.
TO i.D. 1541.]
PLAYS.
43
she hath called him fool, and dressed him like a fool,
Mocked him like a fool, used him like a fool.
T. Triisti/. WeU, }-et the sheriff, the justice, or constable.
Her misdemeanour to punish might be able.
R. Eoijstcr. No, sir ; I mine own self wUl, in this present
cause.
Be sheriff, and justice, and whole judge of the laws.
This matter to amend, all officers be I shall :
Constable, bailiff, sergeant
M. Menj. And hangman and all.
T. Trusty. Yet, a noble courage, and the heart of a man,
Should more honour win by bearing with a woman.
Therefore, take the law, and let her answer thereto.
R. Roi/ster. Merygi-eeke, the best way were even so to do.
^^^lat honour should it be -with a woman to fight ?
M. Mcry. And what, then, will ye thus forego and lose
your right ':
R. Roysitr. Nay, I will take the law on her, withouten
grace.
T. Trmty. Or, if your ma' ship could pardon this one
trespace,
I pray you, forgive her.
R. Royster. Hoh !
M. Mery. Tush, tush, sir ! do not.
T. Trusty. Be good maister to her.
E. Royster. Hoh I
M. Mery. Tush ! I say, do not.
And what ! shall your people here, return straight home ?
R. Royster. Yea, levy' the camp, sirs, and hence again,
each one.
But be still in readiness, if 1 hap to call ;
I cannot tell what sudden chance may befall.
M. Mery. Do not off your harness, sirs, I you advise,
At the least for this fortnight, in no manner wise.
Perchance, in an hour, when all ye think least,
Our maister's appetite to fight will be best.
But soft, ere ye go, have once at Custance' house.
R. Royster. Soft, what wilt thou do ?
M. Mery. Once discharge my harquebouse ;
And, for my heart's ease, have once more with my potgoon.
R. Royster. Hold thy hands 1 else is all our purpose clean
fordoon.
M. Mery. And it cost me my life
R. Royster. I say, thou shalt not.
M. Mery. By the mat, but I will have once more with
hail shot.
I will have some pennyworth ; I will not lose all.
ACT rv.— Scene 8.
M. MeETGEEEKE ; C. COSTiNCE ; E. EOTSTEE ; TiB. T. ; AW. AlTFACE ;
M. MCMBLECETJST ; TRUPENIE ; DoBINET DOUGHTIE : HaBPAX.
Two Drums xcith their Ensigns.
C. Custanee. AVhat caitiffs are those, that so shake my
house wall ':
M. Mery. Ah, sirrah I now, Custance, if ye had so much
wit,
I. would see you ask pardon, and yourselves submit.
C. Custance. Have I still this ado with a couple of fools ?
M. Mery. Hear ye what she saith ':
C. Custance. Maidens, come forth with your tools,
In a ray.^
M. Mery. Dubba-dub. sirrah 1
R. Royster. In a ray I
They come suddenly on us.
M. Mery. Dubbadub !
' Levy, raise. Frencli **lever.'*
In a ray, in a row.
R. Royster. In a ray !
That ever I was born ! we are taken tardy.
M. Mery. Now, sirs, quit yourselves like tall men and
hardy.
C. Custance. On afore, Trupeniel Hold thine own,
Annot '.
On toward them, Tibet, for 'scape us they cannot !
Come forth, lladge Mumbleorust ! so, stand fast togither.
31. Mery. God, send us a fair day !
R. Royster. See, they march on hither.
Tib. Talk. But, mistress.
C. Custance. Vfhai sayst thou ?
Tib. Talk. Shall I go fetch oui- goose ?
C. distance. What to do ?
Tib. Talk. To yonder captain I wiU turn her loose.
And'' she gape and hiss at him, as she doth at me,
I durst jeopard my hand she will make biin flee.
C. Custance. On forward !
R. Royster. They come.
3T. Mery. Stand !
S. Royster. Hold !
3f. 3Iery. Keep !
R. Royster. There !
M. Mery. Strike !
R. Royster. Take heed !
C. Custance. Well said, Trupenie !
Trupenie. Ah, [rascals] !
C. Custance. WeU done, indeed 1
M. 3Iery. Hold thine own, Harpax ! Down with them,
Dobinet !
C. Custance. Now, Madge ; there, Annot ; now stick them,
Tibet !
Tib. Talk. All my chief quai'rel is to this same Uttle
knave,
That beguiled me last day ; nothing shall him save.
D. Dough. Down with the little quean, that hath at me
such spite !
Save you from her, maister, it is a very sprite !
C. Custance. I myself will Mounsire Grand Captain under-
take.
R. Royster. They win groimd!
31. 3Iery. Save yourself, sir, for God's sake ! ■*
R. Royster. Out, alas ! I am slain : help !
31. 3Iery. Save yourself !
R. Royster. Alas !
31. 3Iery. Nay, then, have at you, mistress.
R. Royster. Thou hittest me, alas !
31. 3Ieri/. I will strike at Custance here.
R. Royster. Thou hittest me !
31. Mcry. So I will.
Nay, Mistress Custance.
R. Royster. Alas ! thou hittest me still.
Hold!
M. 3Iery. Save yourself, sir !
R. Ro'/ster. Help ! out, alas ! I am slain !
31. Mery. Truce ! hold your hands ! truce, for a whilej
or twain.
Now, how say you, Custance ? for saving of youi- Ufo,
Will ye yield, and grant to be this gentleman's vnfe i
C. Custance. Ye told me he loved me : caU ye this love i
M 3Icry. He loved awhile, even like a turtle-dove.
c' Custance. Gay love, God save it; so soon hot, so soon
cold.
3 uJllcI if 1.
. Here Custauce attacks Ealpli on one side, and Merygreeke pro-
fessing to strike at her from the other side of him. Ealph gets a arub-
bing from tliem both.
44
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1534
.U. Meiy. I am son-y for you : he could luve you yet, so
he could.
J{. Roystcr. Nay, by cock's precious, she shall be none of
mine,
M. Mery. AVhy so ?
R. Roijder. Come away ; by the mat, she is man-kind !
I durst adventure the loss of my right hand,
If she did not slay her other husband.
And see, if she prepare not again to fight !
M. Merij. What then ? Saint George to borrow. Our
Lady's knight.
R. Roystcr. Slay else whom she will, by gog, she shall
not slay me.
M. Mcry. How then ?
R. Roystcr. Rather than to be slain, I will flee.
C. Custmice. To it again, my knightesses ! down with
theni aU !
R. Royaler. Away, away, away ! she will else kiU us all.
M. Mery. Nay, stick to it, like an hardy man and a tall.
And see that no false sm'mises thou ' me teU.
Was there such ado about Custance, of a truth ?
Sim. Sitrc. To report that I heard and saw to me ib
ruth;
But both my duty, and name, and propriety,
Wameth me to you to show fidelity.
It may be weU enough, and I wish it so to be,
She may herself discharge, and try her honesty ;
Yet, their claim to her, methought, was very large.
For \vith letters, rings, and tokens, they did her charge.
Which when I heard and saw, I would none to you bring.
G. Good. No, by Saint Mary, I allow thee in that thing.
Ah, sirrah ! now I see truth in the proverb old,
" All things that shineth is not by and by '- pure gold : "
If any do live a woman of honesty,
I would have sworn Chi-istian Custance had been she.
Sim. Sure. Sir, though I to you be a servant true and
just,
Yet do not ye therefore your faithful spouse mistrust ;
GOODLDCK Eetokned. (From a Sketch by Bolhcin in Erasiiws's " ilun.i LiwonuitM.")
R. Royster. Oh, bones, thou hittest me ! Away, or else
die we shall.
M. Mery. Away, for the pashe of our sweet Lord Jesus
Christ !
C distance. Away, lout and lubber, or I shall be thy
P"<?st ! [Rxeant oin.
So, this field is ours ; we have driven them all away.
Tib. Talk. Thanks to God, mistress, ye have had a fair
day.
C. Ciistattce. WeU, now go ye in, and make yourself
some good cheer.
Omites pnritcr. AVe go.
T. Trusty. Ah, sir ! what a field we have had here !
C. Custance. Friend Tristram, I pray you be a witness
with me.
T. Trusty. Dame Custance, I shall depose for your
honesty.
And now, fare ye weD, except something else ye would.
C. Custance. Not now, but when I need to" send, I will be
bold.
I thank you for these pains. And now I will get me in
Now Roister Doister will no more wooing begin.
\_E.riat.
[E.r.
ACT v.— SCESE 1.
GaWIN GOODLCCK; SiM. StJBESBT.
G. Good. Sim Sm-csby, my trusty man, now advise thee
well,
But examine the matter, and if ye shall it find
To be all well, be not ye for my words unkind.
G. Good. I shall do that is right, and as I see cause why.
But here cometh Custance forth ; we shall know by and by.
ACT v.— Scene 2.
C. CUSTiKCE; GiWIN GOODLUCK ; SiM. SCEESBY.
C. Custance. I come forth to see and hearken for news good ;
For about this hour is the time, of likelihood,
That Gawin Goodluck, by the sa%'ings of Suresb^,
Would be at home ; and lo I yond I see him, I.
What, Gawin Goodluck ! the only hope of my life,
Welcoiiif> home, and kiss me, your true espoused wife.
0. Gooil. 'Say, soft. Dame Custance ; I must first, by your
licence.
See whether all things be clear in your conscience.
I hear of yoiu- doings to me very strange.
C. Custance. What ! fear ye that my faith towards you
should change ?
' Dioii, thee, lie, you. The reader may couveniently observe in this
short dialogue the use of "thou" to a retaiuer and "you" to a
superior. Also the old right use of " ye " and " you " as nominative
and accusative = thou and f ftcc.
' By nnd !/;/, at once. This is the first sense of the phrase, which
like " presently" and " anon " has acquired the sense of deLiy. The
phrase has its old sense in Matthew xiii. 21. "When tribulation or
persecution ariseth because of the word, by and by he is offended.'"
The first form is an emphatic use of " by " in the sense of neamesa
The phrase occiu-s again twice in the last scene of this play.
10 A.D- 15il.]
PLAYS.
45
(?. Good. I must needs mistrust ye be elsewhere entangled,
■ 11 I inar that certain men with you have wrangled
V i ;: ;ii'/ promise of marriage by 3'ou to them made.
C. L'listance. Could any man's report your mind therein
persuade ':
G. Good. WeU, ye must therein declare yourself to stand
clear,
Ne, I and you. Dame Custanee, may not join this year.
'. '. Custance. Then would I were dead, and fair laid in my
grave.
.\h ! Suresby, is this the honesty that ye have,
I'o hurt me with your report, not knowing the thing ?
Sim. Sure. If ye be honest, my words can hurt you
nothing ;
Hut what I heard and saw, I might not but report.
C. Cicstaiiet:. Ah, Lord, help poor widows, destitute of
comfort !
Truly, most dear spouse, nought was done but for pastance.
G. Good. But such kind of sporting is homely dalliance.
C. Custance. If ye knew the truth, ye would take all in
good part.
G. Good. By your leave, I am not half well skilled in that
art.
C. Custance. It was none but Roister Doister, that foolish
mome.
G. Good. Yea, Custance, better (they say) a bad 'sense,
than none.
C. Ctistniice. "\Miy, Tristram Trusty, sii-, your true and
faithful friend,
AVas privy both to the beginning and the end.
Let him be the judge, and for me testify.
G. Good. I wiU the more credit that ' he shall verify ;
And, because I will the truth know, e'en as it is,
I vn)! to him myself, and know aU, without miss.
I ^jme on, Sim Suresby, that before my friend thou may
Avouch thee the same words, which thou didst to me say.
\_Exeant.
ACT v.— Scene 3.
Christian CrsTASCE.
C. Custance. O Lord ! how necessarj- it is now of days,
That each body live uprightly aU maimer ways ;
For let never so little a gap be open,
-\nd be sure of this, the worst shall be spoken.
How innocent stand I in this for deed or thought.
And yet, see what mistrust towards me it hath wrought.
r.ut thou. Lord, knowcst all folks' thoughts, and eke intents ;
And thou art the deliverer of all innocents.
Ihou didst help the adultress, that she might be amended;
Much more then help. Lord, that never ill intended.
Thou didst help Susanna, wrongfully accused,
And no less dost thou see, Lord, how I am now abused.
Ihou didst help Hester, when she should have died ;
Hf Ip also, good Lord, that my tnith may be tried.
Yot, if Gawin Goodluck with Tristram Trusty speak,
I trust of ill report the force shall be but weak ;
.Vnd lo I yond they come, sadly - talking togither :
I will abide, and not shrink for their coming hither.
ACT v.— Scene 4.
: liwiN Goodluck : Tristham Trusty ; C. Custance ; Sim. SrKESBT.
0. Good. And was it none other than ye to me report ?
T Trusty. No ; and here were ye wished, to have seen
the sport.
TJiat, that wlii;lL
Sndhi. seriously.
G. Good. Would I had, rather than half of that in my
purse.
«. fiiire. .Vnd I do much rejoice the matter was no worse.
And Uke as to open it I was to you faithful.
So of Dame Custance' honest truth I am jo\-ful.
For, God forfend that I should hurt her by" false report.
G. Good. WeU, I wiU no longer hold her in discomfort.
C. Custance. Now come they hitherward: I trust aU shall
be weU.
G. Good. Sweet Custance, neither heart can think, nor
tongue teU,
How much I joy in your constant fideUty.
Lome now, kiss me, the pearl of perfect honestf .
C. Custance. God let me no longer to continue in life
Than I shaU towards you continue a true wife.
G. Good. WeU, now to make you for this some part of
amends,
1 .shaU desire first you, and then such of our friends
As shaU to you seem best, to sup at home with me,
Where at your fought field we shaU laugh and mem- be.
Sim. Sure. And, mistress, I beseech you, take with me
no grief ;
1 did a true man's part, not wishing your repreef .
C. Custance. Though hasty reports, through surmises
growing,
May of poor innocents be utter overthrowing,
Yet, because to thy maister thou hast a true heart.
And I know mine o«ti truth, I forgive thee, for my part.
G. Good. Go we all to my house, and of this gear no
more.
Go, prepare aU things, Sim Suresby ; hence, run afore !
Sim. Sure. I go. \_Ex.
G. Good. Good. But who cometh yond f llathew ilery-
greeke ?
G. Custance. Roister Doister's champion ; I shrew his
best cheek.
T. Trust II. Bolster Doister's self, your wooer, is with him
too.
Surely, something there is with us they have to do.
ACT v.— Scene 5.
M. Meetgreeke; Ralph Roister; G»win CJooBLrcK ; Tristram
Trustt ; C. Custance.
M. Mery. Yond I see Gawin Goodluck, to whom lieth
my message.
I wUl first salute him after his long voyage.
And then make aU things weU concerning your behalf.
E. Roijster. Yea, for the pashe of God.
.¥. Merrj. Hence ! out of sight, ye calf.
Till I have spoke with them, .and then I will you fet.
R. Boyster. In God's name.
M. Jlery. "WTiat, Master Gawin Goodluck '. weU met ;
And, from your long voyage, I bid you right welcome home.
G. Good. I thank you.
M. .Very. I come to you from an honest mome.
G. Good. WTio is that ?
M. Mery. Roister Doister, that doughty k-ite.
C. Custance. Fie ! I can scarce abide ye should his name
recite.
M. Mery. Ye must take him to favour, and pai'don aU
past;
He heareth of your return, and is fuU Ul aghast.
G. Good. I am right weU content he have with us some
cheer.
a Custance. Fie upon him, beast! then wiU not 1 be
there.
46
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1534
G. Guod. Why, Custance, do ye hate him more than ye
love me '^
C. distance. But for your mind, sir, where he were,
would I not be.
T. Trust ti. He would make ns all laugh.
M. Merij. Ye ne'er had better sport.
G. Good. I pray you, sweet Custance, let him to us resort.
C. distance. To your will I assent.
M. Merij. 'V^Tiy, such a fool it is,
As no man for good pastime would forego or miss.
G. Good. Fet him, to go ^vith us.
M. Merij. He will be a glad man. [.^■>'-
T. Tritsti/. We must, to make us mirth, maintain him all
we can.
And lo, yond he comoth, and Merygreeke with him.
C. Ciistaim. At his first entrance, ye shall see I will him
trim.
But first, let u.s hearken the gentleman's wise talk.
T. Trust!/. I pray you, mark if ever ye saw crane so
stalk !
ACT v.— Scene 6.
E. EOISTEE ; M. MEttYGEEEEE ; C. CnSTANCE ; G. GOODLnCK ;
T. Trusty ; D. Dodghtie ; Harpax.
H. Eoi/ster. May I then be bold ?
31. Mrri/. I warrant you on my word.
Thoy say they stall be sick but ' ye be at their board.
R. Itni/strr. They were not angry, then ?
M. Mery. Yes, at first, and made strange ;
But when I said your anger to favour should change,
And therewith had commended you accordingly.
They were all in love with your ma' ship by and by ;
And cried you mercy, that they had done you wrong.
E. liotjster. For why ^ no man, woman, nor child can
hate me long.
M. Mery. "We fear" (quod they) "he will be avenged
one day ;
Then for a penny give all our lives we may."
S. Royster. Said they so indeed ?
M. Merij. Did they ? yea, even with one voice.
" He will forgive all," quod I. Oh, how they did rejoice !
R. Ruijster. Ha, ha, ha I
M. Menj. " Go fetch him " (say they) " while he is in good
mood ;
For, have his anger who lust, we will not, by the rood."
R. Roi/ster. I pray God that it be all true, that thou hast
mo told —
And that she fight no more.
M. ilertj. I warrant you ; be bold.
To them, and salute them.
R. Roi/stcr. Sirs, I greet you all well.
Oimies. Your maistership is welcome.
C Custance. Saving my quarrel.
For sure I will put you up into the Exchequer.
Jf. Jliry. Wliy so ? Better nay. Whei-efore ?
C. distance. For an usurer.
R. Roi/ster. I am no usurer, good mistress, by his arms.
M. Miri/. When took he gain of money, to any man's
harms ?
C. distance. Y'cs, a foul usurer he is, ye shall see else.
R. Royster. Didst not thou promise she would pick no
more quaiTels ?
C. Custance. He will lend no blows, but he have in
recompense
Fifteen for one, which is too much, of conscience.
^ But, unless.
R. Royster. Ah, dame ! by the ancient law of arms, a
man
Hath no honour to foU his hands on a woman.
C. Custance. And where other usurers take their gains
yearly,
This man is angry but he have his by and by.
G. Good. Sir, do not for her sake bear me your displea-
sure.
M. Mery. Well, he shaU with j-ou talk thereof more at
leisure.
Upon your good usage, he will now shake your hand.
R. Royster. And much heartUy welcome fi-om a strange
land,
if. Mery. Be not afcared, Gawin, to let him shako your
fist.
G. Good. Oh! the most honest gentleman that e'er I
wist '-
I do beseech your ma' ship to take pain to sup with us.
M. Mery. Ho shall not say you nay (and I too, by
the mass),^
Because ye shaU be friends, and let all quarrels pass.
R. Royster. I will be as good friends with them as e'er I
was.
M. Mery. Then, let me fet youi- choii-, that we may
have a song.
R. Royster. Go.
G. Good. I have heard no melody all this year long.
M. iTery. Come on, sirs, quickly.
R. Royster. Sing on, sirs, for my friends' sake.
D. Doufjh. Call ye these your' friends?
R. Royster. Sing on, and no more words make.
Sere they sing.
G. Good. The Lord preserve our most noble queen of
renown.
And her virtues reward with the heavenly crown.
C. distance. The Lord strengthen her most excellent
majestj'.
Long to reign over us in all prosperity.
T. Trusty. That her godly proceedings, the faith to
defend.
He may stablish and maintain thi-ough to the end.
M. Mery God grant her, as she doth, the Gospel to
protect,
Learning and ^^l■tue to advance, and vice to coiTect.
R. Royster. God grant her loi-ing subjects both the mind
and grace.
Her most godly proceedings worthily to embrace.
Harpax. Her highness' most worthy counsellors, God
prosper,
With honour and love of all men to minister.
Omnes. God grant the nobility her to serve and love.
With all the whole commonty, as doth them behove !
Amen.
All plays by Udall were supposed to have perished
until a single copy of " Ralph Roister Doister,"
without its title-page, was found in 1818 hj the Rev.
T. Briggs, an old Etonian, who presented it to the
^ Wist, knew.
3 By the mass. This, wliich the rhyme shows to have been written,
was changed to " Jesus " in the printed edition under Elizabeth. The
word " mass " was not repudiated by the earlier reformers, and is
used in Edward VI. 's first Sei-vice Book ; but ' ' Ralph Roister Doister "
was written in the reign of Henry VIII. The old " God Save tho
Queen " with which the play ends is, it will be seen, an .addition made
in Elizabeth's reign, thoroughly Protestnut, by the same baud that
had just struck the word " mass " out of the copy.
ro A.L. 1561.]
PLAYS.
47
Librarv of Eton College. Though its date is gone
with the title-page, it is, no doubt, a copy of the
■ dition known to have been printed in 1.566. The
much earlier date of the play itself is proved bv a
irference to it in 1.5.53, in the tldrd edition of Sir
Thomas Wilson's " Rule of Reason, conteinyng the
Aite of Logicjue." In that book, under the head of
■The Ambiguitie," Ralph's love-letter is given as
' ' An Example of soehe doubtful writing, whiche by
['■ason of poincting male have double sense, and con-
Tiarie meaning, taken out of an entrelude made by
Xicolas Vdal." Still among scholars, we timi now
from Eton to the Inner Temple.' The first English
tragedy, "Gorboduc," was produced five years after
the death of Nicholas Udall. It was written for the
L'hristmas festivities of the Inner Temple in the
accord with the doctrine and diseii)line of Calvin at
Geneva. As a youth of eighteen, he was employed
and favoured by the Protector Somer.set, and pub-
lished a translation into Enghsh of Peter Martyr's
letter to Somerset. After the death of the Protector,
whom he is said to have served as a .state amanuensLs,
Noi-ton in 1555 turned to the law, and entered him-
self as a student of the Inner Temple. His strong
interest in the religious questions of his time con-
tinued throughout all his life. A few months before
his participation iii the uniting of " GorVjoduc," he
published in a folio of nine hundred pages (about one
hundred and fifty being a table of matters contained
in the book) a translation into English of Calvin'
gi-eat summary of his doctiine, "The Institutes,"
wliich had been completed at Geneva but two yeara
Eios College.
year 1561 by two young membei-s of that Inn —
Thomas Norton, then twenty-nine years old, and
Thomas Sackville, then aged twenty-five.
Thomas Norton was the eldest son of a Bedford-
shire gentleman, who lived to old age on the manor
I if Sharpenhoe, in the parish of Streatley, and died
there in 158.3, when his heir had but another year to
live. As a youth, Thoma.s Norton liecame a ready
Latin scholar, but was not sent to either of the
T'niversities. It was not until nearly four years
after he had taken part in the writing of " Gor'-
1 "iduc " that he entered himself at Pembroke Hall,
< txford, where he remained until he graduated as
M.A. in 1569, when he was thirty-seven years old.
Thomas Norton's early training, whatever it was,
had developed in him deep religious feeling and an
active interest in the Reformation of the Church,
which he would have been glad to see brought into
' Mr. Edward Arber has included in liis admirable series of
" English Eeprints" "Ralph Roister Doister," with its text exactly
1 Tinted from the copy'at Eton, whicli was made accessible to him by
the kindness of the Provost 'and Fellows of the College. Its price
is sixpence; and every book produced by Mr. Arber may be obtained
by post, direct from the editor, for its price in postage-stamps. His
address is E. Arber, Esq., F.S.A., Bowes, Southgate, N.
before. A few months after " Gorboduc " was acted,
there appeared the completion of Sternhold's version
of the Psalms into English as "The Whole Booke
of Psalmes collected into English metre by T. Stern-
hold, L. Hopkins, and others," in which one of the
" others" was Thomas Norton ; versions of twenty-
eight psalms were contributed by him.'
^Thomas Sackville, who joined Norton in th°
writing of " Gorboduc," had an advantage ov3i- his
fellow-labourer in being really a poet. He was the
son of Sir Richard Sackville, and was born at Bxick-
hurst, in the parish of Withyham, in Sussex, in the
year 1536. He was at 0-xford for a time, but re-
moved to Cambridge, and there graduated. Thomas
Sack\dlle, married when he was nmeteen, was a
member of Parliament for the county ot AA estmora-
land at twenty-one. and at the beginnmg of Elizabeth -,
reign entered Parliament again as member lor r.as;
Grinstead, which is the town nearest to Buckhui-st
He was also much employed in private attendance
on the cmeen, whom his ftvther served as Yvn-y
CouncHlor, and who recognised in him a touch of
2 See Vol. ir. of this Library, " Hlustrations of English EeUgion,"
pases 149 and 173.
48
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.r>. 1561
blood relationship, for his grandmother had been
aunt to the (jueeu's mother. His career was to be
that of a statesman. He had brought from the
universities, and since maintained, reputation as a
wit and poet. In 15G0, Jasper Haywood wrote
how
" Sack^•ille's sonnets sweetly sauced
And featly fined be,"
and the part taken by him in the production of
" The Mirror for Magistrates " has been told in
another voluuie of this Library, whicli contains the
work of liis that best assures his place among the
poets.'
He was Mr. Thomas Sackville in 1561, when lie
joined in the writing of " Gorboduc," and had enteretl
himself of the Inner Temple, not that he might study
law as his profession, but that he might obtain the
knowledge of law necessary to a statesman. He
was not knighted until 1567, when he was also made
on the same day a baron of the realm, as Lord Buck-
hurst, and from that day forward his public life was
exclusivel_y jjolitical. He became firet Earl of Dorset
in 1604, and died in 1608.
The perfomiance of "Gorboduc" in 1561 was at
one of the " Grand Clu'istmasses " kept by the mem-
bers of the Inner Temple. The question as to the
keeping of a "Grand Christmas" was discussed in a
])arliament of the Inn, held on the eve of St. Thomas's
Day, December 21st. If it was resolved upon, the
two youngest of those who sei-ved as butlers for the
festi\'al lighted two toi'ches, with which they pre-
ceded the benchers to the upper end of the hall.
Old Hall of the Innek Temple.
The senior bencher there made a speech ; officers
were appointed for the occasion, " and then, in token
• See " Shorter Englisli Poems," pages 169—177. On page 170 there
IS a portifiit of Sackville, ,iud on pages 170—177 will he found the
whole of Sackville's " Induction " to " The Mirror for Magis-
trates," foUowed l.y other illustrations of that work on pages
177— 1&4.
of joy and good liking, the Bench and company pass
beneath the hearth, and sing a carol." -
The revellings began on Christmas Eve, when
three Masters of the Revels sat at the head of one
of the tables. All took theii- places to the sound of
music played before the hearth. Then the musicians
withdrew to the buttery, and were themselves feasted.
They returned when dinner was ended to sing a song
at the highest table. Then all tables were cleared,
and revels and dancing were begun, to be continued
until supper and after supper. The senior master of
the Revels, after dinner and after supper, sang a
carol or song, and commanded other gentlemen there
present to join him. This form of high festi-\-ity was
maintained during the twelve days of Christmas,
closing on Twelfth Night. On Christmas Day (wliich
in 1561 was a Thursday), at the first course of the
dinner, the boar's head was brought in upon a silver
platter, followed by ininstrelsy. On St. Stephen's
Day, December the 26th, the Constable Marshal
entered the hall in gilt armour, with a nest of
feather.s of all colours on his helm, and a gilt pole-
axe in his hand ; with him sixteen trumpeters, four
drums and fifes, and four men armed from the
middle upward. Those all marched three times
about the hearth, and the Constable Marehal, then
kneeling to the Lord Chancellor, made a speech,
desiring the honour of admission into his service,
delivered his naked sword, and was solemnly seated.
That was the usual ceremonial when a gi-and Christ-
mas was kept. At this particular Christmas, 1561,
in the fourth year of Elizabeth, it was Lord Robert
Dudley, afterwards Earl of Leicester, who was Con-
stable Marshal, and with chivalrous gallantry, taking
in fantastic style the name of Palaphilos, Knight of
the Honourable Order of Pegasus, Pegasus being the
Armorial Device of the Inner Temple,
he contril)uted to the splendour of this part of the
entertainment. After the seating of the Constable
JMarshal, on the same St. Stephen's Day. December
the 26th, the Master of the Game entered in green
velvet, and the Ranger of the Forest in green satm ;
these also went three times about the fire, blowing
their hunting-horns. When they also had been cere-
moniously seated, there entered a huntsman with a
fox and a cat bound at the end of a staff. He was
followed by nine or ten couple of hounds, who hunted
the fox and cat to the blowing of horns, and killed
^ Sir 'William Dugdale's "Origines Juridiciales," in which full
details are given of the usages at a " Grand Christmas" in the Inner
Temple.
TO A.D. 1562]
PLAYS.
49
them beneath the fii-e. After dinner, the Constable
Marshal called a burlesque court, and began the
Re\-els, with help of the Lord of jNIisnile. At seven
o'clock m the morning of tit. John's Day, December
the 27th (which was a Saturday in loOl], the Lord
I if Misrule was afoot with power to summon men
to breakfast with him when service had closed in
tlie church. After breakfast, the authority of this
Christmas official was in abeyance till the after-
dinner Revels. So the ceremonies went on till the
Banqueting Night, which followed New Year's Day.
That was the night of hospitality. Invitation.s were
sent out to every House of Court, that they and
the Inns of Chancery might see a Play and Masque.
The hall was furnished with scaffolds for the ladies
who were then invited to behold the sports. After
to general tranquillity," and spoke of "concord and
unity, the very marks which they were now to shoot
at." But unity was hard to attain. When she had
been queen not quite a year, the Spanish Ambassador
reported from London to the Comit de Feria, " It is
the devil's own business here. But the Catholics
grow stronger daily ; and the heretics are quarrelling
■^vith one another so bitterly that they have forgotten
their other enemies." To say nothing of other
jan-ing notes, in August, 1.561, Mary Stuart landed
in Scotland. Sackville and Norton, therefore — one
of them a young poet with the aspirations of a
statesman, the other a man intensely interested in
the contest against Roman Catholic influence —
resolved to present before their audience of jirivy
councillors, lawyers, and other foremost men, a play
ACTIKG Teeence. (Copied bii Strutt from ini earlij-prinicd edition of Terence.)
the Play, there wa.s a Banquet for the ladies in the
library ; and in the hall there was also a Banquet
fVjr the Lord Chancellor and invited ancients of
other Houses. On Twelfth Day, the last of the
Revels, there were brawn, mustard, and malmsey
for breakfast after morning prayer, and the dimier
as on St. John's Day. It was for the Banqueting
I »ay of the Grand Christmas of the Inner Templars
tliat the two members of that Inn, Tliomas Sackville,
whose father was then governor of tlie Temple, and
Thomas Norton, wrote a play in English upon the
model of the ti-agedies of Seneca, as " Ralph Roister
Doister " had been written on the model of Plautus
or Terence, and acted instead of "Andria" or
" Phormio."
Tliere was a reason for their choice- of subject.
Elizabeth had not been very long upon the throne.
Before her accession England had been a house
di\'ided against itself by strong conflicts of opinion.
Klizabeth was queen of a divided people. In her first
speech from the throne she said that her desire was
" to seciue and unite the people of this realm in one
uniform order, to the honour and glory of Cod, and
127
, that shoidd urge with all possible force "concord
! and unity" as tlie very mark at which a nation
must shoot. Their patriotic piu-pose was to insist on
j the queen's thought, l>y writing a play that should
j dwell throughout upon the danger hanging over any
I nation that is as a house divided against itself.
' They found a tale of civil .strife to suit their purpose
in the same old chronicle which has yielded also to
poetry the story of King Lear, and which brought
Kincr Arthur again among us, Geofi'rey of Mon-
mouth's Chi-onicle of Briti.sh kings. The story
chosen by them is, indeed, in the chronicle the
next narrative after that of Lear. Cordelia in
GeoflFreyof Monmouth's t^hronicle enabled her fatlier
to defeat his sons-in-law, and end his life as King of
' all Britain. She succeeded liim. and was for live
I years queen ; then she wa.s rebelled against by her
sister's sons, Margan and Cunedagius. They over-
came her, and divided the island between themselves.
But ilargan then attacked Cunedagius, who, liy over-
throwing his cousin, again brought Britain under
single nde. And this is said by the ingenious
chronicler to have hapjiened at the time when
50
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1561
Romulus iuul Rt!uuis founded Rome. Then Geofti-ey '
goes on to the story which .seemed to Sackville and
Norton titted for then- purpose :
At last C'uucclagius dying, was succeeded by his son Rivallo,
a fortunate youth, who diligently applied himself to the
affairs of the government. In his time it rained blood tlu-ee
days together, and there fell vast swarms of flies, followed
by a great mortality among the people. After him succeeded
Gurgustius his son ; after him Sisillius ; after him Jago, the
nephew of tiurgustius; after him Kinmarcus the son of
Sisillius ; after him Gorbogudo, who had two sons, Ferrex
and Porrex.
When their father grew old they began to quarrel about
the succession ; but Porrex, who was the most ambitious of
the two, formed a design of killing his brother by treachery,
which the other discovering, escaped, and passed over into
Gaul. There he procured aid from Suard,"king of the Franks,
with which he returned aud made war upon his brother ;
coming to an eng.agenient, Ferre.x was killed and all his
forces cut to pieces. When their mother, whose name was
Widen, came to be informed of her .son's death, she fell into
a great rage, and conceived a mortal hatred against the sur-
vivor. For she had a greater affection for the deceased than
for him, so that nothing less would appease her indignation
for his death, than her revenging it upon her surviving son.
She took, therefore, her opportunity when he was asleep, fell
upon him, and with the assistance of her women tore him to
pieces. From that time a long civil war oppressed the
people, and the island became divided under the power of five
kings, who mutually harassed one another.
Havinw arranged tliis story for their purpose, the
autliors of our first tragedy ]jarted the work between
them; Norton writing tlie first, second, and third acts,
and Sackville the fourth and fifth, though, as they
worked in fellowship, each may have had some hand
in the part chiefly entrusted to the other. They
divided the story into five acts, each closed with a
chorus, exactly in Seneca's manner, and the veree
they agreed to use was the ))lank verse upon which
Italian poets had been experimenting. Experiment
of that kind had been first tried among us at the
close of Henry VIII.'s reign, when the Earl of
Surrey, imitating the Cardinal Ippolito de' Medici,
or the poet Molza, who allowed that Cardinal to
take all credit for his work, translated into blank
verse the second and fourth books of Virgil's JEuaid.
Very little blank verse had been tried in England,
and that had not been jirinted until just before
Elizabeth's accession. The use of it in our first
tragedy was, therefore, a trial made accidentally of
a new-fushioned measui-e. When other tragedies
followed, the more familiar forms of rhyn\ing verse
were at first generally used, and "Gorbodue " had pro-
bably no part in determining the later adoption of
blank verse by English dramatists. We ha^•e blank
vei-se now as it has been developed by the genius of
two such poets as Shakespeare and Milton. Only in
England has it thus been created anew by supreme
masters of song. For that reason we have it as a
national measure, and the worthiest that ever any
nation called its own. In "Gorbodue" there was
slight indication of its undeveloped powers.
The story, as arranged for representation, wa.s
set forth in an Argument by the two dramatists.
When put thus bakUy, it is, with its " kill, kill,
kill," a little ludicrous through the intensity of its
suggestion that disunion may lead to the extremest
ills.
THE ARGUMENT OF THE TRAGEDY.
Gorbodue, King of Britain, divided his realm in his life-
time to his sons, Ferre.x and Porre.x. The sons fell to dissen-
sion. The younger killed the elder. The mother, that more
dearly loved the elder, for revenge killed the younger. The
people, moved with the cruelty of the fact, rose in rebellion,
and sli^w both father and mother. The nobility assembled,
and most terribly destroyed the rebels ; and afterwards, for
want of issue of the Prince, whereby the succession of the
crown became uncertain, they fell to civil war, in which both
they and many of their issues were slain, and the land for a
long time almost desolate and miserably wasted.
The ])lay was received with great applause. Lord
Robert Dudley, high in honour at that particular
grand Christmas in the Inner Temple, aud first
favourite of the queen, would add his witness to the
common report of that zeal for the welfare of England,
which had caused the writers of the play to insist
with all their might upon concord and unity as the
very mark at which good Englishmen should aim.
The queen, therefore, added to the lesson all emphasis
in her power by commanding the play to be repeated
about a fortnight later — that is to say, on the 18th
of January, 1562 (new style) — before herself and
her court at Whitehall. It thus had the conspicuous
success that, in a new thing, always suggests imitation.
A contem]iorary MS. note^ says of the performance
before Queen Elizabeth that " on the 1 8th of January,
15(31 " (new style, 1562), "there was a ])lay in the
Queen's hall at Westminster by the gentlemen of the
Temple after a gi-eat mask, for there was a great
scaffold in the hall, with great triumph as has been
seen ; and the morrow after, the scaffold was taken
down. "
The fame of the play caused .some young Templar
in the year 15G5 (the year after the birth of Shake-
speare) to sell a copy of it — perhaps one of the MS.
copies used by the performers in learning their parts '
— to William Griffith, a bookseller, whose shop was
op])Osite the Temple in St. Dun.stan's Churchyard,
and by him it was first published on the 22nd of
September of that year as " The Tragedie of Gor-
bodue, whereof three Actes were wrytten by Thomas
Nortone, and the two last by Thomas Sackvyle. Set
forth as the same was shewed before the Queen's
most excellent Maiestie, in her highnes Court of
Whitehall, the xviii. day of January, Anno Domini,
1561. By the gentlemen of Thynner Temple in
London." This was an unauthorised publication ;
u])on which the following note was made in the
authorised edition, which did not appear until the
beginning of 1571 (1570, old style): — "Where this
Tragedy was for furniture of ])art of the Grand
Christmas in the Innei' Temjjie, first written about
nine years ago by the right honourable Thomas, now
Lord Buckhui-st, and by T. Norton, and afterwards
' Cotton MSS., Vit. F. v.
TO A.D. lbO'2.}
PLAYS.
51
showed befoi-e Her Majesty, and never intended by
the authors thereof to be published : yet one W. G."
[William Griffith] " getting a copy thereof at some
young man's hand that lacked a little money and
much discretion, in the last great Plague, anno 1565,
about live years past, while the said lord was out
of England, and T. Norton far out of London,
and neither of them both made privy, put it forth
exceedingly corrui)ted" — and so here was a true copy,
jninted by John Day, at Aldersgate. Probably to
distinguish this edition from the spurious one, the
title of the play was altered from " Gorboduc " —
under which name it must certainly have been jire-
sented — to " Ferrex and Porrex." The title of this
rdition was "The Ti-agidie of Fen-ex and Porrex,
set forth without addition or alteration, but alto-
gether as the same was shewed on stage before the
Queens Maiestie about nine yeares past, vz, the xviii.
day of Janvarie, 1561, by the gentlemen of the
Tuner Temple." The tir.st, second, and third acts it
will be enough to describe with occasional quotation ;
the fourth and tifth acts (Sackville's [lart) are the
best, and shall be given complete. The text quoted
IS, ol course, that of the authorised edition ; but all
variations from it in the edition of 1565, published
b.v William Griffith, will be found in foot-notes.
Lach act was preceded by an allegorical mas(iue
toreshadowmg the meaning of its ston-, and closed
with meditative stanzas spoken by a Chorus of four
wise elders of Britain. As the original name of tjie
play was " Gorboduc "—for the young man '-that
lacked a little money and much "discretion " w ouid
not have been so indiscreet as to raise money ujwii
its credit by sell iig it uud ^r any other name than
Its own— we may .set aside as an after-thought the
change of title. It may be true, however, that besides
the distinguishing clearly by a difl'erence of name
authorised from the unauthorised copies, the central
thought of the i)lay — strife, and the rain in its train
— Ls better marked by the names of the two brothers
between whom the ieud began, than l)y the single
name of the father whose establishment of a divided
power in the land caused all the misery that
followed.
Strife.
From a Relievo in Tcrra-cofia by Antonio PoUaiuoh {in the Sonth Kensinijton Museum).
GORBODUC.
THE ORDER OF THE I)''MH SHOW BEFORE THE FIRST ACT,
AND THE SiaXIFICATION THEREOF.
First, the music of violins hefjan to play, during which came in
upon the stage six wild men, clothed in leaves. Of whom the
^first bare on^ his neck a fagot of small sticks, which theij all,
both scveralhj and together, assayed with all their strength- to
break : but it could not be broken by them. At the length, one
of them pulled^ out one of the sticks, and brake it : and the rest
plucking out all the other sticks, one after another, did easily
break them,* the same being severed; which being conjoined,
they had before attempted in vain. After they had this done,
they dip irted the stage, and the music ceased. Hereby was
signified, that a state knit in unity doth continue strong against
all force, but being divided, is easily destroyed ; as befell on
' On, in. (W. G.'s copy.)
'' Plucked. (W. G.)
2 Stren^bs. (W. G.)
" Them " omitted. (W. G )
Buke Gorboduc dividing his land to his two sons, which he
before held in monarchy ; and upon the dissension of the
brethren, to whom it was divided.
ACT I.
has two scenes, one for the Queen Videna, one for
the King Gorboduc.
j Scene 1. — Queen Videna. wife to King Gorboduc.
is, at night, in anxious dialogue with her elder son,
Ferrex, because her husband has resolved, by divi<ling
hLs kingdom between both sons, to spoil Ferrex of
his birthright. On the day tlieii about to dawn
He will endeavour to procure assent
Of all his council to his fond devise.
Fer. Their ancestors from race to race have boiTic
True faith to my forefathers and their seed :
I trust thev eke will hear the like to me.
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CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1561
Vkl. There rosteth all. But if they fail thereof,
And if the end bring forth an ill' success,
On them and theirs the mischief shall befall,
And so I pray the gods requite it them ;
And so they will, for so is wont to be,
When lords and trusted rulers under kings.
To please the present fancy of the prince,
AVith -svi-ong transpose the course of governance,
Mm-dcrs, mischief, and civil sword at length,
(_)r nuitual treason, or a just revenge,
A\'hen right succeeding line returns again,
By Jove's just judgment and deserved wrath,
Brings them to cruel- and reproachful death
And roots their names and kindi-eds from the earth.
Fer. Mother, content you, you shall see the end.
rUI. The end ! thy end 1 fear : Jove end me first I
Scene 2. — Gorboduc, King of Great Britain, is
consulting with two of his lords, Arostus and
Philander, and his secretary, EuLulns, whose name
is Greek for good counsel, and from whom especially
proceeds good counsel for the English. Gorlxiduc
lii-st tells his friends that he needs faithful ad\ice
from them, for the well-being of himself and of his
sous. Arostus promises for all that he shall have it.
Gorboduc then says —
My lords, I thank you aU. This is the case :
Ye know, the gods, who have the sovereign care
For kings, for kingdoms, and for common weals,
Gave me two sons in my more lusty age.
Who now, in my decaying^ years, are grown
Well towards riper state of mind and strength,
To take in hand some greater princely charge.
As yet they live and spend their hopeful days
With me, and with their mother, here in coiu-t.
Their age now asketh other place and trade,
And mine also doth ask another change.
Theirs to more travail, mine to greater ease.
When fatal death shall end my mortal life.
My purpose is to leave unto them twain
The realm divided in^ two sundry parts:
The one, Ferrex, mine elder son, shall have ;
The other, shall the younger,' Porre.\, rule.
That both my purpose may more firmly'' stand.
And eke that they may better rule their charge,
I mean forthwith to place them in the same;
That in my life they may both learn to rule.
And I may joy to see their ruling well.
This is, in sum, what I would have you weigh :
First, whetlicr ye allow' my whole devise,
And think it good for me, for them, for you.
And for our country, mother of us all :
And if ye like it and allow it well,
Then, for their guiding and their governance,
Shewe forthe sucho meanes of circumstance,
As ye think meet to be both known and kept.
Lo, this is all ; now tell me your advice.
' EuyU. (W. G.)
' Dece3ruyiige (deceiving).
5 Other. (W. G )
■ .-inow, approve. French '
« Civil (W. G.)
(W. G.) * Into. (W. G.)
« Framely. (W. G.)
alloner ; " Latin " aUocare." The word
was commonly applied to the admission of a charge in accounts, as in
otu: phrase of " aUowing the witness his expenses."
Arostus agrees with the king smoothly in a speech
of seventy lines ; tinding reasons to show that his
cn-ace hath wisely thought. Philander, in a speech
of a hundred lines, partly agi-ees with Ai-ostus, partly
differs from him : — i%
As for dividing of this realm in twain, <j
And lotting out the same in equal parts
To either of my lords, your grace's sons,
That think I best for this your realm's behoof.
For profit and advancement of your sons.
And for your comfort and your honour okc :
But so to place them while your life do last,
To yield to them your royal governance,
To be above them only in the name
Of father, not in kingly state also,
I tliink not good for you, for them, nor us.
It is good that the brothers should have ecpial
state : —
But now the head to stoop beneath them both,
Ne kind, ns reason, ne good orders bears.
And oft it hath been seen, where nature's course'
Hath been perverted in disordered wise,
When fathers cease to know that they should rule.
The children cease to know they should ob^y ;
And often over-kindly ' tenderness
Is mother of unkindly stubbornness.
So let the sons divide rule of the kingdom, but
hold jjower subject to their father, who remains the
" piince and father of the commonweal." It is then
the tuni of Eubulus to advise, which he does in a
speech of ninety lines. His argument is — •
To part your realm unto my lords your sons
I think not good for you, ne yet for them.
But worst of all for this our native land.
Within one land, one single rule is best :
Divided reigns do make divided hearts ;
But peace ijreserves the country and the prince.
Such is in man the greedy mind to reign,
So gi'cat is his desire to climb aloft,
In worldly stage the stateliest parts to bear.
That faith and justice, and all kindly love.
Do yield unto desire of sovereignty.
Where equal state doth raise an equal hope
To win the thing that either would attain.
Your grace remembreth how in passed years.
The mighty Brute, first prince of all this land,
Posscss'd the same, and ruled it well in one :
He, thinking that the compass did suffice
For his three sons three kingdoms eke to make,
Cut it in three, as you would now in twain.
But ho w much British '" blood hath since been spilt,
To join again the sundered unity!
A\'hat princes slain before their timely hour '. "
AATiat waste of towns and people in the land !
A\'hat treasons heaped on murders and on spoils !
^^^lose just revenge even yet is scarcely ceased,
Ruthf ul remembrance is yet raw '- in mind.
8 That where nature. (W. G.)
'" Brutish. (W. G.)
1= Had. (W. G.)
9 Oiu- imMndly. (W. G.)
II Honour. (W. G.)
TO A.D. 1562.]
PLAYS.
53
The gods forbid the like to chance again :
And you, king, give not the cause thereof.
Eulmlus forecasts what may liappeu if Gorboduc
should cany out Ids purpose, and says —
Good is I grant of all to hope the best,
But not to lire still dreadless of the worst.
So trust the one that th' other be foreseen.
Gorboduc having thus taken counsel of others,
follows Lis own ; and with his resolve to do so, thus
the act ends : —
Gor. I feike your faithful hearts in thankful part :
But sith I see no cause to draw my mind,
To fear the nature of my loraig sons,
Or to misdeem that envy or disdain
Can there work hate, where nature planteth love ;
In one self purpose do I still abide.
My love extendeth equally to both.
My land sufiBoeth for them both also.
Humber shall part the marches of their realms :
The southern part the elder shall possess,
The northern shall Porre.'t, the younger, rule.
In quiet I will pass mine aged days,
Free from the travail and the painful cares
That hasten age upon the worthiest kings.
But lest the fraud, that ye do seem to fear.
Of flattering tongues, coiTupt their tender youth,
And wi-ieth ' them to the ways of youthful lust,
To climbing pride, or to revenging hate.
Or to neglecting of their careful charge,
Lewdly to live in wanton recklessness.
Or to oppressing of the rightful cause.
Or not to wreak the wrongs done to the poor,
To tread down truth, or favour false deceit ;
I mean to join to either of my sons
Some one of those whose long approved faith
And wisdom tried may wcU assure my heart
That mining fraud shall find no way to creep
Into their fenced ears with grave advice.
This is the end ; and so I jjray you all
To bear my sons the love and loyalty
That I have found within your faithful breasts.
Aros. You, nor your sons, my sovereign lord, shall
want
Our faith and service, while our hearts- do last.
\_Exeunt.
Chorus.
When settled stay doth hold the royal throne
In steadfast place, by known and doubtless right.
And chiefly when descent on one alone
Makes single and unparted reign to Ught ;
Each change of course unjoints the whole estate,
And yields it thrall to ruin by debate.
The strength that, knit by fast' accord in one,
Against all foreign power of mighty foes
Couid of itself defend itself alone.
Disjoined once, the former force doth lose.
The sticks, that sundered brake so soon in twain.
In fagot bound attempted were in vain.
^ Wricth, turns awry.
■' Lives. (W. G.)
3 Last. (W. G.)
Oft tender mind, that leads the partial eye
Of erring parents in their children's love,
Destroys the wrongly* loved child thereby.
This doth the proud son of ApoUo prove,
^\'ho, rashly set in chariot of his sire,
Inflam'd the parched earth with heaven's fire.
And this great king that doth di\ide his land.
And change" the cum'se of his descending crown,
And yields the rein into his children's hand.
From blissful state of joy and great renown
A mirror shall become to princes aU,
To learn to shun the cause of such a fall.
The Fu'st Act being ended, a Dumb Show pre-
luded in this manner the Second Act : —
First, the music of eormtn began to pin;/, during wliich came in
upon the stage a kiu^ accompanied icith a niimhcr of his
nohilitg and gentlemoi. And after he had plated himself in
a chair of estate prepared for him, there came and kneeled
before him a grave and aged gentleman, and offered up unto
him a cup of wine in a glass, which the king refused. After
him comes a brace and lustg young gentleman, and presents
the king with a cup of goM filed with poison, which the king
accepted, and drinking the same, immediately fell down dead
upon the stage, and so waji carried thence away by his lords
and gentlemen, and then the music ceased. Hereby was signi-
fied, that as glass by nature holdcth no poison, but is clear
and may easily be seen through, ne bowcth by any art ; so a
faithful counsellor holdcth no treason, but is plain and open,
ne yieldeth to any undiscreet affection, but giveth wholesome
counsel, which the ill-advised prince refuscth. The delightful
gold filled with poison betokeneth flattery, which under fair
seeming of pleasant words beareth deadly poison, which
destrogeth the prince that receiveth it. As befell in the two
brethren, Ferrex and Porrex, w-ho, refusing the wholesome
advise of grave counsellors, credited these young parasites,
and brought to themselves death and destruction thereby.
ACT II.
has two scenes, one for Fen-ex and his counselloi-s,
one bad, one good ; the other for Ponex and his
counsellors, one bad, one good.
geENE 1. Ferrex, the elder brother, consults with
two advisei-s, Hermon, a parasite, and Dordan, a
counsellor assigned to him by his fother. He marvels
why his father should have taken from lum half Ins
birthrit'ht. Hermon agrees in wondering : it would
have looked more rea,sonable if he had rebelled or
murdered some one of his kin. But Ferrex mvokes
on himself eternal plagues and never-dying ware—
If ever I conceived so foul a thought
To wish his end of life, or yet of reign.
Then Dordan interposes words that make for love
and peace : —
Ke yet your father, most noble prince,
Did'ever think so foul a thing of you ;
For he, with more than father's tender love,
While yet the fates do lend him life to rule,
» Wrongfid. (W. G.)
s Changed. (W. G.)
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lA.D. 1661
(^\^lo lonft might live to see yoiu' ruling well)
To you, my lord, and to his other son,
Lo, he resigns his realm and royalty ;
Which never would so wise a prince have done,
If he had once misdeemed that in y(3ur heart
There ever lodged so unkind a thought.
But tender love, my lord, and settled trust
Of your good nature, and your noble mind,
Made him to place you thus in royal throne,
And now to give you half his realm to guide ;
Yea, and that half which, in' abounding store
Of things that serve ^ to malve a wealthy realm.
In stately cities, and in fruitful soil.
In temperate breathing of the milder heaven,
In things of needful use, which friendly sea
And thus to match his younger son with me
In equal power, and in as great degree :-"
Yea, and what son 'i
Heniioii inflames yet more the anger that good
Dordau .seeks to cool. In vain Dordan warns : —
111 is their counsel, shameful be their end.
That raising such mistrustful fear in you,
Sowing the seeds of such unkindly hate.
Travail by treason to destroy you both.
Hernion flatters
princely qualities "
in Ferrex the " noble gifts of
that make him worthy of his
A Dome Show in the Time of Elizabeth.'
Transports by traffic from the foreign parts,'
In flowing wealth, in honour, and in force,
Doth pass the double value of the part
That Porre.x hath allotted to his reign.
Such is your case, such is your father's love.
Fcr. Ah, love, my friends ! Love wrongs not whom
he loves.
Dor. Ne yet he wrongeth you that giveth you
So large a reign ere that the course of time
Bring you to kingdom by descended right,
Which time perhaps might end your time before.
Fcr. Is this no \vTong, say you, to reave from me
My native right of half so great a realm,
1 WUdk, in, within. (W. G.)
2 Seme. (W. G.)
' This cut is taken from Strutt's " Mtinners and Customs of the
English." It was cipied from a large painting ou wood that siir-
voimded the porti-ait of Sir Henry Uuton, with pictured incidents in
his life. Sir Henry Unton died in deht in the year 1596. The incident
here pictured is the masque held at liis wedding, and it serves to
show the method of presenting such an entertainment.
• Ports. (W. G.)
birthright. In mildness and in sober governance he
far excels his brother, to whose fiery head, Hermon
suggests, mild sufl'erance of so great a wrong would
jiresently give courage to invade the whole. There-
fore, advises Hei'mon,
While yet therefore sticks in the people's mind
The loathed wrong of your disheritance ;
And ere your brother have, by settled power,
By guileful cloak of an alluring show,
Got him some force and favour in the'' realm ;
And while the noble queen, your mother, lives.
To work and practise all for your avail ;
Attempt redress by arms, and wreak yourself
Upon his life that gaineth by your loss.
Who now to shame of you, and grief of us,
In your own kingdr>m triumphs over you.
Show now your courage meet for kingly state,"
That they which have avow'd to spend their goods,
5 This. (W.G.I
« Estate. (W. G.l
TO A.D. 1.5C2.T
PLAYS.
55
Their lands, their lives and honours in your cause,
May he the bolder to maintain your part,
When they do see that coward fear in you
Shall not betray, ne fail theli- faithful hearts.
If once the death of Porrex end the strife,
And pay the price of his usurped reign,
Your mother shall persuade the angry king.
The lords, your friends, eke shall appease his rage.
For they be wise, and well they can foresee.
That ere long time your aged father's death
Will bring a time when you shall well requite
Their friendly favour or their hateful spite.
Yea, or their slackness to advance your Giuse.
Wise men do not so hang on passing state
Of present princes, chiefly in their age,
But they will further cast their reaching eye
To view and weigh the times and reigns to come.
Ne is it likely, though the king be wroth,
That he yet wiU, or that the realm -will bear,
Extreme revenge upon his only son :
Or, if he would, what one is he that dare
Be minister to such an enterprise ?
And here you be now placed in your own.
Amid your friends, your vassals, and your strength :
AVe shall defend and keep your person safe,
Till either counsel turn his tender mind,
Or age or sorrow end his weary days.
But if the fear of gods, and secret grudge
Of nature's law, repining at the fact,
Withhold your courage from so great attempt.
Know ye, that lust of kingdoms hath no hiw.
The gods do bear and well allow in kings
The things that they abhor in rascal routs.
When kings on slender quairels run to wars.
And then in cruel and unkindly wise
Command thefts, rapes, murders of innocents.
The' spoil of towns, ruins^ of mighty realms ;
Think you such princes do suppose^ themselves
Subject to laws of kind, and fear of gods ':
Murders and violent thefts in private men
Are heinous crimes, and full of foul reproach ;
Yet none offence, but decked with glorious name
Of noble conquests, in the hands of kings.''
But if you like not yet so hot devise,
Ne list to take such vantage of the time,
But though, with peril of your own estate,
You will not be the first that shall invade ;
Assemble yet your force for your defence,
And for your safety stand upon your guard.
Dor. O heaven ! was there ever heard or known,
So wicked counsel to a noble prince ?
Let me, my lord, disclose unto your grace
This heinous tale, what mischief it contains ;
Your father's death, your brother's, and your own.
Your present murder and eternal shame.
Hear me, U king, and suffer not to sink
So high a treason in your princely breast.
F<r. The mighty gods forbid that ever I
Should once conceive such mischief in my he.art I
Although my brother hath bereft my realm.
And bear, perhaps, to me an hateful mind,
Aud reii,'
(W. G.)
' To. (W. G.)
s Suppress. (W. G.)
» Of the preceilinj four lines the two beginning " Yet none offence "
preceded in William Griffith's edition the two beginning "Murders
and violent thefts."
Shall I revenge it with his death therefore ••
Or .shall I so destroy my father's life
That gave me life ? The gods forbid, I say :
Cease you to speak so any more to me ;
Ne you, my friend, with answer once repeat
So foul a tale. In silence let it die.
What lord or subject shall have hope at all.
That under me they safely shall enjoy
Their goods, their honoui-s, lands, and liberties.
With whom, neither one only brother dear,
Ne father dearer, could enjoy their lives ?
But, sith I fear my younger brother's rage.
And sith, perhaps, some other man may give
Some Uke advice, to move his gi'udging head
At mine estate ; which counsel may perchance
Take greater force with him than this with me,
I will in secret so prepare myself.
As, if his malice or his lust to reign
Break forth in° arms or sudden violence,
I may withstand his rage and keep mine own.
\_Exeunt Ferkex and Ueumox.
Dordan remains to utter his miswivuig:, and leaves
to waru Gorboduc of the traitoi'ou.s counsel that now
will whirl about
The youthful heads of these unskilful kings.
Reverence of kiin, perhaps, shall stay the growing
mischiefs : —
If this help not, then woe unto themselves,
The prince, the people, the divided land! \Exit.
Scene 2. — Porrex, the younger brother, consult'?
with two advisers, Tyndar, a parasite, and Philander,
a counsellor assigned to him by his father. He is
told by the parasite of these preparations for war
which his brother hatl resolved to make as safeguard
against outbreak from Porrex, aud which are now
made into reasons for attacking him : —
For. And is it thus ? and doth he so prepare
Against his brother as his mortal foe ?
And now, while yet his aged father lives ?
Neither regards he hira, nor fears he me ?
War would he have ;- and he shall have it so.
The hot temper of Porrex is quickened by the
reports of Tyndar, the jjarasite. Philander urges iu
vain that Porrex should send to his brother for ex-
planation before moving unkinilly war. and send to
Uorboduc, who would ajijiease the kindled minds of
his sons, and rid Poi'rex of this fear : —
For. Rid me of fear ! I fear him not at aU ;
Ne will to him, ne to my father send.
If danger were for one to tarry there,
Think ye it safety to return again ?
In mischiefs, such as Ferrex now intends,
The wonted courteous laws to messengers
Are not observ'd, which in just war they use.
Shall I so hazard any one of mine ?
Shall I betray my trusty friends to him,
5 With. (W. G )
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CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1561
That have disclosed his ' treason unto me,
Let him entreat that fears : I fear him not.
Or shall I to the king, my father send f
Yea, and send now, while such a mother lives,
That loves my brother, and that hateth me ?
Shall I give leisure, by my fond delays,
To FeiTCx to oppress me all^ unware ?
I will not ; but I will invade his realm.
And seek the traitor prince within his coui-t.
Mischief for mischief is a due reward.
His wretched head shall pay the worthy price
Of this his treason and his hate to me.
Shall I abide, and treat,-' and send, and pray.
And hold my yielden throat to traitor's knife,
■While I, with valiant mind and conquering force,
Might rid myself of foes, and win a realm':"
Yet rather, when I have the wretch's head.
Then to the king, my father, will I send.
The bootless case may yet appease his wrath :
If not, I will defend me as T may.
[Exeunt PoRKEX and Tvxn.iR.
Philander remains to utter his misgivings, and
leaves to warn Gorbodue, " ere this mischief come
to the likely end." Then the Chorus sums np the
act thus : —
Chorus.
■WTien youth, not bridled with a guiding stay.
Is left to random of their own delight.
And wields whole realms by force of sovereign sway,-*
Great is the danger of unmastered might,
Lest skilless rage throw down, with headlong fall.
Their lands, their states, their lives, themselves and all.
When gi'owing piide doth fill the swelling breast.
And gi'eed}' lust doth raise the climbing mind.
Oh, hardly may the peril be repressed.
Ne fear of angry gods, ne lawcs kind,
Ne country's care* can fired hearts restrain,
When force hath armed envy and disdain.
^\Tien kings of foreset' will neglect the rede
Of best adWce, and yield to pleasing tales
That do their fancies' noisome humour feed,
Ne reason nor regard of right avails,
Succeeding heaps of plagues shall teach, too late.
To learn the mischiefs of misguided' state.
Foul fall the traitor false, that undermines
The love of brethren, to destroy them both.
Woe to the prince, that pliant ear inclines,
And yields his mind to poisonous tale that flow'th
From flattering mouth ! And woe to wretched land.
That wa.stes itself with civil sword in hand !
Lo, thus it is, poison in gold to take,
And wholesome drink in homely cup for.s;ike.
The Second Act being ended, a Dumb Show
hided in this maimer the Third Act : —
2 At. (W. G.)
■ Fray. (W. G.)
pie-
First, the music of flutes began to play, during which came in
upon the stage a company of mourners, all clad in black, be-
tokening death and sorrow to ensue upon the ill-advised mis-
government and dissension of brethren, as befell upon the
murder of Ferrex by his younger brother. After the mourneri
had passed thrice about the stage, they departed, and then the
music ceased.
ACT HI.
has only one scene, which opens with Gorbodue
between his good counsellor, Eubulus, and his flat-
terer, Arostus, in extreme grief at news of the
gro%vth of discord, sent in a letter from Dordau, the
good counsellor of Ferrex : —
Behold, my lords, read ye this letter here ;
Lo, it contains the ruin of our realm,
If timely speed provide not hasty help.
*****
Read, read my lords ; this is the matter why
I called ye now, to have your good advice.
TAe letter from Dordax, the Counsellor of the elder Prince.
Eubulus readeth the letter.
My sovereign lord, what I am loath to write,
But loathest am to see, that I am forced
By letters now to make you understand.
My lord Ferrex, your eldest son, misled
By traitorous fraud* of young untemperd wits,
Asscmbleth force against your younger son,
Ke can mj' counsel yet withdraw the heat
And furious pangs of his inflamed head.
Disdain, saith he, of his disheritance'
Arms him to wreak the great pretended '" wrong
With civil sword upon his brother's life.
If present help do not restrain this rage,
This flame will waste yoirr sons, your land, and you.
Your JIajesty's faithful,
and most humble subject,
DoRD.t.V.
Arostus advises that both sons be sent for, and
that Gorbodue tiiist to their reverence of his honour,
age, and state ; if that be not enough, let him join
force against whichever son is disobeilient. But then
enters Philander, the good counsellor of Pon-ex, to
tell that the brothers are in arms against each other.
Gorbodue gives way to anger and despair. Philander
suggests that loving Jove may have
tempered so the time
Of this debate to happen in your days.
That you yet liWng may the same appease,
And add it to the" glory of your latter age,
And they, your sons, may learn to live in peace.
Eubulus says, " Lo, here the jieril that was erst
foreseen," but it is a time for action, not for vain
lament. Some wise and noble pei-sonage must carry
' That hath disclosed this. ( W. G.)
2 jlnd treat, entreat. (W. G.)
^ Countrie, care. (W. G. )
« Forf.sct. a set purpose before asking couniel, as was Gorboduc's
case. Not to bo coiif minded with foresight.
' MisgnidiDj. (W. G.)
» Traitours framde. (W. G.) 'Inheritance. (W. G.)
'" Prclemlci, offered, held forth.
1' AdA it to the, pronoimced swiftly "add't't'the," upon the prin-
ciple of the dropped d of the past tense in words with a root entling
in ', nius the four syll.ables into two.
TO A.D. 1562.]
PLAYS.
57
warning to one of the sons, wkile the father pi-epares
force wherewith, if necessaiy, by the teiTor of his
power to stay the rtige of both, or yet of one at least.
But it is too late. After the maimer of the ancient
drama, which related, but did not show, violent
deeds, a messenger enters, and the act ends with
his tidings : —
king, the greatest grief that ever prince did hear,
Thiit ever woeful messenger did tell,
That ever wretched land hath seen before,
1 bring to you : Porrex your younger son
With sudden force invaded hath the land
That you to Ferrex did allot to rule ;
And with his own most bloody hand he hath
His brother slain, and doth possess his realm.
Gor. O heavens, send down the flames of your re-
venge !
Destroy, I say, with flash of wreakf ul fire
The traitor son, and then the wretched sire \
But let us go, that yet perhaps I may
Die Avith revenge, and 'pease the hateful gods.
[Exeunt.
C'hokus.
The lust of kingdom knows no sacred faith,
Xo rule of reason, no regard of right.
No kindly love, no fear of heaven's wrath;
But \4-ith contempt of gods, and man's despite,
Through bloody slaughter doth prepare the ways
To fatal sceptre and accursed reign.
The son so loathes the father's Ungeiing da^'s,
Ne dreads his hand in brother's blood to stain.
wretched prince, ne dost thou yet record
The yet fresh murders done within the land
Of thy forefathers, when the cruel sword
Bereft ilorgan his life with cousin's hand ':
Thus fatal plagues pursue the guilty race,
^\Tio3e murderous hand, imbrued with guiltless blood.
Asks vengeance still' before the heaven's face.
With endless mischiefs on the cursed brood.
The wicked child thus- brings to woeful sire
The mournful pLiints to waste his verj-^ Hfe.
Thus do the cruel flames of civil fire
Destroy the parted reign with hateful strife ;
And hence doth sprint the well from which doth flow
The dead black streams of mourning,'' plaints, and woe.
Sackville's Fourth and Fifth Acts are now given
without abridgment : —
THE ORDER .IXD SIGXIFICATIOX OF THE DUMB SHOW
BEFORE THE FOVKTH ACT.
Fist, the music of hautboys began to play, duruiy ichieh there
came forth from under the stage, as though out of hell, three
furies, Ahcto, Mcgcera, and Tisiphone, clad in black garments
sprinkled with blood and Jlanies, their bodies girt with snakes,
their heads spread with serpents instead of hair, the one bear-
ing in her hand a snake, the other a whip, and the third a
burning firebrand : each driving before them a king and a
queen; which, moved by furies, unnaturally had slain their
otcn children. The names of the kings and queens were these,
Tantalus, Medea, Athamas, Ino, C'ambyscs, Altha;a ; after
' " Still " is omitted in W. G.'s edition. ' Tliis. rW. G.)
! Werv. IW. G.) » Meumings. (W. G.(
128
that the furies and these had passed about the stage thrice,
they departed, and then the musie ceased. Sereby was signi.
fied the unnatural murders to follow ; that is to say, Porrez
slain by his own mother, and of King Gorboduc and Queen
Videna, killed by their own subjects.
ACT rv.— Scene 1.
Videna sola.
Why should I live, and linger forth my time
In longer Hfe to double my distress ?
me, most woeful wight, whom no laishap
Long ere this day could have bereaved hence.
Might not these hands, by fortune or by fate.
Have pierc'd this breast, and life with iron reft ?
Or in this palace here, where I so long
Have spent my days, could not that happy hour
Once, once have happ'd, in which these hugj- fi-ames
With death by fall might have oppressed me ?
Or should not this most hard and cruel soil.
So oft where I have press'd my wretched steps,
Sometime had ruth of mine accursed life.
To rend in twain, and swallow me therein ?
So had my bones possessed now in peace
Their happy grave within the closed ground.
And greedy worms had gnawn this pined heart
Without my feeling pain : so should not now
This living breast remain the ruthful tomb.
Wherein my heart, yielden to death, is gi-aved ;
Xor dreary thoughts, with pangs of pining grief.
My doleful mind had not afllicted thus.
O my beloved son 1 U my sweet child I
My dear Ferrex, my joy, my life's delight I
Is my beloved' son, is my sweet child.
My dear Ferrex, my joy, my life's delight,
Murder'd with cruel death ':' hateful wretch 1
O heinous traitor both to heaven and earth !
Thou, Porrex, thou this dimmed deed hast wrought ;
Thou, Porrex, thou shalt dearly bye^ the same.
Traitor to kin and kind, to sire and me.
To thine own flesh, and traitor to thyself :
The gods on thee in hell shall wreak the ^ wrath.
And here in earth this hand shall take revenge
On thee, Porrex, thou false and caitiff wight.
If after blood so eager were thy thirst.
And murd'rous mind had so possessed thee.
If such hard heart of rock and stony flint
Liv'd in thy breast, that nothing else could like
Thy cruel tyrant's thought but death and blood :
wild savage beasts, might not their' slaughter serve
To feed thy greedy wiU, and in the midst
Of their entrails to stain thy deadly hands
With blood deserv'd, and diink thereof thy fill i
Or if nought else but death and blood of man
Might please thy lust, could none in Britiin land
"Whose heart betorn out of his ixinting' breast
With thine own hand, or work what death thou would' st.
Suffice to make a sacrifice to "pease ">
That deadly mind and murderous thought in thee,
But he who in the selfsame womb was wrapp'd.
Where thou in dismal hour receivedst life':'
Or if needs, needs thy hand must slaughter make,
Mightest thou not have reach'd a mortal wound,
5 Well beloved. (W. G.)
7 Their. (W. G.)
9 Lo%-in^. (W. G.)
« Abye. (W. G.) See Note 2, r>age 31.
9 The. (W. G.)
w Appease. (W. G.)
58
C'ASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1561
And wth thy sword have pierc'd this cursed womb
That the accursed Porrex brought to light.
And given me a just reward therefore 'i
So Ferrex yet' sweet life might have enjoyed,
And to his aged father comfort brought.
With some young son in whom they both might live.
But whereunto waste I this ruthful speech,
To thee that hast thy brother's blood thus shed?
.Shall I still think that from this womb thou sprung ?
That I thee bare ? or take thee for my son ■'
Xo, traitor, no ; I thee refuse for mine :
JIurderer, I thee renounce ; thou are not mine.
Never, \vretch, this womb conceived thee ;
Nor never bode I painful throes for thee.
Changeling- to me thou art, and not my child,
Nor to no wight that spark of pity knew.
KutUcss, unkind, monster of nature's work,
Thou never suck'd the milk of woman's breast ;
But, from thy birth, the cruel tiger's teats
Have nursed thee :- nor yet of flesh and blood
Form'd is thy heart, but of hard iron wrought ;
And wild and desert woods bred thee to Kfe.
But canst thou hope to 'scape my just revenge?
(Jr that these hands will not bo wToke on thee ?
Host thou not know that Ferrex' mother lives,
That loved him more dearly than herself ?
And doth slie live, and is not venged on thee ?
ACT IV.— Scene 3.
GOBBODCC; Akostos.
Got. We marvel much, whereto this ling' ring stay
Falls out so long ; Porrex unto our court,
By order of our letters, is return' d;
And Eubulus received from us behest.
At his anival here, to give him charge
Before our presence straight to make repair,
And yet we have no word whereof he .stays.
Aros. Lo where he comes, and Eubulus with him.
E»i(tT EnmiLus (md Porrex.
Huh. According to your highness' best to me.
Here have I Porrex brought, even in such sort
As from his wearied horse he did alight,
For that your grace did wiU such haste therein.
Gor. We like and praise this speedy will in you.
To work the thing that to your ch.arge we gave.
Porrex, if we so far should swerve from kind.
And from those bounds which law^ of nature sets,
As thou hast done by vile and wretched deed,
In cruel murder of thy brother's life,
( )ur present hand could stay no longer time.
But straight should bathe this blade in blood of thee.
As just revenge of thy detested crime.
No ; we should not offend the law of kind,
If now this sword of ours did slay thee here :
For thou hast murder'd him, whose heinous death
Even nature's force doth move us to revenge
By blood again; and justice forceth us
To measure death for death, thy due desert.
Yet sithens thou 'rt our child, and sith as yet
In this hard case what word thou canst allege
For thy defence, by us hath not been heard.
We are content to stay our will for that
Which justice bids us presently to work,
' Of. (W. G.)
' Laws.
2 "Thee"
Vfl. G.)
omitted. (W. G.)
And give thee leave to use thy speech at f uU,
If ouglit thou have to lay for thine excusi'.
I'or. Neither, O king, I can or will deny
But that this hand from FeiTex life hath reft :
Which fact how much my doleful heart doth wail,
Oh 1 would it might as full appear to sight,
As inward grief doth j)Oiu- it forth to me.
Si) vet, perhaps, if ever ruthful heart
.Melting in tears within a manly breast,
Thi'ough deep repentance of his bloody fact ;
If even- grief, if ever woeful man
!Might move regret with son-ow of his fault,
I think the torment of my mournful case,
Kno^vn to your grace as I do feel the same.
Would force oven Wrath herself to pity me.
But as the water, troubled with the nmd,
Shows not the face which else the eye should sec ;
Even so your ireful mind with stirred thought
Cannot so perfectly discern my cause.
But this unhap, among.st so many haps,
I must content me with, most ^^1-ctched man,
That to myself I must reserve * my woe,
In pining thoughts of mine accui-.sed fact ;
Sithens I may not show^ my smallest grief.
Such as it is, and as my breast endm-es.
Which I esteem the greatest misery
Of all mishaps that fortune now can send.
Not that I rest in hope with plaint and tears
To" purchase Ufe ; for to the gods I clcpe'
For true record of this my faitlif ul speech ;
Nev(>r this heart shall have the thoughtful dread
To die the death that by your grace's docuu.
By just desert, shall be pronounced to me :
Nor never shall this tongue once spend the .speech,
Pardon to crave, or seek by suit to live.
I mean not this as though I were not touch'd
With care of di-eadful death, or that I held
Life in contempt : but that I know the mind
Stoops to no dread, although the flesh be frail.
-Vnd for my guilt, I j-ield the same so gi-oat
-Vs in myseU' I find a fear to sue
For grant of life.
Gor. In vain, O wi-otch, thou showest
A woeful heart : Ferrex now lies in gi-ave.
Slain by thy hand.
Vnr. Yet this, O father, hear :
.Vnd th(>n I end. Your majesty well knows,
That when my bi-other Ferrex and myself
By your own hest were join'd in governance
( )f this your grace's realm of Britain land,
I never sought nor travailed for the same;
Nor by myself, nor by no friend I wrought,
But from your highness' will alone it sprung.
Of your most gracious goodness bent to me.
But how my brother's heart even then repined
With swoUi.'n disdain against mine equal rule.
Seeing that realm, which by descent should grow
Wholly to him, allotted half to nv ;
Even in your highness' court he now remains,
And with my bi-other then in nearest place.
Who can record what proof thereof was showed,
And how ray brother's envious heart appeared.
Yet I that judged it my part to seek
His favour and good will, and loath to make
'Refer. (W. G.)
« Should. (W. G.)
= "Here" added. ("W. G.)
' Clfjif, call. First-Eiislish '■ clyi)iau.'
TO A.D. 1562.]
PLAYS.
59-
Your higfiness know the thing which should have brought
Grief to your grace, and your offence to Tiim ;
Hoping my earnest suit should soon have won
A loving heart within a brother's breast,
Wrought in that sort, that, for a pledge of love
And faithful heart, he gave to me his hand.
This made me think that he had banished quite
All raneoui- from his thought, and bare to me
Such hearty love as T did owe to him.
But after once we left your gi-ace's court.
And from your higlmess' presence lived apart.
This equal rule still, stUl did grudge him so,
That now those envious sparks which erst lav raked
In living cinders of dissembling breast,
Kindled so far within his heart ' disdain.
That longer could he not refrain from proof
Of secret practice to deprive me life
By poison's force : and had bereft me so,
If mine own servant hired to this fact.
And moved by truth with- to work the same.
In time had not bewTayed it unto me.
AXTien thus I saw the knot of love unknit.
All honest league and faithful promise broke.
The law of kind and truth thus rent in twain.
His heart on misclucf set, and in his breast
Black treason hid ; then, then did I despair
That ever time could win him friend to me ;
Then saw I how he smQed with slaying knitV-
Wrapp'd under cloak, then saw I deep deceit
Lurk in his face and death prepared for me :
Even nature moved me then to hold my life
More dear to me than his, and bade tliis baud.
Since by his life my death must needs ensue.
And by his death my life mote' be preserved.
To shed his blood, and seek mj' safety so.
And wisdom willed me without protract *
In speedy wise to put the .same in ure.'
Thus have I told the cause that moved me
To work my brother's death: and so I yield
My life, my death, to judgment of your grace.
Gor. O cruel wight, should any cause prevail
To make thee stain thy hands with brother's blood ?
But what of thee we wUl resolve to do
Shall yet remain unknown. Thou in the mean
Shalt from our royal presence banished be.
Until our princely pleasm'e further shall
To thee be showed. Depart therefore oiu' sight.
Accursed child ! [Sxit Porrex.] 'Wliat cruel destin}-,
What froward fate hath .sorted us this chance.
That even in those where we should comfort find.
Where our delight now in our aged days
Should rest and be, even there our only grief
And deepest sorrows to abridge our life,
Most pining cares and deadly thoughts do grow.*'
Aros. Your grace should now, in these grave years
of yours,
Have found ere this the price of mortal joys :
How short they be, how fading here in earth.
How full of change, how brittle our estate.
Of nothing sure, save only of the death,
' Hearts. (W. G.)
- With hate. (W. G.) The word is omitted hj- accident in the
authorised edition, the sense beinic that the servant was moved by a
tnie natiu-e with hatred of the thing he was to do.
^ To. (W. G.j • Prof i-ac(, delay. s C'.t, use.
<• Grave. (W. G.)
To whom both man and aU the world doth owe
Their end at last : neither sliiiU natm-e's power
In other sort against your heart prevail
Thau as the naked hand who.se stroke assays
The .armed breast where force doth Ught in vain.
Gor. Many can )-ield right .sage and grave' adnce
Of patient sprite to others wrapped in woe.
And can in speech both nde and conquer k-ind;S
AVho, if by proof they might feel nature's force,
Woidd show themselves men as they are indeed,
Which now will needs be gods. But what doth mean
The sorry cheer of her that here doth come ':
Efid'i- Marcella.
Mm: Oh where is ruth ;- or where is pity ucnv ':
Whither is gentle heart and mercy fled ':
Ai-e they exiled out of our stony breasts,
Never to make return :- is all the world
Drowned in blood, and sunk in cruelty 'r
If not in women mercy may be found.
If not, alas I within the mothers bVeast
To her own child, to her own flesh and blond :
If ruth be banish'd thence, if pity there
May have no place, if there no gentle heart
Do live and dwell, where should we seek it then ':
Gor. Madam, alas, what means your woeful talc ?
Mnr. O silly woman 1 1 why to this hoiu-
Have kind iind fortune thus deferr'il my breath,
That I should live to see this doleful day 'r
AV'iU ever wight believe that sudi hard heart
Could rest within the cruel mother's breast,
AVith her own hand to slay her only son ':
But out, alas ! these eyes beheld the same :
They saw the dreary sight, and are become
Most ruthful records of the bloody fact.
Porrex, alas ! is by his mother slain.
And with her hand, a woeful thing to tell.
While shmibering on his careful bed lie rests.
His heart stabb'd in with knife, is reft of Ufe.
Gor. O Eubulus, oh draw this sword of ours.
And pierce this heart with speed ! O liatefid light,
O loathsome life, sweet and welcome death I
Dear Eubulus, work this we thee beseech 1
Ei(b. Patient, your giace ; perhaps he livetli yet.
With wound received, but not of certain death.
Gor. Oh let us then repair unto the pkiee.
And see if Ton-ex Uve,' or thus be slain.
[Ext'iiiit Gouiioiu e and ErnrLCS.
Mnr. Alas, he hveth not I it is too true.
That with these eyes, of him a peerless prince.
Son to a king, and in the flower of youth,
E'en with a twinkle'" a senseless stock I s.iw.
Aros. O damned deed !
Mar. But hear his ruthful end :
The noble prince, pierced with the sudden woimd.
Out of his \\Tetclied slumber hastily start,"
Whose strength now failing straight he overtlirew,
When in the fall his eyes, e'en now'- imclos'd.
Beheld the queen, and cried to her for help.
We then, alas 1 the ladies which that time
Did there attend, seeing that heinous deed.
And hearing him oft call the WTetched name
7 Grave and sase. (W. G. ) * A'"'"', uatnrc.
9 H that Porrex. (W.G.I •" T«-ink. (W. G.)
" Stai-t for started, the fd being lost in the final ( of the root-word,
« New. (W. G.)
60
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1561
Of Mother, and to cry to her for aid
■\\Tiose direful hand gave him the mortal wound,
Pitj-ing (alas ! for nought else could wc do)
His ruthful end, ran to the woeful hed.
Despoiled straight his breast, and all we might
Wiped in vain, with napkins next at hand.
The sudden streams of lilood that flushed fast
Out of the gaping wound. what a look !
O what a ruthfid steadfast eye methought
He fix'd upon my face ! which to my death
Will never part from rac, when with a braid '
A deep-fetch'd sigh he gave, and therewithal
Clasping his hands, to heaven he cast his sight ;
And straight, pale death pressing within his face,
The flying ghost his mortal corpse forsook.
Aros. Never did ago bring forth so vile a fact.
Mar. hard and cruel hap, that thus assign'd
Unto so worthy a wight so wi-etchcd end :
Bat most hard cruel heart that could consent
To lend the hateful destinies that hand.
By which, alas ! so heinous crime was wrought.
O Queen of adamant '. O marble breast !
If not the favour of his comely face.
If not his princely cheer and countenance,
His valiant active arms, his manly breast.
If not his fair and seemly personage.
His noble limbs in such proportion cast
As would have rapt a siUy woman's thought;
If this might not have moved thy bloody heart.
And that most cruel hand, the wretched weapon
Ev'n to let fall, and kiss'd him in the face.
With tears for ruth to reave such one by death ;
Should natui'e yet consent to slay her son ?
() mother 1 thou to mui'dcr thus thy child !
E'en Jove with justice must with lightning flames
Prom heaven send down some strange revenge on thoo.
Ah, noble prince, how oft have I beheld
Thee mounted on thy fierce and trampling steed,
Shining in armour bright before the tilt.
And with thy mistress' sleeve tied on thy hebn,
And charge thy staft', to please thj' lady's eye,
That bowed the head-piece of thy fi-iendly foe !
How oft in arms on horse to bend the mace,
How oft in arms on foot to break the sword ; —
Which never now these eyes may see again !
Aros. Madam, alas 1 in vain these plaints are shed ;
Eather with me depart, and helpi to 'swage-
The thoughtful griefs that in the aged king
Must needs by nature grow by death of this
His only son, whom he did hold so dear.
Mar. What wight is that which saw that I did see,
And could refrain to wail with plaint and tears ?
Jvot I, alas ! that heart is not in me.
But let us go, for I am grieved anew,
To call to mind the wretched father's woe. \_E.veunt.
Chorvs.
When gTocdy lust in royal seat to reign
Hath reft all care of gods and eke of men ;
And cruel heart, -m-ath, treason, and disdain,
AVithin ambitious breast ai-e lodged, then
Behold how Mischief wide herself displays,
And with the brother's hand the brother slavs.
When blood thus shod doth stain the^ heaven's face.
Crying to Jove for vengeance of the deed.
The mighty god ev'n moveth fi-om his place.
With wrath to wreak : then sends he forth with speed
The di-oadful Fui-ies, daughters of the night,
With serpents girt, carrying the whip of ire.
With hair of stinging snakes, and shining bright
With flames and blood, and with a brand of fire.
These, for revenge of wretched mui'der done,
Do make the mother kill her only son.
Blood asketh blood, and death must death requite :
Jove, by his just and everlasting doom,
Justly hath ever so requited it.
The times before record, and times to come
•Shall find it true, and so doth present proof
Present before our eyes for our behoof.
happy wight, that suffers not the snare
Of murderous mind to tangle him in blood ;
And happy he, that can in time beware
By others' harms, and turn it to his good.
But woe to him that, fearing not to oft'end.
Doth serve his lust, and will not see the end.
THE OKDER AND SIGNIFICATION OF THE DUMB SHOW
BEFOKE THE FIFTH ACT.
First, the drums and flutes began to sound, during which there
came forth upon the stage a company of harquebussiers, and
of armed men, all in order of battle. These, after their pieces
discharged, and that the armed men. had three times marched
about the stage, departed, and then the drums and flutes did
cease. Hcrehij was signified tumults, rebellions, arms, and
civil wars to follow, as fell in the realm of Great Britain,
which, bg the space offlftg years and more, continued in civil
war between the nobilitg, after the death of King Gorboduc and
of his issues, for want of cert n in limitation in the succession of
the crown, till the time of Bunwallo Molniutius, who reduced
the land to monarchy.
ACT v.— Scene 1.
ClOTYH; MiNDCD; GWENAED ; FEROtlS ; • EnBCLTJS.
Clot. Did ever age bring forth such tyrant hearts ?
The brother hath bereft the brother's life ;
The mother, she hath dyed her cruel hands
In blood of her own son ; and now at last
The people, lo, forgetting truth and love.
Contemning quite both law and loyal heart,
Ev'n they have slain their sovereign lord and queen.
Man. Shall this their traitorous crime unpunish'd
rest 'i
Ev'n yet they cease not, carried on' with rage,
In their rebellious routs, to threaten still
A new bloodshed unto the prince's kin.
To slay them all, and to uproot the race
Both of the king and queen ; so are they moved
With Porrex' death, wherein they falsely charge
The guiltless king, without desert all ; '
And traitorously have murder'd him therefore.
And eke the queen.
Gwcn. Shall subjects dare with force
1 Braid, sudden start.
2 Assuage. (W. G.)
3 This. CW. G.)
■> Clotyn is Biike of Coiiiwall ; Mandud is Duke of Lloepia, in the
south ; Gwenai-d, Dnke of Ciimberlaud ; and Fergus, Duke of Albany,
or Scotland, the north. These were all the divisions '^f the kingdonu
s Out. (W. G.) « At all. (W. G.)
TO A.D. 1562.]
PLAYS.
61
To work revenge upon their prince's fact 'i
Admit the worst that may : as sui'e in this
The deed was foul, the queen to slay her son :
Shall yet the subject seek to take the sword,
Aiise against his lord, and slay his king ':'
wi-etched state, where those rebellious hearts
Are not rent out ev'n from their living breasts,
And with the body thrown unto the fowls,
As camon food, for terror of the rest.
Ferg. There can no punishment be thought too gi'Oat
For this so grievous crime : let speed therefore
Be used therein, for it behooveth so.
Btib. Ye aU, my lords, I see, consent in one.
And I as one consent mth ye in aU.
1 hold it more than need, with' sharpest law
To punish this'^ tumultuous bloody rage.
For nothing more may shake the common state,
Than sufferance of uproars without redress ;
Whereby how some kingdoms of mighty power.
After great conquests made, and floui-ishing
In fame and wealth, have been to ruin brought,
I pray to Jove that we may rather wail
Such hap in them than -natness in oui'selves.
Eke fully with the duke m}- mind agrees,^
Though kings forget to govern as they ought,
Yet subjects must obey as they are bound.
But now, my lords, before ye farther wade,
Or spend your speech, what sharp revenge shall fall
By justice' plague on these rebellious wights ;
Methinks ye rather should first search the way.
By which in time the rage of this uproar
Might be repressed, and these great tumults ceased.
Even yet the life of Britain land doth hang-
In traitors' balance of unequal weight.
Think not, my lords, the death of Gorboduc,
Nor yet Videna's blood, will cease their rage :
Ev'n our own lives, our wives, and childi'cn dear,''
Our country, dear'st of all, in danger stands,
Now to be spoiled, now, now made desolate,
_And by oiu'selves a conquest to ensue.
For, give once sway unto the people's lusts.
To rush forth on, and stay them not in time.
And as the stream that roUeth down the hill,
80 \n& they headlong run with raging thoughts
From blood to blood, from mischief unto more.
To ruin of the realm, themselves, and aU :
So giddy are the common people's minds,
So glad of change, more wavering than the sea.
Ye see, my lords, what strength these rebels have,
WTiat hugy number is assembled still :
For though the traitorous fact, for which they rose,
Be WTOught and done, yet lodge they stiU in field ;
So that, how far their furies yet will stretch.
Great cause we have to dread. That we may seek
iWiththe. (W. G.) 2 The. (W. G.)
' The foUowiug Hues here foUowed in the unauthorised edition of
1.565. They must have heen written, or they would not have been
in W. G. 's copy. Their omission implies a shrinking from respousi-
I'ility for so unreserved a definition of royal in'erogative : —
**That no cause serves, whereby the subject may
Call to account the doings of his prince.
Much less in blood by sword to work revenge,
No more than may the hand cut off the head ;
In act nor speech, no not in secret thongnt
The subject may rebel against his lord,
Or judge of him that sits in Csesar's seat.
With grudging mind to damn those he mishkes."
* " Dear" omitted in W. G.'s edition.
By present battle to repress their power.
Speed must we use to levy force therefore ;
For either they forthwith will mischief work,
Or then- rebeUious roars forthwith wUl cease.
These violent things may have no lasting long.'
Let us, therefore, use this for present help ;
Persuade by gentle speech, and offer grace
With gift of pardon, save unto the chief;
And that upon condition that forthwith
They j-ield the captains of their enterprise.
To bear such guerdon of their traitorous fact
As may be both due vengeance to themselves,
And wholesome terror to posterity.
This shall, I think, scatter* the greatest part
That now are holden with desire of home.
Wearied in field with cold of mnter's nights,
And some, no doubt, stricken with dread of law.
When this is once proclaimed, it shall make
The captains to mistrust the multitude,
Whose safety bids them to betray theii' heads ;
And so much more, because the rascal routs,
In things of great and perilous attempts,
Ai'e never trusty to the noble race.
And while we treat, and stand on terms of grace,
We shaU both staj' their fuj-ious rage the while.
And eke gain time, whose only help sufliceth
Withoutcu war to vanquish rebels' power.
In the mean while, make you in readiness
Such band of hor.semen as ye may prepare.
Horsemen, you know, are not the commons' strength,
But are the force and store of noble men,
Whereby the unchosen and unarmed sort
Of skiUess rebels, whom none other power
But number makes to be of di'cadful force.
With sudden brunt may quickly be oppressed.
And if this gentle mean of proffered grace
With stubborn hearts cannot so far avail
As to assuage then- desp'rate courages ;
Then do I wish such slaughter to be made.
As present age, and eke posterity.
May be adrad with horror of revenge
That justly then shall on these rebels fall.
This is, my lords, the sum of mine advice.
Clot. Neither this case admits debate at large ;
And though it did, this speech that hath been said,
Hath well abridged the tale I would have told.
Fully with Eubulus do I consent
In ail that he hath .said : and if the same
To vou, my lords, may seem for best advice,
I ■n'ish that it slinuld straight be put in ure.
Man. My lords, then let us lucsently depart.
And follow this that likcth us so well.
[Examt Clotvx, M.indid, Gwex.vkd, ani
ElIU'LUS.
Tcr(j. If ever time to gain a kingdom here
Were offered man, now it is offered me.
The realm is reft botli of their king and queen,
The offspring of the prince is slain and dead.
No issue now remains, the heir unknown,
The people are in arms and mutinies,
The nobles, they are busied how to cease
These great rebellious tumults and uproars ;
And Britain land, now desert left alone.
Amid these broils uncertain where to rest.
Offers herseU unto that noble heart
■- Lond. (W. G.)
sputter. (W.G.J
62
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 15CI
That will or Aire piusuc to bear her crown.
Shall I, that am tlic Duko of Albany,
Descended from that lino of noble blood
"Wliich hath so long flourished in worthy fanu
t>f valiant hearts, such as in noble breasts
Of riyht should rest above the baser sort,
lief use to ventiu'e life to win a crown 1'
Whom sliall I iind luiiuies that will withstand
My fact herein, if I attempt by arms
To seek the same now in these times of broil r
Thcse dukes' power can hardly well appease
The people that already are in arms.
But if, jjerhaps, my force be once in field,
Is not my strenytli in power above the best
Of all these lords now left in Britain land 't
And though they sliould match me with power of men,
Yet doubtful is thi; chance of battles joined.
If victors of the field we may depart,
Ours is the sceptre then of Great Britaine ;
If slain amid the plain this body lie,
Mine enemies yet shaU not deny me this.
But that I died giviiig the noble charge
To hazard life for conquest of a crown.
Forthwith, therefore, will I in post depart
To Albany, and raise in aiinoiu' there
All power I can ; and here my secret friends
By secret practice shall solicit still.
To seek to win to me the people's hearts. \_B.r\t.
ACT v.— Scene 2.
EUBULUS mhm.
Eiil. Jove, how are these people's hearts abused !
"WTiat blind fury thus headlong carries them r
That though so many books, so many rolls
Of ancient time, record what grievous plagues
Light on these rebels aye, and though so oft
Their ears have lieard their aged fathers tell
\Vliat just reward these traitors still receive;
Yea, though themselves have seen deep death and blood
By strangling cord and slaugliter of the sword
To such assign' J, yet can they not beware.
Yet cannot stay their lewd rebellious hands : '
But suffering, lo,= foul treason to distain
Their wretched minds, forget their loyal heart,
Reject all truth, and rise against theii- prince.
A ruthful case, that those, whom duty's bond.^
A\liom grafted Lnv, by natiu'e, truth, and faitli.
Bound to preserve tlu'ir country and their king,
Born to defend their commonwealth and prince.
E'en they should give consent thus to subvert
Thee, Britain land, and from thy" womb sliould spring,
O native soil, those that will needs destroy
And ruin thee, and eke themselves in tine.
For lo, when once the dukes had oifer'd grace
< >f pardon sweet, the nndtitude, misled
By traitorous fraud of tlieir ungxaciou.s heads.
One sort-'^ that saw the dangerous success
Of stubborn standing in rebellious war,
-Vnd knew the difference of prince's power
From headless number of tumultuous routs,
\Vhom common country's care, and private fear
Taught to repent tlu' error of their rage,
Laid hands upon the captains of their band,
And brought them bound unto the mighty dukes :
And' other sort, not trusting yet so well
The truth of pardon, or mistrusting more
Their own offence than that they could conceive
Such hope of pardon for so foul misdeed,
Or for that they theii- captains could not yield.
Who, fearing to be yielded, fled before.
Stole home by silence of the secret night :
The third unhappy and enr-aged' sort
Of desp'rato hearts, who, stain'd in princes' blood,
From traitorous furor could not be withdi-awn
By love, by law, b}- grace, nc yet by fear.
By proft'ered life, ne yet by threatened death.
With minds hopeless of life, drcadlcss of death.
Careless of country, and aweless of God,
Stood bent to fight, as furies did them move
With violent death to close their traitorous Ufe.
These all by power of horsemen were oppressed,
And with revenging 'sword slain in the field.
Or with the strangling cord hanged on the trees.
Where 3'et their cariHon carcases do preach
The fruits that rebels reap of their uproars.
And of the murder of their sacred prince.
But lo, where do approach the noble duki's
By whom these tumiUts liave been thus appeased.
Enict- Clotyn, Mandud, Gwenard, and Arostcs.
Clot. I think the world ^\tI1 now at length beware
And fear to put on arms against their prince.
Midi. If not, those traitorous hearts that dare rebel.
Let them behold the wide and hugy fields
With blood and bodies spread of" rebels slain ;
The lofty trees clothed with the corpses' dead
That, strangled with the cord, do liang thereon.
Aro«. A just reward; such as all times before
Uave ever lotted to those wretched folks.
Gn't'it. But what means he that cometh here so fast 2
EnU\- NUNTIUS.
jY««. My lords, as duty and my troth doth move.
And of my coimtry work a '" lare in me.
That, if the spending of my breath avail'd"
To do the service that my heart desires,
I would not shun to embrace a present death ;
So have I now, in that wherein I thought
My travail might perform some good effect,
VentiU'ed my life to bring these tidings here.
Fergus, the mighty duke of Albany,
Is now in arms, and lodgeth in the field
With twenty thousand men : hither he bends
His .speedy march, and minds to invade the cnncn.
Daily he gathereth strength, and spreads atiroad.
That to this re.alm no certain heir remains,
That Britain land is left without a guide.
That he the sceptre seeks for nothing else
But to preserve the peojile and the land.
Which now remain as ship without a steni.'-
Lo, this is that which I ha\x' here to say.'^
Clot. Is this his faith ': and shall he falsely thus
Abuse the vantage of unhappy times 'i
^ Yet can tliey not stay theii- rebellious lismds. (W. G. )
^ To. (W. G.) 3 Bound. (W. G.) ■• Tbe. (W. 6.1
5 Sort, baud, company of men. (See Note 1, page 26.)
« An. (TV. G.) ' Unragei OV. G.i
8 Body spread, with. (W. G.)
' Coyjwre wei'e in Old English bodies iivinj: or dead, as iu Liitiu
•*coii>us," French "corps.'*
J» And. (W. G.) u Avail.- (W.G.I
. 1* Slcrvi, rudder. i= Hereto said. (W. G.)
I A.ii. 1562.]
PLATS.
63
(I \vretched land, if his outrageous pride,
His cruel and untemjiered wilfulness,
His deep dissembling shows of false pretence,
•Should once attain the crown of Britain land !
Let us, my lords, with timely force resist
The new attempt of this our- common foe.
As wfc would quench the flames of common fire.
Miiii. Though we remain without a certain prince,
To wield the realm, or guide the wand' ring rule,
Yet now the common mother of us aU,
Our native laud, our country, that contains
< )ur wives, childieu, kindred, oiu-selves, and all
Thiit over is or may be dear to man,
Cries unto us to help oursi-lves and her.
Let us advance our powers to repress
This growing foe of all our liberties.
Gaen. Yea, let us so, my lords, with hasty speed.
And ye, god^, send us the welcome death,
To shed oui- blood in field, and leave us not
In loath.some life to linger out our days,'
To see the hugj- heaps of these unhaps.
That now roU down upon the wietched land,
A\1iere empty place of princely governance,
Xo certain stay now left of doubtless heir,
Thus leave this guideless realm an open prey
To endless storms and waste of civil war.
Aros. Thiit ye, my lords, do so agree in one,
To save your country from the violent reign
And wrongfully usui-jjed tjTanny
•( )f him that threatens conquest of you all,
To save your realm, and in this realm yourselves,
From foreign thraldom of so proud a prince,
JIuch do I praise : and I beseech the gods,
With happy honour to requite it you.
But, (J my lords, sith now the heaven's wTath
Hath reft this land the issue of their prime ;
Sith of the body of our late sovereign lord
Remains no more, since the yoimg kings be slain,
And of the title of the descended crown
Uncertainly the divers minds do think,
Even of the learned sort, and more uncertainly
AViU partial fancy and affection deem ;
But most uncertainly «-ill climbing pride
And hope of reign withdraw to" sundry parts
The doubtful right and hopeful lust to reign.
WTien once this noble service is achieved
For-* Britain land, the mother of ye all,
AATien once ye have with armed force repress'd
The proud attempts of this Albanian prince,
That thi-eatens thraldom to your native land ;
AA'hen ye shall vanquishers retuni from field,
And find the princely state an open prey
To greedy lust and to usurping power.
Then, then, my lords, if ever kindly care
Of ancient honour of yoiu- ancestors,
Of present wealth and nobless of your stocks,
Y ea, of the lives and safety yet to come
Of your dear wives, your children, and yourselves,
Jlight move your noble hearts with gentle ruth.
Then, then, have pity on the torn estate ;
Then help to salve the well-near hopeless sore 1
Which j'e shall do, if ye yourselves withhold
The sla\Tng knife from your own mother's tlu'oat.
Her shall you save, and you, and yours in her.
If ye shall all with one assent forbear
» Lives. {W. G.) * From. (W. G.) » From. (W. 6.)
Once to lay hand, or take unto yourselves
The crown, by colour of jffetended right.
Or by what other means soe'er it bo,
Till first by common counsel of you all
In parliament, the regal diadem
Be set in certain place of governance i
In which your parliament, and in yom- choice.
Prefer the right, my loi-ds, without ■* respect
Of strength or friends, or whatsoever cause
That may set forward any other's part :
For right will last, and wi-ong cannot endure.
Kight mean I his or hers, upon whose name
The people rest by mean of native line.
Or by the virtue of some fonner law
Already made then- title to advanir.
Such one, my lords, let be your chosen king.
Such one so bom within your native land ;
Such one prefer, and in no wise admit
The heavy yoke of foreign governance :
Let foreign titles jneld to pul)lic wealth,
.Vnd with that heart wherewith ye now prepare
Thus to withstand the proud invading foe,
AVith that same heart, my lords, keep out also
I'nnatural thraldom of stranger's reign ;
Xe sufier you, ag:unst the rules of kind,
Y'our mother land to serve a foreign prince.
Euh. Lo, here the end of Brutus' royal line.
And lo, the entrj- to the woeful -nTack
And utter ruin of this noble realm !
The royal king and eke his sons are slain ;
Xo ruler rests within the regal seat ;
The heir, to whom the sceptre 'longs, unknown ;
That to each force of foreign princes' power,
Whom vantage of our wretched state may move*
By sudden arms to gain so rich a re,abn.
And to the proud and greedy mind at home,
AMiom bUnded lust to reign leads to aspire,
Lo, Britain realm is left an open prey,
A present spoU by conquest to ensue.
AATio seeth not now how many rising minds
Do feed their thoughts with hope to reach a realm ?
And who wiU not by force attempt to win
So great a gain, that hope persuades to have .-
A simple colour shall for title serve.
■\Vho wins the royal crown will want no right,
Xor such as shall display by long descent
A lineal race to prove him lawful king.^
In the mean while these civil arms shall i-age.
And thus a thousand mischiefs shall imfold.
And far and near spread thee, () Britain land :
AU right and law shall cease, and he that had
Xothing to-day to-morrow shall enjoy
Great heaps of gold ; and he that flowed in wealth,
Lo, he shall be bereft' of life and all:
.Vnd happiest he that then possesseth least.
The children fatherless shall weep and wail ;
With Sre and sword thy mitive folk shall perish,
One kinsman shall bereave anotlier's life.
The father shall unwitting slay the son,
The son .shall slay the sire and know it not.
Women and maids the cruel soldier's sword
Shall pierce to death, and sUly chiliU-en lo,
That playing in the streets and fields are found,
« ■With. (W. G.)
5 '• May move" was omirted in W. G.'s edition.
« To prove bimseli a king. (W. G.)
SbiiUbereft. (VV. G.)
64
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OP ENGLISH LITERATURE.
L'a.d. 1562
By violent hands shall close their latter day.
Whom shall the tierce and bloody soldier
Keservc to life ? whom shall he spare from death ?
Ev'n thou, O wretched mother, half alive,
Thou shalt behold thy dear and only child
Slain with the sword while he yet sucks thy breast.
Lo, guiltless blood shall thus each where bo shed.
Thus shall the wasted soil yield forth no fruit,
But dearth and famine shall possess the land.
The towns shall be consumed and burnt with fire,
The peopled cities shall wax desolate ;
And thou, O Britain,' whilom in renown,
AMiilom in wealth and fame, .shalt thus be torn,
Dismcmbred thus, and thus be rent in twain.
Thus wasted and defaced, spoiled and destroyed :
These bo the fruits your civil wars will bring.
Hereto it comes when kings will not consent
To gi-ave ad%'ice, but follow -n-ilful will.
This is the end, when in fond- princes' hearts
Flattery prevails, and sage rede hath no place :
These are the plagues, when murder is the mean
To make new heirs unto the royal crown.
Thus wreak the gods, when that the mother's -m-ath
Nought but the blood of her ovm child may swage ;
These miscliiefs spring when rebels will arise
To work revenge and judge their prince's fact.
This, this ensues, when noble men do fail
In loyal truth, and subjects will be kings.
And this doth grow, when lo, unto the prince,
^\^lom death or sudden hap of life bereaves,
No certain heir remains, such certain hcir,^
As not all only is the rightful heir,
But to the realm is so made known'' to be ;
And truth thereby vested in subjects' hearts,
To owe faith there where right is known to rest.
Alas, in parliament what hope can be,
When is of parliament no hope at all.
Which, though it be assembled by consent,
Yet is not likely with consent to end ;
While each one for himself, or for his friend,
Against his foe, shall travail wh.at he may ;
While now the state, left open to the man
That .shall with greatest force invade the same.
Shall fill ambitious minds with gaping hope;
\\Tien will they once with j-ielding hearts agree ?
Or in the while, how shall the realm be used ?
No, no : then parliament should have been holden,
And certain heirs appointed to the crown,
To stay their title on ' established right,
And in the people plant ^ obedience
While yet the prince did live, whose name and power
By lawful summons and authority
Might make a parliament to be of force,
And might have set the state in quiet stay.
But now, () happy man, whom speedy death
Deprives of life, ne is enforced to see
These hugj- mischiefs, and these miseries.
These civil wars, these murders, and these wTongs.
Of justice, yet must God in fine restore
This noble cro^vn unto the lawful heir :
For right will always live, and rise at length,
But wrong can never take deep root to last.
THE ESDE OF THE TllAGEDIE OP KTXGB GOKBODUC.
' Britaiu land. (W. G.)
3 Certainty. (W. G.)
= 01. (W. G.)
= Touug-. (W. G.)
* Unknown. (W. G.)
' Plant the people in. (W. G.)
Conspicuou.s success bred imitation. Young bar-
risters and otliers from tlie Universities, witli their
careers ))efore tliem and their bread to earn, could see
in tlie success of " Gorljoduc " tlieii- opportunity if they
had wit. There was pleasure to be given to laige
audiences by real plays in English, and there were
comj)anies of actors, servants of great houses trained
to the playing of interludes, ready enough to apply ^
their skill to more attractive matter. They lost theu'
licences to act if in their interludes they were held to
have touched religion or government ; as actors of
plays, in the true classical sense of the wor<l, they
would earn more from the people and be less molested
by the government. Sir Roliert Dudley, afterwards
Earl of Leicester, had a company of theatrical servants,
and had wi-itten in 15-59, a year or two before the
production of " Gorboduc," to the Earl of Shrewsbury,
Lord President of the North, asking leave for them
to jilay in Yorkshii-e, they having leave already to
play in other shires. In 1.5G0, a few months before
the production of " Gorboduc," Sir Thomas (.Jawarileii
died, and was succeeded liy Sir Thomas Benger in hi.s-
othce of Master of the Revels and Masks (Magister
Jocorum, Revel lorum, et Mascorum). Queen Mary's
expenditui'e on players and musicians had Ijeen
between two and three thousand pounds a year in
salaries. Elizabeth reduced this establishment, but
.still paid salaries to interlude players and musicians^
to a keejjer of beai's and mastitis, as well as to the
gentlemen and children of the chapel. The master
of the children had a salary of forty pounds a year ;
the children had largesse at high feasts, and \\'hen
additional use was made of their services ; and each
gentleman of the chapel had nineteenpence a day,,
with board and clothing.
The master of the chapel who at this time had the-
training of the children was Richard Edwards, whO'
had written lighter pieces for them to act before hei-
Majesty, and now applied his skill to the writing of
English comedies, and teaching his boys to act them
for the pleasure of the Queen. The new form of
entertainment made its way at Court and through
the country, " Gorboduc " ha\'ing been acted before
the Queen at Whitehall, on the 18th of January,
15G2, on the 1st of February following there was a
l)lay of " Julius Ciesar " acted at Court.
In 1563 there was a plague in London, of which
21, .530 persons died. Ai-chbishop Gruidal advised Sir
William Cecil, the secretary (afterwards Lord Burleigh)
to forbid all plays for one year, and if it were forever,
he said, that would not be amiss. They were acted
on scaffolds in public places, like the interludes ; and,
like them, with no more stage appointment than the
dressing of the actors. Now that the pulilic thronged
to be thus entertained, the place of acting connnonly
chosen was one of the large inn-yards, which have not
yet everywhere disa[)peared. The yard was a great
square rudely paved, entered by an archway, and
surrounded by the buildings of the inn, which had
an outside gallery on the level of the first floor, and
a second gallery sometimes surrounding the yard on
the floor above. Chaucer's "Tabard" in South wark —
its name afterwards perverted to the "Talbot" — which
.stood until 187-i as it had been rebuilt in Elizabeth's
reign, may serve as an example. The inn-yard having
i.r. 1564.)
PLAYS.
G5
1. lU hii-ed for a performance, sa^dng, of course, the
ri^'hts of customei-s whose horses were stabled round
about, a stage was built at one end under the sui'-
rounding galleiy. It was enclosed l)y cm-tains teut>
fashion, which hung from above and included a bit
of the inn-gallery for uses of the drama. The plat-
fomi was strewn with rushes. Musicians were placed
in the gallery out.side the ciu-tain. One sound of the
trumpet called the public in, and they stood on the
rough stones in the yard — the original " pit " — unless
they engaged rooms that ojjened upon the surroimding
gallery, in which they might enjoy themselves, and
fi-om which they could look out on the actors. Those
rooms were the first private boxes, and when build-
ings were erected for the acting of plays, then- jjrivate
who were exacting in theii- notions of wit. The
wiitere were yoimg XJnivei-sity men, with credit for
wit at stake; and while the plays in the inn-yards
could not satisfy the crowd that paid to see "them
luiless they told good stories vigorously and sent
theii- scenes home to the common sympathies of men,
the poets who wi-ote them were compelled to keep
in mind the taste of the polite world, by who.se
judgment socially they must needs stand or falL
Plays wiitten, not for the inn-yards, but for the
Court, might appeal only to aiii)etite for ^^it, and,
neglecting the deeper passions of life, play fancifully
with a classical fable, or work out mgeniously thi'ough
mythological details some subtle under-thought or
delicate piece of compliment to the Queen.
T.iLEui I.s-VAKD. Chaccee's Tabaed. (From a SLtl.jh ,
■ iNl'.'.)
boxes were at fii-st called " rooms." The inn-gallery
has been developed into the " dress cii'cle " of modem
times. The second flourish of tnimpets invited all
spectatoi-s to settle themselves in their places. After
the thii-d sound of the trumpet, the curtain was
drawn, and the actors began to represent in action
the story made for them into a play. There was no
scenery. The bit of inn-gallery included between
the curtains might be a balcony for a Juliet, a town-
wall or a tower to be defended, a palace-roof, or any
raised place that was required by the action. The
wiiter and the actors of the play were the whole
play. They alone must present everything by their
power to the imaginations of those upon whom they
exercised theii- art. At Court, for the Queen's
pleasure, there was still only the scafi'old on which to
present the story, and beyond the dressing of the
actors, only the most indispensable bits of stage
appointment ; as a .seat, if the story required that
one should sit, or a table if necessary. But if the
poet wanted scene-painting, he must paint his own
scene in his verse. It is evident also from contem-
porary satires that the actoi-s did not stint soimd and
fuiy where the play allowed it. But although the
greater part of the audience was uneducated, there
were present also the courtiers, scholars, and poets,
129
CHAPTER III.
Fkom the date of the First English Tragedy
TO the year in which it is supposed th.\t
Shakespeare came to Losdox— a.d. 1561 to
A.D. 1586.
Thomas Prestox, M.A., a Fellow of King's College,
who became LL.D., and Master of Trinity College,
Cambridge, is said to have pleased Queen Elizabeth
so gi-eatiy by his acting in the tragedy of " Dido,"
presented before her by his Univei-sity, in 1564, that
she granted him twenty pounds a year for domg
so. Perhaps this mcluded recognition of skill as
a dramatist, for he was the author of the play of
" Cambyses," to which Shakespeare is supposed to have
alluded' when he made Falstaff, in the lii-st part of
'• Hemy IV.," ofler to rebuke the Prince in character
of his father, saving, " Give me a cup of sack to make
mine eves look red, that it might be thought I have
wei)t ■ "for I must speak in passion, and I wdl do it
in Kiiic' Cambvses' vein." The play is said to have
been acted in 1561, as early as "Gorboduc," and it is
called a comedy, but it is neither comedy nor tragedy.
The Vice of the ISIoralitv appeiu-s in it as the ftirtherer
of mischief, whose duplicity gives him the mime ot
Ambidexter. Other allegorical chai-acters help to
6G
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1561.
work out the lesson upon the responsibility of kings
and magistrates which is drawn from the story of
Cambyses. In the printed lilack-letter copy there is
indication of the manner in which the numerous
characters of the piece were distributed among eight
actoi-s ; one man playing Lord Smii-dis, RuH", and
Venus.
KING CAMBISES.
The Division of the Partes.
Conned.
Hrr.
Praxaspes.
Murder.
LoK.
The 3 Lord.
Lord.
EUF.
Commons cry.
Commons Complaint.
Lord Smirdis.
Venus.
Knight.
Snuf.
Small habilitie.
Proof.
E,recutio)t.
Attendance,
Second Lord.
Camkises.
Epiloi/iis.
Prolof/ae.
SiSAMSES.
Diligence.
Crueltie.
Hon.
Preparation.
The \ Lord.
Ambidextek.
Triall.
Meretrix.
Shame.
Otiax.
Mother.
Lady.
Qitecne.
Yang Childe.
Curii).
For one man.
■ Fur one man.
■ For one man.
J For one man.
For one man.
For one mnn.
For one man.
For one man.
Mi'St, to set forth the purpose of the play,
The PuuLOGUE Entereth.
Agathon, ho whose counsel wise to priaces well extended,
By good adWcc unto a prince thi-ee things he hath commended ;
First is, that ho hath government, and ruleth over men ;
Secondly, to rule with laws, eke justice (saith he) then ;
Thirdly, that he must well conceive he may not always reig-n :
Lo, thus the rule unto a prince, Agathon squared plain.
Tully the wise whose sapience in volumes great doth tell,
Who in wisdom in that time did many men excel,
A prince (saith he) is of himself a plain and speaking law,
The law a schoolmaster divine, this hy his rule I di'aw.
The sage and witty Seneca his words thereto did frame :
The honest exercise of kings, men will ensue the same.
But contrary wise if that a k-ing ahuse his kingly seat.
His ig-nominy and bitter shame in fine shall be more great.
In Persia there reigned a king who Cyrus hight by name.
Who did desers-e, as I do read, the lasting blast of fame :
But he, when sisters three had wrought to shear his vital
thread.
As heir due to take the cro\vn, Cambyses did proceed ;
He in his youth was trained up by trace of virtue's lore,
Yet (bemg king) did clean forget his perfect race before.
Then cleaving more unto his will such vice did imitate.
As-one of Icarus his kind, forwaming then did hate ;
Thinking that none could him dismay, nor none his facta
could see ;
Yet at the last a fall he took, hke Icarus to be.
Else as the fish, which oft had take the pleasant bait from
hook.
In safe did spring and pierce the streams when fisher fast did
look
To hoist up from the watery waves unto the dried land,
Then scaped, at last by subtle bait come to the fisher's hand :
Even so this king Cambyses here, when he had wrought his
wiU,
Taking delight the innocent his ' guiltless blood to spiU,
Then mighty Jove would not permit to prosecute ofllence.
But what measure the king did mete the same did Jove
commence.
To bring to end with shame his race ; two years he did not
reign:
His cruelty we will dilate, and make the matter plain ;
C'ra%'ing that this may suffice now your patience to win :
I take my way ; behold, I see the players coming in.
After the Prologue, King Cambyses entei-s with a
knight and counsellor. His father Cyrus, he says, is
dead, he has become King of Persia, and means war
agains-t the rebellious Egyptians. His counsellor bids
him go forward and meiit just reward.
But then your grace must not turn back from this pretenccd-
wili,
For to proceed in virtuous life employ endeavour still ;
Extinguish vice, and in that cup to drink have no delight :
To martial feats and kingly sport fi.x all your whole delight.
His knight promises doughty support, but as tlie
drums strike \\\i for the march, his counsellor reminds
Cambyses that he must appoint some one to i-ule the
land in his absence. The king, therefore, sends liis
knight to fetch Sisamnes, whom the counsellor holds
also to be a fit man, though a lord adds —
Report declares he is a man that to himself is nigh ;
One that favoureth much the world, and too much sets thereby.
Cambyses, therefore, warns Sisamnes that he will
be punished severelj' if he do not look well to his
bond. Then the King leaves for the wars to sound of
ch'um and ti-umjiet. Sisamnes remains to express his
new sense of unlimited power, with a resolve to do his
duty. Then " Enter the Vice with an old cap-case on
liis head, an old pail about his hips for harness, a
sciunmer and a potlid by his side, and a rake on hia
shoulder." The Vice'' of the Morality-play played
^ The iTijiocent his, for "of the innocent," a form used in miscon-
ception of the origin of 's as a genitive sign. It was wrongly suppose-'i
to be a contraction of his. Really it was from es, once the genitivt'
sign of masculine and neuter nouus ending in a consonant.
2 J^retf^nced, intended. So pretence was used also for intention, as
when Macbeth says,
•' Against the undivulged pretence I fight
Of treasonous malice."
' T)ie Vice usually wore a fool's dress and became the clown of the
old plays. In the comment at the end of the second act of Beu
Jonson's " Staple of News," Ifii-fh asks, *' How like you the Vice iu
the play?" Says Ex\tectation, "Which is he?" MU-th: "Three or
four: Old Covetousuess, the sordid Pennybody," &c. Tattle: "But
i
1561.]
PLAYS.
67
clown's ti-icks while lie represented tlie spirit prompt-
ing man to evil. The entertainment furni.shed hj
him was continued in the early drama by adding
a clown to the dramatis persona;. The Vice in
bm-lesque arms, like those of Roister Doister in his
battle with Christian Custance, enters with " Stand
away, stand away ! "
Ambidexter.
Harnessed I am prepared to the field :
I would have been content at home to have bod,
But I am sent forth with my spear and shield.
I am appointed to fight against a snaO,
And Wilkin Wren the ancient ' shall bear ;
I doubt not but against him to prevail.
To be a man my deeds shall declare.
*******
Ha. ha, ha, now ye will make me to smile,
To see if I can all men beguile.
Ha, my name, my name would you so fain know ?
Yea, iwis," shall ye, and that with all speed :
I have forgot it, therefore I cannot show ;
A, a, now I have it, I have it in deed.
My name is Ambidexter, I signify one
That with both hands finely can play ;
Now with king Cambyses, and by and by^ gone:
Thus do I run this and that way.
For whUe I mean with a soldier to be.
Then give I a leap to .Sisamnes the judge ;
I dare avouch, ye shall his destruction see :
To all kind of estates I mean for to trudge.
Ambidexter, nay he is a fellow if ye knew all :
Cease for a while, hereafter hear more ye shall.
Now " enter three Ruffians, Huff, Ruff, and Snuff,
singing." They swear much, a.s they are going to
the wai-s. Seeing the Vice, they propose to bump
him against a post. He attacks them. " Here let
him swinge them about." Presently they draw
swords. He is ten-ified. They shake hands and
become friends. Meretrix entei-s, and Ruff and Snuff
fight for her favour. " Here draw and tight. Here
she must lay on and coil them both, the Vice must
run his way for fear. Snuff fling down his sword and
buckler and run his way." The woman then beats
Ruff and makes him her servant. Wlien they are
gone the Vice, Ambidexter, returns and looks for
Sisamnes. Sisamnes entei-s, and the Vice presently
tempts him. The old spelling shall now be left un-
touched :
Ambidexter. JesH., maister Sisamnen, with me you are wel
acquainted :
By me rulers may be trimly painted.
Ye are unwise, if ye take not time while ye may :
If ye wil not now, when ye would ye shall have nay.
What is he, that of you dare make exclamation.
here is never a fiend to cany him away ; besides, he has never a
wooden dagger. I would not give a rush for a Vice that has not a
wooden dagger to snap at everybody he meets." Slirth ; ** That was
the old way, gossip, when Iniquity came in like Hociis Pocks in a
juggler's jerkin, with false skirts like the knave of clubs."
' Ancient, ensign, standard. A standajrd-bearer, or ensign, was
called an ancient. So "Ancient Pistol "was equivalent to Ensig»
Pistol.
- ricis= First-English "gewis," certainly.
■> By ani by, immediately. See Note 2, p. 44.
Of your v.Tong dealing to make expUcation :-■
Can you not play .v-ith bothe hands, and turn with the winde ?
Sisamnes. Believe me, your woords draw deep in myminde.
In coUoure wise unto this day to bribes I have inclyned :
More the same for to frequent, of trueth I am now'minded.
Behold, even now unto me suters doo proceed.
Small Hahiiuie. I beseech you heer, good maister judge, a
poor mans cause to tender ;
C'ondemne me not in wrongful wise, that never was offender.
You knowe right wel, my right it is, I have not for to give;
"i ou take away from me my due, that should my corps'* relceve.
The Commons of you doo complain, from them you devocate ;'
With anguish great, and greevous words, ther hearts doo
penetrate.
The right you sel unto the wrong, your private gain to win ;
You violate the simple man, and count it for no sin.
Sisamnes. Holde thy tung, thou pratliug knave, and give to
me reward ;
Els in this wise, I tel thee trueth, thy tale wU not be heard.
Ambidexter, let us go hence, and let the knave alone.
Amb. Farewel, Small HabiUtie, for helpe now get ye none.
Bribes hath corrupt him, good lawes to pollute. ^Exeunt.
S. Hahilitie. A naughtie man that wU not obay the kings
constitute.
With hevy hart I wil return, til God redresse my pain.
[Exit.
Enter Shame, u-ith a triiinp black.
Shame. From among the grisly gosts I come, from tirants
testy train ; '
Unseemly Shame, of sooth I am procured to make plain
The odious facts and shameless deeds that Cambises king dooth
use ;
AU pietie, and veituouse life, he dooth it clene refuse
Lechery and drunkennes, he dooth it much frequent ;
The tigers kinde to iinmitate, he hath given ful consent.
He nought esteemes his Councel grave, ne vertuous bringing
up;
But dayly stU receives the diink of damned vice's cup :
He can bide no instruction, he takes so greet delight,
In working of iniquitie, for to frequent his spight.
As Fame dooth sound the royall trump of worthy men and trim,
So Shame dooth blowe with strained blast the trump ef shame
on him. [Exit.
Enter the King, Lord, Pkaxaspes, and Sisamxes.
Kinj. Jly judge, since my departure hence, have you used
judgement right?
If faithful stuard I ye find, the same I wil requite.
Sisamnes. No dout, your grace shal not once hear, that I
have doon amis.
Fra. I much rejoice to hcare so good news as this.
Enter Commons Cry running in speak this verse, go out again
hastcbj.
Com. Cry. Alas, alas I how are the Commons oppressed by
that vile judge, Sisamnes ))y name •■
I doo not k-nowe, how it should be redressed ; to amend the
Ufe no whit he dooth frame.
We are undoon, and thrown out of doore, his damnable dealing
dooth us so torment :
\t his h.and we can find no releaf nor succoiire. God grant
him grace for to repent ! [R'"' <••<■"!> '■''V"''/-
« Corps, body, as in French, not necessaxUy a dead body.
i Demcate, call down (complaint).
e.We find in " tyrant's testy train "
A sample of " Cambyses vein."
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[A.D. 1561.
King. 'What doleful cryea be these, my lord, that sound doc
in mine eure P
Intelligence if you can give, unto your king declare.
To me it secmeth my Commons all they doo lament and cry
Out of Sisamnes judge moat cheef, even now standing us by.
Prax. Even so (o king) it seemed to me as you rehearsall
made:
I dout the judge oulpible be in some respect or trade.
Siiamnes. Redouted king, have no mistrust, no whit youi-
mind dismay ;
There is not one that can me charge, or ought against me lay.
Enter Commons Complaint, with Pkoof, and Tkiall.
Com. Complaint. Commons Complaint I represent, with thrall
of doltul state,
By urgent cause erected foorth my grief for to dilate.
Unto the king I will prepare my misery to tel.
To have releef of this my grecf, and fettered feet so fel.
Eedoubted prince, and mightie king, my self I prostrate heer ;
Vouchsafe (o king) with mo to bearefor this that I appear.
AVith humble sute I pardon crave of your moste royall grace.
To give me leave my mindc to brcke, before you in this place.
King. Commons Complaint, keep nothing back, fear not thy
tale to tel :
A\Tiat ere he be within this land that hath not used thee wel.
As princes mouth shall sentence give, he shall receive the same ;
Unfolde the secrets of thy brest, for I extinguish blame.
Com. Complaint. God preserve your royall grace, and send
you bUssf ul dayes.
That all your deeds might stil accord to give the Gods the
praise.
My complaint is (o mightie king) against that judge you by ;
Wbose careless deeds, gain to receive, hath made the Commons
cry :
He, by taking bribes and gifts, the poore he dooth oppresse.
Taking releef from infants }"ung, widowes and fatherlesse.
King. Untrustful traitor, and corrupt judge, how likest
thou this complaint ?
Forewarning I to thee did give, of this to make restrainte :
And hast thou done this divelish deed, mine ire to augment ?
I sentence give, thou Jndas judge ; thou shalt thy deed repent.
Sisamncs. pusant prince, it is not so, his complaint I deny.
Com. Compltiint. If it be' not so (most mightie king) in place
then let me dye :
Beholde that I have brought with me, bothe Proof and Tn/ull
true,
To stand even heer, and sentence give, what by him did insm '.
Proof. I, Proof, doo him in this appeal, he did the Commons
wrong ;
Unjustly he with them hath delt, his greedy was so strong :
His hart did covet in to get, he cared not which way ;
The poor did leese their due and right, because they want to
pay
Unto him for bribes indeed, this was his wunted use :
Wheras your grace good lawes did make, he did the same
abuse.
Tnjall. I, Trynll, heer to verify what Proof dooth now
unfolde,
To stand against him in his wrong as now I dare be bolde.
King. How likest thou this, thou caitive vile ? canst thou
the same deny ?
Sisamnes. noble king, forgive my fact, I yeeld to thy
mercy.
King. Complaint, and Proof, redresse will I all this your
misery :
' If if hr, prononnced " if 't be." Ei'cii Jicev, e'en here. In reading
the lines aloud such contractions should not be forgotten.
Departe with speed from whence you came, and straight
commaund by me
The execution man to come before my grace with haste.
All. For to fulfil this your request, no time we meane to
waste. [Hxeioii they three.
King. My lord, before my grace go call Otian this judg.-;
Sonne ;
And he shall hcare, and also see, what his father hath doun.
The father he shall suffer death, the sonne his roume succeed ;
And if that he no better proove, so likewise shall he speed.
Prax. As your grace hath commaundment given, I mcaii'
for to fxJfil. [^Step aside and fetch hii,i.
King. Accursed judge, couldst thou consent to do this
cursed il 't
According unto thy demaund, thou shalt for this thj- gilt
Receive thy death before mine eyes, thy blood it shalbe spilt.
Prax. Beholde (o king) Sisamnes sonne, before you dooth
appeere.
King. Otian, this is my minde, therefore to me come nccr :
Thy father heer for judgment wrong procured hath his death,
And thou his sonne shalt him succeed, when he hath lost liis
breth ;
And if that thou doost once offend, as thou seest thy father
have.
In likewise shalt thou suffer death, no mercy shall thee sav.-.
Otian. O mightie king, vouchsafe your grace, my father to
remit ;
Forgive his faidt, his pardon I doo aske of you as j-et.
Alas, although my father hath your princely hart offended.
Amends for misse he wil now make, and faults shalbe amended.
Instead of his requested life, pleaseth your grace take mine :
This offer I as tender childe, so duty dooth me brnde.
King. Doo not intreat my grace no more, for he shall dye
the death ;
Where is the execution man, him to bereave of breath ?
Knter Execution.
Execution. At hand, and if it like your grace, my duty to
dispatch ;
In hope that I, when deed is doon, a good rewarde shall catch.
King. Dispatch with swoord this judges life, extinguish fear
and cares.
So doon, draw thou his cursed skin, strait over both his eares.
I wil see the office doon, and that before mine eyes.
Execution. To doo the thing my king commaunds, I give
the enterprise.
Sisamnes. Otian, my sonne, the king to death by law hath
me condemned :
And you in roume and office mine, his graces wil hath placed :
Use justice therefore in this case, and yeeld unto no wrong,
Lest thou do purchase the like death, or ever^ it be long.
Otian. father deer, these words to hear, that you must
dye by force,
Bedewes my cheeks with stilled tears; the king hath no
remorse.
The greevous greef and strained sighes, my hart doth breke
in twain,
.\nd I deplore, moste woefirl childe, that I should see you
slain.
O false, and fickle, frowning dame, that tumeth as the winde,
Is this the joy in fathers age, thou me assignest to find ?
doleful day, unhappy houre, that looving childe should see:
His father deer before his face, thus put to death should bee.
Yet, father, give me blessing thine, and let me once embrace
Thy comely corps in foulded armes, and kisse thy ancient face.
' Or fucr = ere ever. First-English " se'r," before.
A.D. 1561.]
PLAYS.
69
Sisanmes. childe, thou makes mine eyes to rim, as rive;s
doo by streme ;
My leave I take of thee my sonne, beware of this my beame.
King. Dispatch even now, thou man of death, no longer
seeme to stay.
Execution. Come M. Sisanmes, come on your way, my oiBce
I must pay ;
Forgive therefore my deed.
Sisanmes. I doo forgive it thee, my friend ; dispatch there-
fore with speed.
\_Sniite him in the neek with a sword to sign if t/ his
death.
Frax. Beholdo (o king) how he doth bleed, beeing of life
bereft.
King. In this wise he shall not yet be left.
Pid his skin over his eares, to make his death more vile :
A wretch he was, a cruel theef, my Commons to begile.
\_Flea him with a false skin.
Otian. What child is he of natures mould could bide the
same to see,
I lis father flead in this wise 'i Oh how it grce veth me 1
King. Otirin, thou seest thy father dead, and thou art in
his roume :
If thou beest proud as he hath been, even thereto shalt thou
come.
Otian. king, to me this is a glasse, with greef in it I view
Example that unto your grace I doo not prove untrue.
Frax. Otian, convay your father hence, to tomb where he
shall lye.
Otian. And if it please vour lordship, it shalbe doon by and
by.
Good execution man, for need, help me with him away.
Execution. I wil fulfil as you to me did say.
\_Tht'g take him awag.
King. 5Iy lord, now that my grace hath seen, that finisht
is this deed.
To question mine give tentivo eare, and answere make with
speed.
Have not I doon a gratious deed, to redi-esse mj' Commons wo ?
Frax. Yea, truely, if it please your grace, ye have in deed
doon so :
But now (o king) in friendly wise I councel you in this ;
Certain vices for to leave that in you placed is :
The vice of drunkennes (o king) which dooth you sore infect,
With other great abuses, which I wish you to detect.
King. Peace, my lord ; whatneedeth this ? of this I wU not
hear :
To pallaice now I wil return, and there to make good cheer.
God Baccns he bestowes his gifts, we have good store of wine ;
And also that the ladyes be both passing brave and fine :
But, stay ; I see a lord now come, and eke a valiant knight.
What newes, my lord ? to see you heer my hart it dooth
delight.
Enter Loun and Kxight to meet the King.
Lord. Xo newes, (o king) but of duty come, to wait upon
your grace.
King. I thank you, my lord, and looving knight, I pray
you with me trace.
My lords, and knight, T praj' ye tel, I will not be offended :
Am I worth5- of any crime once to be reprehended ?
Frax. The Fersians much praise your grace, but one thing
discommend,
In that to wine subject you be, whcrin you doo offend.
Sith that the might of wines effect dooth oft subdue your
brain.
My councel is, to please their harts, fi-om it you would refrain.
Lord. No, no, my lord, it is not so; for this of prince they
For vertuous proof and princely facts Cirns he dooth excel •
By this his grace by conquest great the Eggptians did convince •
Ut him reporte abrode dooth passe, to be a worthy prince.
Enight. In person of (Jresus I answer make, we may not
his grace compare
In whole respect for to be Uke Cirus the kings father : •
In so much your grace hath yet no childe as Cirns left behinde,
Even you I meane. Cambists king, in whome I favour findc.
Kmg. CresHs said wel in saying so : but, Fraxaspes. tel me
why
That to my mouth in such a sort, thou should avouch a lye,
Of drunkennes me thus to charge : but thou with speed shalt
see
Whether that I a sober king or els a drunkard bee.
I knowe thou hast a blisful babe, wherin thou doost delight :
Me to revenge of these thy words I wil go wreke this spight.
When I the most have tasted wine, my bowe it shalbe bent,
At hart of him even then to shoot, is now my whole intent :
And if that I his hart can hit, the king no drunkard is ;
If hart of his I doo not kil, I yeeld to thee in this.
Therefore, Fraxaspes, fetch to me thy yvmgest sonne with
speed ;
There is no way, I tel thee plain, but I wil doo this deed.
Fraxaspes. Eedouted prince, spare my sweet childe, hu is
mine onl)' joy :
I trust, your grace to infants hart no such thing wil iniplov.
If that his mother hear of this, she is so nigh her flight.
In clay her corps wil soon be shrinde, to passe from worlds
delight.
King. No more adoo, go fetch me him, it shalbe as I say :
And if that I doo speak the woord how dare ye once say nay ?
Fraxaspes. I wil go fetch hini to your grace ; but so, I trust,
it shall not be.
King. For feare of my displeasure great, go fetch him unto
me.
Is he gone ? Now, by the Gods, I will doo as I Kiy :
My lord, therefore, fil me some wine, I hartely you pray ;
For I must drink to make my brain somewhat intoxicate :
When that the wine is in my hed, oh, trimly I can prate.
Lord. Heere is the cup with fiUcd -n-ine, therof to take
repasto.
King. Give it me to drink it of, and see no -n-ine be waste :
[Uriiih.
Once again inlarge this cup ; for I must taste it still : [Drink.
By the gods, I think, of pleasant wine I cannot take my fil.
Now drink is in, give me my bowe, and arrowcs from sir
kniglit ;
At hart of child I meane to shoot, hoping to cleave it right.
Knight. Beholde (o king) wher he dooth come, his infant
jning in hand.
Frax. mightie king your grace behest with sorow I have
scand,
And brought mv childe fro mothers knee before you to appcare,
And she therof no whit dooth k-nowe that he in place is heer.
King. Set him up my mark to be, I wil shoot at his hart.
Frax. I beseech your grace not so to doo, set this pretence '
a parte.
Farewel, my deer and looving babe ; come kisse thy father
deer:
A greevous sight to me it is, to see thee slain even heer.
Is this the gain now from the king for giving councel good.
Before my face with such despite to spil my sonnes hart blood ?
hevy day to me this is, and mother in Uke case.
1 Pretence, intention.
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[A.D. 1561.
Ymg Chilile. father, father, wipe your face, I see the
tears run from your eye :
My mother is at home sowing of a hand ; alas, deer father,
why doo you cry '<
Kint/. Before me as mark now let him stand ; I wil shoot
at him my mindo to fulfil.
y,(„</ Childe. Alas, alas! father, v/H you me kil?
Good-master king, doo not shoot at me, my mother loves me
best of aU. [Shoot.
E'uig. I have despatched him, down he dooth fall ;
As right as a line his hart I have hit :
Nay thou shalt see, Praxaspes, straunger newes yet.
My knight, with speed his hart cut out, and give it unto me.
Knight. It shalbe doon (o mightie king) with all seleritie.
Lord. My Lord Fraxaspes, this had not beeu but your tung
must be walking,
To the king of correction you must needs be talking.
Frax. No correction (my lord), but councel for the best.
Knight. Heere is the hart, according to your graces behest.
King. Beholde, Praxaspes, thy sonnes own hart : oh, how
wel the same was hit !
After this wine to doo this deed, 1 thought it very fit :
Esteeme thou maist right wel therby, no drunkard is the king.
That in the midst of aU his cups could do this valiant thing.
My lord, and knight, on me attend ; to pallaice we wil go.
And leave him hecr to take his Sonne when we are gone him
fro.
All. With all our harts we give consent to wait upon your
grace.
Prax. A woful man (o lord) am I, to see him in this case :
My dayes I deem desires their end, this deed wOI help me
hense.
To have the blossoms of my fecld destroyed by violence.
Enter Mother.
Mother. Alas, alas 1 I doo heare tel, the king hath Hid my
Sonne :
If it be so, wo worth the deed, that ever it was doon.
It is even so, my lord I see, how by him he dooth weep :
What mcnt I that from hands of him this childe I did not
keep ?
Alas ! husband and lord, what did you meane to fetch this
child away ?
Prax. lady wife, I little thought for to have seen this day.
Mother. blissful babe, o joy of womb, harts comfort and
delight.
For councel given unto the king is this thy just requite ?
O hevy day, and doleful time, these mourning tunes to make !
With blubred eyes into mine armes from earth I wil the take.
Anil wrap thee in mine apron white : but oh ! my heavy hart !
The spightful panga that it sustains would make it in two to
part
The death of this my sonne to see ; O hevj' mother now.
That from thy sweet and sugred joy, to sorrow so shouldst bow.
"WTiat grcef in womb did I retain, before I did thee see ?
Vet, at the last, when smart was gone, what joy wert thou to
me?
How tender was I of thy food for to preserve thy state ?
How stilled I thy tender hart at times e.arly and late ?
With velvet paps I gave thee suck, with issue from my brest.
And daunced thee upon my knee to bring thee unto rest.
Is this the joy of thee I reap (o king) of tigers brood ?
Oh, tigers whelp, hadst thou the hart, to see this childes hart
blood 'i
Nature inforceth me, alas 1 in this wise to deplore ;
To wring my hands, o wele away, that I should see this houre !
Thy mother yet will kisse thy lips, silk soft and pleasant white ;
With wringing hands lamenting for to see thee in this plight.
My lording deer, let us go home, our mom-ning to augment.
Prax. My lad}' deer, with hevy hart to it I doo consent ;
Between us bothe the child to here unto our lordly place.
\_Exeant.
Enter Ambidexter.
Amb. In deed, as ye say, I have been absent a long space :
But is not my cosin Ciitpurse with you in the mene time ':
To it, to it, Cosin ; and doo j-our office fine.
How like you Sisamms for using of me Y
He plaid with bothe hands, but he sped il favouredly.
The king him self was godly up trained ;
He professed i-irtue, but I think it was fained :
He playes with bothe hands good deeds and ill ;
But it was no good deed, Praxaspes sonne for to kil :
As he for the good deed on the judge was commended.
For all his deeds els he is reprehended.
The moste evil disposed person that ever was,
AU the state of his life he would not let passe,
8ome good deeds he wil do though they be but few :
The like things this tirant Cambices dooth shew.
No goodness from him to none is exhibited ;
But still malediction abrode is distributed.
And yet ye shall see in the rest of his race.
What infamy he wil woork against his owne grace.
Whist, no more woords : heer comes the kings brother.
Enter lord Smirdis, with Attendance and Diligence.
Smirdia. The kings brother by birth am I, issued from Cirm
lojTies :
A greef to me it is to hear of this the kings repines.
I like not wel of those his deeds, that he dooth still frequent ;
I wish to God, that otherwise his minde he could content :
Yung I am, and next to him, no mo of us there be ;
I would be glad a quiet realme in this his reign to se.
Atten. My lord, jDur good and willing hart the gods wil
recompence.
In that your minde so pensife is, for those his great offence.
My lord his grace shall have a time to pair and to amende :
Happy is he that can escape, and not his grace offend.
Dili. If that wicked vice he could refrain, from wasting
wine forbere,
A moderate life he would frequent, amending this his square.
Ambi. My lord, and if your honor it shall please,
I can inf orme you what is best for your ease ;
Lot him alone, of his deeds do not talke,
Then by his side ye may quietly walkc ;
After his death you shalbo king.
Then may you reforme cche kinde of thing.
In the meane time live quietly, doo not with him dealc ;
So shall it redownd much to your weale.
Smirdis. Thou saist true, my friend, that is the best :
I knowe not whether he loove me, or doo me detest.
Atten. Leame from his company all that you may ;
I faithful Attendance will your honor obay.
If against j-our honor he take any ii'e,
His grace is as like to kindle his fire
To your honors destruction as otherwise.
Dili. Therefore, my lord, take good advise,
And I Diligence your case wil so tender.
That to his grace your honor shalbe none offender.
•Smirdis. I thank you bothe, iutire freends, with my honor
stil remain.
.Imbi. Beholde, where the king dooth come with his train.
Enter King, and 1 Lohd.
King. O lording deer, and brother mine, I joy your state to
see;
Surmising much what is the cause you absent thus from mee.
A.D. 1561.]
PLAYS.
71
Smiriiis. Pleaseth your grace, no absence I, but rtdv to
fulfil.
At all assayes, my prince and king, in that your grace me wil.
What I can doo in true defence, to you, my prince, aright ;
In redj-nes I alwaies am to offer foorth my might.
JiiHy. And I the like to you agaia doo heer avouch the same.
All. For this your good agreement heer, now praised be
Gods name.
Ambi. But hear ye, noble prince ; — hark in your eare : —
It is best to doo as I did declare.
Kinff. My lord and brother Smirdis now, this is my minde
and wil.
That you to court of mine return, and there to tarrj- stil
TU my return within short space your honor for to greet.
Smirdis. At your behest so wU I doo, til time again we
meet :
My leave I take from you (o king) ; even now I doo departe.
\_Exeunt Smikdis, Attenda>xe, a)id Diligen'ce.
King. Farewel, lord and brother mine, farewel with all my
hart.
3Iy lord, my brother Smirdis is of youth and manly might ;
And in his sweet and pleasant face my hart dooth take deUght.
Lord. Yea, noble piince, if that your grace before his honor
dye.
He wil succeed, a vertuous king, and rule with equitie.
King. As you have said, my lord, he is cheef heire ne.xt
my grace :
And if I dye to morrow, next he shall succeed my place.
Ambi. And if it please yoxir grace (o king) I herd him say.
For your death unto the God day and night he ded pray ;
He would live so vertuously, and get him such a praise.
That Fame by trump his due deserts, his honor should up
raise.
He said, your grace deserved had the cursing of all men ;
That ye should never after him get any praise agen.
King. Did he speak thus of my grace, in such dispightful
wise'r
Or els doost thou presume to fil my princely ears with lies ?
Lord. I cannot think it in my hart that he would report so.
King. How sayst thou ? speake the truth, was it so or no ':
Ambi. I think so, if it please your grace, but I cannot tel.
King. Thou plaist with bothe hands, now I perceive wel.
But for to put all douts aside, and to make him leese his hope.
He shall dye by dent of sword, or els by choking rope.
Shall he succeed when I am gone, to have more praise than I ':
"Were he father, as brother mine, I swere, that he shall dye.
To paUaice mine I wil therfore, his death for to pursue.
[Exit.
Ambi. Are ye gone f straight way I wil followe you.
How like ye now, my maisters ? dooth not this geer cotton r'
The proverbe olde is verified, soon ripe and soon rotten.
He -nil not be quiet tU his brother be kild :
His delight is wholly to have his blood spUd.
^lani', sir, I tolde him a notable lye :
If it were to doo again, man, I durst doo it I.
Mary, when I had doon, to it I durst not stand :
Thereby you may perceive I use to play with eche hand.
But how now, cosin Ciitpiirsse ?- with whome play you r
Take heed, for his hand is groping even now :
Cosin, take heed, if ye do secretly grope ;
If ye be taken, cosin, ye must looke through a rope. \_E.rit.
' Cotton, succeed. The phrase is from cloth-making, the cloth
cottoned when it rose to a regular nap. The word passed from the
sense of prosperous issue to accord or agreement.
' Here the Vice professes to see a pickpocket among the audience.
Enter lerd Smlrdis alone.
Smirdis. I am wandring alone, heer and there to waike ;
The court is so unquiet, in it I take no joy :
Sohtary to myself now I may talke ;
If I could rule, I wist what to say.
Enter Crueltie and Mckdek, with bloodg hands.
Crueltie. My coequal partner Murder, come away ;
From me long thou maist not stay.
Murder. Yes, from thee I may stay, but not thou from me:
Therefore I have a prerogative aboove thee.
Crueltie. But in this case we must togither abide :
Come, come ; lord Smirdis I have spide :
Lay hands on him -with all festiuation,'
That on him we may woork our indignation.
Smirdis. How now, my freends i What have you to doo
with me ':
Murder. King Cambises h:ith sent us unto thee,
Commaunding us straightly,'' with out mercy or favour,
Upon thee to bestow our beha\iour ;
With Crueltie to murder you, and make you away.
[Strike him in divers places,
Smirdis. Yet pardon me, I hartely you pray:
Consider, the king is a tii-;int tirannious ;
And all his dooings be damnable and pamitious :
Favour me therefore, I did him never offend.
[A little bladder of vinegar prikt.
Crueltie. Xo favour at all ; your life is at an end.
Even now I strike his body to wound :
Beholde now his blood springs out on the ground.
Murder. Now he is dead, let us present him to the king.
Crueltie. Lay to your hand, away him to bring.
[Exeunt.
Then Ambidexter the Vice enters, and both weeps
and laughs over what has happened, after which there
is another clownish scene, with the iiide fighting that
excited laughter. Hob and Lob, two rustics, are
setting out for market at five in the morning, and
though the scene is in Pei-sia, Hob says —
Chave» two goslings, and a chine of pork.
There is no vatter* between this and York.
Presently they gossip over the deeds of King
Cambyses. Ambidexter threatens to rejiort them.
Each accuses the other of having been fii-st to broach
treason, and, says the stage direction, " Here let them
fight -with theii- staves, not come near anotht-r by
t^ee or four yards ; the Vice set them on as hard
as he can ; one of their -wives come out and all to
beat the Vice, he nm away.— Enter Marian-may-be-
good, Hob's ^vife, niniiing in with a broom and part
theni." But when Hob and Lob have shaken hands,
Marian attacks the Vice, and, says the sUige dii-ectiou,
" Here let her swinge him in her broom, she gets him
down, he her down, thus one on the top of another
make' pastime." At last when she is do\ra, he runs
away, and she jumps up to run after him. Then
enters Venus with Cupid who has his bow and two
3 Ffstinafim.. speed. ♦ StraisMlB. stricay.
i Chave I have. Ch as an initial sound to verbs m the first person
for the old " ic ■• or " ich," I. was often nsed in old plays as a sign of
rustic English.
6 Vatter, fatter.
72
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1561.
shafts, one headed with gold and one wth lead.
Venus means that King Cambyses shall be enamoiu-ed
of a lady wlio is kin to him, and bids Cupid shoot at
him when she shall give the word. The lady enters
with her waitLng-maid and a lord who says —
Lady dear, to kina; akin, forthwith let us proceed
To trace abroad the beauty fields as erst we had decreed, &c.
They do so proceed, and king Cambyses enters with
a lord and knight to see the lady "trace up and
down." Venus bids Cupid shoot. Venus and Cupid
then depart, and the king otfers marriage to the lady
who is his " cousiu german nigh of birth by mother's
side come in." The lady declines, but the king com-
pels, and Ambidexter describes presently the haste
to the wedding. Next enters Preparation to set out
the wedding feast, and the Vice picks quarrel enough
to secure the entertainment of another comic fight.
Tlien they are friends. The Vice helps to set the
table and upsets a dish of nuts. After more words
fiom the Vice, Ambidexter,
Enter King, Queen, Lokds, S;e.
King. My queen, and lords, to take repast let us attempt
the same ;
Heer is the place, delay no time, but to our purpose frame.
Queen. With willing harts j-our whole behest we minde for
to obay.
All. And we, the rest of princes train, wil do as you do say.
[Sit at the hanqnit.
King, lie think, mine cares dooth wish the sound of musicks
hermony ;
Heer for to play before my grace, in place I would them spy.
\_Pl(iy at the banquet.
Ambi. They be at hand, sir, with stick and fidle ;
They can play a new daunce called, Seij, dirllc, didle.
King. My queen, parpcnd, wh.at I pronounce I will not
violate ;
But one thing which my hart makes glad, I minde to explicate :
You knowe, in court up trained is a lyon very j-ung.
Of on ' litter two whelps beside, as yet not verj' strong :
I did request on whelp to see and this young lyon fight :
But lyon did the whelp convince by strength of force and
might;
His brother whelp, perceiving that the lyon was too good.
And ho by force was like to see the other whelp his blood.
With force to hon he did run his brother for to help ;
A wunder great it was to see that friendship in a whelp.
So then the whelpes between them both the lion did convince ;2
■WTiich thing to see before mine eyes did glad the hart of
prince. [At this tale told Ut the Qveexe xoeep.
Qiieene. These woords to hear makes stilling ^ teares issue
from christal eyes.
Ktng. 'WTiat doost thou meane, my spouse, to weep for losse
of any prise y
Queen. No, no, (o king) but as you see friendship in brothers
■whelp.
When one was like to have repulse, the other yielded help.
And was this favour showd in dogs, to shame of royall king ?
Alack, I wish these eares of mine had not once heard this
thing.
^ On, one.
« Convince. Latin " convincere," completely overcome
» SdlhTig, dropping. Latin "stillare." to d.-op; whence "still"
and distil. So " stilled," in the speech o£ Otian, p 68
Even so should you (o mightie king) to brother been a stay;
And not without offence to you, in such wise him to slay.
In aU assayes it was your parte, his cause to have defended;
And who so ever had him misused, to have them reprehended :
But faithful loove was more in dog, than it was in your grace.
King. O cursed caitive, vicious and vUe, I hate thee in this
place.
This banquit is at an end, take all these things away :
Before my face thou shalt repent the woords that thou doost
say.
wretch most vile, didst thou the cause of brother mine so
tender,
Tlie losse of him should greeve thy hart, he being none
offender.
It did me good his death to have, so will it to have thine ;
What friendship he had at my hands, the same even thou
shalt finde.
1 give consent, and make a vow, that thou shalt dye the death :
By Cruris sword, and Murder f el, even thou shalt lose the breth.
Ambidexter, see with speed to Crtteltie ye go ;
Cause him hether to approach. Murder with him also.
Ambi. I redy am for to fulfil, if that it be your graces wil.
King. Then nought oblight* my message given, absent thy
self away.
Ambi. Then in this place I wil no longer stay.
If that I durst, I would moume your case ;
But, alas ! I dare not for feare of his grace.
[Exit AjUBrDEXTER.
King. Thou cursed gil,' by all the gods I take an oathe and
swere.
That flesh of thine these hands of mine in pieces small could
tcrc ;
But thou shalt dye by dent of swoord, there is no freend ne fee
Shall finde remorcc at princes hand, to save the life of thee.
Queene. Oh, mightie king and husband mine, vouchsafe to
heer me speke,
And licence give to spouse of thine, her patient mind to breke :
For tender loove unto your grace my woords I did so frame,
For pure loove dooth hart of king me violate and blame.
And to your grace is this offense that I should purchase death ?
Then cursed time that I was queen, to shorten this my breth :
Your grace doth know by mariage true, I am your ■n-iie and
spouse,
And one to save an others helth (at troth plight) made our
vows.
Therefore, o king, let loo'S'ing queen, at thy hand find remorse.
Let pitie be a meane to quench that cruel raging force :
And pardon plight from princes mouth, yeeld grace unto your
queen,
Tliat aniitie with faithful zeal may ever be us between.
King. A, caitive vile, to pitie thee, my hart it is not bent ;
Ne yet to pardon your offence, it is not mine intent.
Two lords having pleaded to the king in vain for
mercy to the queen, and only set his heart on fire
thereby.
Enter Crceltie and Mukder.
Crucltie. Come, Murder, come ; let us go foorth with might,
Once again the kings commaundement we must fulfil.
Murder. I am contented to doo it with a good wil.
King. Murder and Crueltie, for bothe of j-ou I sent,
With all festiuation your offices to frequent :
* OUight. Latin " obUtus," forgotten.
5 Gil, Jill ; used to the Queen as a name of contempt by her false
Jack, Cambyses.
A.D. 1361. j
PLAYS.
73
!. IV holde on the queen, take her to your power,
1 make her away with in this houre ;
ire for no ieare, I doo you ful permit :
^ i I from this pl;ice doo meane for to flit.
Blithe. AVith couragious harts (o king) we wil obey.
King. Then come, my lords, let us departe away.
Both the Lords. With hevy harts we wil doo all your grace
dooth say. [^Exeiint Kixg and Lords.
Cnieltie. Como, lady and queen, now are you in our
handling :
In faith, with you we wil use no dandling.
Murder. With all expedition, I, Murder, wil take place,
Tliou thou' be a queene, ye be under my grace.
Qtteene. With patience I wil you bothe obey.
Cnieltie. No more woords, but go with us away.
Queen. Yet, before I dye, some psalme to God let me sing.
Bothe. We be content to permit you that thing.
Queen. Farewel, you ladyes of the court, wth aU j-our
masking hew :
I (loo forsake these broderd gardes, and all the facions new,
Th'' court and all the courtly train, wherin I had delight ;
I Vanished am from happy sporte, and all by spightful spight.
Yet with a joyful hart to God a psalme I meane to sing,
Forgi^-ing all, and the king, of eche kind of thing.
[SiM^ and Exeunt.
Enter Ambidexter weeping.
Aiiihi. A, a, a, a; I cannot chuse but weep for the queene :
Nothing but mourning now at the court there is seen.
Oh, oh, my hart, my hart ; oh, my [sides] wil break :
Very greef so torments me that scarce 1 can speake.
WTio could "but weep for the losse of such a lady ?
That can I not doo, I sweare by mine honesty.
But, lord ! so the ladyes moume cn"ing, alack !
Nothing is wome now but onely black ;
I believe, all cloth in Watling street to make gownes would
not serve :
If I make a lye the deril let ye sterve :
All ladyes moume bothe yung and olde ;
There is not one that weareth a points worth of gold.
There is a sorte for feare for the king doo pray.
That would have him dead, by the masse I dare say.
AVhat a king was he that has used such tiranny ?
He was a kin to bishop Bonner,'^ I think verily;
For bothe their delights was to shed blood,
But never intended to do any good.
Cambises put a judge to death, that was a good deed ;
But to kil the yung childe was worse to proceed ;
To murder his brother, and then his owne wife !
So help me God, and hoUdam, it is pitie of his life.
Hear ye ? I wil lay twentie thousand pound.
That the king him self dooth dye by some wound ;
He hath shed so much blood, that his wil be shed :
If it come so to passe, in faith then he is sped.
Enter the King tcithont a gown, n sword thrust up into his side
bleeding.
King. Out alas I what shall I doo ? my life is finished;
Wounded I am by sudain chaunce, my blood is minished :
Gogs hart, what meanes might 1 make my life to preserve f
Is there nought to be my help ? nor is there nought to seric r
' Thofi fhnii, though thon.
* Edmund B-inner had been deprived of his bishopric under
Edward VI., restored under Mary, and deprived asrain as well as
imprisoned under Elizabeth, to whom be refused to swear allegiance.
He was living when these lines were written, and died in the Mar-
shalsea in 1W9
130
Out upon the court, and lords that there remain '.
To help my greef in this my case, wiU none of them Uke pain ?
W ho but I m such a wise his death wound.s could have got ?
As I on horse back up did leepe, my sword from scabard shot,
And ran me thus into the side, as you right wel may see.
A mervels chaunce, unfortunate, that in this «-ise should be
I feele my self a dj-ing now, of Hfe bereft am I ;
And death hath caught me with his dart, for want of blood I
spy.
Thus gasping heer on ground 1 lye, for nothing I doo care ;
A just reward for my misdeeds my death dooth plain declare.
[Here let him quake and stir.
Ainbi. Now now, noble king f pluck up your hart ;
What, wil you die, and from us departe i
Speeke to me, and' you be alive :
He cannot speake ; but beholde, how with death he dooth
strive.
ALis, good king ! alas, he is gone I
The devH take me, if for him I make any mone.
I did prognosticate of his end, by the masse ;
Like as I did say. so is it come to passe.
I wil be gone ; if I should be found heer.
That I should kil him, it would appeer :
For feare «-ith his death they doo me charge,
Farewel, my maisters, I wil go take barge ;
I meane to be packing, now is the tide :
Farewel, my maisters ; I wil no longer abide.
[Exit Ambidexter.
Enter three Lords.
Eirst Lord. Behold, mv lords, it is even so as he to us did
tel;
His grace is dead upon the ground, bv dent of sword mostc
fel.
Second Lord. As he in saddle would have kpt, his sword
from sheath did go.
Goring him up into the side ; his life was ended so.
Third Lord. His blood so fast did issue out, that nought
could him prolong :
Yet before he yeelded up the ghost, his hart was verj' strong.
First Lord. A just rewarde for his misdeeds the God above
hath wrought ;
For certainly the life he led was to he counted nought.
Seeond Lord. Yet a princely buriaU he shall have, according
his estate ;
And more of him heer at this time, we have not to dilate.
Third Lord. Jly lords, let us take him up, to carrj- him away.
• Bothe. Content wo are with one accord, to do as you do s.ay.
[Exeunt all.
EPILOGUS.
Right gentle audience, heere have you perused
The tragicall historj- of this wicked king ;
According to our duety, we have not refused.
But to our best intent exprest every thing :
We trust none is offended for this our dooing.
Our author craves likewise, if he have squared amisse.
By gentle admonicion to knowe where the fault is.
His good wil shall not he neglected to amende the same ;
Praj-ing all to beare therfore with his simple deed,
Until the time sene a better he may frame :
Thus yeelding you thanks, to end we decreed
That vou so gentlely have suffred us to proceed,
In such patient wise as to hear and see :
We can but thank ye therfore, we can doo no more we.
» Ani. if.
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[a.d. 1564.
As duty tindes us, for oui- noble queene let us pray,
And for her honorable counccl, the trueth that they may
use,
To practise justice, and defend her grace eche day;
To maintain Gods woord they may not refuse,
To correct aU those, that would her grace and graces lawes
abuse ;
Beseeching God over us she may refgn long.
To be guided by truoth, and defended from wrong.
Amen q. ' Thomas Preston.
At Clivistmas, 1564-65, a tragedy by Richard
Edwards was acted before the Queen, in her palace
of Whitehall — Wolsey's York Place — by the cliildren
P\UT OF Old Whitfhvll Palace.
Fvoia J. T. Smith's " Antiiiultks of Westminster."
of Her Majesty's Chapel, of wliom he had become
Master iu 1561. Edwards wai born in Somersetshire
in 1523, was a student of (Jhrist Church, Oxford, at
its foundation in 1547, and at Elizabetli's Court was
known as musician as well as poet. Tlie tragedy of
his acted before the Court at Christmas, 1564, is
supposed to have been his " Tragical Comedy," as he
called it, of " Damon and Pythias," which was not
printed until 1582. Richard Edwards's
But if your eager looks do long such toys to see
As heretofore in comical wise were wont abroad to be.
Your lust is lost, and all the pleasure that you sought
Is frustrate quite of toying plays. A sudden change is
wrought :
For lu, our author's Muse that masked in delight
Hath forced his pen against his kind no more such sports to
write.
But he justifies comedy that is fitly written in
accordance with the rules of Horace : —
DAMON AND PYTHIAS
play through which there runs tlie worth
of
IS a
friendshii) as a central thought. Tlie speaker of the
prologue thus began his address to the assembled
company, with a reference to the old interludes : —
On ever}' side whereas I glance my roving eye,
Silence in all ears bent I plainly do espy :
' 'i, qnotll.
th .,
1
Which hath om- author taught at School, from whom he doft
not swerve,
In all such kind of exercise decorutn to observe.
Thiis nuich for his defence he saith, as poets erst have done
^\'hich heretofore in comedies the selfsame race did run
But now for to be brief, the matter to express
Which here we shall present is this : Damon and Pythias,
A rare example of friendship true, it is no legend lie,
But a thing once done indeed, as histoties do descry.
Which done of yore, in long time j^ast, yet present shall be
here.
Even as it were in doing now, so lively it shall appear :
Lo, here, in SjT'cuse th' ancient town which once the Romans
won.
Here Dionysius' palace- within whose court the thing most
strange was done,
"Which matter mixt with mirth and care, a just name to apply,
As seems most fit we have it termed a tragical comedy.
Wherein talking of couitly toys, we do protest tliis flat,
We talk uf Dionysius' court, wo mean no court but that.
And tliat we do so mean, who wisely call'th to mind
The time, the place, the author, here most plainly shall it find.
Lo this I spake for our defence, lest of others we should be
shent.^
But, worthy audience, we you pray, take things as they be
meant ;
Whose upright judgment we do crave with heedful ear and
eye.
To hear the cause and see the effect of this new TragiCol
Comedy .
The Pi-ologue having thus secured candid attention
from the English Queen and Court to a lesson on the
wortli of friendsliip and the Prince's need of a true,
ecjual friend, the scene, supposed to be before the
palace of King Dionysius at Syracuse, opens with
the entrance of Aristippus, a philosopher, who seeks
as a parasite his own advantage. The real Aristijipus
is said to have been born at Cyrene, and, thougli
once a disciple of Socrates, to have founded, in
jiliilosophy, the Cyrenaic school, which encouraged
full, refined enjoyment of the pleasure of the sense.*
2 The measure is got by contraction into "Di'n'y's pal'ce;" or,
if " palace " was a dissyllable, by coutraction of the next word " wi'n."
^ Shciit. blamed.
* '* Oinuis Aristippum decuit color, et status, et res,
Temptantem niiijora fere prffisentibus eequum."
See the rest of the passage in Horace's Epistle 17 of Book I. Thomas
Creech thus translated it : —
*' If Aristippus patiently could dine
On herbs, he would the coiirts of kinp:s decline ;
If he that censures me knew how to use
The courts of kiuirs, he would his herbs refuse.
Now which of these you think is best declare ;
Or else, my junior you, with patience hear
A.D. 1564.]
PLAYS.
75
His fi-eedom of life offended tlie Athenians, and he
left Atlieiis to become a flatterer of Dionysiiis of
Syracuse, who died a.d. 3G7. Aristippus begins the
play by saying that it may seem strange for a philo-
sopher to have become a courtier, but
Lovers of wisdom are termed philosophers
Then who is a philosopher so rightly as I ?
For in loving of wisdom, proof doth this try,
That frustra saplt^ qui uoit ^fipit silii.^
I am wise for myself, then tell me of troth,
Is not that great wisdom as the world gu'th ':
Some philosophers in the streets go ragged and torn
And feed on vile roots, whom boys laugh to scorn,
But I in fine silks haunt Dionysius's palaee,
Wherein with dainty fare myself I do solace.
I can talk of philosophy as well as the best,
But the strait kind of life I leave to the rest.
I make the king meny with pleasant urbanitie
^^^lom I never abused to any man's injurie.
" But," says Carisophus, " you get more in one day
than I do in five." Aristippus replies that there has
been change in the taste for mirth ; a finer sort is in
fashion. If he luis ]irospered in applying himself to
it, that comes not of his de.sert, but of the king's
favour : —
Cm-is. It may so be ; yet in your prosperitie
Despise not an old courtier, Carisophus is he.
Which hath long time fed Uionysius' humour ;
Diligently to please, .'itiU at hand, there never was rumour
Spread in the town of any small thing, but I
Brought it to the king in post l)y and by : -
Yet now I crave your friendshij], which if I may attain,
Most sure and unfeigned fricndshii) I promise you again ;
When Aristipptis has completed this setting forth
of his own character, there enters to him Carisophus,
a parasite of simpler sort, who complains that Aris-
tippus, since hLs coming to Syracuse, has u.surped his
place .
none but Aristippus now makes the king sport.
Ere you came hither, poor I was some body,
The king delighted in me, now I am but a noddy.
Aristippus replies that he did not come to be the
king's fool. Carisophus is a gi-eat parasite, whom the
king often feeds from his table : —
I envy not your state, nor 5-et your great favour ;
Then grudge not at all if in any behaviour
Why Aristippus' humour's best ; for thus
He bobb'd the Cyme, as the story goes ;
I for myself, to please the people you
Break jests ; my way's the better of the two :
I make my court, am free from fear or force ;
To carry me the king provides a horse,
Whilst you beg scraps, and though you boast you live
And nothing want, are less than those that give.
All fortune fitted Aristippus well.
Aiming at greater, pleased with wh.at befell."
^ He is wise in vain, who is not wise to himself. A Latin version
of a line in the " Prometheus Bound " of .Hschylus.
So we two linked in friendship, brother and brother,
Full well in the court may help one another.
Friendship being the theme of the play, and the
self-denial that true fiiendship involves, we have
here, as foil in the setting of Damon and Pythias,
the friendship between self-seekers. Aristippus
flatters Carisophus : —
Assuring of friendship both with tooth and nail,
WTiile his life lastcth, never to fail.
Caris. A thousand thanks I give you, friend Aristippus.
Ayist. friend Carisophus.
Caris. How joj-ful am I, sith I have to friend Aristippus
now !
Arist. None so glad of Carisophus' friendship as I, I make
God avow,
I speak as I think, believe me.
Caris. Sith we are now so friendly joined, it seemeth to me
That one of us help each other in every degree :
Prefer you my cause, when you are in presence,
To further your matters to the Mng let me alone in your
absence.
2 Bij and bij, immediately.
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[i.D. 1561.
Aiiat. Friend Carisophus, this shall be done as ye would
wish :
But I pray you tell me thus much hy the way,
Whither now from this place will you take your joumay?
Cai-is. I will not dissemble, that were against friendship.
I go into the city some knaves to nip
For talk, with their goods to increase the king's treasure ;
In such kind of sei-vice I set my chief pleasure.
Farewell, Aristippus, now for a time. [£xit.
Aristipjms, being left alone, muses pliilosopliically
tipon the jest of friendsliip between a philosopher and
an ass : —
We are as like in conditions as Jack Fletcher and his bolt ; '
I brought up in learning, but he is a very dolt
As touching good letters, but otherwi.se such a crafty knave
If you seek a whole region his like you cannot have :
A villain, for his life ; a varlet dyed in grain ;
You lo.se money by him if you sell him for one knave, for
he serves for twain ;
A flattering parasite, a sycophant also,
A common accuser of men ; to the good an open foe.
(Jf half a word he can make a legion of lies
Which he wiU avouch with such tragical cries
As though all were true that comes out of his mouth.
Were he indeed to be hanged by and by
He cannot tell one tale, but twice he must lie.
He spareth no man's life to get the king's favour,
That he will never leave. Methink then that I
Have dont^ very wisely to join in friendship with liim, lest
perhaps I,
Coming in his way, might be nipt ; for such knaves in pre-
sence
We see oft times put honest men to silence.
Vet have I played with his beard in knitting this knot :
I promised friendship, but — you love few words — I spake it,
but I mean it not.
Who markes this friendship between us two
Shall judge of the worldly friendship without more ado;
It may be a right pattern thereof ; but true friendship indeed
Of nought but of virtue dotli truly proceed.
Having thus brought the scene into relation with
the central motive of the play, while the errand on
which Carisophus departs leads on to the main action,
Richard Edwards made Aristippus check himself for
talking philoso[)hy when he had taken only " the fine
kind of courtesy " for his profession. The king must
be stilling ; it is now l^right clay, and as he means
to prosper, he will lose no time in hastening to court.
He departs, therefore, to attend on Dionysius.
Tiien enter Damon and Pythias as mariners, who
have just landed from Greece after a stoniiy |);i.ssage,
to pay a visit of curiosity to the fiimous city of
Syracuse. Pythias is still sea-sick, and, anxious
for lodging, calls their S(>rvant, Stejihano. He enters
presently much cumbered witli the luggage of his
masters, and in wrath at the drunken sailors who
would not help him to carry it up.
' Jack Fletcher is the arrow-maker, and his holt is " au arrow with a
round or half-round bohb at the end of it. with a sharp-pointed an-ow-
liead proceedinsT tlierefrom." A shaft had not the round button
behind its point. A bird bolt had no point before its button.
Damon. Stephano, leave thy raging, and let us enter Siia-
cusai.
We will provide lodging, and thou shalt be eased of this
burden by and by.
Stcph. Good master, make haste, for I tell you plain
This heavy burden puts poor Stephano to much pain.
Pi/thiris. Come on thy ways ; thou shalt be eased, and that
anon. \_£j:vunt.
Carisophus then enters in search of prey, com-
plaining that his game has become shy :
now, not with one I can meet
That wUl join in talk with me ; I am shunned in the street.
Sly credit is cracked where I am known, but I hear say
Certain strangers are arrived ; they were a good prey
If haply I might meet with them. I fear not, I,
But in talk I should trip them, and that very finely.
Carisojjhns departs to court to watch the practices
of his friend Aristippus, whom he cannot trust long
out of sight, and the stage is then occupied for a
short time by Will, the .servant>boy of Aristi]ipus,
and Jack, the servant-boy of Carisophus. They
discuss their masters, and the new court-favour of
Aristipinis, which Jack fears will put out of conceit
his master Carisophus : —
inn. Fear not that, Jack ; for like brother and brother
They are knit in true friendship the one with the other ;
They are fellows, you know, and honest men both.
Therefore the one to hinder the other they wiU be loth.
Jnct. Yea, but I have heard say there is falsehood in
fellowship ;
In the court sometimes one gives another the slip.
When WUl and Jack have hunied away lest they
be caught idling, the one servant of Damon and
Pythias enters, and describes the love between his
masters, who are as one to each other and to h im
theii' man : —
For I, Stephano, lo, so named by my father,
At this time serve two masters together,
And love them alike ; the one and the other
I duly obey, I can do no other.
A bondman I am, so nature hath wrought me.
One Damon of Greece, a gentleman, bought me.
To him I stand bond, yet serve I another,
Whom Damon, my master, loves as his own brother.
A gentleman, too, and Pj-thias he is named,
Fraught with Wrtne, whom vice never defamed :
These two, since at school they fell acquainted,
In mutual friendship at no time have fainted.
But loved so kindly and friendly each other,
As though they were brothers by father and mother :
Pythagoras' learning these two have embraced,
Which both are in virtue so narrowly laced,
That all their whole doings do fall to this issfie,
To have no resiject, but only to virtue:
All one in effect, all one in their going.
All one in their study, all one in their doing :
These gentlemen both, being of one condition.
Both alike of my service have all the fruition :
Pythias is joj-ful, if Damon be pleased :
If Pythias be served, then Damon is eased.
I
1
A.D. 1561.]
PLAYS.
77
Serve one, serve both, so near, who would win them ;
I think they have but one heart between them.
In travelling countrie.s, we three have contrived'
I'uU many a year : and this day arrived
At yiracusie in Sicilia, that aucient town,
WTiere my masters are lodged ; and I up and down
Go seeking to learn what news here are walking.
To hark of what things the people are talking.
I like not this soil : for as I go plodding,
I mark there two, there three, theii- heads alway nodding,
In close secret wise, stiU whispering together.
If I ask any question, no man doth answer :
But shaking their heads, they go their ways speaking,
I mark how with tears their wet eyes arc leaking :
Some strangeness there is, that Lreedeth this musing.
Well, I wiU to my masters, and tell of their using,
That we may learn, and walk wisely together :
1 fear we shall curse the time we came hither. [Exit.
Every day he sheweth some token of cruelty.
With blood he h.ith fiUod aU the streets in the city :
I tremble to hear the people's murmuring,
I lament, to see his most ci-uel dealing :
I think there is no such t\Tant under the sun ;
my dear masters, what hath he done 1
Damon. What is that ■■ teU us quickly.
Steph. As I this morning passed in the street.
With a wof ul man (going to his death) did I meet.
JIany people followed, and I of one secretly
Asked the cause, why he was condemned to die ?
He whispered in mme ear, nought hath he done but thus.
In sleep he dreamed he had kiUed Dionysius ;
Which dream told abroad, was brought to the king in post,
By whom condemned for suspicion, his life he hath lost :
5Iarcia was his name, as the people said.
Pi/t/i iris. My dear friend Damon, I blame not Stephano
For wishing we had not come hither ; seeing it is so,
That for so small cause, such cruel death doth ensue.
The Eak of DioNisins
The play was printed without division into acts
and scenes ; but if we are to consider it a play in
five acts, here we may say tliat a short first act ends.
Then enters Aristippus, in dialogue with liis lackey
Will (ipon the attention paid by the ladies to the
pleasure-lo\ ing philosopher ; and Will is bidden to
learn secretly how they talk of his master in the
court. One purpose of this short scene is to allow
imagined time for Stephano to seek Damon and
Pythias ; therefore, when Aristippus and "Will leave
the stage, Stephano enters with the friends, and
Damon asks : —
Stephano, Ls all this tru(! that thou hast told me ?
Stcp/i. Sir, for lies, hitherto ye never controlled me.
Oh that we had never set foot on this land.
Where Dionysius reigna with so bloody a hand !
■ Coiiti'iiied, passed away (or worn-out) time. Froin Latin " con-
trivi," past of "contero." So in Shakespeare's "Taming of the
Shrew," —
" Please you we may contrive this afternoon,
And quaff carouses to oiu: mistress' health."
(Quoted iu Nares's ■' Glossary illustrating English Authors," edited
by Halhwell and Wright, a book of much value to English students.)
Diimoii. Jly Pythias, where tyrants reign, such cases ai-e
not new,
■\Vhich fearing their own state with cruelty.
To sit fast as they think, do execute speedily
AU such as any light suspicion have tainted.
Steph. With such quick carvers, I list not be acquainted.
Damon. So are they never in quiet, but in suspicion still,
When one is made away, they take occasion another to kiU :
Ever in fear, ha\-ing no trusty friend, void of all people's love,
And in tlieir own conscience a continual hell they prove.
Fi/tlda.'i. As things by their contraries ai-e always best
proved.
How happy are then merciful princes of their people beloved.
Having sure frientls every where, no fear doth touch them,
They may safely spend the day pleasantly, at night
Secure dormiunt in utranqiw aitrem.'
^ They sleep securely at either ear. The phrase is from Tcren« s
"Heautontimoroumenos," where Sy.n,s advise-s Cht.pho to play a
certX teek that he may sleep at e.^e with both h.s ea..-" m aurem
rt^nvis otiose ut dormia.." To sleep with -*"-«-•- '"^^^P
with the right ear, was a Eoman phrase for security. I!'* '^-^
78
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1561.
my Damon, if choice were oifered me, I would choose to be
Pythias
As I am (Damon's friend) rather than be King Dionysius.
Stcph. And good cause why: for you are entirely beloved
of one,
And as far as I hear, Dionysius is beloved of none.
Damon. That state is most miserable : thrice hajjpy are we,
Whom true love hath joined in perfect amity :
"Which amity first sprung, without vaunting be it spoken, that
is true,
Of likeliness of manners, took root by company, and now is
conserved by virtue ;
Whiih virtue always, though worldly things do not frame.
Yet doth she achieve to her followers immortal fame :
Whereof if men were cai-eful, for virtue's sake only
Thi'y would honour friendship, and not for commodity :
But such as for profit in friendship do link,
AVlien storms come, they slide away sooner than a man will
think ;
My I'ythias, the sum of my talk falls to this issue.
To prove no friendship is sure, but that which is grounded on
virtue.
ri/t/ii/is. Bly Damon, of this thing there needs no proof
to me.
The gods forbid, but that Pythias with Damon in all things
should agTee.
For why is it said, Amiens alter ipsf,^
But that true friends should be two in body, but one in
mind !'
As it were one transformed into another, which against kind
Though it seem, yet in good faith, when I am alone,
1 forget I am Pythias, methinks I am Damon.
Steph. That could I never do, to forget myself, full well I
know
Wheresoever I go, that I am pauper Stephano :
But I praj' you, sir, for all your philosophy,
See that in this court you walk very wisely :
You are but newly come hither, being strangers ye know,
JIany eyes are bent on you in the streets as ye go :
Many spies are abroad, you cannot be too circumspect.
Damon. Stephano, because thou art careful of me thy
master, I do thee praise ;
Yet think this for a surety, no state to displease
By talk or otherwise my friend and I intend ; we will here be
As men that come to see the soil and m;inners of all men of
every degree.
Pythagoras said, that this world is like unto a stage.
Whereon many play their parts : the lookers-on the sage
Philosophers arc, saith he, whose part is to loam
The manners of all nations, and the good from the bad to
discern.
Steph. Good faith, sir, concerning the peojde they are not
And as far as I see they be mummers, for nought they say.
For the most part, whatsoever you ask them.
The soil is such, that to live here I cannot like.
Damon. Thou speakest according to thy learning, but I say.
hundred feet into the rock, tapered to a point, from wWch a passage
led to a smaU chamber ue.ar the top, iu which, says the legend,
Dionysius sat to overhear the conversation of his prisoners. Visitors
drawn up into the chamber by means of a rope and chair can hear the
teariug of a dry piece of paper in the cave below, and conversations
below can be heard, if not in whisper.
' A friend is another self. Edwards quotes Cicero. " De Amicitia,"
where the phrase is " alter idem." Unless, says CScero. we take this
thought mto friendship, a true friend will never be found : " est enim
IS qmdem tanquam alter idem."
Omnis solum fortis patria .• - a wise man may live every where ;
Therefore, my dear friend Pythias,
Let us view this town in every place.
And then consider the people's manners also.
But first Pythias suggest.s that they diiie : a good
notion fof Stephano. They depai-t in search of a
diiinef, lea^'i^g the stage foi' Carisophus, who enters
seeking prey, and hoping to tind it in the sti'angers.
When Damon and Stepiiano return, he retires to
watch them. They return from short commons.
Stephano's comment on their ill-fare causes Damon
to remark as he dismisses him, — and bids him
return to wait on Pythias, who for a purpose stays
at liume, —
Damon. Not in vain, the poet sayeth: Naturam fared
exptllas, tamen usque reeurrit.^
For train up a bondman never to so good behavioiu-.
Yet in some point of servility he will favour :
As this Stephano, trusty to me his master, is loving and kind„
Yet touching his belly, a very bondman I him find :
He is to bo borne withal, being so just and true,
I assure you, I would not change him for a new :
But methinks, tliis is a pleasant city, i
The seat is good, and yet not strong, and is great pity.
Caris. I am safe, he is mine own.
Damon. The air is subtle and fine, the people should be
witty.
That dwell under this climate in so pure a region,
A trimmer plot '' I have not seen in my peregrination :
Nothing misliketh me in this country,
But that I hoar such muttering of cruelty :
Fame reportcth strange things of Dionysius,
But king's matters passing oiu- reach, pertain not to us.
Caris. Dionysius (quoth j-ou i) since the world began.
In Sicilia never reigned so cruel a man :
A despiteful tyrant to all men, I marvel I,
That none makes him away, and that suddenly.
Damon. Jly friend, the gods forbid so cruel a thing.
That any man should lift up his sword against the king :
Or seek other means by death him to prevent,
A\'hom to rule on earth the mighty gods have sent :
But, my friend, leave off this talk of King Dionysius.
Caris. Why, sir ? he cannot hear us.
Damon. What then ?
It is not safe talking of them that strike afar off :
But leaving king's matters, I pray you show me this courtesy,
To describe in few words the state of this city.
A traveller I am, desirous to know
The state of each country, wherever I go :
Not to the hui-t of any state, but to get experience thereby :
It is not for nought, that the poet doth cry,
2 From Ovid's "Fasti." Probably the printer, and not Edwards
himself, is answerable for *' omnis solum."
*' Omne solum forti patria est ; ut piscibns sequor ;
Ut volucri, vacuo quicquid in orbe patet."
(To the brave every soil is fatherland ; as sea to fish ; as to the bird
the wide void over earth. )
3 Horace, Ep. 1. It should be '* Naturam exi')elles furca, tamen
usque recurret." (You may thrust out Nature with a pitchfork, but
she will always hasten back.)
* Plot, space of ground.
" In Cambridge then I foimd agen
A renting plot." (Tusser.)
n
A.D. 1504.]
PLAYS.
•79
litc mihi, Miisa, viriiin, capt<e post tempora Trojie,
Mtiltontm homiittiin mores qui vidit ft uvbes.^
In which vorses, as some writers do scan,
The poet describeth a perfect wise man :
Even so, I being a stranger, addicted to pliilosophy,
To see the state of countries myself I apply.
Caris. Sir, I like this intent ; but may I ask your name
without scorn ?
Damon, ily name is Damon, well known in my country, a
gentleman bom.
Caris. You do wisely, to search the state of each country,
To bear intelligence thereof, whither you lust : he is a spy.
Sir, I pray you, have patience awhile, for I have to do hereby :
View this weak part of this city as you stand, and I very
quickly
Will return to you again, and then wiU I show
The state of all this country, and of the court also. [Exit.
Damon. I thank you for your courtesy. This chanceth. well
that I
Met with this gentleman so happily,
■"ATiich, as it seemeth, misliketh something,
JElse he would not talk so boldly of the king,
And that to a stranger : but look where he comes in haste.
Here entereth C.tRisorHis and Snap.
This is the feUow, Snap, snap him up : away with him.
Sua]). Good fellow, thou must go with me to the court.
Damon. To the court, sir ? and why ':
Caris. Away with him, I siiy.
Damon. Use no violence, I wtII go with you quietly.
[£jet!nt omnis.
And here, perhaps, we may suppose the end of a short
second act.
Then Aristippus enters, happy in new gifts obtained
by pleasing Diouysius :
With sunilrj- sports and taunts, yesternight I delighted the
king.
That with his loud laughter the whole court did ring,
And I thought he kughed not merrier thxin I, when I got this
money.
But, mumbudget, for Carisophus I espy
In haste to come hither : I must handle the k-nave finely.
Carisophus, my dearest friend, my trusty companion !
What news with you ? where have you been so long 't
Here entereth C.ikisophvs.
My best beloved fi-iend Aristippus, I am come at List,
1 have not spent aU my time in waste.
I have got a prey, and that a good one I trow.
Arist. MTiat prey is that ': fain would I know.
Caris. Such a crafty spy I have caught, I dare say.
As never was in Sicilia before this day ;
Such a one. as Wewed ererj- weak place in the city,
Suri-eyed the haven, and each bulwark, in talk very witty :
And yet by some words himself he did betray.
Arist. I think so in good faith, as you did handle liim.
Caris. I handled him clerkly, I joined in talk with him
courteously ;
' From Horace's "Art of Poetry," a version ot the opening of
fiomer's " Odj-ssey " there cited with praise. But Edwards gives inic-
cumtely the second Une, "Qui mores bominum multornm vidit et
nrbes." Eojjer Ascliam, in his " Schoolmaster," quoted with praise
his friend Mr. Watson's English version of the Unes Latinised hy
Horace ; —
" All travellers do glidlj report great praise of Ulysses,
For that he knew many men's manners, and saw many cities."
But when we were entered, I let him speak his wiU, and I
Sucked out thus much of his words, that I made him say
plainly
He was come hither to know the state of the city.
And not only this, but that he would understand
The state of Dionysius' court, and of the whole land ;
■Which words when I heard, I desired him to stay.
Till I had done a little business of the way.
Promising him to return again quickly : and so did convey
Myself to the court for Snap the tipstaff, which came and up-
snatched him.
Brought hun to the comt, and in the porter's lodge dispatched
him.
After^ I ran to Dionysius, as fast as I could.
And betrayed this matter to him, which I have you told :
Which thing when he heard, being very merrv before,
He suddenly fell in dump and, foaming like a boar,
At last he swore in gre;it rage, that he should die
By the sword, or the wheel, and that very shortly.
I am too shamefaced for my travel and toil,
I crave nothing of Dionysius, but only his sjjoU :
Little hath he about him, but a few moth-eaten crowns ot
gold,
I've pouched them \\\> already, they are sure in hold :
And now I go into the city, to say sooth,
To see what he hath at his lodging, to make up my mouth.
Arist. My Carisophus, you luive done good service; but
what is the spy's name ?
Caris. He is called Damon, bom in Greece, from whence
lately he came.
Arist. By my troth, I will go see him, and speak with him
too if I may.
Caris. Do so, I pray you ; but yet by the way,
As occasion serveth, commend my service to the king.
Arist. Diet ton sapienti sat est:'' friend Carisophus, shall I
forget that thing ?
No, I warrant you, though I s;iy little to your face,
I will lay on with my mouth for you to Dionysius, when I
am in place.
If I speak one word for such a knave, hang me. [Erit.
Carisoplius remains to ntter his distrust of his
philosophical friend. Then he calls his boy Jack to
follow him to Damon's lodging, and support him if
any stir arise. For, says Carisophus, " Rather than
I -will lose the spoH I will blade it out."
mrc entereth Tythus and STErH.\xo.
■RTiat strange news are these ? ah, my Stephano !
Is my Damon in prison, as the voice doth go ?
St'ep/i. It is true, oh cruel hap '. he is taken for a spy,
And as they say, by Dionysius' own mouth condemned to die.
Pythias. To die ? alas '. for what cause f
S'teph. A sycophant falsely accused him : other cause there
is none ;
But, Jupiter, of all wrongs the revenger,
Seest thou this unjustice, and wilt thou stay any longer
From heaven to send down thy hot consuming fire,
To destroy the workers of wrong, which provoke thy just ire ?
: It-rd^Ih^^tise is sufficient, from the ..Persa" of Plan,...
act iv., end of scene 7 :—
"SnfiiWo. Tace.
ToHiIiis. Ubi cum lenoue me videbis coUoqui,
Turn tm-bam facito.
Satiirio. Dictum sapienti sat est."
80
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. i:m.
Alas ! master Pythias, what shall we do ?
Being in a strange country, void of friends, and acquaintance
too.
Ah, poor Stcphano, hiist thou lived to see this day ?
To see thy true master unjustly made away ?
Fythiaa. Stephaao, seeing the matter is come to this ex-
tremity,
Let US make virtue our friend, of mere necessity :
Run thou to the court, and understand secretly
As much as thou canst of Damon's cause, and I
Will make some means to entreat Aristippus :
He can do much (as I hear) with King Dionysius.
Steph. I am gone, sir — ah, would to God my travel and
pain
Might restore my master to his liberty again !
Pythias. Ah, woful Pythias I sith now I am alone,
What way shall I first begin to make my moan ;■'
What words shall I find apt for my complaint ?
Damon, my friend, my joy, my life, is in peril, of force' I
mu.st now faint.
But no music, as in joyful tunes thy merry notes I did
bori'ow
So now lend mo thy yemful- tunes, to utter my sorrow.
Hen Tythiaa sinySj a)i'l the reyals 2>hnj.
Awake, ye woful wights,
That long have wept in woe :
Resign to me your plaints and tears,
Sly hapless hap to show.
My woo no tongue can tell,
No pen can well descry :
Oh, what a death is tliis to hear !
Damon my friend must die.
The loss of worldly wealth
Man's wisdom may restore,
And physic hath provided too
A salvo for every sore :
But my true friend once lost.
No art can well supply :
Then, what a death is this, to hear
Damon my friend nmst die I
My mouth refuse the food.
That should my limbs sustain :
Let sorrow sink into my breast.
And ransack every vein :
You furies all at once
On me your torments try :
Why .should I live, seeing I hear
Damon my friend must die ?
Gripe mo, you greedy griefs.
And prijsent pangs of death.
You sisters three, with cruel hands,
With speed come stop my breath :
Shrine me in clay alive,
Some good man stop mine eye :
O death, come now, seeing I hear
Damon my friend must die.
^ Of force, of necessity.
= Yemful, full of grief. Pirst-Euorlisli •
ea^ev, anxious i also " geomest, ' earnest.
geornf.iU," full of desire,
Me spealicth this after the song.
In vain I call for death, which lieareth not my complaint ;
But what wisdom is this, in such extremity to faint 'i
Miilttim jiiviit in re mala animus bontis.^
I will to tlu; court myself, to make friends, and that presently,
I will never forsake my friend in time of misciy —
But do I see Stephano amazed hither to run 't
Here entereth Stephano.
O Pj-thias, Pythias, we are all imdone !
Mine own ears have sucked in mine own sorrow ;
I heard Diony.sius swear, that Damon should die to-morrow.
Pythias. How camest thou so near the presence of the king,
That thou mightcst hear Dionysius speak this thing ?
Steph. By friendship I got into the court, where, in great
audience,
I heard Dionysius witli his (jwn mouth give this cruel sentence,
By these express words : that Damon the Greek, that crafty
spy.
Without further judgment, to-morrow should die :
Believe me, Pythias, with these ears I heard it myself.
Pythias. Then how near is my death also 'f ah, woe is me!
All, my Damon, another myself : shall I forego thee ?
Stepli. Sir, there is no time of lamenting now, it behoveth us
To make means to thorn which can do much with Dionysius,
That he be not made away ere his cause be fully heard ; for
we see
By evil report things be made to princes far worse than
they be.
But lo, yonder cometh Aristippus, in great favour with King
Dionysius,
Entreat him to speak a good word to the king for us :
And in the mean season, I will to your lodging, to see all
things safe there.
Pythias. To that I agree ; but let us slip aside his talk to
hoar.
Here entereth ARisTiprrs.
Here is a sudden change, indeed, a strange metamorphosis,
This court is clean altered, who would have thought this 'i
Dionysius, of late so pleasant and meiTv,
Is quite changed now into such melancholy.
That nothing can please him : he walked up and down,
Fretting and chafing, on every man he doth frown :
Insomtich, that when I in pleasant words began to play.
So sternly he frowned on me, and knit me up so short,
I perceive it is not safe playing with lions but when it pleasa
them;
If you claw where it itch not, you shall disease^ tliem,
And so perhaps get a clap : mine own proof taught me this.
That it is very good to be merr}' and wise :
The only cause of this hurly-burly is Carisophus, that wicked
man,
Which lately took Damon for a spy, a poor gentleman ;
And hath incensed the king against him so despitefully,
Th;it Dionysius hath judged him to-morrow to die.
I have talked with Damon, whom though in words I found
very witty.
Yet was he more curious than wise, in viewing this city :
3 When tilings go Ijadly a good heart helps much. The line (inic-
c\u*ately quoted) is from the '' Cautivi " of Plautu^ act ii., sc. 1 : —
" PhiJocrati's. Oh, oh, oh!
lALVani. Ejulatioue haud opus est : oculis multam miseriam additis.
lu re mala aninio si bono utare, adjuvat."
There is a Uke thought in another of the plays of Plautus, " Pseu-
dolus," act i., sc. 5 : A good heart, when things go badly, halves the
ill. " Bonus animus in mala re dimidium est mali."
* Di&ease, make uneasy.
A.D. loGi..
PLAYS.
81
But truly, for ought I can learn, there is no eause why
So suddenly and orueUy he should be condemned to die :
Howsoever it be, this is the short and long-,
I dare not gainsay the king, be it right or wi-ong :
I am sorry, and that is all I may or can do in this case.
Nought availeth persuasion, where froward opinion taketh
place.
Pythias. .Sir, if humble suits j-ou would not despise,
Then bow unto me your pitiful eyes :
My name is Pythias, in Greece well known,
A perfect friend to that woful Damon,
Which now a poor captive in this court doth lie.
By the king's own mouth, as I hear, condemned to die :
For whom 1 crave your mastership's goodness.
To stand his friend in this great distress :
bought hath he done worthy of death, but very fondly,'
He being a stranger, he viewed this city,
For no evil practices, but to feed his eyes.
But seeing Dionysius is informed otherwise,
My suit is to you, when you see time and place,
To assuage the king's anger, and to purchase his grace ;
In which doing, you shall not do good to one only.
But you shall further two, and that fully.
Arist. My friend, in this case I can do you no pleasure.
Fythitts. Sir, you serve in the court, as fame doth tell.
Arist. I am of the court, but none of the counsel.
Fi/thias. As I hear, none is in greater favour with the king,
than you at this day.
Arist. The more in favour the less I dare say.
Pythias. It is a courtier's praise to help strangers in misery.
Arist. To help another and hurt myself, it is an e\-il point
of courtesy.
Pythias. You shall not hurt yourself to speak for the inno-
cent.
Arist. He is not innocent whom the king thinketh nocent.
Pythias. AVTry, sir, do you think this matter past all
remedy 'f
Arist. So far past, that Dionysius hath sworn, Damon
to-morrow shall die.
Pythias This word, my trsmbling heart cutteth in two :
Ah, sir, in this woful case what wist I best to do ?
Arist. Best to content yourself, when there is no remedy,
He is well relieved that foreknoweth his misery :
Yet if any comfort be, it resteth in Eubulus,
The chiefest counsellor about King Dionysius :
Which pitieth Damon's case in this great extremity.
Persuading the king from all kinds of cruelty.
Pythias. The mighty gods preserve you, for this word of
comfort :
Taking my leave of your goodness, I will now resort
To Eubulus, that good counsellor.
But hark, methink I hear a trumpet blow.
Arist. The king is at hand, stand close in the pi-ess ;
beware, if he know
You are friend to Damon, he will take you for a sj)y also :
Farewell, I dare not be seen with you.
Sere entcreth King Dionysius, Eubulus the Counsellor,
and Gronno the Hanyman.
Lion. Gronno, do my commandments, strike off Damon's
irons by and by,"
Then bring him forth, I myself wlU see him executed pre-
sently.
Gronno. O mighty king, your commandment will I do
speedily.
* Fo»(f/i/, foolislily.
131
2 By and 6j;, immediately.
Dion. Eubulus, thou hast talked in vain, for sure he shaU
die.
ShaU I suffer my life to stand in peril of every spy ?
Eiib. That he conspired against your person, his accuser
cannot say.
He only viewed your city, and wiU you for that m;ike him
away '/
Dion. AVhat he would have done, the guess is great lu-
minded me to hurt.
That came so slyly, to search out the secret state of my court :
ShaU I stm Uve m fear? no, no: I will cut off such hups
betime.
Lest that to my further danger too high they climb.
Enb. Yet have the mighty gods immortal fame assigned
To aU worldly princes, which in mercy be incUned.
Dion. Let Fame talk what she Ust, so I may live in safety.
Eub. The only mean to that, is, to use mercy.
Dion. A mild prince the people despiseth.
Eub. A cruel king the people hateth.
Dion. Let them hate me, so they fear me.
Eub. That is not the way to live in safety.
Dion. My sword and power shaU purchase my quietness.
Eub. That is sooner procured by mercy and gentleness.
Dion. Dionysius ought to be feared.
Eub. Better for him to be well beloved.
Dion. Fortune maketh aU things subject to my power.
Eub. Beheve her not, she is a Ught goddess, she can laugh
and Im-e.
Dion. A king's praise standeth in the revenging of his
enemy.
Eub. A greater praise to win him by clemency.
Dion. To suffer the wicked to live, it is no mercy.
Eub. To kill the innocent it is great cruelty.
Dion. Is Damon innocent, which so craftly undennined
C'arisophus,
To understand what he could of King Dionysius ?
Which surveyed the haven, and each bulwark in the city,
Where battery might be laid, what way best to approach f
shaUI
Suffer such a one to live that worketh me such despite ?
No, he shall die ; then I am safe, a dead dog cannot bite.
Eub. But )'ct, mighty king, my duty bindeth me
To give such counsel, as with your honour may best agree :
The strongest piUars of princely dignity
I find is justice with mercy and prudent liberality :
The one judgeth aU things by upright equity ;
The other rewardeth the worthy, flying each extremity.
As to spare those which offend maliciously
It may be called no justice, but extreme injiu-y :
So upon suspicion of each thing not weU proved
To put to death presently whom envious flattery accused.
It seemeth of tjTanny ; and upon what fickle ground aU
tjTants do stand,
Athens and Lacedemon can teach you, if it be rightly scaim'd.
And not only these citizens, but who curiously seeks
The whole histories of aU the world, not only of Romans and
Greeks,
ShaU well perceive of aU tjTauts the ruinous fall.
Their state uncertain, beloved of none, but hated of aU.
Of merciful princes, to set out their passing felicity
I need not, enough of that even these days do testify ;'
They Uve devoid of fear, their sleeps are sound, they dread
no enemy,
They .are feared and loved : and why r they rule with justice
and mercy,
3 Reverence here \>3 the actor towards Queen Elizabeth, who sits Jl
front.
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[a.d. 15&1.
Extending justice to such as wickedly frum justice have
swerved,
Jlei-cy unto those where opinion is that they have mercy
deserved.
Of liheraUty nought I say, hut only this thing,
Liberality upholdeth the state of a king ;
\\'Tiose large liountif ulness ought to fall to this issue,
To reward none but such as deserve it for virtue.
AVhich merciful justice if you would follow, and provident
liberality.
Neither the caterpillars of all courts, £t fruges consuimre iiati,^
Parasites with wealth puft up, should not look so high ;
Xor yet, for this simple fact, poor Damon should die.
Ilioii. With pain mine ears have heard this vain talk of
mercy ;
I tell thee, fear and terror defendeth kings only ;
Till he be gone whom I suspect, how shall I live quietly 'f
Whose memory with chilling horror fills my breast day and
night violently,
My dreadful dreams of him bereaves my rest ; on bed I lie
.Shaking and trembling, as one ready to yield his tlu'oat to
Damon's sword:
This ijuaking dread, nothing but Damon's blood can stay.
Better he die than I to be tormented with fear ahvay :
He shall die, though Eubulus consent not thereto.
It is lawful for kings as they list all things to do.
Sere entereth Gromjjo, hrbigbig in Damon, and Pythias
meeteth him hij the way.
Pythias. Oh, my Damon !
Damon. Oh, my Pythias, seeing death must part us, fare-
well for ever.
Pythias. O Damon, my sweet friend !
Hiiap. Away from the prisoner ! what a press have we here ?
Gronno. As you commanded, mighty king, we have
brought Damon.
Dion. Then go to, make ready ; I wUl not stir out of this
place
TOl I see his head stricken off before my face.
Gronno. It shall be done, sir. Because your eyes- have
made such ado,
I will knock down this youi- lantern, and shut up your shop-
window too.
Damon. mighty king, whereas no truth my innocent life
can save.
But that so greedily you thirst my guiltless blood to have,
Albeit (even in thought) I had not ought against your person :
Yet now I plead not for life, nor will I crave your pardon ;
But seeing in Greece, my country, where well I am known,
I have worldly things fit for mj- alliance,^ when I am gone.
To dispose them or^ I die, if I might obtain leisure,
I would account it, king, for a passing great jjleasure ;
Not to prolong my life thereby, for which I reckon not this.
But to set my things in a stay : and surely I will not miss,
Upon the faith which all gentlemen ought to embrace,
To return again at your time to appoint, to yield my body
here iu this place.
Grant me, king, such time to dispatch this injury,
And I will not fail when you appoint, even here my life to
j-ield speedily.
Dion. A pleasant request ! as though I could trust him
absent.
Whom in no wise I cannot trust being present ;
■1 Born to consume the fmits. rrom Horace's first Epistle.
- This is spoken to Damon, who was condemned for use of bis eyes.
^ Fit /or mi/ alliance, fit to be bequeathed to my kindred.
* Or, ere.
And yet though I swear the contrary, do that I require.
Give me a pledge for thy return, and have thy own desire.—
He is as near now as he was before.
Damon. There is no surer nor greater pledge than the faith
of a gentleman.
Dion. It was wont to be, but otherwise now the world doth
stand ;
Therefore do as I say, else presently yield thy neck to the
sword.
If I might with my honour, I would recall my word.
Pythias. Stand to your word, king, for kings ought
nothing say.
But that they would perfoim in perfect deeds alway.
A pledge you did require when Damon his suit did move.
For which with heart and stretched hands niost humble
thanks I give :
And that you may not say but Damon hath a friend
That loves him better than his own life, and will do to his end.
Take me, mighty king, my life to pawn for his.
Strike off my head if Damon hap at his day for to miss.
Dion. What art thou that chargest me with my word so
boldly here i
Pythias. I am Pythias, a Greek bom, which hold Damon
my friend full dear.
Dion. Too dear perhaps to hazard thy life for him : what
fondness* moveth thee 'i
Pythias. No fondness, but perfect amity.
Dian. A mad kind of amity ! advise thyself, if Damon fail
at his day.
Which shall be justly appointed, wilt thou die for him, to me
his life to jiay 'i
Pythias. Most wiUingly, mighty king. If Damon fail,
let Pythias die.
Dion. Thou seomest to trust his words, that p.iwnest thy
life so frankly.
Pythias. What Damon sayeth, Pj'thias believeth assuredly.
Dton. Take heed, for life worldly men break promise in
many things.
Pythias. Though worldly men do so, it never haps amongst
friends.
Dion. What caUest thou friends, are they not men r is not
this true ?
Pythias. Men they be, but such men as love one another
for virtue.
Dion. For what virtue dost thou love this spy, this Damon ?
Pythias. For that virtue which yet to j'ou is unknow-n.
Dion. Eubulus, what shall I do? I would dispatch this
Damon fain.
But this foolish fellow so chargeth me, that I may not cull
back my word again.
Eub. The reverent majesty of a king stands chiefly in
keeping his promise.
■What you have said this whole court beareth witness.
Save your hono6r whatsoever you do.
Dion. For saving mine honour, I must forbear my will.
Go to,
Pythias, seeing thou tookest me at my word, take Damon to
thee.
For two months he is thine, unbind him, I set him free ;
^^^lich time once expired, if he appear not the next day by
noon,
Without fui-ther delay thou shalt lose thy life, and that full
soon.
Whether he die by the way, or lie sick in his bed.
If he return not then, thou shalt either hang or lose thy head.
* Fondness, foolishness.
A.D. 1564.]
PLAYS.
83
Pythias. For this, O mighty king, I jHeld immortal thanks.
joyful day 1
Dion. Gronno, take him to thoe, bind him, sec him kept in
safetj-.
If he escape, assure thyself for him thou shalt die.
Eubulus, let us depart, to talk of this strange thing within.
Enb. I follow.
Gronno. Damon, thou servest the gods well to-day, be thou
of comfort.
As for you, sir, I think you wiU be hanged in sport.
You heard what the king said ': I must keep you safely :
By cock, so I will ; you shall rather hang than I .
Come on your way.
Pi/tlnas. My Damon, farewell; the gods have you in his
keeping.
Damon. Oh, my Pythias, my pledge, farewell; I part from
thee weeping,
But joyful at my d:iy appointed I wiU return again,
^Vhen I will deliver thee from all trouble and pain.
Stephauo will I leave behind me to wait upon thee in prison
alone. [home.
And I, whom fortune hath reserved to this misery, will walk
Ah, my Pythias, my pledge, my life, my friend, farewell. |
Pilthias. Farewell, my Damon.
Damon. Loth I am to depart, sith sobs my trembling
tongue doth stay ; i
music, sound my doleful plaints when I am gone my way.
\_Ej'it Damon.
Gronno. I am gkd he is gone, I had almost wept too. Come,
Pythias,
So God help me, I am sorrv- for thy foolish case :
Wilt thou venture thy life for a man so fondly ':'
Pythias. It is no venture; my friend is just, for whom I
desire to die.
Gronno. Here is a mad man ! I teU thee, I have a wife
whom I love well.
And if I would die for her, I woidd I were in hell.
Wilt thou do more for a man than I would do for a woman \
Pythias. Yea, that I will.
Gronno. Then come on your ways, j'ou must to prison in
haste ;
1 fear you will repent this foUy at last.
Pythias. That shalt thou never see ; but music, as my
Damon requested thee,
Sound out thy doleful tunes in this time of calamity.
The music may be said, perhaps, to mark the place
of transition from the third act to the fourth.
Here the reya/s ' p!ay a mourning song, and Damon Cometh in
in mariner's apparel, and Stephnno trith him.
Weep no more, Stephano, this is but destiny ;
Had not this hap, yet I know I am bom to die,
Where, or in what place, the gods know alone,
To whose judgment myself I commit ; therefore leave oflt thy
moan.
And wait upon Pjihias in prison till I return again.
In whom my joy, my care and life doth only remain.
Steph. Oh, ray dear master, let me go with you: for my
poor company
Shall be some small comfort in this time of misery.
Damon. Stephano, hast thou been so long with me,
And yet dost not know the force of true amity ?
I tell thee once again, my friend and I are but one :
Wait upon Pythias, and think thou art with Damon.
Whereof I may not now discourse, the time passeth away ;
The sooner I am gone, the shorter shall l)o my journey :
Therefore farewell, Stephano, commend me to my friend
P}-thias,
Whom I trust to deliver in time out of this woful case.
'"ifeph. Farewell, my dear master, since your pleasure is so,
cruel hap ! poor Stephano '.
cursed Carisophus, that fir.st moved this tragedy ! —
But what a noise is this r is all well within, trow ye i
1 fear all be not well within ; I will go see. —
Come out, you weasel ; are you seeking eggs in Damon's chest ?
Then follows a scene, in which Carisophus, unsup-
ported by his boy Jack, is ignominiously thrashed
by Stephano for plundering in Damon's lodgings.
Caris. Oh, sir, I am a courtier ; when courtiers shall hear
teU,
How you have used me, they will not take it well.
Steph. Nay, all right courtiers will ken me thank ; - and
wot you why 'i
Because I handled a counterfeit comiior in his kind so finely.
What, sir ': all are not courtiers that have a counterfeit show ':
In a troop of honest men, some knaves may stand, ye know.
Such as thy stealth creep in under the colour of honesty.
Which sort under that cloak do all kind of vUlainy :
A right courtier is virtuous, gentle, and full of urbanity,
Hurting no man, good to all. devoid of villainy :
But such as thou art, fountains of sqnirility,^ and vain delights ;
Though you hang by the courts, you are but flattering para-
sites,
As well deser^^ng the right name of courtesy,
As the coward knight the true praise of chivalry :
I could say more, but I will not, for that I am your well-
wilier.
In faith, Carisophus, you are no courtier, but a caterpillar,
A sycophant, a parasite, a flatterer, and a knave ;
■Whether I will or no, these names you must have :
How well you deserve this, by your deeds it is known.
For that so unjustly thou hast accused poor Damon,
Whose woful case the gods help alone.
Caris. Sir, are you his servant, that you pity his case so?^
Steph. No, bum troth," good man Cirumbe, his name is
Stephano :
I am called Onaphets, if needs you will know.
The knave beginneth to sift me, but I tmn my name in and
out,
Cretiso cum Cretense? to make him a lout. {Aside.
When left by Stephano, Carisophus takes revenge
by thnvshing his boy Jack ; and departs to get a
dressing for his bniises.
Here entereth Akistippus.
By mine own experience I prove true that many men tell.
To live in court not beloved, better bo in hell :
What crying out, what cursing is there «-ithin of Carisophus,
Because he accused Damon to King Dionysius 'r
Even now he came whining and cr>-ing into the court for
the nonce,
Showing that one Onaphets had broke his knave's sconce.
1 H«3als. Italian " resale," a small Bortable organ.
= A-m me t1w.nl!. owe me thanks. The old phraae. " Con me thank."
3 SnxiiriUly, scurrility.
♦ Bum (roifi. A contraction of ^!l my (i-olh.
5 I Cretise with a Cretan. An ancient proverb to '■^'■«''.°'«f."«
a liar with hes. Compare St. Paul's quotation from Epimeuide.
(Titns i. 12).
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Whicli strange name when they heard, every man laughed
heartily,
And I by myself scanned his name secretly ;
For well I knew it was some mad-headed child
That invented this name, that the log-headed knave might
be beguiled :
In tossing it often with myself to and fro,
1 found out that Unaphets backward, spell'd Stephano.
I smiled in my sleeve, how to see by turning his name he
dressed him.
And how for Damon his master's sake, with a wooden cudgel
he blessed liiin.
None pitied the knave, no man nor woman, but aU laugh'd
him to scorn.
To be thus hated of all, bettor unborn.
Far better Aristippus had provided, I trow ;
For in all the court I am beloved both of high and low.
I offend none, insomuch that women sing this to my great
praise,
Omnis Aristippum decitit color, ct locus et res}
But in all this jollity one thing amazeth me,
The strangest thing th.at ever was heard or known,
Is now happened in this court, by that Damon
Whom Carisophus accused ; Damon is now at liberty.
For whose return Pj'thias his friend lieth in iirison, alas ! in
great jeopardy.
To-morrow is the day, which day by noon if Damon return
not earnestly
The king hath sworn that Pj'thias should die.
Whereof Pythias hath intelligence very secretly.
Wishing that Damon may not return till he have paid
His life for his friend. Hath it been heretofore ever said,
That any man for his friend would die so willingly ?
noble friendship ! O perfect amity !
Thy force is here seen, and that very perfectly.
The king himself museth hereat, yet is he far out of square.
That he trusteth none to come near him.
Not his own daughters will he have
TJnsearched to enter his chamber, which he hath made barbers
his beard to shave.
Not with knife or razor, for aU edge-tools he fears.
But with hot burning nutshells they singe off his hairs.
Was there ever man that lived in such misery P
Well, I will go in with a heavy and pensive heart too.
To think how Pythias, this poor gentleman, to-morrow shall
die. \_Bxit.
Now follow.s an epi.sode of the shaving of Grim
the Collier, slightly connected with the plot by a few
allusions, but essentially a distinct interlude. It
allovfs inartistically for an imagined interval before
the crowning incident of the play, and occupies, with
iiTelevant matter, the greater part of what should
represent the fourth act, in which interest and
expectation ought to be raLsed to the utmost. It is
early morning before the palace gate. Jack and
Will enter ; quaiTel about their mastei'S ; fight
together before the jialace gate ; are quieted by
angi-y words from Snap, the tipstaff, who passes by ;
become friends ; and then unite in jesting talk vnth
Glim the Collier, who has been long waiting for
somebody to open the gate, and take in the coals he
has brought "for the king's mouth."- Grim boasts
* See Note 4, p. 74.
" The bonche (mouth) or bouge of court was the old name for court
provisioning and right of eating at the royal table. See in " Shorter
of his savings ; lectures the two mischievous pagei
on then- bombast hose ; is plied with %vine by them :
and asks —
Is that true that abroad is blown ?
Jack. WTiat is that ?
Grim. Hath the king made those fair damsels his daughters
To become now fine and trim barbers 'i
Jack. Yea, tridy, to his own person.
Grim. Good fellows, believe me, as the case now stands,
I would give one sack of coals to be washed at their hands :
If I came so near them, for my wit I'd not give three chips,
If I would not steal one swap at their lips.
Jack. Will, this knave is drunk ; let us dress him.
Let us rifle him so, that he have not one penny to bless him,
And steal away his debentures too.
Will, Content ; invent the way, and I am ready. ,
Jack. Faith, and I wUl make him a noddy. ]
Father Grim, if you pay me well, I wiU wash you and shave
you too.
Even after the same fashion as the king's daughters do : i
In all points as they handle Dionysius, I will di-ess you trim i
and fine.
Grim. Chould^ fain learn that: come on then, I'll give
thee a whole pint of wine
At tavern for thy labour, when I've money for my bentm-es
here.
Jlcre IJ'ill fetchcth a barber s bason, a pot with water, a
razor, and clothes, and a pair of spectacles.
Jack. Come, mine own father Grim, sit down.
Then follows a burlesque scene of the shaving, during
which Glim is robbed of his money, and a buiiesque
three-jiart song is sung to a buiden of " too nidden,
and todle todle doo nidden," with Grim's rejoiemg
that "me think ich am lighter th;in ever icli was."
They all depart happy, but Grim soon returns with
outcry on his loss, and finding Snap, the tipstafl", is
taken by him into the palace to identify the rogues.
Then what may be called the fifth act opens, with a
scene of the false friendship before the demonstration
of the tme. Carisophus, having opposed himself to
Eubulus, has fallen into disgrace at court, and looks
in vain for aid to his " friend " Aiistipi)us.
Carts. A friend ought to shun no pain, to stand his fiiond
instead.
Arist. Where true friendship is, it is so indeed.
Caris. Why, sir, hath not the chain of true friendship
linked us two together ?
Arist. The ehiefest link lacked thereof, it must needs
dissever.
Caris. What link is that ? fain would I know.
Arist. Honesty.
Caris. Doth honesty knit the perfect knot in true friend-
ship?
Arist. Yea, truly, and that knot so knit will never slip.
Caris. Belike then, there is no friendship but between
honest men.
Arist. Between the honest only ; for, amicitia inter bonos^
saith a learned man.
English Poems " the reference to Skelton's " Bouge of Court," pa£;t
129.
3 ChfiuW, I would. See Note 5, page 71.
* Friendship is between the good. (Cicero.)
1S«.]
PLAYS.
86
(arts. Yet evil men use friendship in things unhonest,
where fancy doth serve.
Arist. That is no friendship, but a lewd liking, it lasts but
awhile.
' aris. What is the perfectest friendship among men that
ever grew ?
./)-i5(. WTiere men love one another, not for profit, but for
virtue.
' iiris. Are such friends both alike in joy and also in smart ?
.Lrist. They must needs, for in two bodies they have but
one heart.
('aris. Friend Aristippus, deceive me not with sophistiy,
! , there no perfect friendship, but where is vh'tue and
honesty ?
. lrist. MTiat a devil then meant Carisophus
i ii join in friendship with fine Ai'istippus i"
1 1 1 whom is as much virtue, truth and honesty,
\s there are true feathers in the three cranes of the vintry : '
\ it their feathers have the shadow of lively feathers, the
truth to scan,
I it Carisophus hath not the shadow of an honest man.
I I lie plain, because I know thy villainy,
111 abusing Dionysius to many men's injuiy,
Inder the cloak of fi-iendship I played with his head,
.\iid sought means how thou with thine own fancy might be
led :
My friendship thou soughtest for thine own commodity,
A ^ worldly men do, by profit measuring amity :
A\"hich I perceiving, to the like myself I framed,
Wlierein, I know, of the wise I shall not be blamed :
: you ask me, Qitare .'- I answer. Quia prudent is est multum
dissimulare.
I ■ > speak more plainer, as the proverb doth go,
II faith Carisophus, cum Crctense cretiso :
I < t a perfect friend I show mj'seU to thee in one thing,
I ilo not dissemble, now I say I will not speak for thee to the
king :
I herefore sink in thy sorrow, I do not deceive thee,
A false knave I found thee, a false knave I leave thee. [^E.cit.
I'aris. He is gone I is this friendship to leave his friend in
the plain field ■"
Will, I see now I myself have beguiled.
In matching myself with that false fox in amity,
\\"hich hath me used to his own commodity :
Which seeing me in distress, unfeignedly goes his ways,
i.'i this is the perfect friendship among men now-a-days:
\'\'hich kind of friendship toward him I used secretly ;
\nd he with me the Uke, hath requited me craftily.
It is the gods' judgment, I see it plainly,
I'lir all the world may know, I/icidi in foveam quant ftci^^
Well, I must content myself, none other helj) I know,
I'util a merry gale of wind may hap to blow. [^Exit.
Eiib. Who deals with kings in matters of great weight.
When froward will doth bear the chiefest sway,
M ust yield of force, there need no subtle sleight,
N'o vaunted speech the matter to convey.
Nij prayer can move when kindled is the ire,
i lie more ye quench, the more increased is the fire.
' The three cranes of the Vintry were used at the Vintry whai-t iu
Thames Street for unloailinjf the wine casks from the ships that
brought them. They also supplied a name to a neighboui-ing tavern
in the Three Cranes Lane.
2 Qiim-c, wherefore ? I answer, Because it is the part of the prudent
to dissemble much.
= " I have fallen into the pit which I digged." (Proverbs xxviii. lO.J
This thing I prove in Pj-thias' woful case.
Whose heavy hap with tears I do lament ;
The day is come, when he in Damon's place
Must lose his life ; the time is fuUy spent,
Nought can my words now with the king prevail,
Against the wind and stri\-ing streams I fail :
For die thou must, alas ! thou seely Greek.
Ah, Pythias, now come is thy doleful hour :
A perfect friend, none such in a world to seek.
Though bitter death shall give thee sauce full sour,
Yet for thy faith enroU'd shall be thy name,
Among the gods, within the book of fame.
Then the Muses sing : —
Alas ! what hap hast thou, poor Pythias, now to die !
Woe worth ■* the man which fur his death hath given us cause
to cry.
Euh. Who knoweth his case, and will not melt in tears ?
His guiltless blood shall trickle down anon,
ilethink I hear, with yellow rented hairs,
The Muses frame their notes, thy state to moan :
Among which sort, as one that moum'th with heart,
In doleful tunes myself will bear a part.
Muses. Woe worth the man, &c.
Eub. With yellow rented hairs, come on you Muses nine.
Fill now my breast with heavy tunes, to me your plaints
resign :
For Pythias I bewail, which presently must die,
Woe worth the man which for his death, &c.
Muses. Woe worth the man, &c.
Eub. Was ever such a man, that would die for his friend ?
I think even from the heavens above, the gods did him down
send
To show such friendship's power, wliich forced thee now to
die.
Woe worth the man which for thy death, &c.
Muses. Woe worth the man, &c.
Eub. WTiat tiger's whelp was he, that Damon did accuse ?
What faith hast thou, which for thy friend thy death dost not
refuse 't
O heavy hap hadst thou to play this tragedy:
Woe worth the man, Src.
Muses. Woe worth the man, ire.
Eub. Thou young and worthy Greek, that showest such
perfect love.
The gods receive thy simple ghost into the heavens above :
Thy death we shall lament with many a weeping eye.
Woe worth the man which for his death, iSrc.
Muses. Woe worth the man which for his death hath given
us cause to cry.
Eub. Eternal be your fame, ye Muses, for that in misery
Ye did vouchsafe to strain* your notes to walk :
My heart is rent in two with this miserable case.
Yet am I charged by Dionysius' mouth, to see this place
At aU points ready for the execution of Pythias.
Need hath no law : wiU I, or nill« I, must be done.
But lo, the bloody minister is even here at hand.
Gronno, I came hither now to understand,
4 Tt-oeuorth, woe befall. First-English " weorthan. to become. __
5 S(ra,,i, constrain. So Shakespeare in " The Merchant of Vemce
•• On what compulsion must I, teU me that ? The quahty of Mercy «
not strained." , ».. „-ii„„"
« In First Enghsh " nellan " was a reeogmsed negative of wiHan,
and here " uill." as a negative of " «-ill," is ixs much an English verb
as " wiU " itself. It only lives now in the phrase " willy nillj-.
86
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[a.d. 156i,
If all thins's are woU appointed for the execution of Pythias ;
The king himself will see it done here in this place.
Gronm. Sir, all things are readj', here is the place, here is
the hand, here is the sword,
Here lacketh none hut Pythias, whose head at a word,
If he were present, I could finely strike off.
You may report that all things are ready.
Eub. I go with heavy heart to report it. Ah, wof ul Pythias !
Full near now is thy misery. \_Exit.
Groiino. I marvel very much, under what constellation
All hangmen are horn, for they are hated of all, beloved of
none:
Which hatred is showed by this point evidently,
The hangman always dwells in the \'ilest place of the city :
That such spite should be, I know no cause why,
Unless it be for their office sake, which is cruel and bloody.
Yet some men must do it, to execute laws.
Methink they hate me without any just cause.
But I must look to my toil, Pythias must lose his head at one
blow.
Else the boys will stone me to death in the street as I go.
But hark, the prisoner comoth, and the king also :
I see there is no help, Pythias his life must forego.
Here entereth Dionysius and Ecbclus.
Dion. Bring forth Pj-thias, that pleasant companion.
Which took me at my word, and became pledge for Damon.
It pricketh fast upon noon, I do him no injury,
If now he lose his head, for so he requested me.
If Damon return not, which now in Greece is full merry :
Therefore shall Pythias pay his death, and that by and by.
He thought belike, if Damon were out of the city,
I would not put him to death, for some foolish pity :
But seeing it was his request, I will not be mocked ; ho shall
die.
Bring him forth.
Hire entereth SxAP.
Snap. Give place, let the prisoner come by ; give place.
Dion. How say you, sir ? where is Damon, }-our trusty
friend ?
You have played a wise part, I make God avow :
You know what time a day it is, make you ready.
JPijthias. Most ready I am, mighty king, and most ready
also
For my true friend Damon this life to forego,
Even at your pleasure.
Dion. A true friend ! a false traitor, that so breaketh his
oath.
Thou shalt lose thy life, though thou be never so loath.
Pythias. I am not loath to do whatsoever I said,
Nor at this present pinch of death am I dismayed :
The gods now I know have heard my fervent prayer.
That they have reserved me to this passing great honour,
To die for my friend, whose faith even now I do not mistrust.
My friend Damon is no false traitor, he is true and just :
But sith he is no god, but a man, he must do as he may ;
The wind may be contrary, sickness may let ' him, or some
misadventure by the way.
Which the eternal gods turn all to my glory.
That fame may resound how Pythias for Damon did die :
He breaketh no oath which doth as much as he can.
His mind is here, he hath some let, he is but a man.
That he might not return, of all the gods I did require,
Which now to my joy do grant my desire.
But why do I stay any longer, seeing that one man's death
May suffice, king, to pacify thy wrath ?
* Let, hinder.
thou minister of justice, do tliine office by and by,-
Let not thy hand tremble, for I tremble not to die.
Stephano, the right pattern of fidelity.
Commend me to thy master, my sweet Damon, and of him
crave liberty
'When I am dead, in ray name ; for thy trusty service
Hath well deserved a gift far better than this.
my Damon, farewell now for ever, a true friend, to mc
most dear ;
^\'^lile life doth last, my mouth shall still talk of thee ;
And when I am dead, my simple ghost, true witness of amity.
Shall hover about the place wheresoever thou be.
Dion. Eubulus, this gear is strange, and yet because
Damon hath falsed his faith, Pythias shall have the law.
Gronno, despoil him, and eke dispatch him quickly.
Gronno. It shall be done : since you came into this place
1 might have strucken off seven heads in the space.
By'r lady, here are good garments, these are mine by the rood,.
It is an evil wind that bloweth no man good.
Now, Pythias, kneel down, ask me blessing like a pretty boy.
And with a trice, thy head from thy shoulders I will convey.
Here entereth D.iMox riinnin//, and st<'i/s the sword.
Stay, stay, stay I for the king's advantage stay !
mighty king, mine appointed time is not yet fully past ;
Within the compass of mine hour, lo ! here I come at last ;
A life I owe, and a life I will pay :
Ah ! my Pythias, my noble pledge, my constant friend 1
Ah, woe is me ! for Damon's sake, how near were thou to thy
end:
Give place to me, this room is mine, on this stage must I
Damon is the man, none ought but he to Dionysius his blood
to pay.
Gronno. Arc you come, su' ? you might have tarried if you
had been wise.
For your hasty coming you are like to know the price.
PijthittK. thou cruel minister, why didst not thou thine
office ':
Did not I bid thee make haste in anywise ?
Hast thou spared to kill me once, that I may die twice ?
Not to die for my friend, is present death to me ; and alas !
Shall I see my sweet Damon slain before my face ?
What double death is this ': but, mighty Dionysius,
Do true justice now, weigh this aright, thou noble Eubulus.
Let me have no wrong as now stands the case,
Damon ought not to die, but Pythias :
By misadventure, not by his will, his hour is past : there-
fore I,
Because he came not at his just time, ought justly di(^ :
So was my promise, so was thy promise, king.
All this court can bear witness of this thing.
Damon. Not so, O mighty king, to justice it is contrary.
That for another man's fault the innocent should die :
Not yet is my time plainly expired, it is not fully noon
Of this m.y day appointed, by all the clocks in the town.
Pijthias. Believe no clock, the hour is past by the sun.
Damon. Ah, my Pj-thias, shall we now break the bonds of
amity ?
Will yon now overthwart me, which heretofore so well did
agree ?
Pythias. My Damon, the gods forbid but we should agree;
Therefore agree to this, let me perform the promise I made
for thee.
Let me die for thee ; do me not that injury,
^ By and. by, immediately.
A.D. 15o4.J
PLAYS.
87
Both to break my promise and to suifer me to see thee die,
\Miom so dearly I love : this small request gi'ant me,
I shall never ask thee more, my desire is but friendly :
Do me this honour, that fame may report triumphantly.
That Prthias for his friend Damon was contented to die.
Damon. That you were contented for me to die, fame
cannot deny ;
Yet fame shall never touch me with such a vUlainy,
To report that Damon did suffer his friend Pythias, for him,
guiltless, to die ;
Therefore content thyself, the gods requite thy constant faith,
Xone hut Damon's blood can appease Dionysius' wrath.
And now, mighty king, to you my talk 1 convey,
Because you gave me leave my worldly things to stay,
To requite that good turn ere I die, for your behalf this I say.
Although your regal state Dame Fortune decketh so.
That like a king in worldly wealth abundantly ye show.
Yet fickle is the ground whereon aU tyrants tread,
A thousand sundry cares and fears do haunt their restless
head;
Xo trusty band, no faithful friends, do guard thy hateful
state.
And why P whom men obey for deadly fear, sure them they
deadly hate.
That you may safely reign, by love get friends, whose con-
stant faith
Will never fail, this counsel gives poor Damon at his death :
Friends are the surest guard for kings ; gold in time does
wear away,
And other precious things do fade, friendship will ne'er
decay.
Have friends in store therefore, so shall you safely sleep ;
Have friends at home, of foreign foes so need you take no
keep.
Abandon flattering tongues, whose clacks truth never tells :
Abase the Ul, advance the good, in whom Dame Virtue
dwells;
Let them your playfellows be : but O, you earthly kings,
Y'our sure defence and strongest guard stands chiefly in faith-
ful friends ;
Then get you friends by liberal deeds ; and here I make an
end.
Accept this counsel, mighty king, of Damon, Pythias' friend.
my Pythias 1 now farewell for ever, let me kiss thee ere I
die;
>Iy soul shall honour thee, thy constant faith above the
heavens shall fly.
Come, Gronno, do thine office now; why is thy colour so
dead?
Mv neck is so short, that thou wilt never have honesty in
striking off this head.
Dion. Eubulus, my spirits are suddenly appalled, my limbs
wax weak ;
This strange friendship amazeth me so, that I can scarce
speak.
Pi/thias. mighty king, let some pity your noble heart
move ;
You require but one man's death, take Pythias, let Damon
live.
Eub. unspeakable friendship !
Damon. Not so, he hath not offended, there is no cause why
'Sly con.stant friend Pythias for Damon's sake should die.
.\las, he is but young, he may do good to many.
Thou coward minister, why dost thou not let me die ?
Gronno. ily hand with sudden fear quivereth.
Pythias. O noble king, show mercy upon Damon, let
Pj'thias die.
Dion. Stay, Gronno, my flesh trembleth. Eubulus, wnat
shall I do ?
"Were there ever such friends on earth as were these two ?
What heart is so cruel that would di\-ide them asunder 'i
noble friendship, I must v-ield ; at thy force I wonder.
My heart this rare friendship hath jiierced to the root.
And quenched all my fury. This sight hath brought all this
about.
Which thy grave counsel, Eubulus, and leam'd persuasion
could never do.
noble gentlemen, the immortal gods above
Hath made you play this tragedy, I think, for my behove :
Before this day I never knew what perfect friendship meant.
My cruel mind to bloody deeds was full and wholly bent ;
My fearful life I thought with terror to defend.
But now I see there is no guard unto a faithful friend.
Which wUl not spare his life at time of present need.
happy kings who in your courts have two such friends
indeed 1
1 honour friendship now, which that you may plainly see,
Damon, have thou thy life, from death I pardon thee ;
For which good turn, I crave this honour do me lend,
O friendly heart, let me link with you two to make me the
third friend.
My court is yours ; dwell here with me, by my commission
large ;
Myself, my realm, my wealth, my health, I commit to your
charge :
Make me a third friend, more shall I joy in that thing,
Than to be called as I am, Dionysius, the mighty king.
Damon. mighty king, first for my life most humble
thanks I give ;
And next, I praise the immortal gods that did your heart so
move.
That you would have respect to friendship's heavenly lore.
Foreseeing well he need not fear which hath true fi-iends in
store.
For my part, most noble king, as a third friend, welcome to
our friendly society ;
But you must forget you are a king, for friendship stands in
true equality.
Dion. Unequal though I be in great possessions,
Y'et fuU equal shall you find me in my changed conditions.
Tvranny, flattery, oppression, lo, here I cast away ;
Justice, truth, love, friendship, shall be my joy :
True friendship will I honour unto my life's end,
Mv greatest glory shall be to be counted a perfect friend.
Fythias. For this your deed, most noble king, the gods
advance your name,
.\nd since to friendship's lore you list your princely heart to
frame.
With jo%-ful heart, king, most welcome now to me.
With you wiU I knit the perfect knot of amity :
Wherein I shall instruct you so, and Damon here your friend,
That you may know of amity the mighty force, and eke the
joyful end :
And how that kings do stand upon a fickle ground.
Within whose reahn at time of need no faithful friends are
found.
Dion. Y'our instruction will I foUow, to you myself I do
commit.
Eubulus, make haste to set new apparel fit
For my new friends.
Eiib. I go with jovful heart, happy day ! [Exit.
Gronno. I am glad to hear this word ; though their Uves
they do not leese.
It is not reason the hangman should lose his fees:
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[a.d. 1564..
[Exit.
the
These are mine,' I am gone with a trice.
Sere entercth Ei'kulvs with nctc garments.
Dion. Put on these gai-ments now, go in with me
jewels of my court.
Damon and Pythias. We go with joj-ful hearts.
Steph. Damon, my dear master, in all this joy remom-
her me.
Dion. My friend Damon, he asketh reason.
Damop. Stejjhano, for thy good service, be thou free.
[£j-. all but Stephana.
Steph. moat happy, pleasant, joyful, and triumphant day I
Poor Stephano now shall live in continual joy :
Vive le roi, with Damon and Pythias, in perfect amity.
Vive tit Stephano, in thy pleasant liberality :
Wherein I joy as much as he that hath a conquest won,
I am a free man, none so merry as I now under the sun.
Farewell, my lords, now the gods grant you all the sum of
perfect amity,
And me long to enjoy ray long-desired liberty. [Ej-il.
Most safely sitteth in his seat, and sleeps devoid of fear.
Purged is the court of vice, since friendship entered in,
TjTanny quaUs, he studieth now with love each heart to win ;
Virtue is had in price, and hath his just reward;
And painted speech, that glosseth for gain, from gifts is quite
debarr'd.
One loveth another now for virtue, not for gain ;
Where virtue doth not knit the knot there friendship cannot
reign,
Without the which, no house, no land, no kingdom (-an
endure,
As necessary for man's life, as water, air, and tire ;
Which fram'th the mind of man, all honest things to do ;
Unhonest things friendship ne crav'th, nor yet consents
thereto.
In wealth a double joy, in woe a present stay,
A sweet companion in each state, true friendship is alway :
A sure defence for kings, a perfect trusty band,
A force to assail, a shield to defend the enemy's cruel hand.
KoiNS OF THK Ancient Theathk at tovKAcusE.
Mere entcreth EuBixus beating Caeisophvs.
Eub. Away, villain, awaj-, you flattering parasite.
Away the plague of this court : thy filed tongue that forged
lies
No more here shall do hurt : away, false sycophant, wilt thou
not?
Cnris. I am gone, sir, seeing it is the king's pleasure.
Why whip ye me alone ? a plague take Damon and Pythias ;
since they came hither
I am driven to seek relief abroad, alas ! I know not whither.
Yet EubuUis, though I be gone, hereafter time shall try.
There shall be found even in this com-t as great flatterers as I.
Well, for a while I will forego the court, though to my great
pain;
I doubt not but to spy a time when I may creep in again.
[Exit.
Eiih. The serpent that eats men alive. Flattery, with all her
brood,
Is whipped away in princes" courts, which yet did never good.
What force, what mightj- power true friendship may possess.
To all the world, Dionysius' coiu-t now plainly doth express.
Who since to faithful friends he gave his willing ear.
' Eunning: away witli the cloat, &c., of which Pythias had beeu
despoiled before laying his head on the block for Damon,
A rare, and yet the greatest gift that Crod can give tc man :
So rare, that scarce four couple of faithful friends have been
since the world began.
A gift so strange, and of such price, I wish aU kings to have ;
But chiefly yet, as diity bindcth, I humbly crave
True friendship and true friends, fuU fraught with constant
faith,
The giver of friends, the Lord, grant her, most noble Uueen
Elizabeth.
The Last Song.
The strongest guard that kings can have,
Are constant friends their state to save :
True friends are constant both in word and deed,
True friends are present, and help at each need :
True friends talk truly, they gloss for no gain ;
^Vhen treasure consumeth, true friends will remain :
True friends for their true prince refuse not their death:
The Lord grant her such friends, mo.st noble Queen Elizabeth '
Long may she govern in honour and wealth,
Void of all .sickness, in most perfect health :
^\^lieh health to prolong, as true friends require.
Clod grant she may have her own heart's desire :
A\Tiich friends will defend with most steadfast faith,
The Lord grant her such friends, most noble Queen Elizabeth !
1566.1
PLAYS.
89
The modern drama was developed, a.s we have
seen, somewhat earlier in Italy than in the other
countries of Em-ope, and when developing it was
snpjiorted In' literary societies or academies, who
built for it many theatres, or began to do so, before
we liad any such buildings in England. Sansovino,
the seuli>tor and architect, whose work was so highly
prized that he shared with Titian the honour of
exemption from a public tax, built one of the first
Italian theatres at Canareggio ; and Sansovino died,
aged ninety-one, in 1570. Palladio, whose famous
work on architecture appeared in that year 1570,
VmUt a theatre at Carita in which was represented
the " Antigono," a tragedy by the Conte di Monte
Vicentino, printed in 1565. The Florence theatres
were built by the acadenoies of the In/ocati, the
Immobi/i, and the Sorgenti ; in Siena by the
academies of the Rozzi and the Intronati. The plan
of these Italian theatres was almost invariably ba.sed
on the ancient model. Such amphitheatres were
erected in Venice by Sansovino and Palladio, and
used by the companies of the Sempiterni, the Accesi,
and the Colza. At Ferrara, the Duke Alfonso II.
of Este, who married Lucrezia Borgia in 1501, built,
Ijefore Sansovino or Palladio, a theatre from designs
made for him by the poet Ai-iosto, who pro\'ided both
the theatre and plays. He wi-ote for this house five
comedies, beginning in 1498, when he was twenty-
four j'eai-s old : and with these the history of modern
Italian comedy may be said to begin. Ariosto even
appeared on the stage sometimes as speaker in his
I iwn person of the prologue to one of his ow-n plays.
In 156G, two plays by George Ga.scoigne, the
author of the " Steel Glasse," ' were acted in the Hall
I if Gray's Inn. One was a translation into English
prose of one of the earliest Italian comedies, produced
at Fen-ara, " I Suppositi," one of the five comedies
written by Ariosto. The other play of Gascoigne's
was a tragedy, " Jocasta," taken, not from the
•• Phoeuissie " of Euripides, but also from an Italian
original, the " Giocasta" of Ludovico Dolce, printed
by Paul son of Akhis Manutius, at Venice in 1549.
Ariosto meant by his " I Suppositi" ■ — according to
both an Italian and Latin .sense of the word — persons
put in pl;w;e of one another, the Substitutes ; and this
sense is so far from being suggested by Gascoigne's
title, " The Supposes," that he sprinkles the margin
of hLs text with a few indications of supposings of the
I'ommon kind that can be got out of the story. This
is Gascoigne's prologue, based on Ariosto's.
THE SUPPOSES.
The Prologie, or Akgi'mext.
I suppose you are assembled here, supposing to reap the
fruit of mj- travails : and, to be plain, I mean presently to
la-escnt you vrith a comedy called Sitposes ; the vei-y name
whereof may, peradventure, drive into every of your heads
■X. sundi-y suppose, to suppose the meaning of our supposes,
^^ome, percase, will suppose we mean to occupy your ears with
sophistical handling of subtle suppositions ; some other will
> See " Shorter English Poems," pp. 184 to 198.
- " Qnesta supposizion nostra sifrnifica
yuel che in volgar si dice porre in cambio.*'
(Ariosto's Prologue.)
132
suppose, we go about to decipher unto you some quaint
conceits, which hitherto have been only supposed as it were
in shadows; and some I see smihng, as though they sup-
posed we would trouble yo>i with the vain suppose of some
wanton suppose. But imderstand, this our suppose is nothing
else but a mistaking or imagination of one thing for another:
for you shaU see the master supposed for the servant, the
servant for the master, the freeman for a slave, and the bond-
slave for a freeman, the stranger for a weU-k-nown friend, and
the familiar for a stranger. But what •• I suppose thiit even
already you suppose me veiy fond that have so simply dis-
closed unto you the subtleties of these our supposes ; where,
otherwise indeed, I suppose, you should have heard almost
the last of our supposes, before you could have supposed any
of them aright. Let this then suffice.
Gascoigne's translation Ls a free and lively one, from
Ariosto's unrhymed verse into prose, and it is the
first prose comedy in our literature. The descent
from the Latin drama is still clearly marked. In the
prologue to the edition of his " Suppositi," jniblished
at Venice in 1525, Ariosto pointed out that he
framed his story from '"The Eunuch" of Terence
and " The Captives " of Plautus.
The first act opens ■nith a scene between Polvnesta,
" the yoimg woman," and Balia, her nurse, who calls
her out of the house when none are 'oy to warn her
that she will "be spied one day talking with Dulii)po."
Dulippo and Erostrato are the chief " Snp])Oses,"
one a supposed servant, and the other a sup])osed
master ; Dulippo, the feigned servant, being lover,
and Erostrato, the feigned nuister, suitor to Polvnesta.
Balia, who had been paid for recommending Duli])])o
and giving him opportunities of meeting Polynesta,
wishes she had not chosen for her darling a {xjor
servant of her father. Pol}aie.sta re{>lies to the nui-se
in riddle, " I would thou knewest I lo\"e not Dulipjio
nor any of so mean estate, but ha\ e bestowed my love
more worthily than thou deemest ; but I will say no
more at this time." " I am glad," says Balia, " you
have changed your mind yet." " Nay," answei-s the
lady, " I neither have changed, nor will change it."
Presently she explains : —
Polynesia. Well, hear you me then : this young man whom
you have always taken for Dulippo, is a noble bom Sicilian,
his right name Erostrato, son to Philogano, one of the
worthiest men in that country.
Bnlia. How:-- Erostrato r Is it not our neighbour which
Pohjncsta. Hold thy talking, niurse, and hearken to me,
that I may explain the whole case unto thee. The man
whom to this day you have supposed to be Dulippo is, as I
say, Erostrato, a gentleman that came from Sicilia to study
in this city, and even at his first arrival met me in the street,
fell enamoured of me : and of such vehement force were the
passions he suffered, that mimediately he cast aside both
long gown and books, and determined on me only to apply
his study. And to the end he might the more commodiously
both see me, and talk with me, he exchanged both name,
habit, clothes, and credit witii his servant DuUppo (whom
only he brought with him out of SicUia) : and so with the
turning of a hand, of Erostrato a gentlcnmn. he became
Duhppo, a serving-man, .ind soon after sought service of
my father, and obtained it.
Balia. Are vou sure of this f
I Polynesta. Yea. out of doubt. On the other side, Duappo
90
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took upon him the name of Erostrato, his master, the habit,
the credit, hooks, and all things needful to a student ; and
in short space profited very much, and is now esteemed as you
see.
Balia. Are there no other Sicilians here, nor none that pass
this way, which may discover them ?
Puhjncsta. Very few that pass this way, and few or none
that tarrj' here any time.
Bttlia. This hath been a strange adventure; but, I pray
you, how hang these things together, that the student, whom
you say to be the servant and not the master, is become an
earnest suitor to you, and rcquireth you of your father in
marriage ?
Polynesia. That is a policy devised between them, to put Dr.
DotipoU ' out of conceit ; the old dotard, he that so instantlj'
doth lie upon my father for me. — But look, where he comes;
[Heaven] help me, it is he; out upon him! what a luskie^
younker is this ? yet had I rather be a nun a thousand times,
than be cumbered with such a coystrel.
BulUi. Daughter, you have reason ; but let us go in before
ie come any nearer.
[PoLYNESTA ffoeth in, and B.\lia stnycth a little
while after, speaking a ivoril or two to the
doctor, and then departeth.
SCENE II.
Cle.4xdek, rforfor; 'PxsivniLO, parasite ; "Bxixx, luirse.
Clc. AVere these dames here, or did mine eyes dazzle ?
Pas. Nay, sir, here were Polynesta and her nurse.
Cle. Was my Poljiiesta here ? alas ! I knew her not.
Biilia. He must have better eyesight that should marry
your Polynesta, or else he may chance to oversee the best
point in his tables sometimes.
Pas. Sir, it is no marvel ; the air is very misty to-day ; I
myself know her better by her apparel than bj' her face.
€le. In good faith, and I thank God I have mine eyesight
good and perfect, little worse than when I was but twentv
years old.
Pas. How can it be otherwise 'i you are but j-oung.
Clc. I am fifty years old.
Pas. H(! tells ten less than he is.
Cle. What sayest thou of ten less ?
Pns. I say I would have thought you ten less ; you look
like one of six and thirty, or seven and thirty at the most.
Cle. I am no less than I tell.
Pas. You are like enough to live fifty more . show me your
hand.
<'lc. Why, is Pasiphilo a chiromancer?
Pus. What is not Pasiphilo 'i I pray you, show me it a
little.
Clc. Here it is.
I'as. Oh, how strait and infract^ is this line of life ! You
will live to the years of Jlclchisodeck.
' 'Ic. Thou woiildst say, Jlethusalem.
Pas. Why, is it not all one P
Cle. I perceive you are no very good Bibler, Pasiphilo.
Pas. Yes, sir, an excellent good bibbeler, specially in a
' Dr. Dofijwli. See Note 1, pafre 16.
- Luskie. lazy. Cotgrave's Frencli.Euglisli Dictionary reuaers
*• raiouid.n, a luske, lout, liirden. a lubberly sloven, beavie sot.lumpisb
hoyden." Spenser uses the word in the " Faerie Queen," VI. i. 35 :—
" But when he saw his foe before in view.
He shook oif luskishness."
Probably alhed to Latin " laxus," lax, loose; Italian "lasco "
Provenj.al " lasc ; " French " lache."
3 Infract, unbroken.
bottle. Oh, what a mouth ^ of Venus here is ; but this light
servetli not very well ; I will behold it another day, when the
ail- is clearer, and tell you somewhat, perad venture, to your
contentation.
Cle. You shall do me gi'eat pleasure ; but tell me, I pray
thee, Pasiphilo, whom dost thou think Polynesta liketh better,
Erostrato or me i
Pas. Why, you out of doubt ; she is a gentlewoman of a
noble mind, and maketh greater account of the reputation she
shall have in manying your- worship, than that poor scholar,
whose birth and parentage God knoweth, and very few else.
Clc. Yet he taketh it upon him bravely in this country.
Pas. Y'ca ; where no man knoweth the contrary ; but let
him brave it, boast his birth, and do what he can ; the virtue
and knowledge that is within this body of yours is worth
more than all the country he came from.
Cle. It becometh not a man to praise himself, but, indeed,
I may say, and say truly, that my knowledge had stood me in
better stead at a pinch, than could all the goods in the world,
I came out of Otrauto when the Turks won it ; * and, first, I
came to Padua, after, liither ; where by reading, counselling,
and pleading, within twenty years I have gathered and gained
as good as ten thousand ducats.
Pas. Y'ea, man-y , this is the right , knowledge ; philosophy,
poetrj', logic, and all the rest are but pigling sciences in
comparison to this.
Cle. But pickling indeed, whereof we have a verse :
" The trade of law doth fill the boisterous bags ;
They swim in silk when other roist in rags."
Pas. excellent verse ! who made it ? Virgil ?
Clc. Virgil •■ Tush! it is written in one of our glosses.
The old lawyer says that he has doubled or quad-
rupled his wealth since he left Otranto, but he lost
there his only son, a child of five years old. Now
he complains that his suit to Polynesta is put off
l)y Damon, her father, with delays. Pasiphilo, the
parasite, was to have told him that Dr. Oleander
offered a dower of two thousand ducats; to which,
says Pasiphilo, Damon answered, " Nothing, but that
Erostrato had proti'ered the like." Pasiphilo is
liroker on both sides, and dines better with Erostrato
than \vith the rich and penurious doctor. Dr.
Cleander sends the parasite again upon hi.s suit for
Damon's daughter, and bids him unwillingly to
dinner when he shall have come back. But Erostrato
dines early, and Dtilippo sends him to dine with
Erosti-ato before he has yet started on his errand.
Then Dulippo, after lament over his position, dreading
that the rich doctor of law may yet carry away Poly-
nesta, says —
Dal. I hoped to have cast a block in his way, by the means
that my servant (who is supposed to be Erostrato, and with
my habit and crecht is well esteemed) should profifer himself a
suitor, at the least to coimtervail the doctor's jn'offers. But
my master, knowing the wealth of the one, and doubting the
state of the other, is determined to be fed no longer with
fair words, but to accept the doctor (whom he right well
knoweth) for his son-in-law. Well, my servant promised me
yesterday to deWse yet again some new conspiracy to diivi
* Perhaps mount.
^ That was in 1480, when the appearance of the Turks in Italy with
this success caused stir in Christendom.
A.D. 1566.]
PLAYS.
91
master doctor out of conceit, and to lay a snare that the fox
liiinself might be caught in ; what it is I know not, nor I saw
liim not since he went about it. I will go see if he be within,
that, at least if ho helxj me not, he may yet prolong my life
fur this once. But here cometh his lackey. — Ho, Jack Pack,
where is Ei'ostrato ?
\_Kere must C'rapixo he coming in u-ith a basket
mid a stick in his hand,
SCENE IV.
Ckapixo, the luekey ; Dulippo.
Cra. Erostrato ? Marrj-, he is in his skin.
Bid. Ah, boy, I saj", how shall I find Erostrato f
Cra. Find him ; how mean 3-ou, by the week or by the
year ?
Dill. You crack-halter, if I catch you by the ears, I'll make
you answer directly.
Cra. Indeed;
Dill. Tarry me a little.
Cra. In faith, sir, I have no leisure.
Did. ShaU we try who can run fastest ?
Cra. Your legs be longer than mine, j'ou should hare given
me the advantage.
Did. (jo to : tcU me, where is Erostrato ;-■
Cra. I left him in the street, where he gave me this casket
tliis basket I would have said), and bade me bear it to Dalio,
and return to him at the duke's jialaoe.
Did. If thou see him, teU him I must needs speak with
him immediately ; or, abide awhile, I will go seek him myself
rather than be suspected by going to his house.
[C'k.U"IXO (leparteth, and DvLIPPO also; after,
DfLIPPO eometli in again seeking Ekostkato.
Here ends the firet act. The second opens \\'ith a
scene between the "Supposes," Dulippo and Erostrato,
wliich developes a third .substitute. The servant suii-
}iosed to be master ha.s gained a fortnight's delay in
deciding who Ijid.s liighest to be Polynesta's husband.
I He had oftered as h^ige a dower as the doctor.
I
Eros. I said further that I received letters lately from my
father, whereby I imderstood that he would be here very
-hortly to perform aU that I had proffered ; therefore I
icquii-ed to request Damon on my behalf that he would stay
Ids promise to the doctor for a fortnight or more.
Did. This is somewhat yet : for by this means I shaU be
Mire to linger and live in hope one fortnight longer; but at
tlie fortnight's end when Philogano cometh not, how sh;tU I
then do 't Yea, and though he came, how may I any way
hope of his consent, when he shall see, that, to foUow this
amorous enterprise, I have set aside all study, all remem-
1 irance of my duty, and all dread of shame ? Alas, alas ! I
may go hang myself.
Eros. Comfort yourself, man, and trust in me : there is a
salve for evciy sore ; and doubt you not to this mischief we
^haU find a remedy.
Dill. O friend, re\-ive me, that hitherto since I first
attempted this matter have been continually djHng.
Eros. Well, hearken awhile then. This morning I took
my horse, and rode into the fields to solace myself, and as I
passed the ford beyond 8t. Antony's Grate, I met at the foot
"f the hiU a gentleman riding with two or three men, and, as
methought by his habit and his looks, he should be none of
the wisest. He saluted me, and I him ; I asked him from
whence he came, and whither he would. He answered that
he had come from Venice, then from Padua, now was going
to Ferrara, and so to his country, which is Siena. As soon
as I knew him to be a Sienese, suddenly lifting up mine eves
(as It were, with an admiration), I said unto him, Are you a
bienese, and come to Ferrara :- WTiy not, said he. Quoth I
(half and more with a trembling voice). Know you the danger
that should ensue if you be known in Fen-ara to be a Sienese ?
He (more than half amazed) desired me earnestly to teU him
what I meant.
Dill. I understand not whereto this tcndeth.
Eros. I believe you ; but hearken to me.
Did. Go to, then.
Eros. I answered him in this sort : Gentleman, because I
have heretofore found very courteous entertainment in your
country, being a student there, I account myseU" as it were
bound to a Sienese ; and, therefore, if I knew of any mishap
towards any of that country, God forbid, but I should disclose
it. And I mar\-el that you knew not of the injury that your
countrymen offered the other day to the ambassadors of
County Hercules.'
Dill, ^\'hat tales he telleth me : 'What appertain these to
me ':'
Eros. If you will hearken awhile, ycu shall find them no
tales, but that they appertain to you more than vou think
for.
Did. Forth.
Eros. I told him further, these ambassadors of Countv
Hercules had divers mules, waggons, and chariots, laden
with divers costly jewels, gorgeous furniture, and other
things, which they carried as presents (passing that way) to
the King of Naples: the which were not only stayed in
Siene by the officers whom you call customers, but searchid,
ransacked, tossed, and turned, and in the end exacted for
tribute, as if they had been the goods of a mean merchant.
Did. Whither will he ? Is it possible that this gear apper-
tain any thing to my cause ? I find neither head nor foot
in it.
Eros. Oh, how impatient you arc! I pray you, stay awhile.
Did. Go to, yet awhile then.
Eros. I proceeded that, upon these causes, the duke sent
his chancellor to declare the case imto the senate there, of
whom he had the most uncourteoua answer that ever was
heard : whereupon he was so enraged with all of that countiy
that, for revenge, he had sworn to spoil as many of them as
ever should come to Ferrara, and to send them home in their
doublet and then- hose.
Did. And, I pray thee, how couldst thou upon the sudden
de-(nsc or imagine such a lie, and to what purpose ':
Eros. You shall hear by and by a thing as fit for our
purpose as any could have happened.
Dul. I would fain hear you conclude.
Eros. You would fain leap over the stile, before you come
at the hedge; I would you had heard me, and seen the
gestures that I enforced to make him believe this.
Did. I believe you, for I k-now you can counterfeit well.
Eros. Further, I said, the Duke had charged upon great
penalties, that the innholders and victuallers should bring
word daily of as many Sienescs as came to their houses. Tlic
gentleman being, as' I guessed at the first, a man of smaH
sapientia, when he hear these news, would have turned his
horse another way. ^
Did. By hkehhood he was not very wise, when he woulu
beheve that of his country, which, if it had been true, every
man must needs have known it.
Eros. "UTiy not, when he had not been in his coimtrj- for a
1 Ariosto-s play being acted in Ferrara, he lays the scene there, in
the time of Duke Hercules, then very recent.
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CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. [ad. i566.
month past r and I told him this had happened -nithin these
seven days.
Dill. Belike he was of small experience.
Eros. I think of as little as may he ; but hest of all for our
purpose, and good adventure it was that I met with such an
one. Now hearken, I pray you.
Did. Make an end, I pray thee.
Bros. He, as I say, when he heard these words, would have
turned the bridle, and I, feigning a countenance as though I
were somewhat pensive and careful for him, paused awhile,
and after, -nHth a great sigh, Siiid unto him, — Gentleman, for
the courtesy, as I said, I have found in your country, and
because your aifairs shall be the better dispatched, I will find
the means to lodge you in my house, and you shall say to
every man that you are a Sicilian of Cathanea, your name
Philogano, father to me, that am indeed of that country and
citj", called here Erostrato ; and I, to pleasure you, will,
during your abode here, do 3'ou reverence as you were my
father.
Dul. Out upon me 1 ^^^lat a gross-headed fool am I f
Kow I perceive whereto this tale tendeth.
Eros. "Well, and how like you of it ';
Dul. Indifferently : but one thing I doubt.
Eros. ^Vhat is that ':
Dul. ilaiTy, that when he hath been here two or three
days he shall hear of every man that there is no such thing
between the duke and the town of Siene.
Eros. As for that, let me alone. I do entertain, and will
entertain him so well, that within these two or three days I
wiU disclose unto him all the whole matter, and doubt not
but to bring him in for performance of as much as I have
promised to Damon : for what hurt can it be to him when he
shall hind a strange name and not his own ?
Dill. WTiat, think you ho will be entreated to stand bound
for a dower of two thousand ducats by the year ?
Eros. Yea, why notr if it were ten thousand, as long as he
is not indeed the man that is hound ';
Dill. Well, if it be so, what shall we be the nearer to our
purpose ?
Eros. WTiy, when we have done as much as we can, how
can we do any more ?
Dul. And where have you left him ?
Eros. At the imi, because of his horses ; he and his man
■shall lie in my house.
Dul. Why brought }-ou him not with you ?
Eros. I thought better to use your advice fii-st.
Dul. Well, go take him home, make him all the cheer you
can ; spare for no cost, I will allow it.
Eros. Content ; look, where he cometh.
Dili. Is this he ? go meet him. By my troth, he looks Hke
a good soul ; he that fisheth for him might be sure to catch a
cod's head. I will rest here awhile to decipher him.
[Ekostr.\to (spieth the Siexese, and gocth
towards him ; Bvlippo stands aside.
SCEXE II.
The Siesese; Paquetto and Petrichio, his servants;
EK0STR.1T0.
iSicn. He that travelleth in this world passeth bv many
perils.
Paq. You say true, sir-; if the boat had been a little more
laden this morning at the ferry we had been aU drowned ;
for, I think, there are none of us that could have swam.
Sien. I speak not of that.
Pay. Oh, you mean the foul way that we had since we came
from this Padua ; I promise you I was afraid twice or thrice
that your mule would have Uen fast in the mire.
fiiiii. What a blockhead thou art ! I speak of the peril we
are in presently since we came into this city.
I'aij. A great peril, I promise you, that we were no sooner
aiTived but you found a friend that brought you from the inn
and lodged you in his own house.
Sien. Yea, marry ; God reward the gentle young man that
we met, for else we should have been in a wise case by this
time. But have done with these tales, and take 3'ou heed —
and you also, siiTah — take heed that none of you say we be
Sieneses, and remember that you call me Philogano of
Cathanea.
I'aij. Sui-e, I shall never remember these outlandish words;
I could well remember Haccanea.
Sien. I say Cathanea, and not Haccanea, with a vengeance.
Faq. Let another name it then when need is, for I shall
never remember it.
Sien. Then hold thy peace, and take heed thou name not
rSicne.
I'liij. How say you, if I feign myself dumb, as I did once
in the house of Crisobolus ?
Sien. Do as thou thinkest best ; but look, where cometh
the gentleman whom we are so much bound unto.
Eros. Welcome, my dear father, Philogano.
Sien. Gramercy, my good son Erostrato.
Eros. That is well said ; be mindful of your tongue, for
these Ferrareses be crafty.
Sien. No, no ; be 5'ou siu-e, we will do as you have
bidden us.
Eros. For, if you should name Siene, they would spoil you
immediately, and turn you out of the town, "with more shame
than I would should befall you for a thous;ind crowns.
Sien. I wan'ant you : I was gi%Tiig them warning as I
came to you, and I doubt not but they will take good heed.
Eros. Yea, and trust not the servants of my household too
far, for they ai'e Fen-areses all ; and never knew my father,
nor never came in Sicilia. This is my bouse ; will it please
you to go in ? I wiU foUow.
[Thei/ go in; DvLlpro tarrieth, and cspieth the
doctor coining in tcith his man.
The doctor seeks the sycophant Pasiphilo to bid
liini to dinner and send him on eiTand then to Damon,
Polynesta's father. The doctor's man, C'arion, lias
misgivings as to tlie effect of another mouth on the
small quantity of dinner in the house. Dulippo then
intervenes as Damon's man, and turns the doctor's
wrath against the jjarasite by pouring on him abuse,
which he gives in solemn coniidence as the .sketch of
Oleander with which Pasiphilo amuses both Damon
and his daughter, while he really serves Erostrato.
With the establi.shing of this new element of con-
fusion, the second act ends.
The third act opens with a quarrel between Dalio,
tlie cook, and Craj>ino, the lackey of the supposed
Erostrato. Both are laden, and the lackey has a
basket of eggs. Erostrato separates them, and gives
du'ections for a feast that is afoot. ' Dulippo enters
and asks for the su|)posed Philogano, wlio is within.
Erostrato asks for Pasiphilo.
Dul. He dined this day with my master : but whether he
went from thence I know not : what would you with him ?
Eros. I would have him go tell Damon, that Philogano, my
father, is come, and ready to make assurance of as much as
he shall require. Now shall I teach master doctor a school
l^oint; he travaUeth to none other end but to catch cornua.
A.D. i566.J
PLAY8.
93
;uid he shall have them ; for as old as he is, and as many
subtleties as he has learned in the law, he cannot go beyond
me one ace.
Bui. O dear friend, go thy ways ; seek Pasixjhilo ; find him
out, and conclude somewhat to oui' contentation.
£ros. But where shall I find him ':
Bui. At the feasts, if there be any ; or else in the market
with the poulterers or fishmongers.
Eros. What should he do with them ?
Bui. Marrj', he watcheth whose caters buy the best meat.
If any buy a fat capon, a good breast of veal, fr-esh salmon,
■ ir any such good dish, he foUoweth to the house ; and either
with some news, or with some stale jest, he will be sure to
make himself a guest.
Eros. In faith, and I will seek there for him.
Bui. Then must you needs find bJTn ; and when you have
done I will make you laugh.
Eros. Whereat l'
Bui. At ceiliiin sport I made to-day with master doctor.
Eros. And why not now i
Bui. No, it asketh further leisure; I pray thee dispatch,
and find out Pasiphilo, that honest man.
[DuLiPPO tarricth. Erostkato goeth out.
Diilippo, remaining, compare.s ld.s controversy witli
tlie doctor to a game at piiniero. Tlien enter-s
Damon : —
Baiiiou. Dulippo?
Bui. Here, sii'.
BamoH. Go in, and bid Xevola and his fellows come hither,
that I may tell them what they shall go about ; and go you
iuto my study, there upon the shelf you shall find a roll of
» ritings which John of the dean made to my father, when he
.-uM him the grange farm, endorsed with both their names ;
1 'ring it hither to me.
Bui. It shall be done, sir.
Bamoii. Go ; I will prepare other manner of writings for
you than you are aware of. O fools that trust any man but
themselves now-a-days ! O spiteful fortune I thou dost me
wrong, I think, that from the depth of hell-pit thou hast sent
me this sei-vant to be the subversion of me and all mine.
\^Tht servants come iit.
Come hither, sirs : and hear what I shall say imto you : go
iuto my study, where you shaU find Dulippo ; step to him all
at once, take him, and with a cord that I have laid on the
table for the nonce, bind him hand and foot, carrj- him into
the dungeon under the staii-s, make fast the door, and biing
lue the key, it hangeth by upon a pin on the wall. Dispatch,
.ind do this gear as privily as you can ; and thou, Nevola,
< ome hither to me again with speed.
ytv. WeU, I shall.
Left to liimself, Damon laments his discovery of tlie
relations between his daughter Polyne.sta and the
supposed servant Dulippo. Nevola then returns : —
A"<r. Sir, we have done as you bade us, and here is the
key.
BamoH. WeU, go then, Nevola, and seek master Castling,
the jailer; he dwelleth by St. Anthony's Gate; desire him to
It-nd me a pair of the fetters he useth for his prisoners, and
I ome again quickly.
AVi'. WeU, sir.
Batnon. Hear you : if he ask what I would do with them,
5;iy you cannot teU : and teU neither him nor any other what
is become of Dulippo. [Da.mox goeth out.
A«i). I warrant you, sir. Fie upon the deril, it is a thing
almost unpossible for a man now-a-days to handle money, but
the metal wiU stick on his fingers. I marveUed alway at
this feUow of mine, DuUppo, that of the wages he received
he could maintain himselt so bravely apijareUed ; but now 1
perceive the cause, he had the di.sbuising and receipt of aU
my masters affaii-s, the keys of the granary ; Dulippo here,
DuHppo there ; in favour mth my master, in favour with hi.->
daughter, what would you more '; He was mmjuter factotum,
he was as fine as the erusado,' and we sUly wretches as coarse
as canvas. WeU, behold what it is come to in the end; he
had better to have done less.
[Pasiphilo subito et improrieo rtiiil.
Pasiphilo, who has overheard all while lying in a
liam after too much dinner, suddenly apjteai-s. He
had overheard also how Psiteria, an old hag li\-iug
in the house, who next comes on the stage, had
betrayed the secret to Damon when in anger, because
the nui-se had scolded her. Psiteria is sony now —
" It jjitieth me to see the ]>oor young w^onian how she
weep.s, wails, and tears her hair, not esteeming her own
life half so dear a.s poor DuUjuw's ; and her father,
he weeps on the other .side, that it woidd piei-ce a
heart of stone with pity." The thii'd act ends here,
and the fouith opens with another complication of
the plot. The supposed Erostnito is in perplexity : —
Eros. What shaU I do ? Alas, what remedy shaU I find for
my rueful estate •• What escape, or what excuse may I now
devise to shift over our subtle supposes r for though to this
day I have usmped the mime of my master, and that without
check or control of any man, now shaU I be openly deciphered,
and that in the sight of every man ; now shaU it openly lie
known whether I be Erostrato, the gentleman, or Dulipixi,
the servant. We have hitherto played oui- parts in abusing
others ; but now cometh the man that wiU not be uljused, the
right PhUogano, the right father of the right Erostrato.
Going to seek Pasiphilo, and hearing that he was at the
water-gate, behold I espied my feUow Litio, and by and by
my old master Philogano setting forth his first step on land.
I to fuge- and away hither as fast as I could to biing word
to the right Erostrato of his right father Philogano, that to
so sudden a mishap some subtle shift might be on the sudden
deWsed. But what can be imagined to serve the tmn,
although we had months' respite to beat om- brains about it,
since we are commonly known, at the least supposed, in this
town, he for Duhppo, a slave and sei-vant to Damon, and I
for Erostrato, a gentleman and a student J But, behold, run,
Crapino, to yonder old wom;m before she get within the doors,
and desire her to caU out DuUppo ; but hear you, if she ask
who would speak with him, say thyself and none other.
[Erostrato espieth Psiteria coming, andstudtth
his lackiij to her.
Crapino is sent to ask whether DuUppo be witlmi.
The crone answers, with his prison in her mind, ■'! es,
that he is, I wan-ant him." Lackey and croue qu;m-el
till Crapino is calleil away l>y Erostrato, who spies the
tnie Philogano coming, " and runneth about to lude
him." Philogano entering with Feriui-ese, au mn-
1 The erusado was a Portuguese coin, so named from the cross that
was on cue side of it. It was of gold, aud weighed two pennyweight*
sis grains, eqiuvalent to nine shillings English.
» ToJtf)e, took flight.
94
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
|A.D. 1536.
keeper, and Litio, bis servant, says " there is no love
to be compared like the love of the parents towards
theii- children." He has come out of Sicily only to
see his son and have him home with him. He has
suffered much, for an old man, from bad lodging on
the wa}', but most from the custom-house searchers :
Fcr. \\'(A\. tliis passage shall seem pleasant unto you when
you shall find your child well and in health ; but I pray you,
sir, why did you not rather send for him into Sicilia, than to
come yourself, specially since you had none other business 'i
Peradventure you had rather endanger j-oursclf by this
noisome journey than hazard to draw him from his study.
Phil. Nay, that was not the matter; for I had rather h.a.\a
him give over his study altogether, and come home.
Fcr. \Vliy, if you minded not to make him lourned, to what
end did you send him hither at the first ':'
Phil. I wiU tell you. When he was at home he did as
most young men do : he played many mad pranks, and did
many things that liked me not very well, and I, thinking
that by that time he had seen the world he would leai-n to
know himself better, exhorted him to study, and put in his
election what place he would go to. At the last he came
hither, and I think he was scarce here so soon as I felt the
want of him in such sort, as from that day to this I have
passed few nights without tears. T have written to him very
often that he should come home, but continually he refused,
still beseeching me to continue his study, wherein he doubted
not (as ho said) but to profit greatly.
Fir. Indeed, he is very much commended of all men, and
specially of the best reputed students.
Phil. I am glad he hath not lost his tinu'; but I care not
greatly for so much knowledge. I would not be without the
sight of him again so long for all the learning in the world.
I am old now, and if Cxod should call me in his absence, I
promise you I think it would drive me into desperation.
Fer. It is commendable in a man to love his children, but
to be so tender over them is more womanlike.
Phil. Well, I confess it is my fault ; and yet I will tell you
another cause of my coming hither, more weighty than this.
Divers of my country have been hero since he came hither,
by whom I have sent unto him, and some of them have been
thrice, some four or five times at his house, and yet could
never speak with him. I fear he applies his study so. that he
will not lease the minute of an hour from his book. '\\Tiat,
alas : he might yet talk with his countrymen for a while ; he
is a young man. tenderly brought up : and if he fare thus
continually night and day at his book, it may be enough to
drive him into a frenzy.
Fer. Indeed, enough were as good as a feast. liO you. sir,
here is your son Erostrato's house ; I will knock.
Phil. Yea, I pray you knock.
Fer. They hear not.
Phil. Knock .again.
Fer. I think they be on sleep.
Litio. If this gate were yom- grandfather's soul you could
not knock more softly ; let me come. Ho, ho : is "there any
body within ?
[Dalio Cometh to the window, and there maketh
them answer.
SCENE IV.
Dalio, the cook; Ferr.vrese, the iniiholder ; Philoo.wo;
Litio, his man.
^ Dalio. What is there ? I think he will break the gates in
pieces.
Litio. JIarry, sir, we hiid thought you had been on sleep
within, and therefore we thought best to wake you. W hat
doth Erostrato ?
iJi/lio. He is not within.
L-'hil. Open the door, good fellow, I pray thee.
Balio. If }-ou think to lodge here, you are deceived, I tell
you ; for here are guests enough ah'eady.
Phil. A good fellow, and much for thy master's honesty, by
our lady ; and what guests, I pray thee ?
Diilio. Here is Philogano, my master's father, lately come
out of iSicilia.
Ph il. Thou speakcst truer than thou art aware of ; he will
be. by that time thou hast opened the door ; open, I pray thee
heartily.
Dalio. It is a small matter for me to open the dooi', but
here is no lodging for you ; I tell you plain, the house is
full.
Phil. Of whom J
Dalio. I told you : here is Philogano, my master's father,
come from C'athanea.
Ph it. iVnd when came he 'i
Dalio. He came throe hom'S since or moro ; he lighted at
the Angel, and left his horses there ; afterwards my master
brought him hither.
Phil. Good fellow, I think thou hast good sport to mock
mo.
Dalio. Nay, I think you have good sport to make me tarry
here, as though I have nothing else to do ; I am m;itched with
an unruly mate in the kitchen, I will go look to him another
while.
Phil. I think he be drunken.
Fer. Sure ho seems so ; sec you not "how red he is about
the gills ':'
Pliil. Abide, feUow ; what Philogano is it whom thou
talkest of ':
Dalio. An honest gentleman, father to Erostrato, my
master.
Ph il. jVnd where is he ?
Dalio. Here within.
Phil. Hay we see him ':
Dalio. I think you may if you be not blind.
Phil. Go to, go toll him here is one would speak witli him.
Dalio. Marry, that I will willingly do.
Phil. I cannot tell what I should say to this gear. liitio,
what thinkcst thou of it 'r
Litio. I cannot tell you what I should say, sir; the world
i.s large and long ; there may 1)6 more Philoganos and more
Erostratos than one, yea. and more Ferraras, more Sicilias,
and more C'athannas : peradventure, this is not that Ferrara
vhich you sent your son unto.
PJiil. Peradventure thou art a fool, and he was another
that answered us oven now. But be you sure, honest man,
that you mistake not the house ';■
Fer. Nay then, God help, think you I know not Erostrato's
house? Yes, and himself also ; I saw him here no longer
since than yesterday. But here comes one that will tell
us tidings of him ; I like his countenance better than the
other's that answered us at the window erewhile.
[Dalio drau-eth his head in at the window, the
SiENESE Cometh out.
SCENE V.
SiEXESE ; Philogano ; Dalio.
Sieii. Would you speak with me, sir?
Phil. Yes, sir, I would fain know whence you are.
Sieii. Sir, I am a Sicilian, at your commandment.
4.D. 1566.]
PLAYS.
/'/( (7. 'WTiat part of Sicilia '1
Sioi. Of Cathanea.
F/ii/. What shall I call youi- name ?
Sic'ii. My name is Philogano.
F/i il. AMiat trade do you occupy ?
fi'uii. Merchandise.
Phil. What merchandise brought you hither ?
fiifii. None: I came only to see a son that I have here,
whom I saw not these two years.
I'hil. What call they your son ?
Sieii. Erostrato.
Phil. Is Erostrato your son ':
Sien. Yea, verily.
Phil. And are you Philogano ?
Sicn. The same.
Phil. And a merchant of Cathanea ?
Sien. MTiat need I tell you so often ? I will not tell you
a Ue.
Phil. Yes, you have told me a false Ue, and thou art a
villain, and no better.
•Sien. 8ii', you offer me great wrong with these injurious
words.
Ph il. Kay, I will do more than I have yet proffered to do ;
for I wiU prove thee a liar and a knave to take upon thee
that thou art not.
Situ. Sir, I am Philogano of Cathanea out of aU doubt :
if T were not, T would be loath to tell you so.
Pliil. Oh, see the boldness of this brute beast! what a
brazen face he setteth on it !
Sicn. WeU, you ma}- believe me if you list ; what wonder
you ■'
Pliil. T wonder at thy impudeney: for thou nor nature
that fi-amed thee can ever counterfeit thee to be me, ribald
villain, and l}-ing wretch that thou art.
Dalio. Shall I suffer a knave to abuse my master's father
thus ? Hence, villain, hence, or I will sheathe this good
falchion in your paunch : if my master Erostrato find you
prating here on this fashion to his father, I would not be
in your coat for more concyskins than I gat these twelve
months. Come }-ou in again, sir, and let this cur bark here
till he burst.
[Dalio pulkth the Siexese in at the doors.
SCENE VI.
Philogaso ; LiTio ; Ferr.\resb.
Phil. Litio, how Hkest thou this gear ?
Litio. 8ir, I like it as e\-il as may be; but have you not
•often heard tell of the falsehood of Ferrara ': and now may
you see it falleth out accordingly.
Per. Friend, you do not well to slander the city ; these men
are no Ferrareses, you may know by their tongue.
Litio. Well, there is never a barrel better hen-ing between
you both ; but indeed your officers are most to blame, that
.suffer such faults to escape unpunished.
Per. \Miat know the oflScers of this r think you they know
of every fault f
Litio. Nay, I think they will know as little as may be,
specially when they have no gains by it ; but they ought to
liave their ears as open to hear of such offences, as the inn-
gates be to receive guests.
Phil. Hold thy peace, fool
Litin. By the mass, I am afeard that we shall be proved
fools both two.
/'/((/. Well, what shall we do ':
Litio. I would think best we should go seek Erostrato
himself.
Fit: I wiU wait upon you wilhngly, and either at the
schools or at the convocations we shall find him.
Phil. By our lady, I am weary ; I will run no longer about
to seek him ; I am sure hither he will come at the last.
^ Litio. Sure my mind gives me tliat wc shall find a new
Erostrato ere it be long.
Per. Look where ho is; whither nins her Stay you
awhile; I will go tell him you are here.— Erostrato, Erostrato,
ho I Erostrato, I would speak with you.
[Eeostuato is espied upon the ttage, running about.
SCENE VII.
Feigned EKOSTE.iTo ; Ferkakese ; Philogano ; Litio : Dalio.
Eros. Now I can hide me no longer. Alas, what shall I do?
I will set a good face on. to bear out the matter.
Per. O Erostrato, Philogano, youi- father, is come out of
Sicilia,
Eros. Tell me that I know not. I have been with him,
and seen him already.
Fer. Is it possible : and it seemeth by him that you know
hot of his coming.
Eros. Why, have you .spoken with him ': when saw you
him, I pray you ?
Fer. Look, where he stands ; why go you not to him ?
Look you, Philogano, behold yom- dear son Erostrato.
Phil. Erostrato:' this is not Erostrato This seemeth
rather to be Dulippo; and it is Dulippo indeed.
Litio. AVhy, doubt you of that f
Eros, ^\^lat saith this honest man r
Phil. Many, sir, indeed you are so honourably clad, it is
no marvel if you look big.
Eros. To whom speaketh he r
Phil. What! God help, do you not know me :
Eros. As far as I remember, sir, I never saw you before.
Phil. Hark, Litio, here is good gear ; this honest man wLU
not know me.
Eros. Gentlemen, you take your mark amiss.
Litio. Did not I tell you of the falsehootl of Ferrara,
master f DuHppo hath learned to play the knave indiffe-
rently well since he came hither.
Phil. Peace, I say.
Eros. Friend, my name is not Dulippo: ask you throughout
this town of great and small, they know me : ask this honest
man that is with you, if you will not believe me.
Fer. Indeed, I never knew him otherwise called than
Erostrato ; and so they call him, as many as know him.
Litio. Master, now you may see the falsehood of these
fellows : this honest man your host is of council with him,
and would face us down that it is Erostrato ; beware of the.se
mates.
Fer. Friend, thou doest me wrong to s)ispect me, for sure
I never heard him otherwise called than Erostrato.
Eros. What name could you hear me calh'd by, but by my
right name : But I am wise enough, to stand prating liere
with this old man ; I think he be mad.
Phil. Ah, runagate! ah villain, traitor! dost thou use thy
master thus ': What hast thou done with my son. villain :-
Dalio. Doth this dog bark here stiU :- and will you suffer
him, master, thus to revile you ':
Eros. Come in, come in; what wilt thou do with th.s
TJGStl© ?
Dalio I wiU rap the old [driveller] on the costard.
Eros. Away with it ;-and you, sirrah, lay down these
stones. Come in at door, every one of you :-bear with him
for his age ;— I pass not for his evil words.
[Erostrato taketh all his sereaiils in at the door.
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i;i.D. jaee.
SCENE VIII.
Philogaso ; Feekauese ; LiTio.
Tin!. Alas! who shall rolicve my miserable estate; to whom
shall I eomplain •' since he whom I brought up of a child,
yea, and cherished him as if he had been mine own, doth now
utterly deny to know me ; and you, whom I took for an
honest man, and he that should have brought me to the sight
of my son, are compact with this false wretch, and would face
me do-rni that he is Erostrato. Alas ! you might have some
compassion of my age, to the misery I am now in, and that I
am a stranger desolate of all comfort in this eoimtry ; or at
the least you should have feared the vengeance of God, the
Supreme Judge (which knoweth the secrets of all hearts), in
bearing this false witness with him, whom heaven and earth
do know to be Dulippo, and not Erostrato.
Litio. If there bo many such witnesses in this countiy,
men may go about to prove what they will in controversies
here.
Fer. Well, sir, you may judge of mo as pleaseth you, and
how the matter cometh to pass I know not ; but truly ever
since he came first hither, I have known him by the name of
Erostrato, the son of Philogano, a Cathaneae. Now whether
he be so indeed, or whether he be Diilippo (as you allege) , let
that be proved by them that knew him before he came hither.
B>it I protest before God, that which I have said is neither a
matter compact with him, nor any other, but even as I have
heard him called and reputed of all men.
Phil. Out and alas! he whom I sent hither with my son to
be his servant and to give attendance on him, hath either cut
his throat, or by some evil means made him away, and hath
not only taken his garments, his books, his money, and that
which he brought out of Sicilia with him, biit usuiiieth his
name also, and tumeth unto his own commodity the bills of
exchange that I have always allowed for my son's expenses.
miserable Philogano ! O unhappy old man ! eternal God,
is there no judge, no officer, no higher powers whom I may
complain unto for redress of these wrongs 'i
Fir. Yes, sir, we have potentates, we have judges, and
above all, we have a most just prince ; doubt you not but
you shall have justice, if your cause be just.
Phil. Bring me then to the judges, to the potentates, or to
whom thou thinkcst best ; for I will disclose a pack of the
greatest knaverj-, a fardle ' of the foulest falsehood that ever
was heard of.
Litio. Sir, he that will go to the law, must be sure of four
things : first, a right and a j ust cause ; then a righteous
advocate to plead; next, favour cornm jiidice ;- and, above
all, a good purse to procure it.
Fcr. I have not heard that the law hath any respect to
favour ; what you mean by it I cannot teU.'
' Pardee or fnrdel, a. burden, a pack. Low Latin " tarrlellus : "
French "fardean."
^ Cc^ratn jiidi'cc, before tlie judge.
3 Tlie ignorance of a Perrarese as to the meaninpr of coiTuptiou in
high plates was designed by Ariosto as a coniplimeut to the Dulje of
Fevrara, in whose theatre the play was acted. The passage may be
interesting to some renders as a specimen of the verses that George
Gascoigne turned into prose. I begin at Gascogne's " Yes, sir. we
have potentates."
Vermrese. Ci ahbiamo PodestA, ci abbinmo i Giiidici.
E sopra tutti un Prencipe ginstissimo,
Voi non avete da temer, Pilogono,
Che vi si raauchi di ragione, avendola.
K!o<|o?io. Per vostra fe, venite, audiamo al Prencipe,
Al Podesta,de, o sia a qual altro Giudice ;
Che la maggior barreria v6 che intendano.
Phil. Have you no regard to his words, he is but a fool.
Fer. I pray you, sir, let him tell me what is favour.
Litio. Favour caU I to have a friend near about the judge
who may so solicit thy cause, as, if it be right, speedy sen-
tience may ensue without any delays ; if it be not good, then
to prolong it, till at the last, thine adviTSary being weary,
shall be glad to compound with thee.
Fcr. Of thus much (although I never heard thus much in
this country before) doubt you not, Philogano, I will bring
you to an advocate that shall speed you accordingly.
Phil. Then shall I give myself, as it were, a prey to the-
lawyers, whose insatiable jaws I am not .able to feed, although
I had here all the goods and lands which I possess in mine
own country, much less being a stranger in this misery. I
know their cautels of old ; at the first time 1 come they will
so extol my cause, as though it were ab'cady won ; but withui
a sevennig'ht or ten days, if I do not continually feed them as.
the crow doth her brats, twenty times in an hour, they will
begin to wax cold, .and to find cavils in my cause, saying, that
at the first I did not well instruct them, till at the last, tliey
will not only draw the stuffing out of my purse, but the
maiTow out of my bones.
Fer. Yea, sir, but this man th;it I tell you of is half a saint.
Litio. And the other half a devil, I hold a penny.
Phil. ^Vell said, Litio ; indeed I have but small confidence
in their smooth looks.
Fer. Well, sir, 1 think this whom I mean is no such
manner of man ; but if he were, there is such hatred and
evil will between him and this gentleman (whether he be
Erostrato or Dulippo, whatsoever he be), that I warrant you
he will do whatsoever he can do for you, were it but to spite
him.
Phil. ^Vhy, what hatred is betwixt them ':
Fer. They are both in love and suitors to one gentlewoman,
the daughter of a wealthy man in this city.
Phil. Wh}-, is the villain become of such estimation that he
dare presume to be a suitor to any gentlewoman with a good
family ?
Fer. Yes, sir, out of all doubt.
Ph il. How call you his adversary ?
Fer. ('leander, one of the excellentest doctors in our city.
Phil. For God's love, let us go to him.
Fer. Go we then.
Here is the knot of tlie comedy well tied at the end
of the fourth act, and in the fifth act follows the un-
ravelling.
The supposed Erostrato is seeking to give up his
Mse position that has brought him into trouble.
Pasiphilo enters, and is to be sent to Damon's house>
E lo piii .abbominevol malefizio
Che iiotesseuom pensar, nou che commettere.
Lizio, Padron, a chi viiol Utigar bisoguauo
Quattro cose : ragiou prime bonissima :
E poi chi ben la sappia dire : e terzio
Chi la faccia ; e favor poi.
Frrmresc. Di quest' ultima
Parte non odo, che le leggi facciauo
Meuzion aknma : che cosa e ? Chinriscilo.
hizio. Aver amioi potenti : ch' al Giudice
Raccomautlin la causa tua, che viui-ere
Dovendo. brevemente la espedisehiuo,
E se tu hai torto che la differiscbine.
E giorui, e mesi, e tanto in lungo menino,
Che stanco al fin di spese, affanui, e strazii,
Brami accordarsi teco il tuo avversario.
Fermresc. Di questa pai-te, quantuuque, Filogono,
Nou s'usi in questa terra.
A.D. 1566.J
PLAYS.
97
where lie will " ask for Diilippo, and tell Mm." But
Dnlippo is in prison, in a vile chmgeou -within
Damon's house. Then the supposed Erostrato hears
:ill that had happened to his master, the supposed
Dulippo. That he may be alone under emotion,
Erostrato sends the parasite to do as he vnll in the
kitchen, savoury -with the great feast that was on
i'oot. Wliat shall he do ? He can think of no deceit
that will save him. He is driven upon the last
resource — telling the truth : —
Uros. "Well, sith there is no other remedy, I will go to my
JI. rhilogano, and to him will I tell the whole truth of the
matter, that at the least he may provide in time, before his son
feel the smart of some shai-p revenge and punishment. This
is the best, and thus will I do. Yet I know, that for mine
own part I shall do better penance for mj' faults forepassed;
but such is the good will and duty that I bear to Erostrato,
as even with the loss of my life I must not stick to adven-
ture anything which may tui'n to his commodity. But what
shall I do ; shall I go seek my master about the town, or shall I
tarry his return hither f If I meet him in the streets he will
crj- out upon me, neither will he hearken to anything that I
shall say, till he have gathered all the people wondering
about me as it were an owL Therefore I were better to abide
here ; and yet if he tarry long I will go seek him, rather
than prolong the time to Erostrato' s peril.
[Pasiphilo retiirneth to Erostrato.
SCENE IV.
V AurpjiYLo, feigned Erostrato.
Piis. Yea, dress them, but lay them not to the fire till they
will be ready to sit down. This gear goes in order, but if I
had not gone in there had fallen a foul fault.
El-OS. And what fault, I pray thee 'i
I'lr.s. ilarri,-, Dalio would have laid the shoulder of mutton
and the capon both to the fire at once, like a fool ; he did not
consider that the one would have more roasting than the other.
£rus. Alas, I would this were the greatest fault.
Ffis. Why 'i and either the one should have been burned
before the other had been roasted, or else he must have di-awn
them off the spit, and they would have been served to the
board either cold or raw.
Eros. Thou hast reason, Pasiphilo.
Eus. J\ow, sir, if it please you I will go into the to\vn and
buy oranges, olives, and capers, for without such sauce the
supper were more than half lost.
Eros. There are within already, doubt you not, there shall
lack nothing that is necessary. [Erostrato exit.
Fas. Since I told him these news of Dulippo, he is clean
beside himself ; he hath so many hammers in his head, that
his brains are ready to burst ; and let them break, so I
may sup with him to-night, what care I ? But is not this
DoiiiiiiKS nosfer Cleamlrits that comes before ? Well said, by
my troth, we wiU teach master doctor to wear a cornered cap
of a new fashion. [Slarrj-], Polynesia shall be his, he shall
have her out of doubt, for I have told Erostrato such news of
her, that he wOl none of her.
[Cleaxder and Philogaxo come in tall-iiir/ of the
matter in controversy.
SCENE V.
Cleander; Philog.ais'o ; Litio; PAsiriiiro.
Cle. Yea, but how will ye prove that he is not Erostrato,
having such presumptions to the contrary ; or how shall it be
tliought that you are Philogano when another taketh upon
133"
him this same name, and for proof bringeth him for a witness
which hath been ever reputed, here for Erostrato :-
Ehil. I wiU tell you, sir : let me be kept here fast in prison,
and at my charges let there be some man sent into SicUia,
that may bring liither with him two or three of the honestest
men in Cathauea, and by them let it be proved if I or this
other be Philogano, and whether he be Erostrato, or Dulippo,
my servant ; and if you find me eontrarj-, let me suffer death
for it.
Pas. I will go salute master doctor.
Cle. It wiU ask great labour and great expenses to prove it
this way, but it is the best remedy tluit I can see.
Eas. God save you, sir.
Cle. And reward you as you have deser\-ed.
Eas. Then shall he give me your favour continu.aUy.
Cle. He shall give you a halter, Icnave and \-illain th.-it
thou art.
Fas. I know I am a knave, but no villain; I am your
servant.
Cle. I neither take thee for my servant, nor for my friend.
Fas. yChy, wherein have I offended you, sir ':
Vie. Hence, to the gallows, knave 1
Fas. 'SYhat, soft and fair, sir, I pray you ; / prtc, seqiiar,^
you are mine elder.
Cle. I will be even with you be you sure, honest man.
Eas. Why, sir, I never offended you.
Cle. Well, I will teach you. Out of my sight, knave !
Eas. 'What 1 I am no dog, I would you wist.
Cle. Pratest thou yet, villain i I will make thee.
Eas. What will you make me ? I see well the more a man
doth suffer j'ou, the worse you are.
Cle. Ah, villain, if it were not for this gentleman, I would
tell )"ou what I
Fas. Villain ? nay, I am as honest a man as you.
Cle. Thou Ucst in thy throat, knave.
Ehil. Oh, sir, sttay your wisdom.
Fas. Wliat, wUl you fight ? marry, come on.
Cle. Well, knave, I will meet with you anoth.-r time ; go
your way.
Eas. Even when you Ust, sir, I will be your man.
Cle. And if I be not even with thee, call me out.
Eas. Nay, by the mass, all is one, I care not. for I liave
nothing ; if I had cither lands or goods, peradventure you
would pull me into the law.
E/til. >Sii-, I perceive your patience is moved.
Cle. This \-illain,— but let him go, I will see him punished
as he hath deserved. Kow to the matter, how s.aid you r
Fhil. This fellow hath disquieted you, sir; peradventure
you would be loth to be troubled any farther.
Cle. Not a whit, say on, and let him go with a vengeance.
Ehil. I say, let them send at my chiu-ge to Cathanea.
Cle. Yea, I remember that weU, .and it is the surest way as
tins case requireth. But tell me, how is he your servant, and
how came vou bv him. Infomi me fully in the matter.
Ehil. I "will ' tell you, sir. "WHien the Tmks won
Otranto
Cle. Oh, you put me in remembrance of my misliap.
Ehil. How, sir? . .
Cle. For I was driven among the rest out of the town, it is
my nktive country, and there I lost more than ever I shall
recover again while I live.
Ehil. Alas, a pitiful case, by St. Anne.
Cle. WeU, proceed.
Ehil. At that time (as I said) there were certain of our
1 Go before, I will follow.
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[a.d. 15136.
country that scoured those coasts upon the seas, with a good
hark well appointed for the purpose, and had espial of a
Turkey vessel that came laden from thence with great
abundance of riches.
Clc. And peradventurc most of mine.
I'liil. So they hoarded them, and in the end overcame them,
and hrought the goods to Palenno, from whence they came ;
and amongst other things that they had, was this villain, my
servant, a boy at that time, I think not past five years old.
Cle. Alas ! I lost one of that same age there.
Fhil. And I being there, and liking the child's favovir
well, proffered them four-and-twenty ducats for him, and had
liim.
Ck. AMiat ! was the child a Turk, or had the Turks hrought
him from Otranto ?
Phil. They said he was a child of Otranto; but what is
that to the matter ? Once twenty-four ducats he cost me,
that I wot well.
Cle. Alas ! I speak it not for that, sir ; I would it were
he whom I mean.
Ph il. Why, whom mean you, sir ?
Zitio. Beware, sir, be not too lavish.
Cle. Was his name Dulippo then, or had he not another
name ?
Zitio. Beware what you say, sir.
P/iil. What the devil hast thou to do ? Dulippo ? No, sir,
his name was Carino.
Zitio. Yea, well said; tell all and more too, do.
Cle. O Lord, if it be as I think, how happy were I. And
why did you change his name then ?
Phil. We called him Dulippo because when he cried as
children do sometimes, he would always cry on that name,
DuUppo.
Clc. Well, then I see well he is mine own only child whom
I lost when I lost my country. He was named Carino after
his grandfather, and this Dulippo whom he always remem-
bered in his lamenting, was his foster father that nourished
and brought him up.
Zitio. Sir, have I not told you enough of the falsehood of
Ferrara -^ This gentleman will not only pick your purse, but
beguile you of your servant also, and make you believe he is
his son.
Clc. Well, good fellow, I have not used to lie.
Zitio. Sir, no, but everything hath a beginning.
Clc. Fie, Philogano ! have you not the least suspect tliat
may be of me 'r
Zitio. No, maiTy ; but it were good he had the most suspect
that may he.
Clc. Well, hold thou thy peace a little, good fellow. — I pray
you tell me, Thilogano, hath the child any remembrance of
his father's name, his mother's name, or the name of his
famOy ?
Phil. He did remember them, and could name his mother
also : but sure I have foi-gotten the name.
Zitio. I remember it wcU enough.
Phil. TeU it then.
Zitid. Nay, that I will not, marry ; you have told him too
much already.
Phil. Tell it, I say, if thou can.
Zitio. Can ! yes, by the mass, I can wcU enough, but I
will have my tongue pulled out, rather than tell it, unless he
tell it first ; do you not perceive, sir, what he gocth about ?
Ck. Well, I wiU tcU you, then. My name you know-
already; my wife his mother's name was Sophronia; tlie
house that I came of, Spiagia.
Zitio. I never heard him speak of Spiagia, but indeed I
have heard him say his mother's name was Sophronia. But
what of that ? A great matter I promise you. It is like
enough tliat you two have compact together to deceive my
master.
Cle. VTkd ncedeth me more evident tokens ? This is my
son out of doubt whom I lost eighteen years since ; and a
thousand thousand times since have I lamented for him ; he
should have also a mould' on his left shoulder.
Zitio. He hath a mould there indeed.
Cle. Fair words, fellow Litio. Oh, I pray you, let us go
talk with him. O Fortune, how much am I bound to thee if
I find my son.
Phil. Yea, how little am I beholden to fortune, that know
not where my son is become ; and you, whom I choose to be
mine advocate, wiU now (by the means of this Dulippo)
become mine adversary.
Cle. Sir, let us go first find mine, and I warrant you, yours
will be found also ere it be long.
Ph il. God gi-ant ; go we then.
Ck. Sith the door is open I will never knock nor call, but
we will be bold to go in.
Zitio. Sir, take }-ou heed, lest he lead you to some mis-
chief.
Phil. Alas, Litio, if my son be lost, what care I what
become of me ?
Zitio. AVeU, I have told you my mind, sir; do you as j'ou
please. IZxeimt. D.vmon rnid Psiteki.i comr in.
Damon is angiy because PasipliiJo, who is a common
gossip, knows the disgrace of liis daughter. How
couhl lie know it but of Psiteria 1 Psiteria exphiins
that tliey were overlieard because the parasite lay
close by in the stable. Damon grieves at open shame
upon Lis house. Yet he has heard that Dulippo was
of no servile estate, but a gentleman of good parentage
in Sicily. Small dowry would now content hiiu with
an honest marriage. Then comes Pasiphilo to tell
all the truth to Damon : —
Pas. For where you have always supposed this gentleman
to be Erostrato, it is not so ; but youi- servant whom you have
imprisoned, hitherto supposed to be Dulippo, he is indeed
Erostrato, and that other is Dubppo. And thus they have
always, even since their fii'st arrival in this city, exchanged
names, to the end that Erostrato, the master, under the name
of Dulippo, a servant, might be entertained in your house,
and so win the love of your daughter.
Zainuii. Well, then, 1 perceive it is even as Polyncsta
told me.
Pas. WTiy, did she tell }mu so ?
Z)«mo)i. Yea, but I thought it but a tale.
Pns. Well, it is a true tale, and here they will be with you
by and by,- both Philogano, this worthy man, and master
dcjctor Cleander.
Damon. Cleander ? What to do ?
Pas. Cleander? Why, thereby lies another tale, the most
fortunate adventure that ever you heard ; wot you what 'f
This other Dulippo, whom all this while we supposed to be
Erostrato, is found to be the son of Cleander, whom he lost at
the loss of Otranto, and was after sold in Sicilia to this
Philogano, the strangest case that ever you heard : a man
might make a comedy of it; they will come even straight,
and tell you the whole circumstance of it themselves.
Lamon. Nay, I will first go hear the stoiy of this Dulippo,
1 >ron?(l, mole. First-Ens:lisli "uiieT," a sjiot or mark.
■■^ By and 6y, immediately.
A.D. 1566.]
PLAYS.
99
be it Dulippo or Eiostrato, that I have here within, hefore I
speak with Philogano.
Pas. So shall you do well, sir ; I will go tell them that
they may stay awhile, and look where they come.
[Damos ffoeth in, Siexese, Cleaxdee, and
Fhtt.ogaxo come upon the stage.
SCENE VIII.
Siexese; Cleaxder; Philogaxo.
Sieti. Sir, j"ou shall not need to excuse the matter any
farther ; since I hare received no greater injury th;ui by
words, let them pass, like wind ; I take them well in worth,
and am rather well pleased than oifended, for it shall hoth be
a good warning to me another time how to trust everj- man
at the first sight ; yea, and I shall have good game hereafter
to teU this pleasant storj- another day in mine own country.
C/e. Gentleman, you have reason ; and be you sure that as
many as hear it will take great pleasure in it. And }'ou,
Philogano, may think, that God in heaven above hath
ordained your coming hither at this present, to the end I
might recover my lost son, whom by no other means I could
ever have found out.
P/iil. Surely, I think no less, for I think that not so much
as a leaf falleth from the tree, without the ordinance of God.
But let us go seek Damon ; for me thinketh ' every day a
year, every hour a day, and every minute too much till I see
my Erostrato.
Clt. I cannot blame you ; go we then. Carino, take you
that gentleman home in the meantime ; the fewer the better
to be present at such affairs.
[Pasiphilo stayeth their going in.
SCEXE IX.
Pasiphelo; Cle.vxder.
Fas. Master doctor, wUl you not show me this favour, to
tell me the cause of your displeasure ?
Cle. Gentle Pasiphilo, I must needs confess I have done
thee wrong, and that I believed tales of thee, which indeed I
find now contrary-.
Pas. I am glad, then, that it proceeded rather of ignorance
than of malice.
Cle. Yea, believe me, Pasiphilo.
Pas. Oh, sir, but yet you should not have given me such
foul words.
Cle. Well, content thyself, Pasiphilo : I am thy friend as
I have always been : for proof whereof, come sup with me
to-night, and from day to day this sevennight be thou my
guest. But behold, here comes Damon out of his house.
\_Here they come all together.
SCENE X.
Oleander : Philogaxo ; Damon- ; Erostr.\to : Pasiphilo ;
PoLYNESTA ; Netola, and other servants.
Cle. We are come unto you, sir, to turn your sorrow into
joy and gladness ; the sorrow we mean that of force - you have
sustained since this mishap of late fallen in your house. But
be you of good comfort, sir, and assure yourself that this
young man which youthfully and not maliciously hath com-
mitted this amorous offence is very well able (with consent of
this worthy man, his father) to make you sufficient amends,
being bom in Cathanea, of Sicilia, of a noble house, no way
inferior unto you, and of wealth (by the report of such as
know it) far exceeding that of yours.
> Me thinketli, seems to me. From First-English "thincan," to
seem, not " thencan," to think.
2 Of force, of necessity. (See " Shorter EngUsh Poems," page 112,
note 13.
Phil. And I here, in proper person, do present unto you,
sir, not only my assured friendship and brotherhood, but do
earnestly desire you to accept my poor child (though un-
worthy) as your son-in-law; and for recompense of theinjim-
he hath done you, I proffer my whole lands in dower to your
daughter : yea, and more would, if more I might.
Cle. And I, sir, who have hitherto so earnestly desired
your daughter in marriage, do now willingly yield up and
quit claim to this young man, who both for years and for the
love he beareth her, is most meetest to be her husband. For
where I was desirous of a wife by whom I might have issue,
to leave that little which God hath sent me, now have I little
need, that (thanks be to God) have found my dearly-beloved
son, whom I lost of a child at the siege of Otranto.
Damon. Worthy gentleman, your friendship, your alliance,
and the nobility of your birth are such, as I have much more
cause to desire them of you, than you to request of me that
which is already granted. Therefore I gladly and willingly
receive the same, and think myself most happy now of all my
life past, that I have gotten so toward a son-in-law to myself,
and so worthy a father-in-law to my daughter; yea, and much
the greater is my contentation, since this worthy gentleman,
master Oleander, doth hold himself satisfied. And now behold
your son.
Piros. father !
Pas. Behold the natural love of the child to the father, for
inward joy he cannot pronounce one word ; instead whereof
he sendeth sobs and tears to tell the effect of his inward in-
vention. But why do you abide here abroad ? Will it please
you to go into the house, sir f
Damon. Pasiphilo hath said well : will it please you to go
in, sir ?
Nev. Here I have brought you, sir, both fetters and bolts.
Damon. Away with them now.
Nev. Yea, but what shall I do with them ?
Damon. Many, I will tell thee, Xevola. To make a right
end of our supposes, lay one of those bolts in the fire, and
make thee a suppositorj- as long as mine arm, God save the
sample.— Nobles, and gentlemen, if you suppose that our
supposes have given you sufiicient cause of deUght, show
some token whereby we may suppose you are content.
£t plauserunt.^
The "Jocasta," which is not by Gascoigne only,
but by Gascoigne and Kiiiwelmai-sh, is a ti-ansla-
tion from the Italian of Lodovico Dolce, whose fi-ee
version of Euripides is exactly followed, including
the chorus, which, in the manner of Seneca, is used
onlv for the closing of each act. The second, third,
and fifth acts were translated by George Gascoigne,
the first and fomth by Francis Kinwelmai-sh. A
dumb show was plamied to introduce each act, a.s in
"Gorboduc," and this was invented by the Englidi
translators to suit the i-equii-ements of the Gray's
Inn Festival. There was no precetlent for that in
Lodovico Dolce. There was also an original EpUogiie,
^v^itten for the piece by Chiistopher Yelveiton.
The blank veree of the play is weU ;vntten. For
example, let us take the opening of the fourth act.
The translator here is not Gascoigne, but Kmwel-
marsh. „^ i- \ j
The speakei-s are a Messenger (Nuntuis) and
Jocasta. The Messenger firet sp eaks :— ^
3 And they shall have applauded.
100
CASSELL'S LIBRAEY OF ENGLISH LTTERATUEE.
[a.d. 1.506
sage and sober dames, shamefast maids,
faithful servants of our aged queen,
Come lead her forth, sith unto her I bring
Such secret news as are of great import.
Come forth, queen, surcease thy woful plaint,
And to my words vouchsafe a willing ear.
\The qtieeHy tvit/t her (ruin, comcth out of the palace.
Joe. My servant dear, dost thou yet bring me
news
Of more mishap V Ah, weary wretch 1 alas !
How doth Eleocles ? whom heretofore
In his increasing years I wonted aye
From dangerous hap with favour to defend.
Doth he yet live ? or hath untimely death
For cruel fight bereft his flowering life ?
ynti. He lives, queen, hereof have ye no doubt.
From such suspect myself will quit you soon.
Joe. The vent'rous Greeks have haply ta'en the
town.
Ifiin. The gods forbid !
Joe. Our soldiers, then, perchance.
Dispersed been and j-ielden to the sword.
Nim. Not so; they were at first in danger, sui-e,
But in the end obtained -victory.
Joe. Alas 1 what then becomes of Polynice ?
Oh, canst thou tell ? is he dead or alive 'i
Xiui. You have, O queen, yet both your sons alive.
Joe. Oh, how my heart is cased of his pain !
Well, then, proceed, and bi-iefly let me hear
How ye repulsed your proud presuming foes,
That thereby yet at least I may assuage
The swelling sorrows in my doleful breast.
In that the town is hitherto preserved :
And for the rest, I trust that mighty Jove
Will yield his aid.
In George Gascoigne's prose translation of " I
Suppositi," there is often a rudeness of style that
contrasts unfavouralaly with the grace of the "original.
But altliough in most of our earliest plays the art
was obviously imperfect, there was the rigour in
them of a sound mind, ^vith worthiness of purpose
tliat would lead in after years to higher things.
With all the grace of Ariosto's comedy, the plot in-
cluded a i-elation between Polyuesta and the fei"Tied
.servant which, by the manner of its treatment, re-
flected a low tone of morality ; and although it gave
more reason for the anger and gi-ief of the father\nd
the giving up of his suit l)y Oleander, it was, on the
whole, so needless a degradation of the two chief
characters that I have passed it over in the telling of
the story. George Gascoigne reproduced it, but it
was foreign to the nature of an English play. Tlie
bitterest opponents of the stage under Elizabeth
admitted that the plays were very honest, and had
healthy aims.
In the year 1566, when Gascoigne's "Supposes"
and " Jocasta " were acted in the Hall at Gray's Inn,
Richard Edwards's play of " Palamou and Arcyte ''
was acted before Queen Elizabeth in the Hall of
<'hrist Church, Oxford. At the beginnimr of the
play part of the stage fell down, whereby 'five per-
sons were hurt and three were killed. Thescafibldino-
was recoiLstructed, the play went on, and the queen
enjoyed it, gning eight guineas to one of the youn"
actors who had pleased her much.
At court it was the business of the Master of the
Revels to have plays rehearsed before him, and to
choose the best for the queen's entei-tainment. In
the cour.se of 1571, Elizabeth had represented befoie
her " Lady Barbara," by SLi' Robert Lane's men ;
" Iphigenia," by the children of Paul's ; " Ajax and
Ulysses," by the children of Windsor ; " Narcissus,"
by the children of the chapel ; " Cloridon and Eadiar
manta," by Sir Robert Lane's men; "Pai-is and
Vienna," by the children of Westminster. The
cliildren were in each case boys of the choir trained
also to act.
In May, 1574, the Earl of Leicester, who was a
good friend to the stage, procured for those of Ids
servants forming his own company of players the
first royal patent to a dramatic company. By this
patent James Bui'bage, John Perkyn, John Lanham,
William Johnson, and Robert Wylson were privileged
to act within the City of London and its Liberties,
and in any other city ; " provided that the said
Comedies, 'Tragedies, Interludes, and Stage Plays be
by the Master of the Revels for the time being before
seen and allowed ; and that the same l)e not published
or shown in the time of (Jommon Prayer, or in the
time of great and common Plague in our City of
Loudon."
Reservation of the time of Common Prayer points
to the fact that the earliest jjlays were presented to
the people chiefly on Sundays and saints' days. Before
the Reformation, usage that still pre\ails in Roman
Catholic countries gave the holiday-time after church
to sports and entertainments of the ])eople. In the
refonned Church of England the discipline of Calvin,
who laid stress upon the keeping holy of the Sabbath
Day, was not accepted at all points, though insisted
upon liy that large section of the Church called by
Archbishop Parker Puritan or Precisian. Toler-
ance of Smiday sports became, indeed, in after years
one of the grounds of contest between Puritans and
their opponents. In 1574, the Mayor and Corporation
of London rej)resented Puritan oi)Uiion, and objected
strongly to the forcing of the players on the City.
Then Leicester procured the writing of a letter from
the Privy Council that required the Lord !Mayor
"to admit the Comedy Players within the City of
London, and to be otherwise favoui-ably used." The
Corporation argued against this, objecting to ])er-
formances on sacred days ; to the unmeet drawing of
young men and maids to the inns ; to the waste of
money ; to the seditious matter that might be spoken
on the stage ; to the danger by occasional fall of the
scaffolding, as well as by chance hurt of the players
with weajions and gunpowder used in jierformances ;
to the lisk of contagion Ijy bringing together crowds,
among whom would be some sick of plague or other
infectious disease. The Common Council framed
regulations that required each exhibition of a jilay
to have its sejjarate licence from the mayor, and half
its profits to be given to the poor ; but had not long
patience even with this limited toleration, and in
December, 1575, issued a complete prohibition of the
performance of plays in the City, and i>rayed the
Lords that they would issue a like ]n-ohibition for all
"places near unto the City." The Justices of Middle-
sex had joined the Corporation in its opposition to the
TO A.D. 1579.]
PLAYS.
101
Iplayei-s, who tlien appealed for protection to the Privy
lOouncU. In its answer to their appeal, the City
Isaid: "It may be noted how uncomely it i.s for yoiitli
I to run straight from prayers to plays, from God's
tservice to the devil's." If the Earl of Leicester's
I company, known as the Queen's Phiyers, was to be
I forced on the City, let the names of these actors be
[registered, and none but just these be sutiered to
• appear upon a stage in London ; and, it was urged,
\ let them not act when the death-rate is over fifty a
\ week. Forty or fifty being then the average death-
I rate when tliere was no plague, and plague or other
|- spread of sickness being very common in those days
I of unwholesome dwellings, this was another way of
(getting an approach to prohibition. In 1576, the
City desii'ed to stop acting at inns, and proposed
I that the players shoidd be required to perform in
I private houses (where tliere would be no room for
an audience large enough to pay them for then-
I .skill) ; that they should never act on the Sabbath,
nor on hoKdays of the Church till after evening
prayer, and then never so late as to make it im-
possible for every one of the spectator who stayed
to the end to I'each home before dai-k. Moi-eover,
there was to be no acting unless the death-rate had
been for twenty days below fifty a week. Breacli
•of these orders was to be followed by forfeiture of
iioleration.
Upon such terms it was impossible for any actoi-s
to live under the jurisdiction of the City of London.
James Burbage and hLs companions were, therefore,
driven to look for a place outside the Lord Mayor's
jurisdiction where they might still be within reach of
the considerable audiences to be drawn from London.
Such a place they found among the houses built upon
the groimd that had once belonged to the gi-eat
monastery of the Dominicans or Black Friars. The
monastery had been built in the time of Edward I. ;
and had a handsome church -ndth privileges, includ-
ing right of sanctuary. Its large precinct enclosed
many shops, and had been entered by four gates.
Its inhabitants, exempt from City law, were subject
•only to the king, to the Superior of the monastery,
and to then- own justices. Several Parliaments had
been held in the great church of the Black Friars,
and there in 1529 Wolsey and Campeggio had heard
the question of divorce between Heiu-y VIII. and
Katharine of Arragon. At the dissolution of the
monasteries. Black Friars was surrendered to the
king in 1538. In 1547, the Prior's lodgmgs and
the Hall were sold to Sir Francis Bryan, and after-
wards Edward VI. gi-anted the rest to Sii- Thomas
Cawarden,
The site of the mona.stery and its precincts — not
included mthin the liberties of the City till the reign
of James I. — became, in Elizabeth's day, a fashion-
able quarter; and when James Burbage and his
fellow-players, to escape control of the Corporation,
took a house in Blackfriars, and converted it into
a theatre of their own, they could not do so ^vithout
comliating much opposition from the polite neigh-
bours, who were averse to noise and crowd. But
they achieved their object, and opened, in 1576,
the Blackfriars Theatre, the first place set apart
in England for performances of plays. About the
same time, two other buildings were erected, for
the distinct purpose of presenting jilays in thorn.
These were outside the City Ijouuds, in" the jilea.sant
fields at Shoreditch, a quarter then prefeired for the
houses and gardens of rich foreign merchants trading
in London. These houses were called " The Theatre"
and " The Curtain," built on the south-westem side
of the site of the supjiies-sed Priory of St. John the
Baptist, called Holywell. One recommendation of
the place chosen for them was that, outside Bishops-
gate, a well-kept street (now Bishop.sgate Street
Without) extended for some way into the open
country, and thus gave easy and safe way of
approach for the play-goers. Four yeai-s afterwiirds,
such acting within the City as still lingered in its
inn-yards was finally suppressed. At one of the inn-
yards — that of the Belle Sauvage hi Ludgate Hill,
where now these pages are printed — it was said that
the de\-il m person appeared one day on the stage to
play his own part for himself among his fi-iends.
In 1576, when the fii'st theatres were built,
Shakespeare was twelve years old. In that yejir,
Stephen Gosson, a young man of Kent, who had
been educated at Cluist Chiu-ch, Oxford, came to
London at the age of twenty-one, ^\Tote poetry, and
attached himself as author and player to the new
Curtain Theatre. He wrote a ti'agedy on "CatUiue's
Conspiracies," and a comedy called "Captam JIario,"
now lost. But wliUe yomig Gosson was among the
actors, his religious mind uiclined more and more to
the side of tlie preachers who condemned the stage.
In a sermon preached at Paul's Cross, on the 3rd of
November, 1577, in time of plague, the Rev. T.
WUcocks said : — " Look but upon the common ]ilays
in London, and see the multitude that flocketh to
them and followeth them : behold the sumptuous
theatre-houses, a continual monument of London's
prodigality and folly. But I understand they are
now forbidden because of the plague. I like the
policy well if it hold still, for a cUsease is but botched
or patched up that is not cured in the cause, and
the cause of ])liigues is sin, if you look to it ^^•ell ;
and the cause of sin are plays : therefcire the cause
of plagues are plays." On the 21th of August. 1578,
the Rev. John Stockwood, of Tunbridge, preaching
at Paul's Cross, said :— " Will not a filthy play, wth
the blast of a trumpet, sooner call tliither a thousimd
than an hour's tolling of the bell brmg to the sermon
a hundred?" And he said of the jilays :— '• Have
we not houses of purpose built wth gi-eat charges
for the maintenance of them, and that without the
liberties, as who would say. There I Let them say
what they ^vill say, we will" play. I know not how
I might, with tlie godly learned especially, moi-e
discommend tlie gorgeous playmg places erected iii
the fields than to term it, as they plea.se to have it
called, a Theatre. ... I ^vill not here enter this
disputation, whether it be utteriy unlawfid to have
any plays, but will oidy join in tliis issue, whether
in a Clnistian commonwealth they be tolerable on
the Lord's Day." Stephen Gosson was convinced
by 1579 that he should not only quit the theatre,
b'ut join with his owii voice in the denunciations of
it. and he pulilished in that year a i^amphlet callt^
" The School of Abuse, containing a Pleasant Inveo-
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CASSELL'S LIBRAKY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1579
tive against Poets, Pipere, Players, Jesters, and
such-like Caterpillars of a Commonwealth." Here
he condemned aUke poets and playei-s. But it is
noticeable that in speaking of the dramatists he
deals with the probable answer of " some Archplayer
or other that hath read a little," who might say that
the immorality of the old comedies was no jjart of the
plays then .seeking the favour of the people. " The
comedies that are exercised in our days are better
sifted. They show no such bran. The first smelt
of Plautus, these taste of Menander. The lewdness
of gods is altered and changed to the love of young
men; force to friendship; wooing allowed by assur-
ance of wedding. Nor are the abuses of the world
revealed; every man in a play may see his own
faults, and learn by this glass to amend his manners.
Deformities are checked in jest and mated in earnest.
The sweetness of music and pleasure of sports temper
the bitterness of rebukes." In such wise Gossou,
whde attacking the stage, represents the claim it then
))Ut forward to be a teacher of duty and upholder of all
that was honest and of good report. Tlie plays that
have come down to us from those times bear ^vitness
to the truth of such a plea, and Gosson does not
contradict it. For what is his reply 1 " They are
either so blind that they cannot, or so blunt that
they will not, see why this exercise should not be
suffered as a profitable recreation. For my part,
I am neither so fond a physician nor so bad a cook
l>ut I can allow my patient a cup of 'wine to meals,
although it be hot ; and pleasant fancies to drive
down his meat if liis stomach be queasy. Notwith-
standing, if jieoijle will be instructed, God be
thanked, we have divines enough to discharge that,
:ind more by a great many than are well hearkened
to." The substantial ground of offence was retention
of the old custom of Sunday entertainment — Sabbath
conflict between the trumpets summoning to plays
and the bells summoning to prayers.
Gosson dedicated his " School of Abuse " to Philip
Sidney. Edmund Spenser, who was then a young
man of about six-and-twenty, publishing his '' Shep-
herd's Calendar " while for a short time in employ-
ment of the Earl of Leicester, ^vl■ote in October,
1579, to his friend, Gabriel Hiiwey, " New books
I hear of none, but only of one that, writing a
certain book and dedicating it to Master Sidney,
was for his labour scorned ; if at least it be iii the
goodness of that nature to scorn. Such folly is it
not to regard aforehand the inclination and quality
of him to whom we dedicate our books." There can
be little doubt that a Puritan outcry against poets,
brought home to him by the dedication of Gosson's
pamphlet, caused Philip Sidney to write, in 1.580 or
1581, his "Apologie for Poetrie," which was not
jiublished until 1595, after its author's death. This
book reasoned boldly and calmly for the poet's art
that it is first among the exercises of man's
intellect. The poet must delight and teach. All
worthy pursuits of men " one and other, having this
scope, to know, and by knowledge to lift up the
mind from the dungeon of the body to the enjoying
of his own di\dne essence." " Now, thereon," .said
Philip Sidney, "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
way, but givetli so sweet a prosjiect into the way aS
will entice any man to enter into it. Nay, he doth
as if your journey should lie through a fair vine-
yai'd, at the first give you a cluster of grapes ; that
full of that taste you may long to p:iss farther. He
beginueth not with obscui'e definitions, which must
bhir the margent with interpretations and load the
memory with doubtfulness ; but he cometh to you
with words set in delightful proportions, either
accompanied with or prepared for the well-enchant-
ing skill of music ; and with a tale forsooth he
cometh unto you ; with a tale which holdeth
chUtben from play, and old men fi-om the chimney-
corner. And pretending no more, doth intend the
winning of the mind from wickedness to vii-tue;
even as the child is often brought to take most
wholesome things by hiding them in such others as
have a pleasant taste, which if one should begin to
tell them the nature of aloes or rhubarb they would
sooner take theii' physic at their ears than at their
mouth. So it is in men (most of which are childish
in the best things, till they be cradled in their
gi'aves), glad they wUl be to hear the tales of
Hercules, Achilles, Cyrus, and .^neas, and hearing
them must needs hear the I'ight description of
wisdom, valour, and justice ; which, if they had been
barely, that is to say philosophically, set out, they
would swear they be brought to school again." Sir
Philip Sidney spoke here for his fellow-poets and
for liis time as well as for himself. In that spirit
every good poet of Elizabeth's reign approached his
woi'k. The crudeness of construction in the early
plays is criticised in Sidney's "Apologie for Poetrie."
He wrote before there was a play written by Lyly,
Peele, Greene, Marlowe, or any one of the chief
precursors of Shakespeare ; when the plays were
such as have been represented thus far by our
specimens. Of Comedy and Tragedy in themselves
Sidney wrote : —
To the .u-guments of abuse I will after answer ; only thus
much now is to be said, that the Comedy is an imitation of
the common errors of oui' life, which he reprcsenteth in the
most ridiculous and scornful sort that may he : so as it is
impossible that any beholder can be content to be such a one.
Now, as in geometry, the oblique must be known as well as
the right, and in arithmetic, the odd as well as the even ; so
in the actions of our life, who seeth not the filthiness of evil,
wantcth a great foil to perceive the beauty of virtue. This
doth the comedy handle so, in our private and domestical
matters, as, with hearing it, we get, as it were, an experience
of what is to be looked for, of a niggardly Demea, of a crafty
Davus, of a flattering Gnatho, of a vain-glorious Thraso ; and
not only to know what effects are to be expected, but to know
who be such, by the signifying badge given them by the
comedian. And little reason hath any man to say, that men
learn the ei-il by seeing it so set out ; since, as I said before,
there is no man living, but by the force truth hath in natiure,
no sooner seeth these men play their parts, but wisheth them
in " pistrinum ; " ' although perchance the sack of his own
^ In instrinum. Com was pouiided usually in the pisti-inum by oxea
or asses. Slaves when lazy or worthless were often put "in pistii—
num " to do asses* work.
TO A.D. 1581.]
PLAYS.
103
faults lie so behind Ms back, that he seeth not himself U>
(liince the same measure, whereto yet nothing can more open
his eyes than to see his own actions contemptibly set forth ;
so that the right use of comedy will, I think, by nobody be
blamed.
And much less of the high and excellent Tragedy, that
v>iieneth the greatest wounds, and showeth forth the ulcers
that are covered with tissue ; that maketh Idngs fear to be
tyrants, and t)-rants to manifest their tyrannical humours ;
that with stirring the effects of admiration and commisera-
'inu teachcth the imcertainty of this world, and upon how
, - ak foundations gilded roofs are builded; that maketh us
Know, " qui sceptra duro s;evus iniperio regit, timet timentes,
metus in auctorem redit." ' But how much it can move,
Plutarch j-ieldeth a notable testimony of the abominable
t-iTant Alexander Pheraeus ; from whose eyes a tragedy, well
made and represented, ch-ew abundance of tears, who without
all pity had murdered infinite numbers, and some of his own
blood : so as he that was not ashamed to make matters for
tragedies, yet could not resist the sweet violence of a tragedy.
And if it n-rought no farther good in him, it was that he, in
despite of himself, -withdrew himself from hearkening to that
which might mollify his hardened heart.
Of the defect of art in our earlie.st plays, Skluey
wrote : —
Our tragedies and comedies, not without cause, ai-e cried
iiat against, observing rules neither of honest civility nor
-kilful pootiy. Excepting Gorbodue (again I say of those
that I have seen) which notwithstanding, as it is fuU of
stately speeches and well-sounding phrases, cUmbing to the
lieight of Seneca his style, and as full of notable morality,
which it doth most delightfully teach and so obtain the
very end of poesy ; yet, in truth, it is very defectuous in
the circumstances, which grieves me, because it might not
remain as an exact model of all tragedies. For it is faulty
both in place and time, the two necessar)' companions of all
corporal actions. For where the stage should alway repre-
sent but one place ; and the uttermost time presupposed in it,
should be, both by Aristotle's precept, and common reason,
but one day ; there is both many days and many places in-
artificially imagined.
But if it be so in Gorbodue, how much more in all the
rest ? where you shall have Asia of the one side, and Afrie
of the other, and so many other under kingdoms, that the
player, when he comes in, must ever begin with tcUing where
he is, or else the tale will not be conceived. Now shall you
have three ladies walk to gather flowers, and then we must
believe the stage to be a garden. By and by, we hear news
of shipwreck in the same place, then we are to blame if we
accept it not for a rock. Upon the back of that comes out a
hideous monster with fire and smoke, and then the miserable
beholders are bound to take it for a cave ; while, in the mean
time, two armies fly in, represented -nath four swords and
bucklers, and then, what hard heart will not receive it for a
pitched field ':"
Now of time they are much more liberal ; for ordinary it
is, that two young' princes fall in love ; after many traverses
she is got with child ; delivered of a fair boy ; he is lost,
groweth a man, faUeth in love, and is ready to get another
child ; and all this in two hours' space ; which, how absurd
' " The croel man who with a hard rule holds the sceptre, fears those
who fear him, the dread comes home to its author." Two lines from
Act V. of the "Oedipus" of Seneca.
it is in sense, even sense may imagine ; and art hath taught
and all ancient examples justified, and at this day the
ordinary players in Italy will not err in. Yet will" some
bring in an example of the Eunuch in Terence, tliat con-
taineth matter of two days, yet far short of twenty years.
Ti-ue it is, and so was it to be played in two days, and so
fitted to the time it set forth. And though Plautiis have in
one place done amiss, let us hit it with him, and not mis-i
■n-ith him. But they will say. How then shall we set forth a
story which contains both many places and many times I'
And do they not know, that a tragedy is tied to the Laws of
poesy^ and not of history ; not bound to follow the stor\-, but
having Uberty either to feign a quite new matter, or to frame
the history to the most tragical convenience ? Again, many
things may be told, which ciimot be showed ; if they know
the difference betwixt reporting and representing. As for
example, I may speak, though I am here, of Peru, and iu
speech digress from that to the description of Calicut : but in
action I cannot represent it without I'acolet's horse. And
so was the maimer the ancients took by some " Xuntius," to
recount things done in fonner time, or other place.
Lastly, if they will represent an historj-, they must not, as
Horace saith, begin "ah ovo," but they must come to the
principal point of that one action which they will represent.
By example this will be best expressed : I have a story of
young Polydorus, delivered, for safety's sake, with great
riches, by his father Priamus to PoljTnnestor, King of
Thrace, in the Trojan war time. He, after some years,
hearing of the overthrow of Priamus, for to make the treasure
lus own, murdereth the child ; the body of the child is taken
up; Hecuba, she, the same day, findeth a sleight to bo
revenged most cruelly of the tyrant. '^NTiere, now, would
one of our tragedy--n-ritcrs begin, but -n-ith the deUvery of
the child? Then should he sail over into Thrace, and so
spend I know not how many years, and travel numbers
of places. But where doth Euripides? Even -with the
finding of the body ; leaving the rest to be told by the spirit
of Polydorus. This needs no farther to be enlarged; the
dullest -wit may conceive it.
But, besides these gross absurdities, how all their plays be
neither right tragedies nor right comedies, mingling kings
and clo^\-ns, not because the matter so carrieth it, but thrust
in the clown by head and shoulders to play a part in majestical
matters, with "neither decency nor discretion; so as neither
the admiration and commiseration, nor the right sportfuhiess,
is by their mongrel tragi-comcdy obtained. I know Apulcius
did somewhat so, but that is a thing recounted -irith space of
time, not represented in one moment: and I know the
ancients have one or two examples of tragi-comedios as
Plautus hath Amphj-trio. But, if we mark them well, we
shaU find, that thev never, or very dmntily, match hompi!)es
and funerals. So falleth it out, that baring indeed no right
comedy in that comical part of our tragedy, we have nothing
but scunilitv, unworthy of any chaste ears; or some extreme
show of doltishness, indeed fit to lift up a loud laughter, and
nothing else : where the whole tract of a comedy shoiUd be
full of delight ; as the tragedy should be stiU mamtained m a
well-raised admiration.
But our comedians think there is no delight without
laughter, which is veiy wrong; for though laughter may
come with delieht, vet Cometh it not of delight, as though
deh-ht should be the cause of laughter; but weU may one
thin°"- breed both together. Nay, in themselves, they have,
as it^'were, a k4nd of contrariety. For deUght wo scarcely do,
but in things that have a convenieney to ourselves, or to the
r-eneral nature. Laughter almost ever cometh of things most
disproportioned to ourselves and nature: deUght hath a joy
104
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[i.D. 1581
in it either licrmanent or present; laughter hath only a
scornful tickling, l-'or example: we are ravislied with delight
to SCO a fair woman, and yet are far from being moved to
laugliter : we laugh at deformed creatures, wherein certainly
we amuot delight : we delight in good chances : wc laugh at
mischances : we delight to hear the happiness of our friends
and country, at which he were worthy to be laughed at that
would laugh : we shall, coutraiily, sometimes laugh to find a
matter quite mistaken, and go down the hill against the bias,'
in the mouth of some such men as, for the respect of thom,
one shall be heartily son-y he cannot choose but laugh, and
so is rather pained than delighted with laughter. Yet deny
I not, but that they may go well together; for, as in Alex-
ander's picture well set out, we delight without laughter,
and in twenty mad antics we laugh without delight : so in
Hercules, painted with his gi-eat beard and furious coun-
tenance, in a woman's attire, spinning at Omphale's com-
mandment, it breeds both delight and laughter; for the
repi-esenting of so strange a power in love, procures delight,
and the scornfulness of the action stin-eth laughter.
But I speak to this purpose, that all the end of the
comical part be not upon such scornful matters as stir
laughter only, but mix with it that delightful teaching
which is the end of poesy. And the great fault, even in that
point of laughter, and forbidden plainly by Ai-istotle, is, that
they stir laughter in sinful things, which are rather execrable
than ridiculous ; or in miserable, which are rather to be
pitied than scorned. For what is it to make folks gape at a
wretched beggar, and a beggarly clown ; or against the law
of hospitality, to jest at strangers, because they speak not
English so well as we do f what do we learn, since it is
certain
Nil habefc infelix inuipertas diu-ius in se,
Quam quod i-idiculos homines facit ? ^
But rather a busy loving courtier, and a heartless threatening
Thraso ; a self-'n'ise seeming schoolmaster ; a wiy-transformed
traveller : these, if we saw walk in stage names, which we
play naturally, therein were delightful laughter, and teaching
dehghtf ulness : as in the other, the tragedies of Buchanan ■'
do justly bring forth a divine admiration.
But I have lavished out too many words of this play
matter ; I do it, because, as they are excelUng parts of poesy,
BO is there none so much used in England, and none can be
more pitifully abused ; which, like an unmannerly daughter,
showing a bad education, causeth her mother Poesy's honesty
to be called in question.
So .stood opinion between the poets and the
Puritans in 1580. Stephen Gossou, sincere in attack,
although his view of the case was not a wide one,
withdrew from the stage to poverty, and was for five
years a tutor in the country. He took some part in
continuance of the controversy raised against the
players, who defended tliemselves in theii- own way
in February, 1.582, with "A Play of Plays," which
was then acted at the Shoreditch " Theatre." The
players had much favour, and more play-hoiises were
built.
In 1580, a theatre was established on the ground
of the suppressed monastery at Whitefriars. But
1 Bias, Old French "biais," slope.
- From the third Satire of Juvenal, thus paraphrased by Samuel
Johnson in his " London ; "
" Of all the griefs that harass the distress's,
Siu'e the most bitter is a scornful jest."
- The Tragedies of George Buchanan were in Latin.
the Whitefriars Theatre was not used after 1616.
On the Surrey side of the Thames the old building '
in Paris Garden, which had been used for bear-
baiting, was turned into a theatre, and other theatres
that sprang up on that side of the water were the
The Globe Theatre. Bcilt ik 1594; Eeboilt in 1613.
Rose, the Hope, and the Swan, on Bankside, opened
about 1581. The Hope was used as a bear-gardeu
on two days of the week.
On the 13th of June, 158.3, several persons were
killed and many maimed during a play acted on
Sunday, by the fall of a rotten gallery in the old
building used at Paris Garden as a theatre. This
was accepted as God's judgment upon the question
of Sabbath-day performances. Tliey were then pro-
hibited by the Privy Council ; and wlien Shakespeare
came to London, three years later, tliat old cause of
offence was at an end.
Among the court plays, ancient history and mytho-
logy still furnished a large part of the material for
exercise of ftmcy ; and about the year 1583 George
Peele, then twenty-five years old, wrote " The
Arraignment of Paris," which was presented before
Queen Elizabeth by the children of her chajiel, and
first printed, without the autlior's name, in 1584:.
George Peele was of Devonshire, and cites his
native county, "No better hay in all Devonshii-e,"
in the piece here taken as an illustration of his
genius. He was about six years older than Shake-
speare ; stvidied at Broadgates Hall, now Pembroke
College, Oxford; graduated as B.A. in 1577, and
~ . 1 ■
as M.A. in 1579; and was a noted poet m his
]5*1.]
PLAYS.
105
uidvereity, wliere he probably wi'ote a poem on
■Tlie Tale of Troy," which he published in 1589
as " an old poem of mine own." He translated, when
it Oxford, one of the Iphigeuias of Euripides, but
that vei-sion is lost. He came to London about five
vears before Shakesjaeare, in 1.581, was a man-ied
man in 1.583, and possessed some land in right of
his wife. Li 1583 he was concerned at Oxford in
the production of two plaj's at ChrLstchurch, when
Albertus Alasco, a Polish Piince Palatine, was
lifing hospitably received by the university at her
Majesty's desire. He must have been then kno'mi
as a cb'amatist in London. In 1584 there was
printed, without author's name, liLs " Arraignment
of Paris, a Pastoral, presented before the Queen's
Majesty by the Children of her Chapel." In Peele's
ARRAIG^^ffiENT OF PARIS,
after a prologue by Ate, the fii-st act opens with
a dainty pastoral scene, in which Pan, Faunus, and
Svlvanus prepare to welcome the goddesses, whose
near ajiproach is felt. Pomona enters, to join the
ivception, and she asks —
Tliinkest, Faunus, that these goddesses will take our gifts in
worth.
To which Faunus replies, —
Vca, doubtless, for shall tell thee, dame, 'twere better give
a thing,
-V sign of love, unto a mighty person or a king,
Than to a rude and barbarous swain, but bad and basely
bom,
For gently takes the gentleman that oft the clown will scorn.
The whole play is designed as a tribute of homage
to the queen, before whom it was to be presented.
Flora joins in the preparation to receive the
fjoddesses, and presently Pomona says —
Foiii. Hark, Flora, Faunus ! here is melody,
A charm of birds,' and more than ordinarj'.
[An artificial charm of birds heard ivithiii.
Pan. The silly birds make mirth ; then should we do them
wrong,
Pomona, if we nill bestow an echo to their song.
The song. A quire icithiii ami tvifhoiit.
Gods. Ida, O Ida, Ida, happy hill !
This honour done to Ida, may it continue stiU 1
Mimef. [ Within.l Ye country gods that in this Ida won,=
Bring down your gifts of welcome.
For honour done to Ida. .
God.i. Behold, in sign of joy we sing.
And signs of joyful welcome bring.
For honour done to Ida.
Muses. 'iTFithiii.l The Muses give you melody to gratulate
this chance,
' Charm of birds. "Charm" is of the same root as the Latin
"carmen." So hirds are themselves said to be "charmed" by
musical sounds. Milton uses the same phrase in " Paradise Lost,"
"with charm of earliest birds." (Book IV., line 641.)
^ Won, dwell. First-English " wunian."
134
And Phcebe, chief of sylvan chace, commands you aU to
dance.
Gods. Then round in a circle our sportance must be;
Hold hands in a hornpipe, aU galkut in glee. [Dance.
Muses. [JTithin.] Reverence, reverence, most humble re-
verence 1
Gods. Most humble reverence !
Rhaxis leading the way, enter Juxo, Pallas, and Vbxds.
Pax alone sings.
THE SOSG.
The God of Shepherds, and his mates,
With country cheer salute your states,
Fair, wise, and worthy as you be,
And thank the gracious ladies three
For honour done to Ida. [The birds sing.
The goddesses speak, and are welcomed with
pastoral gi-ice. Tlien the scene changes to a picture
of the nistic love of Paris and CEnone : —
Enter Paris and (Exosi.
Par. (Enone, while we bin dispos'd to walk,
Tell me what shall be subject of our talk ';
Thou hast a sort of pretty tales in store.
Dare say no nj-mph in Ida woods hath more :
Again, beside thy sweet alluring face.
In teUing them thou hast a special grace.
Then, prithee, sweet, afford some pretty thing,
Some toy that from thy pleasant wit doth spring.
(En. Paris, my heart's contentment and my choice.
Use thou thy pipe, and I -nTll use my voice ;
So shall thy just request be not denied,
Anil time well spent, and both be satisfied.
Par. Well, gentle njTnph, although thou do me wrong.
That can ne tune my pipe unto a song.
Me list this once, CEnone, for thy sake,
This idle task on me to undertake.
They sit under a tree together.
(En. And whereon, then, shall be my roundelay?
For thou hast heard my store long since, dare say ;
How Saturn did di\-ide his kingdom tho
To Jove, to Xeptune, and to Dis below ;
How mighty men made foul successless war
Against the gods .ind sfcite of Jupiter ;
How Phorcy's imp, that was so trick and fair,
That tangled Xeptune in her golden hair,
Became a Gorgon for her lewd misdeed,—
A pretty fable, Paris, for to read,
A piece of cunning, trust me, for the nones,
That wealth and beauty alter men to stones ;
How Salmaeis, resembling idleness.
Turns men to women all through wantonness ;
How Pluto raught Queen Ceres' daughter thence.
And what did follow of that love-offence ;
Of Daphne tum'd into the laui-el-tree.
That shows a mirror of \-irgimty ;
How fair Narcissus tooting on his shade.
Reproves disdain, and teUs how form doth vade ;
How cunning Philomela's needle tells
•What force in love, what wit in sorrow dwells;
What pains unh.appy souls .abide in heU,
They say because on earth they liv'd not well,—
Ixion's wheel, proud Tantil's pining woe,
Prometheus' torment, and a many mo,
106
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1584.
How Danaus' daughters jily their endless task,
AVhat toil the toil of Sisj-phus doth ask-:
All these are old and known I know, yet, if thou wilt have
any,
Choose some of these, for, trust me, else CEnone hath not
many.
Far. Nay, what thou wilt: hut sith my tunning not
compares with thine.
Begin some toy that I can play upon this pipe of mine.
CEn. There is a pretty sonnet, then, we call it Cupid's
Curse,
" They that do chaiiye old love for new, pray gods they change
for worse ! "
The note is tine and quick withal, the ditty will agree,
Paris, with that same vow of thine upon om- poplar-tree.
Par. No better thing ; Legin it, then ; ffinone, thou shalt
see
Our music figure of the love that grows 'twixt thee and me.
They siiig ; and while QixoxE sings, he pipes.
CVl'ID S CURSE.
(En. Fair and fair, and twice so fair,
As fair as any may be ;
The fairest shepherd on our green,
A love for any lady.
Par. Fair and fau-, and twice so fair.
As fair as any may be ;
Thy love is fail- for thee alone,
And for no other lad^.
(En. My love is fair, my love is gay,
As fresh as bin the flowers in Jlay,
And of my love my roundelay,
il)' merry merry merry roundelay.
Concludes with Cupid's curse, —
They that do change old love for new,
Pray gods they change for worse !
Both. They that do change, &o.
(En. Fair and fair, &c.
Par. Fair and fair, kc.
Thy love is fair, &c.
CEn. lly love can pipe, my love can sing,
My love can many a pretty thing.
And of his lovely praises ring
My merry meiTy roimdela}-s.
Amen to Cupid's curse, —
They that do change, &c.
Par. They that do change, kc.
Both. Fair and fair, &c.
The song being ended, they rise.
(En. Sweet shepherd, for CEnone's sake be cunning in this
song.
And keep thy love, and love thy choice, or else tliou dost her
wrong.
Par. My vow is made and witnessed, the poplar will not
start,
Xor shall the nj-mph (Enone's love from forth my bleeding
heart.
I will go bring thee on thy way, my flock are here behind.
And I will have a lover's fee ; they say, unkiss'd unk-ind.
\_Exeiint.
So ends the first act.
j-ii the next the three goddesses appear again.
The weather changes as they speak, and
The storm being past of thunder and lightning, and Ate having
trundled the ball into place, crying " Fatum Trojaj," ' Jumo
takes it up.
Juno. Pallas, the storm is past and gone, and Phoebus
clears the skies,
-\nd, lo, behold a baE of gold, a fair and worthy piize !
Ven. This posy wills the apple to the fau'ost given be ;
Then is it mine, for Venus hight the fairest of the three.
Pal. The fairest here, as fair is meant, am I, ye do me
wrong ;
Anil if the fairest have it must, to me it doth belong.
Juno. Then Juno may it not enjoy, so every one says no,
But I wUl prove myself the fau-est ere I lose it so.
[They read the posy.
The brief is this, Detur pulcherrimw,
Let tliis unto the fairest given be,
The fairest of the thi-ee, — and I am she.
Pal. Detur pulcherrimie.
Let tliis unto the fairest given be.
The fairest of the thi-ce, — and I am she.
Vcn. Detur palcherrinin.
Let this unto the fairest given be.
The fairest of the three, — and I am she.
Juno. My face is fair ; but yet the Majesty
That all the gods in heaven have seen in me
Have made them choose me-, of the planets seven.
To be the -wife of Jove and queen of heaven.
If, then, this pi-izc be but bequeath'd to beauty.
The only she that \\-ins this prize am I.
Ven. That Venus is the faii-est, this doth prove,
That Venus is the lovely (^ucen of Love :
The name of Venus is indeed but Beauty,
And men me fairest call per excellency.
If, then, this prize be but bequeath'd to beauty,
The only she that wins this prize am I.
Pal. To stand on tenns of beauty as you take it.
Believe me, ladies, is but to mistake it.
The beauty that this subtle jirize must win.
No outward beauty hight, but dwells within ;
And sift it as you please, and j'ou shall find.
This beauty is the beauty of the mind :
This faii-ness, virtue hight in general.
That many branches hath in special ;
This beauty AVisdom hight, whereof am I,
By heaven appointed, goddess worthily.
And look how mucli the mind, the better part.
Doth overpass the body in desert.
So much the mistress of those gifts divino
Excels thy beauty, and that state of thine.
Then, if this prize be thus bequeath'd to beauty.
The only she that wins this prize am I.
Ven. Nay, Pallas, by your leave you wander clean :
AVe must not construe hereof as you mean,
But take the sense as it is plainly meant ;
And lot the fairest ha't, I am content.
Pal. Om- reasons -n-ill be infinite, I trow,
T'nless unto some other point we grow :
But first here's none, mcthinks, dispos'd to yield,
And none but will with words maintain the field.
Juno. Then, if yovi will, t' avoid a tedious grudge.
Refer it to the sentence of a judge ;
1 The Fate of Troy : tecaiise the favoiu- of Venns wou by Paris, e
Prince of Troy, led to his carrying off Helen, tlie most beautifoi
woman in the world, from her Greek husband Menelaus. This caused
the Greeks to besiege Troy, and leave it in ruin.
A.D. 1584.]
PLAYS.
107
Whoe'er he be that Cometh next in place,
Let him bestow the ball and end the case.
Veil. So can it not go wrong viith me at all.
Pal. I am agreed, however it befall :
And yet by common doom, so may it be,
1 may be said the fairest of the three.
Jiiiio. Then yonder, lo, that shepherd swain is he.
That must be umpire in this controversy !
Snter Pabis.
Ve». Jimo, in hapjiy time, I do accept the man;
It seemuth by his looks some skill of love he can.
Par. [Axidcl The m-mph is gone, and I, all solitary,
JIust wend to tend my charge, oppress'd with melancholy.
This day (or else me fails my shepherd's skill)
AVUl tide me passing good or passing Ul.
Jiiiio. Shepherd, abash not, though at sudden thus
Thou be arrived by ignorance among us.
Not earthly but divine, and goddesses all three ;
Juno, PaUas, Venus, these our titles be.
Nor fear to speak for reverence of the place,
Chosen to end a hard and doubtful case.
This apple, lo, (nor ask thou whence it came,)
Is to be given unto th^ fairest dame !
And fairest is, nor she, nor she, but she
^^'llom, shepherd, thou shalt fairest name to be.
This is thy charge ; fulfU mthout offence.
And she that wins shall give thee recompense.
Pal. Dread not to speak, for we have chosen thee,
Sith in this case we can no judges be.
Veil. And, shepherd, say that I the fairest am.
And thou shalt ^vin good guerdon for the same.
Juno. Nay, shepherd, look upon my stately grace,
Because the pomp that 'longs to Juno's mace
Thou mayst not see ; and think Queen Juno's name,
To whom old shepherds title works of fame.
Is mighty, and may easUy suffice.
At Phcf'be's hand to gain a golden prize.
And for thy meed, sith I am queen of riches.
Shepherd, I will reward thee with great monarchies,
Empires, and kingdoms, heaps of massy gold.
Sceptres and diadems curious to behold.
Rich robes, of sumptuous workmanship and cost,
And thousand things whereof I make no boast :
The mould whereon thou treadest shall be of Tagus' sands,
And Xanthus shall run liquid gold for thee to wash thy
hands ;
jVnd if thou like to tend thy flock, and not from them to fly.
Their fleeces shall be curled gold to please theii- master's
eye ;
And List, to set thy heart on fii-e, give this one fruit to me.
And, shepherd, lo, this tree of gold will I bestow on thee I
Juno's S/iow.
A Tree of Gold rises, laden with diadems and crowns
of gold.
The ground whereon it grows, the grass, the root of gold.
The body and the bark of gold, all glistering to behold.
The leaves of burnished gold, the fruits that thereon grow
.Vre diadems set with pearl in gold, in gorgeous glistering
show ;
j\nd if this tree of gold in Heu may not suffice,
Itequire a grove of golden trees, so Juno bear the prize.
[The Tree sinks.
Pal. 5Ie list not tempt thee with decaying wealth,
A\niich is embas'd by want of lusty health ;
But if thou have a mind to fly above,
Y-crown"d with fame, near to the seat of Jove,
If thou aspu-e to \\-i3dom's worthiness,
\\Tiereof thou mayst not see the brightness,
If thou desire honom- of chivalry,
To ■>-" renowned for happy victory,
To fight it out, and in the champaign field
To shroud thee under Pallas' warlike shield.
To prance on barbed steeds, — this honour, lo,
Myself for guerdon shall on thee bestow !
And for encouragement, that thou mayst sec
What famous knights Dame PaUas' warriors be.
Behold in Pallas' honour here they come.
Marching along with sound of thundering drum.
Pallas' S1iou\
Enter Nine Kni ghts in armour, treading a warlike almain,''
by drum and ffe ; and then they having marched fort/i
again, Venus speaks.
Fen. Come, shepherd, come, sweet shepherd, look on me,
These bene too hot alarums these for thee :
But if thou wilt give me the golden ball,
Cupid my boy shall ha't to play withal.
That, whensoe'er this apple he shall see.
The God of Love himself shall think on thee.
And bid thee look and choose, and he will wounC
Whereso thy fancy's object shall be found ;
And lightly when he shoots he doth not miss :
And I will give thee many a lovely kiss.
And come and play with thee on Ida here ;
And if thou wilt a face that hath no peer.
To ravish all thy beating veins ■with joy.
Here is a lass of Venus' court, mj- boy :
Here, gentle shepherd, here's for thee a piece.
The fairest face, the flower of gallant Greece.
Venus' Show.
Enter Helen in her bravery, with four Cupids attending on
her, each having his fan in his hand to fan fresh air in her
face : she sings as follows.^
Se Diana net cielo e mm Stella
Chiara e lucente, plena di spkndore,
Che porge luc' all' affanato cuore ;
Se Diana nel ferno i una dea,
Che da conforto all' anime dannate,
Che per amor son morte desperate ;
Se Diana, ch' in terra !■ delle ninfe
Reina imperativa di dolci fori,
Tra bosch' e selve da morte a pastori ,
lo son un Diana dolce e rara,
Che eon li giiardi io possofar guerra
A Diari infei-n,' in cielo, e in terra. {Exit.
Par. Jlost heavenly dames, was never man as I,
Poor shepherd swain, so happy and unhappy ;
The least of these delights that you devise.
Able to rape and dazzle human eyes.
But since my silence may not pardon'd be,
And I appoint which is the fairest she.
1 Almain (Anemimde) was a statel.T form of dance mtroduced from
Germany. Its solemn musical accompaniment, without the dance,
was also called sometimes an Almain. . „ , , .
'- If Diana in Heaven is a clear and shinin? star, fnll of splendour.
who sives light to the troubled heart ; if Diana in HeU is a goddess
who lives comfort to the condemned souls that have died in desimu-
throuuhlove; if Diana who is on Earth the empress queen of the
nymphs of the sweet flowers, among thickets and woods gives death
to the shepherds : I am a Diana sweet and rrn-e, who with my glands
can give battle to Dian of HeU. in Heaven, or on Earth.
108
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 15Si.
Pardon, most sacred diimes, sith one, not all.
By Paris' doom must have this golden ball.
Thy beauty, stately Juno, dame divine.
That Ukc to Phiebus' golden beams doth shine,
Approves itself to be most excellent ;
But that fair face that doth me most content,
Sith fail-, fair dames, is neither she nor she,
But she whom I shall fairest doom to be,
That face is hers that hight the Queen of Love,
Whose sweetness doth both gods and creatures move ;
And if the fairest face deserve the ball.
Fair Venus, ladies, bears it from ye all.
[Gives the Golden Ball to Venus.
Veil. And in this ball doth Venus more deUght
Than in her lovely boy fair Cupid's sight.
Come, shepherd, come ; sweet Venus is thy friend ;
No matter how thou other gods offend.
[Venus tnkes Paris awai/ icith her.
Juno. But he shall rue and ban the dismal day
Wherein his Venus bare the ball away ;
And heaven and earth just witnesses shall be,
I will revenge it on his progeny.
Fal. Well, Juno, whether we be lief or loth,
Venus hath got the apple fi-om us both.
Tlie tliird act open.s witli a .sheplierd Colin's .song
of his passion of love, and a rustic dialogue upon
it between Hobbinol, Diggon, and Tlienot, to whom
enters Qjlnone, \vith a wreath of poppy on her head,
lamenting the perfidy of Paris. She sings a com-
plaint, heard by Mercury, who talks with her, and
tells her that he is sent by Jove to summon Paris,
who is to be arraigned before an assembly of the
gods at the complamt of the Queen of Heaven. The
next scene associates Venus and Paris with the
burial of the dead Colin, to the burden of song of
the love Thestylis hath .slam. Thestylis then wooes
a churl in vain, and sings her lament before the
shepherds bear out Colin's hearse. Then
Enter Mercury with Vulcan'.s C\-clops.
Mer. Fair Lady Venus, let me pardon' d be,
That have of long been wcU-beloved of thee.
If, as my office bids, myself first brings
To my sweet madam these unwelcome tidings.
Ven. What news, what tidings, gentle Mercury,
In midst of my delights, to trouble me ?
Mer. At Jimo's suit, Pallas assisting her,
Sith both did join in suit to Jupiter,
Action is enter'd in the court of heaven ;
And me, the swiftest of the planets seven.
With warrant they have thence despatch' d away.
To apprehend and find the man, they say,
That gave from them that self-same ball of gold,
Which, I presume, I do in place behold ;
Which man, unless my marks be taken wide.
Is he that sits so near thy gracious side.
This being so, it rests he go from hence,
Before the gods to answer his offence.
Ven. What tale is this ? doth Jimo and her mate
Pursue this shepherd with such deadly hate,
As what was then our general agreement.
To stand unto they nill be now content ?
Let Juno jet, and Pallas play her part,
■VVhat here I have, I won it "by desert ;
And heaven and earth shall both confounded be,
Ere wi-ong in this be done to him or me.
Mir. This little fruit, if Mercury can spell,
Will send, I fear, a world of souls to hell.
Veil. What mean these Cyclops, Mercury ? is Vulcar
wax'd so fine,
To send his chimney-sweepers forth to fetter any friend of
mine ?• —
Abash not, shepherd, at the thing ; myseU thy bail will be. —
He shall be present at the court of Jove, I waiTant thee.
Mer. Venus, give mo your pledge.
Ven. My ceston, or my fan, or both ?
Mer. [taking her fan.'] Nay, this shall serve, your word to
me as sui'e as is your oath,
At Diana's bower ; and, lady, if my wit or policy
May_ profit him, for Venus' sake let him make bold with
Mercurj'. \_Exit with the Ci/clops.
Ven. Sweet Paris, whereon dost thou muse Y
Far. The angry heavens, for this fatal jar.
Name me the instrument of dire and deadly war. [Exeunt.
The fourth act, after a pastoral prelude, contains
the ai'raignment of Paris. Here it wUl be observed
that Peele, for the rhetoric of the defence, passed out
of rhyme into bhuik verse : —
The gods being set in Diana's bower ; Diana, Juno, Pall.-is,
Venus, and Paris, stand on sides before them.
Ven. Lo, sacred Jove, at Juno's proud complaint.
As erst I gave my pledge to Mercui-y,
I bring the man whom he did late attaint.
To answer his indictment orderly ;
And crave this grace of this immortal senate.
That ye allow the man his advocate.
Pal. That may not be ; the laws of heaven deny
A man to plead or answer by attorney.
Ven. Pallas, thy doom is all too peremptory.
Apol. Venus, that favour is denied him flatly :
He is a man, and therefore by om- laws.
Himself, without his .aid, must plead his cause.
Ven. Then 'bash not, shepherd, in so good a case ;
And friends thou hast, as well as foes, in place.
Jan. Why, Mercury, why do ye not indict him ?
Ven. Soft, gentle Juno, I pray you, do not bite him.
Jimo, Nay, gods, I trow, you are like to have great silence,
Unless this parrot be commanded hence.
Jiip. Venus, forbear, be still. — Speak, Mercury.
Ven. If Juno jangle, Venus will reply.
Mer. Paris, king Priam's son, thou art arraigned of par-
tiaUty,
Of sentence partial and unjust ; for that without indifJerency,
Beyond desert or merit far, as thine accusers say.
From them, to Lady Venus here, thou gav'st the prize away :
What is thine answer ?
Paris' oration to the Council of the Gods.
Sacred and just, thou great and dreadful Jove,
And you thrice-reverend powers, whom love nor hate
May wrest awry ; if this to me a man,
This fortune fatal be, that I must plead
For safe excusnl of my guiltless thought,
The honour more makes my mishap the less
That I a man must plead before the gods.
Gracious forbcarers of the world's amiss,
For her, whose beauty how it hath entic'd,
This heavenly senate may with me aver.
But sith nor that nor this may do me boot,
And for myself myself must speaker be,
A mortal man amidst this heavenly presence ;
A.D. ISSi.]
Let me not shape a long defence to thcra
That ben beholders of my guiltless thoughts.
Then for the deed, that I may not deny,
^\^lerein consists the full of mine offence,
I did upon command ; if then I err'd,
I did no more than to a man belong" d.
And if, in verdict of their forms divine.
My dazzled eye did sweire or sm-feit more
(In Venus' face than any face of theirs,
It was no partial fault, but fault of liis,
Lelike, whose eyesight not so perfect was
As might discern the brightness of the rest.
.And if it were permitted unto men.
Ye gods, to parley with your secret thoughts,
There ben that sit upon that sacred seat.
That would with Pai-is eiT in Venus' praise.
But let me cease to speak of error here ;
Sith what my hand, the organ of my heart,
Did give with good agreement of mine eye,
3Iy tongue is void with process to maintain.
Flu. A jolly shepherd, wise and eloqvient.
Par. First, then, arraign'd of partiality,
Paris replies, " Unguilty of the fact ; "
His reason is, because he knew no more
Fair Venus' ceston than Dame Juno's mace,
Nor never saw wise Pallas' crystal shield.
Then, as I look'd, I lov'd and lik'd attonce,
^Vnd as it was refeiT'd fi-om them to me
To give the prize to her whose beauty best
ily fancy did commend, so did I praise
And judge as might my dazzled eye discern.
Xvp. A piece of art, that cunningly, perdy,
Kefers the blame to weakness of his eye.
Par. Now, for I must add reason for my deed,
^Vhy Venus i-athcr pleas'd me of the three :
First, in the entrails of my mortal ears,
The question standing upon beauty's blaze.
The name of her that hight the Queen of Love,
Methought, in beauty should not be excell'd.
Had it been destined to Majesty,
(Yet will I not rob Venus of her grace,)
Then stately Juno might have borne the ball.
Hud it to Wisdom been intituled,
3Iy human wit had given it Pallas then.
But sith unto the Fairest of the three
That power, that threw it for my farther ill.
Did dedicate this ball ; and safest durst
lly shepherd's skill adventiu'e, as I thought.
To judge of form and beauty rather than
(Jf tJuno's state or Pallas' worthiness,
That learn' d to ken the fairest of the flock,
And prai.scd beauty but by nature's aim ;
Behold, to Venus Paris gave this fi-uit :
A da3"sman chosen there by full consent.
And heavenly powers should not repent their deeds.
A\Tiere it is said, beyond desert of hers
I honour' d Venus with this golden prize,
Y'e gods, alas ! what can a mortal man
Discern betwixt the sacred gifts of heaven ?
Or, if I may with reverence reason thus ;
Suppose I gave, and judg'd corruptly then.
For hope of that that best did please my thought.
This apple not for beauty's praise alone ;
I might offend, sith I was pardoned.
And tempted more than ever creature was
With wealth, with beauty, and with chivalry.
And So preferred beauty before them all,
PLAYS.
109
The thing that hath enchanted heaven itself.
And for the one, contentment is my wealth;
X shell of salt will ser\-e a shepherd swain,
-A slsnder banquet in a homely scrip,
.Vnd water running from the silver spring.
For arms, they dread no foes that sit so low ;
.A thorn can keep the wind from off my back,
.V sheep-cote thatch'd a shepherd's palace hight.
( If tragic muses shepherds con no skill ;
Enough is them, if Cupid ben displeas'd.
To sing his praise on slender oaten pipe.
And thus, thrice-reverend, have I told ray tale,
.\nd crave the torment of my guiltless soul
To be measured by my faultless thought,
[f warlike PaDas or the Queen of Heaven
Sue to reverse my sentence by appeal.
Be it as please your majesties divine ;
The wrong, the hiui, not mine, if any he.
But hers whose beauty claim' d the prize of mc.
The result of deliberation is " that Dian have the
gi\-ing of tlie ball," and the fifth act .shows the god-
desses yieldiaig to Elizabeth, present in place : —
Diana, havinti taken their oaths, speaks.
Diana describes the Xymph Eliza, a figure of the Queen.
Dia. It is enough, and, goddesses, attend.
There wons within these pleasant shady woods,
"VXTiere neither storm nor sun's distemperatuie
Have power to hurt by cruel heat or cold.
Under the climate of the rmlder heaven ;
Where seldom lights Jove's angi-y thunderbolt.
For favour of that sovereign earthly peer ;
Where whistling winds make music 'mong the trees, —
Far from disturbance of our country gods,
Amids the cj-press-springs, a gracious nj-mph
That honours Dian for her chastity
And likes the labours well of Phcebe's groves,
The place Elyzium hight, and of the place
Her name that governs there Eliza is :
A kingdom that may well compare with mine.
An ancient seat of kings, a second Troy,
Y-compass'd round with a commodious sea :
Her people are y-cleped Angeli,
Or, if I miss, a letter is the most :
She giveth laws of justice and of peace ;
And on her head, as fits her fortune best,
She wears a wreath of laurel, gold, and palm ;
Her robes of purple and of scarlet dye ;
Her veil of white, as best befits a maid :
Her ancestors lived in the House of Fame :
She giveth arms of happy victory.
And flowers to deck her lions erown'd with gold.
This peerless nymph, whom heaven .ind earth belove.
This paragon, this only, this is she
In whom do meet so many gifts in one.
On whom oui- country gods so often gaze.
In honour of whose name the SIuscs sing ;
In state Queen Juno's peer, for power in arms
And virtues of the mind llinerva's mate.
As fair and lovely as the Queen of Love,
As chaste as Dian in her chaste desires :
The same is she, if Phu-bo do no wrong.
To whom this ball in merit doth belong.
Pat. If this be she whom some Zabeta call.
To whom thy wisdom well bequeaths the ball,
I can remember, at her day of birth.
no
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[4.0. 15S1
How Flora with her flowers strew'd the earth,
How every power with heavenly majesty
In person honour'd that solemnity.
Juno. The lovely Graces were not far away,
They threw their halm for triumph of the day.
Vin. The Fates against their kind bi'gan a eheerful song,
And vow'd her Ufe with favour to prolong.
Then first gan Cupid's eyesight waxen dim ;
Belike EUza's beauty blinded him.
To this fair nymph, not earthly, but divine,
Contents it me my honour to resign.
Fal. To tliis fair queen, so beautiful and wise,
Pallas bequeaths her title in the prize.
Juno. To her whom Juno's looks so well become,
The Queen of Heaven yields at Phoebe's doom ;
And glad I am Diana found the art,
Without offence so well to please desert.
Ilia. Then mark my tale. The usual time is nigh.
When wont the Dames of Life and Destiny,
In robes of cheerful coloui-s, to repair
To this renowned queen so wise and fair.
With pleasant songs this peerless nymph to greet ;
Clotho lays down her distaff at her feet.
And Lachesis doth pull the thi'ead at length.
The thu'd with favour gives it stuff and strength,
And for contrary kind affords her leave.
As her best likes, her web of life to weave.
This time we will attend, and in mean while
With some sweet song the todiousness beguile.
The music sounds, and the Nymphs within sing or solfa with
voices and instruments awhile. Then enter Clotho,
Lachesis, and Atropos, sinying as follows : ' the state
being in place.
Clo, Mumana; vittejilum sic volvcre Parcte.
Lach. Surname vita: filum sic tendere Tarcce.
1 Clo. So the Fates spin the thread of human life.
Xacli. So the Fates sti-etch the thread of hvunan Ufe.
Atro. So the Fates cut the thread of human life.
Clo. Clotho bears.
Jjuik, Lachesis draws.
.4tro. Atropos breaks it.
Atro. Humanic vitte filum sic scindere Parca:.
Vlo. Clotho colum bajulat.
Lach. Lachesis trahit.
Atro. Atropos occat.
Tres simul. Vive diiifelix votis hotninumque dcumque,
Corpore, nieute, liltro, doctissima, Candida, casta.
\_They lay down their properties at the Queen's feet.
Clo. Clotho colum pedibus.
Lach. Lachesis tibi pendula jfila.
Atro. Et fatttlc tuis manibus ferrum Atropos offert.
Tres simvl. Vive diu felix, ^-c.
After the song each of the Fates makes her offer-
ing in blank verse. Diana next —
Pia. And, lo, beside this rare solemnity.
And sacrifice these dames are wont to do,
A favour, far indeed contrary kind.
Bequeathed is mito thy worthiness, —
This prize from heaven and heavenly goddesses !
[Iklivcrs the ball of gold to the Uueen's own hands.
Accept it, then, thy due by Dian's doom.
Praise of the wisdom, beauty, and the state.
That best becomes thy peerless excellency.
Ven. So, fair Eliza, Venus doth resign
The honour of this honour to be tliine.
Juno. .So is the Queen of Heaven content likewise
To j-icld to thee her title in the prize.
Pal. So Pallas yields the praise hereof to thee,
For wisdom, princely state, and peerless beauty.
Omnes simvl. Vive diu felix votis hominumque dcumque,
Corpore, mente, libra, doctissima, Candida, casta."
The Three Together : Live long blest with the gifts of men
and gods.
In body and mind free, wisest, pure, and chaste.
[They lay doixn their )n'0])ertjes at the Queen's feet,
Clo. Clotho her distaff at your feet.
LacJi. And Lachesis to you her hanging thread.
Atro. And to your hands her fate enclosing steel Atropos oifers.
The Three Together. Live long blest, &c.
2 All Together. Live long blest with gifts of men and gods.
In body and mind free, wisest, piure, and chaste.
Peopehties of the Vice jnd Fool : Cap, Badble, Lath Dagger, &c.
From Douce's " Illustmtions of Shakespeare."
TO A.D. 15^0.]
PLAYS.
Ill
CHAPTER IV.
From the Year in which it is supposed that
Shakespeare came to London to the Year of
THE Death of Marlowe. — a.d. 1-586 toa.d. 15'j3.
While the lii-st theatres were being formed in
London, William Shakespeare was a boy at Strat-
ford, in Warwickshire. His father was John Shake-
.speai-e, a glover in Henley Street, who had married,
in 15-57, Mary Ai-den, of Wilmcote, youngest of seven
daughters of Robert Arden, a husbandman. Mary
Ai'den had a little inheritance from her father, who
died a month before her marriage. There were
about lifty-four acres at Wilmcote, in a property
called Ashbies, and some interest in other land
there ; also two tenements in Snitterfield, and
£() 13s. id. in cash. There are said to have been
lived, and Joan married in due time Wilham Hart
a hatter. Two years younger than Joan was another
daughter, Anne, born in September, 1.571, who died
m Aprd, 1579. In that year, therefore, if the bap-
tisms repre.sent the number of John Shakespe;u-es
children, William Shakespeare was fifteen yea.-s old,
with a brother GUbert aged between twelve and
thirteen, a SLster Joan aged Ijetween ten and eleven,
and a sister Anne, whose death at the age of seven
or eight was one of the soitows of the household
At that date the Blackfriars Theatre was only three
years old, and Stephen Gosson turned fi-om the .sta-e
to w^ite his " School of Abuse." °
The death of his little daughter Anne in that year
was but one of the troubles of John Shakespeare.
He was falling into poverty. Li 1564, the year of
the birth of hLs eldest .son William, he was prosjierous
enough to pay a fair amount to suUscriptions for
Shakespeare's Birth-place at Stratford.
ten. and knoN^Ti lo have been eight, children of the
man-iage. Fii-st and second of the eight were two
girls born in 1558 and 1562. Each of these died
in infancy. Next came a boy, who lived and lives,
William Shakespeare, bom in Apiil, 1564. He was
baptised on the 26th. A MS. note of an antiquary
of the eighteenth century, William Oldys, records a
tradition that Shakespeare died on his birthda}-; and
as his monument savs that he died, aged tiftv-three,
on the 23rd of April," 1616, the 23rd of April, fairiy
consistent ^^dth the record of his liaptism onthe 26th,
is assumed to be Shakespeare's birthday. But Mr.
Bolton Corney has obseiwed that if Shakespeai-e died
on lus birthday he only completed his fifty-second
year, and his age could not have been said, on a
monument set up in the lifetime of his wife and
daughtei-s, to be fifty-three, unless he was born at some
date before the 23rd of Apiil. Tliere is no dh-ect, but
good presumptive, evidence, and scarcely a doubt,
that Shake.speare was born in the house visited by
many jjilgi-ims, and carefully preserved as his birth-
place. The next child, of whose baptism there is
record, was Gilbert Shakespeare, two yeai-s and a
half younger than William. Then came, five years
younger than William, a daughter, who, like the
dead first-born, was called Joan. Gilbert and Joan
relief of the town poor. In the following year he
was elected aldennan. In 1568 Mid 1569 he was
bailiff of Stratford and, by right of his office, magis-
trate ; but he signed with his mark. When Shake-
speare was bom there was no English Ti-agedy or
Comedy in piint. The fii-st Ti-agedy was i>rinted
when he was one year old, ivnd when he was two
years old the tiret Comedy. He was fom- or five
years old at the date of the earlie.st record of " The
Queen's Playei-s" acting at Sti-atford. In 1570, when
his son William was six yeai-s old, John Shakesjieare
rented for eight pounds Ington Meadow, neiu- Snitter-
field. In tiie following year he was chosen head
alderman. In 1574, when his son William was ten
years old, John Shakesi)eare gave forty jiounds for
I two freehold houses in Henley Sti-eet, wth gardens
and orchards. He already had a copyhold in the
same sti-eet. Four yeai-s later the i-econls of his
poverty begin. In 1578 he mortgaged his wife's
propeiiv, Ashbies, for forty iMimds ; paid 3s. 4d.
when other aldemien paid 6s. 8d., for i)ikemeu iind
billmen ; and m November of the same year was
excused paviuent of any part of the fouqience a week
le\-ied for relief of the jioor. In 1579, when lus
little daughter Anne died, John Shakespeare wised
money onhis wife's interest in tenements at Snitter-
112
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1582
field, and from that date ceased to attend when sum-
moned as alderman. Shakespeare was at that time
fifteen years of age. There is no distinct evidence
as to "the place where he received his education,
though it could liardly have been other than Stratford.
The Fhee School
IKAltuKLi.
How long William Shakespeare was at school we do
not know. It is idle to guess. In what way he
endeavoured to earn after leaving school, — whether
he helped his father, who was sinking deeper into
as it can be proved that he was a lawyer, soldier, or
what you will. Idle tales about him have passed
current ; as that of the unreasoning gossip, John
Aubrey, who wrote in the seventeenth centmy that
Shakespeare's father was a butcher, " and I have
been told heretofore by some of the neighbours that
when he was a boy he exercised his father's trade,
but when he killed a calf he would do it in a liigh
style and make a speech."
There is evitlence of nothing until the 28th of
November, 1582, which is the date of the bond pre-
liminary to the licence of man-iage with once asking
the baims between William Shagspere and Amie
Hathaway. Anne Hathaway was of Shottery, an
outlying hamlet in the parish of Stratford, daughter
of Ricliard Hathaway, husbandman, whose family
had been long settled there. For as far back as
William Shakespeare could remember, the Hatha-
ways were friends of Ms father's, for record is found
that Richard Hathaway stood as security for John
Shakespeare as early as the year 156C. He had
been dead a twelvemontli when his daughter Anne
was married to John Shakespeare's son. According
to the record of their tombs, Shakespeare died in
1616, aged fifty-three ; his ^vife in 1623, aged sixty-
.seven. Her age, therefore, wa.s sixty when her
husband died, and she was seven years, or a few
months more than seven years, his senior. Shake-
speare's age at the time of his marriage was eighteen
anil seven months ; Anne Hathaway's, therefore,
about twenty-six. There was in those days a country
custom of betrothal several months before mai'riage.
Betrothment was a legal contract under Roman law.
It remained so, and remains so yet, in various parts
Anne Hathaway's Cottage, Shottery.
poverty, or tried some other en\ploj-ment for his
separate support, — we do not know. It is idle to
guess. There have been many idle guesses. Any-
thing can be said to be " proved " by giving personal
reference to select scraps out of liLs plays. It may
be " proved " that he committed murdei-s, or was a
jdng somewhere, and had rebellious subjects, as easily
of Europe, inducing the obligation to maiTy. How
! it was commonly regarded in Elizabeth's time, is
indicated in George Peele's " Old Wives' Tale," whei-e
a magic lamp is to be blown out by one " that is
neither maid, wife, nor widow." It is blo^\^l out by
Venelia, who is betrothed, but not yet married, to
Erestus. There had, doubtless, been such a betroth-
TO A.l>. 15S(j.j
PLAYS.
113
nient between Shakespeare and Anne Hathaway.
The love of a young man with thoughts and aspii'a-
tious far beyond his years lias not seldom rested on a
woman somewhat more mature than gills of his own
age, and thei'e is not a trace of evidence that Shake-
speare was not — while there is verj' good reason for
holding that he was — happy throughout life in the
wife who had his love when he was a \-o\ith of nine-
teen, who took him in liis adversity, shared with
him the prosperity he earned, and was beside him
when he died. To her, I believe in his last years at
Stratford, the gentle heart of Shakespeare coidd say,
as tenderly as in the tu'st years of marriage,
To me, fair friend, you never can be old.
For as you were when first your eye I eyed.
Such seems your beauty still ;"
or in the words of another of his sonnets,
Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind.
Still constant in a wondrous excellence ;
Therefore my verse to constancy confin'd,
One thing expressing, leaves out difference.
He had that within which defied Time,
thou shalt not boast that I do change : "
' No, Time,
This do I vow, and this shall ever be,
I will be true, despite thy sc.rthe and thee.
In 1.583, on the 26th of May, William and Anne
Shakespeare's fii'st child, Susanna, was cluistened.
In 1.585, on the 2nd of Febiiiary, twin children of
t heii-s, a boy and girl, were christened by the names
iif Hamnet and Judith, after a husband and ^vife
who were among Shakespeare's friends, Hamnet and
•Fiidith Sadler, bakers. The friendship was life-long,
for Hamnet Sadler was a witness to Shakespeare's
will, and had bequeathed to him in it 26s. 8d. " to
liuy him a ring." In 1586 William Shakespeare,
aged twenty-two, had a wife and tlnee little ones, the
eldest three years old, and the twins only at weaning
time. In tliat year the poverty of his father was
complete. In February and March he was arrested
for debt, because there were no goods in his house to
distrain upon. In September lie was deprived of his
aldei-man's gown. His son William, imable to assist
his father, probably had at the .same time so dark a
prospect tliat he then obeyed his impulse as a poet,
and resolved to try whether he could not earn a
better livelihood in London tlian his native town
promised to yield. There is an idle story that makes
deer-.stealing from the park of Sir Thomas Lucy, at
C'harlecote, the cause of Shakespeare's quitting Strat-
ford. Charlecote had only been built by Sir Thomas
Lucy in 1558, the year of Elizabeth's accession, and in
1586 there was no deer park attached to it. Shake-
speare had a low opinion of Sir Thomas Lucy ; but
there can surely be other reasons for having a low
opinion of a man than that one has stolen his goods
and been wliipped for it.
Some critics discuss the genius of Shakespeare in
the spirit of those revellers in Chaucer's " Story of
Cambusean Bold," who went out to admire and criti-
cise the marvel of the enchanted horse that conquered
135
space and tune. They found ingenious ways of run-
mng It down critically, according to what Chaucvr
calls the common custom of men to di.sparage wliat
they do not undei-stand, '• They demen gladly to the
badder end." Desii-ing for some unknown rea.son to
have it believed that Shakespeare did not love his
Tivife, they say he did not love her because, ha\Tng in
his particular case chosen a wife older than himself,
he allows a character in one of his jjlays to express
with cb-amatic fitness the common opinion that the
wife ought to be yoimger. Then they will have it
that he did not love his \vife because he did not take
her to London with him. He went to London a
poor adventurer, able only to aflbrd bad lodging in
an unhealthy city never wholly free from plague,
and about every ten years seriously scoiu-ged with
it. He had a uatimil afiection for his native place,
and all that is known of his management of Ids life
indicates that from fii-st to last he regarded Stratford
as his home. He left his wife with her three-year-
old little girl and her two babies among wholesome
suiTOundings, physical and human, with his own
kindi-ed and friends and hers about them, and him-
self able to be with them whenever the theatres were
closed. If he had not loved them, he might have
brought them to London with a fail- chance of be-
coming in a few yeare free of them all. The little
ones could hardly have lived in such a London home
as liis poverty at first could comjiass, and his wife
would have been taken from all the healthy sun-ound-
ings of her old natural life into the companionship of
wits and actors. Shakespeare's reverence for the
simple ties of kindred and human fellowship, tliat
strengthen as the child gi-ows to the man, is manifest
throughout his Jilays. He did not break fi-om them,
but cherislieil them, kept his wife and chUdreu part
of them, and held by them himself till death.
When Shakespeare, aged about twenty-two, came
to London, poor and unknown, joined the Blackfriars
company, and, ready to be useful in any way, as actor
or adapter of old plays, liegan liis apprenticeship to his
art and his study of life in the gi'eat resorts of men,
a youth of his own age, born in the same year 15G4,
Christopher Marlowe, suddenly leajjed into fame as a
dramatist. Marlowe's cai-eer was short, for he died
by -saolence in 1593, when liis age was but a few-
months over twenty-nine. The few years of his
brilliant success were the yeai-s, so to speak, of
Shakespeare's apprenticeship. When INIarlowe died,
lia-vdng brought the drama to the highest point then
reached, Shakespeare was master of his art, and there
were none left to compete with him.
Christopher Marlowe was the son of a shoemaker
at Canterbury, and was oidy two months older than
William Shakesiieare. Mariowe wa.s baptLse<l in
1564, on the 26th of February ; Shakespeare on the
26th of April. From the King's School at Canter-
bury a wav was made for young Marlowe, probably
by help of a patron, to Benet College, Cimibndge.
In 1583 he gi-aduated as B.A., and became M.A. in
1587. He was known as a poet at his university,
and at that date had already achieved success iis a
dramatist bv his play of " Tamlnn-laine the Great,
which probably was acted in 1586, and of which a
second part soon foUowed the fii-st. " Tamburiame
114
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[k.T>. 158«
was first printed in 1590. The hero of this jflay—
Tiniour the Tartar — was the Scythian shepherd who,
in the fourteenth century, swept over kingdom after
kins;dom with gathering force, was crowned at Samar-
canci in 1370, invaded Persia, took Bagdad, spread
fear of his arms as far as Moscow, entered India,
made triumphal entry into Delhi, attacked, after
return to Saniarcand, the Ottoman Sultan Bajazet,
and in 1402, after a famous battle, made the Sultan
his pi-isoner. He was on his way to invade China,
when he died in 1405. This was the hero of Mar-
lowe's first play, in which the stage hero might strut
and fume and utter grand extravagance, to the delight
of the spectators who saw him first in shejilierd's
dress and saw him rise to be the Scourge of Kings.
Both parts of " Taniburlaine " are stories of war and
conquest, and of the growing pride of a successful
warrior. The only gentler interest in the first pai-t
arises from the love of Tamburlaine to hLs captive,
the daughter of the Soldan of Egypt, whom he has
chosen for his bride before he besieges her father in
Damascus. His custom is on the first day of a siege
to march in white, on the second day in red, on the
third day in black. If a besieged king yield to the
white tents.
So shall he have his life, and all the rest ;
But if he stay until the bloody flag
Be once advanced on my vennilion tent.
He dies, and those who keep us out so long :
And when they see me march in black array.
With mournful streamers hanging down thcii- heads.
Wore in that city all the world contained,
Not one should 'scape hut perish by our swords.
He is detained until the day of " lilack array "
before Damascus. Interest therefore centres in the
question. How will the pitiless warrior deal with the
fatlier and the kindred of his chosen bride'? The
first part of the jilay ends with the triumph of his
love. He sufl'ers Zenocrate to free her father, and
then crowns her as his queen. In the second part
of the play, called from Marlowe by the great success
of the first, the setting forth of the career of conquest
is continued, the death of Zenocrate being the only
softer theme. The j)lay ends with the death of
Tamburlaine, who, with pride of success, lises to the
topmost height of boastfulness.
In the first line of liLs short prologue to this play,
Marlowe began his career as a dramatist by re-
nouncing rhyme. The whole play is in resonant blank
verse, and, abiding by this measure in later plays,
Marlowe gave it the predominance it had acquired
before his death as the tit verse for dramatic poetry.
It was he also who developed this measure to the
best form it attained before it was perfected by
Shakespeare. In the second line of his prologue
Marlowe i-epudiated for his drama the customary
intrusion of rough jesting by the clown.
This was Christopher Marlowe's prologue to his
" Tamburlaine."
From jigging veins of rhyming mother- wits,
And such conceits as clownage keeps in pay,
We'U load you to the stately tent of war,
Where you shall hear the Scythian Tamburlaine
Threatening the world with high astounding terms,
And scourging kingdoms with his conquering sword.
View but his pictui'c in this tragic glass, <
And then applaud his fortunes as you please.
The Fool of the Old Play.'
Ffoni a PWji( by Bi-euQhcl, copied in Donee's " Illustratioiis of
Shakespeare.'*
Once entered successfully upon the career of a
dramatist, Marlowe settled in London, became, like
Shakespeare, an actor, and seems once to have been
hurt by an accident upon the stage of the Curtain
in ShorecUtch. " The Tragical History of Doctor
Faustus " was the ])lay of ^Marlowe's that soon
followed the " Second Part of Tamburlaine," and main-
tained its authoi's credit with another great success.
The legend of Dr. Faustus had been gathered, in
1587, about recent traditions of a real person who
is said to have died in the year 1538. The book
published in 1587 at Frankfort on the Main, which
first gave to Europe the histoiy of Dr. Faustus,
attracted wide attention and was immediately
fastened upon by Marlowe as good matter for a play,
which seems to have been -wi-itten in 1588.
' In this figure of the clown, and in the sketch given, at the end of
the last chapter, of properties of the Vice and Fool of the old plays,
observe that the fool's cap is crested with a cock's-comb, to which .i
fij^ure of the whole head of the cock was sometimes added. Theuct-
tbe word co.rcomh as equivalent to one who acts the fool. The IjcU^
on the fool's cap and dress, the bladder for noisy bangriny: about, au'I
the pouch (represented also in Elizabeth's time by wide slops, as of
the modem clown) to hold his hag^gs, need no comment. The
stick with the fool's head and ass's ears carved on it was the bauble
(Italian " babbola," a child's plaything). The clown used this as
his badge of office, and, as represented in the sketch above, often
had whimsical discourse with the fool's head upou it. It was to this
familiar stage property that Cromwell referred when he said of the
mace of the Parliament, in 1653, " Take away that bauble ! '*
I
TO A.D. 1588.]
PLAYS.
115
Contemporary notices of the original Faustus are
not wanting.
The learned Trithemius, Abbot of Spanheim, in a
letter of the 20tli of August, 1.507, mentioned Magister
Oeorgius Sabellicus, Faustus junior, as a pretender to
magic, met with at Gelnliausen.
Conrad Mudt, Latinised Mutianus Rufus, a friend
of Melancthon and Reuchlin, whom Luther praised
for his culture and who died in 1-52G. wrote on the
.Ird of October, 1.5 1->, from Erfurth, of the visit paid
to that town a few days before })y Georgius Faustus
Hemitheus Hedibergensis, as a braggart and a fool
who affected magic, whom he had heard talking in a
tavern, and who had raised the theologians against
liim.
Under the date 1525, there is recorded in Vogel's
■' Aiuials of Leipzig" (published in 1714), Dr. Johann
Faust's visit to the Auerbach cellar, and there is
this date over one of the two pictures in the cellar
showing (1) how F;iustus rode out iiato the street
on one of its casks of wine, and {'2) how he regaled
the students with the wine so carried off.
In the year 1539, Dr. Philip Begardi, in a book
called " Index Sanitatis," speaks of the vast reputa-
tion of one Faustus for skill in physic and magic,
and of many people who had complained to Begardi
that Faustus had s-ndndled them. But, he adds,
what matter? Hiit ist kin — gone is gone. This
comment may possibly refer to Faust as dead and
not worth saying any moi'e about (tradition made his
death-year 1538), but it may also mean that it is of
no use for the cheated to complain of losses they
\vdll not recover : that it is of no use to cry over
spilt milk. But about this time Faustus must have
.lied, for in the undated second volume of Table Talk
— " Convivialium Sermonum," l)y the Protestant
theologian Johann Gast (Vol. I. was published in
1543) — there are stories of Faustus as dead, and they
for the first time publish the statement that his body
after death would not lie with its face to heaven, but
live times, when so i)laced, turned itself face down-
ward, and that the devil took him.
In 1561 the great naturalist, Conrad Gesner, writing
to a friend on the IGth of August, referred to Faustus
as a famous conjuror who died " not long ago."
In 1562 Johann ^Mennel, Latinised Manlius, pub-
lished at Basle a Common-place Book (" Locorum
Communium Collectanea") of notes taken durmg
many years, chiefly of what he had heard in conver-
.sations with Melancthon, and also of things told to
him by various learned men. He ascribed to Me-
lancthon stories aliout Faustus, whom he had known.
This Faustus was born at Kundling (Knittlingen, a
frontier town of Wurtemberg), not far from his o-s\ti
native town of Bretten, in Baden. Faustus, Me-
lancthon said, studied at Cracow, and learnt magic,
wliich was openly taught there. It was, indeed,
:iccording to the views then held of the secrets of
nature, a liberal science in the eyes of many advanced
thinkers of the sixteenth century, who never thought
of trading on the ignorant with vain pretensions.
Afterwards, said Melancthon to Mennel, Faustus
roamed about, and he was at a ^■illage inn in Wiu-tem-
berg when he vv^as taken by the devil.
In 1587 Philip Camerarius, son of a close friend of
Melancthon's, writing a book of small talk which was
not published until 1602, told of Faust as a well-
known magician who lived " in the time of our
fathers."
In 1587, on the 18th of Apiil, two students of the
University of Tubingen were impi-isoued for writing
a Comedy of Fau.stus. In autumn of the .same year
there appeared at the book fair- of Frankfort on the
Main, the German book from which all subsequent
versions of the Faustus legend have descended. Its
author was strongly Protestant, probably a pastor,
and he made Faustus the hero of any stories of magic,
serious or comic, that could be added to the popular
tradition of his life and death, for the purpose of
giving wide popularity to a lesson against jiride of
knowledge and presumption towards God, or helping
to bring into contempt "the Pope that Pagan full of
pride." The book was at once fastened upon by many
readers. A metrical version of it into English was
licensed by Aylmer, Bishop of London, before the end
of the year. In 1588 there was a rhymed version of
it into German, also a translation into low German,
and a new edition of the original with some slight
changes. In 1589 there ap])eared a vereion of the
fii-st German Faust book into French, by Victor Palma
Cayet. The English pure version was made from
the second edition of the original, that of 1588, and
is undated, but probably was made at once. There
was a revised edition of it in l.')92. In 1592 there
was a Dutch translation from the second German
edition. This gives the time of the carrying off of
Faustus by the devil as the night between the 23rd
and 24th of October, 1538. The English version also
gives 1538 as the year, and it is a date, as we have
seen, consistent -with trustworthy references to his
actual life.
Marlowe's play was probably ^^Titten in 1588, soon
after the origmal .story had found its way to England.
He treated the legend as a poet, bringing out ^Wth all
his power its central thought — man in the pride of
knowledge turning fi-om his God. The voices of his
good and evil angel in the ear of Faustus, one bidding
him repent and hope, the other bidding him de.spaii-,
were devised by JIarlowc Imnself for the better
painting of a soul within the toils of Satan ; and the
beautiful scene in which an old man seeks to warn
Faustus was developed into poetry out of a very
trivial incident in the original. To the play as firet
published in 1604 additions had been made for which,
on the 22nd of November, 1602, Dr. Bride and S.
Ptawley received four pounds. The poinilarity of
the subject caused the piece to be very freely dealt
with by the players ; and although in the published
version (which includes at least four pounds' worth of
additions) the clown scenes bear a smaller proiiortion
to the whole than in the original story, there can be
no doubt that the appetite of the many for "such
conceits as clo^Tiage keeps in pay" had led to a large
addition of matter of this kind which Marlo«e him-
self had avoided. He has no clo^ra m any other
play There was evidence of more change m the
next printed edition, that of 1616. There were other
additions in 1624 and 1631, and one in 1663, spodt
by much later changes ami additions. The te.xt here
oiven is the earliest, that of 1604.
116
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1588.
3
:D. FAUST us 11
'MAGUS 31AX1MUS*
^KUNDLINGfiNSlSte
. Doctor Faustus.
From the tiUc-paijc of an old undated German Tract on Magic,
" D. Faustus Drcijfachcr HoUen-Zwavj."
TRAGICAL HISTORY OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS.
E.iter Chorus.
Chorus. Not marching now in fields of ThrasjTnene,
Where Mars did mate ' the Carthaginians ;
Nor sporting in the dalliance of love,
In courts of kings where state is overtum'd ;
Nor in the pomp of proud audacious deeds,
Intends our Muse to vaunt her heavenly verse :
Only this, gentlemen, — we must perform
The form of Faustus' fortunes, good or had :
To patient judgments we appeal our plaud,
And speak for Faustus in his infancy.
Now is he horn, his parents base of stock.
In Germany, within a town call'd Rhodes -.'^
Of riper years, to Wertenberg he went,
AVhereas^ his kinsmen chiefly brought him up.
So soon he profits in divinity.
The fruitful plot of scholarism grac'd.
That shortly he was grac'd with doctor's name,
Excelling aU whose sweet delight disputes
In heavenly matters of theology ;
Till swoln with cunning of a self-conceit
His waxen wings did mount above his reach,
And, melting, heavens conspir'd his overthrow ;
For, falling to a devilish exercise.
And glutted now with learning's golden gifts,
He surfeits upon cursed necromancy ;
Nothing so sweet as magic is to him.
Which he prefers before his chiefest bliss :
And this the man that in his study sits.-" [E.rit.
Favstus discovered in his study.
Faust. Settle thy studies, Faustus, and begin
See " Shorter Englislj Poems,"
' Mate, deprive of force, coufouncl.
Note 1, page 17-t.
" iJhodcs. Roda is given in the Eughsh version of the Faust book
as the birth-place of Faustus.
s Whereas, where. So in " Hem-y VI.," Part U.. act i., sc. 2 :—
" You do intend to ride unto St. Albaji's
Whereas the King and Queen do mean to hawk."
* Here probably the speaker drew a cm-tain before quitting the
stage.
To sound the depth of that thou wilt profess :
Having commenc'd, be a divine in shew,
Yet level at the end of every art.
And live and die in Aiistotle's works.
Sweet Analytics, 'tis thou hast ra^'ish'd me !
Beue dissercre est fiitis logiccs.^
Is, to dispute well, logic's chiefest end ?
Affords this art no greater miracle ?
Then read no more ; thou hast attain'd that end.
A greater subject fitteth Faustus' wit :
Bid Economy farewell, and Galen come.
Seeing, Z'bi desiuit phitosophus, ibi ineipit medic ns :^
Be a physician, Faustus ; heap up gold.
And be eterniz'd for some wondi'ous cure :
Snmimtm bonum iHcdici/ue satiitus,
The end of physic is our body's health.
^^^ly, Faustus, hast thou not attain'd that end ?
Is not thy common talk found aphorisms ?
Arc not thy bills ^ hung up as monuments,
AVhereby whole cities have escap'd the plague,
And thousand desperate maladies been eas'd ?
Yet art thou still but Faustus, and a man.
Couldst thou make men to live eternally,
Or, being dead, raise them to life again.
Then this profession were to be esteem'd.
Physic, farewell I Where is Ju.stinian ?
Si una eademquc res legatur duobus, alter rem, alter valorem
rci,^ (?•«.
A pretty case of paltry legacies I
E.fhtEreditnrc Jilium non potest pater, ttisi, ^-c.^
Such is the subject of the Institute
And imiversal body of the law :
This study fits a mercenary di'udge,
\\Tio aims at nothing but external tra-sh ;
Too servile and illiberal for me.
When all is done, di\-inity is best :
Jerome's Bible, Faustus; view it well.
Stipcndium peecati mors est. Ha! Stipendium, ^'C.
The reward of sin is death : that's hard. \_Reads.]
Si peccasse mgamus, fallimur, et nulla est in nobis Veritas ; If
we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and there's
no truth in us. ^^^ly, then, belike we must sin, and so
consequently die :
Ay, we must die an everlasting death.
What doctrine call you this, Che sera, sera.
What win be, shall be !' Divinity, adieu !
[iJcnifc.
[Miuu.
{Reads.
These metaphysics of magicians
And necromantic books are heavenly ;
Lines, circles, scenes, letters, and characters :
Ay, these are those that Faustus most desires.
what a world of profit and delight.
Of power, of honour, of omniijotcnce,
Is promis'd to the studious artisan !
.\11 things that move between the quiet poles
Shall be at my command : emperors and kings
-Vie but obeyed in their provinces.
Nor can they raise the wind, or rend the clouds ;
5 "To discuss well is the end of logic." In what follows it will be
observed that Faustus is looking to the chief aim of each of his studies
— ''levels at the end of every art."
s "Where the philosopher ends, the physician begins.
" Bills, oflicial writings, from "bulla," a seal. Physician's pre-
scriptions were so called, as here.
8 When one and the same thinsr is bequeathed to two persons one
has the thing, the other the value of the thing, &c.
^ A father cannot disinherit a son unless, &c. These axe beginnings
of passages in the Institutes of Justinian.
i.D. 1588.]
PLAYS.
117
But his dominion that ' exceeds in this
Stretcheth as far as doth the m in d of man ;
A sound magician is a mighty god :
Here, Faustus, tire thy trains to gain a deity.
£nter W.iGXEK.
Wagner, commend me to my dearest friends.
The German Valdes and Cornelius ; "
Kequest them earnestly to visit me.
IFaff. I will, sir. [Exit.
Faust. Their conference will be a greater help to me
Than all my labours, plod I ne'er so fast.
Enter Good Angel and Evil Angel.
G. Aug. O Faustus, lay that damned book aside.
And gaze not on it, lest it tempt thy soul
,\nd heap God's hea\'y wrath upon thy head I
Kead, read the Scriptures : — that is blasphemy.
E. Aug. Go forward, Faustus, in that famous art
Wherein all Nature's treasure is contain'd :
Be thou on earth as Jove is in the sky,
Lord and commander of these elements. [Exeunt Angels.
Faust. How am I glutted with conceit of this !
Shall I make spirts fetch me what I please.
Resolve me of all ambiguities.
Perform what desperate enterprise I will f
I'U have them fly to India for gold,
Ilansack the ocean for orient pearl,
And search all comers of the new-found world
For pleasant fruits and princely delicates ;
I'U have them read me strange philosophy.
And tell the secrets of all foreign kings ;
lU have them wall all Germany with brass.
And make swift Rhine circle fair Wertenberg ;
I'll have them fill the public schools with silk,
Wberewith the students shall be bravely clad ;
I'll levy soldiers with the coin they bring.
And chase the Prince of Parma ^ from our land,
-Vnd reign sole king of aU the provinces ;
Yea, stranger engines for the brunt of war
Than was the fiery keel at Antwerp's bridge *
I'U make my ser^ole spirits to invent.
Enter Valdes and Corselits.
Come, German Valdes, and ComeUus,
And make me blest with your sage conference.
Valdes, sweet Valdes, and Cornelius,
1 His dominton tTwt, the dominion of him who.
2 VaUei a;id Corneliiis are not taken from the Faust book. Marlowe
invented their names. The Grood Angel and E\-il Angel are also added
by Marlowe throughout.
3 The Prince o/ Panna. Don John died on the 1st of October, 1578,
and was succeeded in civil and military command in the Netherlands
by Alexander Famese, his nephew, cool, artful, and the ablest governor
yet sent to the Netherlands from Spain. In July, 1.581, the States-
General at the Hague repudiated Philip II. by an Act of Abjnration,
which recited his crimes against the people. The Prince of Orange
then accepted the sovereignty of Holland and Zealand. Famese
showed military talent, but approved of the assassination of "William
on the 10th of July, 158i. In 1586 Famese became, by the death of
his father, Duke of Parma. In October of that year Sir PhUip Sidney
received his death-wound before Zntphen. In June, 1587, the Duke of
Parma besieged Sluys. In November the Duke of Parma was at the
head of 40,000 men, and PhUip of Spain planned his action against
Eughind, with pretended negotiations for peace. The Duke of Parma
was withdrawn to France in 1590, and absent from the Netherlands in
1591.
♦ The fiery leel at Antwerp's hrid-je. Famese. after the fall of Ghent,
besieged Antwerp, and made a stupendous bridge across the Scheldt
to cut the city off from the maritime provinces and the sea. Use of a
fireship was then devised by an Italian engineer, and by its explosion
eight hundred were killed. This was in 1585.
Know that your words have won me at the List
To practise magic and concealed arts :
Yet not your words, but mine own fantasy,
That wiU receive no object ; for my head
But ruminates on necromantic skiU.
Philosophy is odious and obscure ;
Both law and physic are for petty wits ;
Divinity is basest of the three.
Unpleasant, harsh, contemptible, and vile :
'Tis magic, magic, that hath ravish'd me.
Then, gentle friends, aid me in this attempt ;
And I, that have with concise syUogisms
GraveU'd the pastors of the German church,
And made the flowering pride of Wertenberg
Swarm to my problems, as the infernal spirits
On sweet llusaeus when he came to hell,
WiU be as cunning as Agrippa* was.
Whose shadow made aU Europe honour him.
Vald. Faustus, these books, thy wit, and our experience,
ShaU make aU nations to canonize us.
As Indian Moors obey their Spanish lords,
So shaU the spirits of every element
Be always serriceable to us three ;
Like lions shaU they guard us when we please ;
Like Almain rutters* with their horsemen's staves.
Or Lapland giants, trotting by our sides :
Sometimes like women, or unwedded maids.
Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows
Than have the white breasts of the queen of love ;
From Venice shaU they drag huge argosies,
And from America the golden fleece
That yearly stuffs old Philip's treasurj- ; '
If learned Faustus wiU be resolute.
Faust. Valdes, as resolute am I in this
As thou to Uve : therefore object it not.
Corn. The miracles that magic vrill perform
WUl make thee vow to study nothing else.
He that is grounded in astrolog}-,
Enrich'd with tongues, weU seen^ in minerals,
Hath aU the principles magic doth require :
Then doubt not, Faustus, but to be renown' d.
And more frequented for this mystery
Than heretofore the Delphian oracle.
The spirits teU me they can dry the sea.
And fetch the treasure of aU foreign wrecks.
Ay, aU the wealth that our forefathers hid
Within the massy entrails of the earth :
Then teU me, Faustus, what shaU we three want r
Faust. Nothing, Cornelius. Oh, this cheers my soul !
Come, shew me some demonstrations magical.
That I may conjure in some lusty grove.
And have these joys in fuU possession.
Vald. Then haste thee to some solitaiy grove,
And bear wise Bacon's and Albertus'' works,
5 Aorippa. Cornelius Agrippa, whose reputation for magio probably
caused Marlowe to rail one of his German magicians here Comeliilg.
Valdes recalls the old French " Vaudes," an enchanter, thought by
some to have been applied to Peter Waldns and the Waldenses.
s .l!raa.nnittfr.sGeroian"reiter," troopers ., . „^.,..„,
7 The possessions of Spain in the New World much aided Phihp of
Spain in his conflict with the Protestants. u. ■ .-j _^
s WeU -wn, skilled; once a common English phrase obtained pro.
bably by imitation of a classical form. " spectatns." ''^i? >" ^
was used in a Uke sense. So Shakespeare wntes m "The Taming
of the Shrew," " Ifs a schoolmaster weU seen in music."
9 Eoger Bacon died, aged seventy-eight, in 1292. All.ertus Magnus
died, It younger than seventy-five, in 1280. Advanced studenta ol
nature passed with the unlearned for magicmns. Even VirgU was by
118
CASSELL'S LIBRAEY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1588.
The Hebrew Psalter, and New Testiiment ;
And whatsoever else is requisite
Wo will inform thee ere oui- conference cease.
Corn. Valdes, first let him know the words of art ;
And then, all other ceremonies learn' d,
Faustus may try his cunning by himself.
Vald. First I'll instruct thee in the rudiments,
And then wilt thou be perfecter than I.
Faust. Then come and dine with me, and, after meat,
We'll canvass evcTV quiddity' thereof;
For, ere I sleep, I'll try what I can do :
This night I'll conjure, though I die therefore. \_E.uunt.
Enter two Scholars.
First Schol. I wonder what's become of Faustus, that was
wont to make our schools ring with sic probo.-
Sec. Schol. That shall we know, for see, here comes his
boy.
Enter Wagner.
First Schol. How now, sirrah ! where's thy master?
Way. God in heaven knows.
See. Schol. Why, dost not thou know ?
Wag. Yes, I know ; but that follows not.'
First Schol. Go to, sirrah! leave your jesting, and tell us
where he is.
Wag. That follows not necessary by force of argument,
that you, being licentiates, should stand upon: therefore
acknowledge your error, and be attentive.
Sec. Schol. "Why, didst thou not say thou knewest i
Wag. Have you any witness on't 'i
First Schol. Yes, sirrah, I heard you.
Wag. Ask my fellow if I bo a thief.
Sec. Schol. WcU, you will not tell us ?
Wag. Yes, sir, I will tell you : yet, if you were not dunces,
you would never ask me such a question ; for is not ho
corpus naturale }* and is not that mobile > then wherefore
should you ask me such a question P But that I am by
nature phlegmatic, slow to wrath, and prone to lechery (to
love, I would say), it were not for you to come within forty
foot of the place of execution, although I do not doubt to see
you both hanged the ne.vt sessions. Thus having triimiphed
over you, I will set my countenance like a precisian,^ and
begin to speak thus : — Truly, my dear brethren, my master
is within at dinner, with Valdes and Cornelius, as this wine,
if it could speak, would inform your worships : and so, the
Lord bless you, preserve you, and keep you, my dear brethren,
my dear brethren ! \_E.iit.
First Schol. Nay, then, I fear he has fallen into that
the popular tales made iuto an enchanter. Roger Bacon was a Fr.au-
oiaan Friar, the foremost EngUsh thinker in the thirteenth ceutm'y.
Albertua, a Suabiau, who was called Magnus by the Latinising of his
surname Groot, was a Dominican Friar and Provincial of his Order,
which was established for the maintenance of strict orthodoxy and
resistance to the devil. His reputation for learning gave Albertus a
popular character like that of his Enghsh contemporary Roger B.acou,
and each of them became hero of a legend of a brazen head.
' Qmdiiity, Low Latin " quiditas," somethingness. a schohxstic term
tor the nature or essence of a thing. Then it came to be used for
any subtle turn or nicety; thus in the First Part of " Henry IV.,"
act i., sc. 2, Falstatt says to Prince Hal, " How now, mad wag, what,
in thy quips .ind thy quiddities!" And Cranmer to Gardiner, "I
trow some mathematical quiddity, they cannot tell what." (Quoted
in Nares' " Glossai-y," edited by Halliwell and Wright.)
^ So I prove it.
3 Latm " non sequitm-." The jesting is with phrases of the schools.
* Body natural. Mobile, movable.
5 I mil set mi/ coiiiitcnaiico like a precisian. Both "precisian" and
"puritan " were names used in 1588, but in a comic scene there is no
security against later interpolation. In this test, however, no addition
can be hiter than 100 1, tlie date of the quarto foUowed.
damned art for which they two are infamous through the
world.
Sec. Schol. Were he a stranger, and not allied to me, yet
should I grieve for him. But, come, let us go and inform
the Rector, and see if he by his grave counsel can reclaim
him.
First Schol. Oh, but I fear me nothing can reclaim him 1
See. Schol. Yet let us try what we can do. [E.reimt.
Enter Faustus to conjure.
Faust. Now that the gloomy shadow of the earth,
Longing to view Orion's drizzling look,
Leaps from th' antarctic world unto the sky.
And dims the welkin with her pitchy breath,
Faustus, begin thine incantations.
And try if de\-ils will obey thy hest,^
Seeing thou hast pray'd and sacrific'd to them.
Within this circle is Jehovah's name,
Forward and backward anagrammatiz'd,
Th' abbreviated names of holy saints,
Figm'es of every adjunct to the heavens,
And characters of signs and erring stars.
By which the spirits are enforc'd to rise :
Then fear not, Faustus, but be resolute.
And try the uttci-most magic can perform. —
Sint mihi dei Acherontis propitii ! Valeal numen triplex
Jehovce ! Ignei, aerii, aquatani spiritus, salvete ! Orienfis
prineeps Eelzebuli, inferni ardentis monurcha, et Demogorgon,
propitianiHs vos, ut apparcat et surgat Miphistophilis, quod
tumeraris : per Jehovam, Gehennam, et consecratam aquam
fjnam nmtc spargo, signumque crucis quod nunc facio, et per
rota nostra^ ipse nunc surgat nobis dicatus Mephistophilis .''
Enter Mephistophilis.
I charge thee to return, and change thy shape ;
Thou art too ugly to attend on mo :
^ Hest, First-English "hsest," command.
' " Be gods of Acheron propitious to me ! Farewell to Jehovah's
triple deity! Spirits of fire, air, and of water, hail! Belzebub, Prince of
the Orient, monarch of burning hell, and Demogorgon, we propitiate
you, that Mephistophilis may appear and I'ise, that you may [cause him
to break forth]. By Jove, Gehenna, and the consecrated water I now
sprinkle, and the sign of the cross I now make, and by our vows, let
there now rise to us the said Mephistophiles. " Supposing "tume-
raris," a coiTupt word, to have some sort of relation to " tumeo " and
"tumesco," I have jumped at a sort of meaning for it [cause him to
break forth] which may serve badly in place of none. In later quartos
the text reads " surgat Mephistophilis Dragon, quod tumeraris."
The name of the familiar of Faustus first api>eiu-s in the Frankfort
book of 1587, which was entitled " Historia von D. Johann Fausten,
dem weit beschreyten Zauberer uud Schwartzkiinstler, Wie er sich
gegen dem Teufi'el auf eine benandte Zeit verschrieben. Was er inzwis-
chen fiir seltzame Abenthewr gesehen, selbs angerichtet und getrieben,
hiss er endtlich seinen wohlverdienten lohn empfougen. Mehrertheils
auss seinen eygeuen hinderlasseueu Schriffteu, alien hochtragenden
fiirwitzigen und Gottlosen Menschen zum schi'eckUchen Beyspiel, ab-
schewlichen Esempel und trewhertziger Waruung zusammengezogeu
und in Druck vei-fertigt.. Jacobi IIII. Seydt Gott imderthiinig, wider-
stehet dem Te\iffel, so fleuhet er von each." A long title ending with
the text " Submit yoiurselves to God, resist the Devil, and he will flee
from you," In this first Faust book, the name as written by its in-
ventor was Mephostophiles. Among guesses at what the inventor of
the name meant by it, one is that he meant one who was not a lover of
light, from /i»/, ^wj and ijiiXo^, as it were Mephotophiles with the s of
<pw^ inserted. To Beelzebub the Jews assigned the sovereignty of
evil spirits. There are several references in the New Testament to
this belief. Matthew s. 25, "It is enough for the disciple if he be
as his master. ... If they have called the master of the house
Beelzebub, how much more shall they call them of his household ? "
Mark iii. 22, " He hath Beelzebub, and by the Prince of Devils casteth
he out devils ; " also Luke xi. 15, " thi-ough Beelzebub the Chief of
the Devils." Biialzi^bub was the form of Baal (B:ial means Lord),
worshipped at Ekrou. The added word gives for the whole meaning.
Lord of the Fly. Baalzebnl, another form of the word, is said to-
1388]
PLAYS.
119
[£xU Mephist.
Go, and return an old Franciscan friar ;
That holy shape becomes a devil best.
I see there's \Trtue in my heavenly words :
Who -n-ould not be proticient in this art ':
How pliant is this Mephistophilis,
Full of obedience and humility !
Such is the force of magic and my spells :
No, Faustus, thou art conjuror lam-eat,
That canst command great Mephistophilis :
Q'tin irifis Mt'pltistophiiis fratris wuigine,^
Ji^-enter Mephistophilis ii^'e a Franciscan jYtar.
Jlep/i. Jfow, Faustus, what wouldst thou have me do ?
FiiKst. I charge thee wait upon me whilst I live,
To do whatever Faustus shall command.
Be it to make the moon drop from her sphere,
Or the ocean to overwhelm the world.
Meph. I am a servant to great Lucifer,
And may not follow thee without his leave :
No more than he commands must we perform.
Faust. Did not he charge thee to appear to me ?
Meph. No, I came hither of mine o«ii accord.
Faust. Did not my conjuring speeches raise thee ? speak.
Meph . That was the cause, but yet per accittens ; -
For, when we hear one rack ' the name of God,
Abjure the Scriptures and his Sa\'iour Christ,
We fly, in hope to get his glorious soul :
Nor will we come, unless he use such means
^Vhereby he is in danger to be damn'd.
Therefore the shortest cut for conjuring
Is stoutly to abjure the Trinitj-,
And pray devoutly to the prince of hell.
Faust. So Faustus hath
Already done ; and holds this principle,
There is no chief but only Belzebub ;
To whom Faustus doth dedicate himself.
This word " damnation " terrifies not him.
For he confounds hell in Elysium :
His ghost be with the old philosophers !
But, lea^^ng these vain trifles of men's souls,
mean Lord of the Habitation, i.e. the Heavens or the Body of Man ;
others interpret it, Lord of Dong or of the Dunghill ; and as the
scarabee or dung-beetle was his symbol, another theory has made the
dung-beetle his Fly, and found B^lzi^bub and BdalzeTjul to be prac-
tically synonymous. Cornelius Agrippa, in his Magic, described nine
orders of Demons : — (1) Those who have usurped the name of God,
and the Prince of these is Beelzebub, who said, " I will mount above
the clouds, I will be equal to the Most High." (2) The Lying Spirits,
whose chief is the serpent Python that gave his name to the Pythi.in
Apollo. (3) Vessels of Iniquity, called also Vessels of Wrath, inven-
tors of evil arts, as dicing, &c., which lead men astray. Their chief is
Belial, whose name means without restraint, prevaricator and apostate.
(4) Avengers of misdeeds. Their chief is Asmodeus, that is, executor
of judgment. (.5) Those who seduce the people with evil magic,
enabling witches and wizards to perform false miracles, to seduce
men as the serpent seduced Eve. Their chief is Satan, or Lucifer.
(6) Powers of the Air, who blend with thimder, produce pestilence, &c.
The Prince of the Powers of the Air is Meririm, stormy spirit of the
south. (7) The Furies who sow discord, war and devastation. Their
chief is ApoUyon, in Hebrew Abaddon, which means e^ermination.
(8) The Accusers or Searchers, their chief Ashtaroth, which means
explorer; in Greek did^oAo? (devil), accuser or calumniator. (9) The
Tempters called Evil Geniuses, whose chief is Mammon. Demo-
gorgon, named in the incantation, signified in medijeval chemistry the
central fire, the brimstone of which all is bom. Gehenna was a name
for Hell, derived from the fire and smoke in Ge-Hinnom, the valley of
Hinnom on the west side of Jerusalem, where the Jews burnt the
dead bodies of criminals, kc, to defile what had been a place sacred
to Moloch, in whose worship children were passed through iire.
* Why not rule Mephistophiles in the form of a friar.
' By accident, in logical use of the term ; not the essential cause.
' Sack. First-English " rse-can," to stretch, torture, twist.
Tell me what is that Lucifer* thy lord?
Meph. Arch-regent and commander of all spiiit«.
Faust. Was not that Lucifer an angel once ':
Meph. Yes, Faustus, and most deariy lovd „i God.
Faust. How comes it, then, that he is prince of devilE ?
Meph. Oh, by aspiring pride and insolence ;
For which God threw him from the face of heaven.
Faust. And what are you that Uve with Lucifer ?
Meph. Unhappy spirits that fell with Lucifer,
Conspir'd against our God with Lucifer,
And are for ever damn'd with Lucifer.
Faust. Where are you damn'd ■
Meph. In hell.
Faust. How comes it, then, that thou art out of hellf
Meph. A\Tiy, this is hell, nor am I out of it : '
Think' st thou that I, who saw the face of God,
And tasted the eternal joys of heaven,
Am not tormented with ten thousand heUs,
In being depriv'd of everlasting bUss ?
Faustus, leave these frivolous demands,
^Vhich strike a terror to my fainting soul 1
Faust. AMiat ! is great Jlephistophilis so passionate
For being deprived of the joys of heaven 1-
Leam thou of Faustus manly fortitude.
And scorn those joys thou never shalt possess.
Go bear these tidings to great Lucifer :
Seeing Faustus hath incurr'd eternal death
By desperate thoughts against Jove's deity.
Say, he surrenders up to him his soul.
So he will spare him four and twenty yeai-s.
Letting him live in all voluptuousness ;
Having thee ever to attend on me,
To give me whatsoever I shall ask.
To tell me whatsoever I demand.
To slay mine enemies and aid my friends.
And always be obedient to my will.
Go and return to mighty Lucifer,
* Lucifer. The name comes from Isaiah, chap, liv., where Israel is
to take up the proverb against the King of Babylon (verses 12—15),
" How art thou fallen from Heaven, Lucifer, son of the morning!
How art thou cut down to the groimd, which didst weaken the nations.
For thou saidst in thine heart, I will ascend into Heaven, I will
esalt my throne above the stars of God : I will sit down also upon the
moimt of the congregation, in the sides of the north : I wiU ascend
above the heights of the clouds ; I will be hke the Most High. Yet
thou shalt be brought down to Hell, to the sides of the pit." From
the time of St. Jerome downward this symbolical representation of
the King of Babylon in his splendour and fall has been applied to
Satan in his fall from heaven, probably because Babylon is in Scripture
a type of tyrannical self-idohzing power, and is connecte<l in the Book
of Revelation with the empire of the Evil One. There is no other
reason for giving the name of Lucifer to the Devil.
5 Compare Milton's " Paradise Lost," Book L, Unes 254, 255,
" The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven ; "
and Book IV., lines 73—75,
" Me miserable ! which way shall I fly
Infinite wi-ath, and infinite despair ?
Which way I fly is Hell ; myself am Hell."
Also " Comns," lines :S81— 4,
" He that has light within his own clear breast
May sit i" the centre and eujoy bright day ;
But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts.
Benighted walks under the mid-day sun ;
Himself is his own dungeon."
Mephistophiles is bo.md to give true answers to Faustus ThM
Marlowe, with dramatic tnith, gives on his first appearance ''touch of
profound sadness to the fallen angel, that serves as a fod to the light
heart with which Faustus. " leaving these vain trifles of men s soiUs.
welcomes his ruin.
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[a.d. 1588.
And meet me in my study ;it midnight,
And then resolve me of thy master's mind.
Meph. I will, Faustus.
Faust. Had I as many souls as there be stars,
I'd give them all for Mephistoijhilis.
By him I'U be great emperor of tlie world,
And make a bridge thorough the moWng air,
To pass the ocean with a band of men ;
I'll join the hills that bind the Afric shore,
And make that country continent to Spain,
And both contributory to my crown :
The Emperor shall not live but by my leave.
Nor any potentate of Germany.
Now that I have obtain'd what I desii-'d,
I'U live in speculation' of this art,
Till Mephistophilis return again.
{Exit.
[Exit.
Here follows a comic scene between Faust's man
Wagner and a clown, whom he takes into his service
after frightening hiui into submission by summoning
two devils, Baliol and Belcher, that he defied until
they actually showed themselves.
Faustls discovered in Ilia study.
Faust. Now, Faustus, must
Thou needs be damn'd, and canst thou not be sav'd :
What boots it, then, to think of God or heaven ?
Away with such vain fancies, and despau' ;
Despair in God, and trust in Belzebub :
Now go not backward : no, Faustus, be resolute :
Why waver' st thou 'i tth, something soundoth in mine ears,
"Abjure this magic, turn to God again ! "
Ay, and Faustus will turn to God again.
To God ? ho loves thee not ;
The god thou serv'st is thine own appetite,
Wherein is fix'd the love of Belzebub :
To him I'll buUd an altar and a eliureh.
And offer lukewarm blood of new-born babes.
Enter Good Angel and Evil Angel.
G. Aug. Sweet Faustus, leave that e.vecrablo art.
Faust. Contrition, jirayer, repentance — what of them ':
G. Aug. Oh, they are means to bring thee unto heaven 1
E. Aug. Rather illusions, fruits of lunacy,
That make men foolish that do trust them most.
G. Aug. Sweet Faustus, think of heaven and hea^•enly
thing's.
E. Aug. No, Faustus ; think of honour and of wealth.
[E.vetait Angels.
Faust. Of wealth !
Why, the siguiory of Euilxlcn- shall be mine.
When INIcphistophilis shall stand by me,
What god can hm-t thee, Faustus ? thou art safe :
Cast no more doubts. — Come, Mephistophilis,
And bring glad tidings from great Lucifer ; —
Is't not midnight ? — come, Mephistophilis,
Veni, rent, Mephistophile ."
Enter Mephistophilis.
Now tell me, what says Lucifer, thy lord ?
Mcph. That I shall wait on Faustus whilst he lives,
So he will buy mv service with his soul.
' Spcciilolion, in its first sense, spyiui; out. observation, exploration.
2 Tho signiorij of Emhilcn. A fortified seaport town in East Fries-
land, with docks, canals, and trade.
' Come, come, MepUistopUiles!
Faust. Already Faustus hath hazarded that for thee.
Meph. But, Faustus, thou must bequeath it solemnly.
And wi'ite a deed of gift with thine own blood ;
For that security craves great Lucifer.
If thou deny it, I v.'ill back to hell.
Faust. Stay, Mephistophilis, and tell me, what good will
my .soul do thy lord ?
Mcph. Enlarge his kingdom.
Faust. Is that the reason why he tempts us thus Y
Mtph. Solamen miseris socios Itabuissc doloris.^
Faust. Wliy, have you any pain that torture others ':"
Meph. As great as have the human souls of men.
But, tell me, Faustus, shall I have thy soul Y
And I will be thy slave, and wait on thee,
And give thee more than thou hast wit to ask.
Faust. Ay, Mephistophilis, I give it thee.
Meph. Then, F'austus, stab thine arm courageously,
And bind thy soul, that at some certain day
Great Lucifer may claim it as his own ;
And then be thou as great as Lucifer.
Faust. [Stabbing his arm.'\ Lo, Mephistophilis, for lovo of
thee,
I cut mine arm, and with my proper blood
Assure my soul to be great Lucifer's,
Chief lord and regent of perpetual night 1
View here the blood that trickles from mine arm.
And let it be propitious for my wish.
Mcph. But, Faustus, thou must
Write it in manner of a deed of gift.
Faust. Ay, so I will. [ Writes.'] But, Mephistophilis,
My blood congeals, and I can write no more.
Meph. I'll fetch thee fire to dissolve it straight. [E.fit.
Faust. What might the staying of my blood portend ':
Is it imwilling I should write this bill Y
Why streams it not, that I may write afresh ?
Faustus gives to thee his soul : ah, there it stay'd !
Why shouldst thou not ? is not thy soul thine own ?
Then write again, Faustus gives to thee his soul.
Jte-cnter Mephistophilis with a nhafer of coals.
Meph. Here's fire ; ' come, Faustus, set it on.
Faust. So, now the blood begins to clear again ,
Now will I make an end immcdi.ately.
Mcph. Oh, what will not I do to obtain his soul ':
Faust. ConsuinniatioH est ;^ this bill is ended.
And Faustus hath bequeath'd his soul to Lucifer.
But what is this inscription on mine arm Y
Jlomo, fugc : ^ whither should I fly ?
If unto God, he'll throw me down to hell.
My senses are deceiv'd ; here's nothing writ: —
I see it plain ; here in this place is writ,
Soma, fuge : yet shall not Faustus fly.
Meph. I'll fetch him somewhat to delight his mind.
[Aside, and then e.rit.
Re-enter Mephistophilis with Devils, who give erou')is and
rich apparel to Faustus, dance, and then depart.
Faust. Speak, Mephistophilis, what means this show Y
[ Jl'ritc.i.
[Aside.
* It is a solace to the wretched to have had companions in grief.
The line — expressing a common thought — was often quoted, but has
not been traced to its source.
^' Htrt'.s Jlre. The sixth chapter of the old History of F.austus is
headed " How Doctor Faustus set his blood in a saucer, on warm
ashes, and wi-it as followeth."
*■ It is accomplished.
' Homo, fuge, Man, fly. The History says, "He took a small pen-
knife, and pi'icked a vein in his left hand : and for certainty thereupon
were seen on his hand these words, as if they had been wTitteu with
blood, *' O homo, fuge."
i.D. 15S8.]
PLAYS.
121
Ml ph. Nothing, Faustus, but to delight thy mind withal,
And to shew thee what magic can perform.
Famt. But may I raise up spirits when I please ?
Meph. Ay, Faustus, and do greater things than these.
Fatist. Then there's enough for a thousand souls.
Here, ilephistophilis, receive this scroll,
A deed of gift of body and of soul :
But yet conditionally that thou perform
All articles prescrib'd between us both.
Meph. Faustus, I swear by hell and Lucifer
To effect all promises between us made !
Famt. Then hear me read them. [Reads.l On these con-
ditions following. First, that Faust i<s may be a spirit inform
and substance. Secondly, that Mephistophilis shall be his
icrvant, and at his command. Thirdly, that Mephistophilis
shall do fur him, and bring him whatsoever he desires. Fourthly,
that he shall be in his chamber or house invisible. Lastly, that
ho shall appear to the said John Faustus, at all times, in tchat
form or shape soever he please. I, John Faustus, of Wertenberg,
Doctor, by these presents, do give both body and soul to Lucifer,
prince of the east, and his minister Mephistophilis ; and further-
more grant unto them, that, ticenty-four years being expired, the
articles above-uritten inviolate, full power to fetch or carry the
said John Faustus, body and soul, flesh, blood, or goods, into
their habitation wheresoever. By me, John Faustus.
Meph. Speak, Faustus, do you deliver this as your deed I"
Faust. Ay, take it, and the de^'il give thee good on't !
Meph. Xow, Faustus, ask what thou wilt.
Faust. First will I question with thee about hell.
Tell me, where is the place that men call hcU i
Meph. Under the heavens.
Faust. Ay, but whereabout ?
Meph. Within the bowels of these elements,
^\Tiere we are tortur'd and remain for ever :
Hell hath no limits, nor is cii'cumscrib'd
In one self place ; for where we are is hell.
And where hell is, there must we ever be :
And, to conclude, when all the world dissolves,
And every creature shall be puriiied,
All places shall be hell that are not heaven.'
Faust. Come, I think hell's a fable.
Meph. Ay, think so still, till experience change thy mind.
Faust, ^^^ly, think' st thou, then, that Faustus shall be
damn'd ':
Meph. Ay, of necessity, for here's the scroll
Wherein thou hast given thy soul to Lucifer.
Faust. Ay, and body too : but what of that ?
Think' st thou that Faustus is so fond to imagine
That, after this life, there is any pain ':
Tush, these are trifles and mere old wives' tales.
Meph. But, Faustus, I am an instance to prove the
contrar}-.
For I am damned, and am now in hell.
Faust. How ! now in hell I
Nay, an this be hell, I'll willingly be damn'd here ;
^^^lat l walking, disputing, kc.
But, leaving off this, let me have a wife,
The fairest maid in Germany ;
For I am wanton and lascivious.
And cannot live without a wife.
Meph . How I a wife !
I prithee, Faustus, talk not of a wife.
Faust. Nay, sweet Mephistophilis, fetch me one ; for I will
have one.
136
' See Note 5, page 119;
^ Meph. WeU, thou wUt have one ':• Sit there till I come :
I'll fetch thee a wife in the devil's name. {Exit.
Re-enter Mephistophilis with a DevU drest like a 'Woman,
with fre-worlcs.
Meph. Tell me, Faustus, how dost thou Uke thy wife?
Faust. A plague on her . . .
Meph. Tut, Faustus!
Marriage is but a ceremonial toy ;
If thou lovest me, think no more of it.
She whom thine eye shall Uke, thy heart shall have,
Be she as chaste as was Penelope,
As wise as Saba, or as beautiful
As was bright Lucifer before his fall."
Hold, take this book, peruse it thoroughly : [Givet book.
The iterating of these lines brings gold ;
The framing of this circle on the ground
Brings whirlwinds, tempests, thunder and lightning ;
Pronounce this thrice devoutly to thyself.
And men in armour shall appear to thee.
Ready to execute what thou desir'st.
Faust. Thanks, Mephistophilis : yet fain would I have a
book wherein I might behold all spells and incantations, that
I might raise up spirits when I please.
Meph. Here they are in this book. [Turns to them.
Faust. Now would I have a book where I might see all
characters and planets of the heavens, that I might know
their motions and dispositions.
Meph. Here they are too. [Turns to them.
Faust. Nay, let me have one book more, — and then I have
done, — wherein I might see all plants, herbs, and trees, that
grow upon the earth.
Meph. Here they be.
Faust. Oh, thou'rt deceived.
Meph. Tut, I warrant thee. [Turns to them.
Faust. "When I behold the heavens, then I repent,
And curse thee, wicked Mephistophilis,
Because thou hast depriv'd me of those joys.
Meph. Why, Faustus,
Thinkest thou heaven is such a gloriaus thing ?
I tell thee, 'tis not half so fair as thou,
Or any man that breathes on earth.
Faust. How prov'st thou that r
Meph. 'Twas made for man, therefore is man more ex-
cellent.
Faust. If it were made for man, 'twas made for me :
I will renounce this magic and repent.
Enter Good Angel and Evil Angel.
G. Ang. Faustus, repent; yet God will pity thee.
E. Any. Thou art a spirit ; God cannot pity thee.
Faust. ^Vho buzzeth in mine ears I am a spirit ?
Be I a devil, yet God may pity me ;
Ay, God will pity me, if I repent.
E. Ang. Av, but Faustus never shall repent.
[Exeunt Angels.
Faust. My heart's so harden'd, I cannot repent :
Scarce can I name salvation, faith, or heaven,
But fearful echoes thunder in mine ears,
"Faustus, thou art (damn'd!" then swords, and knives,
Poison, guns, halters, and envenom'd steel
Are laid before me to dispatch myself ;
And long ere this I should have slain myself.
Had not sweet pleasure conquer'd deep despair.
2 The renewed touch of melancholy in this reference is chaiac.
teristic of Marlowe's MephistophUes.
122
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1588.
Have not I made blind Homer sing to me
Of Alexander's love and CEnon's death ?
And hath not he that buUt the walls of Thebes
With ravishing sound of his melodious harp,
Made music with my Mephistophilis ?
Why should I die, then, or basely despaii- ?
I am rcsolv'd ; Faustus shall ne'er repent. —
Come, Mephistophilis, let us dispute again,
And argue of divine astrology.
Tell me, are there many heavens above the moon ?
Are all celestial bodies but one globe.
As is the substance of this centric earth ?
Mcph. As are the elements, such are the spheres,
Mutually folded in each other's orb.
And, Faustus,
All jointly move upon one axletree,
Whose terminino is term'd the world's wide pole ;
Nor are the names of Saturn, Mars, or Jupiter
Feign' d, but are erring stars.'
Faust. But, teU me, have they all one motion, both situ et
tempore?'^
Mcph. All jointly move from east to west in twenty-fom-
hours upon the poles of the world, but differ in their motion
upon the poles of the zodiac.
Faust. Tush;
These slender trifles Wagner can decide :
Hath MephistophQis no greater skill 'i
Who knows not the double motion of the planets ?
The first is finish'd in a natural day ;
The second thus; as Saturn in thirty years: Jupiter in
twelve ; Mars in four ; the Sun, Venus, and Mercury in a
year; the Moon in twenty-eight days. Tush, these are
freshmen's suppositions. But, tell me, hath every sphere a
dominion or iiitelligentia ?
Meph. Ay.
Faust. How many heavens or spheres are there ?
Meph. Nine ; the seven planets, the firmament, and the
empyreal heaven.
Faust. Well, resolve me in this question : why have we
not conjunctions, oppositions, aspects, eclipses, all at one
time, but in some years we have more, in some less ?
Meph. Per inaqnalem motum respectu totius.^
Faust. Well, I am answered. Tell me who made the
world ?
Meph. I will not.
Faust. Sweet Mephistophilis, tell me.
Meph. Move me not, for I will not tell thee.
Faust. Villain, have I not bound thee to tell me any
thing ?
Mcph. Ay, that is not against our kingdom ; but this is.
Think thou on hoU, Faustus, for thou art damned.
Faust. Think, Faustus, upon God that made the world.
Meph. Remember this. \Exit.
Faust. Ay, go, accursed spirit, to ugly hell !
'Tis thou hast damn'd distressed Faustus' soul.
Is't not too late?
Re-enter Good Angel and Evil Angel.
E. Ang. Too late.
G. Ang. Never too late, if Faustus can repent.
F. Aug. If thou repent, dei-ils shall tear thee in pieces.
G. Ang. Eepent, and they shall never raze thy .skin.
{Exeunt Angels.
» Erring stars, wandering stars, planets. A planet is Greek ir\av.iT„5,
wandering, from 7r\ava<r9(ii, to wander.
^ In place and time.
' Because o£ unequal motion in respect of the whole.
Faust. Ah, Christ, my Saviour !
Seek thou to save distressed Faustus' soul ?
Enter Lucifer, Belzebub, and Mephistophilis.
Liie. Christ cannot save thy soul, for he is just :
There's none but I have interest in the same.
Faust. Oh, who art thou that look'st so tenible 'i
Luc. I am Lucifer,
And this is my companion-prince in hell.
Faust. Faustus, they are come to fetch away thy soul!
Luc. Wo come to tell thee thou dost injure us ;
Thou talk'st of Chi-ist, contrary to thy promise :
Thou shouldst not think of God : think of the devil.
And of his dam'' too.
Faust. Nor will I henceforth : pardon me in this,
And Faustus vows never to look to heaven,
Never to name God, or to pray to him.
To burn his Scriptures, slay his ministers,
And make my spirits pull his churches down.
Luc. Do so, and we wiU highly gratify thee.
Faustus, we are come from heU to shew thee some pastime :
sit down, and thou shalt see all the Seven Deadly Sins appear
in their i)roper shapes.'
Faust. That sight wUl be as pleasing unto me.
As Paradise was to Adam, the first day
Of his creation.
Luc. Talk not of Paradise nor creation; but mark this
show : talk of the devil, and nothing else. — Come away !
Enter the Seven Deadly Sins.
Now, Faustus, examine them of their several names and
dispositions.
Faust. What art thou, the first ?
Pride. I am Pride. I disdain to have any parents. . . .
Sometimes, Uke a periwig, I sit upon a wench's brow ; or,
like a fan of feathers, I kiss her lips ; indeed, I do — what do
I not ? But, fie, what a scent is here ! I'U not speak another
word, except the ground were perfumed, and covered with
cloth of arras.
Faust. What art thou, the second ?
Covet. I am Covctousness, begotten of an old churl, in an
old leathern bag : and, might I have my -ivish, I would desire
that this house and all the people in it were turned to gold,
that I might lock you up in my good chest : O my sweet
gold I
Faust. What art thou, the third ?
Wrath. 1 am Wrath. I had neither father nor mother : I
leapt out of a lion's mouth when I was scarce half an hour
old ; and ever since I have run up and down the world with
this case of rapiers, wounding myself when I had nobody to
fight withal. I was bom in hcU : and look to it, for some of
you shall be my father.
Faust. What art thou, the fourth ?
Envg. I am Envy, begotten of a chimney-sweeper and an
oyster-wife. I cannot read, .and therefore wish all books
were burnt. I am lean with seeing others eat. O that
there would come a famine through all the world, that all
might die, and I live alone ! then thou shouldst see how fat I
would be. But must thou sit, and I .stand? come down,
with a vengeance !
Faust. Away, envious rascal !— A\Tiat art thou, the fifth ?
Glut. AVho I, sir? I am Gluttony. Jly parents are all
dead, and the devil a penny they have left me, but a bare
* A play on the double sense of the word is intended.
5 lu the original History Faustus is entertained with a show of
devils in many curious forms. Marlowe brings this into harmony
with his poetical design by transfonniug it into a pageant of the
Seven Deadly Sins.
i.D. 1588.]
PLAYS.
123
pension, and that is thirty meals a day and ten bcvers,'^a
small trifle to suffice nature. Oh, I come of a royal parentage !
my gi'andfather was a Gammon of Bacon, my grandmother a
Hogshead of Claret-wine ; my godfathers were these, Peter
Pickle-herring and Martin Martlemas-beef . Oh, hut my god-
mother, she was a jolly gentlewoman, and well-heloved in
cverj' good town and city ; her name was ilistress Margery
March-beer. Now, Faustus, thou hast heard all my progeny ;
wilt thou bid me to supper r
Faust. No, I'll see thee hanged : thou wilt eat up all m)-
rictuals.
Glut. Then the devil choke thee I
Faust. Choke thyself, glutton ! — What art thou, the sixth f
Slotfi. I am Sloth. I was begotten on a sunny bank,
where I have lain ever since ; and you have done me great
injury to bring me from thence : let me be carried thither
tigain by Gluttony and Lechery. I'U not speak another
word for a king's ransom.
Faust. WTiat are you, Mistress Min.x, the seventh and
last V
Lechery. ^V^lo I, sir ? . . . the first letter of my name
begins with L."
Faust. Away, to hell, to hell ! \^Exeimt the Sins.
Luc. Now, Faustus, how dost thou like this ?
Faust. Oh, this feeds my soul I
Lxic. Tut, Faustus ! in hell is all manner of delight.
Faust. O might I see hell, and return again.
How happy were I then !
Luc. Thou shalt ; I will send for thee at midnight.
In meantime take this book ; peruse it thoroughly,
And thou shalt turn thyself into what shape thou wilt.
Faust. Great thanks, mighty Lucifer !
This will I keep as chary as my life.
Luc. Farewell, Faustus, and think on the devil.
Faust. Farewell, great Lucifer.
lFj:euiit Lucifer and Belzebub.
Come, MephistophiUs. [Exeunt.
Filter Chorus.
Chor. Learned Faustus,
To know the secrets of astronomy
Graven in the book of Jove's high firmament,
Did mount himself to scale OhTnpus' top.
Being seated in a chariot biuning bright,
Drawn by the strength of yoky dragons' necks.
He now is gone to prove cosmography,
And, as I guess, will first arrive at Rome,
To see the Pope and manner of his court,
And take some part of holy Peter's feast.
That to this day is highly solemniz'd. [Hxit.
Filter Favstvs and Mephistophilis.
Faust. Having now, my good Mephistophilis,
Pass'd with delight the stately town of Trier,
Environ'd round with airy mountain-tops,
With walls of flint, and deep-entrenched lakes.
Not to be won by any conquering prince ;
From Paris next, coasting the realm of France,
We saw the river Maine fall into Rhine,
WTiose banks are set with groves of fruitf id \'ines ;
Then up to Naples, rich Campania,
AVhoso buildings fair and gorgeous to the eye,
The streets straight forth, and pav'd with finest brick,
Quarter the town in four equivalents :
' BevcTs, repasts between meals ; from Spanisli and Italian " bever,"
to drink.
= A play of double meaning- on tbe sound ot the letter is intended.
There saw we learned Maro's golden tomb.
The way he cut, an English mile in length,
Thorough a rock of stone, ia one night's space ;^
From thence to Venice, Padua, and the rest.
In one of which a sumptuous temple'' stands.
That threats the stars with her aspiring top.
Thus hitherto hath Faustus spent his time :
But tell me now what resting-place is this ?
Hast thou, as erst I did command.
Conducted me within the walls of Rome ?
Mep/i. Faustus, I have ; and, because we will not be un-
provided, I have taken up his Holiness' privy-chamber for
our use.
Faust. I hope his Holiness will bid us welcome.
Mep!i. Tut, 'tis no matter, man ; wc'U be bold with his
good cheer.
And now, my Faustus, that thou mayst perceive
What Rome containeth to delight thee with,
Know that this city stands upon seven hills
That underprop the groundwork of the same :
Just through the midst runs flowing Tiber's stream
With winding banks that cut it in two parts ;
Over the which four stately bridges lean.
That make safe passage to each part of Rome :
Upon the bridge call'd Ponte Angelo
Erected is a castle passing strong,
Within whose walls such store of ordnance are.
And double cannons fram'd of carved brass.
As match the days within one complete year ;
Besides the gates, and high pj-ramides.
Which Julius Ca;sar brought from Africa.
Faust. Now, by the kingdoms of infernal rule.
Of Styx, of Acheron, and the fiery lake
Of ever-bm-ning Phlegethon, I swear
That I do long to see the monuments
And situation of bright-splendent Rome :
Come, therefore, let's away.
Meph. Nay, Faustus, stay : I know you'd fain see the
Pope,
And take some part of holy Peter's feast.
Where thou shalt see a troop of bald-pate friars
Whose summuin bonum^ is in beUy-cheer.
Faust. WeU, I'm content to compass then some sport,
And by their foUy make us merriment.
Then charm me, that I
May be invisible, to do what I please.
Unseen of any whilst I stay in Rome.
[Mephistophilis chartns him.
Meph. So, Faustus ; now
Do what thou wilt, thou shalt not be discern' d.
Sound a Sonnet.^ Enter the Pope and the C.iedisal op
LoKEAiN to the banquet, with Friars attending.
Pope. My Lord of Lorrain, -n-ill't please you draw near?
Faust. FaU to, and the devil choke you, an you spare '.
Pope. How now! who's that which spake ?— Friars, look
about.
First Friar. Here's nobody, if it like your HoUness.
Pope. My lord, here is a dainty dish was sent me from the
Bishop of MQan.
Faust. I thank vou, sir. {Snatches the d,sh.
Pope. How now ! who's that which snatched the meat
3 One of tbe tales told of ViigU in bte traditional character as an
'"^Mark's at Venice. ^ Highest good,
e sonuct or .cnnrt, one ot tbe mi.sical forms of sounding on tho
triunpet or comet.
124
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.b. 1588.
from me ? wiU no man look ?— My lord, this dish was sent
me from the Cardinal of Florence.
Faust. You say true ; I'll ha 't. [Snatches the dish.
Pope. What, again !— My lord, I'U drink to your grace.
:eaust. I'U pledge your grace. {Snatches the cup.
C. of Lor. My lord, it may be some ghost, newly crept out
of Purgatory, come to beg a pardon of your Holiness.
Fope. It may be so.— Friars, prepare a dirge to lay the
fury of this ghost.— Once again, my lord, fall to.
{The Pope crosses himself.
Faust. What ! are you crossing of yourself ?
Well, use that trick no more, I would adv-ise you.
{The Pope crosses himself again.
Well, there's the second time. Aware the third ;
I give you fair warning.
{The Pope crosses himself again, and Faustus hits
him a box of the ear ; ' and they all run away.
Come on, MephistophUis ; what shall we do ?
Meph. Nay, I know not : we shall be cursed with beU,
book, and candle.
Faust. How! bell, book, and candle,— candle, book, and
beU,—
Forward and backward, to curse Faustus to hell !
Anon you shall hear a hog grunt, a calf bleat, and an ass
bray.
Because it is Saint Peter's holiday.
Fe-enter all the Friars to sing the Dirge.
First Friar. Come, brethren, let's about our business with
good devotion.
They sing.
Cursed be he that stole away his Holiness' meat from the
table ! maledicat Dominus !
Cursed be he that struck his Holiness a blow on the face !
maledicat Dominus !
Cursed be he thai took Friar Sandelo a blow on the pate !
maledicat Dominus !
Cursed be he that disturbcth our holy dirge! maledicat
Dominus !
Cursed be he that took away his Holiness' wine ! maledicat
Doniinus !
Et omnes Sancti ! Amen !
[Mephistophilis and Faustus beat the Friars, and
Jling fireworks among them ; and so exeunt.
Enter Chorus.
Chor. When Faustus had with pleasure ta'en the view
Of rarest things, and royal courts of kings.
He stay'd his course, and so returned home ;
Where such as bear his absence but with grief,
I mean his friends and near'st companions.
Did gratulate his safety with kind words,
And in their conference of what befell.
Touching his journey through the world and air,
They put forth questions of astrology.
Which Faustus answer'd with such learned s kill
As they admir'd and wonder'd at his wit.
Now is his fame spread forth in every land :
Am ongst the rest the Emperor is one,
Carolus the Fifth, at whose palace now
Faustus is feasted 'mongst his noblemen.
What there he did, in trial of his art,
I leave untold ; your eyes shall see perform'd. [Exit.
1 to the Ijox on the ear to the Pope and the playing tricks uiion
the Friar Marlowe followed the original book, and gratified the com-
batant Protestantism of his time.
These words of the chorus show that the next
scene in Marlowe's phiy was at the court of the
Emperor. But there was here interpolated a veiy
witless clown scene between Robin, the ostler at an
inn, and Ralph his fellow-sei-vant. Robin has stolen
one of Dr. Faustus's conjuring books, and conjm-es
foolishly. They steal a silver goblet, are searched for
it by the Vintner to whom it belongs, and give it
up when Mephistophilis enters, sets squibs to their
backs, and goes out again. MephistophULs enters to
speak the lines which evidently followed the chorus
in Marlowe's play, and a few lines — here printed
between brackets — were interpolated in the theatre,
to furnish an amusing exit for Robin and Ralph.
Marlowe probably wrote " tliis vUlain's charms " (if
" villain " was the word), " this damned slave," with
reference to the power held over him by the doomed
Faustus ; and the interpolator thought he must join
his comic conjurers to the company.
Me-enter Mephistophilis.
Meph. Monarch of hell, under whose black survey
Great potentates do kneel with a'wful fear.
Upon whose altars thousand souls do lie.
How am I vexed with these villains' charms ?
From Constantinople am I hither come.
Only for pleasure of these damned slaves.
{Robin. How, from Constantinople ! you have had a great
journey: will you take sixpence in your purse to pay for
your supper, and be gone ?
3[eph. Well, villains, for your presumption, I transform
thee into an ape, and thee into a dog ; and so be gone I
[Exit.
Robin. How, into an ape ! that's brave : I'U have fine sport
with the boys ; I'U get nuts and apples enow.
Ralph. And I must be a dog.
Robin. I'faith, thy head wiU never be out of the pottage-
pot. {Exeunt.'\
Enter Empeeor, Faustus, and a Knight, with Attendants.
Emp. Master Doctor Faustus, I have heard strange report
of thy knowledge in the black art, how that none in my
empire nor in the whole world can compare with thee for the
rare effects of magic : they say thou hast a familiar spirit, by
whom thou canst accomplish what thou Ust. This, therefore,
is my request, that thou let me see some proof of thy skill,
that mine eyes may be witnesses to confirm what mine ears
have heard reported : and here I swear to thee, by the honour
of mine imperial crown, that, whatever thou doest, thou shalt
be no ways prejudiced or endamaged.
Knight. I'faith, he looks much like a conjurer. {Aside.
Faust. My gracious sovereign, though I must confess
myself far inferior to the report men have published, and
nothing answerable to the honour of your imperial majesty,
yet, for that love and duty binds me thereunto, I am content
to do whatsoever your majesty .shaU command me.
Emp. Then, Doctor Faustus, mark what I shall say.
As I was sometime solitary set
Within my closet, sundry thoughts arose
About the honour of mine ancestors.
How they had won by prowess such exploits.
Got such riches," subdu'd so manv kingdoms.
2 The accent on the last syllable of i-icTics represents the old prO"
nunciation. The word is not a plural from " rich," but a noun in tll»
singula!*, the French *' richesse."
i.D. 1588.]
PLAYS.
125
As we that do succeed, or they that shall
Hereafter possess our throne, shall
(I fear me) ne'er attain to that degree
Of high renown and great authority :
Amongst which kings is Alexander the Great,
Chief spectacle of the world's pre-eminence,
The bright shining of whose glorious acts
Lightens the world with his reflecting beams.
As when I hear but motion made of him
It grieves my soul I never saw the man :
If, therefore, thou, by cunning of thine art.
Canst raise this man from hoUow vaults below,
Whore lies cntomb'd this famous conqueror.
And bring with him his beauteous paramour.
Both in their right shapes, gestui-e, and attire
They us'd to wear during their time of life.
Thou shalt both satisfy my just desire.
And give me cause to praise thee whilst I live.
Faiist. My gracious lord, I am ready to accomplish your
request, so far forth as by art and power of my spuit I am
able to perform.
Knight. I'faith, that's just nothing at all. [Aside.
Faust. But, if it like your grace, it is not in my ability to
present before your eyes the true substantial bodies of those
two deceased princes which long since are consumed to dust.
Knight. Ay, marr)'. Master Doctor, now there's a sign of
grace in you, when you will confess the truth. \_Aside.
Faust. But such spirits as can lively resemble Alexander
and his paramour shall appear before your grace, in that
manner that they both Hved in, in their most flourishing
estate ; which I doubt not shall sufficiently content- your
imperial majesty.
Finp. Go to, Master Doctor ; let me see them presently.
Knight. Do you hear. Master Doctor f you bring Alexander
and his paramour before the Emperor !
Faust. How then, sir ?
Knight. I'faith, that's as true as Diana turned me to a
stag.
Faust. No, sir ; but, when Actaeon died, he left the horns
for you. — Mephistophilis, be gone. [Fxit Mephistophilis.
Knight. Nay, an you go to conjuring, I'U be gone. [Exit.
Faust. I'll meet with you anon for interrupting me so. —
Here they are, my gracious lord.
Ee-enter Mephistophilis with Spirits in the shapes of
Alexander and his Paramour.
Emp. Master Doctor, I heard this lady, while she lived,
had a wart or mole in her neck : how shall I know whether
it be so or no ?
Faust. Your highness may boldly go and see.
Emp. Sure, these are no spirits, but the true substantial
bodies of those two deceased princes. [Exeunt Spirits.
Faust. Wilt please your highness now to send for the
knight that was so pleasant with me here of late ?
Emp. One of you cull him forth. [Exit Attendant.
Re-enter the Knight tclth a pair of horns on his head.
How now, sir knight 1 . . . Feel on thy head.
Knight. Thou damned wretch and execrable dog,
Bred in the concave of some monstrous rock.
How dar'st thou thus abuse a gentleman 'r
Villain, I say, undo what thou hast done !
Faust. Oh, not so fast, sir ! there's no haste : but, good, are
you remembered how you crossed me in my conference wjth
the Emperor ? I think I have met with you for it.
Emp. Good Master Doctor, at my entreaty release him :
he hath done penance sufficient.
Faust. My gi-acious lord, not so much for the injury he
offered me here iu your presence, as to deUght you with some
mirth, h^ith Faustus worthUy requited this injurious knight;
which being aU I desire, I am content to release him of his
horns :— and, sir knight, hereafter speak well of scholars.—
Mephistophilis, transform him straight. [Mephistophilis
removes the /lorKs.]— Now, my good lord, ha\'ing done my
duty, I humbly take my leave.
Emp. Farewell, Master Doctor : yet, ere you go,
Expect from mc a bounteous reward.
[Exeunt Emperor, Knight, and Attendants.
Faust. Now, Mephistophilis, the restless course
That time doth run with calm and silent foot.
Shortening my days and thread of vital life,
Calls for the payment of my latest years :
Therefore, sweet Mephistophilis, let us
Make haste to Wcrtenberg.
Meph. What, will you go on horseback or on foot ?
Faust. Nay, till I'm past this fair and pleasant green,
I'U walk on foot.
Now follows a comic scene of a liorse-coui'ser,
who gives Faustus fifty dollars for his horse, and is
warned that he must not ride him into the water.
The horse-courser departs content, and Faustus, left
alone, meditates.
What art thou, Faustus, but a man condenm'd to die?
Thy fatal time doth draw to final end.
Despair doth drive distrust into my thoughts !
Confound these passions with a quiet sleep.
Tush ! Christ did call the thief on the cross :
Then rest thee, Faustus, quiet in conceit.
Faustus then sleeps in his chair, and is roused by
the clamorous return of the horse-courser, who had
been warned that the horse he bought must not be
ridden thi'ough water ; had tried the effect of such a
ride, expecting gi-eater profit ; and found that, in
the middle of the pond, his horse vanLshed, and he
was sitting upon a bottle of hay. He is told by
Mephistophilis that Faustus has not slept this eight
nights, but being resolved to wake bim, roai-s in bis
ear, pulls at Ids leg, p\ills it off, to liis dismay, and
offers to pay Mei)histophilis forty doUare more for the
damage. Faustus has his leg again, and tlie jJay
continues thus, after the clown scene, wliich wiis,
doubtless, an interpolation.
Enter Wagxek.
Faust. How now, Wagner ! what's the news with thee ?
Wag. Sir, the Duke of Vanholt doth eiu-nestly entreat
your company.
Famt. The Duke of Vanholt I an honourable gentleman,
to whom I must be no niggard of my cunning.— Come,
MephistophiHs, let's away to him. [Exeunt.
Enter the Duke of Vanholt, the Dichess, and Favstvs.
Duke. Believe me. Master Doctor, this merriment hath
much pleased me.
Faust. My gracious lord, I am glad it contents you so
well.— But "it mav be, madam, you take no delight in this.
I have heard that women [at times] do long for some
dainties or other : what is it, madam ? teU me, and you shaU
have it. , , t
Buehcss. Thanks, good Master Doctor: and, for I sec your
courteous intent to pleasure me, I wiU not hide from you the
thing my heart desires; and were it now summer, as it is
126
CASSELL'S LIBRAEY OF ENGLISH LITERAT UKE.
La.u. 1588,
January and the dead time of the winter, I would desire no
better meat than a dish of ripe grapes.
Faust. Alas, madam, that's nothing l—Mephistophilis, be
gone. [Exit Mei-histophilis.] Were it a greater thing
than this, so it would content you, you should have it.
Re-enter Mephistophilis leith grapes.
Here they be, madam : wilt please you taste on them?
Duke. Believe me. Master Doctor, this makes me wonder
above the rest, that being in the dead time of winter and in
the month of January, how you should come by these
grapes.
Faust. If it like your grace, the year is divided into two
circles over the whole world, that, when it is here winter
with us, in the contrary circle it is summer with them, as in
India, Saba, and farther countries in the east ; and by means
of a swift spirit that I have, I had them brought hither, as
you sec. — How do you like them, madam ? be they good ?
Duchess. Believe me, Master Doctor, they be the best
grapes that e'er I tasted in my life before.
Faust. I am glad they content you so, madam.
Duke. Come, madum, let us in, where you must well
reward this learned man for the great kindness he hath
shewed to you.
Duchess. And so I will, my lord ; and, whilst I live, rest
beholding for this courtesy.
Faust. I humbly thank your grace.
Duke. Come, Master Doctor, follow us, and receive your
reward. \_Exeunt.
Enter Wagner.
Waij. I think my master means to die shortly,
For he hath given to me all his goods :
And yet, methinks, if that his death were near,
He would not banquet, and carouse, and swill
Amongst the students, as even now he doth,
^Mio are at supper with such belly-cheer
As Wagner ne'er beheld in aU his life.
See where they come I belike the feast is ended. \_ExU.
Elder Faustus with tico or three Scholars, and
Mephistophilis.
First Schol. Master Doctor Faustus, since our conference
about fair ladies, which was the beautifulest in all the world,
we have determined with om-selves that Helen of Greece was
the admii-ablcst lady that ever lived : therefore. Master
Doctor, if you will do us that favour, as to let us see that
peerless dame of Greece, whom all the world admires for
majesty, we should think ourselves much beholding unto
you.
Faust. Gentlemen,
For that I know your friendship is unfeign'd,
And Faustus' custom is not to deny
The just requests of those that wish him well.
You shall behold that peerless dame of Greece,
Ko otherwaj's for pomp and majesty
Than when Sir Paris cross'd the seas with her,
And brought the spoils to rich Dardania.
Be silent, then, for danger is in words.
[JIusic sounds, and Helen pnsseth over the stage.
Sec. Schol. Too simple is my wit to tell her praise.
Whom aU the world admires for majesty.
Third Schol. No marvel though the angry Greeks pursu'd
With ten years" war the rape of such a queen.
Whose heavenly beauty passeth all compare.
First SclioL Since we have seen the pride of Nature's
works.
And only paragon of excellence,
Tjct us depart ; and for this glorious deed
Happy and blest be Faustus evermore !
Faust. Gentlemen, farewell : the same I wish to you.
\_Exeunt Scholars.
Enter an Old Jlan.^
Old Man. Ah, Doctor Faustus, that I might prevail
To guide thy steps unto the way of life.
By which sweet path thou mayst attain the goal
Tlaat shall conduct thee to celestial rest !
Break heart, drop blood, and mingle it with tears.
Tears falling from repentant heaviness
Of thy most vile and loathsome filthiness.
The stench whereof corrupts the inward soul
With such flagitious crimes of heinous sin
As no commiseration may expel
But mercy, Faustus, of thy Saviour sweet.
Whose blood alone must wash away thy guilt.
Faust. Where art thou, Faustus ? wretch, what hast thou
done 'i
Damn'd art thou, Faustus, damn'd ; despair and die !
Hell calls for right, and with a roaring voice
Says, " Faustus, come ; thine hour is almost come ; "
And Faustus now will come to do thee right.
[Mephistophilis gives him a dagger.
Old Man. Ah, stay, good Faustus, stay thy desperate
steps !
I see an angel hovers o'er thy head,
And with a vial full of precious grace
Offers to pour the same into thy soul :
Then call for mercy, and avoid despair.
Faust. Ah, my sweet friend, I feel
Thy words to comfort my distressed soul !
Leave me a while to ponder on my sins.
Old Man. I go, sweet Faustus ; but with heavy cheer.
Fearing the ruin of thy hopeless soul. \_Exit.
Faust. Accursed Faustus, where is mercy now ?
I do repent ; and yet I do despair :
Hell strives with grace for conquest in my breast :
What shall I do to shun the snares of death ?
Meph. Thou traitor, Faustus, I arrest thy soul
For disobedience to my sovereign lord :
Revolt, or I'U in piece-meal tear thy flesh.
Faust. Sweet Mephistophilis, entreat thy lord
To pardon my unjust presumption.
And with my blood again I will confirm
My former vow I made to Lucifer.
Meph. Do it, then, quickly, with unfeigned heart,
Lest greater danger do attend thy drift."
Faust. Torment, sweet friend, that base and crooked age.
That durst dissuade me from thy Lucifer,
With greatest torments that om- hell affords.
Meph. His faith is great ; I cannot touch his soul ;
But what I may afflict his body with
I will attempt, which is but little worth.
Faust. One thing, good servant, let me crave of thee,
To glut the longing of my heart's desire, —
That I might have unto my paramour
That heavenly Helen which I saw of late,
A\Tiose sweet embracings may extinguish clean
Those thoughts that do dissuade me from my vow.
And keep mine oath I made to Lucifer.
1 In the original book the exliortation, from an old man who ia-
vitetl Panst to supper, is imdramatic. and entirely without the poetic
intensity here griven to it by Marlowe's treatment.
2 Drift, the being driven by an impelling force, which is here the
force of conscience.
A.D. 1588.]
PLAYS.
127
Mtp/i . Faustus, this, or what else thou shalt desire,
Shall be perfonn'd in twinkling of an eye.
lie-enter Helen.
I-'uiist. Was this the face that launch'd a thousand ships,
And burnt the topless towers of Ilium ? —
Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss. — [A'isscs her.
Her lips suck forth my soul : see where it flies ! —
Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again.
Here wiU I dwell, for heaven is in these lips,
And all is dross that is not Helena.
I will be Paris, and for love of thee.
Instead of Troy, shall Wertenberg be sack'd ;
And I will combat with weak Menelaus,
And wear thy colours on my plumed crest ;
Yea, I will wound Achilles in the heel.
And then return to Helen for a kiss.
Oh, thou art fairer than the evening air
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars ;
Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter
A\Tien he appear' d to hapless Semele ;
More lovely than the monarch of the sky
In wanton Arethusa's azur'd arms :
And none but thou shalt be my paramour ! [^Exeitnt.
Bnter the Old Man.
Old Man. Accursed Faustus, miserable man,
That from thy soul cxclud'st the grace of heaven,
And fly'st the throne of his tribunal-seat !
Enter Devils.
Satan begins to sift me with his pride :
As in this furnace God shall try my faith.
My faith, vile hell, shall triumph over thee.
Ambitious fiends, see how the heavens smUe
At your repulse, and laugh your state to scorn !
Hence, hell ! for hence I fly unto my God.
[Exeimt, — on one side. Devils ; on the other, Old Man.
Enter Favstvs, with Scholars.
Faust. Ah, gentlemen I
First Schol. 'What ails Faustus ?
Faust. Ah, my sweet chamber-fellow, had T lived with
thee, then had I lived still ! hut now I die eternally. Look,
comes he not ? comes he not ?
Sec. Sc/iol. What means Faustus ?
Third Schol. Belike he is grown into some sickness by
being over-solitary.
First Schol. If it bo so, weU have physicians to cure him.
— 'Tis but a surfeit ; never fear, man.
Fnust. A surfeit of deadly sin, that hath damned both
body and soul.
Sec. Schol. Yet, Faustus, look up to heaven : remember
God's mercies are infinite.
Faust. But Faustus' offence can ne'er be pardoned : the
serpent that tempted Eve may be saved, but not Faustus.
Ah, gentlemen, hear me with patience, and tremble not at
my speeches ! Though my heart pants and quivers to
remember that I have been a student here these thirty
years, would I had never seen Wertenberg, never read
book I and what wonders I have done, all Germany can
witness, yea, all the world ; for which Faustus hath lost both
Germany and the world, yea, heaven itself, heaven, the seat
of God, the throne of the blessed, the kingdom of joy ; and
must remain in hell for ever, hcU, ah, hell, for ever ! Sweet
friends, what shall become of Faustus, being in hell for ever?
Third Schol. Yet, Faustus, call on God.
Faust. On God, whom Faustus hath abjured! on God,
whom Faustus hath blasphemed! Ah, my God, I would
weep ! but the devil diuws in my tears. Gush forth blood,
instead of tears ! yea, life and soul ! Oh, he stays my tongue !
I would lift up my hands ; but see, they hold them, they
hold them !
All. Who, Faustus ?
Faust. Lucifer and Mephistophilis. Ah, gentlemen, I gave
them my soul for my cunning !
All. God forbid!
Faust. God forbade it, indeed ; but Faustus hath done it :
for vain pleasure of twenty-four years hath Faustus lost
eternal joy and felicity. I writ them a bill with mine own
blood : the date is expired ; the time wUl come, and he wiU
fetch me.
First Schol. Why did not Faustus teU us of this before,
that divines might have prayed for thee i
Faust. Oft have I thought to have done so ; but the devil
threatened to tear me in pieces, if I named God ; to fetch
both body and soul, if I once gave car to divinity : and now
'tis too late. Gentlemen, away, le.st you perish with mc.
Sec. Schol. Oh, what shall we do to .save Fau.stus •■
Faust. Talk not of me, but save yourselves, and depart.
Third Schol. God will strengthen me ; I wUl stay with
Faustus.
First Schol. Tempt not God, sweet friend ; but let us into
the next room, and there pray for him.
Faust. Ay, pray for me, pray for me ; and what noise
soever ye hear, come not unto me, for nothing can rescue me.
Sec. Schol. Pray thou, and we will pray that God may have
mercy upon thee.
Faust. Gentlemen, farewell : if I live tiU morning, I'll
visit you ; it not, Faustus is gone to hell.
All. Faustus, farewell.
[£<■('««< Scholiirs. — Tl(e clock strikes eleven.
Faust. Ah, Faustus,
Now hast thou but one bare horn' to live.
And then thou must be damn'd perpetually !
Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven,
That time may cease, and midnight never come ;
Fair Natm-e's eye, rise, rise again, and make
Perpetual day : or let this hour be but
A year, a month, a week, a natund day,
That Faustus may repent and save his soul !
lente, lente currite, noctis e/jui ."
The stars move stUl, time rims, the clock will strike.
The devil will come, and Faustus must bo damn'd.
Oh, I'U leap up to my God I— WTio pulls me do\\-n i—
See, see, where Christ's blood streams in the firmament !
One di-op would save my soul, half a di-op : ah, my Chiist ! —
Ah, rend not my heart for naming of my Christ !
Yet wUl I call on him : Oh, spare me, Lucifer !—
Where is it now ? 'tis gone : and see, where God
Stretcheth out his arm, and bends his ireful brows !
Mountains and hiUs, come, come, and faU on me.
And hide me from the heavy wrath of God !-
Xo, no !
Then will I headlong run into the eailh :
Earth, gape ! Oh, no, it will not harbour mc !
You stars that reign'd at my nativity.
Whose influence hath allotted death and hell.
Now draw up Faustus, Uke a foggy mist.
1 Eun slowly, slowly, horses of the mght.
2 "Then shall they beiria to say to the monntams, F.'OI on us; and
to the hills. Cover us." (Luke xxiii. 30.) •• And said to the mountains
and rocks. Fall on us, and hide us from the face of Him that sitteth
ou the throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb, for the great dss ~
His wrath is come." (Revelation vi. Itf, 17J
128
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1588.
Into the (■ntrails of yon hibouring- cloud,
That, when you vomit forth into the au-,
My limbs may iasue from your smoky moutha,
So that my soul may but ascend to heaven !
\_Tlic diock strikes the half-hour.
Ah, half the hour is past ! 'twill all be past anon.
C) God,
If thou wilt not have mercy on my soul,
Yet for Christ's sake, whoso blood hath ransom'd me,
Impose sonic end to my incessant pain ;
Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years,
A hundred thousand, and at last be sav'd !
\)\\, no end 's limited to damned souls !
Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul ?
Or why is this immortal that thou hast ?
Ah, Pythagoras' metempsychosis, were that true,
This soul should fly from me, and I be chang'd
Unto some brutish beast I all beasts are happy,
For, when they die,
Their souls are soon dissolv'd in elements ;
But mine must live still to be plagu'd in hell.
Curs'd be the parents that cngendcr'd me I
No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer
That hath depriv'd thee of the joys of heaven.
\_Thc clock strikes twelve.
Oh, it strikes, it strikes ! Now, body, turn to air,
( )r Lucifer will bear thee quick ' to hell I
[^Thunder and lightning.
O soul, be chang'd to little water-drops.
And fall into the ocean, ne'er be foimd I
Elder Devils.
My God, my God, look not so fierce on me !
Adders and serpents, let me breathe a while !
■Ugly hell, gape not ! come not, Lucifer!
I'll biuu my books ! —Ah, Mephistophilis !
[Exeunt De\'ils tcith Faustus.
Enter Chorus.
Chor. Cut is tho branch that might have grown full
straight,
And burned is Apollo's laurel-bough,
That sometime grew witliin this learned man.
Faustus is gone : regard his hellish faU,
Whose fiendf ul fortune may e.xhort the wise.
Only to wonder at unlawful things,
Whose deepness doth entice such forward wits
To practise more than heavenly power permits. {Exit.
John Lylj wrote plays for the Court, when Mar-
lowe wrote them for the People, but Lyly's first
plays were produced somewhat earlier than Mar-
lowe's first. John Lyly, born in the Weald of Kent
in 1553 or 1554, was of about the same age as
Etknund Spenser. He became a student of Magdalen
College, Oxford, in 1509, and took his degrees in arts,
that of B.A. in 1573, that of M.A. in 1575. In the
winter of 1578 he wrote, and p>iblished in 1579,
" Euphue.s : or, the Anatomie of Wit," a novel, with
a very serious purpose, addressed to the courtiers in
the ingenious way of speaking and writing then in
fashion, which had gradually been introduced from
Italy. Lyly caught the style so well, and refined on
It so danitily, that his book, named after its hero,
Euphues, had its name used as a name for the
* Quicfr, alive.
fashionable style, which was then called, and has
been ever since called, Euphuism. The book is one
of those which will be duly represented in another
volume of this Library. In the year of the publica-
tion of " Euphues," Spenser produced his first book,
" The Shepherd's Calendar," and Stephen Gossou
puljlished his " School of Abuse." In the following
year, 1580, Lyly published a sequel to his "Euphues :
or, the Anatomie of Wit," called " Euphues in Eng-
land." He attached liimself to the Court, and with
a high reputation for witty conceit, wrote, in course
of time, nine plays to please the Queen, seven in
ingenious prose, one in rhyme, one in blank verse.
His " Campaspe," " played before the Queenes
Maiestie on New Yeares Day at night, by her
Maiesties Children and the Children of Paules," and
" Sappho and Phao," acted before the Queen, in like
manner, on Shrove Tuesday, were fii'st printed in
1584.
" Endyniion " was acted before the Queen by the
Children of Paul's at some date before 1589 or 1590,
when there was an interdict on their perfoi'mances,
which lasted till about the end of the century. It
was first printed in 1591, and written not later than
1588, when Lyly's age was thirty-four or thirty-
five. His " Galathea" was printed in 1592, " Mother
Bombie" in 1594. In 1590 and 1593 he was making
vain suit for some substantial mark of Court favour
to help him out of the poverty which caused him to
write to the Queen in 1593 : — " My last will is shorter
than mine invention ; but three legacies, patience to
my creditors, melancholy without measui-e to my
friends, and beggary without shame to my family."
His plays were all produced before the death of
Marlowe, although three of them — " The Woman
in the Moon," "The Maid's Metamorphosis," and
" Love's Metamorphosis " — were not printed until
1597, IGOO, and 1601. In 1597, 1600, and 1603
he had children baptized in the parish of St. Bartho-
lomew-the-Less, where he lived in his latter years,
and died in November, 1606, aged fifty-two. Let us
take his
ENDYMION.
Endymion aspires. His love is not to Earth —
personified in Tellus — but to a beauty that is above
the Earth. In the first scene of the first act he tells
his aspiration to his faithful friend Eumenides ; and
in the second scene the slighted Earth, Tellus, holds
dialogue of him with Floscula, a flowret. In this
play I will leave the old spelling unaltered, that it
may serve in all respects as an example of Elizabethan
English.
ACTUS PRIMfS. SC.ENA PRIMA.
Endimion; Eumenides.
End. I find Eumenides in all things both varietio to con-
tent, and satietie to glut, saving onely in my affections ;
which are so stayed, and withall so stately ; that I can.
neither satisfie my heart with love, nor mine eyes with wonder.
My thoughts Eumenides are stitched to the starres, which
being as high as I can see, thou maist imagine how much
higher they are then I can reach.
Ei(m. If you bee enamored of any thing above the Moonc,
your thoughts are ridiculous, for that things immortall aro
I not subject to affections ; if aUui-ed or enchauntod with these
i.1). 13S8.]
PLAYS.
129
transitorie things under the lloone, you shew your selfe
sencelesse, to attiibute such loftie titles to such love trifles.
£>i<l. lly love is placed neither under the Moone nor
above.
£iiin. I hope you be not sotted upon the Man ia the
Moone.
£>i(i. Xo but setled, either to die, or possesse the Moone
h.r-lfe.
Ltoit. Is Eiidlmion mad, or doe I mistake ;- doe you love
the Moone Endimion ?
End. Eiimoiidvs, the Moone.
Ellin. There was never any so peevish to imagine the
Moone either capable of affection, or shape of a Slistris : for
as impossible it is to make love sit to her humour which no
man knoweth, as a coate to her forme, which continueth not
in one bignesse whilst she is measuring. Cease of Endimion
to feed so much upon fancies. That melancholy bloud must
be purged, which draweth you to a dotage no lesse miserable
then monstrous.
End. My thoughts have no veines, and yet unles they be
let blood, I shall perish.
Eiim. But they have vanities, which being reformed, you
may be restored.
End. O faire Cijnthia, why doe others terme thee uncon-
stant, whom I have ever found unmoveable ? Injurious
time, corrupt manners, unkind men, who finding a constancie
not to be matched in my sweet Mistris, have christned her
with the name of waveiing, waxing, and waning. Is shee
inconstant that keepeth a setled course, which since her first
creation altercth not one minute in her moving ;•" There is
nothing thought more admirable, or commendable in the sea,
then the ebbing and flowing ; and shall the Moone, from
whom the sea taketh this vertue, be accounted fickle for
encreasing and decreasing ? Flowers in their buds, are
nothing worth till they be blowne ; nor blossomes accounted
tm they bee ripe fruite ; and shal we then say they be
changeable, for that they grow from seeds to leaves, from
leaves to buds, fi-om buds to their perfection ? then, why be
not twigs that become trees, children that become men, and
mornings that grow to evenings, termed wavering, for that
they continue not at one stay? I,'-^ but Cijiithia being in her
fulnesse decayeth, as not delighting in her greatest beauty,
or withering when she should be most honored. AMien
malice cannot object any thing, folly will ; making that a
vice, which is the greatest vertue. ^^^lat thing (my mistris
excepted) being in the pride of her beautie, and latter minute
of her age, that waxeth young againe ': TeU mee Emm n ides,
what is hee that having a mistris of ripe yeeres, and infinite
vertues, great honors, and unspeakable beautie, but would
v.:-';! that she might arow tender againe J getting youth by
y. ■ it-s, and never decaj-ing beautie by time; whose faire
face, neither the summers blaze can scorch, nor winters blast
chap, nor the numbi-ing of yeeres breed altering of colours.
Such is my sweet Cynthia, whom time cannot touch, because
she is di\-ine, nor will offend because shee is deUcate.
Ci/nt/iia, a thou shouldest alwayes continue at thy fulnesse,
both Gods and men would conspire to ravish thee. But
thou, to abate the pride of our affections, dost detract from
thy perfections ; thinking it sufficient, if once in a moneth
wee enjoy a gHmpse of thy majestie ; and then, to increase
our griefes, thou doest decrease thy glomes ; comming out of
thy royall robes, wherewith thou dazelest our eyes, downe
into thy swathe clowts, beguiling our eyes ; and then —
1 Cease of. The preposition was addea to ■■ cease," as it is nov.-
added to " leave " in *' leave off."
2 I, in old English a frequent spelling of " ay," yes.
137
Eim. Stay there Endimim, thou that committest idolatrv
wilt straight blaspheme, if thou be suffered. Slecpe would
doe thee more good then speech : the Moone hcareth thee
not, or if she doe, regardeth thee not.
End. Vaine Eumenidts, whose thoughts never grow higher
then the crowne of thy head. Wliy troublest thou me
havmg neither head to conceive the cause of my love, or a
heart to receive the impressions r foUow thou thine 'o«-ne
fortunes, which creepe on the earth, and suffer mee to flie to
mme, whose faU though it be desperate, yet shaU it come bv
daring. Farewell.
Eum. Without doubt Endimion is bewitched, otherwise in
a man of such rare vertues, there could not harbour a minde
of such extreme madnesse. I will follow him, least in this
fancie of the moone he deprive himselfe of the sight of the
ACTUS PRIMUS. SC.ESA SECUXDA.
Tellus; FLoscrL.\.
Telliis. Trecherous and most perjur'd Endimion, is Cynthia
the sweetuesse of thy Ufe, and the bittemesse of my death ?
What revenge may be devised so full of shame, as my thoughts
are replenished with malice ? Tell me Floiciila if falscnesse
in love can possibly be punished with extremity of hate. As
long as sword, fire, or poyson may be hired, no traytor to my
love shall live unrevenged. Were thy oathes without nuinlKr,
thy kisses without measure, thy sighes mthout end, forged
to deceive a poore credulous virgin whose sinipUcitiit had
beene worth thy favour and better fortune f If the Gods sit
unequall beholders of injuries, or laughere at lovers deceits;
then let mischiefe be as well forgiven in women, as perjurie
wmked at in men.
Flosc. Madame, if you would compare the state of Cynthia
with your own ; and the height of Endimion his thoughts,
with the meannesse of your fortune ; you would rather yecld
then contend, being betweene you and her no comi>arison ;
and rather wonder then rage at the greatnesse of his minde,
being affected with a thing more then mortall.
Tellus. Xo comparison Floseiila ? and why so ': is not my
beautie divine, whose bodie is decked with faire flowers : and
veines are vines, yeelding sweet liquor to the dullest spirits ;
whose eares are come, to bring strength ; and whose hain'S
are grasse to bring abimdance ? Doth not frankinccuse, ami
mj-rrhe breath out of my nostrils, and all the sacrifice of
the Gods, breed in my bowels ? Infinite arc my creatiu>>s,
without which, neither thou nor Endimion, nor any could
love, or live.
Elosc. But know you not faire ladie, that Cynthia govemeth
all things r Your grapes would be but drie huskes, your
come but chaffe, and all your vertues vaine : were it not
Ci/nt/iia that preserveth the one in the bud, and nourisheth
the other in the blade, and by her influence both comfortcth
al things, and by her authority conmiandeth all creatures;
suffer then Endimion to follow his affections, thou-li to
obtaine her be impossible, and let him flatter himselfe in his
owne imaginations, because they are immort;ilI.
Tellus. Loth I am Endimion thou shouldest die, because I
love thee well ; and that thou shouldest Hve it grievcth me,
because thou lovest Cynfliia too weU. In these extremities
what shaU I doe ? Fhsailn no more words, I am resolved.
He shall neither Uve, nor die.
Flosc. A strange practice, if it be possible.
Ttlliis. Yes, I will entangle him in such a sweet net, that
he shall neither find the meanes to come out. nor desire it.
AH aUurements of pleasure will I cast before his eyes, inso-
much that he shall slake that love which hee now voweth t»
130
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
LA.D. 1587.
Cynthia ; and bume in mine, of which hee seemeth carelesse.
In this languishing, betwceno my amorous devises, and his
owne loose desires, there shal such dissolute thoghts take root
in his head, and over his heart grow so thicke a skin; that
neither hope of preferment, nor feare of punishment, nor
counscll of the wisest, nor company of the worthiest ; shall
alter his humour, nor make him once to thinke of his
honour.
Flosc. A revenge incredible, and if it may be, unnaturall.
Tellus. He shall know the malice of a woman, to have
neither meane, nor end ; and of a woman deluded in love, to
have neither rule, nor reason. I can doe it, I must ; I will !
AU his vertues wiU I shadow with vices ; his person (ah
sweet person) shall he decke witli such rich robes, as hee
shall forget it is his owne person ; his sharpe wit (ah wit too
sharpe, that hath cut off aU my joyes) shall hee use, in flatter-
ing of my face, and devising sonnets in my favour-. The prime
of his youth and pride of his time, shall be spent in melan-
choly passions, carelossc behaviour, untamed thoughts, and
unbridled affections.
Flosc. When this is done what then, shall it continue till
his death, or shall he dote for ever in this delight f
Tellus. Ah Floscida, thou rendest my heart in sunder in
putting me in remembrance of the end.
Flosc. Why if this be not the end, aU the rest is to no
tnd.
Tellus. Yet suffer me to imitate Jiow, who would turne
Jupitcrs lovers to beasts on the earth though she knew after-
wards they should be stars in heaven.
Flosc. Affection that is bred by enchantment, is like a
flower that is wrought in silke, in colour and forme most
like, but nothing at all in substance or savour.
Tclliis. It shall suffice mc if the world talke that I am
favoured of Endinuon.
Flosc. Well, use your owne will ; but you shall find that
love gotten with witchcraft, is as unpleasant, as fish taken
with medicines unwholesome.
Tellus. Floscula, they that be so poore that they have
neither net nor hooke, will I'ather poyson dowo' then pine
with hunger : and she that is so opprcst with love, that she
is neither able with beautie nor wit to obtaine her friend,
will rather use unlawfull meanes, then try untolerable paines.
I will doe it. \^E.tit.
Flosc. Then about it. Poore Endimioii, what traps are
laid for thee, because thou honourest one that all the world
wondreth at. And what plots are east to make thee un-
fortunate, that studiest of all men to be the faithfullest.
[Exit.
From this suggestion of the spells of earth over
the soul given to heavenward aspiration, we turn
to a .scene, developed from the clown scenes of the
early drama, in which the clown's place is filled by
the fantastic Sir Tophas, a precursor of Shake-
speare's Don Adrian de Armado and Malvolio. Sir
Tophas, between the two jtages of Endimion and
Eumenides and his own page Epi, enters, overloaded
with implements. In tliis respect he may remind
us of the first entry of the Vice in' " C'ambyses."
A "fantastic person" was a favourite character in the
Elizabethan drama, and in Lyly we see the process
of his development out of a lower form of dramatic
life.
' Borne, dougli, bread.
ACTUS PRIMUS. SC.ENA TERTIA.
Dares; S.iMiAS ; Siu ToPH.is; Epiton.
Dares. Now our masters are in love up to the eares, what
have we to doe but to be in knavcrie up to the crownes.
Samias. that we had Sir Tophus that brave squii-e in the
midst of our mirth, ct ecce autem, wiU you see the devill ? ^
Enter Sir Tophas.
Top. Epi.
Epi. Heerc sir.
Top. I brook not this idle humour of love, it tickleth not
mj' liver, from whence the love-mongers in former age seemed
to inferre they should proceed.
Epi. Love, su', may lie in your lungs, and I thinke it doth ;
and that is the cause you blow and are so pur.sie.
Top. Tush boy 1 I thinke it but some device of the poet to
get money.
Epi. A poet ? what's that ?
Top. Doest thou not know what a poet is ?
Epi. No.
The JSong of Apollo.
From the title-page to an edition o/Isocmtes, 1587.
Top. Why foole, a poet is as much as one should say,
a poet. But soft, yonder bo two wrens, shall I shoot at
them ?
Epi. They are two lads.
Top. Larkes or wrens, I will kill them.
Epi. Larkes P are you blinde ? they are two little boyes.
Top. Birds, or boyes, they are both but a pittance for my
breakfast ; therefore have at them, for their braincs must as
it were imbroder my bolts.
Suiii. Stay your courage vaUant knight, for your wisdomcj
is so wearie that it stayeth it selfo.
Dtrr. Why Sir Tophas have }-ou forgotten your old
friends ?
Top. Friends ? NcffO ar{/umcutiim.^
Snm. And why not friends ?
Top. Because Amicitin (as in old annals we find) is inter
pares* now my prettie companions you shall sec how unequall
you be to me ; but I will not cut you quite oft', you shall be
my half e friends ; for reacliing to my middle, so farre as from
the ground to thi:' waste I will be your friend.
Dar. Learnedly. But what shall become of the rest of
your bodie, from the waste to the crowne ?
Top. My children quod supra i'os nihil ad ros,^ you must
thinke the rest immortall, because you cannot reach it.
Epi. Nay, I tell yee my master is more then a man.
'^ And here lie is. Talk of the devil if you wish to see him.
3 I deny the arerimient.
■* Friendship is between equals.
5 What is above yon is nothing to you. A phrase of the schools.
TO A.D- I08S.J
PLAYS.
131
Diir. And thou lesse then a mouse.
To]). But what be you two ?
Sam. I am Samias, page to Endimion.
I)ar. And I Dares, page to Eamcnidcs.
Top. Of what occupation are j'our masters ?
J>ar. Occupation, you clowne, why they are honourahle,
and warriers.
Top. Then are they my prentises.
Dar. Thine, and why so ?
Top. I was the first that ever deWsed warre, and therefore
hy Mars himselfe had given mo for my armes a whole
armorie ; and thus I goe as you sec, clothed with artillorie ;
it is not sOkes [)inlkfsops) nor tyssues, nor the fine wooll of
Certs ;^ hut jTon, Steele, swords, flame, shot, terrom-, clamour,
bloud, and ruine, that rocks asleepo my thoughts, which
never had an}' other cradle but crucltie. Let me see, doe
you not bleed ?
Dar. Why so ?
Top. Commonly my wordes wound.
Sam. What then doe your blowes 'f
Top. Not onely wound, but also confound.
Sam. How darest thou come so neere thy master Epi ? Sir
Tophus spare us.
Top. You shall live. You Samias because you are little ;
you Dares, because you are no bigger ; and both of you,
because you are but two ; for commonly I kill by the
doozen, and have for every particular adversjirie, a peculiar
weapon.
Sam. May we know the use for oui' better skill Ln warre ?
Top. You shall. Heere is a bird-bolt for the ugly beast
the black-bird.
Dar. A cruell sight.
Top. Heere is the musket, for the untamed, (or as the
vulgar sort terme it) the wilde mallard.
Sam. desperate attempt !
Epi. Nay, my master will match them.
Dar. I, if he catch them.
Top. Heere is a speare and shield, and both necessary ; the
one to conquer, the other to subdue or overcome the terrible
trowt, which although he be under the water, yet tying a
string to the tox) of my speare and an engine of iron to the
end of my Une, I overthrow him ; and then herein I put him.
Sam. O wonderfull warre ! Dares, didst thou ever heare
such a dolt ?
Dar. All the better, we shall have good sport hereafter, if
wee can get leisure.
Sam. Leisure ? I will rather loose my masters service then
his company! looke how 'he'strowtes; but what is this, call
you it your sword ?
Top. No, it is my simiier; which I by construction often
studying to bee compendious, call my smiter.
Dar. What, are you also learned, sir ?
Top. Learned ? I am all Mars and Ars.
Sam. Nay, you are all masse and asse.
Top. Mocke you mee? I'ou shall both suffer, yet with
such weapons, as you shall make choice of the weapon
wherewith you shall perish. Am I all a masse or lumpe, is
there no proportion in me ? Am I all asse ? is there no wit
in me ? Epi, prepare them to the slaughter.
Sam. I pray, sir, heare us speake! wee call you masse,
which your learning doth well understand is all man, for
Mas maris is a man. Then As (as you know) is a weight,
and wc for your vertues account you a weight.
Top. The Latino hath saved your lives, the which a world
• Ceres for Seres, Greek s^pes. a people of Eastern Asia famed for
their silk fabric. The modern Chinese,
of silver could not nave ransomed. I understand you, and
pardon you.
Dar. Well Sir Top/ias wee bid you farewell, and at our
next meeting wee will be roadie to doe you service.
Top. Samias I thauke yon i—Dares I thanke you; but
especially I thanke you both.
Sam. Wisely. Conic, next time weele have some prettie
gentlewomen with us to walk, for without doubt with them
he will be very daiutie.
Dar. Come let us sec what our masters doe, it is high time.
l^Ezeant.
Top. Now will I march into the field, where if 1 cannut
encounter with my foule enemies, I will -ivithdraw myseU'e to
the river, and there fortifie for fish : for there resteth no
minute free from fight. [Exit.
ACTUS PRIMUS. SC^NA QUARTA.
Tellus; Floscula; Dips.^s.
Tillus. Behold Floscula, wee have met with the woman by
chance that wee sought for by traveU; I will breake my
minde to her without ceremonie or circumstance, least wo
loose that time in advice that should be spent in execution.
Flosc. Use youi- discretion, I will in this case neither give
counsell nor consent, for there cannot be a thing more
monstrous then to force affection by sorcerie, neither do I
imagine any thing more impossible.
Tellas. Tush Floscula ! in obtaining of love, what impos-
sibihties mil I not trj'? and for the winning of Endimion,
what impieties will 1 not practise ? Dipsas, whom as many
honor for age, as wonder at for cunning ; listen in few words
to my tale, and answer in one word to the piu-pose ; for that
neither my bm-ning desire can afford long speech, nor the
short time I have to stay many delayes. Is it possible by
herbs, stones, spels, incantation, enchantment, exorcismes,
fire, metaUs, planets, or any practice ; to plant affection
where it is not, and to supplant it where it is :'
Dipsas. Faire ladie, you may imagine that these hone
haires are not void of experience, nor the great name that
goeth of my cunning to be without cause. I can darken the
sunne by my skiU, and remove the moone out of her course ;
I can restore youth to the aged, and make hils without
bottoms ; there is nothing that I cannot doe, but that onely
which you would have mee doe; and therein I differ from
the Gods, that 1 am not able to ride hearts ; for were it in
my power to place affection by appointment, 1 would make
such eviU appetites, such inordinate lusts, such cm-sed desires,
as all the worid should be fiUed both with superstitious heats,
and extreme love.
Tellus. Unhappie Tellus, whoso desires are so desperate
that they are neither to be conceived of any creature, nor to
be cured by anv art.
Dipsas. This I can, breed slacknesse in love, though never
root it out. What is he whom you love, and what shee that
he honoureth ?
Tellus. Endimion, sweet Endimion is hee that hath my
heart- and Ci/nthia, too too faire Ci/nlMa, the miracle of
nature, of time, of fortune, is the ladie that he dehghts in;
and dotes on every day, and dies for ton thousand times a
'^'^ Dipsas. Would vou have his love, either by absence or
sicknes aslakcd? "Would you that Cynthia should mistrust
him or be jealous of liim without colour*'
Tellus. It is the onclv thing I crave, that seemg my love
to Endimion unspotted, cannot be accepted, his truth ta
Cynt/na (though it be unspeakable) may bee -^u^P^^t^d.
Dipsas. I wiU midertake it, and overtake hmi, that all hi.
133
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[i.D. 1687
from Camden's Bl-itannia, 1590.
love shall he doubted of, and therefore become desperate ;
but this will weare out with time, that treadeth all things
downe but truth.
Telliis. Let us goe.
Dipsas. I follow. [Exeunt.
The second act opens with a picture of the
epii'itual aspirations of Endymion.
FAIRE Cynthia ! O
imfortunate Endi-
mion ! \Vhy was not
tliy birth as high as
thy thoughts, or her
beauty lesse then
heavenly ? or why
are not thine
honours as rare as
her beautie i or thy
fortunes as great as
thy deserts ? Sweet
Cynthia, how wouldst
thou be pleased,
how possessed ? will
labours (patient of all extremities) obtaine thy love ? There
is no mountaine so stoepe that I will not climbe, no monster
so crucU that I will not tame, no action so desperate that I
will not attempt. Desirest thou the passions of love, the
sad and melancholy moods of perplexed minds, the not to be
expressed torments of r.'icked thoughts 't Behold my sad
teares, my deepe sighes, my hollow eye.s, my broken sleepcs,
my heavie countenance. Wouldst thou have me vow'd onely
to thy beautie, and consume every minute of time in thy
service ? remember my solitarie life, almost these seven
yeares, whom have I entertained but mine owne thoughts,
and thy vertucs ? What company have I used but contem-
plation ? ^Vhom have I wondi-ed at but thee ? Nay, whom
have I not contemned, for thee ? Have I not crept to those
on whom. I might have trodden, onely because thou didst
shine upon them ? Have not injuries beene sweet to mee, if
thou vouchsafest I should beare them ? Have I not spent
my golden yeeres in hopes, waxing old with wishing, yet
wishing nothing but thy love':' With Tellus, faire Tellus,
have I dissembled, using her but as a cloake for mine
affections, that others seeing my mangled and disordered
mind, might thinko it were for one that loveth me, not for
Ci/nthia, whose perfection allowoth no companion, nor com-
parison. In the midst of these distemperou thoughts of mine
thou art not only jealous of my truth, but carelesse, suspi-
cious, and secure : which strange humour maketh my minde
as desperate as thy conceits arc doubtfuu. I am none of
those wolves that barke most, when thou shinest brightest.
But that fish (thy iish Cipithia in the floud Araiiis) which at
thy waxing is as white as the driven snow, and at thy wayn-
ing, as blacke as deepest darkncsse. I am that Endimion
(sweete Cynthia) that have carried my thoughts in equaU
ballance with my actions, being alwayes as free from imagin-
ing iU, as cnterprizing ; that Endimion, whose eyes never
esteemed any thing faire, but thy face, whose tongue termed
nothing rare but thy vertues, and whose heart imagined
nothing miraculous, but thy government. Yea, that Endi-
mion, who divorcing himselfe from the amiablenesse of .all
ladies, the braverie of all courts, the company of all men,
hath chosen in a solitarie cell to live, onely by feeding on
thy favour, accounting in the world (but thyselfe) nothing
excellent, nothing immortall ; thus maist thou see every
vaine, sinew, muscle, and ai-tcry of my love, in which there
is no flatterie, nor deceit, error, nor art.
Then Tellus c-uters, and Endymion seeks to dis-
semble his higher desires, and greet her as the " only
companion of his life." But liis thoughts of heaven
break out of his discourse with earth. Cynthia, he
says, is incomparable. " Cynthia I honour in all
humilitie, whom none ought, or dare ad-venture to
love ; whose aflections are immortall, and vertues
infinite. Suffer me therefore to gaze on the Moone,
at whom, were it not for thyselfe, I would die with
wondermg." The next scene is given to the fantastic
humours of Sir Tophas, after introducing the pages
Dares and Saniias with two damsels, Scintilla and
Favilla, who firfst entertain the audience by quarrel-
ling with one another, and then fool Sir Tophas.
" What," asks Scintilla, " is yonder formall fellow]"
"Sir Tophas," Dares answers, " Su- TojJias of whom
we told you : if you be good wenches make as though
you love him, and wonder at him." Says Favilla,
"We will do our parts." "But first," says Dares,
" let us stand aside, and let him use his garbe, for all
consisteth in his gracing." Sir Tophas burns with
martial ardour against the monster Ovis, he is dis-
posed to kill and eat a sheep, and in his martial soul
there is no place for love to Scintilla and Favilla,
however much they flatter, admire, and ask, " Shall
we die for your love, and find no remedie 1 " Then
follows the last scene of the Second Act : —
Endimion ; Dipsas ; Bagoa.
End. No rest Endimion / still uncertain how to settle thy
steps by day, or thy thoughts by night ? thy truth is measured
by thy fortune, and thou art judged unfaithfuU because thou
art unhappy. I will see if I can beguile myselfe with sleepe,
and if no slumber will take hold in my eyes, yet will I
imbrace the golden thoughts in my head, and wish to melt
by musing : that as ebone, which no fire can scorch, is yet
consumed with sweet savom's ; so my hcai't which cannot bo
bent by the hardncsse of foitunc, may be bruised by amorous
desires. On yonder banke never grew any thing but limary,
and hereafter I will never have any bed but that banke. O
EHdimion, Tdlus was faire, but what avaylcth beauty without
wisdome i Nay, Endimion, she was wise, but what avaj-leth
wisdome without honour ? Shee was honorable Endimion,
belie her not, 1,' but how obscm-c is honour without fortune P
Was she not fortunate whom so many followed ? Yes, yes,
but base is fortune without majestic : thy majestic Cynthia
all the world knoweth and wondereth at, but not one in
the world that can imitate it, or comprehend it. No more
Endimion, sleepe or die ; nay die, for to sleepe, it is im-
possible, and yet I know not how it commeth to passe, I
feele such a hcavinesso both in mine eyes and heart, that 1 am
sodainly benummed, yea in every joint : it may be wcarinesse,
for when did 1 rest ? it may be deepe melancholy, for when
did 1 not sigh ? Cynthia, 1- so, I say Cynthia.
[He f (lis a sleepe.
Dipsas. Little docst thou know Endimion when thou shalt
wake, for hadst thou placed thy heart as lowe in love, as thy
head Kcth now in sleepe, thou mightest have commanded
Tellus whom now instead of a mistris, thou shalt finde a
tombe. These eies must I scale up by art, not nature, which
' I, ay.
I, ay.
roA.D. 15S8.J
PLAYS.
133
lire to be opened neither by art nor nature. Thou that laist
downe with golden lockes, shalt not awake untill they bee
tui-ned to silver haires : and that chin, on which scarcely
aiipuarcth soft downo, shall be filled with brissels as hard as
broome : thou shalt sleepe out thy youth and Hom-ing time,
and become dry hay before thou knewest thyselfe greeue
griisso ; and readie by age to step into the grave when thou
wakest, that was j-outhfull in the coui-t when thou laidst
thee downe to sleepe. The malice of Tdlus hath brought
this to passe, which if shee could not have intreated of mee by
faire meanes, shee would have commanded by menacing, for
from her gather we all our simples to maintains our sorceries.
Fanne with this hemlocke over liis face, and sing the inchant-
ment for sleepe, whilst I goe in and finish those ceremonies
that are requii-ed in our art : take heed yee touch not his face,
for the fanne is so seasoned that who so it touchcth with a leafe
shall presently die, and over whom the winde of it breatheth,
hee shall sleepe for ever. [Exit.
Bagoa. Let me alone, 1 will be carefull. What hap hadst
thou Eiidiinion to come under the hands of Dipsas. faii'e
Eiutimion .' how it giieveth mee that that faire face must be
turned to a withered skin, and taste the paines of death before
it feele the reward of love. I feare Tdlus will repent that
which the heavens themselves seemed to rewe ; but I heare
Dipsas comming, I dare not repine, least shee make me pine,
and rocke mee into such a deepe sleepe, that I shall not awake
to my mamage.
Enter Dipsas.
Dipsas. How now, have you finished ?
Bagoa. Yea.
Dipsas. Well then let us in, and see that you doe not so
much as whisper that I did this, for if you doe, I will turne
thy haires to adders, and all thy teeth in thy head to tongues ;
come away, come away. lExeimt.
A DUMB SHEW.
Musique sounds.
Three ladies enter ; one with a knife and a looking glasse,
who by the procurement of one of the other two, offers to
.stab Eiidiiiiion as hee slecpes, but the third wrings her
Tiands, lamenteth, offering stiU to prevent it, but dares not.
At last, the first lady looking in the glasse, casts downe the
knife. [Exeioit.
Enters an ancient Man with bookcs with three leaves, offers
the same twice.
Endimion refuseth, hee readeth two and offers the third,
where hee stands awhile, and then Endimion offers to take it.
[Exit.
The tliiril act opens at the court of Cynthia,
wliere Eumenides confirms the report of the dead
sleep of liis friend Endymion, and wai-ms in his
hehalf even against the sharp and light tongiied
follower of Cynthia, Semele, whom he faithfully
loves. Tellus, for scornful words of Endymion, is
sent to imprisonment.
Cgnth. Presumptuous girle, I will make thy tongue an
example of unrecoverable displeasure. Corsites carrie her to
the castle in the desert, there to remaine and weave.
Cors. Shall shee worke stories or poetries ?
Cgnth. It skiUeth not which, goe to, in both, for shee .shall
find examples infinite in cither what punishment long tongues
have. Eumenides, if either the soothsayers in Egypt, or the
enchanters in Thessaly, or the philosophers in Greece, or aU
the sages of the world, can find remedie, I will procure if
therefore dispatch with all speed: you EaimnUlcs into ThesI
saUe : You Zontes into Greece, (because you are acquainted
m Athens). You Pantalion to Egj-pt, saj-ing that Cynthia
sendeth, and if you will, commandeth.
Eum. On bowed knee I give thankrs, and with wings on
my legs, I tlie for remedio.
Zon. We are readie at your highnesse command, and hope
to retume to your fuU content.
Cgnth. It shall never be .said that Cynthia, whose mercie
and goodnesse fiUeth the heavens with joyes, and the world
with marvailo, wiU suffer either Endimion or any > to perish, if
he may be protected.
Eum. Your majesties words have been alwayea deeds, and
yoirr deeds vertues. [Exeunt.
In the next scene the soldier Corsites, enamoured
of his prisoner, brings Tellus to the castle in tlu;
desert, where her piotm-es of earthly fates are to be
woven. In the next Sir Tophas is "produced with a
new fantasy, he is m love with the old witch Dipsius.
Heaviness of love brings 8u- Tophas mto a deep
sleep, and his own boy Epiton, -with the boys Dares
and Samias, then sing about him —
The fikst Soxo.
Epi. Here snores Tophus,
That amorous asse.
Who loves Dipsas,
With face so sweet,
Nose and chinne meet.
/At sight of her each fury skips
Allthre.. , . , „. . . , , , . , .
. And nings into her lap thou' whips.
Dar. Holla, holla in his eare.
Sam. The witch sure thrust her fingers there.
Epi. Crampe him, or wring the foole by th' nose.
Dar. Or clap some burning flax, to his toes.
Sam. What musique's best to wake him ?
Epi. Baw wow, let bandogs shake him.
Dar. Let adders hisse in's eare.
Sam. Else eare- wigs, wriggle there.
Epi. No, let him batten, when his tongue
Once goes, a cat is not worse strung.
f But if he ope nor mouth, nor eies,
All three.
I He may in time sleepe hiniselfe -wise.
Sir Tophas awake.s, and goes in search of Dipsa.s,
followed by the three pages, for as Endymion is
sleeping and Eumenides has travelled away alone in
search of a remedy, their servants are free to amuse
themselves. Then follows the fourth and last scene
of the third act : —
Eumenides; Gekon.
Eum. Father, your sad musique being tuned on the same
key that my hard fortune is, hath so melted my minde, that
I wish to hang at youi- mouthes end till fife end.
Gcr. These tunes gentleman have I beene accustomed with
these fiftie wmters, having no other house to shrowde myselfo
but the broad heavens, and so familiar with mee hath use
made miserie, that I esteeme sorrow my chicfest solace. And
Of ami This is, probably, a sui-faee glance of Jolin Lyly-a ftt his
own unsuccessfiU suit to the queen for some help to his worldly
fortunes.
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CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1587
welcomnust is that guest to me, tliut can rehearse the saddest
tale, or the bloudiest tragedie.
:Euiii. a strange humoui-, (night I enquire the cause ?
Gcr. You must pardon me if I denie to tell it, for knowing
that the revealing of grief cs is as it were a renewing of sorrow,
I have vowed therefore to conceale them, that I might not
onely feelc the depth of everlasting discontentment, but
despaire of remedie. But whence are you ? What fortune
hath thrust you to this distresse ?
£111)1. I am going to Thcssalio, to seeko remedie for Endi-
mwn my dearest friend, who hath beene cast into a dead
slecpe, almost these twentie yeercs, waxing olde, and readie
for the grave, being almost but newly come forth of the
cradle.
Ger. You need not for reeure traveU farre, for who so can
cleerly see the bottomo of this fountaine shall have remedie
■for any thing.
Emit. That me thinketh is unpossible, why what vertuc
can there be in water ?
Ger. Yes, whosoever can shed the teares of a faithfuU
lover shall ■obtaine any thing hee would ; readc these words
engraven about the brim.
Eiim. Have you knowne tliis by experience, or is it placed
here of purpose to delude men ?
Ger. I onely woidd have experience of it, and then should
there be an end of my miserie. And then would I tell the
strangest discourse that ever yet was heard.
Eum. Ah Enmcnides .'
Ger. What lacko you gentleman, are you not well ?
Eum. Yes father, but a qualmo that often commoth over
my heart doth now take hold of me ; but did never any
lovers come hither •'
Gcr. Lusters, but not lovers ; for often have I scene them
weepe, but never eould I heare they saw the bottome.
Eum. Came there women also ;■'
Ger. Some.
Ellin. What did they see 't
Ger. They all wept that the fountaine overflowed with
teares, hut so tliick becamr the water with their teares, that
I could scarce disccrnc the brimme, much lesse behold the
bottome.
Eum.. Be faithfuU lovers so skant ?
Ger. It seemeth so, for yet heard I never of any.
Eum. Ah Eumenidcs, how art thou perplexed ? call to minde
the beautie of thy sweet mistris, and the depth of thy never
dying affections : how oft has thou honoured her, not onely
without spot, hut suspition of falshood ? And how hardly
hath she rewarded thee, without cause or colour of despight.
How secret hast thou beene these seven yeeres, that hast not,
nor once darost not to name her, for diseontentipg her. How
faithfuU! that hath offered to die for licr, to please her.
Unhappio Eumenidcs !
Ger. Why gentleman did you once love ?
Emi. Once? I' father, and ever shaU.
Ger. Was she unkind, and you faithfuU ?
Eum. Shee of aU women the most froward, and I of all
creatures the most fond.
Ger. You doted then, not loved : for affection is grounded
on vertue, and vertue is never peevish : or on beautie, and
beautie loveth to be praised.
Eum. I, but if aU vertuous ladies should yeeld to all that
be loving, or all amiable gentlewomen entertaine all that be
amorous, their vertues would he accounted vices and beauties
deformities : for that love can be but between two, and that
1 I = ay ; here, and in various other places.
not proceeding of him that is most faithfuU, but most
fortunate.
Ger. I would you were so faithfuU, that your teares might
make you fortunate.
Eum. Yea father, if that my teares eleare not this fountaine,
then may you sweare it is but a meere moekerie.
Ger. So saith every one yet, that wept.
Eum. Ah, I faint, I die ! Ah sweete Semele let me alone,
and dissolve by weeping into water.
Gcr. This affection seemeth strange, if hee see nothing,
without doubt this dissembling passeth, for nothing sliall
diuw me from the beliefe.
Eum. Father, I plainly see the bottome, and there in white
marble engraven these words, AsJce one for all, and but one
th'uiij at all.
Gcr. O fortimate Eumenides, (for so have I heard thee caU
thyself e) let me see. I cannot discerne any such thing. I
thinke thou di-eamest.
Eum. Ah father thou art not a faithfuU lover, and there-
fore canst not behold it.
Gcr. Then aske, that I may be satisfied by the event, and
thyselfe blessed.
Eum. Aske 'i so I wUl : and what shall I doc but aske, and
whom shoidd I aske but Semele, the possessing of whose
person is a pleasure that cannot come within the compasse
of comparison ; whose golden lockes seeme most curious^
when they seeme most carelesse ; whose sweet lookes seeme
most aUnring, when they are most chaste ; and whoso wordes
the more vertuous they are, the more amorous they be
accounted. I pray thee fortune when I shaU first meete
with faire Semele, dash my dcUght with some light disgrace,
least imbracing swectnosse beyond measure, I take a surfet
witliout reciu'c : lot her practise her accustomed coynesae,
that I may diet myselfe upon my desires : otherwise the
fulnessc of my joycs wiU diminish the sweetncsse, and I
shall perish by them before I possesse them. Why doe I
trifle the time in words ? The least minute being spent in
tlie getting of Semele, is more worth then the whole world :
therefore let mee aske, \A'Tiat now Eumenidcs } AVhither art
thou di-awne 'i Hast thou forgotten both friendship and dutie ?
Care of Endimion, and the commandement of Cynthia / ShaU
he die in a leaden sleep, because thou sleepest in a golden
dreame ? I, let him sleepe ever, so I slumber but one minute-
with Semele. Love knoweth neither friendship nor kindred.
Shall I not hazard the losse of a friend, for the obtayning of
her for whom I would often loose myselfe ? Fond Eumenides,
shall the inticing beautie of a most disdainfuU ladie, bo of
more force then the rare fidelitie of a tried friend ? The love-
of men to women is a thing common, and of course : the
friendship of man to man infinite and immortall. Tush,
Semele doth possesse my love. I, but .B^f/ujiio;) hath deserved
it. I will helpo Endimion. I found Endimion unspotted in
his truth. I, but I shall find Semele constant in her love. I
will have Semele. What shall I do ? Father thy gray haires-
are embassadors of experience. Which shaU I aske?
Ger. Eumenide.i release Endimion, for aU things (friendship
excepted) are subject to fortune : love is but an eye-woi-me,
whieli onely ticklcth the head with hopes, and wishes : friend-
ship the image of etcrnitic, in which there is nothing move-
able, nothing mischievous. As much difference as there is-
between beautie and vertue, bodies and shadowes, colours-
and life — so great oddes is there betweene love and friend-
ship. Love is a cameUon, which draweth nothing into the-
mouth but aire, and nourisheth nothing in the body but
lungs : believe me Eumenides, desire dies in the same moment
that beautie sickens, and beautie fadeth in the same instant-
that it flourisheth. When adversities flow, then love ebbes :
TO A.D. 15SS.]
PLAYS.
135
liut friendship standeth stilly in stormes. Time draweth
wrinekles in a faire face, but addeth fresh colom-s to a fast
friend, which neither heate, nor cold, nor miserie, nor place,
nor destinie, can alter or diminish. O friendship! of all
things the most rare, and therefore most rare because most
excellent, whose comforts in miserie is alwayes sweete, and
whose counsels in prosperitie are ever fortunate. Vaine love,
that onely comming neere to friendship in name, would seeme
to be the same, or better, in nature.
Eitm. Father I allow your reasons, and will therefore
conquer mine owne. Vertue shall subdue affections, wisdome
lust, friendship beautie. Slistrcsses are in every place, and
as common as hares in Atho, bees in Hybla, foules in the
a)-re : but friends to be found, are like the Phcc-nix iq Arabia,
but one, or the Philadclpfiia in Arai/s, never above two. I
will have Eiidimion : sacred fountaine, in whose bowels are
hidden divine secrets, I have increased your waters with the
teai-es of unspotted thoughts, and therefore let mee receive
the reward you promise : Eiidimion, the truest friend to me,
and faithfullest lover to Cynthia, is in such a dead sleepe,
that nothing can wake or move him.
Gcr. Doest thou see any thing ?
Eum. I see in the same piller, these words : When she
whose figure of all is the per/ectest, and never to be measured :
ahvaijcs one, yet never the same : still inconstant, yet never
wavering : shall come and kisse Endimion in his sleepe, he shall
then rise, else never. This is strange.
Ger. What see you else ?
Eton. There commeth over mine ej'es either a darke mist,
or upon the fountaine a dccpe thicknesse ; for I can perceive
nothing. But how am I deluded ? or what difficult (nay
impossible) thing is this ?
Ger. Me tbinketh it easie.
Eum. Good father and how ?
Ger. Is not a circle of all figures the perfectest ?
Eum. Yes.
Ger. And is not Cynthia of all circles the most absolute ?
Eum. Yes.
Ger. Is it not impossible to measure her, who stUl worketh
by her influence, never standing at one stay ?
Eum. Yes.
Gcr. Is shee not alwayes Cynthia, yet seldome in the same
bigncsse ; alwayes wavering in her waxing or wairTxing, that
our bodies might the better be governed, our seasons the
daylier give their increase ; yet never to be removed from
her course as long as the heavens continue theirs ?
Eum. Yes.
Ger. Then who can it be but Cynthia, whose vertues being
all divine, must needs bring things to passe that be miracu-
lous? Goe, humble thyselfe to Cynthia, tell her the successe
of which m}-selfe shall be a witnesse. And this assure thy-
selfe, that shee that sent to find meanes for his safetie will
now worke her cunning.
Eum. How fortunate am I if Cynthia be she that may
doe it.
Ger. How fond art thou if thou do not beleeve it ?
Eum. I wiU hasten thither that I may intreat on my knees
for succour, and imbrace in mine armes my friend.
Ger. I win goe with thee, for unto Cynthia must I dis-
cover all my sorrowes, who also must worke in mee a con-
tentment.
Eum. Maj' I now know the cause ?
Ger. That shall be as we walke, and I doubt not but the
strangenesse of my tale will take away the tediousnesse of
our jom-ney.
Eum. Let us goe.
Ger. I follow. [Exeunt.
In the first scene of the fourth act, Tellus beguiles
the soldier Coi-sites, who offers all for lier love, by
promising herself to liim if he will do one thing for
all. On the lunary bank sleeps Endymion. Let
Corsites only lift him, and remove him to .some
obscure cave. There follows a comic scene with the
three pages. Epiton is in disgrace with Sir Tophas,
who desii-es to sleep like Endymion, and who makes
sonnets.
Sam. Canst thou remember any one of his poems ?
Epi. I, this is one.
" The beggar Love that knowes not where to lodge:
At last within my heart when I slept,
He crept,
I wakt, and so my fancies began to fodge."
Sam. That's a very long verse.
Epi. Why the other was short, the first is called from the
thumbe to the little finger, the second from the httle finger
to the elbow, and some hee made to reach to the crowne of
his head, and downe againe to the sole of his foot : it is set to
the tune of the blacke Saunce,' ratio est, because Dipsaa is a
blacke saint.
After more playful dialogue, says Epiton :
I must needs see if I can find where Endimion lieth ; and
then goe to a certaine fountaine hard by, where they say
faithfull lovers shall have all things they will aske. If I
can find out any of these, ego et mugister mens crimus in tuto,
I and my master shal be friends. He is resolved to weepe
some three or foure palefuls to avoide the rheume of loue
that wambleth in his stomacke.
Enter tU Watch.
Sam. Shall wee never see thy master Dares ?
Dar. Yes, let us goe now, for to-morrow Cynthia will be
here.
Epi. I will goe with you. But how shall we see for the
Watch ?
Sam. Tush, let me alone! I'le begin to them. Masters
God speed you.
1 Watch. Sir boy, we are all sped akeadie.
Epi. So me thinkes, for they smell all of drinke like a
beggars beard.
Dnr. But I pray sirs, may wee see Endimion >
2 Watch. No, wee are commanded in Cynthias name that
no man shall see him.^
Sam. No man ? "OTiy wee are but boyes.
1 Watch. jMasse neighbours he says true, for if I swcare I
wUl never drinke my hquor by the quart, and yet call for
two pints, I thinke with a safe conscience I may carouse
both.
Bar. Pithily, and to the purpose.
2 Watch. Tush, tush, neighbours, take me with you.
Sam. This will grow bote.
Bar. Let them alone.
Watch. If I say to my wife. Wife I wiU have no raisons
in''mv pudding, shee puts in corance, smaU raisons are
raisons, and bo^-es are men. Even as my wife should have
1 The t,n,c of the Black Saunce. The ' Black Sajictus was ahomble
discord n>ade wttk cries, howUn^s, tin pots and mstmments of an,
tod a bm-lesaue cliant to the devil, which perhaps arose after the
Erfo'rlVion in scorn of the Eoman services. It is spelt also -^«t«.
sauiits, and m«MC.
2 Note the kinship of these men to Dogberry and Vei-ges.
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[a.d. 1587
put no raisons in try pudding, so shall thevfj no boyes sec
£nclimwii.
Dar. Learnedly.
Epi. Let Master Constable speake : I thinko he is the
■wisest among you.
Master Constable. You know neighboui's 'tis an old said
saw, Children and fooks speake true.
AH say. True.
Mast. Const. AVell, there }'0u see the men be the fooles,
because it is provided from the children.
Dar. Good.
Mast. Const. Then say I neighbours, that children must
not see JSndimion, because children and fooles speake true.
Epi. wicked application !
Sam. Scurvily brought about!
1 Watch. Nay hee save true, and therefore till Cynthia
have beene here he shall not be uncovered. Therefore
away !
Dar. A watch quoth you ? a man may watch seven yeeres
for a wise word, and yet goe without it. Their wits are all
as rustie as their bils. But come on Master Constable, shall
woe have a song before we goe ;■•
Const. With all my heart. \_Exeunt.
The second Soxg.
Wateh. Stand : Who goes there ?
We charge you appeare
Fore our Constable here.
(In the name of the Slan in the Bloone)
To us Bilmcn relate,
Why you stagger so late,
And how you come drunke so soone.
Pages. A\Tiat are yee (scabs!')
Watch. The Watch:
This the Constable.
Fages. A patch.
Const. Knock'pm downe unlesse they all stand.
If any run away,
Tis the old watchmans play,
To reach him a hill of his hand.
Pages. gentlemen hold.
Your gownos freeze mth cold.
And your rotten teeth dance in your head.
Epi. Wine, nothing shall cost yee.
Sam. Nor huge hres to roast yee.
Dares. Then soberly let us be led.
Const. Come my browne bils wee'l roare,
Bownce loud at tavcme doi-e,
Omnes. And i'th' morning stcale all to bed.
ACTUS QUARTUS. SC.«NA TERTIA.
CORSITES SOlf.S.
Corsites. I am come in sight of the Lunarie banke : without
doubt Tcllus doteth upon me, and cunningly that I might
not perceive her love, she hath set me to a taske that is done
before it is begun. Endimion, you must change youi- pillow,
and if you be not wcarie of sleepe I will carrie you where at
ease you shall sleepe your fill. It were good that without
more ceremonies I tooke him, least being espied I be intrapt,
and so incurre the displeasure of Cynthia, who commonly
setteth watch that Endimion have no wrong. [He tries to lift
Endimion.] What now, is your mastership so hea\-ie ? or
are you nail'd to the ground ? Kot stirre one whit ? then
useall thy force though he feele it and wake. What stone
stiUf tuiTi'd I thinke to earth, with lying so long on the
earth. Didst thou not Corsites before Cynthia pull up a ti'ee,
that fortie yeeres was fastned with roots and \\Teathed in
knots to the ground 'i Didst not thou with maine force pull
open the iron gates, which no ramme or engine could move :
Have my weake thoughts made braun-faUen my strong
annes ? or is it the nature of love or the quintessence of the
minde to breede numnesse, or l)i;hemesse, or I know not
what languishing in my joynts and sinewes, being but the
base strings of my bodie ;■• Or doth the remembrance of
Tcllus so refine my spirits into a matter so subtill and divine,
that the other tieshie parts cannot worke whilst they muse ':
liest thyselfe, rest thyselfe ; nay, rent thyselfe in piece!,
Corsites, and strive in spight of love, fortune, and natui'e, to
lift up this dulled bodie, hea^^e^ then dead, and more sence-
lesse then death.
Enter Fairies.
But what are these so faii-e fiends that cause my harres to
stand upright, and spirits to fall downe ? Hags, out alas,
Nymphs I crave pardon. Aye me, but what doe I heere.
[T/ic Fairies daunce, and with a Song pinch him,
and hec falleth aslcepc, they kisse Endimion, and
depart.
The thikd Soxg by Fairies.
Omncs. Pinch him. pinch him, blacke and blue,
Sawcie mortaUs must not view
WTiat the Queene of Stars is doing,
Nor prj- into our fairy woing.
1 Fairy. Pinch him blue,
2 Fairy. And pinch him blacke.
3 Fairy. Let him not lacko
Sharpe nailes to pinch him blue and red,
TlU sleepe has rock'd his addle head.
4 Fairy. For the trespasse hee hath done.
Spots ore all his flesh shall runne.
Kisse Endimion, kisse his eyes,
Then to our midnight heidegj'es.' [Exeunt.
Cyn-thia ; Floscula ; Semele ; Paneliox ; Zoxte ;
Pythagoras ; Gyptes ; Cohsites.
Cynth. You see Pythagoras what ridiculous opinions you
hold, and I doubt not but you are now of another minde.
Pythay. Madame, I plainly perceive that the perfection of
your brightnesse hath pierced through the thicknesse that
covered my mind ; in so much that I am no lesse glad to bo
reformed, then ashamed to remember my grossenesse.
Gyptes. They are thrice fortunate that live in your palace,
where truth is not in colom'S, but life ; vertues not in imagi-
nation, but execution.
Cynth. I have alwayes studied to have rather living vertues
then painted Gods ; the bodie of truth, then the tombc. But
let us walke to Endimion, it may be it lieth in your arts to
deliver him ; as for Eumenides, I feare he is dead.
Pythag. I have aUedged all the naturall reasons I can for
such a long sleepe.
Gyptes. I can doe nothing till I see him.
Cynth. Come Floscula, I am sure you are glad that you
shall behold Endimion.
Flosc. I were blessed if I might have him recovered.
Cynth. Are you in love with his person ?
2 Seidegyes, rustic dances. The word is of doubtful etymology. The
"hay" was the name of an old rustic dance- As in Marlowe's
"Edward II."' —
" My men, like satyi's ^razmg on the lawns,
Shall with their goat feet dance the antic hay,"
TO A.D, 1588.]
PLAYS.
137
Flosc. Ko, but with his vertue.
Cynth. What say you Sciiiele ?
Seiii. Madame, I dare say nothing for feare I offend.
Cijnth. Belike you cannot speake except you be spightfull.
But as good be silent as saucie. Paiiclio)i, -n-hiit punishment
were fit for Semelc, in whose speech and thoughts is onely
contempt and sowemesse ?
Fane!. I love not madame to give any judg-ment. Yet sith
your highnesse commandeth, I thinke, to commit her tongue
close prisoner to her mouth.
Cynth. Agreed; Seimle,\t thou speake this twelve moneth
thou shalt forfet thy tongue. Behold Eiidimion, alas poore
gentleman, hast thou sjient thy youth in sleepe that once
vowed all to my serWce. Hollow eyes ? gxay haires ?
wrinckled cheekes ;•' and decayed Umbea 'i Is it destinie, or
deceit that hath brought this to passe ? If the first, who
could prevent thy wretched starres ? If the latter, I would
I might know thy crueU enemy. I favoured thee Endimloii
for thy honour, thy vertues, thy affections : but to bring thy
thoughts within the compasse of thy fortunes I have seemed
strange, that I might have thee stayed, and now are thy
dayes ended before my favour begin. But whom have we
here, is it not Corsitcs I
Zon. It is, but more like a leopard then a man.
Cynth. Awake him. How now Corsitcs, what make you
nere ? How came you defoimed ? Looke on thy hands, and
then thou seest the picture of thy face.
Cors. lliserable wretch, and accursed. How am I deluded ?
Madame, I askc pardon for my offence, and you see my
fortune deserveth pitie.
Cynth. Speake on, thy offence cannot deserve greater
punishment : but see thou rehearse the truth, else shalt thou
not find me as thou wishest me.
Cors. iladame, as it is no offence to be in love being a
man mortall, so I hope can it be no shame to tell with whom,
my ladio being heavenly. Your majestic committed to my
charge the faire Tellus, whose beautie in the same moment
tooke my heart captive that I undertooko to airrie her bodie
prisoner. Since thiit time have I found such combats in my
thoughts betweene love and dutie, reverence and affection,
that I could neither endure the conflict, nor hope for the
conquest.
Cynth. In love ? A thing farre unfitting the name of a
captaine, and (as I thought) the tough and unsmoothed
nature of Corsites. But forth.
Cors. Feeling this continuall waiTC, I thought rather by
parley to yeeld, then by certaine danger to perish. I im-
folded to Tellns the depth of my affections, and framed my
tongue to utter a sweet tale of love, that was wont to sound
nothing but threats of warre. She too faire to be true, and
too false for .one so faire, after a nice deniaU, practised a
notable deceit ; conmianding mee to remove Enilimion from
this caban, and can-ie him to some darke cave ; which I
seeking to accomplish, found impossible ; and so by fairies or
fiends have beene thus handled.
Cynth. How say you my lords, is not Tdlus alwayes prac-
tising of some deceits 'i In sooth Corsites, thy face is now too
foule for a lover, and thine heart too fond f<jr a souldier. You
may see when warriors become wantons how then- manners
alter with their faces. Is it not a shame Corsitcs, that having
Uved so long in Miirs his campe thou shouldst now be rockt
in Venus cradle? Doest thou wcare Cnpids quiver at thy
girdle, and make launces of lookes ? ^Vell Corsites, rouse
thy selfe, and be as thou hast beene, and let Tellus who is
made all of love, melt her selfe in her omie loosenesse.
Cors. Madame, I doubt not but to recover my former state ;
for Tellus beautie never wrought such love in my mind, as
138
now her deceit hath despight; and yet to be revenged of a
woman, were a thing then love it selfe more womanish.
Gyptes. These spots gentlemen are to be worne out, it you
rub them over ^\-ith this lunarie : so that in place where you
received this maime, you shall find a medicine.
Cors. I thanke you for that. The gods blesse mee from love,
and these pretie ladies that haunt this greene.
Ilosc. Corsites, I would Tellus saw your amiable face.
Zont. How spightfully Semelc laugheth, that dare not
speake.
Cynthia. Could you not sture Enilimion with that doubled
strength of yours ':
Cors. Not so much as his finger with all my force.
Cynth. Fythagoras and Gyptes, what thinke you of Eiidi.
mion ? what reason is to be given, what remedie ':
Pyth. Madam, it is impossible to yeild reason for things
that happen not m compasse of miture. It is most certaine,
that some strange enchantment hath bound all liis sences.
Cynth. AXTiat say you Gyptes I
Gyptes. With rylhuyorus, tluit it is enchantment, and that
so strange that no art can uudoe it, for that heavinesse
arguoth a malice unremoveable in the enchantressu, and that
no power can end it, till she die that did it, or the heavens
shew some means more miraculous.
Elosc. Endimion, could spight it seHe devise a mischiefe
so monstrous as to make thee dead with life, and bring being
altogether dead 'i AVhere others number their ycares, their
houres, their minutes, and step to age by staircs, thou onely
hast thy yeares and times in a cluster, being olde before thou
remembrest thou wast youug.
Cynth. No more Flosculii, pittie doth him no good, I would
any thing else might, and I vow b)' the unspotted honour of
a ladie he should not misse it : but is tliis all Gyptes, that is
to be done ':
Gyptes. All as yet. It may be that either the enchantrcsse
shall die, or else be discovered ; if either happrn I will then
practise the utmost of my art. In the meane season, about
this grove would I have a watch, and the first living thing
that toucheth Endimion to be taken.
Cynth. Corsites what say you, will you undertake this?
Cors. Good madame pardon mee ! I was overtaken too late,
I should rather breake into the midst of a niaine battaile,
then againe fall into the hands of those faire babies.
Cynth. Well, I \rill pioride others. Eythayoras and Gyptes,
you shall yet remayne in my court, till I heare what may be
done in this matter.
Pyth. We attend.
Cynth. Let us goe in. [^Exeunt.
ACTUS QUINTCS. SC.ENA PRI51A.
Samias; D.ABES.
Sam. Eumcnides hath told such strange tales as I may well
wonder at them, but never beleeve them.
Dar. The other old man what a Kid speech used he, that
caused us almost all to weope. Cynthia is so desirous to
know the experiment of her owne vertue, and so willing to
ease End im ions hard fortune, that shce no sooner heard the
discourse, hut shee made herselfe in a readinesse to try the
event. ,
Sum. We wiU also see the event ; but whist; here commeth
Cynthia with all her tniine : let us sneako in amongst them.
Enter Cv-XTHiA, Floscila, Semele. P.^elios, &c.
Cunth. Eumnidcs, it cannot sinke into my head that I
should be signified bv that sacred fountaine, for many thin^
are there in the world to which those words may bo applycd.
138
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
lA.D. 1587
Earn. Good mau;irao vouchsefo but to trie, else shall I
thinlce my solfe most unliaiipy that I asked not my sweet
mistria.
Cijnth. AVill you not yet tell me her name ?
Earn. Pardon me good madame, for if Endimion awake, hce
shall : my selfe have sworne never to reveale it.
C'pith. Well, let us to Endimion. I will not be so stately
(good Endimion) not to stoope to doe thee good: and if thy
libertie consist in a kisse from mee, thou shalt have it. And
although my mouth hath beene heretofore as untouched as
my thoughts, yet now to recover thy life, (though to restore
thy youth it he impossible) I wiU doe that to Endimion which
yet "never mortaU man could boast of heretofore, nor shall
ever hope for hereafter. [Shcc kisseth kim.
Eiim. Madam he beginncth to stirre.
Ci/nth. Soft Euiitenidcs, stand still.
Eiim. Ah, I see his eyes almost open.
Ci/nth. I command thee once againe stirre not : I will stand
behind him.
Fan. Wliat doe I see, Endimion almost awake?
Eum. Endimion, Endimion, art thou deafe or dumbe? or
hath this long sleepe taken away thy memorie ? Ah my
swecte Endimion, seest thou not Eiimcniilcs ? thy faithfull
friend, thy faithfull Eiimcnides, who for thy safetie hath
beene carelesse of his owne content. Speake Endimion, Endi-
mion, Endimion.
End. Endimion ! I call to minde such a name.
Eum. Hast thou forgotten thyselfe Endimion ? then doe I
not marvaile thou remembrest not thy friend. I tel thee
thou art Endimion, and I Eumenides : behold also Cynthia,
by w-hose favour thou art awaked, and by whose vertue thou
shalt continue thy naturall course.
C'l/nth. Endimion, speake sweet Endimion, knowest thou
not Cynthia ?
End. O heavens, whom doe I behold, faire Cynthia, divine
■Cynthia ?
Cynth. I am Cynthia, and thou Endimion.
End. Endimion, What doe I heere ? What, a gray beard ?
hollow eyes ? withered body 'i decayed limbes ': and all in
one night ':'
Earn. One night ? thou hast heere slept fortie yeeres, by
what enchaunteresse as yet it is not knowne : and behold the
twig to which thou laj'edst thy head is now become a tree ;
callest thou not Eiiinenidcs to remembrance ?
End. Thy name I doe remember by the sound, but thy
favour I doe not yet call to minde; onely divine Cynthia, to
whom time, fortune, destinie, and death, are subject, I see
and remember ; and in all humilitie, I regard and reverence.
Cynth. You have good cause to remember Eumenides, who
hath for thy safety forsaken his owne solace.
End. Am I that Endimion who was wont in court to lead
my life ; and in justs, turneyes, and armes, to exercise my
youth ? am I that Endim ion ?
Eum. Thou art that Endimion, and I Eumenides, wilt thou
not yet caU mee to remembrance ?
End. Ah sweete Eumenides, I now perceive thou art bee,
and that my selfe have the name of Endimion ; but that this
should be my bodie I doubt, for how could my curled lockcs
be turned to gi-ay bail's, and my strong bodie to a dying
weaknesse, having waxed olde and not knowing it.
Cynth. Well Endimion arise, a while sit downe for that
thy limbes are stiffe, and not able to stay thee, and tell what
hast thou seene in thy sleepe all this while. What dreames,
visions, thoughts, and fortimes ? For it is impossible, but in
so long time, thou shouldest see things strange.
End. Faire Cynthia I will rehearse what I have secne,
humbly desiring that when I exceed in length you give mee
warning, that I may end ; for to utter aU I have to speake
would bue troublesome, although happily the strangenesse
may somewhat abate the tediousnesse.
Cynth. Well Endimion begin.
End. Mee thought I saw a ladie passing faire, but very
mischievous ; who in the one hand carried a knife with which
she offered to cut m}' throate, and in the other a looking-
glasse, wherein seeing how ill anger became ladies, shee
refrained from intended ■s'iolence. Shee was accompanied
with other damsels, one of which with a sterne countenance,
and as it were with a setled malice engraven in her eyes,
provoked her to execute mischiefe : another with visage sad
and constant onely in son-ow, with her armes crossed, and
watery eyes, seemed to lament my fortune, but dui'st not
offer to prevent the force. I started in my sleepe, feeling •
my very veines to swell, and my sinewes to stretch with
feare, and such a cold sweate bedewed all my bodie, that
death it selfe could not be so terrible as the vision.
Cynth. A strange sight. Gyvtes at our better leisure shall
expoimd it.
End. After long debating with her selfe, mcrcie overcame
anger ; and there appeared in her heavenly face such a divine
majestic, mingled with a sweet :nildnesse, that I was ravished
with the sight above measure ; and wished that I might have
enjoyed the sight without end ; and so she departed with the
other ladies, of which the one retained still an unmoveable
erueltie, the other a constant pittie.
Cynthia. Poore Endimion, how wast thou aSrighted ? What
else?
End. After her inmiediately appeared an aged man with a
beard as white as snow, carrying in his hand a booke with
three leaves, and speaking as I i-emember these words,
Endimion, receive this booke with three leaves, in which are con-
tained counsels, policies, and pictures : and with that bee offered
mee the booke, which I rejected : wherewith moved with a
disdainfull pitie, he rent the first leafe in a thousand shivers;
the second time bee offered it, which I refused also ; at which
bending his browes, and pitching his ej-es fast to the ground,
as though they were fi.xed to the earth, and not againe to be
removed — then sodainly casting them up to the heavens, hee
tore in a rage the second leafe, and offered the booke only
with one leafe. I know not whether feare to offend, or desire
to know some strange thing moved me — I tooke the booke,
and so the old man vanished.
Cynth. What diddest thou imagine was in the last leafe ?
End. There portraid to life, with a cold quaking in every
joynt, I beheld many wolves barking at thee Cynthia, who
having ground their teeth to bite, did with striving bleed
themselves to death. There might I see ingratitude with an
hundred eyes, gazing for benefits ; and with a thousand teeth,
gnawing on the bowels wherein she was bred. Trecherie
stood all clothed in white, with a smiling countenance, but
both her hands bathed in bloud. Enuie with a pale and megar
face (whose bodie was so leane, that one might tell all her
bones, and whose garment was so totterd, that it was easie to
number every thread) stood shooting at starres, whose darts
fell downe againe on her owne face. There might I behold
drones or beetles, I know not how to term them, creeping
under the wings of a princely eagle, who being carried into
her nest, sought there to suck that vein, tliat would have
killed the eagle. I mused that things so base, should attempt
a fact so barbarous, or durst imagine a thing so bloudie. And
many other things madame, the repetition whereof, may at
your better leisure secme more pleasing: for bees surfet
sometimes with honey, and the gods are glutted with har-
mony, and your highnesse may be dulled with delight.
Cynth. I am content to bee dieted, therefore let us in.
TO A.D. 1588.]
PLAYS.
li'J
Eumeniiles, see that Endimion be well tended, least either
eating immoderately, or sleeping againe too long, he fall
into a deadly surfet, or into his former sleepe. See this also
be proclaimed, that whosoever wiU discover this practice,
shall have of Cynthia in finite thankes, and no small rewards.
[Exit.
Flosc. Ah Endimion, none so jo\-full as Flosciila, of thy
restoring.
Eiiiii. Yes, Floscula, let Eumcnides be somewhat gladder,
and do not that wTong to the setled friendship of a man, as
to compare it with the light alt'ection of a woman. Ah my
deare friend Endimion, suffer me to din, with gazing at thee.
End. Eumenidcs, thy friend.ship is immortall, and not to be
conceived; and thj good will Floscula, better then I have
deserved. But let us all waite on Cynthia : I nuirveU Semele
speaketh not a word.
Euin. Because if she doe, shee loseth her tongue.
End. But how pro.spereth your love 'f
Ei(m. I never yet spake word since your sleepe.
End. I doubt not but your affection is old, and your appetite
cold.
Ellin. Jfo Endimion, thine hath made it stronger, and now
are my sparkes growne to flames, and my fancies almost to
frenzies : but let us follow, and within we will debate all this
matter at large. lExeuiit.
The next scene i.s of Sir Tophas, who finds many
ingenious and witty I'easons for being in love with
an old crone, so that Epiton cries, " Nothing hath
made my master a fool but flat scholarship ! " The
pages then try to persuade him from his atfectiou by
telling him that Dipsas is a notable witch, who has
turned her maid Bagoa to an aspen-tree for bewraying
her secrets ; that she is mamecl already, and has been
married these fifty years to Geron, who is now come
home. Then the play ends as follows : — ■
ACTUS QUINTUS. SC.EXA TERTIA.
Paxelion ; ZoxTEs.
Fan. AMio would have thought that Telliis being so faire
by natiu-e, so honorable by birth, so wse by education, would
have entred into a mischiefe to the gods so odious, to men so
detestable, and to her friend so malicious.
Zon. If Har/oa had not bewrayed it, how then should it have
come to light ? But wee see that gold and faire words, are
of force to corrupt the strongest men ; And therefore able to
worke silly women like waxe.
Pan. I marvell what Cynthia -n-iU determine in this cause.
Zon. I feare as in all causes, heare of it in justice, and
then judge of it in mercy ; for how can it be that shee that is
unwilling to punish her deadliest foes with disgrace, will
revenge injuries of her traine with death.
Pan. That old witch Dipsas, in a rage ha\-ing understood
her practice to be discovered, turned poore Bajoa to an aspen
tree ; but let us make hast and bring Tellus before Cynthia,
for she was comming out after us.
Zon. Let us goe. {Exeunt.
C'YXTHi.i; Semele: Floscula; Dipsas; Exdimiox;
EUMEXIDES.
Cynth. Dipsas, thy yeeres are not so many as thy vices ;
yet more in number then commonly nature doth afloord, or
justice should permit. Hast thou almost these fifty yeeres
practised that detested wickednesse of witchcraft f Wast
thou so simple, as for to know the nature of simples, of all
creatures to bee most sinfull ? Thou hast threatned to tume
my course awry, and alter by thy damnable art the govern-
ment that I now possesse by the etemaU gods. But know
thou B,psas, and let all the enchanters know, that Cynthia
bemg placed for hght on earth is also protected by the
powers of heaven. Breath out thou mayest wonb, gather
thou nuiyest hearbs, find out thou mavest stones agreeable to
thme ait, yet of no force to appaU my heart, in which courage
13 so rooted, and constant perswasion of the mercie of the
gods so grounded, tbit aU thy witchcraft I esteeme as wcake
as the world doth thy case wretched. This noble gentleman
Geron, (once thy husband, but now thy mortaU hate;) didst
thou procure to Kve in a desert, ahnost desperate. Endimion
the flowre of my court and the hope of succeeding time, hast
thou bewitched by art, before thou wouldest suffer him to
iiourish by nature.
JJipsas. JIadame, things pa.st may be repented, not re-
called : there is nothing so ■n-icked th;tt I have not done, uor
any thing so wished for as death. Yet among all the things
that I committed, there is nothing so much tormenteth my
rented and ransackt thoughts, as that in the prime of my
husbands youth I divorced him by my devillish art ; for
which, if to die might be amends, I would not live till to
morrow. If to live and still be more miserable would better
content him, I would wish of all creatures to be oldest and
ugliest.
Geron. Dipsas, thou hast made this difference betweene
mee and Endimion, that being both young, thou hast caused
mee to wake in melancholy, losing the joyes of my youth,
and him to sleepe, not rcmeinbring youth.
Cynth. Stay, here commeth Tellus, we shall now know alL
Enter CoRSiTEs, Tellvs, P.^xeliox, &c.
Cors. I would to Cynthia thou couldest make as good an
excuse in truth, as to me thou li;ist done by wit.
Tellus. Truth shall be mine answere, and therefore I will
not studie for an e-xcuse.
Cynth. Is it possible Tellus, that so few yeeres should
harbour so many mischiefes ? Thy swelling pride have I
borne, because it is a thing that beauty maketh blamelesse,
which the more it e.xceedeth fairenesse in measure, the more
it stretcheth it seU'e in disdaine. Thy devises against Corsitet
I smile at ; for that wits, the sharper they are, the shrewder
they are. But this unacquainted and most unnaturall practice
with a vOe enchaimtresse against so noble a gentleman as
Endimion, I abhorre as a thing most malicious, and will re-
venge as a deed most monstrous. And as for you Dipsas, I
wUl send you into the desert amongst wilde beasts, and try
whether you can cast lions, tygres; bores, and bearcs, into as
dead a sleepe as you did Endimion ; or turn them to trees, as
you have done 'buijou. But teU me Tellus, wh;it was the
cause of this crueU part, farre unfitting thy sexe, in which
nothing should be but simplcncsse : and much disagreeing
from thy face, in which nothing seemed to be but softnessc.
Tellus. Di\-ine Cynthia, by whom I receive my life, and am
content to end it ; I can neither excuse my fault without
lying, nor confesse it without shame; yet were it possible
that'in so heavenlv thoughts as yours, there could faU such
earthly motions as mine, I would then hope, if not to bo
pardoned without extreme punishment, yet to be heard with-
out great mars-eU.
Cynth. Say on Tellus, I cannot imagine any thing that can
colour such a crueltie.
Tellus. Endimion,-Xha.i Endimion in the prune of his youth,
so rarisht mv heart «-ith love, Vtai to obtaine my desires, I
could not find meancs, nor to recite them reason. What was
she that favoured not Endimion. being young, wise, honour-
able and vertuous ; besides, what metall was she made of (bo
uo
CASSELL'S HBKAKY VF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
|>.D. 1587
shee mortall) that is not affected with the spice, nay, infected
with the poyson of that (not to be expressed, yet alwayes to
be felt) love Y which brcaketh the braincs, and never bruscth
the brow: consmncth the heart, and never toucheth tho
skinne : and niakoth a deepc skarre to bee scene, before any
wound at all he felt. Jly hart too tender to withstand such
a divine furie, yoelded to love. Madame I, not without blush-
ing confesse, yi!olded to love.
C'l/tUh. A strange effect of love, to work such an extreme
hate. How say you £>irlimiou, all this was for love !•'
Jinrl. I say Madam then the gods send me a woraans hate.
Uyiith. That were as bad, for then by contrarie you should
never slcepe. But on I'lllus, let us heare the end.
'I'ellus. Feeling a continuall burning in all my bowels, and a
bursting almost in every veiue, I could not smoother the
inward fire, but it must needs be perceived by the outward
smoke; and by the flj-ing abroad of divers sparkes, divers
judged of my scalding flames. Eiidimioii as full of art as
wit, marking mine eyes, (in which he might see almost his
owne,) my sighes, by which he might ever heare his name
sounded ; aimed at my heart, in which he was assured liis
person was imprinted ; and by questions wrung out that,
which was readie to burst out. When he saw the depth of
my affections, hee sware, that mine in respect of his were as
fumes to JEtna, valleyes to Alpes, ants to eagles, and nothing
could be compared to my beautie but his love, and etemitie.
Thus drawing a smooth shoo upon a crooked foot, he made
mee belecve, that (which all of our sexe willingly acknow-
ledge, I was beautifull. And to wonder (which indeed is a
thing miraculous) that any of his sexe should be faithfull.
Cynth. Emliin'mn, how will you cleore your selfe ?
Bud. Madame, by mine owne accuser.
Cynth. Well Telliix proceed, but briefly, least taking
delight in uttering thy love thou offend us with the length
of it.
Tclliis. I will madame quickly make an end of my love and
my tale. Finding continuall increase of my tormenting
thoughts, and that the enjoying of my love made deeper
wounds then the entring into it ; I could finde no meanes to
•ease my griefo but to foUow EndiiiiioH, and continually to
have him in the object of mine eyes, who had mee slave and
subject to his love. But in the moment that I feared his
falshood, and fried my selfe most in mine affections, I found
(ah griefe, even then I lost my selfe !) I found him in most
melancholy and desperate tearmcs, cursing his starves, his
state, the earth, tho heavens, the world, and all for the love of—
Cynth. Of whom ? Tellus speake bokUy.
Tiibis. Madame, I dare not utter for feare to offend.
Cynth. Speake, I say ; who dare take offence, if thou be
commanded by Cynthia ?
Tdhis. For the love of Cynthia.
Cynth. For my love Tvlhis, that were strange. JEndimion
is it true ?
End. In all things madame. Tellns doth not speake false.
Cynth. What will this breed to in the end ? WeU Endi-
mion, we shall heare all.
Tellus. I seeing my hopes turned to mishaps, and a setled
<lisscmbling towards me, and an unmovcablc desire to Cynthia,
forgetting both my selfe and my sex, feU unto this unnatural
hate ; for knowing your vertues Cynthia to bo immortall, I
could not have an imagination to withdraw him. And
finding mine owne affections unquenchable, I could not
Carrie the minde that any else should posscsse what I had
pursued. For though in majestic, beautie, vertue, and
dignitie, I alwayes humbled and yeelded my selfe to Cynthia;
yet in affections, I esteemed my selfe equall with the god-
desses ; and all other creatures according to their states with
my selfe. For starres to their bignosse have their hghts,
and tho sunne hath no more. And little pitchei-s when they
can hold no more, are as full as great vessels that run over.
Thus madame in all truth, have I uttered the unhappinesse
of my love, and the cause of my, hate ; yeelding wholy to
that divine judgement which never erred for want of wisdomc,
or envied for too much pai'tialitie.
Cynth. How say you my lords to this matter':' But what
say you Endimion, hath Tclliis told troth ?
End. Madame in all things, but in that she said I loved
her, and swore to honour her.
Cynth. Was there such a time when as for my love thou
didst vow thy selfe to death, and in rospcit of it loth'd thy
life!' speake Endimion, I will not revenge it with hate.
End. The time was madame, and is, and ever shall he, that
I honoui'ed your highnesse above ;ill the world ; but to stretch
it so farro as to call it love, I never durst. There hath none
pleased mine eye but Cijntldu, none delighted mine eiires but
Cynthia, none possessed my heart but Cynthia. I have for-
saken all other fortunes to follow Cynthia, and heero I stand
roadie to die if it please Cynthia. Such a difference hath the
gods set betweene oui- states, that all must bo dutie, loyaltie,
and reverence, nothing (without it vouchsafe your highnesse)
he termed love. My unspotted thoughts, my languishing
bodie, my discontented life, let them ohtaine by princely
favour, that which to ehaUengo they must not presume, onely
wishing of impossibilities : with imagination of which, I will
spend my spuits, and to my selfe that no creature may heare,
softly call it love. And if any urge to utter what I whisper,
then will I name it honour. From this sweet contemplation
if I be not driven, I shall live of aU men the most content,
taking more pleasure in mine aged thoughts, then ever I did
in my youthfull actions.
('yiith. Endimion, this honourable respect of thine, shall bo
christned love in thee, and my reward for it, fa\oui'. Persevcr
Endimion in loving mee, and I account more strength in a
true heart, then in a walled citio. I have laboured to win all,
and studie to keep such as I have woimc ; but those that
neither my favoui- can move to continue constant, nor my
offered benefits get to be faithfull, the gods shall either
reduce to truth, or revenge their trecheries with justice.
Endimion continue as thou hast begun, and thou shalt find
that Cynthia shineth not on thee in vaine.
End. Your highnesse hath blessed me, and your words
have againe restored my youth : me thinks I fcelc my joynta
strong, and these mouldy haires to molt, and aU by your
vertue Cynthia, into wliosc hands tho b:dlance that weighcth
time and fortune are committed.
(,'ynth. What young againe? then it is pitic to punish
Tt'llas.
Tellus. Ah Endimion, now I know thee and :iske pardon of
thee : suffer mee still to wish thee well.
End. Tclliis, Cynthia must command what she will.
Elosc. Endimion, I rejoyce to see thee in thy former estate.
End. Good Floscnlii, to thee also am I in my former affec-
tions.
Ellin. Endimion, the comfort of my life, how am I ravished
with a joy matchlesse, saving onoly the onjoj-ing of my
mistris.
Cynth. Endimion, you must now tell who Eiimcniihs slu'ineth
for his saint.
End. Semcle madame.
Cynth. Scmele Eiimcnides ? is it Scniclc ? the very waspe
of all women, whose tongue stingeth as much as an adders
tooth ?
Ell III. It is Scniclc, Cynthia: the possessing of whose love,
must only prolong my life.
TO A.u. 1588.]
PLAYS.
Ul
Cynth. Nay sith Undimio/i is restored, we will huve aU
parties pleased. Scntele, are you conteat after so long trial of
liis faith, such rare secrecie, such unspotted love, to take
Eitiiienkles .' Wh}- speake you not ? Not a word ?
End. Silence madame consents : that is most true.
Cynth. It is true Endimion. Eumcnides, take Henude. Take
her I say.
Eitm. Humhle thankes niadamo, now onely doe I hegin to
live.
Sem. A hard choice madame, either to be man-ied if I say
nothing, or to lose my tongue if I speake a word. Yet doe I
rather choose to have my tongue cut out, then my heart dis-
tempered : I will not have him.
Cynth. Speakes the parrat ': shce shall nod hereafter with
■signes : cut off her tongue, nay, her head, that ha\-uig a
servant of honourable birth, honest manners, and true love,
will not be perswaded.
Sem. He is no faithfull lover madame, for then would hee
have asked his mistris.
Ger. Had he not heene faithfull, he had never scene into
the fountaine, and so lost his friend and mistris.
Eum. Thine owne thoughts sweet Semdc, witnesse against
thy words, for what hast thou found in my life hut love r
and as yet what have I found in my love but bitternesse f
Madame pardon Seinele, and let my tongue ransome hers.
Cynth. Thy tongue Eumcnides / wh;it shouldst thou live
■wanting a tongue to blaze the beautie of Scmcle ? AVeU
Semiic, I win not command love, for it cannot be enforced :
let me entreat it.
Sem. I am content your highnesse shall command, for now
only doe I think Eitmenides faithfull, that is willing to lose
his tongue for my sake : yet loth, because it should doe me
better ser\-ice. 3Iadame, I accept of Eumenides.
Cynth. I thanke you Semele.
Enm. Ah happie Eumenides, that hast a friend so faithfull,
and a mistris so faire : with what sodaine mischiefe wil the
gods daunt this excesse of joy 'i Sweet Semele, I live or die
as thou wilt.
Cynth. "What shall become of Tellus ? Tellm you know
Endimion is vowed to a service, from which death cannot
remove him. Corsites casteth still a lovely looke towards
you, how say you ? Will you have your Corsites, and so
receive pardon for all that is past '^
Tellus. JIadame most willingly.
Cynth. But I cannot tell whether Corsites be agreed.
Cars. I, madame, more h:ippie to enjoy Telliis then the
monarchic of the world.
Enm. A\Tiy she caused you to be pincht with fairies.
Curs. I, but her fairenesse hath pinched my heart more
deeply.
Cynth. Well enjoy thy love. But what have you wrought
in the castle Tellus ?
Tellus. OneU' the picture of Endimion.
Cynth. Then so much of Endimion as his picture commeth
to, possesse and play withall.
Cors. Ah my sweet Telli':, my love shall be as thy beautie
is, matchlesse.
Cynth. Now it resteth Dipsns, that if thou wilt forsweare
that vUe art of enchanting, Geroii hath promised againe to
receive thee ; otherwise if thou be wedded to that wicked-
nesse, I must and wiU see it punished to the uttermost.
Dipsns. JIadame, I renounce both substance and shadow
of that most horrible and hateful! trade ; vowing to the gods
continuall penance, and to your highnes obedience.
Cynth. How say you Geron, will you admit her to j-our
wife ?
Ger. I, with more joy then I did the first day, for nothing
could happen to make me happy, but onely her forsaking
that leude and detestable course. Itipstis I imbrace thee.
Bipstts. And I thee Geron, to whom I will hereafter recite
the cause of these my first follies.
Cynt/i. Well Emhmion, nothing resteth now but that wee
depart. Thou hast my favour, Tellus her fiiend, Eumenides
in Paradise with his Semeh; Geron contented with Dipsas.
Top. Nay soft, I cannot handsomely goe to bed without
£ayofi.
Cynth. Well Sir Tophus, it may be there are more vertues
in mo then my selfe knoweth of ; for I awaked Endimion, and
at my words ho waxed young; I will trie whether I can
tume this tree againe to thy true love.
Top. Tume her to a true love or false, so shee bee a wench
I care not.
Cynth. Baijon, Cynthia putteth an end to thy hard fortunes,
for being turned to a tree for revealing a truth, I will recover
thee againe, if in my power be the efiect of truth.
Top. Bagoa, a bots upon thee !
Cynth. Come my lords let us in. You Gyptes and Pytha-
goras, if you cannot content your selves in our court, to fall
from vaine follies of philosophers to such vertues as are here
practised, you shall be entertained according to your deserts ;
for Cynthia is no stepmother to strangers.
Pythag. I had rather in Cynthia's court spend ten yeercs,
then in Greece one houre.
Gyptes. And I chuse rather to live by the sight of Cynthia,
then bj' the possessing of all Egypt
Cynth. ThenfoUow.
Eum. We all attend. {Exeunt. '•
Robert Greene was a dramatist who, in writing
novels or short tales after the Italian fashion, fol-
lowed the lead of John Lyly; but in his plays looked
for support to the public at large. He was born at
Nor-wich, it is said, about the year 1.550, but more
probably in 15 GO, in which case he would have
been only four years older "than Shakesijcare. It
the date of his bii-th be 1550, he would have taken
his B.A. degree at the age of twenty-eight, which
is not likely. He was of St. John's College,
Cambridge, and the year of his gi-aduation a-s B.A.
was 1578. He travelled in Italy and Spain before
graduating lis M.A. in 1583. In "The Reiientance
of Robert Greene," a book wherein he makes the
woi-st of himself, Greene said— " After I had by
de<n-ees proceeded Maister of Ai-ts, I left the umver-
sitie, and away to London ; where (after I had con-
tinued some short time, a:nd driven my self out ot
cretUt with sundry of my frends), I became an author
of playes, and a penner of love pamphlets, so that 1
soone cri-ew famous in that qualitie, that who for that
trade gi-owne so ordinaiy about Loudon as Robni
Greene i" In 1585 he tei-med himself on the title-
pa-e of one of his books "Student in Phisicke;
and in July, 1588, he was incorporated at Oxforcl, so
that he coidd entitle himself Ma-ster of Arts of both
the universities. Of the plays written by Rol_^rt
Greene, only five have come down to us- Ihe
. A'tooingemous writer has suggested that John Lyly mea^t yow
WU^r Sespe..ve „y End^uon with his " t^ou.Ws^.,ched to
t,e stars," hi^useif by ^^Z^-^''^X:i^\::Sr-'^^:r
nifles Elizabeth.
U-2
CASSELL'S LIBEARY OF ENGLISH LITERATUllE.
[a.d. 1J88
History of Oilaiulo Furioso," " A Lookmg-glass for
Loudon and England," "The Honourable History ot
Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay," " The Scottish His-
tory of James IV," and " The Comical History of
Alphonsus, King of Arragon." He may also have
written " George-a-Greene, the Piimer of Wakefaeld.^^
In "A Looking Glass for London and England,'
which was an acted play in March, 1592, Greene had
for a fellow-worker Thomas Lodge.
Thomas Lodge was what Greene called himself in
1585, student of physic, and in after life made physic
his profession. He was the son of a Lord Mayor, was
born in London about 1558, and educated at Trinity
College, Oxford. He entered to the study of law at
Lincoln's Inn, was left out of his father's will, and
turned from law to literature, then writing, like his
friend Greene, novels and plays. A prose tale of
Boon IN WHICH Shakespeare is said to have been Bohh.
Lodge's, written in the manner of John Lyly and
published in 1590, "Rosalynde. Euphues' Golden
Legacy, found in his cell at Silextra," was the foun-
dation of Shakespeare's play of " As You Like It."
This novel Lodge wi-ote at sea, when he joined an
expedition against certain islands that belonged to
Spain. Ill 1591, he was one of those who went with
Cavendish on his last voyage.
A LOOKING-GLASS FOR LONDON AND
ENGLAND,
wi'itten not later than the year 1591, and firet jiub-
lished in 1594, as " made by Thomas Lodge, gentle-
man, and Robert Greene, in Artibus Magister," is
very religious in its tone. It sets forth a series of
pictures of tlie corruption of life in Nineveh of old,
blends them into sequence tliat connects tbeni lightly
with each other as a sort of tale ; and, after each
scene of the misdoing of Nineveh has been repre-
sented, points it directly as a lesson for London and
England. The play is printed without division into
acts, but the group of details forming each of the five
acts is distinctly marked in treatment of the subject.
From Camden's Britannia, 1590,
CENE the first of the play
shows Easni, King of
Nineveh, who enters "from
the overthrow of Jero-
boam, King of Jerusalem."
The tributary Kings of
Cilicia, Crete, and Papli-
lagonia enter with him.
His speech mirrors earthly
pride boasting itself against
heaven. He is as arrogant
as Mai'lowe's Tamburlaine, who thought kings
honoured when they drew his coach and felt the whip
of such a charioteer.
Rasni. ...........
Am I not ho that rules great Nineveh,
Rounded with Lycus' silver-flowing streams ?
Whose city large diametri contains.
Even three days' journey's length from wall to wail;
Two hundi-ed gates carv'd out of burnish'd braiss.
As glorious as the poi-tal of the sun ;
And for to deck heaven's battlements with pride.
Six hundi-ed towers that topless touch the clouds.
This city is the footstool of your king ;
A hunchx'd lords do honour at my feet ;
My sceptre straineth both the parallels :
And now t' enlarge the highness of my power,
I have made Judaea's monarch flee the field.
And beat proud Jeroboam from his liolds.
Winning from Cades to Samaria.
Groat Jewry's God, that foil'd stout Benhadad,
Could not rebate ' the strength that Easni brought ;
For be he God in heaven, yet, viceroys, know,
Kasni is god on earth, and none but he.
The triliutary kings echo this note of pride, eacb
ending his tlatteries w-ith the line, " Easni is god on
earth, and none but he." But the King of Paphla-
gonia takes up the burden of praise only to be
interrupted by the approach of Rasni's sister, fair
Remilia :
She that hath stol'n the wealth of Rasni's looks,
And tied his thoughts within her lovely locks,
She that is loved and love unto your king !
Remilia enters with Radagon, an upstart courtier,
■who is a very jioor man's son, and Alvida, the King-
of Paphlagonia's wife. Remilia brings her own
tribute of tiattery to a brother who exchanges with
her an unhallowed love. He seeks marriage with
her, and she assents : " Thy sister born was for thy
wife, my love." The King of Crete warns against
the proposed marriage that defies nature and God,,
but is rebuked by the base upstart Radagon :
Presumptuous viceroy, dar'st thou check thy lord.
Or twit him with the laws that nature loves ?
Is not great Rasni above Nature's reach,
God upon earth, and all his wiU is law ?
The King of Crete continuing in protest, is deprived
of his crown, which is given to Radagon, who next
proceeds to flatter basely, and encourage Rasni s-
1 Rebate, beat back. Fr, *' rabattre.'*
TO A.D. 1591.]
PLAYS.
U3
I amorous regard to Alvida, the King of Paphlagonia's
I wife. Then
Enter, brought in by an Angel, Oseas the Frophet, and let
down over the stage in a throne.
Angel. Amaze not, man of God, if in the spirit
Thou'rt brought from JewTv unto Nineveh ;
So ■n-as Elias rapt vrithin a storm,
And set upon Mount Caimel by the Lord :
For thou hast preach'd long to the stubborn Jews,
AVhose tUnty hearts have felt no sweet remorse.
But lightly valuing all the threats of God,
Have still persever'd in their wickedness.
Lo, I have brought thee unto Nineveh,
The rich and royal eity of the world,
Pampered in wealth, and overgi-own ^vith pride,
As Sodom and Gomoirah full of sin.
The Lord looks down and cannot see one good,
Not one that covets to obey his will ;
But wicked all from cradle to the crutch.
Note, then, Oseas, all their gi-ievous sins.
And see the wrath of God that pays revenge ;
And when the ripeness of their sin is full.
And thou hast written all their wicked thi'ough,
I'll carrj' thee to Jewrj- back again.
And seat thee in the great Jerusalem.
There shalt thou publish in her open streets.
That God sends down his hateful ^^Tath for sin
On such as never heard his prophets speak :
Much more wiU he iniiict a world of plagues
On such as hear the sweetness of his voice,
And yet obey not what his prophets speak.
Sit thee, Oseas, pondering in the spirit
The mightiness of these fond people's sins.
Oseas. The will of the Lord be done ! [Exit Angel.
Next follows a clo%vn scene, typifying drunken
excess of the ignorant. Adam, the smith's man,
who is well instructed hi the mystery of a pot of ale,
enters with a clown and crew of nitiians "to go to
drink." Adam and the clown dispute together,
Adam magnifying his office of smith, and proceeding
from the praise of the smith's craft to the praise of
ale. The clowns and nitiians pass on to their stupid
riot and excess, and the scene closes with the com-
ment of the prophet wha sits on the stage enthroned
as spectator and chorus to the play.
Iniquity seeks out companions still.
And mortal men are armed to do ill.
London, look on, this matter nips thee near:
Leave oif thy riot, pride, and sumptuous cheer ;
■Spend less at board, and spare not at the door.
But aid the infant, and relieve the poor ;
Else seeking mercj', being merciless.
Thou be adjudg'd to endless heaviness.
The next scene shows to Loudon, in the mirror of
Nineveh, wi-ongful and merciless craft of the usurers.
The usurer enters between Thrasybulus, a young
spendthrift, who has wa.sted ample means, and an
honest debtor through necessity, Alcon, a poor man,
father to the upstart courtier, Radagon. Thrasybulus,
now that the time of payment has come, begins by
affecting inabUity to pay.
Thras. I pray you, sir, consider that my loss was great by
the commodity I took up : you know, sir, I borrowed of you
forty pounds, whereof I had ten pounds in money, and thirty
pounds m lutestrings, which when I came to scU again,
I could get but five pounds for them, so had I, sir, but fifteen
pounds for my forty. In consideration of this ill bargain,
I pray you, su-, give me a month longer.
Usurer. I answered thee afore, not a minute : what have I
to do how thy bargain proved ? I have thy hand set to my
book that thou receivedst forty pounds of me in money.
Thras. Ay, su-, it was yom- device that, to colour the "statute,
but your conscience knows what I had.
Ale. Friend, thou speakest Hebrew to him when thou talkest
to him of conscience ; for he hath as much conscience about
the forfeit of an obligution as my bUnd mare, God bless her,
hath over a manger of oats.
Thras. Then there is no favour, sir?
Usurer. Come to-morrow to me, and see how I will use
thee.
Thras. No, covetous caterpillar, k-now that I have made
extreme shift rather than I would fall into the hands of such
a ravening panther : and therefore here is thy money, and
deliver me the recognisance of my lands.
Usurer [aside]. What a spite is this, — hath sped of his
crowns ! if he had missed but one half -hour, what a goodly
farm had I gotten for forty pounds 1 well, 'tis my cursed
fortune. Oh, have I no shift to make him forfeit his recog-
nisance?
Thras. Come, sir, will you despatch, and teU your money?
[It strikes four o'clock.
Usurer [aside]. Stay, what is this o'clock? four: — let me
see, — " to be paid between the hours of three and four in the
afternoon : " this goes right for me. — You, sir, hear you not
the clock, and have you not a countei-pane ' of y oui- obhga-
tion? The hour is past, it was to be paid between three and
four ; and now the clock hath strucken four : I will receivt
none, I'll stand to the fori'cit of the recognisance.
Thras. ^VTiy, sir, I hope you do but jest ; why, 'tis but
four, and will you for a minute take forfeit of my bond ? If
it were so, sir, I was here before four.
Usurer. "\Miy didst thou not tender thy money, then?
Tf I offer thee injmy, take the law of me, complain to the
judge i T 'will receive no money.
A/c. Well, sir, I hope you will stand my good master for
my cow. I borrowed thirt)- shillings on her, and for that I
have paid you eighteenpence a week, and for her meat you
have had her milk, and I teU you, sir, she gives a pretty sup :
now, sir, here is your money.
Usurer. Hang, beggarly k-nave ! comest to me for a cow ?
did I not bind her bought and sold for a penny, and was not
thy day to have paid yesterday ? Thou gettest no cow at my
hand.
Ale. No cow, sir! alas, that word " no cow" goes as cold
to my heart as a draught of small drink in a frosty morning;
"No cow," sir! why, alas, alas. Master Usurer, what shall
become of me, my wife, and my poor child ?
Usurer. Thou gettest no cow of me, knave: I cannot stand
prating with vou, I must be gone.
Ale. Nav, but hear vou, Master I'surer : "no cow!" why,
sir here's vour thirtv shilUngs: I have piiid you eighteen-
pence a week, and therefore there is reason I should have my
Usurer. What pratest thou ? have I not answered thcc,
thy day is broken ?
1 Countc>-pa«c. Old law phrase, for what is now called the connter-
part or copy of a deed.
144
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[i.D. 1589
Ale. Why, sii', alas, my cow is a commonwealth to me !
for first, sir, she allows me, my wife, and son, for to banquet
ourselves withal, butter, cheese, whey, curds, cream, sod-milk,
raw-milk, sour-milk, sweet-milk, and butter-milk : besides,
sir, she saved me eveiy year a penny in almanacs, lor sne
was as good to me as a prognostication ; if she had but set up
her tail, ana have galloped about the mead, my little boy was
able to say, " O father, there wiU be a storm ; " her very tail
was a calendar to me : and now to lose my cow ! alas. Master
Usurer, take pity upon me !
Usurer. I have other matters to talk on : farewell, fellows.
Thrns. Why, but, thou covetous churl, wilt thou not receive
thy money, and deliver me my recognisance ?
Usurer. I'll deliver thee none ; if I have wronged thee, seek
thy mends at the law. [Exit.
Thras. And so I %vill, insatiable peasant.
Ate. And, sir, rather than I wiU put up this word " no
cow," I wiU la}' my wife's best gown to pawn. I tell you,
sir, when the slave uttered this word "no cow," it struck
to my heart, for my wife shall never have one so fit for her
turn again.
Nay, sir, before I pocket up this word '' no cow," my wife's
gown goes to the lawyer : why, alas, sii-, 'tis as ill a word to
inc as " no crown " to a king !
Tinas. Well, fellow, go with me, and I'll help thee to a
lawyer.
Ale. Marry, and I will, sir-. Ko cow ! well, the world goes
hard. \_ExciiHt.
Osens. Where hateful usury
Is counted husbandry ;
^\'^lere merciless men rob the poor.
And the needy are thrust out of door ;
AVhere gain is held for conscience.
And men's pleasures are aU on pence ;
Where young gentlemen forfeit their lands.
Through riot, into the usurer's hands ;
Where poverty is despis'd, and pity banish' d.
And mercy indeed utterly vanish'd ;
Where men esteem more of money than of God ;
Let that land look to feel his wrathful rod :
For there is no sin more odious in His sight
Than when usury defrauds the poor of his right.
London, take heed, these sins abound in thee ;
The poor complain, the widows wronged be ;
The gentlemen by subtlety are spoil'd:
The ploughmen lose the crop for which they toil'd :
Sin reigns in thee, London, every hour ;
Repent, and tempt not thus the heavenly power.
Here ends the First Act of the play. The Second
Act opens -with entmiice of Ra.sni'.s .sister Remilia,
followed by Alvida, the King of Paphlagonia's wife,
" and a train of ladies in all royalty." Remilia boasts
her own beanty, and prepares her charms for marriage
with her brother. She enters her tent at the sound
of the ajjproachmg pomp of Rasni.
Jleintl. .....
Nymphs, eunuchs, sing, for Mavors draweth nigh;
Hide ine in closure, let him long to look :
For were a goddess fairer than am I,
I'll scale the heavens to puU her from the place.
[T/iei/ draw the eiirtahis, and music plays.
Alvi. Believe me, though she say that she is fairest,
I think my penny silver by her leave.
Enter E.\SNi, tcith Radagos and Lords in pomp, who make a
ward about Rassi ; also the Magi in <jreut pomp.
Rasni. Magi, for love of Rasni, by your art,
By magic frame an arbour out of hand
For fair Remilia to disport her in.
Meanwhile I will bethink me on further pomp. [Exit.
The Magi with their rods beat the rjround, and from under the
same rises a brave arbour : R.vsxi returns in another suit,
while the trumpets sound.
Rasni. Blest be ye, men of art, that grace me thus.
And blessed be this day where H)-men hies
To join in union pride of heaven and earth !
[Lightninrj and thunder, wherewith Remilia is struchen.
Wliat wondrous threatening noise is this I hear ?
What flashing Ughtnings trouble our delights ? "
A\Tien I draw near Remilia's royal tent,
I waking di'eam of soitow and mishap.
Rmlag. Dread not, king, at ordinary chance ;
These are but common exhalations.
Drawn from the earth, in substance hot and dry,
Or moist and thick, or meteors combust.
Matters and causes incident to time.
Enkindled in the fieiy region first.
Tut I be not now a Roman augurer ;
Ajjproach the tent, look on Remiha.
Rasni. Thou hast confirm'd my doubts, kind Radagon. —
Now ope, ye folds, where queen of favoui- sits.
Carrying a net within her curded locks
Wherein the Graces are entangled oft ;
Ope like th' imperial gates where Phoebus sits
Whenas he means to woo his Ch'tia.
Nocturnal cares, ye blemishcrs of bUss,
Cloud not mine eyes wliilst I behold her face. —
Remilia, my deUght ! — she answereth not.
[Ue draws the curtains, and finds her strucken-
black with thimder.
No balms can restore Remilia ; but Rasni, at sug-
gestion of Radagon, consoles himself at once by taking
the King of Paphlagonia's wife, Alvida, for his love,
and Oseas closes the scene with a warning against
wantonness.
Fly, wantons, fly this pride and vain attire,
The seals to set your tender hearts on fire :
Be faithful to the promise you have past,
Else God vdU plague and punish at the last.
The next scene shows in the mirror of Nineveh to
London and England a reflection of corrupted law.
Alcon and Thrasybulus, seeking aid of justice against
the usurer, " enter with the lawyer." After they
have given their instmctions each in characteristic
manner,
Enter the Judge, attended, and the Usurer.
Usurer. Sir, here is forty angels' for you, and if at any time
you want a hundred pound or two, 'tis ready at your com-
mand, or the feeding of three or four fat bullocks : whereas
these needy slaves can reward with nothing but a cap and
a knee ; and therefore I pray you, sir, favour my case.
Judge. Fear not, sii', I'll do what I can for you.
1 Ang^. An angel was a golden coin worth, about ten sln'llings,.
with a figiu-e of an angel on it.
TO A.D. 1591.]
PLAYS.
145
Usurer. What, Master Lawyer, what make you here r luine
adversary for these clients ?
Lawyer. So it chanceth now, sir.
Usurer. I know you know the oldprOTerb, " He is not wise
that is not wise for himself : " I would not he disgraced in
this action ; therefore here is twenty angels ; say nothing in
the matter, or what you say, say to no pui-pose, for the Judge
is my friend.
Lawyer. Let me alone, I'll fit your purpose.
Judge. Come, where are these fellows th;it are the plaintiffs ?
what can they say against this honest citizen our neighbour,
a man of good report amongst all men ?
Ale. Truly, Master Judge, he is a man much spoken of ;
marry, every man's cries are against him, and especially we ;
and therefore I think we have brought our Lawyer to touch
him with as much law as will fetch his lands and my cow with
a pestilence.
Thra^. Sir, I am the other plaintiff, and this is my coun-
sellor : I beseech your honour be favourable to me in equity.
Judge. O, Signor Mizaldo, what can you say in this gentle-
man's behalf ?
Lawyer. Faith, sir, as yet little good. — Sir, tell you your
own case to the Judge, for I have so many matters in my
head, that I have almost forgotten it.
Thras. Is the wind in that door? ^"hy, then, my lord,
thus. I took up of this cursed Usurer, for so I may weU
term him, a commodity of forty povmds, whereof I received
ten pound in money, and thirty pound in lute-strings, whereof
I could by great friendship make but five pounds: for the
assurance of this bad commodity I bound him my land in
recognisance ; I came at my day, and tendered him his money,
and he would not take it : for the redress of my open wrong
I crave but justice.
Judge. What say you to this, sir ?
Usurer. That first he had no lute-strings of me; for, look
you, sir, I have his own band to my book for the receipt of
forty pound.
Thras. That was, sir, but a device of him to colour the
statute.
Judge. Well, he hath thine own hand, and we can crave no
more in law. — But now, sir, he says his money was tendered
at the day and hour.
Usurer. This is manifest contrary, sii-, and on that I will
depose ; for here is the obligation, " to be paid between three
and four in the afternoon," and the clock struck four before
he offered it, and the words be "between tlu-ee and four,"
therefore to be tendered before foiir.
Thras. Sir, I was there before four, and he held me with
brabbling till the clock struck, and then for the breach of a
minute he refused my money, and kept the recognisance of
my land for so smedl a trifle. — Good Signor Mizaldo, speak
what is law ; you have your fee, you have heard what the
case is, and therefore do me justice and right : I am a young
gentleman, and speak for my patrimony.
Lawyer. Faith, sir, the case is altered ; you told me it before
in another manner : the law goes quite against you, and there-
fore you must plead to the Judge for favour.
Thras. O execrable bribery !
Ale. Faith, Sir Judge, I pray you let me be the gentleman's
counsellor, for I can say thus much in his defence, that the
Usurer's clock is the swiftest clock in all the town : 'tis, sir,
like a woman's tongue, it goes ever half an horr before the
time ; for when we were gone from him, other clocks in the
town struck four.
Judge. Hold thy prating, fellow :— and you, young gentle-
man, this is my award: look better another time both to your
tJargains and to the payments ; for I must give flat sentence
139
against you, that, for default of tendering the monev between
the hours, you have forfeited your Tecognisance, ^d he to
have the land.
Thras. inspeakable injustice !
Ale. monstrous, miserable, moth-eaten Judge !
Judge. Now, you feUow, what have you to say for your
matter ?
Ale. Master Lawyer, I laid my wife's go«-n to pawn for
your fees : I pray you, to this gear.
Lawyer. Alas, poor man, thy matter is out of my head, and
therefore, 1 pray thee, tell it thyself.
Ale. I hold my cap to a noble that the Usurer hath given
him some gold, and he, chewing it in his mouth, hath got the
toothache that he cannot speak.
Judge. WeU, sirrah, I must be short, and therefore say on.
Ale. Master Judge, I borrowed of this m;m thirty shillings,
for which I left him in pawn my good cow ; the bargain was,
he should have eighteen-pence a week, and the cow's milk for
usurj' : now, sir, as soon as I had gotten the money, I brought
it him, and broke but a day, and for that he refused his
money, and keeps my cow, sir.
Judge. Why, thou hast given senteace against thyself, for
in breaking thy day thou hast lost thy cow.
Ale. Master Lawyer, now for my ten shillings.
Lawyer. Faith, poor man, thy case is so bad, I shall but
speak against thee.
Ale. 'Twere good, then, I should have my ten shillings
again.
Lauyer. 'Tis my fee, fellow, for coming : wouldst thou have
me come for nothing ?
Ale. Why, then, am I like to go home, not only with no
cow, but no gown : this gear goes hard.
Judge. Well, you have heard what favour I can show you :
I must do justice. — Come, Master Mizaldo, — and you, sir, go
home with me to dinner.
Ale. Why, but. Master Judge, no cow 1 — and.
Master Lawyer, no gown !
Then must I clean run out of the town.
[Exeunt Judge, attended, Lawyer, and Usurer.
How cheer you, gentleman ? you cry " No lands " too ; the
Judge hath made you a knight for a gentleman, hath dubbed
you Sir John Lack-land.
Thras. miserable time, wherein gold is above God 1
Ale. Fear not, man ; I have yet a fetch to get thy lands
and my cow again, for I have a son in the court, that is either
a king or a king's fellow, and to him wiU I go and compkin
on the Judge and the Usurer both.
Thras. And 1 will go with thee, and entreat him for my
case.
Ale. But how shall I go home to my wife, when I shall
have nothing to say unto her but " no cow f " alas, sir, my
wife's faults wiU fall upon me !
T/iras. Fear not; let's go; I'll quiet her, shalt sec.
[Exeunt.
Oseas. Fly, judges, fly corruption in your court ;
The Judge of Truth hath made your judgment short.
Look so to judge, that at the latter day
Ye be not judg'd with those that wend astray.
Who passeth judgment for his private gain.
He well may judge he is adjudg'd to pain.
The next scene is \nth Adam and the crew of
ruffians returning drunken from the ale. Wild in
light qnaiTel, one ruffian slays another, and they pass
on ; but Adam, in his drunkenness, falls over the
body of the slain man, and the dead diunk lies upon
the dead. Then
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CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1589
Enter Easxi, Alvida, the King of Cilicia, Lords, and
Attendants.
Unsiii. What slaughter'd wretch lies bleeding here his last,
So near the royal palace of the king f
Search out if any one be biding nigh,
That can discourse the manner of his death. —
Scat thee, fair Alvida, the fair of fairs ;
Let not the object once olicnd thine eyes.
First Lord. Here's one sits here asleep, my lord.
Rami. Wake him, and make inquiry of this thing.
First Lord. Sirrah you ! hearcst thou, fellow P
Adam. If you will 1311 a fresh pot, here's a penny, or else
farewell, gentle tapster.
First Lord. He is drunk, my lord.
Rttsni. We'U sport -vvith him, that Alvida may laugh.
First Lord. Sirrah, thou fellow, thou must come to the
king.
Adam. I will not do a stroke of work to-day, for the ale is
good ale, and you can ask but a penny for a pot, no more by
the statute.
First Lord. ViUaiu, hero's the king; thou must come to
Iiim.
Adam. The king come to an ale-house 1 — Tapster, fill me
three pots.— Where's the king f is this he ? — Give me your
hand, sir : as good ale as ever was tajit ; you shall di'ink
whOe your skin crack.
Jtasni. But hearcst thou, fcUow, who killed this man ?
Adam. I'll tell you, sir, — if you did taste of the ale, — all
Nineveh hath not such a cup of ale, it flowers in the cup, sir ;
by my troth, I spent eleven pence, beside three races of
ginger'—
Masni. Answer me, knave, to my question, how came this
man slain ?
Adam. Slain! why, the ale is strong ale, 'tis huffcap; I
warrant )-ou, 'twiU make a man well. — Tapster, ho ! for the
king a cup of ale and a fresh' toast ; here's two races more.
Alvi. A\Tiy, good fellow, the king talks not of dionk ; he
would have thee tell him how this man came dead.
Adam. Dead ! nay, I think I am alive yet, and will drink
a full pot ere night : hut hear ye, if ye be the wench that
filled us drink, why, so, do your ofiice, and give us a fresh
pot ; or if you be the tapster's wife, why, so, wash the glass
clean.
Ah'i. Ho is so drunk, my lord, there is no talking with
him.
Adam. Dnmk '. nay, then, wench, I am not drunk ....
I tell thee I am not drunk, I am a smith, I.
First Lord. Sir, here comes one perhaps that c:in tell.
Enter the Smith.
Smith. God save you, master.
Rasiii. Smith, canst thou teU me how tliis man came dead?
Smith. May it please your highness, my man here and a
crew of them went to the ale-house, and came out so drunk
that one of them killed another : and now, sir, I am fain to
leave my shop, and come to fetch him home.
Rasiii. Some of you carrj- away the dead body : drunken
men must have their fits ; and, sin-ah smith, hence with thy
man.
Smith. SiiTah you, rise, come go with me.
Adam. If we shall have a pot of ale, let's have it, here's
money ; hold, tapster, take my purse.
Smith. Come, then, with me; the pot stands fuU in the
house.
Bacfs 0/ (jiiijfi-, roots ; French " race," from Latin " radix." This
IS the word in the phrase " human race." In a horse-race or a mill-
race, the word is from First-English " rffi's," a rush
Adam. I am for you, let's go, thou'rt an honest tapster:
we'll drink six pots ere we part.
[Exeunt Smith, Adam ; and Attendants with the
dead body.
Rasiii ami Alvida, having made sport with the
degradation of dmnkeiiness, sink lower themselves ;
and in a draught of Greek wine, in which she asks
for a love-pledge from lier forgiving husband, Alvida
slays him with s\vift poison. Upon Rasni's praise
of the deed, follows the stern comment of Oseas that
closes the Second Act of the })lay.
The Tliii'd Act opens with another prophet, used in
this place as type of the preacher who is unfaithful
in delivering God's message to the world.
Enter Jonas.
Jonas. From forth the depth of my imprison' d soul
Steal you, my sighs, to testify my pain ;
Convey on wings of mine immortal tone
My zealous praj'ers unto the starry throne.
Ah, merciful and just, thou dreadful God !
Where is thine ai-m to lay revengeful strokes
L^pon the heads of our rebellious race ?
Lo, Israel, once that flourish'd like the vine.
Is barren laid ; the beautiful increase
Is wholly blent, and irreligious zeal
Encampeth there where virtue was cnthi'on'd :
Alas \ the while the widow wants relief.
The fatherless is wrong'd by naked need,
Devotion sleeps in cinders of contempt,
H)'pocrisy infects the holy priest !
Ay me, for this ! woe me, for these misdeeds !
Alone I walk to think upon the world.
And sigh to see thy prophets so coutemn'd,
Alas, contemn'd by cursed Israel !
Yet, Jonas, rest content, 'tis Israel's sin
That causeth this ; then muse no more thereon,
But pray amends, and mend thy own amiss.
An Angel appears to Jox.is.
Augel. Amittai's son, I charge thee muse no more .■
I AM hath power to pardon and correct ;
To thee pertains to do the Lord's conrmand.
Go girt thy loins, and haste thee quickly hence ;
To Nineveh, that mighty city, wend.
And say this message from the Lord of hosts.
Preach unto them these tidings from thy God ; —
" Behold, thy wickedness hath tempted me.
And pierced thi'ough the nine-fold orbs of heaven :
Repent, or else thy judgment is at hand."
[This said, the Angel vanishe),
.Jonas. Prostrate I lie before the Lord of hosts,
With humble ears intending his behest :
Ah, honour'd be Jehovah's great command I
Then Jonas must to Nineveh repair.
Commanded as the prophet of the Lord.
Great dangers on this journey do await,
But dangers none where heaven directs the course.
\Miat .should I deem f I see, yea, sighing see.
How Israel sins, yet knows the way of truth.
And thereby grows the bye-word of the world.
How, then, should God in judgment be so strict
'Gainst those who never heard or knew his power,
To threaten utter ruin of them all r
Should I report this judgment of my God,
I should incite them more to follow sin,
TO i.D. 1591.] PLAYS.
ABd publish to the world my country's blame :
It may not be, my conscience tells me — no.
Ah, Jonas, wilt thou prove rebellious, then '■:
Consider, ere thou fall, what error is.
My miud misgives : to Joppa will I fly.
And for a while to Tharsus shape my course,
Until the Lord unfret his angry brows.
Enter certain Merchants of Tharsus, a Master, and some
Sailors.
JIas. Come on, brave merchants ; now the wind doth serve,
And sweetly blows a gale at west-south-west,
Our yards across, our anchors on the pike,'
^^'hat, shall we hence, and take this merry gale ?
First Mer. SaUors, convey our budgets straight aboard.
And we will recompense your pains at last :
If once in safetv" we may Tharsus sec,
Master, we'U feast these merry mates and thee.
Mas. Mealiwhile content yourselves with silly cates;-
Our beds are boards, our feasts are f uU of mirth :
\^'e use no pomp, we are the lords of sea ;
MTien princes sweat in care, we swink' of glee.
Orion's shoulders and the Pointers serve
To be our loadstars in the lingering night ;
The beauties of Arctunis we behold ;
And though the sailor is no bookman held,
He knows more art than ever bookmen read.
First Sai. By heavens, well s;iid in honour of our trade I
Let's see the proudest scholar steer his course,
Or shift his tides, as sUly sailors do ;
Then will we yield them praise, else never none.
First Mer. 'Well spoken, fellow, in thine own behalf.
But let us hence ; wind tarries none, you wot,
.\nd tide and time let slip is hardly got.
Mas. March to the haven, merchants ; I follow you.
[Exeunt Jlerchants.
Jonas [aside^ Xow doth occasion further my desires ;
I find companions fit to aid my flight. —
Stay, sir, I pray, and hear a word or two.
Mas. Say on, good friend, but briefly, if you please ;
My passengers by this time are aboard.
Jonas. Whither pretend'' you to embark yourselves ':
Mas. To Tharsus, sir, and here in Joppa-haven
Our ship is prest,* and ready to depart.
Jonas. 3Iay I have passage for my money, then ':
Mas. What not for money ? pay ten silverlings.
You are a welcome guest, if so you please.
Jonas [giving »«>«cy]. Hold, take thine hire; I follow thee,
my friend.
Mas. Where is your budget ? let me bear it, sir.
Jonas. Go on in peace ; ' who sail as I do now
Put tnist in Him who suceoureth everj- want. [Freunt.
Oseas. ■^Tien prophets, new-inspir'd, presume to force
And tie the power of heaven to their conceits ;
\\Tien fear, promotion, pride, or simony,
Ambition, subtle craft, their thoughts disguise.
147
1 Anchors on the pike, Fr. *' a pique." An anchor was said to be " a
piqne," '* apeek," when the ship was drawn so directly over it that
between anchor and ship the cable wa3 tightly stretched in a perpen-
dicular line.
- .Silly cates, simple provisions. "Gates" and "acates," from Old
French "acats ;" *'acheter," to buy. We still use the word from the
same root " cater."
* Swrtnk, toil. First-English " swincan," to labour.
♦ Pretend, hold or set before ; literally, stretch out before, propose.
^ Prest, French *'pret," ready.
' Go on -.v. peace. The original has " To one in peace," which I take
to be a misprint.
Woe to the flock whereas the shepherd's fonl !
For, lo, the Lord at unawares shall plague
The careless guide, because his flocks do stray.
The axe already to the tree is set :
Beware to tempt the Lord, ye men of art.
Tlien entei-s Tkrasybulus with the poor old man
Alcon, who is accompanied by his \^•ife Samia and
Clesiphon his younger son. The law having failed
to right theii- wrong, they are looking now to Alcon's
influence at Com-t, through his son Eadagon, who by
flattery has risen to vice-royal state.
Enter Alcox, Thbasvuilus, Sajua, and Clesipuox.
Cles. Mother, some meat, or else I die for want !
Sam. Ah, little boy, how glad thy mother would
Supply thy wants, but naked need denies !
Thy father's slender portion in this world
By usury and false deceit is lost :
No charity within this cit}' bides ,
All for themselves, and none to help the poor.
Cles. Father, shall Clesiphon have no relief ?
Ale. Faith, my boy, I must be flat with thee, we must
feed upon proverbs now; as " Necessity hath no law," "A
churl's feast is better than none at all : " for other remedies
have we none, except thy brother Radagon help us.
Sam. Is this thy slender care to help our child ':
Hath nature arm'd thee to no more remorse ?
Ah, cruel man, unkind and pitiless 1 —
Come, Clesiphon, my boy, I'll beg for thee.
Cles. Oh, how my mother's mourning movcth me I
Ale. Nay, you shall pay me interest for getting the boy.
wife, before 3"0u carry him hence : alas, woman, what can
Alcon do more ? I'll pluck the belly out of my heart for
thee, sweet Samia ; be not so waspish.
Sam. Ah, siUy man, I know thy want is great,
And foolish I to crave where nothing is.
Haste, Alcon, haste, make haste imto our son ;
Who, since he is in favour of the king,
May help this hapless gentleman and us
For to regain our goods from tyrants' hands.
Thras. Have patience, Samia, wait your weal from heaven :
The gods have rais'd your son, I hope, for this,
To succour innocents in their distress.
Lo, where he comes from the imperial court ;
Go, let us prostrate us before his feet.
Ale. Kay, by my troth, I'll never ask my son blessing;
che trow, cha? taught him his lesson to Icnow his father.
Enter Kadagox attended.
What, son Eadagon ! i' faith, boy, how dost thee r
Madar/. Villain, disturb me not ; I cannot stay.
Ale. Tut, son, I'U help you of that disease quickly, f<jr T
can hold thee : . . • •
Sadag. Traitor unto my princely majesty.
How dar'st thou lay thy hands upon a k-ing ?
Sam. Xo traitor, Radagon, but true is he:
■What, hath promotion bleared thus thine eye.
To scorn thy father when he visits thee ••
Alas, mv son ! behold with ruthful eyes
Thy parents robb'd of all their worldly weal
By subtle means of usmy and guile :
The iudt'e's ears are deaf and shut up close :
All mercy sleeps : then be thou in these plunges
7 Che trow, cho, I believe I have. See Note 5, page 71.
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[a.d. 1580
A patri-n to thy mother in her pains :
Behold thy brother almost dead for food :
Oh, succour us, that first did succour thee !
Radag. What, succour me ! false caUet,' hence, avaunt !
Old dotard, pack ! move not my patience :
I know )-ou not ; kings never look so low.
Sam. You know us not I Kadagon, you know
That, knowing us, you know your parents then ;
Thou know'st this womb first brought thee forth to light :
I know these paps did foster thee, my son.
Ale. And I know he hath had many a piece of bread and
cheese at my hands, as proud as he is ; that know I.
Thras. I wait no hope of succour in this place.
Where children hold their fathers in disgrace.
Radag. Dare you enforce the furrows of revenge
Within the brows of royal Eadagon ?
Villain, avaunt ! hence, beggars, with your brats I —
Marshal, why whip you not these rogues away,
That thus disturb our royal majesty ?
Cles. Mother, I see it is a wondrous thing,
From base estate for to become a king ;
For why, mcthink, my brother in these fits
Hath got a kingdom, but hath lost his wits.
Radag. Yet more contempt before my royalty 'i
Slaves, fetch out tortures worse than Tityus' plagues,
And tear their tongues fiom their blasphemous heads.
Thras. I'U get me gone, though woe-begone with grief :
No hope remains : — come, Alcon, let us wend.
Radag. 'Twere best you did, for fear you catch your bane.
\_ExU Thkasybulus.
Sam. Nay, traitor, I will haunt thee to the death:
Ungracious son, untoward, and perverse,
I'll fill the heavens with echoes of thy pride,
And ring in every ear thy small regard.
That dost despise thy parents in their wants ;
And breathing forth my soul before thy feet.
My curses still shall haunt thy hateful head.
And being dead, my ghost shall thee pursue.
Enter Rasni, attended on by Aii Magi and Kings.
Rasni. How now ! wliat mean these outcries in our court,
Where naught should sound but harmonies of heaven r
What maketh Radagon so passionate ?
Sam. Justice, king, justice against my son !
Rasni. Thy son ! what son ?
Sam. This cursed Radagon.
Radag. Dread monarch, this is but a lunacy,
Which grief and want hath brought the woman to. —
What, doth this passion hold you every moon ?
Sam. pohtie in sin and wickedness.
Too impudent for to delude thy prince ! —
O Easni, this same womb first brought him forth ■
This is his father, worn with care and age ;
This is his brother, poor imhappy lad ;
And I his mother, though contemn' d by him.
With tedious toil we got our little good.
And brought him up to school with mickle charge :
Lord, how we joy'd to see his towardness !
And to ourselves we oft in silence said,
^ Callflf, scold ; used formerly as a term of great contempt. In the
East Biding of Torlishire the word " callit " is still used for a scold,
and "to call" is to scold. The first sense of the Scandinavi-in
"kalla," whence our " call," was to cry aloud or shout, and in Old
and Middle High German the word had only the sense of loud
talking. In the " Winter's Tale," act ii., sc. 3, Leontes caBs Paulina
" A callat
Of houndless tongue, who late hath heat her husband
And now baits me."
This youth when we are old may succour us.
But now preferr'd and lifted up by thee,
We quite destroy'd by cursed usury.
He Bcometh me, his father, and this child.
Cles. He plays the serpent right, deserib'd in Esop's tale,
That sought the fester's death, that lately gave him life.
Ale. Nay, an please your majesty-ship, for proof he was
my child, search the parish-book : the clerk will swear it,
his godfathers and godmothers can witness it : it cost me
forty pence in ale and cakes on the wives at his christening.
— Hence, proud king ! thou shalt never more have my
blessing.
Rasni. [taking EAD.4.G0N aj)art.'] Say sooth in secret,
Eadagon,
Is this thy father ?
Radag. Mighty king, he is ;
I blushing tell it to your majesty.
Rasni. Why dost thou, then, contemn him and his friends?
Radag. Because he is a base and abject swain,
My mother and her brat both beggarly.
Unmeet to be allied unto a king :
Should I, that look on Easni' s countenance,
And march amidst his royal equipage,
Embase myself to speak to such as they ?
'Twere impious so to impair the love
That mighty Easni hears to Eadagon.
I would your grace would quit them from your sight,
That dare presume to look on Jove's compare.
Rasni. I like thy pride, I praise thy policy ;
Such should they be that wait upon my court :
Let mc alone to answer, Eadagon. —
Villains, seditious traitors, as you be.
That scandalise the honour of a king,
Depart my court, you stales of impudence.
Unless you would be parted from your limbs !
So base for to entitle fatherhood
To Easni's friend, to Rasni's favourite.
Radag. Hence, begging scold! hence, caitiff clogg'd with
years 1
On pain of death, revisit not the court.
Was I concciv'd by such a scurvy truU,
Or brought to light by such a lump of dirt ?
Go, losel, trot it to the cart and spade !
Thou art unmeet to look upon a king.
Much less to be the father of a king.
Ale. You may see, wife, what a goodly piece of work you
have made: have I taught you arsmetry,- as addiliori miilti-
plicartim, the rule of three, and aU for the begetting of a boy,
and to be banished for my labour ? pitiful hearing ! —
Come, Clesiphon, follow me.
Cles. Brother, beware : I oft have heard it told,
That sons who do their fathers scorn shall beg when they be
old.
Radag. Hence, bastard boy, for fear you taste the whip !
[Exeunt Alcon and Clesiphon.
Sam. aU you heavens, and you eternal powers
That sway the sword of justice in your hands.
(If mother's cunscs for her son's contempt
May fill the balance of your fury full,)
Pour do\\'n the tempest of your direful plagues
Upon the head of cursed Eadagon !
\_A flame of fire appears from beneath, and Radaoon
is sicallowed.
So you are just : now triumph, Samia ! [Exit.
Rasni. What exorcising charm, or hateful hag,
2 Ay& mctrica, arithmetic.
TO A.D. 1591/
PLAYS.
149
Hath ravished the pride of my delight ?
WTiat tortuous planets, or malevolent
Conspiiing power, repining destiny,
Hath made the concave of the earth unclose.
And shut in ruptures lovely Radagon ?
If I he lord commander of the clouds.
King of the earth, and sovereign of the seas,
Whdt daring Saturn, from his fiury den.
Doth dart these fiu-ious tlames amidst my court ?
I am not chief, there is more great than I :
■\\Tiat, gi-eater than th' Assj-rian Satrapos ':"
It may not be, and yet I fear there is,
That hath hereft me of my Radagon.
I'irst Magus. Monarch, and potentate of all our provinces.
Muse not so much upon this accident.
Which is indeed nothing miraculous.
The hill of SicOy, di-ead sovereign,
Sometime on sudden doth evacuate
Whole flakes of fire, and spews out fi-om below
The smoky brands that Vulcan's bellows diive :
Whether by winds enclosed in the earth.
Or fracture of the earth by rivers' force,
Such chances as was this are often seen ;
Whole cities sunk, whole countries drowned quite.
Then muse not at the loss of Radagon,
But frolic with the dalliance of your love.
Let cloths of purple, set with studs of gold,
Embellished with all the pride of earth.
Be spread for Alvida to sit upon :
Then thou, like Mars courting the queen of love,
May'st drive away this melancholy fit.
Rami. The proof is good and philosophical ;
And more, thy counsel plausible and sweet. —
Come, lords, though Kasni wants his Radagon,
Earth will repay him many Radagons,
And Alvida with pleasant looks revive
The heart that di-oops for want of Radagon. [Exeutit.
Oseas. ^Vhen disobedience reigneth in the child,
And princes' ears by flatten,- be beguil'd ;
When laws do pass by favour, not by truth ;
WTien falsehood swarmeth both in old and youth ;
"When gold is made a god to wTong the poor.
And charity exil'd from rich men's door;
When men b)- wit do labour to disprove
The plagues for sin sent down by God above ;
"When great men's ears are stopt to good advice.
And apt to hear those tales that feed their vice :
"Woe to the land ! for from the east shall rise
A Lamb of peace, the scourge of vanities.
The judge of truth, the patron of the just,
Who soon will lay presumption in the dust.
And give the humble poor their hearts' desire.
And doom the worldlings to eternal fire :
Eepent all you that hear, for fear of plagues !
O London, this and more doth swarm in thee.
Eepent 1 repent I for why, the Lord doth see.
"With trembling pray, and mend what is amiss ;
The sword of justice drawn already is.
The next scene open;? between Adam and the
Smith's wife ; the Smith enter.s, tlie man beats his
master, and the wife is without care for the husband.
The prophet's comment upon this is followed by the
last scene of this act.
Oseas. WTiere servants against masters do rebel,
The commonweal mav be accounted hell ;
For if the feet the head shall hold in scorn,
The cit)-'s state v,-m faU and be forlorn.
This error, London, waiteth on thy state :
Servants, amend, and, masters, leave to hate ;
Let love abound, and virtue reign in all ;
So God will hold his hand, that threateneth thraU.
Enter the Merchants of Tharsus, the Master of the Ship, aiid
some Sailors, wet from the sea; with them the Govcnior of
Joppa.
Gov. What strange encounters met you on the sea.
That thus your bark is batter' d by the floods,
And you return thus sea-wreck'd as I see 'r
First Mer. Most mighty Governor, the chance is strange,
The tidings full of wonder and amaze.
Which, better than we, our Master can report.
Gov. Master, discourse us all the accident.
Mas. The fair Triones with their glimmering light
Smil'd at the foot of clear Boiites' wain.
And in the north, distinguishing the hours.
The loadstar of our course dispers'd his clear ;
WTien to the seas with bUtheful western blasts
We sail'd amain, and let the bowling fly.
Scarce had we gone ten leagues from sight of land.
But, lo, an host of black and sable clouds
'Gran to echpse Lucina's silver face ;
And, with a hurling noise from forth the south,
A gust of wind did rear the billows up.
Then scantled we our sails with speedy hinds,
And took our drahlers from our bonnets' straight.
And severed our bonnets from our courses :
Our topsails up, we truss our spritsails in ;
But vainly strive they that resist the heavens.
For, lo, the waves incense tlicm more and more.
Mounting with hideous roarings from the depth ;
Our bark is batter'd by encountering storms.
And well-nigh stemm'd by breaking of the floods.
The steersman, pale and careful, holds his hehn.
Wherein the trust of life and safety lay :
Tin aU at once (a mortal tale to teU)
Our sails were split by Bisa's bitter blast,-
Our rudder broke, and we bereft of hope.
There might you see, with pale and ghastly louks.
The dead in thought, and doleful merchants lift
Their eyes and hands unto their country's gods.
The goods we cast in bowels of the sea,
A sacrifice to 'suage proud Neptune's ire.
Only alone a man of Israel,
A passenger, did under hatches lie.
And slept secui-e, when we for succour pray'd :
Him I awoke, and said, " "V\Tiy slumberest thou ?
.irise, and pray, and caU upon thy god ;
He win perhaps in pity look on us."
Then cast we lots to know by whose aniiss
Our mischief came, according to the guise ;
And, lo, the lot did unto Jonas fall.
The Israehte of whom 1 told yo>i last.
Then question we his country and his name;
1 Tool- our irahUrs from our loan^b. " DraWer, an additional pait
of a s^ sometimes Led lo the bottom of tie bonnet of u square
fj^Zv^ and schooners." (Falconer-s " Marine D.et.ouary^
wlich deanes " Bonnet, an additional part lace.t to the ^onom oftl.,
ZSsail and foresaU of some small vessels, m moderate wmds. )
^.e^seafaring experience is t«rne<l to acco.mt m the descr,pt.o.
nf tbe vovase of Jonah, which is doubtless from his hand.
tBu'^Zua^. The K^ is a cold north «-ind, Uke the mu^ral
that often blows on the northern coast, of the Mediterranean.
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[a.d. 1589.
Who answer'd us, " I am an Hebrew born,
Who fear the Lord of heaven who made the sea,
And fled from him ; for which we all are plagu'd :
So, to assuage the fury of my God,
Take me and cast my carcass in the sea ;
Then shall this stormy wind and biUow cease."
The heavens thoy know, the Hebrew's god can tell,
How loath we were to execute liis will :
But when no oars nor labour might suffice.
We heav'd the hapless Jonas overboard.
So ccas'd the storm, and cabncd all the sea.
And we by strength of oars recover' d shore.
Gov. A wondrous chance of mighty consequence !
First Mcr. Ah, honour'd be the god that wrought the
same !
For we have vow'd, that saw his wondi-ous works.
To cast away profaned paganism.
And count the Hebrew's god the only god:
To him this offering of the purest gold,
This mjTrh and cassia, freely I do j-ield.
Second Mrr. And on his altar's fume these Turkey cloths.
This gassampine ' and gold, I'U sacrifice.
First Sai. To him my heart and thoughts I will addict.
Then suffer us, most mighty Governor,
Within your temples to do sacrifice.
Gov. You men of Tharsus, follow mc.
Who sacrifice unto the God of heaven ;
And welcome, friend.s, to Joppa's Governor.
\_E.rcii)it. A sacrifice.
Oseas. If warned once, the ethnics ^ thus repent.
And at the first thcu- error do lament.
What senseless beasts, devoured in their sin.
Are they whom long persuasions cannot ^vin !
Beware, ye western cities, — where the word
Is daily preached, both at ehui'ch and board,
Where majesty the gospel doth maintain,
Where preachers, for your good, themselves do jjaiQ, —
To dally long and stUl protract the time ;
The Lord is just, and you but dust and slime :
Presume not far, delay not to amend ;
'Who suffereth long, will punish in the end.
Cast thy account, O London, in this case.
Then judge what cause thou hast to call for grace !
Here ends the Third Act, and the Fourth opens
with thLs scene : —
Jox.\s is east out of the whale's helbj upon the stage.
Jonas. Lord of the light, thou maker of the world,
Behold, thy hands of mercy rear me up !
Lo, from the hideous bowels of this fish
Thou hast return' d me to the wished air !
Lo, here, apparent witness of thy power.
The proud leviathan that scours the seas
And from his nostrils showers out stormy floods.
Whose back resists the tempest of the wind.
Whose presence makes the scaly troops to shake.
With humble stress of his broad-open'd chaps,
Hath lent me harbour in the raging floods !
Thus, though my sin hath drawn me down to death.
Thy mercy hath restored me to life.
Bow ye, my knees ; and you, my bashful eyes.
I
i
^^1 Gassampine, Freucli " Rossampiue," the cotton-tree ;
" gossypinm." " Gossamer" is from the same word.
* Ethnics, gentiles.
Latin
Weep so for grief as you to water would.
In trouble. Lord, I called unto thee.
Out of the belly of the deepest hell ;
I cried, and thou didst hear my voice, O God !.
'Tis thou hadst cast me down into the deep : .,'■
The seas and floods did compass me about ; •*
I thought I had been cast from out th)' sight ; |
The weeds were wrapt about my wretched head ; \
I went unto the bottom of the hills : f
But thou, Lord my God, hast brought me up !
On thee I thought whenas zay soul did faint :
My prayers did prease^ before thy mercy-seat.
Then will I pay my vows unto the Lord,
For why, salvation comcth from his throne.
The Angel appears.
Aiigii. Jonas, arise, get thee to Nineveh,
And preach to them the preachings that I hade ;
Haste thee to see the will of heaven perform' d.
Jonas. Jehovah, I am prest'' to do thy will.
\_2'hc Angel departs.
"\\niat coast is this, and where am I arriv'd y
Behold sweet Lycus .streaming in his bounds.
Bearing the walls of haughty Xineveh
Whereas thi-ce hundi-ed towers do tempt the heaven.
Fair arc thy walls, pride of Assyria ;
But, lo, thy sins have pierced through the clouds !
Here will I enter boldly, since I know
My God commands, whose power no power resists. 'lExit.
Osens. You prophets, leam by Jonas how to live ;
Repent j'our sins, whilst he doth warning give.
Who Icnows his master's will, and doth it not,
Shall suffer many stripes, full well I wot.
The next scene shows first the fickle wantonness
of Alvida, whose fancy wanders to the King of
Cilieia. She tempts him in vain with blandishment
and song : —
Song.
Beaut}-, alas ! where wast thou bom,
Thus to hold thyself in scorn ?
Wlienas Beauty Mss'd to woo thee,
Thou by Beauty dost undo me :
Heigh-ho, despise me not 1
I and thou, in sooth, are one,
Fairer thou, I fairer none :
Wanton thou, and wilt thou, wanton.
Yield a cruel heart to plant on ?
Do me right, and do me reason ;
Cruelty is cursed treason :
Heigh-ho, I love ! heigh-ho, I love !
Heigh-ho ! and yet he eyes me not.
She faints when Rasni enters, and awakes from,
her fainting to false protestation of her love for him.
Then
Fnter the Priests of the Sun, tcith mitres on their heads,
carrying Jire in their hands.
First Priest. All haU unto th' Assj-rian deity !
Rasn i. Priests, why presume you to tlistiu'b my peace ?
First Priest. Easni, the Destinies disturb thy peace.
Behold, amidst the adyts" of our gods.
3 Frease, press. * Prcst, ready.
' AdLyls, approaches to the temples.
TO A.D. 1591.]
PLAYS.
151
Our mighty gods, the patrons of our war,
The ghosts of dead men howling -walk about,
Crj-ing " Vre, vie, woo to this city, -woe ! "
The statues of our gods are thrown down,
And streams of blood our altars do distain.
Alv. [starting up]. Alas, my Lord, what tidings do I hear f
Shall I be slain i
lliimii. AMio tempteth Al^ida ':
Go, break me up the brazen doors of dreams,
And bind me cursed Morpheus in a chain.
And fetter all the fancies of the night
Because they do disturb my Alvida.
[A hand from out a cloud threatens with a
burning sword.
K. of C'il. Behold, dread prince, a burning sword fi-om
heaven,
AVhich by a threatening arm is brandished !
Masni. What ! am I threaten'd, then, amidst my throne ?
Sages, you 3Iagi, speak ; what meaneth this ':
First Magus. These are but clammy exhalations.
Or retrograde conj unctions of the stars.
Or oppositions of the greater lights.
Or radiations finding matter fit.
That in the starry sphere kindled be ;
Matters betokening dangers to thy foes,
But peace and honour to my lord the king.
Jtasni. Then frolic, viceroys, kings, and potentates ;
Drive all vain fancies from your feeble minds.
Priests, go and pray, -whilst I prepare my feast,
A\'here Al\-ida and I, in pearl and gold.
Will quaff unto our nobles richest wTne,
In spite of fortune, fate, or destiny. [Kccunt.
Oscas. Woe to the trains of women's foolish lust,
In wedlock rites that yield but little trust,
That vow to one, yet common be to all I
Take warning, wantons ; lu-ido will have a fall.
Woe to the land where warnings profit nought !
AVho say that Nature God's decrees hath wrought ;
AVho build on fate, and leave the comer-stone.
The God of gods, sweet Chi-ist, the only one.
If such escapes, O London, reign in thee,
Kepent, for why, each sin shall punish'd be :
Repent, amend, repent, the hour is nigh ;
Deter not time ; who knows when he shall die ?
Then follows a clown scene openeil by one masking
in devil's attire, wLo lies in wait to terrify Adam, tlie
smith's man. When Adam enters with the smith's
■wife, she flies, but Adam remains for a comic dialogue,
which ends with his beating the cle%al. He does this
when he has offered, as a smith, to shoe him, and
taking hLs foot in hand found he was no de^^l, because
he had not a hoof. Then we see Thrasybulus and
Alcon driven by want and injustice to live by theft.
Enter THK-isYBULrs.
Thras. Loath'd is the life that now enfoic'd I lead ;
But since necessity will have it so,
(Xecessity it doth command the gods.)
Through everj- coast and comer now I pry.
To pilfer what I can to buy me meat.
Here have I got a cloak, not over old,
^^^lich will afford some little sustenance :
Now will I to the broking Usurer,
To make exchange of ware for ready coin.
Enter Axcox, Samu, and Clesipho.v
Ale. Wife, bid the trumpets sound, a prize, a prize ! mark
he posy : I cut this from a new-married wife by\hc help of
a hom-thumb and a knife,-six shillings, four pence
Jan, The better luck ours: but what have we hero, ea^
apparel . Come away, man, the Usurer i« near : this is dead
ware, let it not bide on our hands.
Thras [aside]. Here are my partucrs in mv povertv,
Lniorc d to seek their fortunes as I do :
Alas, that few men should possess the wealth,
And many souls be forc'd to beg or steal I—
Alcon, well met.
Ale. Fellow beggar, whither now ?
Thras. To the Usurer, to get gold on commodity.
Ale. And I to the same place, to get a vent for my villany.
See where the old crust comes : let us salute him.
Enter Usurer.
God speed, sir : may a man abuse your patience upon a pawn ?
Usurer. Friend, let me see it.
Ale. Eeee signum ! a fair doublet and hose, ncw-bought out
of the pilferer's shop, a handsome cloak.
Usurer. How were they gotten ?
Thras. How catch the fishermen fish r Ma,ster, take them
as you think them worth : we leave all to your conscience.
Usiirer. Honest men, toward me, good men, my friends,
like to prove good members, use me, command me ; I will
maintain yom- credits. There's money : now spend not your
time in idleness ; biiug me commodity ; 1 have crowns for
you : there is two s hillin gs for thee, and six shillings for thee.
[Gives money.
Ale. A bargain. — Now, Samia, have at it for a new smock !
— Come, let us to the spring of the best hcjuor : whilst this
lasts, trUUll !
Usurer. Good feUows, proper fellows, my companions,
farewell : I have a pot for you.
Sam. [aside]. If he could spare it.
Enter JoxAS.
Jonas. Eepent, ye men of Nineveh, repent !
The day of horror and of torment comes ;
When greedy hearts shall glutted be with tire,
^^^lenas corruptions veil'd shall be unmask'd,
^\"hen briberies shall be repaid with bane.
When [foul lusts] shall be recompens'd in hell,
When riot shall with rigour be rewarded,
Whenas neglect of truth, contempt of God,
Disdain of poor men, fatherless, and sick,
Shall be rewarded with a bitter plague.
Repent, ye men of Nineveh, repent!
The Lord hath spoke, and I do crj- it out ;
There are as yet but forty days remaining.
And then shall Nineveh be overthrown :
Repent, ye men of Nineveh, repent I
There are as yet but fortj- days remaining.
And then shall Nineveh be overthrown. [Exit.
Usurer. Confus'd in thought, oh, whither .shall I wend r
[Exit.
Thras. My conscience cries, that I have done amiss. [Exit.
Ale. God of heaven, 'gainst thee have I uifendcd I
.S'ffiK. Asham'd of my misdeeds, where shall I hide mo ?
Cles. Father, methinks this word "repent " is good :
He that doth punish disobedience
Doth hold a scourge for every. pri\->- fault.
[Exit tcilh Alcox mid S.\MU.
Oseas. Look, London, look ; with inward eyes behold
AVhat lessons the events do here unfold.
Sin grown to pride, to miserj' is thrall :
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fA.D 1589
The wai-ning-bell is rung, Lewiirc to fall.
Ye worldly men, whom wealth doth lift on high,
Beware and fear, for worldly men must die.
The time shall come, where least suspect remains,
The sword shall light upon the wisest brains ;
The head that deems to overtop the sky,
Shall perish in his human policy.
Lo, I have said, when I have said the truth,
When will is law, when folly guidtth youth,
When show of zeal is prank'd in robes of zeal.
When ministers poU the pride of common weal,
When law is made a labyrinth of strife.
When honour yields him friend to wicked life,
When princes hear by otlicrs' ears their folly.
When usury is most aocounted holy ;
If these shall hap, as would to God they might not,
The plague is near : I speak, although I write not.
Enter the Angel.
Angel. Oseas.
Oseas. Lord f
Angel. Now hath thine eye perus'd these heinous sins,
Hateful unto the mighty Lord of hosts.
The tiine is come, their sins are wa.xen ripe.
And though the Lord forewarns, yet they repent not ;
Custom of sin hath hardon'd all their hearts.
Now comes revenge, armed with mighty plagues.
To punish all that live in Nineveh ;
For God is just as he is merciful.
And doubtless plagues all such as scorn repent.
Thou shall not see the desolation
That falls imto these eurscd Ninevites,
But shalt return to great Jerusalem,
And preach unto the people of thy God
What mighty plagues are incident to sin,
Unless repentance mitigate his ire :
Rapt in the spirit, as thou wert hither brought,
I'll scat thee in Judaea's provinces.
Fear not, Oseas, then to preach the word.
Oseas. The will of the Lord be done !
[Oseas is tahen away by the Angel.
The act ends with a banquet in the pahice of
Rasui, upon which Adam the smith intrudes for a
boon, and at which lie is entertained as a causer of
mii't.h, the hist words of the scene and of the Fouith
Act being from Alvida —
Villains, why skink you not unto this f( llow ?
He makes me blithe and merry in my thoughts :
Heard you not that the king hath given command
That all be drunk to-d:iy within his court
In quaffing to the health of Alvida ?
\^Dri)ilc given to Adam.
Then follows the Fifth Act, one les.son of Repent-
ance, written with a profound religious earnestness,
into the very midst of which a clown scene of broad
farce is thrust. I give this Act complete.
Enter Jonas.
Jonas. Eepent, ye men of Nineveh, repent ! '
The Lord hath spoke, and I do cry it out,
> " And Jonah began to enter into the city a day's jouraey, and he
cried, and said, Tet forty days, and Nineveh shall he overthrown. So
the people of Nineveh believed God, and proclaimed a fast, and put
on sackcloth, from the greatest to the least of them," &c. (Jonah,
chapter iij.)
There are as yet but forty days remaining.
And then shall Nineveh be overthrown :
Kepent, ye men of Nineveh, repent !
Jiasiii. What fcUuw 's this, that thus disturbs our feast
With outcries and alarums to repent ?
Adam. Oh, sir, 'tis one Goodman Jonas, that is come from
Jericho ; and surely I think he hath seen some spu-it by the
way, and is fallen out of his wits, for he never leaves crying
night nor day. My master heard him, and he shut up his
shop, gave me my indenture, and he and his wife do nothing
but fast and pray.
Jonas. Repent, ye men of Nineveh, repent !
Jtasni. Come hither, fellow : what art, and from, whence
comest thou ?
Jonas. Rasni, I am a prophet of the Lord,
Sent hither by the mighty God of hosts
To cry destruction to the Ninevites.
Nineveh, thou harlot of the world,
1 raise thy neighbours round about thy bounds,.
To come and see thy filthiness and sin !
Thus saith the Lord, the mighty God of hosts :
Your king loves chambering and wantonness,
[Foul lust] and mui-der do distain his court,
He favourcth covetous and drunken men ;
Behold, therefore, all like a strumpet foul.
Thou shalt be judg'd, and punish' d for thy crime;
The foe shall pierce the gates with iron ramps.
The fire shall quite consume thee from above.
The houses shall be burnt, the infants slain,
And women shall behold their husbands die.
Thine eldest sister is Gomorrha named,
And Sodom on thy right hand seated is.
Repent, ye men of Nineveh, repent 1
The Lord hath spoke, and I do ciy it out,
There are as yet but forty days remaining.
And then shall Nineveh be overthi-own. [Offers to depart.
Rasni. Stay, prophet, stay.
Jonas. Disturb not him that sent me ;
Let me perform the message of the Lord. [Exit.
Rasni. My soul is buried in the hell of thoughts. —
Ah, Alvida, I look on thee with shame ! —
My lords on sudden fix theii' eyes on ground,
As if dismay'd to look upon the heavens. — •
Hence, Magi, who have flatter'd me in sin ! \Exeuiit Magi.
Horror of miud, disturbance of my soul,
Jlake me aghast for Nineveh's mishap.
Lords, see proclaim'd, yea, see it straight proclaim' d.
That man and beast, the woman and her child.
For forty days in sack and ashes fast :
Perhaps the Lord will j-ield, and pity us. —
Bear hence these wretched blandishments of sin,
YTaking off his crown and rohi.
And bring me sackcloth to attire your king :
Away with pomp ! my soul is full of woe. —
In pity look on Nineveh, God !
\Exemit all except Alvida and Ladieft.
Alv. Assail'd with shame, with horror overborne.
To sorrow sold, all guilty of our sin.
Come, ladies, come, let us jirepare to pray.
Alas ! how dare wo look on heavenly light.
That have despis' d the Blaker of the same ?
How may we hope for mercy from above.
That still despis' d tiie warnings from above?
Woe 's me, my conscience is a heavy foQ.
O patron of the poor oppress' d with sin.
Look, look on me that now for pity crave !
Assail'd with shame, with horror overborne.
TO A.D. 1591.]
PLAYS.
153
To sorrow sold, all guilty of oiir sin,
Come, ladies, come, let us prepare to pray. [JExcioit.
Enter the Usurer, tcitli a halter in one hand, a dar/ger in
the other.
Usurer. Groaning in conscience, bm-Jen'd with my crimes.
The hell of sorrow haunts me up and down.
Tread where I list, methinks the bleeding ghosts
Of those whom my corruption brought to naughts.
Do serve for stumbling-blocks before my steps ;
The fatherless and widow wi'ong'd by me.
The poor oppressed by my usury ;
Methinks I see then- hands rear'd up to heaven,
To cry for vengeance of my covetousness.
Whereso I walk, all sigh and shun my way ;
Thus am I made a monster of the world :
Hell gapes for me, heaven will not hold my soul.
You mountains, shroud me from the God of truth :
Methinks I see him sit to judge the earth;
See how he blots me out o' the book of life !
burden, more than ^Etna, that I bear !
Cover me, hills, and shi'oud me from the Lord ;
Swallow me, Lycus, shield me from the Lord.
In life no peace : each murmuring that I hear,
Methinks, the sentence of daumation sounds,
"Die, reprobate, and hie thee hence to hell.''
\_The EWl Angel tempts him, offering the knife
and rope.
What fiend is this that tempts me to the death ?
What, is my death the harbour of my rest ?
Then let me die : — what second charge is this ?
Methinks I hear a voice amidst mine ears.
That bids me stay, and tells me that the Lord
Is merciful to those that do repent.
May I repent ? thou, my doubtful soul.
Thou mayst repent, the judge is merciful !
Hence, tools of wi-ath, stales of temptation !
For I will pray and sigh unto the Lord ;
In sackcloth will I sigh, and fasting pray :
Lord, in rigour look not on my sins !
[Sits down in sackcloth, his hands and eges reared
to heaven.
Enter Alvida and her Ladies, u-ith dispersed locks and in
sackeloth.
Air. Come, mournful dames, lay off youi- broider'd locks,
And on your shoulders spread dispersed bail's :
Let voice of music cease where sorrow dwells :
Clothed in sackcloth, sigh j'our sins with me ;
Bemoan your pride, bewail your lawless lusts ;
\\'ith fasting mortify your pamper'd loins;
Oh, tliink upon the horror of youi- sins.
Think, think with me, the burden of your- blames !
Woe to thy pomp, false beauty, fading flower.
Blasted by age, by sickness, and by death !
Woe to our painted cheeks, our curious oils.
Our rich array, that foster'd us in sin I
Woe to our idle thoughts, that wound our souls 1
Oh, would to God all nations might receive
A good example by our grievous fall !
First Lady. You that are planted there where pleasure
dwells.
And think your pomp as great as Nineveh's,
May fall for sin as Nineveh doth now.
Alv. Mourn, mourn, let moan be aU your melody,
And pray with me, and I will pray for aU : —
Lord of heaven, forgive us our misdeeds !
140
Ladies. Lord of heaven, forgive us our misdeeds !
Usurer. Lord of light, forgive me my misdeeds !
Enter E.isxi, teith his Kings, antl Lords, in sackcloth.
K. of Oil. Be not so overcome with grief, king.
Lest you endanger life by sorrowing so.
Maini. King of Cilicia, should I cease my grief,
Whereas my swarming sins afflict my soul?
Vain man, know this, my burden greater is
Than everj- private subject's in my land.
My hfe hath been a loadstar unto them.
To guide them in the labj-rinth of blame :
Thus I have taught them for to do amiss ;
Then must I weep, my friend, for their amiss.
The fall of Xineveh is wrought by me :
I have maintain'd this city in her shame ;
I have contemn" d the warnings from above ;
I have upholdcn incest, rape, and spoil ;
'Tis I that wrought the sin must weep the .^in.
Oh, had I tears, like to the silver streams
That from the Alpine mountains sweetly stream.
Or had I sighs, the treasures of remorse,
As plentiful as iEolus hath blasts,
I then would tempt the heavens with my laments.
And pierce the throne of mercy by my sighs 1
K. of Oil. Heavens are propitious unto faithful prayer*
Sasni. But after our repent, we must lament.
Lest that a worser mischief doth befall.
Oh, pray : perhaps the Lord will pity us. —
God of truth, both merciful and just.
Behold rejientant men, mth piteous eyes !
We wail the life that we have led before :
Oh, pardon, Lord ! Oh, pity Nineveh '.
All. Oh, pardon, Lord ! Oh, pity Nineveh !
Sasni. Let not the infants, dallying on the teat,
For fathers' sins in judgment be opprcss'd !
X. of C'il. Let not the painful mothers big with child)
The innocents, be punish'd for oui' sin !
Sasni. Oh, pardon, Lord : Oh, pity Nineveh !
All. Oh, pardon. Lord ! Oh, pity Nineveh !
Sasni. Lord of heaven, the \-irgins weep to thee!
The covetous man is sorry for his sin,
The prince and poor all pray before thy throni.' ;
And wilt thou, then, be wroth with Nineveh f
K. of Oil. Give truce to prayer, king, and rest a space.
Sasni. Give truce to prayers, when times require no truce 1
No, princes, no. Let aU om- subjects hie
Unto our temples, where, on humbled knees.
1 will expect some mercy from above.
[They all enter the tempi*.
Enter JoXAs.
Jonas. This is the day wherein the Lord hath said
That Nineveh shall quite be overthi-own ;
This is the day of horror and mishap,
Fatal unto the cursed Ninevites.
These stately towers shall in thy watery bounds,
Swift-flowing Lycus, find their bui-ials :
These palaces, the pride of Assur's kings,
Shall be the bowers of desolation,
■Whereas the solitary bird shall sing.
And tigers train their young ones to their nest.
all ye nations bounded by the west.
Ye happy isles, where prophets do aboimil,
Y'e cities famous in the western world,
Make Nineveh a precedent for you :
Leave lewd desires, leave covetous delights,
Fly usury, let [foul lust] be exU'd,
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CASSELL'8 LIBEARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1589
I;est you with Nineveh be overthrown.
Lo, how the sun's inflamed torch prevails,
Scorching the parched furrows of the earth !
Here will I sit me down, and fi.K mine eye
Upon the ruins of yon wretched town :
And, lo, a pleasant shade, a spreading vine,
To shelter Jonas in this sunny heat !
What means my God ? the day is done and sjjcnt :
Lord, shall my prophecy be brought to naught 'i
When falls the fire 'i when will the judge be wroth ?
I pray thee. Lord, remember what I said,
When I was yet within my country-land :
Jehovah is too merciful, I fear.
Oh, let me fly, before a propliet fault !
For thou art merciful, the Lord my God,
Full of compassion, and of suft'eranee.
And dost repent in taking punishment.
AVhy stays thy hand ? O Lord, first take my life,
Before my prophecy be brought to naught !
Ah, he is wroth I behold, the gladsome vine,
\_A serpent thvoiirclh the vine.
That did defend me from the sunny heat.
Is wither'd quite, and swallow'd by a serpent !
Now furious Phlcgon triumjihs on my brows,
And heat prevails, and I am faint in heart.
Enter the Angel.
Angel. Art thou so angry, Jonas? tell me why.
Jonas. Jehovah, I with liurning heat am plimg'd.
And shadow'd only by a silly vine ;
Behold, a serpent hath devoured it ;
And, lo, the sun, incens'd by eastern wind,
Afflicts me with canicular aspect.
Would God that I might die ! for, well I wot,
'Twere better I were dead than rest alive.
Angel. Jonas, art thou so angry for the vine ?
Jonas. Yea, I am angry to the death, my God.
Angel. Thou hast compassion, Jonas, on a vine,
On which thou never labour didst bestow ;
Thou never gav'st it life or power to grow.
But suddenly it sprung, and suddenly died :
And should not I have great compassion
On Nineveh, the city of the world,
"Wherein there are a hundred thousand souls,
.^nd twenty thousand infants that ne wot
The right hand from the left, lieside much cattle ?
Jonas, look into their temples now.
And see the true contrition of their king.
The subjects' tears, the sinners' true remorse !
Then from the Lord proclaim a mercy-day.
For he is pitiful as he is just.
Jonas. I go, my God, to finish thy command. [Exit Angel.
Oh, who can tell the wonders of my God,
Or talk his praises with a fervent tongue ?
He bringoth down to hell, and lifts to heaven ;
He draws the yoke of Imndage from the just,
And looks upon the heathen with piteous eyes :
To him all praise and honour be ascrib'd.
Oh, who can tell the wonders of my God ^
He makes the infant to proclaim his truth.
The ass to speak to .save the prophet's Ufe,
The earth and .sea to yield increase for man.
Who can describe the compass of his power,
Or testify in terms his endless might ?
My ravish' d sprite, oh, whither dost thou wend?
Go and proclaim the mercy of my God ;
Relieve the careful-hearted Ninevites ;
And, as thou wert the messenger of death.
Go bring glad tidings of recover'd grace. \_Exit.
Enter Ad.\m.
Adam. Well, Goodman Jonas, I would you had never come
from J(!wry to this country ; you have made me look like a
lean rib of roast beef, or like the picture of Lent painted
upon a red-herring-cob. Alas, masters, we are commanded
by the proclamation to fast and pray ! by my troth, I could
prettily so-so away with praying; but for fasting, why, 'tis
so contrary to my nature that I had rather suffer a short
hanging than a long fasting. Mark me, the words be these,
" Thou shalt take no manner of food for so many days." I
had as lief he should have said, " Thou shalt hang thyself
for so many days." And yet, in faith, I need not find fault
with the proclamation, for I have a buttery and a pantry and
a kitchen about me ; for proof, eece signum ! This right slop
is my pantry, behold a manehet ' \_I)raws it out] ; this place is
my kitchen, for, lo, a piece of beef [Draws it out], — oh, let me
repeat that sweet word again I for, lo, a piece of beef. This
is my buttery, for, see, see, my friends, to my great joy, a
bottle of beer [Draws it out]. Tlius, alas, I make shift to
wear out this fasting ; I drive away the time. But there go
searchers about to seek if any man breaks the king's command.
Oh, here they be ; in with your victuals, Adam.
[Puts them haek into his slops.
Enter two Searchers.
First Search. How duly the men of Nineveh keep the pro-
clamation ! how are they armed to repentance ! We have
searched through the whole city, and have not as yet found
one that breaks the fast.
See. Search. The sign of the moi-e grace: — but stay, here
sits one, methinks, at his pra)'ers ; let us see who it is.
Eirst Search. 'Tis Adam, the smith's man. — How now,
Adam !
Adam. Trouble me not ; " Thou shalt take no manner oi
food, but fast and pray."
First Search . How devoutly he sits at his orisons ! but
stay, methinks I feel a smell of some meat or bread about
liini.
See. Search. So thinks me too. — You, sirrah, what victuals
have you about you ?
Adam. Victuals ! O horrible blasphemy ! Hinder me not
of my prayer, nor diive me not into a choler. Victuals ! why,
heardest thou not the sentence, " Thou shalt take no food,
but fast and pray ? "
See. Search. Truth, so it should be ; but, methinks, I smell
meat about thee.
Adam. About me, my friends ! these words arc actions in
the case. About me I no, no, hang those gluttons that cannot .
fast and pray.
First Search . A\'cll, for all your words, we must search you.
Adam. Scardi me! take heed what you do; my hose are
my castles, 'tis burglary if you break ope a slop : no officer
must lift up an iron hati-h ; take heed, my slops arc iron.
[Theg search Adam.
Sec. Search . ( ) villain ! — See how he hath gotten victuals,
bread, beef, .and beer, Avhcre the king commanded upon pain
of death none should eat for so many days, no, not the suck-
ing infant !
Adam. Alas, sir, this is nothing but a modicum non nocet lit j
medicus daret ; - why, sir, a, bit to comfort my stomach.
First Search. Villain, thou shalt be hanged for it.
Adam. These are your words, " I shall be hanged for it;"
1 Manchct, a roll of the finest white bread.
2 Such a harmless modlciuu as a physiciaa would give.
TO A.l). 1591.]
PLAYS.
155
lut first answer me to this question, how many days have we
to fast still 'i
Sec. Search. Five days.
Adam. Five days ! a long time : then I must be hanged ?
First Search. Ay, many, must thou.
Adam. I am your man, I am for you, sir, for I had rather
le hanged than abide so long a fast. What, five days ! Come,
I'll untruss. Is j'our halter, and the gaUows, the ladder, and
all such furniture in readiness 'i
First Search. I warrant thee, shalt want none of these.
Adam. But hear you, must I be hanged?
First Search. Ay, marry.
Adam. And for eating of meat. Tlien, friends, know ye
by these presents, I will eat up all my meat, and drink up all
my drink, for it shall never be said, I was hanged with an
empty stomach.
First Search. Come away, knave : wUt thou stand feeding
now?
Adam. If you be so hasty, hang yourself an houi', wliile
I come to you ; for surely I will eat up my meat.
Sec. Search. Come, let's draw him away perforce.
Adam. You say there are five days yet to fast ; these are
your words ?
Sec. Search. Ay, sir.
Adam. I am for you : come, let's away, and j-et let me be
put in the Chronicles. lE.rciint.
Filter Jonas, Easki with his Kings and Lords, Alvida
tcith her Ladies, and Attendants.
Jonas. Come, carefid king, cast off thy mournful weeds,
Exchange thy cloudy looks to smoothed smiles ;
Thy tears have pierc'd the piteous thi-onc of grace ;
Thy sighs, like incense pleasing to the Lord,
Have been peace-offerings for thy former pride :
Kejoice, and praise his name that gave thee peace.
And you, fair nymphs, ye lovely NineWtcs,
Since you have wept and fasted 'fore the Lord,
He gi-aeiously hath temper'd his revenge :
Beware henceforth to tempt him any more :
Let not the niceuess of your beauteous looks
Engraft in you a high-presuming mind ;
For those that cUmb he cisteth to the ground,
And they that humble be he lifts aloft.
Sasni. Lowly I bend, with awful bent of ej'e.
Before the dread Jehovah, God of hosts.
Despising aU profane device of man.
Those lustful lures, that whilom led awry
My wanton eyes, shall wound my heart no more ;
And she, whose youth in daUiance I abus'd.
Shall now at last become my wedlock-mate. —
Fair Alvida, look not so v,-o-hegone ;
If for thy sin thy sorrow do e.xceed,
Blessed be thou : come, with a holy band
Let's knit a knot to salve oui' former shame.
Alv. With blushing looks, betokening my remorse,
1 lowly yield, my king, to thy behest.
So as this man of God shall think it good.
Jonas. Woman, amends may never come too late ;
A win to practise good is virtuous :
The God of heaven, when sinners do repent.
Doth more rejoice than in ten thousand just.
Rasni. Then witness, holy prophet, our accord.
Alv. Plight in the presence of the Lord thy God.
Jonas. Blest may you be, like to the flowering sheaves
That play with gentle winds in summer-tide ;
Like olive-branches let your children spread,
And as the pines in lofty Lebanon,
Or as the kids that feed on Sephor ' plains,
So be the seed and oft'spring of your loins '.
Enter the Usurer, Thkasyhclus, and Alcon.
Vstirer. Come forth, my friends, whom wittingly I wrong'd ;
Before this man of God receive your due ;
Before our king I mean to make my peace.—
Jonas, behold, in sign of my remorse,
I here restore into these poor men's hands
Their goods which I unjustly have detain'd ;
And may the heavens so pardon my misdeeds
As I am penitent for my offence !
Thras. And what through want from others I purlcin'd,
Behold, king, I profi'er 'fore thy throne,
To be rcstor'd to such as owe the same.
Jonas. A virtuous deed, pleasing to God and man.
Would God, all cities drowned in like shame
Would take example of these Ninevites !
Rasni. Such be the fruits of Kineveh's repent ;
And such for ever may our dealings be.
That he that call'd us home in height of sin
May smUe to see our hearty penitence. —
Viceroys, proclaim a fast unto the Lord ;
Let Israel's God be honour'd in our land ;
Let all occasion of corruption die.
For who shall fault therein shall suft'er deatli : —
Bear witness, God, of my imfeigned zeal. —
Come, holy man, as thou shalt counsel me,
My court and city shall reformed be.
Jonas. Wend on in peace, and prosecute this course.
[Fxeunt all except Joxas.
You islanders, on whom the milder ail'
Doth sweetly breathe the balm of kind increase.
\\Tiose lands are fatten'd with the dew of heaven,
And made more fruitful than Actiean plains ;
You whom delicious pleasures dandle soft.
Whose eyes are blinded with secm-ity.
Unmask yourselves, cast error clean aside.
London, maiden of the mistress-isle.
Wrapt in the folds and swathing-clouts of shame,
In thee more sins than Nineveh contains !
Contempt of God, despite of reverend age.
Neglect of law, desire to wrong the poor.
Corruption, [foul lust], drunkenness, and pride.
Swoln arc thy brows with impudence and shame,
proud adulterous glory of the west I
Thy neighbours burn, yet dost thou fear no fire ;
Thy preachers cry, yet dost thou stop thine ears;
The 'larum rings, yet sleepest thou secure.
London, awake, for fear the Lord do frown :
1 set a Looking-Glass before thine eyes.
Oh turn, oh turn, with weeping to the Lord,
And think the prayers and virtues of thy Queen
Defer the plague which otherwise would fall '.
Repent, London ! lest, for thine offence.
Thy shepherd fail, whom mighty God preserve,
That she may bide the pillar of his Church
Against the storms of Romish Anti-Christ I
The hand of mercy overshade her head.
And let aU faithful subjects say, Amen '. [E^''-
If sTiace permitted, illustration of the drama during
Shakespeare's 'prentice years might be exttmded to
Thomas Kyd's " Spanish Ti-agedy," one of the most
1 Scphcr in the originiil, periinps a misprint for Sephor. Sephoris,
in the centre of Gaiaee, is by Nazareth and Cana,
2 Ou^e, own.
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CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. [a.d. 1591
popular plays of its time, and the Coiu-t entertain-
ment by Thomas Nash, " Summer's Last Will and
Testament," presented at a nobleman's house in Croy-
don before Queen Elizabeth in the year 1592. Both
Nash and Lyly were among the players who, in 1589,
joined in a war of jjamphlets with the Puritan authoi's
of the Martin Marprelate tracts.
While the ait of the English dramatist was being
formed, in the years between 1586 and 1593, there
■was, in the plays written, a reflection of the patriotic
and religious feeling of the people, rich and poor,
who flocked to see them. There was also a wide
vai'iety in choice of subjects. Intrigues of love were
by no means, as they afterwards became, the theme
of almost every story told upon the stage. The esta-
blislied dramatists during these years were strictly
Elizabethan writers. The chief of them — Peele,
Greene, and Marlowe — did not survive Elizabeth.
Greene died poor and distressed in 1592, Marlowe
was kUled in a tavern brawl in 1593, and Peele was
spoken of as miserably dead in 1598. Lodge lived
into the next reign, but not as a playwright : he
became Doctor of Physic, and, as a Roman Catholic,
hatl a good practice among men of his own religion.
Shakespeare had been about seven years in London
when the death of Marlowe, following closely on the
death of Greene, left him easy possession of the first
place among dramatists. During the seven years
which may be considered his time of apprentice-
ship, for study of life in the resorts of men and
of the way to place its problems on the stage, Shake-
speare had made himself generally useful at the
theatre as actor, as adapter of old plays to secure
for them a second lease of popularity, and now
and then as original writer. In 1589, when his
age was a little more than twenty-five, and he had
been about three years in London, Shakespeare was
one of sixteen actors who had shares in the Black-
fiiai's Theatre. In 1592, when Robert Greene died
on the 3rd of September, he left behind him at the
end of a posthumous prose book, called " A Groat's-
worth of Wit bought with a Million of Repentance,"
an address " To those gentlemen, his quondam ac-
qiiaintance, that spend their wits in making plays,"
in which there was this reference to Shakespeare ; —
" There is an upstart crow beautified with our
feathers, that, with his Tiger's heart wrapt in a
player's hide " (jiarody of a line in the Third Part of
Henry VI., Act I., scene 4, "O tiger's heart, wTapt
in a woman's hide "), " supposes he ia as well able to
bomba.st out a blank verse as the best of you ; and,
being an absolute Johannes Factotum, is in his own
conceit the only Shake-scene in a country." This
indicates in Greene, who was dying painfully, im-
patience of the rising credit of Shakespeare. With
his family to keep, his father in 1592 still very poor
and walking in fear of arrests, Shakespeare was, no
doulit, in those years a Johannes Factotum — Jack of
all Trades — at the Blackfriars Theatre, ready to apply
his genius to any honest opportunity of eariiing. 6i
his work on the work of others, the three parts of
Henry VI. are examples. Proliably he had written
before 1593 no other original ])lays than the "Two
(Gentlemen of Verona " and " Love's Labour's Lost ;"
the "Comedy of En-ors," also belonging to that
earlier time, was formed from a version of the
"Mensechmi" of Plautus. Before 1593 no play of
Shakespeare's was printed. In that year, indeed, he
first appeared in print by publishing his early poem,
" Venus and Adonis," which he described as " the
first heir of mine invention." It is noticeable, how-
ever, that the jealousy of Greene, when sick of body
as of mind, jiroduced the only harsh words known to
liave been ever spoken of Shakespeare. The book in
which they occurred was jirinted after Greene's death
Ijy his fellow-dramatist, Henry Chettle, who took, in
the next book of his own, " Kindhart's Dream,"
published in 1593, the earliest opportunity of publicly
expressing his regret that he had not suppressed the
unjust censure of Shakespeare. " That I did not,"
he said, " I am sorry as if the original fault had
been rny fault, because myself ha^•e seen his demeanour
no less civil than he excellent in the quality he pro-
fesses ; besides, divers of worship have reported his
uprightness of dealing, which argues his honesty,
and his facetious grace in writing that approves his
art."
William SHAKEypEAiiF.
From the Portrait prefixed to the First Folio of his Plaijs (ICL'3).
CHAPTER V.
From the Death of Marlowe to the Death of
Queen Elizabeth. — a.d. 1593 to a.d. 1603.
Thomas Lodge had already left the .stage ; and
George Peele is not known to have written more
than one or two plays after the early deaths of
Greene and Marlowe. A new generation was not
yet ready to take their places. Diu-ing the six
3'ears following the death of Greene, Shakespeare
attained an alisolute supremacy. In 1598 Francis
Meres published a Euphuistic book called " Palladis
Tamia, Wit's Treasury," designed to show the young
how parallels wei-e to be found for English poets
among the Greeks and Latins. Thus the book spoke
of Shakespeare : " As the soul of Euphorbus was
TO A.D. 1603.]
PLAYS.
157
thought to live in Pythagoras, so the sweet witty
^oul of Ovid lives in melliduous and honey-tongued
■-hakespeare ; witness his ' Venus and Adonis,'
liis ' Lucrece,' his sugared Sonnets among his
private friends, (fee. As Plautus and Seneca ai-e
iccounted the best for comedy and tragedy among
he Latins, so Shakespeare among the English is
'he most excellent in both kinds for the stage ; for
I'.jmedy, witness his ' Gentlemen of Verona,' his
' Erroi-s,' his ' Love's Labour's Lost,' his ' Love's
Labom-'s Won,' his ' Midsummer Night's Dream,'
and his ' Merchant of Venice ; ' for tragedy, his
■Richard IL,' 'Richard IIL,' ' Hemy IV.,'
■ King John,' ' Titus Andronicus,' and his ' Romeo
.lud Juliet.' As Epius Stolo said that the Muses
would speak with Flautus' tongue if they would
speak Latin, so I say that the Muses would speak
with Shakespeare's tine tiled phrase, if they would
speak English." To the evidence here given as to
the plays which Shakespeare had written in the year
1598, may be added the facts that " Titus Andro-
nicus " — a play from another hand, originally called
■' Titus and Vespasian," only retouched by Sliake-
speare — and the " Second Part of Hem-y IV." were
printed in 1-594, the " Thii-d Part of Henry VI." in
159.5 ; the only work of his that was wholly original
tmd printed by that date being the two poems, "Venus
and Adonis" in 1593, and "Lucrece" in 1594.
But in 1597, the year before Meres published his
record of the estimation in which Shakespeare was
then held, there was sign of his popularity in the
publishing, by three different booksellers, of three of
the plays in Meres's list — " Romeo and Juliet,"
•'Richard IL," and "Richard III." In 1598
'■' Love's Labour's Lost " and Part I. of " Hemy
IV." were printed. The other plays printed from
that date to the end of Elizabeth's reign, and there-
fore to be taken with any others in the list of Francis
Meres as beyond doulit Elizabethan, were in 1599
none; in 1600, "A Midsummer Night's Dream,"
"The Mercliaut of Venice," "Hemy V.," and "Much
Ado about Nothing;" in 1601, none; in 1602, "The
Merry Wives of Windsor; " and in 1603, " Hamlet."
In Shakespeare's private life there is e\-idence that
he made wise use of the six years of rapid advance
in prosperity from 1592 to 1598, that is to say, fi-om
the date of Greene's grumble over the beginnings of
Shakespeare's success to the date of Meres's testi-
mony to its fuU accomplishment. The success of
the Lord Chamberlain's Company, to which Shake-
speare belonged, must have been due chiefly to his
rajiid and wonderful development of power. In
1599 they had built and ojjeued a new theatre of
their own, the Globe, on Baukside. This was round,
and open to the sky,' except the thatching over of the
stage, and was for use in summer ; the smaller house
at Blackfriars, which was covered in, being retained
for use as their winter theatre. Before building the
Globe, the Blackfriars Company had used the Curtain
Theatre. In 1592 Shakespeare's father at Stratford
was returned in an official list of recusants, as one of
those whose reason for not coming to clmrch was
fear of process for debt. In 1596 Shakespeare was
1 See the woodcut on pa^re 104.
taking out a grant of arms for his father. It was in
that year, when his age was about thirtv-two, that
he lost his only son Hamnet, wlio died at" the age of
twelve. In the next year, 1597, Shakespeare was
helping his father and mother to recover his mother's
acres at Ashbies, which they had lost by foreclo.sure
of the mortgage on them, and it was then that he
bought the house in Stratford where he meant to
spend his latter yeai-s in full enjoj-ment of liome with
his wife and daughters. New Place, whicli had been
built by Sir Hugh Clopton in Henry VII.'s reign,
was the best house in the best street of hLs native
town, and was bought by Shakespeare in the year
before Meres chronicled his successes on the stage.
Before looking to Sliakespeare's mind we may say
of his body that bad art Jias succeeded only in gi\'ing
us a confused impression of liis face. The por-
trait engraved by Martm Droeshuj-t before the fii-st
folio of his plays published in 1623, seven yeai-s after
his death — a portrait which is praised as a faithful
likeness by Ben Jonson — and the bust which in
1623 had already been set up in Stratford Church,
are certainly attempts made by two people to repi-e-
sent, one by pauiting and the other by sculpture,
what they saw when they looked at him. In what
is called the Chandos portrait, which is traced back
The BrsT of SEiKisPtiKF. at STBiTrocD.
throu-h a line of owners to Sir William Davenant,
h re may be a picture of Shakespeai-e taken at an
ea ier dlte m his life than that which either the
158
CASSELL'S LIBRARY Of ENGLISH LITERATURE.
rA.D. 1591
Droeshuyt portrait or the bust represents. It has
been given in another voh^me of this Library.'
Wherever in England there are fifty books in a
house, it is to be hoped that Shakespeare's phiys make
one of them. They are so ftimiliar, that mere repro-
duction of one in tliis vohime woukl serve no good
purpose. But familiar as they are — familiar to many
as the sunshine — they owe their power and theii-
beauty to a union of hidden forces that no eye finds
at a glance. The labourer who sits in the sun by the
stone seat before his door, enjoys the splendour of
noon and pomp of the sunset, knowing nothing of the
mysteries of light. Like sunshine and the pleasant
air of heaven, stories as Shakespeare tells them come
home to us all — delight alike the simple and the
subtle. It needs no philosopliy to find enjoyment
in scent, form, and colour of the rose ; but shall we
say, therefore, it is but a rose, and there is little
reason for its harmonies. Many who find enjoyment
in that chief product of nature — a work of the highest
human genius — are, nevertheless, apt to slight all
search below the surface for the reasons of its charm.
But Shakespeare, supreme among artists, if he wrote
with ease, wrote also with patient thought and care,
of which the traces became more and more manifest
as he rose to complete mastery. From the level in-
dicated by the illustrations we have given of the plays
from which he drew his eaily stage experience, Shake-
speare gi-adually raised the drama to the highest point
it has reached, or is likely to reach, in the literature
of the world. He had all the earnestness of his time ;
he sought, as every great English poet has soiight, to
" delight and teach," but so to teach that those who
fall under his spell shall find in him a genial com-
panion, not a pedantic moi'alist ; the wisest, indeed,
of comrades, l)ut aio schoolmaster. Shakespeare's fii'st
requii-ement, when a play was to be written, was that
it should tell an interesting story. Long before Shake-
speare, Ai-istotle rightly taught that the story is the
first essential of a drama. The Greek word drama
means, in fact, action. A play is properly said to be
acted. Any didactic dialogue of a play that in no
way developes the fable, however wise or witty it
may be, is simply an excrescence, a deformity.
Shakespeare's art as a story-teller is itself a study ;
and no one can believe that his efiects were produced
without deliberation who has observed the thousand
cunning touches with which he so prepares the reader
for what is to come, that it shall appear when it
comes, however unusual or unexpected, altogether
natural. An interestuig story, then, was Shake-
speare's first requii-ement ; but what is it that niakes
a story interesting? To interest us, it must come
home to us. To interest many men in many genera-
tions, or in all the generations, it must touch some
principle of life common to all men, something within
om- natural lives, that answers to the touch to-day as
it answered yesterday, and will answer for ever;
something that lies faV deeper than any fa.shion of a
century. The story that is to interest the learned
and unlearned, rich and poor, Jew and Gentile, all
men as they are simply men, must deal ^vith seme
one of the universal and enduring tiniths of life.
• See " Shorter English Poems," page 251.
There is clear e\-idence in his plays, not only that
Shakespeare knew this and chose his stories ac-
cordingly, but also that, when he had chosen a
story, he distmctly asked himself which of these
gi-eat elementai-y truths was chief in it ; and then
deliberately — with a design of which the evidences
become unquestionable when they are found — .so
jilanned and wrote as to make that truth every\\-liere
the felt but unseen soul of his story, giving the charm '
of a true spiritual luiity to all its movements. Shake-
speare was deeply religious ; but in religion, as in
everj'thing else, his genius used the accidents as
accidents, and laid foundations for his structures of
life only in essentials. The religion of his plays may
almost be summed up in the words — Love Go<l ; love
your neighbour ; do your work. In one form or
another, he constracts his plots with an underthought
that in the fulfilment of these three duties lies the
solving of all problems that can vex the heart of
man.
It is his fidelity throughout to these first principles
that has caused the volume of Shakespeai'e's plays to
be called a Lay Bible by many who are, nevertheless,
ready to think that it is so by chance, or as the
unstudied efiect of a series of pictures of life given by
a dramatist who was himself gentle of nature. But
let us look at his manner of work.
Li what is, perhaps, his earliest original play, " The
Two Gentlemen of Verona," there is not j'et that very
close relation of all details to the central thought of
the story which is found in later plays. But there
is a clear beginning of the Shakesj)earean method of
work. In subsequent plays — " As You Like It,"
" Merchant of Venice," "Romeo and Juliet" — Shake-
speare again and again chose the story of a discord,
that he might show how the false note is turned into
the true. In " The Two Gentlemen of Verona," there
are two friends, Valentine and Proteus, of whom
Valentine is true, but Pioteus variable as his name
implies — false to his friend, false to his mistress.
It is Proteus who brings the discord into life, and he
is made to move through the story, not among those
who return evil for evil, but in a little world of
people who, by continually striking the true note,
bring him into tune. When he has heaped wrong
upon wiong, stricken by conscience he repents : —
Froteus. My shame and guilt confound mc. —
Forgive me, Valentine. If hearty sorrow
Be a sufficient ransom for offence.
I tender 't here ; I do as truly suffer
As e'er I did commit.
Valentwe. Then I am paid :
And once again I do receive thee honest. —
"Who by repentance is not satisfied,
Is nor of heaven, nor earth; for these are pleas'd.
By penitence tV eternal's wrath's appeased.
In the later plays there is the same teaching,
with more art. It is always Shakespeare's view of
life that we are to overcome evil with good. Tlie
dramatist is by necessity — unless he take refuge in
mere buffoonery — a teacher, good or bad. For since
a story of human aflTairs must always involve some
difficulty, some problem of life, that can be solved
TO i.D. 1691.]
PLAYS.
159
only by applying to it some principles of liuman
conduct, this ethical element becomes inseparable
from a book of plays. The ethics may, indeed, be
bad ; but such as they are, there they must be. A
dissolute man may write plays for a dissolute audi-
ence, present only such problems as interest himself
and the spectators of his work, and solve them ac-
cording to the principles of life which he and they
apply to incidents of then- own daily experience.
But by Shakespeare all that was purest in the re-
ligious spirit of his time was received into a genial
and sympathetic nature ; he saw life with clear eyes,
knowing its shows from its realities, and his views of
it are helpful to us al).
In " Love's Labour's Lost," another of Shake-
speare's earliest plays, there is a poet's kindly jest on
Euphuism ; but Euphuism is taken playfidly as sign
of that state of the business of life in which there is,
according to the proverb of the sheep-shearers, gi'eat
cry and little wool. It is a dainty straining after
words that have no works to match them, as life may
be spent rather on an empty liking to seem witty,
than in a full labour to be wise. Such speaking and
such living lie outside the honest couree of nature,
in which words tell deeds, and every life has its own
work to do. In that sense Shakespeare, keeping
within bounds of the lightest comedy, plays with
the idlers in " Love's Labour's Lost." The King of
Navarre has engaged three of his lords (Biron, Longa-
ville, and Dumaine) to share with him three years of
idleness in the name of study. Men of an age when
they have work to do in the world, they are to with-
draw from it all for three years of idle contemplation,
during which they shall direct their lives against the
course of nature, and keep statutes that include a
forswearing for three years of the society of women.
His Majesty gi-eets his friends and companions before-
hand as —
brave conquerors ! for so you are,
That war against your own att'ectiiins.
And the huge army of the world's desires.
One of the lords, Bii-on, has a quick wit and a ready
tongue. Wliile he agi-ees to share the King's three
years of idle study, he asks, " What is the end of
study : let me know ? " and, on the exclamation
against " vain delight," exclaims —
■\\Tiy, all delight.s are vain ; but that uiost vain
"Which, with pain pm-chased, doth inherit pain :
As painfully to pore upon a book,
To seek the light of truth ; while truth the while
Doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look.
Light seeking Ught, doth light of light beguUe.
Which is Euphuistic way of saying tliat a man
who can give light to help his fellows, and uses it
all in the search after more light for himself alone,
does practically snufF his candle out. The end of
study is that "we may know how to do our work.
When we are young we learn what afterwards we
need to know if we would do our duty in the world.
But when the time of doing comes, it must not be all
spent in continued prepaa-ation for the deeds that
never will he done. Says Biron, a little later in
this opening dialogue —
At Chiistmas I no more desire a rose
Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled shows ;
But like of each thing that in season grows.
So you, to study now it is too late.
Climb o'er the house to unlock the little gate.
Moreover, the French King's daughter is coming to
.speak with the King of Navarre herself about a piece
of business, a claim to sun-ender of Aquitaine to her
bech-idden father ; and she, though a woman, liringing
women in her train, must needs he seen.
Kiiiiji. What say you, lords ? 'VVTiy, this was quite forgot.
Biron. So study evermore is overshot :
"WTiile it doth study to h;ive what it woidd,
It doth forget to do the thing it shouU.
In fact, into this early piece of the lightest and
most playful texture, Shakespeare contrives to weave
throughout a lesson like that which he has set forth
in Hamlet ^vith so much intensity : " What.soever
thy hand hndeth to do, do it with thy might."
How shall these amateur students amu.se them-
selves ? With a man of many phrases and of little
thought, Don Adriano de Armado, says the kuig,
Our court you know is haunted
With a refined traveUer of Spain ;
A man in all the world's new fasliions planted,
That hath a mint of phrases in his brain ;
One whom the music of his own vain tongue
Doth ravish like enchanting haraiony.
When Don Adrian wishes to think he leans on
the intellect of his very small boy Moth ; and when
the more absurd jieople of the play, absurd still in
the same direction, present a spectacle of the Nine
Worthies, it is little Moth who takes the part of
Hercules, while Don Adrian, with the stately outside,
havmg fallen mto quarrel and being invited to tight
in his shu-t, is brought to confession that -'the
naked truth of it is, I have no shirt ; I go woolwai-d
for penance." In words, in clothes, in actions, there
is constant .suggestion of a disproportion between
show and sub.stance. The Princess of France and
her ladies, come ui)on a question of title to Ai\\n-
tame, wait for the sending of a piece of evidence, and
so we tmie for idleness to let in love. The King ot
Navarre and his gentlemen spend many fontastic
words upon their passion, and offer love in outwmtl
shows, coming to them as Boyet, one of the French
lords, warns the Princess,
Like Muscovites, or Russians, as I guess ;
Their purpose is to parle, and couit and dance.
And every one his love feat will advance
rnto his several mistress, which they'll know
Bv favours several which they did bestow.
'princess. And will they so 'r The gaUants shall be tasked.
For, ladies, we will everj- one be masked.
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[i.l\ 1593
They change favours, too, to puzzle them, Rosaline,
one of her ladies, wearing the favour of the Princess,
and when the fantastic wooers come, put out small
Moth in his prepared speech by theii- manner of
receiving it.
Moth. " A holy parcel of the fauest dames
\_Thc ladies turn their backs to him.
That ever tiuned their " — backs—" to mortal riews."
Biroii. "Their eyes," villain, "their eyes."
Moth. " That ever turned their eyes to mortal views.
Out— "
Boi/et. True ; out, indeed.
Moth. " Out of your favours, heavenly spirits, vouchsafe
Kot to behold — "
Biron. " Once to behold," rogue.
Mot/i. " Once to behold with your sunbcamed eyes,"
" With youi- sunbeamed eyes " —
Boi/et. They will not answer to that epithet :
You were best caU it " daughter-beamed eyes."
Moth. They do not mark me, and that brings me out.
Biron. Is this your perfectness 'f Begone, you rogue.
Rosaline. "What would these strangers r Know their
minds, Boyct :
If they do speak our language, 'tis our will
That some plain man account their purposes :
Know what they would.
And it is a question at la.st whether men who give
so much thought to the words and shows of life
know their own minds. The Princess will not wed
the King till he has had a year's commune with liis
actual thoughts when he is away from all the gauds
of the world's outward fashion. If, she says,
If for my love (as there is no such cause)
You will do aught, this shall you do for me :
Your oath I will not trust ; but go with speed
To some forlorn and naked hermitage,
Remote from all the pleasures of the world ;
There stay, until the twelve celestial signs
Have brought about their annual reckoning.
If this austere insociable life
Change not your oifer made in heat of blood ;
If frosts, and fasts, hard lodging and thin weeds
Nip not the gaudy blossoms of yoiu- love,
But that it bear this trial, and last love ;
Then at the expiration of the year
Come challenge me.
For Biron, with wit of an idly nimble tongue,
— " And what to me, my love, and what to me ? "
Biron. Studies my lady f mistress, look on me :
Behold the window of my heart, mine eye.
What humble suit attends thy answer there :
Impose some service on me for thy love.
Ros. Oft have I heard of you, my lord Biron.
Before I saw you ; and the world's large tongue
Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks.
Full of comparisons and wounding flouts,
Which you on all estates wiU execute
That Ue within the mercy of your wit.
To weed this wormwood from your fruitful brain,
And therewithal to win me, if you please, —
Without the wliich 1 am not to bo won, —
You shall this twelvemonth term, from day to day.
Visit the speechless sick, and stiU converse
With gi-oaning wretches ; and your task shall be,
With all the fierce endeavour of j-our wit
To enforce the pained impotent to smile.
Biron. To move wild laughter in the throat of death '.
It cannot be ; it is impossible :
Jlirth cannot move a soul in agony.
Ros. Why, that's the way to choke a gibing spirit,
Whose influence is begot of that loose grace
Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools :
A jest's prosperity lies in the ear
Of him that hears it, never in the tongue
Of him that makes it ; then, if sickly ears,
Deaf'd with the clamours of their own dear groans,
Will hear your idle scorns, continue them,
And I will have you and that fault withal ;
But if they will not, tlu'ow away that spirit.
And I shall tind you empty of that fault.
Right joj-ful of your reformation.
Biron. A twelvemonth ! well, befall what will befall,
I'll jest a twelvemonth in a hospital.
The remedy for Biron is contact with the hard realities
of life ; and the phrase-maker Don Adriano de Ai'mado
submits in like fashion to the demand that he shall
find something for liLs hand to do, and do it. " I am
a votary," he saj's. " I have vowed to Jaquenetta
to hold the plotigh for her sweet love three years."
There was rapid growth to a full mastery in art
during the interval between the writing of " Love's
Labour's Lost" and the writing of " Hamlet " towards
the close of Elizabeth's reign. But there was one
mind in both these jjlays, unlike as they are in story
and in style.
As he gi-ew in ]iower, the skill with which Sliake-
speare harmonised in each play the details of the
story, so that there ran through all the scenes as a
key-note the particular truth of life that seemed to
him to be involved in the main action, is as notice-
able in the recasting of old plays as in the creation
of plays absolutely new. " King John " is such a
reca.sting, but it turns into a harmonious work of
art, a long and straggling chronicle j)lay in two
parts, of which the second opens with " young Arthur
on the walls." Shakespeare saw in "the Trouble-
some Reign of King John " as set forth by the
earlier and weaker dramatist, a time of stir and
trouble ill which a child prince perished amidst
much action upon motives of expediency and self-
interest. In I'econstructiug the play he gave it
unity of thought, by showing everywhere the doings
of what he made Falconbridge call
That smooth-faced gentlemen, tickling Commodity,
Commodity, the bias of the world.
At the opening. King Philip of France urges by
embassy to King John, in presence of his mother
Elinor, the lawful right of the child Arthur to the
English crowni. Historians may decide as they
please that question of right. The poet for the pur-
pose of his poem loses no time in showing that John
is to be taken as the wrongful king : —
TO *.D. 1598.1
PLAYS.
161
John. Our strong posssession and our right for us.
El'mor. Your strong possession, much more than youi-
right,
Or else it must go wrong with )-ou and me :
So much my conscience whispers in your ear,
Whicli none hut heaven, and you, and I shall hear.
Chancel of Stratford Church, with Shakespeare's Monument.
This whisper of conscience, which is not in the old
play, is emphatic close to the short dialogue with the
ambassador of France before the entrance of Robert
and Phili]) Falconbridge. In the scene with the two
Falconbridges, as Shakespeare has condensed and
re-written it, " the smooth-faced gentleman, tickling
Commodity " basely suggests to a son the open
shaming of his mother that he may obtain succession
to his father's lands. When Phili]) Falconliridge
has lost his land, and as bastard son of Cceur de Lion
enters the service of King John, he becomes at times
a sort of Chorus in his comments on the action of
the jilay, himself simply and rudely upright ; we see
partly by help of him how others swerve from the
right line. In his first meditation, after he has
joined the court, he feels that
he is hut a bastard to the time
That doth not smack of observation, —
And so am I, whether I smack or no ;
And not alone in habit and device,
Exterior form, outward accoutrement.
But from the inward motions to deliver
Sweet, sweet, sweet poison to the age's tooth ;
Which, though I will not practise to deceive,
Yet, to avoid deceit, I mean to learn.
The action of the scene is not dissimilar, but of this
intellectual colouring there is absolutely nothing in
the older play.
The Second Act opens in France, before the
walls of Anglers. To emphasize the departure from
known duty at the bidding of expediency, Shake-
speare makes the French and Austrian champions of
141
Arthur's cause loudly proclaim then- sense of duty.
Hearing the gentle voice of young Arthur, Lewis the
Dauphin cries, " A noble boy ! who would not do
thee right V The Archduke of Austria will return
no more to his home until Arthur be, to the utmost
corner of the west, saluted king :
till then, fail' boy.
Will I not think of home, but follow arms ;
and replies, to the thanks of Arthur's mother, Con-
stance,
The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords
In such a just and charitable war.
King John is presently m France, prompt to contest
Arthur's right of sovereignty, and King Philip of
France brings to a climax the assertion of the duty
of maintaining it.
K. John. From whom hast thou this great commiRsion,
France,
To draw my answer from thy articles ':
K. Fhilip. From that supernal Judge that stii-s good
thoughts
In any breast of strong authority,
To look into the blots and stains of right.
That Judge hath made me guardian to this boy :
Under whose warrant I impeach thy wrong ;
And by whose help I mean to chastise it.
From Shakespeare's Arthur every note is that of
the true sovereignty, a child-like innocence and
spii-it of unselfish love. But the strife begins. Each
side claims Anglers as the spoil of battle, and the
citizens find it expedient to keep their gates shut
for "the King of England when we know the king."
Falconbridge having suggested that the stubborn
citizens, who turn deaf ears to both the claimants, be
attacked by both, King John approves the coun.sel.
France, shall wc knit om- powers,
And lay this Angiers even with the ground,
Then, after, fight who shall be king of it ?
Then smooth-faced Commodity, to save the town,
appears upon the walls with a suggestion of exi)e-
diency. Marry the Dau]ihin to the Lady Blanche,
and let the worldly interests of England and France,
bind them in peace. His mother, Elinor, whispei-s
to John of the convenience of this arrangement :
Son, list to this conjunction, make this match ;
Give with our niece a dowry large enough :
For by this knot thou shalt so surely tie
Thy now unsured assurance to the crown,
That yond green boy shall have no sun to ripe
The bloom that promiseth a mighty frmt.
I see a jHelding in the looks of France ;
Mark how they whisper.
The Kin<r of France agi-ees, and the cause just de-
clared to" be the cause of God is given up for a
wedding, that brings with it "Anjou and hur
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[a.d. 1593
Touraine, Maine, Poictiers." The match is made.
But Artliur is remembered as an after-thought, upon
•which John jiromises to do something for him, and
they are all off to the marriage of convenience,
leaving Falcoiihridge to close the Act with comment
on the meaning of it all.
B((st. Mild world! mad kings! mad composition !
John, to stop Arthur's titlo in the whole,
Hath willingly departed with a part ;
And France, (whoso armoin- Conscience buckled on.
Whom zeal and charity hrought to the field
As Uod's own soldier,) rounded in the ear
With that same purpose-changer, that sly devil ;
That hroker, that still breaks the pate of faith ;
That daily break-\ow ; he that wins of all,
Of kings, of beggars, old men, young men, maids, —
Who ha\dng no external thing to lose
But the word maid, cheats the poor maid of that ;
That smooth-faced gentleman, tickling Commodity, —
Commodity, the bias ' of the world :
The world, who of itself is peized well.
Made to run oven upon even ground.
Till this advantage, tliis vile dramng bias,
This sway of motion, this Commodity,
Makes it take head from all indifferency.
From all direction, purpose, course, intent :
And this same bias, this Commodity,
This bawd, this broker, this all-changing word.
Clapped on the outward eye of tickle France,
Hath drawn him from his own determined aid,
From a resolved and honourable war.
To a most base and vile-concluded peace. —
And why rail I on this Commodity r
But for because he hath not woo'd me yet :
Not that I Iiave the power to clutch my hand,
When his fair angels would salute my palm ;
But for mj- hand, as unattempted yet.
Like a poor beggar, raileth on the rich.
Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail.
And say. There is no sin, but to lie rich ;
And being rich, my virtue then shall be,
To say, There is no vice, but beggary :
Since kings break faith upon Commodity,
Gain, be my lord ; for I will worship thee ! [Exit.
The Third Act ojiens with tlie grief of tlie forsaken
Constance, while the champion and enemies of her
child-prince are
Gone to be man-ied ! gone to swear a peace !
False blood to false blood joined !
The mother's love dwells on the Leauty of the for-
saken iimocence :
But thou art fair ; and at tliy birth, dear bo\-,
Nature and Fortune joined to make tliee great :
Of Nature's gifts thou may'st \\-ith lilies boast.
And with the half-ldown rose : but Fortune, oh !
She is corrupted, changed, and won from thee.
When the new allies, joined by Commodity, return
1 Bias, Prencli "biais," sloiie.
from the altar before which they have sworn love
and amity, there is the widow's curse upon them.
Arm, arm }-ou heavens, against these perj ured kings !
A widow cries : be husband to me, heavens !
Let not the houi's of tliis ungodly da)'
Wear out the day in peace ; but ere sunset
Set armed discord 'twixt these perjured kings !
Hear me ! oh, hear me !
And the heavens hear. Expediency can cause men
who swear peace in the morning to break it before
evening. Cardinal Pandnlph enters, to question John
of his keejjing Stephen Langton from the See of Can-
terbury. John m bold woi'ds defies and scorns the
Pope, and his doing so is made as emphatic as the
declaration of the King of France, that his duty to
God caused him to draw the sword for Arthur ;
because, at the bidding of Commodity, every word,
and all the faith that may be in it, will be broken
before the play is over. The sting of the bold
defiance is intended to lie in the fact that John
afterwards is shown humbly taking his crown as the
Pope's gift, because that seems the expedient course,
if he would keep it. Now he speaks fiercely :
K. John. What earthly name to interrogatories
Can task the free breath of a sacred king ?
Thou canst not, cardinal, devise a name
So slight, unw-orthj-, and ridiculous.
To charge me to an answer, as the Pope.
Tell him this tale ; and from the mouth of England
Add thus much more, — that no Italian priest
Shall tithe or toU in our dominions ;
But, as wo under heaven are silpreme head.
So, under Him, that great supremacy.
Where we do reign, we will alone uphold.
Without the assistance of a mortal hand :
So tell the Pope ; all reverence set apart
To him, and his usurped authority.
K. riii. Brother of England, you blaspheme in this.
K. John. Though you, and all the kings of Chiistendom,
Are led .so grossly by this meddling priest.
Dreading the curse that money may buy out ;
And, by the nuTit of vile gold, dross, dust.
Purchase corrupted pardon of a man.
Who, in that sale, sells pardon from himself ;
Though you and all the rest, so grossly led,
Tliis juggling witchcraft with revenue cherish ;
Yet I, alone, alone do me op2)ose
Against the Pope, and count his friends my foes.
King John defies the legate of the Pope ; but
Philip finds it inexjiedient to keej) the faith he has
just sworn, when Pandulph Ijids him turn from his
new ally on pain of excommunication.
A'. /'/((. I am perplexed, and know not what to say.
Paiut. What canst thou say, but wiU perplex thee more.
If thou stand excommunicate and cursed ':'
K. Phi. Good reverend father, make my person yours,
And tell me how you would bestow yourself.
This royal hand and mine are newly knit.
And the conjunction of our inward souls
JTarried in league, coupled and linked together
TO i.B. 1598.]
PLAYS.
163
With all religious strength of sacred vows ;
The latest breath that gave the sound of words,
Was deep-sworn faith, peace, amity, true love,
Between our kingdoms and our royal selves ;
-Vnd even before this truce, but new before,
No longer than we 'well could wash our hands
To clap this royal bargain up of peace.
Heaven knows, they were besmeared and overstained
With slaughter's pencil, where revenge did paint
The fearfid difference of incensed kings :
And shall these hands, so lately purged of blood,
So newly joined in love, so strong in both.
Unyoke this seizure and this kind rcgreet 'f
Play fast and loose with faith 'f so jest with heaven,
ilako such unconstant childi'cn of ourselves.
As now again to snatch our palm from palm ;
Unswear faith sworn ; and on the marriage-bed
Of smiling peace to march a bloody host.
And make a riot on the gentle brow
Of true sincerity 'i Oh, holy sii-.
My reverend father, let it not be so !
Out of your grace, devise, ordain, impose
Some gentle order ; and then we shall be blessed
To do j'our pleasure, and continue friends.
Pdiid. All fomi is formless, order orderless,
Save what is opposite to England's love.
Therefore, to arms ! be champion of our church !
Or let the church, our mother, breathe her cui'se, —
A mother's curse, — on her revolting son.
France, thou mayst hold a serpent by the tongue,
A chafed lion by the mortal paw,
A fasting tiger safer by the tooth.
Than keep in peace that hand which thou dost hold.
Philip listens awhile to arguments, ii-resolute, until
the Dauphin is surprised at the slowness of his per-
suasion by the best eloquence of " the smooth-faced
gentleman, tickling Commodity."
Lew. I muse your majesty doth seem so cold.
When such profound respects do pull you on.
Pniir/. I will denounce a curse upon his head.
JS". F/ii. Thou shalt not need. — England, I'll fall from
thee.
The battle is renewed after sworn peace is broken.
Arthur, true sovereignty of simple innocence, is
taken in the fiijht, and falls into the hands of John.
Arthiu-'s thought in his own misfortune is not of
himself : " Oh, this will make my mother die of gi-ief "
His spirit of love is in strong contrast to the low-
thoughted nature of the servants of Commodity, who
suggests now plunder of the Church, and murder.
K. John. [To <Ae Bastard.] Cousin, away for England;
haste before :
And, ere our coming, see thou shake the hags
Of hoarding abbots ; set at liberty
Imprisoned angels : the fat ribs of peace
Must by the hungry now be fed upon :
Use our commission in his utmost force.
Bust. BeU, book, and candle shall not drive me back.
When gold and silver becks me to come on.
I leave your highness. — Grandam, I wUl pray
(If over I remember to be holy)
For your fair safety ; so I Idss your han/
Eli. Farewell, gentle cousin.
K. John. Coz, farewell.
[ExU Bastard
Eli. Come hither, little kinsman ; hark, a word.
[■VAc takes Arthur atidt.
K. John. Come hither, Hubert. my gentle Hubert,
We owe thee much ; within this wall of flesh
There is a soul counts thee her creditor,
And with advantage means to pay thy love :
Alii, my good friend, thy voluntary oath
Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished.
Give me thy hand. I had a thing to say, —
But I win fit it with some better time.
By heaven, Hubert, I am almost ashamed
To say what good respect I have of thee.
Siih. I am much bounden to your majesty.
K. John. Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet :
But thou shalt have; and creep time ne'er so slow,
Yet it shall come for me to do thee good.
I had a thing to say, — but let it go :
The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day,
Attended with the pleasures of the world,
Is all too wanton, and too full of gawds,
To give me audience : — if the midnight bell
Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth,
Sound one into the drowsy ear of night ;
If this same were a churchyai-d where we stand,
And thou possessed with a thousand wTongs ;
Or if that surly spirit, melancholy,
Had baked thy blood, and made it heavy, thick ;
(Which else rims tickling up and down the veins,
Making that idiot, laughter, keep men's eyes.
And strain their checks to idle mei-riment, —
A passion hatefid to my purposes,)
Or if that thou couldst see me without eyes,
Hear me without thine ears, and make reply
Without a tongue, using conceit alone,
Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words ;
Then, in despite of brooded watchful day,
I would into thy bosom pom: my thoughts :
But ah, I will not :— yet I love thee well ;
And, by my troth, I think thou lov'st me well.
Hub. So well, that what you bid me "ndcrtake,
Though that my death were atijunci tc »"v act,
By heaven, I would do it.
K. John. Do not 1 know thou wouldst'?
Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye
On yond young boy : I'll tell thee what, my friend.
He is a very serpent in my way ;
And whereso'er this foot of mine doth tread.
He lies before me :— dost thou understand me ?
Tliou art his keeper.
}{nb. And I'll keep him so.
That he shall not offend your majesty.
K. John. Death.
Jliih. Jly lord '■
K. John. A grave.
2f,,j He shall not live.
K. John. K°°"Sh-
I could be merrj' now. Hubert, I love thee;
Well, I'U not say what 1 intend for thee :
Remember,— Madam, fare you well :
I'll send those powers o'er to your majesty.
Eli. My blessing go with thee :
^ j^/^„ For England, cousm, go:
Hubert shall be your man, attend on you
With aU true duty.— On toward Calais, ho !
164
CASSELL'S LIBEARY Ob' ENGLISH LITEHATURE.
[A.D. li>S>^
The affliction of the bereaved mother, Constance,
in the next scene, is made to bring out with the
utmost tenderness the image of the child Arthur.
And, father cardinal, I have heard you say
That we shall see and know our friends in heaven :
If that be true, I shall see my boy again ;
For, since the birth of Cain, the first male child,
To him that did but yesterday suspire,
There was not such a gracious creature bom.
But now will canker sorrow cat my bud.
And chase the native beauty from his cheek.
And he will look as hollow as a ghost.
As dim and meagre as an ague's fit ;
And so he'll die ; and, rising so again.
When I shall meet him in the court of heaven
I shall not know him : therefore never, never
Must I behold my pretty Ai-thur more.
Pand. You hold too heinous a respect of grief.
Const. He talks to me, that never had a son.
A". r/iL You are as fond of grief, as of your child.
Const. Grief fills the room up of my absent child.
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me.
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words.
Remembers me of all his gracious parts.
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form ;
Then have I reason to be fond of grief.
Fare you well : had you such a loss as I,
I could give better comfort than you do. —
I will not keep this form upon my head,
ITearuiff off her head-dress.
■When there is such disorder in my wit.
O Lord ! my boy, my Arthiu-, my fair son !
My life, my joy, my food, my all the world !
My widow-comfort, and my sorrow's cure I \_Exit.
The Tliird Act ends with Pandulph's argument
of Conunodity that is to bring French invaders into
England. " 'Tis strange," he says,
'Tis strange to think how much King John h.ith lost
In this which he accounts so clearly won.
Are not you grieved that Arthur is his prisoner ?
Lew. As heartily as he is glad he h.ith him.
Pand. Your mind is all as youthful as your blood.
Now hear me speak with a prophetic spirit ;
For even the breath of what I mean to speak
Shall blow each dust, each straw, each little rub,
Out of the path which shall directly lead
Thy foot to England's throne ; and therefore mark.
John hath seized Arthur ; and it cannot be,
That, whiles warm life plays in that infant's veins,
The misplaced John should entertain an hour.
One minute, nay, one quiet breath of rest.
A sceptre snatched with an unrulv hand.
Must be as boisterously maintained as gained ;
And he that stands upon a slippery place.
Makes nice of no idle hold to stay him up :
That John may stand, then Arthur needs must fall ;
So be it, for it cannot be but so.
Lew. But what shall I gain by young Arthur's fall ?
Pand. Y'ou, in the right of lady Blanche your wife.
May then make all the claim that Artliur did.
Lew. And lose it, life and aU, as Arthm- did.
Pand. How green you are, and fresh in this old world !
John lays you plots ; the times conspire with you ;
For he that steeps his safety in true blood.
Shall find but bloody safety, and untrue.
This act, so evilly born, shall cool the hearts
Of all his people, and freeze up their zeal.
That none so small advantage shall step forth
To check his reign, but they will cherish it ;
No natural exhalation in the sky.
No scope of nature, no distempered day.
No common wind, no customed event.
But they will pluck away his natural cause,
And call them meteors, prodigies, and signs.
Abortives, presages, and tongues of heaven.
Plainly denouncing vengeance upon John.
Letc. Maybe he wiU not touch young Arthur's life,
But hold himself safe in his prisonment.
The Stratford Portrait of Shakfspeare.^
Pand. Oh, .sir, when he shall hear of your approach,.
If that young Arthur be not gone already.
Even at that news he dies : and then the hearts
Of all his people shall revolt from him.
And kiss the lips of unacquainted change ;
And pick strong matter of revolt and wrath
Out of the bloody fingers' ends of John.
Methinks I see this burly all on foot :
And, oh, w-hat better matter breeds for you
1 This portrait, now in the Shakespeare house at Stratford, bad
been painted over with hair and beard that were cleaned off by a
picture restorer in 1861. There remained a portrait of Shakespeare
ill executed, but coiTespondinf;: in the form of each lock of hair and
fold of dress to the bust. It was exhibited when discovered. Some
thought that the bust was made from it ; others, with more pro-
bability, that it w.as made from the bust. At the time of its restora-
tion the picture had been for a huudi-ed years in tlie family of its
owner, Mr. W. O. Hunt. Torti Clerk of Stratford, who has presented
it to the town. The colouriu"? of the picture con-esponds to what is
kno^vn to have been the colouring? of the bust before it was painted
white, in 1793 : the eyes light hazel, hair and beard aubiu'u ; dress, a
scarlet doublet, under a loose black gown without sleeves. It is just
possible that the picture may have been a copy from life by a bad
painter, and that it may have been used in the forming of the bust.
Differences in the expression of the two, especially the outline of the
nose and a pleasant expression in the comers of the mouth of the-
picture, not to be found in the bust, are a little in favour of such 9-
possibility.
ro A.D. 159?.]
PLAYS.
165
Than I have nam'd ! — The bastard Falconbridge
Is now in England ransacking the church,
Offending charity : if but a dozen French
Were there in arms, they would he as a call
To train ten thousand English to their side ;
Or, as a little snow, tumbled about,
Anon becomes a mountain. O noble Dauphin,
Go with me to the king : 'tis wonderful
What may be -wrought out of their discontent,
Now that their souls arc topfull of offence :
For England go : — I will whet on the king.
Lev}. Strong reasons make strange actions : let us go :
If you say ay, the king wall not say no. [Exeunt.
The Fourtli Act opens with the scene in North-
ampton Ca.stle, which .shows supreme, under bitterest
trial, Ai-thur's childlike spirit of love.
Enter Hubert nnil tiro Attendants.
Hub. Heat me these irons hot ; and look thou stand
Within the arras : when I strike my foot
Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth.
And bind the boy which you shall find mth me
Fast to the chair : he heedful : hence, and watch.
1 Attend. I hope your warrant wOl bear out the deed.
Sub. Uncleanly scruples ! fear not you : look to 't. —
[Exeunt Attendants.
Young lad, come forth ; I have to saj- with you.
Enter Arthur.
Arth. Good morrow, Hubert.
Hub. Good morrow, little prince.
Arth. As little pi-ince (having so great a title
To be more prince) as may be. — You are sad.
Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier.
Arl/i. Mercy on me !
Methinks no body should be sad but I :
Yet, I remember, when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night.
Only for wantonness. By my chiistendom.
So I were out of prison, and kept sheep,
I should be as merry as the day is long ;
And so I would be here, but that I doubt
My uncle practises more harm to me :
He is afraid of me, and I of him :
Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son ?
No, indeed, is 't not ; and I would to heaven
I were your son, so you would love mc, Hubert.
Hub. [Aside.l If I talk to him, with his innocent prate
He will awake my mercy, which lies dead :
Therefore I wiU be sudden, and despatch.
Art/). Are you sick, Hubert ? you look pale to-day:
In sooth, I would you were a little sick,
That I might sit all night, and watch with you :
I warrant, I love you more tlian you do me.
Hub. [Aside.] His words do take possession of my
bosom. —
Eead here, young Arthur. [Showing a paper.
[Aside.] How now, foolish rheum !
Turning dispiteous torture out of door !
I must be brief, lest resolution drop
Out at mine ej-es in tender womanish tears. —
Can you not read it ? is it not fair writ ?
Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect :
Must you with hot irons bum out both mine eyes ?
Hub. Young boy, I must.
Arth. And wiU you f
Hub. And I will.
I Arth. Have you the heart? When your head did bat
ache,
I knit my handkerchief about your brows,
(The best I had, a princess wrought it me,)
And I did never ask it you again ;
And with my hand at midnight held your head ;
And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,
Still and anon cheer' d up the heavy time.
Saying, " What lack you?" and "^Vherc lies your grief?"
Or " What good love may I perform for you ?"
Many a poor man's son would have lain still,
And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you ;
But you at your sick service had a prince.
Nay, you may think my love was crafty love.
And call it cunning :— do, an if you will :
If heaven be pleased that you must use me ill,
Why, then you must.— Will you put out mine eyes ?
These eyes that never did, nor never shall
So much as frown on you ?
Hub. I have sworn to do it ;
And with hot irons must I bum them out.
Arth. Ah, none but in this iron age would do it !
The iron of itself, though heat red-hot.
Approaching near these eyes, would drink my teara,
And quench this fiery indignation,
Even in the matter of mine innocence ,
Nay, after that, consume away in rust,
But for containing fire to harm mine eye.
Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron ?
An if an angel should have come to me.
And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes,
I would not have believed him, — no tongue but Hubert's.
Hub. [Stamps.] Come forth.
Re-enter Attendants, tvith eord, ii'ons, 6fe.
Do as I bid you do.
Arth. Oh ! save me, Hubert, save me ! my eyes arc out
Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.
Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.
Arth. Alas ! what need you bo so boisterous-rough Y
I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.
For heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound !
Nay, hear me, Hubert ! — drive these men away,
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb ;
I win not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word.
Nor look upon the iron angerly :
Thrust but these men away, and I '11 forgive you,
Whatever torment you do put me to.
Hub. Go, stand witliin; let me alone with him.
1 Attend. I am best pleased to be from such a deed.
[ExeuHt Attendants.
Arth. Alas I I then have chid away my friend:
He hath a stem look, but a gentle heart :—
Let him come back, that his compa.ision may
Give life to yours.
j„}. Come, boy, prepare yourself.
Arth. Is there no remedy?
j„j None, but to lose your eyes.
Arth. heaven !— that there were but a mote in yours,
A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair.
Any annovance in that precious sense !
Then, feeling what smaU things arc boisterous there,
Your y^e intent must needs seem horrible.
Hub. Is this your promise ? go to, hold your tongue.
Arth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues
Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes :
Let me not hold my tongue.— let me not, Hubert;
Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,
166
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
I.A.D. 1593
So I may keep mine eyes : oh, spare mine eyes,
Though, to no use but still to look on you ! —
Lo 1 by my troth, the instrument is cold,
And would not harm me.
jj,il,_ I can heat it, boy.
Arth. No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with grief.
Being create for comfort, to be used
In undeserved extremes : see else yourself ;
There is no malice in this burning coal ;
The breath of heaven hath blown liis spirit out.
And strewed repentant ashes on his head.
Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, boy.
Arth. And if you do, you will but make it blush.
And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert :
Nay, it perchance will sparkle in your eyes ;
And, like a dog that is compelled to fight.
Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on.'
All things that you should use to do me wrong,
Deny their office : only you do lack
That mercy, which fierce fire and iron extends,
Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.
I£iib. WcU, see to live ; I will not touch thine eyes
For all the treasure that thine uncle owes : ^
Yet am I sworn, and I did purpose, boy,
With this same very iron to bm-n them out.
Arth. Oh, now you look like Hubert! all this while
You were disguised.
Rub. Peace ! no more. Adieu.
Your uncle must not know but you are dead ;
I '11 fill these dogged spies with false reports :
And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secm-e
That Hubert for the wealth of all the world
Will not ofii'cnd thee.
Artli. O heaven ! — I thank you, Hubert.
Huh. Silence ! no more : go closely in with me :
Much danger do I undergo for thee. \_Exeunt.
Then we are shown John, type of the false royalty,
-crowned, and crowned a second time for reasons of
expediency; a,s he tells his lords :
Some reasons of this double coronation
I have possessed you with, and think them strong :
And more, more strong, (when lesser is my fear,)
I shall indue you \vith : meantime, but ask
What you would have reformed that is not well.
And well shall you perceive how willingly
I will both hear and grant you your requests.
They ask the liljerty of Arthur. Hubert comes to
content John with news of Arthur's death ; but when
John finds, from the angry susjoicions of his lords,
who fall from him, that the murder of Arthur was
not really so expedient as he had supposed, he there-
fore repents — " They burn in indignation. I repent."
He hears of his mother's death in France ; of signs
and omens, and of the revolt of his nobles; feels how
convenient it would be if Arthur were alive : and
when told that he does live, John rejoices, not that he
^ Tarre on, excite to violence. So in " Hnmlet," act ii., scene 1,
"The nation holds it no sin to tarre them on to controversy." Wiclif
used the phrase, and it is still current ia Cheshire. It is probably
from the Cymric " t.iraw " or " taro," to strike, to affect; with the
nonn " tar," shock, impulse.
2 Oices, owns. Both words are from the same First-English verb
" agan."
has a crime the less upon his head, but at the re-
appearance of " the .smooth-faced gentleman, tickling
Commodity." His first cry is —
Doth Arthur live ? Oh, haste thee to the peers,
Throw this report on their incensed rage,
And make them tame to their obedience !
But, meanwhile, Arthur, in endeavotu-ing to escapo
from ])rison, falls. The tiiie royalty of innocence ,
lies bleeding to death upon the stones of a bard world:
"O me ! my uncle's spii'it is in these stones." And
the Bastard's comment, at the close of the act, as he
lifts the dead child-king, i.s —
From forth this morsel of dead royalty.
The life, the light, the truth of all this realm
la fled to heaven.
At the opening of the Fifth Act, John, who had
defied the Pope and j^lundered the Church, is shown,
under the guidance of Commodity, receiving his
crown as the Pope's vassal ; the strength of the pre-
ceding defiance having been designed by the poet to
set forth more vividly in this respect the base taking
of Expediency for Conscience, that runs through the
play.
Enter KiMG John, P.^xdulph wi^/i the crown, ff«rf Attendants.
K. John. Thus have I j-ielded up into your hand
The circle of my glory.
Pundulph. [Giving Jonx the crown.'] Take again
From tliis my hand, as holding of the Pope,
Your sovereign gi-eatncss and authority.
K. John. Now keep your holy word : go meet the French.
But Pandulph can more easUy raise a storm than
lay it. The English nobles have, at the bidding of
Commodity, leagued with the French invaders of
their comitry. Commodity has caused the sweaiing
of more oaths. Oaths were sworn, and the sacrament i
was taken in earnest of then- smcerity, between
English and French. They were to be kept while
they were convenient ; and they were followed by
oaths sworn in the absence of the English, to break
them when the hour of theii- convenience had passed.
A Plain, near St. Edmvxd's-Buhy. The French (Jump.
Enter, in arms, Lewis, Salisbury, Melvn, Pembuoke, Bigot,
and Soldiers.
Lew. 5Iy lord ilelun, let this be copied out,
And keep it safe for our remembrance :
Return the precedent to these lords again ;
That, having our fair order written down.
Both they, and we, perusing o'er these notes.
May know wherefore we took the sacrament.
And keep our faiths firm and inviolable.
Sal. Upon our sides it never shall be broken.
And, noble Dauphin, albeit we swear
A voluntary zeal, and unurged faith
To your proceedings ; yet, believe me, prince,
I am not glgid that such a sore of time
Should seek a plaster by contemned revolt.
And heal the inveterate canker of one wound
By making many. Oh^it grieves my soul.
TO i.B. 1598.] PLATS.
167
That I must draw this metal from my side
To be a widow-maker '. Oh, and there,
Where honourable rescue and defence
Cries out upon the name of Salisbury !
But such is the infection of the time.
That, for the health and physic of our right,
We cannot deal but with the verj- hand
Of stem injustice and confused wrong.
Wlien Prtndiilpli seeks to still the storm he has
raised, the Dauphin confronts him with the lessons
of Commodity that he himself had taught.
You taught me how to know the face of right.
Acquainted me with interests to this land.
Yea, thrust this enterprise into my heart ;
And come ye now to tell me, John hath made
His peace with Rome ? What is that peace to me ?
I, by the honour of my mamage-bed,
After young Arthm-, claim this land for mine ;
And, now it is haU-conquered, must I back,
Because that John hath made his peace with Rome ?
Am I Rome's slave ? \^'^lat penny hath Rome borne,
What men provided, what munitions sent.
To underprop this action ': is 't not I,
That undergo this change ? Wlio else but I,
And such as to my claim are liable.
Sweat in this business, and maintain this war ?
Falconbridge, -who i-epresents throughout a rough
natural instinct of riglit-mindecbiess, upholds the
EnglLsh battle, and the revolted lords find how
Commodity, whom they had served in leaguing with
the invader's, had betrayed them.
Enter Meli'n', wonndctl, and led by Soldiei'S.
MeJ. Lead me to the revolts of England here.
Sal. When we were happy we had other names.
Fern. It is the Count llelun.
'Sal. Wounded to death.
Mel. Fly, noble English, you arc bought and sold.
Unthread the rude eye of rebellion.
And welcome home again discarded faith.
Seek out King John, and fall before his feet :
For if the French be lords of this loud day,
He means to recompense the pains you take.
By cutting off youi- heads : thus hath he sworn,
And I with him, and many more with me.
Upon the altar at St. Edmund' s-Bury ;
Even on that altar, where we swore to you
Dear amity and everlasting love.
King John dies, finding " the smooth-faced gentle-
man, tickling Commodity," his murderer. It had
been convenient to rob the monks; a monk finds it
convenient to poison him ; and the end of his life,
sacrificed to the base doctrine of expediency, is that
he died wretchedly, ^vith words of earthly ruin in
his ear. Peace is made after his death, when the
revolted lords return to their allegiance, and the
French supplies have been wi-ecked upon Goodwin
Sands. Falconbridge, to the last serving as chorus,
ends the j)lay with a comment on the peril passed :
This England never did, nor never shall.
Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror,
But when it first did help to wound itself.
Now these, her princes, are come home again.
Come the thi-ee corners of the world in arms.
And we shall shock them : naught shaU make us rae,
If England to itself do rest but true.
But the play has given a clear lesson on the kind
of truth in which alone the strength of England and
of every Englishman can rest.
Signatures of Shakespeabe
from 7its Will, and from his co^y of Florio's Montaigne.
Shakespeare's comedy of " As You Like It " was
probably written between clie years 1598 and 1600.
It is not upon the list of plays given by Francis
Meres in 1598,' and Shakespeare quotes in it a line
from Marlowe's " Hero and Leander," that wa.s
not planted until that year. The fii-st se.stiad of
" Hero and Leander " tells how, at the feast of
Adonis, "amorous Leander, beautiful and young,"
first saw Hero. It was in the temple of Yenus : —
And in the midst a silver altar stood :
There Hero, sacrificing turtle's blood.
Yail'd- to the giormd, veiling her eyelids close:
And modestly they open'd as she rose :
Thence flew Love's arrow with the golden head;
And thus Leander was enamoured.
Stone-still ho stood, and evermore he gazed.
Tin Tvith the fire that from his countenance blazed
Relenting Hero's gentle heart was sti-ook :
Such force and virtue hath an amorous look.
It Ues not in our power to love or hate.
For will in us is ovciTulcd by fate.
When two are stript, long ere the coui-se begin.
We wish that one should lo.se, the other win ;
And one especially we do affect
Of two gold ingots, Uke in each respect :
The reason no man knows ; let it suffice.
What we behold is censured' by our eyes.
"\Miere liotli deliberate, the love is slight :
Who ever loved, thtit loved not at first sight ?
1 See pase 157.
2 ynil'il. stoopcil, lowered. Frencli " avnler.
3 Cmsmei, judged of. Latin "censeo," I tUink;
opinion.
"ceusxmi-*' an
168
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1598
Marlowe was killed on the 1st of June, 1593, aged
twenty-nine years, tiirce months, and a few odd days.
In the fifth scene of the third act of " As You Like
It," Shakespeai-e makes the shepherdess, Phebe, say —
Dead shepherd ! now I find thy saw of might :
" Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight ?"
The book here quoted was not published until
1598. An entry at Stationers' Hall shows that " As
You Like It" was written by August, 1600, and that
there was then a thought of printing it.^ It must,
therefore, have been wi-itten between March, 1598,
and August, 1000. The plot of " As You Like It "
had for its starting-point the earlier part of the story
of " Gamelyn," printed among Chaucer's " Canterbury
Tales." This had been elaborated by Thomas Lodge
(one of the authors of " A Looking Glass for London
and England ") into a prose love-story in the manner
of " Euphues," called " Rosalynde : Euphues golden
Legacie, found after liis death in his cell at Silexedra.
Bequeathed to Philautus Sonnes, nursed up with then-
Father in England. Fetcht from the Canaries by
T. L, Gent." Which means, as Thomas Lodge ex-
plains in the preface, that it was written for pastime
dui-ing a voyage to the Canaries with Captain Clarke.
Lodge's " Rosalynde" was published in 1590. In it
Shakespeare's Orlando is Rosader, youngest son of
Sir John of Bordeaux, his brothers Oliver and Jaques
are Saladyne and Fernandine. The brother dukes in
the novel are kings, not dukes, and are not brothers.
They are Torismond, the usurper, and Gerismond,
the lawful King of France, who has withdrawn into
the forest of Arden. Celia is Alinda in the novel,
banished with Rosalind because she pleads for her.
Rosalind is banished because the usurper fears that
she may give right of revolt to some great lord by
marrying him. Shakespeare has altered and added
chai-acters — those of Jaques, Touchstone, and Audrey
are additions — omitted and altered incidents, and
wrought the tale into a form of his own, full of the
true music of life that he felt it could be made
to utter. Rosader's fight with the lion that watched
for the waking of his brother Saladyne, gave Shake-
speare the point of view from which he wrote liis
play, and was probably the part of the tale that fixed
his resolve to dramatise it. It was a tale of discord,
showing, in Rosader at least, what Shakespeare U]3held
as the true way of turning discord into harmony.
The discord made by the usurpation of Torismond
was indeed overcome by brute force, — the twelve
' On one of two leaves .it the beginning of the third volume of the
Staboners' Eegister, after an entry dated " 27 may 1600," occurs this :—
"4 AUGUSTI.
" As ijou like lit 1 a booke
Henry the Ffift | a booke i
Euertj man in his fiamoiir I a booke '" '° ^® staied.
The commcdic of mnche A doo
about nothing | a booke
" Henry V." and " Every Man in his Humour " ceased to be stayed
on the Uth of August, and " Much Ado about Nothing " on the 23rd
of August, each book being entered to a separate publishing-house.
The publishers of " Much Ado about Nothing" were entered at the
same time for the second part of "Henry IV." But there is no
further entry concerning " As You Like It," which remained unprinted
until Shakespeare's works were first collected into a folio, in 1623.
peers of France fought against Torismond, killed
him, and restored the rightful king, — but Shake-
speare could alter that, and did so alter it as to give
only a more complete expression to the higher Hie
within Ids work. In " As You Like It " there aie
two discords to be brought to harmony. By his
alteration of the characters of Torismond and Geris-
mond, Shakespeare makes it in each case a discord
between brothers. Neither is ended by opposing
hate to hate ; but in one case the accord comes
through love to one's neighbour', and in the other case
through love to God.
At the opening of the play, Shakespeare strikes
firmly and clearly one of the notes of discord : Orlando
tells the faithful servant of the house (old Adam) of
his brother's hardness towards him : " He lets me
feed with his hinds, bars me the place of a brother,
and as much as in him lies, mines my gentility with
his education." Oliver then enters, and the discord
is shown in action. One is, in anger, at the other's
throat, when the old servant ci-ies, " Sweet mastei-s,
be patient ; for your father's lemembrance, be at
accoid." Oliver spurns the old servant as " ol<l dog."
" Is old dog my reward 1 Most true, I have lost my
teeth in your service. God be with my old master !
he would not have spoke such a word." Oliver, left
alone, calls for Charles, the duke's wrestler, who had
been seeking him. The first woids of the dialogue
between them open the stoi'y of the other discord :
" There's no news at the court, sir, but the old news ;"
that is, the old duke is banished by his younger
brother, the new duke ; and the old duke, with three
or four loving lords, whose confiscated lamls enrich
the new duke, are in the forest of Arden, where
" they live like the old Robin Hood of England :
they say many young gentlemen flock to him eveiy
day, and fleet the time carelessly, as they did in
the golden world." But Rosalind, the old duke's
davighter, is not banished with her father, because
Celia, " the duke's daughter, her cousin, so loves her
— being ever from theii- cradles bred together — that
she would have followed her exile, or have died to
stay behind her." With words of preparation for
the action that sets forth the other discord, there is
already a touch of the music that will run along witii.
it ; for the story of two hatreds conquered is to wind
its way through exquisite suggestions of all forms of
human tenderness and love, of maiden to maiden and
of man to maid ; of comrade to comrade ; servant to
master, and youth's care of age ; with human natiu'e
rising high above the accidents of foitune. After
brief j)reparation for the scene to follow, in which
he will take up the second thread of the story,
Shakespeare shows the strong wrestler seeking Oliver
that he may warn him to keeji his brother Orlando
from to-morrow's wrestling, because " to-morrow, sir,
I wrestle for my credit, and he that escapes me with-
out some broken limb shall acquit him well." In
the spirit of hate Oliver answers : —
I had as lief thou didst break his neck as his finger. And
thou wert best look to 't ; for if thou dost him any slight
disgrace, or if he do not mightily grace himself on thee, he
will practise against thee by poison, entrap thee by some
treacherous device, and never leave thee till he hath ta'en thy
TOA.D. 1600.]
PLATS.
life by some indirect means or other ; for, I assure thee, and
almost -with tears I speak it, there is not one so youn" and so
villanous this day living. I speak but brotherly of him;
but should I anatomize him to thee as he is, I must blush
and weep, and thou must look pale and wonder.
Cha. I am heartily glad I came hither to you. If he
come to-morrow, I'U give him his payment : if ever he go
alone again, I'U never wrestle for prize more : and so, God
keep your worship !
Oli. Farewell, good Charles. [Exit CAarles-l Now wiU
I stir this gamester : I hope I shall see an end of him ; for
my soul, yet I know not why, hates nothing more than he.
Yet he's gentle, never schooled and yet learned, full of noble
device, of all sorts enchantingly beloved, and indeed so much
in the heart of the world, and especially of my own people,
who best know him, that I am altogether misprised : but it
shall not be so long ; this wrestler shall clear all : nothing
remains but that I kindle the boy thither ; which now I'U go
about. [Exit.
The tree character of Orlando in the mind here
follows the false one on the lip. In Shakespeare, a
soliloquy, or an aside, means the unspoken thought
which is communicated to the reader or spectator of
a play more simply than by the ponderous fashion of
French classical tragedy. Tliat gives each hero and
heroine a confidential friend who exists only to biing
out, for the benefit of spectatoi-s credited with no
imagination, and for the distress of those who have,
the knowledge of secret thoughts which every good
English flramatist, in his asides and soliloquies,
flashes upon us worthOy, by crediting our wits with
power to grant that now and again we are in the
recesses of a mind, and hear it thinking to itself.
From this first pictme of a brother's hate we pass
to the companion picture, tlnough a scene of love
between maiden and maiden, with a suggestion — that
runs through the play — of hiiman Nature as above
the accidents of human Fortime. At once, in the
dialogue between Celia and Rosalind, the character
of Celia Ls marked. Thi'oughout the play she lives
more in others than hei-self, is tenderly self-forgetful,
with a young enthusiasm at the heart of all her
actions. Her first words are of endeavoiu' to cheer
the spirit of her friend.
Enter Celia and E0S.U.ISD.
Cel. I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry.
Xoa. Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mistress of;
and would you yet I were merrier ? Unless you could teach
me to forget a banished father, you must not learn me how
to remember any extraordinary pleasure.
Cel. Herein I see thou lovest me not with the fuU weight
that I love thee. If my uncle, thy banished father, had
banished thy uncle, the duke my father, so thou hadst been
stUl with me, I could have taught my love to take thy father
for mine: so wouldst thou, if the truth of thy love to me
were so righteously tempered as mine is to thee.
£os. WeU, I wiU forget the condition of my estate, to
rejoice in yours.
Cel. You know my father hath no child but I, nor none is
like to have : and, truly, when he dies, thou shalt be his
heir, for what he hath taken away from thy father perforce,
I wUl render thee again in affection ; by mine honour, I will ;
and when I break that oath, let me turn monster : therefore,
my sweet Rose, my dear Rose, be merrj-.
142 "
169
Jios. From henceforth I wUl, coz, and devise sports Let
me see ; what think you of faUing in love ?
Cel. Marry, I prithee, do, to make sport withal : but love
no man m good earnest ; nor no further in sport neither than
with safety of a pure blush thou mavst in honour come off
agam.
Hos. What shaU be our sport, then ?
Cel. Let us sit and mock the good housewife Fortune
from her wheel, that her gifts may henceforth be bestowed
equaUy.
Jios. I would we could do so, for her beneBts are mio-htUv
misplaced, and the bountiful bUnd woman doth most mistake
in her gifts to women.
Cel. 'Tis true ; for those that she makes fair she scarce
makes honest, and those that she makes honest she make;
very Ul-favouredly.
JJo». Xay, now thou goest from Fortune's office to
Nature's : Fortune reigns in gifts of the worid, not in the
lineaments of Nature.
Throughout this scene, in the dialogue with Touch-
stone and Le Beau, the courtier, who comes to bid
them to the -nTestling, and tells of the crael eflect of
the coiu-t westler's strength. Celia is exerting herself
visibly to keep Eosalind merry. "VMien the wrestlers
come, and young Orlando is culled to the ladies,
Celia is fii-st in urging him to avoid encounter with
the man of whose strength he has seen eniel proof
Dui-ing the wrestling, her quick euthusia.sm has the
liveliest expression in an active \\-ish to helj). " Now
Hercules be thy speed, young man," says Rosalind.
Says Celia, " I would I were in^^sible, to aitch the
strong fellow by the leg." When Orlando is showing
his strength in the ^^Testle, " O excellent yoimg man,"
says Rosalind. Says CeUa, " If I hud a thunderbolt
in mine eye, I can tell who shoidd doAvn." Charles
is thrown, and the spii-it of hate in Duke Frederick
turns liim away from Orlando, who is found to be the
younger son of Sii- Rowland de Bois, an old friend to
the banished duke. Duke Frederick leaves him
coldly with the words —
Thou shouldst have better pleased me with this deed,
Hadst thou descended from another house.
But fare thee weU ; thou art a gallant youth :
I would thou hadst told me of another father.
The first word of strong feeling upon this injustice
comes from Celia's enthusiastic spirit, with the cry,
"Were I my father, coz, could I do this!" In
Orlando, warm love for his father is the feeling
roused by the slight to his memory. In Rosalind,
love at fii-st sight is aided when, to the pity and
admiration stirred by him, there succeeds at once
the knowledge that Orlando is of gentle birth, and
son to one who was her father's dearest friend.
My father loved Sir Rowland as his soul.
And all the world was of my father's mind :
Had I before known this young man his son,
I should have given him tears unto entreaties,
Ere he should thus have ventured.
Celia's quick enthusiasm in the interests of others
prompts her at once to active kindness.
170
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1598
Qgl Gentle cousin,
Let us go thank him and encourage him :
My father's rough and envious disposition
Sticks me at heart. Sir, you have well deserved :
If you do keep your promises in love
But justly, as you have exceeded all promise,
Your mistress shall be happy.
jj^s. Gentleman,
[Givinff Aim a chain from her neck.
Wear this for me, one out of suits with fortune.
That could give more, but that her hand lacks means.
Shall we go, coz 'i
Cel. Ay. Fare you well, fair gentleman.
Orl. Can I not say, I thank you ':■ 3Iy better parts
Are all thrown down, and that which here stands up
Is but a quintain,' a mere lifeless block.
Ros. He caUs us back : my pride fell with my fortunes ;
I'll ask him what he would. Did you call, sir- ':
Sir, you have \vrestled well and overthrown
More than your enemies.
Cel. Will you go, coz ?
Ros. Have with you. Fare you well.
lExeunt Uos.a.lind and C'eli.v.
Orl. WTiat passion hangs these weights upon my tongue ':
I cannot speak to her, yet she urged conference.
poor Orlando, thou art overthrown 1
Or Charles or something weaker masters thee.
Re-enter Le Beau.
Le Scan. Good sir, I do in friendship counsel you
To leave this place. Albeit you have deserved
High commendation, true applause and love.
Yet such is now the duke's condition
That he misconstrues all that you have done.
The duke is humorous : what he is indeed,
More suits you to conceive than I to speak of.
Or/. I thank you, sir : and, pray you, tell me this ;
Which of the two was daughter of the duke
That here was at the wrestling ?
Zc lienii. Neither his daughter, if we judge by manners :
But yet indeed the lesser is his daughter :
The other is daughter to the banished duke,
And here detained by her u.surping uncle.
To keep his daughter company ; whose loves
Are dearer than the natural bond of sisters.
But I can tell you th.at of late this duke
Hath ta'en displeasure 'gainst his gentle niece,
Grounded upon no other argument
But that the people praise her for her virtues
And pity her for her good father's sake ;
And, on my life, his malice 'gainst the lady
Will suddenly break forth. Sir, fare you well :
Hereafter, in a better world than this,
1 shall desire more love and knowledge of you.
Orl. I rest much bounden to you : fare you well.
[E.rit Le Beai".
' Quintain. " The quintain originally was nothing more than the
trunk of a tree or post, set up for the practice of the tyros in chivalry.
Afterward a staff or spear was fixed in the earth, and a shield, beinij
hung upon it, was the mark to strike at: the dexterity of the
performer consisted in smiting the shield in such a manner as to break
the ligatures, and bear it to the sjround. In process of time this
diversion was improved, and instead of the staff and shield, the
resemblance of a human figure, carved in wood, was introduced."
(Strutt's " Sports and Pastimes.") The figure became a Saracen with
1 club or wooden sword, and was made to tiuTi easily on a pivot, so
that if not struck in the middle it swung round and hit the horseman
on the back, unless he escaped by his agility.
Thus must I from the smoke into the smother ;
From tyrant duke unto a tyrant brother :
But heavenly Eosalind ! -
[Exit.
Through the loving natures of Celia and Rosalind,
we pass to the next striking of the note of dLscord.
Celia is still giving all thought to her friend, none to
herself, when the Duke Frederick, entering to them,
as she promptly observes, " with his eyes full of
anger," harshly banishes Rosalind. Celia pleads
for her, first with the natural love for her ftither
joined in the jJeading ; but when that is met with the
suggestion to her of selfish motives that have no place
in her nature, the quick enthusiastic spirit rises, and
she loses herself in her friend. Without a thought
of herself in the matter, she sacrifices home, wealth,
ever}' worldly advantage, gives herself all to Rosalind,
and is the first to suggest that they go together to
.seek her friend's father in the forest of Arden. AVhen
Rosalind, raised to cheerfulness by Celia's generous
aflection, proposes taking Touchstone with them,
there is indication of character in the suggestion of
the strong affection of the fool for Celia — " He'll go
along o'er the wide world with me;" and the last
words of the First Act are, like the first words, full of
Celia's firm endeavour to bring cheerful thoughts to
her friend's mind. Thus the act closes : —
Cel. Dear sovereign, hear me speak.
Utile F. Ay, Celia ; we stay'd her for your sake,
Else had she with her father ranged along.
Cel. I did not then entreat to have her stay ;
It was your pleasure and your own remorse :
I was too young that time to value her ;
But now I know her : if she be a traitor,
WTiy so am I ; we stiU have slept together.
Rose at an instant, learned, played, eat togethei".
And whereso'er we went, like Juno's swans.
Still we went coupled and inseparable.
Dnkc F. She is too subtle for thee ; and her smoothness.
Her very silence and her patience
Speak to the people, and they pity her.
Thou art a fool : she robs thee of thy name :
And thou wilt show more 'bright and seem more virtuous
When she is gone. Then open not thy Ups :
Finn and irrevocable is my doom
Which I have passed upon her ; she is banished.
Cel, Pronounce that sentence then on me, my liege :
I cannot live out of her company.
Jiiilce F. You are a fool. You, niece, provide yourself :
If you outstay the time, upon mine honoiu'.
And in the gi-eatness of my word, you die.
[Exctint Duke Fiiederick rnul Lords.
Cel. O my poor Eosalind, whither wilt thou go ?
2 The critics who undertake to coiTect Shakespeare should think
before they speak. One of them has rashly remarked that " Orlando's
rapturous exclamation, ' O heavenly Eosalind ! * comes in rather oddly.
His familiarity with her name, which has not been mentioned in his
presence, is certainly not quite consistent with his m-aking the inquiry
of Le Beau, which showed that up to that time he had known nothing"
about her." Orlando's inquiry of Le Beau showed nothing of the
kinrl. It implied the contrary. He asked only which was which.
Knowing as matter of course the names of the two Dukes* daughters,
but not having been in their presence, he wished to know which of
the two had made him hers. Le Beau's answer is in the character
of a kindly courtier who is not quick-witted, and prepares the mind
for the next scene.
TO A.D. 1600.]
PLAYS.
17)
Wilt thou change fathers ? I -will give thee mine.
I charge thee, be not thou more grieved than I am.
Mos. I have more cause.
Cel. Thou hast not, cousin ;
Prithee, he cheerful : know'st thou not, the duke
Hath hanished me, his daughter ?
£os. That he hath not.
Ce/. No, hath not ? Rosalind lacks then the love
Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one ;
ShaU we be sundered ? shall we part, sweet girl ?
Xo : let my father seek another heir.
Therefore devise with me how we may fly,
Whither to go and what to bear with us ;
And do not seek to take your change upon you.
To bear your griefs yourself and leave me out;
For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale,
Say what thou canst, I'll go along with thee.
Sos. Wh)"-, whither shall we go ?
Cel. To seek my uncle in the forest of Arden.
Sos. Alas, what danger will it be to us,
Maids as we are, to travel forth so far !
Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.
Cel. I'll put myself in poor and mean attire.
And with a kind of umber smirch my face ;
The like do you : so shall we pass along
And never stu- assailants.
Sos. Were it not better.
Because that I am more than common taU,
That I did suit me all points like a man •'
A gallant curtle-axe upon iny thigh,
A boar-spear in my hand ; and — in my heart
Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will —
We'U have a swashing and a martial outside,
As mauj' other mannish cowards liave
That do outface it with their semblances.
Cel. What shall I call thee when thou art a man ?
Sos. I'll have no worse a name than Jove's own page ;
And therefore look you call me Ganymede.
But what will you be call'd ?
Cel. Something that hath a reference to my state ;
No longer CeUa, but Aliena.
Sos. But, cousin, what if we assay'd to steal
The clownish fool out of youi- father's court ?
Would he not be a comfort to our travel Y
Cel. He'll go along o'er the wide world with me;
Leave me alone to woo him. Let's away,
And get our jewels and our wealth together.
Devise the fittest time and safest way
To hide us from pursuit that will be made
After my flight. Now go we in content
To liberty and not to banishment.
The Fir.st Act tliiis ends with Celia and Rosalind
bound for the forest of Arden. Tlie Second Act
opens under the trees of the forest, vv'ith the banished
Duke and his companions. They have witlidrawn
from the ill life of the world, and find truth in the
lineaments of nature, even though it ))e sought only
in nature's lowest forms. Of the winter's wind, says
the Duke —
When it bites and blows upon my body,"
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say,
" This is no flattery : these are coimsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am."
Sweet are the uses of adversity.
Which, Uke the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head :
And this our life exempt from pubUc haunt
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brocks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everj-tliing.
With this spirit cf tr.3 Duke's is then conti-a-sted
that ot the melanchoiy Jaques, who can find good in
nothmg. The Duke pities the deer they hunt as
native burghers of the wood ; and Ja^ijues, says a
lord, was last seen moralising on a stricken deer,
abandoned of his friends, and drawing matter from
the sight for censure on humanity at large, with a
clause for the including of his own companions.
"•^y." quoth Jaques,
" Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;
'Tis just the fashion : wherefore do you look
Upon that poor and broken banki-upt there ':"
Thus most invectively he picrceth through
The body of the country, city, court,
Yea, and ot this our life : swearing that we
Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's more.
To fright the animals, and to kill them up.
In their assigned and native dwelling-place.
We turn back from the fore.st to the com-t for a
swift carrying on of the tale of discord. Celia and
Rosalind are missed ; Touchstone, the fool, is their
poor follower ; and it is suggested to the younger
Duke that Orlando may have gone with them.
Upon that hint, cries Duke Frederick —
Send to his brother ; fetch that gallant hither :
If he be absent, bring his brother to me ;
I'll make him find him : do this suddenly ;
And let not search and inquisition quail
To bring again these fooUsh runaways.
But at Oliver's house Orlando will not l>e found
by Duke Frederick's messengei-s, because the spirit
of hate has there broken the bonds of nature ; and
warned by the old servant, Adam, of his brother's
design to burn the house over his head or otherwise
destroy him, Orlando also turns his back on home to
seek the forest. But the .scene that strikes thus
powerfully the note of one of the two discords to be
brought into accord, places it in immediate contact
•svith a strain of perfect harmony, in suggestion of a
wholesome human life, of age winning reverence
through no gifts of tlie world in which Fortune
reigns, but by fidelity to the true lineaments of
Nature. There is a well-supported tradition that
Shakespeare himself acted the part of Adam.
Before Oliver's house.
Enter OuL.ixno and Adam, meeting.
Orl. 'Who's there?
Adam. What, my young master 'r my gentle master!
my sweet master ! you memorj-
Of old Sir Rowland ! why, what make you here?
"SVTiy are you virtuous ? why do people love you ? ^
And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant ?
■Why would you be so fond to overcome
The bonny priser of the humorous duke ?
CASSELL'S LIBRAEY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d, 1598
5four praise is come too swiftly home tefore you.
E^ow you not, master, to some kind of men
Their graces serve them but as enemies f
No more do yours : your virtues, gentle master.
Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.
Oh, what a world is this, when what is comely
Envenoms him that boars it !
Orl. Why, what's the matter ?
Adam. O unhappy youth !
Come not w4thin these doors ; within this roof
The enemy of all your graces lives :
Your brother — no, no brother ; yet the son —
Yet not the son, I will not call him son
Of him I was about to call his father —
Hath heard your praises, and this night he means
To bum the lodging where you use to lie
And )"ou within it ; if he fail of that.
He will have other means to cut you off.
I overheard him and his practices.
This is no place ; this house is but a butchery :
Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.
Orl. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go ?
Adam. No matter whither, so you come not here.
Orl. What, wouldst thou have me go and beg my food f
Or with a base and boisterous sword enforce
A thierish living on the common road ':
This I must do, or know not what to do :
Yet this I 'will not do, do how I can :
I rather will subject me to the malice
Of a diverted blood and bloody brother.
Adam. But do not so. I have five hundi-ed crowns,
The thrifty hire I saved under your father,
Which I did store to be my foster-nurse
When service should in my old limbs lie lame
And um-egarded age in comers thrown :
Take that, and He that doth the ravens feed.
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,
Be comfort to my age ! Here is the gold ;
All this I give j-ou. Let me be your servant :
Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty :
For in my youth I never did apply
Hot and rebellious liquors to my blood.
Nor did not with unbashf ul forehead woo
The means of weakness and debility ;
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,
Frosty, but kindly : let me go with you ;
I'll do the service of a younger man
In all your business and necessities.
Orl. good old man, how well in thee appears
The constant service of the antique world,
■When service sweat for duty, not for meed !
Thou art not for the fashion of these times.
Where none will sweat but for promotion.
And having that, do choke their sen-ice up
Even with the having : it is not so with thee.
But, poor old man, thou prunest a rotten tree,
That cannot so much as a blossom yield
In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry.
But come thy ways ; we'll go along together,
And ere we have thy youthful wages spent,
We'll light upon some settled low content.
Adam. Master, go on, and I will follow thee,
To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty.
From seventeen years till now almost fourscore
Here lived I, but now live here no more.
At seventeen years many their fortunes seek •
But at fourscore it is too late a week:
Yet fortune cannot recompense me better
Than to die well and not my master's debtor. \_Exeunt.
In the wood to which old Adam (in whom constant
service is one of the ways of human fellowship and
fi-iendship, not the cold performance of a money
contract) follows the young Orlando, we are next
shown Celia and Rosalind arrived with Touchstone ;
Celia dressed as a shepherdess ; Rosalind as a youth.
They hear the love-lorn shepherd, Sih-ius, tell old
Corin of liis passion. The plaint of Silvius suggests
to Rosalind that " this shepherd's passion is much
upon my fashion." But Celia, throughout the scene,
is fjxint with travel and fasting. The sight of the old
shepherd suggests to her that he may show the way
to food and rest. In character of brother, Rosalind,
more vigorous of frame, speaks for her.
Bos. I prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold
Can in this desert place buy entertainment,
Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed :
Here's a young maid with travel much oppressed
And faints for succour.
Cor. Fail' sir, 1 pity her
And wish, for her sake more than for mine own,
My fortunes were more able to relieve her ;
But I am shepherd to another man
And do not shear the fleeces that I graze :
My master is of churlish disposition.
And little recks to find the way to heaven
By doing deeds of hospitality- :
Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed
Are now on sale, and at our sheepcote now,
By reason of his absence, there is nothing
That you will feed on : but what is, come see.
And in mj- voice most welcome shall you be.
lios. What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture '■
Cor. That young swain that you saw here but erewhile.
That little cares for bu^-ing anything.
Has. I pray thee, if it stand with honesty,
Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock,
And thou shalt have to pay for it of us.
Cel. And we will mend thy wages. I like this place,
And willingly could waste my time in it.
Observe there in the faint and weary Celia the
characteristic readmess to send her spu'it out in.
kindliness to those about her. For the shepherd,
"We will mend thy wages;" for Rosalind, hearty
words that shut out suggestion of the pain she feels,
or of the sacrifice .she makes by choice in sharing her
cousin's enforced exile —
I like this place.
And willingly coidd waste my time in it.
The cousins are thus housed La the wood at the
"sheepcote, fenced aliout with olive trees ;" and we
turn again to the banished Duke's comjjanions, who-
sing of the sincerity of outward nature : —
tJnder the greenwood tree
'Who loves to lie with me.
And tui-n his merry note
Unto the sweet bii-d's throat.
TO A.B. IftO.l
PLAYS.
173
Come hither, come hither, come hither :
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
Here, too, is the melancholy Jaques, who seeks
more singing to feed his humour, which is discontent-
ment of an unwholesome nature, poetically presented
as foil to the healthier life with which he is brought
into contact. " My voice," says Amiens, " Ls ragged :
I know I cannot please you." " I do not desire you
to please me," he answers, " I desire you to sing.
Come, more ; another stanza ;" then contemptuously
adds, "Call you them stanzas]" Humour of dis-
content and empty contempt of life are in all else he
says, to the end of the scene, when he will go sleep
if he can : " If I cannot, I'll raU against all the first-
bom of Egy]it." Between this scene and the next
touches fi'om Jaques of idle contempt for lite, Shake-
speare places a pictui-e of youth's care for age, and
tender fellowship of old with young, in life according
truly with those liueament.s of nature which are far
more beautifid in soids of men than in trees, brooks,
and stones
Enter Orlando and Ad.im.
Adam. Dear master, I can go no further. Oh, I die for
food ! Here lie I down, and measure out my grave. Fare-
well, kind master.
Orl. Why, how now, Adam I no greater heart in thee r Lire
a little : comfort a little : cheer thyself a little. If this un-
couth forest yield any thing savage, I wUl either be food for
it or bring it for food to thee. Thy conceit is nearer death
than thy powers. For my sake be comfortable ; hold death
awhile at the arm's end : I will be here with thee presently ;
and if I bring thee not something tc eat, I will give thee
leave to die : but if thou diest before I come, thou art a
mocker of my labour. Well said ! thou lookest cheerly, and
I'll be with thee quickly. — Yet thou Uest in the bleak air :
come, I will bear thee to some shelter ; and thou shalt not
die for lack of a dinner, if there live any thing in this desert.
Cheerly, good Adam I {Exeunt.
From the health}' minds we are taken back to the
sick mind. Jaques Ls happy in having met with
Touchstone, happy in having met with him because
he was a fool, " and raUed on Lady Fortune in set
terms." He woidd be a fool himself if his office gave
him fidJest liljerty to rail.
I must have liberty
Withal, as large a charter as the wind,
To blow on whom I please ; for so fools have :
And they that are most galled with my folly,
rhey must most laugh.
Then Shakespeare gives us — with a glance at the
past life of Jaques — clearest indication of the sort of
nature that breeds this sick humour of contempt.
Says Jaques :
Give me leave
To speak my mind, and I will through and through
Cleanse the foul body of the infected world,
If they will patiently receive my medicine.
Ditiie. Fie on thee 1 I can tell thee what thou wonldst do.
Jaques. What, for a counter, would I do but good r
Buke. Most mischievous foul sin in chiding sin :
For thou thyself hast been a Ubertine,
As sensual as the brutish sting itself ;
And all the embossed sores, and headed evils
That thou with license of free foot hast caught
Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.
There is another touch to show what his real place
in hfe has been ; the sick nature of Jatiues Ls brought,
m the fii-st scene of the Fourth Act, mto relation with
the healthy nature of Eosalind. He ha-s done no
work in the world. "He loves melancholy," he
says, "better than laughing." Rosalind tells him,
" Tho.se that are in extremity of either are alwminable
fellows, and betray themselves to every modern
censure woi-se than di-unkards." He has Vjeen made
sad, he says, by the sundry contemplation of his
travels. Rosalind answers :
A traveller \ by my faith you have great reason to be sad
I fear you have sold your own lands to see other men's :
then to have seen much and to have nothing, is to have rich
eyes and poor hands.
Jaques. Yes, I have gained my experience.
Roa. And your experience makes you sad : I had rather
have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me
sad ; and to travel for it too 1
In another .scene Jaques is brought into relation
with the healthy nature of Orlando, and gets the
soundest answer to his sick suggestion of a railing-
match.
Jaq. You have a nimble wit: I think 'twas made of
Atalanta's heels. Will you sit down with me ': and we two
will rail against our mistress the World, and all our misery.
Orl. I will chide no breather in the world but myself,
against whom I know most fault.
Throughout the play, this hiunour of Jaques, re-
fined into a tone that does not jar too harshly uix>n
the music in which it is set, is an under-suggestion
of the false note in the harmonies of hfe. and it is
used invariably as an artist's foil to the true. Into
the midst of contempt for the world uttered by
Jaques, comes Orlando seeking food for his old com-
panion, and the heart is filled ■n-ith suggestion of
human sympathies in a true life of man. far other
than that upon which Jaques feeds his fancy.
Enter Orlasdo, with his sword drawn.
Orl. Forbear, and eat no more.
jgg Why, I have eat none yet
Orl. Xor shalt not, till necessity be served.
Jaq. Of what kind should this cock come of f
J)«fo S. Art thou thus boldend. man, by thy distress.
Or else a rude despiser of good manners,
That in civility thou seem'st so empty ?
Orl. You touched my vein at first : the thorny point
Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show
Of smooth ci\-ility : yet am I inland bred
And know some nurture. But forbear, I say :
He dies that touches any of this fruit
Till I and mv affairs are answered.
J'-q. An ycu will not be answered with reason, I must die.
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CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1598
Duke S. What would you have ? Your gentleness shall
force
More than your force move us to gentleness.
Orl. I almost die for food ; and let me have it.
Duke S. Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.
Orl. Speak you so gently ? Pardon me, I pray you :
I thought that all things had boon savage here ;
And therefore put I on the countenance
Of stem commandment. But whate'er you are
That in this desert inaccessible,
Under the shade of melancholy boughs.
Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time ;
If ever you have look'd on better days,
If ever been whei-o bells have knoU'd to church.
sliip of life. The Duke notes, in sympatliy, that he
and his companions are not the only sufferers ; and
Jaques then runs into a version of the several stages
of life, according to the old division of life into seven
ages ; but his version is one that follovi's man with
a contempt characteristic of the speaker, from the
cradle to the gi-ave. And this passage, meant by the
poet to display the sick nature of Jaques, is picked
out of its context, again and again, for quotation,
as Shakespeare's " Seven Ages of Man." Surely
Shakespeai-e was the last man in all literature to
see in infancy but the " mewling and puking," in
the boy " whining," in youth the folly of love, in
yTRATFORD CHURCH.
If ever sat at any good man's feast,
If ever from your eyelid.s wiped a tear
And know what 'tis to pity and be pitied,
Let gentleness my strong enforcement bo :
In the which hope I blush, and hide my sword.
Duke S. True is it that we have seen better days,
And have with holy boll been knoll'd to church.
And Silt at good men's feasts, and wiped our eyes
Of drops that sacred pity hath cngender'd :
And therefore sit you down in gentleness
And take upon command what help we have
That to your wanting may be ministered.
Orl. Then but forbear your food a little while,
"Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn
And give it food. There is an old poor man,
Who after me hath many a weary step
Limped in pure love : till ho be first sufficed.
Oppressed with two weak evils, age and hunger,
I wUl not touch a bit.
^'ike S. Go find him out,
And we will nothing waste till you return.
Orl. I thank ye ; and be blest for your good comfort I
[IJxit.
Then comes again, to comjilete the settmg of this
incident, the foil of the scornful spirit ; none the less
there for the fine touch with which it is presented by
the poet who beyond all others felt the kindly fellow-
early manhood quarrelling and swearing, in maturer
age guzzling and prosiness, in age the " lean and
slippered pantaloon," and, for the last scene, helpless
wi-etchedness. Upon the false note of the sick
imagination comes immediately the truth of life in
action ; the venerable burden of old age and the
strength of manhood appear far other than in the
scornful picture of them, when Orlando enters bearing
the old servant on his back.
Ja//. All the world's a stage.
And all the men and women merely players :
They have their c.vits and their entrances ;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
JIade to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier.
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard.
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined.
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances ;
TO A.D. 1600.]
PLAYS.
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank ; and his hig manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all.
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion.
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
Re-enter Orlando, xcith Adam.
Duke S. Welcome. Set down your venerable burden.
And let him feed.
Orl. I thank you most for him.
Adam. So had you need :
I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.
Bake S. Welcome ; fall to : I will not trouble you
As yet, to question you about your fortunes.
Givi! us some music ; and, good cousin, sing.
Song.
Ami. Blow, blow, thou winter wind.
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude ;
Thy tooth is not so keen.
Because thou art not seen.
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho ! sing, heigh-ho ! unto the green holly :
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly :
Then, heigh-ho, the hoUy !
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
Thou dost not bite so nigli
As benefits forgot :
Though thou the waters warp.
Thy sting is not so sharj)
As friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho ! sing, etc.
I)u^e S. If that you were the good Sir Rowland's son.
As you have whisper'd faithfully you were.
And as mine eye doth his effigies witness
Most truly limned and living in your face.
Be truly welcomed hither : I am the duke
That loved your father : the residue of your fortune.
Go to my cave and tell me. Good old man.
Thou art right welcome as thy master is.
Support him by the arm. Give me your hand,
And lot me all your fortunes understand. \Exenrit.
The Act thus ends with a suggestive gi-oup, of men
unequal in tlie gifts of fortune joined in fellowship
that follows the true lineaments of nature.
The Third Act opens with continuance of the dis-
cords to the point that precedes their transfonnation
into harmony : —
Enter Duke Frederick, Oliver, Lords ami Attendants.
Buhe F. Not see him since ? Sir, sir, that cannot be :
But were I not the better part made mercy,
I should not seek an absent argument
Of my revenge, thou present. But look to it ;
Find out thy brother, wheresoe'er he is ;
Seek him with candle ; bring him dead or living
Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more
To seek a livir.g in our territory.
push him out of doors;
Thy lands and all things that thou dost caU thine
Worth seizm-e do we seize into our hands.
Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother's' mouth
Of what we think against thee.
on. Oh that your highness knew mv heart in thi*,'
I never loved my brother in my life.
Bake F. Jlore vQlain thou. Well,
And let my officers of such a nature-
Make an extent upon his house and lands :
Do this expediently and turn him going. " [Exeiml.
The rest is all love with no other foU to it than
the daintily -tempered note of discontent from melan-
choly Jaques. Orlando jileases his young fancy by
hanging verse in praise of Rosalind u])on the tree.s.
Touchstone contrasts aii-s of the court with the
shepherd's life, and finds the lineaments of Nature
as little bettered by civet— the very uncleanly flux of
a cat — as by the tar which .scents the shepliei-d after
surgery of sheep ; and C'orin's simjile descri]jtion of
himself as "a true labourer," is true of all men,
whatever the conventional esteem in which their
form of labour may be held. "Su-, I am a tnie
labourer : I earn that I eat, get that I wear, owe no
man hate, envy no man's happiness, glad of other
men's good, content with my hai-m, and the greatest
of my pride is to see my ewes gi-aze, and my lambs
suck." When Rosalind and C'elia presently enter,
each with verses of Orlando's taken from" a tree,
C'elia has seen Orlando himself, and after kindly
driving away of the two curious clowns, tells what
she has seen, and calls uji all the woman in Rosalind,
beginning at the instinctive thought, "Alas the day!
what shall I do with my doublet and hose ? " Then
they both see imseen Orlando in dialogue with
Jaques, who in vain tempts him to railing, and
wins from him that honest uttenuice of healthy life
ah-eady quoted, " I \vill chide no breather in the
world but myself, against whom I know most faults."
When Celia and Rosalind come forward, there begins
the delicate play of young fancies and yoiuig loves
that recalls Rosalind's comment upon Touchstone's
philosophy when he matched the love })assion of
Silvius ^vith a burlesque of his o\\7i, and .said, " We
that are true lovers run into strange capei-s : but as
all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love moi-tal
in folly." "Thou speakest," said Rosalind, "wiser
than thou art ware of" The mortal jiart of young
love in its playful fancies and follies is now delicately
blended with its imperishable essence in scenes of
delightful fellowship. Rosalind as the boy Gan\nnede
wll cure Orlando of his folly by reeei\ing him a.s
Rosalind, and training him through a mock court-
ship that \vill satisfy her ear and heart with a reality.
whUe setting her wits free to play upon his fancy.
He had driven a suitor once, said Ganymede, " from
liis mad humour of love to a loving humour of mad-
ness, which was to forswear the full stream of the
world." Touchstone pays a court clown's distin-
guished attentions to the rustic Audrey, and Jaques
uiterferes only to mar and delay his wootlland
weddinc by suggestions of discontent. Then follow
cross purposes of love between Silvius .and the dis
dainful Phebe, who, ha\-ing become enamoured of
disdainful Ganymede, finds might in the saw of the
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CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1598
dead shepherd, " Who ever loved that loved not at
first sight 1 "
The Fourth Act brings one discord to its close, and
j)repares all for the jierfect harmony in which the
play will end. The false note of Jaques is lightly
struck in contact with the music of young hearts in
loving sport. Orlando leaves Rosalind that he may
attend the Duke at dinner. In two hours he will
return. "How say you now," says Rosalind pre-
sently. " Is it not past two o'clock 'I and here much
Orlando." But the reason of the delay is told as the
act closes.
Enter Oliver.
Oli. Good morrow, fair ones ; pray you, if you know,
Where in the purlieus of this forest stands
■ A sheep-cote fenced about with olive trees ?
Cel. West of this place, down in the neighbour bottom :
The rank of osiers by the mui-muring stream
Left on your right hand brings you to the place.
But at this hour- the house doth keep itself ;
There's none within.
Oli. If that au eye may profit by a tongue.
Then should I know you by description ;
Such garments and such years : ' ' The boy is fair.
Of female favour, and bestows himself
Like a ripe sister : the woman low
And browner than her brother." Are not you
The owner of the house I did cnc^uire for ?
Cel. It is no boast, being ask'd, to say we are.
Oli. (Jrlando doth commend him to you both,
And to that youth he calls his Rosalind
He sends this bloody napkin. Are you he ?
Jios. I am : what must we understand by this ?
Oli. Some of my shame ; if you will know of me
What man I am, and how, and why, and where
This handkercher was stain'd.
Cel. I pray you, tell it.
Oli. When last the young Orlando parted from you
He left a promise to return again
AVithin an hour, and pacing through the forest.
Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy,
Lo, what befell ! he threw his eye aside,
And mark what object did present itself :
Under an oak, whose boughs were moss'd with age
And high top bald with dry antiquity,
A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair,
Lay sleeping on his back : about his neck
A green and gilded snake had wreathed itself,
Who with her head nimble in threats approach'd
The opening of his mouth ; but suddenly,
Seeing t)rlaudo, it unlinked itself.
And mth indented glides did slip away
Into a bush : under which bush's shade
A lioness, with udders all drawn dry.
Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch,
When that th(! sleeping man should stir ; for 'tis
The royal disposition of that beast
To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead :
This seen, Orlando did approach the man
And found it was his brother, his elder brother.
Cel. Oh, I have heard him speak of that same brother ;
And he did render him the most unnatural
That lived amongst men.
Oli. And well he might so do,
For well I know he was unnatural.
Eos. But, to Orlando : did he leave him there,
Food to the suck'd and hungry lioness P
Oli. Twice did he turn his back and purposed so ;
But kindness, nobler ever than revenge.
And nature, stronger than his just occasion,
JIade him give battle to the lioness,
Who quickly fell before him ; in which hurtling
From miserable slumber I awaked.
Cel. Are you his brother ?
Jios. Was 't you he rescued ?
Cel. Was 't you that did so oft contrive to kill him ?
Oli. 'Twas I ; but 'tis not I : I do not shame
To tell you what I was, since my conversion
So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.
Jios. But, for the bloody napkin ?
Oli. By and by.
When fi'om the first to last betwixt us two
Tears oui- recouutments had most kindly bathed.
As how I came into that desert place : —
In brief, he led me to the gentle duke,
Who gave me fresh array and entertainment,
Committing me unto my brother's love ;
Who led me instantly unto his cave,
There stripp'd himself, and here upon his aim
The lioness had torn some flesh away,
AVhich all this while had bled ; and now he fainted
And cried, in fainting, upon Rosalind.
Brief, I recover' d him, bound up his woimd;
And, after some small space, being strong at heart,
He sent me hither, stranger as I am.
To ten this story, that you might excuse
His broken promise, and to give this napkin
Dyed in his blood unto the shepherd youth
That he in sport doth call his Rosalind. [Jiosalind swoons.
Cel. Why, how now, Ganymede ! sweet Ganymede 1
Oli. Jlany will swoon when they do look on blood.
Cel. There is more in it. Cou.sin Ganymede !
Oli. Look, he recovers.
Jios. I would I were at home.
Cel. We'll lead you thither.
1 pray you, will you take him by the arm ?
Oli. Be of good cheer, youth : you a man 1 you lack a
man's heart.
Jios. I do so, I confess it. Ah, sirrah, a body would think
this was well counterfeited ! I pray you, tell your brother
how well I counterfeited. Heigh-ho !
Oli. This was not counterfeit : there is too great testimony
in your complexion that it was a passion of earnest.
Jios. Counterfeit, I assm-e you.
Oli. Well then, take a good heart and counterfeit to be a
man.
Jios. So I do : but, i' faith, I should have been a woman
by right.
Cel. Come, you look paler and paler: pray you, draw
homewards. Good sir, go with us.
Oli. That will I, for I must bear answer back
How you excuse my brother, Rosalind.
Sos. I shall devise something : but, I pray you, commend
my counterfeiting to him. Will you go Y
Thus the feud between brother and brother is
overcome by overcoming every impulse to revenge
even of the most passive foim. Orlando had but to
pass by on the other side and leave a brother who
had cruelly planned his death to suffer a death that
awaited him, and from which he could be saved only . ]
by a risk of life on his behalf. Orlando perilled
TO A.D. 1601.]
PLAYS.
life in giving Isattle to the lioness, and was not
stitistied wtli merely saving from immediate death the
brother who had wronged him to the uttermost. He
delivered him out of all his troulile Ijy carrying him to
the Duke, .seeing him clothed and fed ; and until he
had done aU ser\-ice of love to his brother, he had no
thought for himself, or for his wound. It is charac-
teristic of Celia that her generous, impulsive natm-e
tU'aws her again out of herself to tender sympathy
wdth the rejjeutant Oliver. AMn to joy in heaven
over the repentant is the joy of such a mind as hers,
and he may well yield himself to the charm of her
generous sympathy. It is a welcome love, also, that
makes her indeed sister to Rosalind, by their mar-
riage with brothers, that enables her to hold Oliver
firm in his new spiiit of tenderness, and aid
<3rlando and Rosalind by securing to them their
home rights and the blessuig of inibroken brotherly
afl'ection.
The Fifth Act of " As You Like It " is a playful
.setting of the happiness of many loves, which causes
Jaques to exclaim, " There is, sure, another tlood
toward, and these couples are coming to the ark ; "
and brings HjTuen among them all with "stUl music,"
that in Shakespeare always re])resents the spiritual
harmony of life. -'lymen, who leads Rosalind in her
woman's ch-ess a' id Celia, is not, I think, meant by
Shakespeare to oe a person whom Rosalind has so
dressed, but a spirit whose visionary presence on the
scene accords hei-e with the fancy of the play, a spiiit
as near to an angel as the theme allows, to express
the purport of the angels' song : " Peace upon earth
and goodwill towards men." Abounding love has
brought something of heaven down to earth, and
Hymen's lii-st words are :
Then is there mirth in heaven
^VTien earthly things made even
Atone together.
The Act ends with the liealing of the second discord,
and thereby the restoration of the banished Duke
and his lords to then- proper work in life. As the
cure for one feud had been Love to One's Neighbour,
the cure for the other is made as distinctly Love to
God. The process of turning a man's heart to God
could not itself be shown as a dramatic scene. Shake-
speare wisely left the fact to be narrated briefly, but
distinctly, and employed the remaining son of old Sir
Rowland for no otlier purpose than to set it forth.
It should be observed, also, that the closing harmony
wins a passing recognition even from Jaques, whose
note is half attuned to it, though, true to his character,
he remains inactive when the rest all go back to their
duties.
Enter Jaqves de Bois.
Jaq. (h B, Let me have audience for a word or two :
I iim the second son of old Sir Rowland,
That brinn; these tidings to this fan- assembly.
Duke Frederick, hearing how tliat every day
5Ien of great worth resorted to this forest,
Address'd a mighty power ; which were on foot.
In his ov-Ti conduct, purposely to take
143
177
His brother here and put him to the sword :
And to the skii-ts of this wild wood he came ;
^\'^lere meeting with an old religious miin.
After some question with him, was convi-rtcd
Both from his enterprise and from the world ;
His crown bequeathing to his banish'd br...thei-,
.\nd all their lands restored to them again
That were with him exiled. This to be true
I do engage my Kfu.
-0"^« '^'- Welcome, young man ;
Thou offer' st fairly to thy brothers' wedding :
To one his lands withheld, and to the oth. r
A land itself at large, a potent dukedom.
First, in this forest let us do those ends
That here were well begmi and well begot :
And after, every of this happy number
That have endm-ed shrewd days and nights with us
Shall share the good of our returned fortuue,
According to the measure of their states.
Jleantime, forget this new-fallen dignity
And fall into our rustic revelry.
Play, music 1 And you, brides aud bridcgi-ooms all.
With measure heap'J in joy, to the measures fall.
Jaq. Su-, by your patience. If I heard you rightly,
The duke hath put on a religious life
And thi-own into neglect the pompous couit r
Jaq rie B. He hath.
Jaq. To him wiU I : out of these convertitcs
There is much matter to be heard and leani'd.
[To Diik('\ You to your former hoaom' I bequeath ;
Your patience and your virtue well deserves it :
\_To Orl.] Y'ou to a love that youi' true faith dotli merit :
[To 0/i.] Y'ou to your land and love and gi'eat allies:
[ To Si/. ] Y'ou to a long and well-deserved bed :
[To Touch.] .Ynd you to wrangling ; for thy loving voyage
Is but for two months victualled. 8o, to your pleasures :
I am for other than for dancing measures.
Dulce S. Stay, Jaques, stay.
Jaq. To see no pastime I : what you would have
I'll stay to know at your abandon'd cave. [lUU.
Luke S. Proceed, proceed : we will begin these rites,
As we do trust they'll end, in true delights. [A daiitt.
Arms giusted to SH.vKESPEiEK's Fathek, October lT, 1596.
(HciU'Ciurai'd Baltli.)
Wliile Shakespeare, iu the latter yeai's of the reign
of Elizabeth, was thus supreme among die diuinatists,
there was a group of younger men rising about him
178
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1589
who did not l_>egin to wi-ite theii- plays till the year
L596. In 1596 Ben Jousou's first comedy, " Every
Man in his Humour," was produced in its first
form, ^v^th the scene laid at Florence. Thomas Hey-
■wood, wlio became author of many plays, was, in
1.596, a young man ^vl•iting his firet pieces for the
players. Thomas Dekker produced his first play,
"Phaeton," in 1597. Thoma-s Middleton wrote with
William Rowley his first play, " The Old Law," in
1599. John Marston began writing plays about the
same time ; the first printed play of his, " Antonio
and Mellida," Wixs published in 160l'. There is no
record of Jolm Webster among the dramatists before
1601. Even George Chapman, a much older man
than these, did not begin to produce plays before
1596. The first two printed plays of his— " The
Blind Beggar of Alexandria" and "An Humorous
Day's Mirth "—appeared in 1598 and 1599. Thus
it may be said roughly that, as far as concerns writuig
of high mark, at the death of Marlowe in 1593 the
pm-ely Elizabethan dramati.sts who were the founders
of our drama had left the stage to Shakespeare.
Then after a few years a race of yoiuiger dramatists
began to spring into life, gi-ew vigorously, and became
the men who carried forward the Elizabethan energies
into the succeeding reigns. If we are to call every
dramatist Elizabethan who wi'ote, old or young,
under Elizabeth, we should distinguish those who
wrote under her only, as Elizabethan simply, in the
strict sense of the word. Those who began to write
under Elizabeth, and continued to "wi'ite under the
Stuarts, may be called Elizabethan, with that chief
word modified by the word Stuart, Stuart-Eliza-
bethan. If they wrote no plays under Elizabeth,
although they were born in lier reign, they are Stuart
dramatists, but may have that chief word modified
by the word Elizabethan, Elizabethan-Stuart. If
tliey were born and wrote mider the Stuarts, they
can only be called Stuart dramatists. Earlier or Later,
according to then- date : Earlier when they wrote
under James I. and Cliarles I. ; Later wlien they
wrote imder Charles II. and James II. The sub-
division is a natural one, and corresponds to well-
marked changes in the character of plays.
In 1589 died Richard Tarlton, of Condover, in
Shropshu'e, who was among the twelve players sworn
m 1583 as the queen's servants, of whom Stow
said in his "Amials," "Among these xii. players
were two rare men, vizt., Thomas Wilson for a
quicke, delicate, refined extemporall witte, and
Richard Tarlton, for a wondrous, plentifidl, pleiisant
extemporall wit, liee was the wonder of his time."
Thomas Fuller wrote also in his " Worthies of
England," " Oiu- Tarlton was master of his f^iculty.
Wlien Queen Elizabeth was serious, I dare not say
sullen, and out of good humour, he could v.vAvmpish
her at his j)leasure. Her higliest favourites would,
in some cases, go to Tarlton before they could go to
the queen, and he was their usher to prepare their
advantageous access unto her. In a word, he told
the queen more of her faults than most of her chap-
lains, and cm-ed her melancholy better than all of
her physicians. Much of his merriment lay m his
very looks and actions, according to the epitaph
written upon him : —
Hie situs est cujus poterat vo.x, actio, vultus,
E.X Heraclito reddere Democritum.'
Indeed, the self-same words, spoken by another,
would hardly move a merry man to smile, which
uttered by him would force a sad soul to laughter."
Richard Tarlton. [From an old wooicnt.)
Tarlton represented in its best form the clo^vn of
the Elizabethan stage, an embodiment of mii-th, ■svath
ready wit, by which he was expected to say more
than wa.s set down for him. A favourite property
of Tarlton's was a little drum ; so that in a book
on cock-fightuig, published in 1607, we read that
" no longer ago than the 4th day of May, 1602, at a
cock-fighting in the city of Norwich aforesaid, a cock
called Tarleton, who was so intituled because he
always came to the fight like a drummer, making a
mighty noise with his \vings." The roll ot Tarlton's
drum before his entrance on the stage, prepared the
audience for laughter, and doubtless would set many
laughing in advance.
The chief actor in the company to which Shake-
speiU'e lielonged was, at the close of EIizal)eth's reign,
and diu'ing the rest of the tune of Shakespeai-e's
work for the stage, Richard Burbage, son of the
James Burbage who was one of the origmal founders
of the Blackfriars Theatre.
Buibage was doubly an artist, for he could paint,
and the portrait of him in Didwich College was from
his owai hand. As an actor he was the friend of
' " Here lies he wliose voice, action, and face could turn Heraclitiia
into Democritus" (tlie weeping into the laughiAg philosopher).
TO A.D. 1601.]
PLAYS.
179
Shakespeai-e, aud the tirst to embody liis Hamlet,
Ricliard III., Lear, and other creation-s. He died
m 1619, five years before his brother actor Edwai'd
Alleyu. Allepi made a large fortmie as actor and
manager, and used it nobly. He had earned already
much reputation as an actor when he married, in
1592, the daughter of a shrewd and successful theatre
manager, Philip Henslowe. Alleyn joiued his father-
in-law in management, prospered as one of the chief
actors of his time, and held office also as " M;ister
of the Be^u-s and Dogs." Edward Allejii, in the
reign of James I., bought with his large savings the
Richard Burbage. (i'roift the Portrait in Dulwich CoUetjt.)
manor of Dulwich, and in 1G13 — three yeare before
Shakespeare's death — laid the foundation of Dulwich
College as the College of God's Gift ; he also founded
almshouses in several parts of London. His college
received lettei-s-patent from the king in 1619. He
died in 1626, and was buried in its chapel. The
earnest spu-it that had given force to the Elizabethan
drama shows itself in the fonu thus taken by an
actor's charity. Even Tarlton the clowni, who dared
in the queen's presence tax the p)-ide of her favourite,
when he wTote a play of his own took for its subject
" The Seven Deadly Sins."
Apart from Shakespeare, and very different in
style and matter of his work, Ben Jonson is the
foremost English ch-amatist. His gi-audfather was a
Scotchman who left Annandale for Carlisle and then
sei-ved Henry VIII. His father was imprisoned
imder Maiy, lost his estate, and became a preacher
of the reformed doctrme. He died a month before
the birth of his son Benjamin, who shortened his
own name always into Ben, and desii-ed to be known
a.s Ben Jonson. For that reason only he is so called.
The tone of vulgar familiarity which leads some
Jjersons to be on terms of Tom and Hany with theii-
forefathei-s should be left to its natural associations
with the language of the race-course or the music-
hall. Ben Jonson's mother married again when her
boy wa.s not yet two years old, and gave him a ma.ster
bricklayer for stepfather. They are said then to
have lived m Hartshorn Lane (now Northumb.-rlauJ
btreet), by Charmg Cross. From his fa-st school at
bt Martm's-m-the-Fields the child was taken by
VV ilham Camden, the famous hi,stomn, and placed
at his own charges in Westminster School, of which
he was then secou.l master. He reache<l the sixth
form m A\ estminster School, then he was put into
his stepfather's business, but left it to go as a volun-
teer to the war again.st tyramiy of Spahi m the Low
Countries. After one campaign he returned and,
du-ected by the instincts of a rare dramatic genius,
jomed the players. Like Shakespeare, he made
himself useful m any way to his cumijanions, acted,
and altered plays. He produced a jilay not extant,
perhaps never printed, although entered for print,
on " Richard Ciookback," and he added its two best
scenes to " The Spanish Tragedy," in which he jilayed
the part of Jeronimo. He married early, and had
deaths of children in 1599 and 1600. His '• Every
Man ill his Humour " in its tii-st foim vras acted
eleven tunes between the 25th of November, 1596,
and the 10th of May, 1597, at the Rose Theati-e.
In 1598 it was produced, in the fonu by which it is
known to us, vnth the charactei-s and scene made
English, at the Blackfiiars Theatre, where Shake-
speare was one of its actors. Friendship between
Shakespeare and Ben Jonson must date at latest
from that iucident of fellowship. " Eveiy ilan in
his Humour" was a pvire comedy, \\-ith its feble
carefully constructed, and the unity of time ])re-
served. It opens m the early morning, marks
cunningly the lapse of the day throughout, aud enils
at night with a supper. The next thi-ee pieces,
produced amiually, were of another kind : rather
ilj-amatic satires than dramatic tales. The firet of
them, " Every Man out of his Humom-," Siitirised
many follies of the time, especially those of the city.
The second, " Cynthia's Revels," siituised chiefly the
affectations of the Court. In each of these Ben
Jonson sought to lift men's mmds — too much Ijy
way of .scorn, though of a noble scorn — above the
gi-oveUing vanities of life; and, as he said in
" Cjnithia's Revels,"
by that worthy scorn, to make them know
How far heneath the dignity of man
Their serious and most practised actions arc.
His labour was
That these vain joys, in which their wills consume
Such powers of wit and soul as are of force
To raise their beings to eternity,
3Iay be converted on works fitting men :
And, for the practice of a forced look,
\n antic gesture, or a fustian phrase,
Study the native frame of a true heart,
An inward comeliness of bounty, knowledge,
And spirit that may conform them actually
To God's high figures, which they have in power.
"Everv Man out of his Humom-" in 1590. ;md
"Cyntliia's Revels" ui 1600, were followed m IbOl
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[a.d. 1601.
l)j' the third piece in this trilogy of dramatic _satu-es,
"Tlie Poetaster." This play was levelled against the |
false art of the poet, and maintained the honour of :
the tiiie. The true poet treats, with highest aim, of
the essentials of life ; the poetaster, -n-ith a low aim,
of its accidents. This broad and true distinction is
di-awn very cleiirly in the play, which crowned the
offences of the dramatist for those who would see
only personal attacks in plays that dealt vrith prin-
ciples of life and thought.
THE POETASTER
is one Eufus liaberius Crispinus, who lived in the
days of Augustus C»sar, when Virgil, Horace, and
Ovid were real poets. The play opens by showing
a true poet— Ovid — at work upon one of his elegies,
the fiftenntli of the tirst book, which is apt to the
theme of the play : —
Scene fh-nirs, niir! fiiscovers Ovid in liis slneli/.
Orir/. " Then, when this hody falls in fimeral fire,
My name shall live, and my best part aspire."
It shall go so.
f^iifey Lt'scus tvit/i a rjotcn and enp.
Liis. Young master. Master Ovid, do you hear ? Gods a'
me I awav with your songs and sonnets, and on with your
gown and tap (luiokly : here, here, your father ^\-iU bo a man
of this room presently. Come, nay, nay, nay, nay, be brief.
These verses too. a poison on 'em ! I cannot abide them,
they make me ready to cast, by the banks of Helicon ! Nay,
look, whiit a raseally untoward thing this poetry is ; I could
tear them now.
Ovie/. Ci'ivo me ; how near is my father ?
Zns. Heart a' man : get a law book in your hand, I will
not answer you else. [Ovio puts on his cap and rioirn.'] Why
so ! now there's some formality in you. By Jove, and three
or four of the gods more, I am right of mine old master's
humoiu- for that ; this villainous poetry will undo you, by the
welkin.
Ovid. Wyy.ii. hast thou buskins on, Luscus, that thou
swearest so tragically and high ■'
Liis. Xu. but I liave boots on, sir, and so has your father
too by this time ; for he called for them ere I came from the
lodging.
Ovid. AVliy, was he no readier r
Liis. Oh, no: and there was the mad skeldering' captain,
with the velvet arms, ready to lay hold on him as he comes
down : he that presses every man he meets, with an oath to
lend him money, and cries, Tlinii must do't, oh! hoij, as tlioii
art a man^ a man of iforship.
Ovid. AVlio, I'antilius Tucea '-
Liis. Ay, he : and I met little Jlaster Lupus, the tribune,
gdlng thither too.
Orid. Xny, and'- he be under their arrest, I may with safety
enough read over my elegy before he come.
Las. Gods a' me I what will you do f why, young master,
you are not Castalian mad, lunatic, frantic, desperate, ha I
1 Ste?dt*i*i»3, impudent, ewindlingr. In a play of Sbakerley Marmion's
quoted in Nares's Glossary (Halliwell and 'Wright's edition), "The
Fine Comijauiou " there is
" "VVandriufj aiiroad to skelder for a shilling
Amongst your bowling allies."
Akin to the Banish "skielde." to abuse, vilify, call names — wliich is
precisely C'aptaiu Tucca*s method as a swindler.
» Ani, i£.
Ovid. What ailest thou, Luscus ':■
Las. God be with you, sir ; I'll leave vou to your poetical
fancies and furies. I'll not be guilty, I. \L.vit.
Ovid. Be not, good ignorance. I'm glad th' art gone ".
For thus alone, our ear shall better judge
The hasty en-ors of oiu- morning muse.
" Envy, why twit'st thou me, my time's spent ill.
And eaU'st my verse fruits of an idle quill 'r^
Or that, unlike the line from whence I sprung,
War's dusty honours I pursue not young 't
Or that I study not the tedious laws.
And prostitute my voice in every cause ?
Thy scope is mortal ; mine, eternal fame.
Which through the world shall ever chant my name.
Homer will live whilst Tenedos stands, and Ide,
Or, to the sea, fleet Simois doth slide :
i\jid so shall Hesiod too, while %-ines do bear.
Or crooked sickles crop the ripened ear.
Callimachus, though in invention low,
ShaU still be sung, since he in art doth flow.
Js'o loss shall come to Sophocles' proud vein ;
With Sim and moon Aratus shaU remain.
Ennius, though rude, and Accius' high-reared strain,
A fresh applause in every age shall gain.
( If "\^arro's name, what ear shall not be told,
Of Jason's Argo and the fleece of gold ':
Then shall Lucretius' lofty numbers die.
When earth and seas in tire and flame shall fry.
Tit>Tus, Tillage, iEuee'' shall be read,
Whilst Home of all the conquered world is head 1
Till Cupid's fires be out, and his bow broken,
Thy verses, neat Tibullus, shall be spoken.
Our Gallus shall be known from east to west ;
So shall Lycoris, whom he now loves best.
The suffering ploughshare or the flint may wear :
But heavenly Poesj- no death can fear.
Kings shall give place to it, and kingly shows.
The banks o'er which gold-bearing Tagus Hows.
Kneel hinds to trash : me let bright Pho-bus swell
With cups full flowing from the Muses' weU.
Frost-fearing m^■rtle shall impale my head,
.\nd of Sid lovers I be often read.
Envy the living, not the dead, doth bite ;
For after death all men receive their right.
' Ovid, " Amonun," I. 15, beginning—
" Quid mihi. Liver edax, ignavos objicis annos
lugeniique vocas carmen inertis opus ? "
In the " Epigi-ammes and Elegies" by John Davies and Christopher
Mai'lowe, of which three editions were printed at Middlebtirgh with*
out date, there is a version of tliis elegy followed in two of the
editions by the version given in the Poetaster, as '* the same by B.I."
They so far resemble that one version is usually regarded as Ben
Jonson's own first draft of the other, wrongly supposed to be
Marlowe's. The tr.inslation used in the "Poetaster" reads certainly
like a revised edition of the other, which begins —
" Envy, wh.v cari^'st thou my time's spent so ill.
And term'st my works fruits of an idle quill 'r*
Or that, uulike the Hue from whence I sprung.
War's dusty honours are refused, being young?
Nor that I study not the brawling laws.
Nor set my voice to sale in every cause ?
Thy scope is mortal ; mine, etenial fame.
That all the world may ever chant my name."
' TityvN.'!, TiUngc, jEnec ; the Bucolics, Georgics, and .Sneid ot
Virgil. Ovid's lines are here,
*' TitjTus, et fruges, .^iueiaque arma legentur
Roma triumphati dum caput orbis erit."
*.D. leoi.] PLAYS.
181
ITien, when this body falls in funeral fire,
ily name shall live, and my best jjart aspire."
Enter Ovid senior, followed by Lvscis, TuccA, and Lrprs.
Ovid se. Your " name shall live," indeed, sir 1 you say
true : but how infamously, how scorned and contemned in
the eyes and ears of the best and g^vest Romans, that you
think not on ; you never so much as dreamed of that. Are
these the fruits of all my travail and expenses ': Is this the
scope and aim of thy studies ? Are these the hopeful courses,
wherewith I have so long iiattered my expectation from thee ?
Verses ! Poetrj- 1 Ovid, whom I thought to see the pleader,
become Ovid the playmaker !
Ovid jit. ISQ, sir.
Ovid se. Yes, sir ; I hear of a traged\- of yours coming
forth for the common players there, called Medea.' By my
household gods, if I come to the acting of it, I'll add one
tragic part more than is yet expected to it : believe me, when
I promise it. 'What 1 shall I have my son a stager now ■■ an
enghle- for pLayers, a guU, a rook, a shot-clog,^ to make
suppers, and be laughed at ': Publius, I will set thee on the
funeral pile first.
Ovid JK. Sir, I beseech you to have patience.
Liis. Xay, this 'tis to hare yomr ears dammed up to good
counsel. I did augur all this to him beforehand, without
poring into an ox's paunch for the matter, and yet he would
not be scrupulous.
Tiie. How now, goodman slave ! what, rowly-powly ? all
rivals, rascal f Why, my master of worship, dost hear ? are
these thy best projects ? is this thy designs and thy discipline,
to suffer knaves to be competitors with commanders and
gentlemen ? Are we parallels, rascal, are we parallels ?
Ovid se. Sirrah, go get my horses ready. You'll still be
prating.
Tiic. Do, you perpetual stinkard, do, go : talk to tapsters
and ostlers, you slave ; they are in your element, go : here
be the emperor's captains, you ragamuffin rascal, and not your
comrades. [Exit Luscrs.
Liip. Indeed, Marcus Ovid, these players are an idle
generation, and do much hai-m in a state, corrupt young
gentry very much, I know it ; I have not been a tribune thus
long and obseri-ed nothing : besides, they wiU rob us, us, that
are magistrates, of our respect, bring us upon their stages,
and make us ridiculous to the plebeians ; they will play you
or me, the wisest men they can come by still, only to bring
ns in contempt with the -s-ulgar, and make us cheap.
Tkc. Thou art in the right, my venerable crop-shin, they
will indeed ; the tongue of the oracle never twanged truer.
Your courtier cannot kiss his mistress's slippers in quiet for
them; nor your white innocent gallant pawn his revelling
1 Oi'id's " Kedm." This tragedy is lost. Ovid himself thought
well of it, as he indicated in the 18th Elegy of his Second Book, where
ISarlowe thus translates him : —
" Yet tragedies and sceptres filled my lines ;
But though I apt were for such hitrh designs,
Love laughed at my cloak and buskins painted."
QnintUian, in his " Institutes of Oratory," has left a quotation of one
line from Ovid's " Medea." When pointing out that a change from the
direct manner can give force to the expression of a thought, he says,
" Thtis Ovid's Medea, instead of saying in a direct manner. It is easy
to hurt, hard to help, expresses herself with more energy thus—
' Servare potui : perdere ac possim rogas ? ' "
(I had strength to save : you ask, could I destroy ?)
' Enghle, probably the same word as in.ilc, a boy favourite. As a
verb, to curry favour. The word was often applied to the boys acting
on the public stage.
• STiot-cIoij, a stupid person who was cultivated because he paid
shot or tavern scores for the rest.
smt to make a supper. An honest decayed command.r
cannot skelder, cheat, nor be seen [astray], but he bhaU
be straight in one of their wormwood comedies. They
are grown hcentious, the rogues : libertines, flat libertines.
They forget they are in the statute, the rascals ; they are
blazoned there: there they are tricked, they and 'their
pedigrees ; they need no other heralds, iwiss.*
Ovid se. Methinks, if nothing else, yet this alone, the verj-
reading of the public edicts, should fright thee from commerce
with them, and give thee distaste enough of their actions.
But this betntys what a student you are, this argues your
proficiency in the law '.
Ovid jii. They wTong me, sir, and do abuse you more,
That blow your ears with these untrue reports.
I am not known unto the open stage,
Nor do I traffic in their theatres :
Indeed, I do acknowledge, at request
Of some near friends, and honourable Romans,
I have begun a poem of that nature.
Ovid se. You have, sir, a poeml and where is itf That's
the law you study.
Ovit/ju. Cornelius GaUus borrowed it to read.
Ovid se. Comehus trallus ! there's another gallant too hath
drunk of the same poison, and Tibullus and Propertius.
But these are gentlemen of means and revenues now. Thou
art a younger brother, and hast nothing but thy bare
exhibition; which I protest shiill be bare indeed, if thou
forsake not these unprofitable by-courses, and that timely
too. Name me a profest poet, that his poetry did ever afiord
him so much as a competency. Ay, your god of poets there,
whom all of you admire and reverence so much, Homer, he
whose worm-eaten statue must not be spewed against, but
with hallowed lips and gi'ovelling adoration, what was he ':
what was he !■'
Tiie. Marry, I'U teU thee, old swaggerer; he was a poor
blind, rhyming rascal, that lived obscurely up and down in
booths and tap-houses, and scarce ever made a good meal in
his sleep, the [misbegotten] hungry beggar.
Ovid se. He says well : — nay, I know this nettles you now ;
but answer me, is it not true 'r You'll tell me his name shall
live ; and that now being dead his works have eternised him,
and made him divine ; but could this divinity feed him while
he lived r could his name feast him r
Tiie. Or purchase him a senator's revenue, could it?
Ovid se. Av, or give him place in the commonwealth ?
worship, or attendants : make him be carried in his litter :
Tiie. Thou speakest sentences, old Bias.*
I up. All this the law will do, young sir, if you'U follow it.
Ovid se. If he be mine, he shall fallow and observe what I
will apt him to, or I profess here openly and utterly to dis-
claim him.
* Iirr&i!, certainly.
5 Oli Bias. Bias was one of the famous wise men of Greece, bom
at Priene in Caria in the days of Haliattes and CrtBSUs, kings of
Lydia Many sentences were ascribed to him, as " Love your friends
with discretion ; consider that they may become your enemies. Be
not importunate: it is better to be obhged to take, than to obU«
others to -nie. Live always as if each moment were to be .vour last,
and yet as'if vou were to continue longuponthe earth. Health comes
usually by nature, wealth by chance. Wisdom alone can make a fit
adviser G«t wisdom when young— no other comfort will be left yon
when yon are old ; you can buy nothing better, for it is the one pos-
session that no chance or force can take from you " When the town
in which Bias Uved was taken by an enemy, he alone took no thought
about his worldly goods. " -n-liy," he was asked, "do not you also
Zto save somefhing ? " " So I do." he said. •• for aU that I have I
carry about me." And so, as Captain Tucca has it. Thou speakest
sentences. Old Bias."
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CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1601.
Ovidju. Sir, let me crave you -n-iU forego these moods :
I will be anything, or study anytliing ;
I'll prove the unfashioned body of the law
Pure elegance, and make her rugged' st strains
Run smoothly as Propcrtius' elegies.
Ovid se. Propcrtius' elegies '; good !
Ltip. Nay, you take him too quickly, Marcus.
Ovid se. Why, he cannot speak, he cannot think out of
poetry ; he is bewitched Tvith it.
Lup. Come, do not misprize him.
Ovid se. Misprize .' ay, marry, I would have him use some
such words now ; they have some touch, some taste of the
law. He should make himself a style out of these, and let
his Propcrtius' elegies go by.
Lup. Indeed, young Publius, he that will now hit the
mark, must shoot through the law ; we have no other planet
reigns, and in that sphere you may sit and sing with angels.
Why, the law makes a man happy, without respecting any
other merit ; a simple scholar, or none at all, may be a
lawyer.
Titc. He tells thee true, my noble neophj-te; my little
grammaticastcr, he does ; it shall never put thee to thy mathe-
matics, metaphysics, philosophy, and I know not what
supposed sufficiencies ; if thou canst but have the patience to
plod enough, talk, and make a noise enough, and be impudent
enough, and 'tis enough.
Lup. Three books will furnish you.
Tiic. And the less art the better : besides, when it shall be
in the power of thy chevril ' conscience to do right or wrong
at thy pleasure, my pretty Alcibiades.
Lup. Ay, and to have better men than himself, by many
thousand degrees, to observe him, and stand bare.
Tuc. True, and he to carry himself proud and stately, and
have the law on his side for't, old boy.
Ovid sc. Well, the day grows old, gentlemen, and I must
leave you. I'ublius, if thou wilt hold my favour, abandon
these idle, fruitless studies that so bewitch thee. Send Janus
home his backface again, and look only forward to the law :
intend that. I wiU allow thee what shall suit thee in the
rank of gentleman, and maintain thy society with the best ;
and under these conditions I leave thee. My blessings light
upon thee, if thou respect them ; if not, mine eyes may drop
for thee, but thine own heart wUl ache for itself ; and so fare-
well ! What, are my horses come ?
Ziu. Yes, sir, they are at the gate without.
Ovid se. That's well. — Asinius Lupus, a word. Captain, I
shall take my leave of you ?
Tuc. No, my little old boy, dispatch with Cothurnus there :
I'U attend thee, I
Lus. To borrow some ten drachms: I know his pro-
ject. [Aside.
Ovid se. Sir, you shall make me beholding to you. Now,
Captain Tucca, what say you ?
Tuc. yVhy, what should I say, or what can I say, my
flower o' the order ? Should I say thou art rich, or that thou
art honourable, or wise, or valiant, or learned, or liberal i
why, thou art all these, and thou knowest it, niy noble
Lucullus, thou knowest it. Come, be not ashamed of thy
virtues, old stump : honour 's a good brooch to wear in a
man's hat at aU times. Thou art the man of war's Meca?nas,
old boy. Why shouldst not thou be graced then by them, as
well as he is by his poets ? —
1 Oimril, elastic or soft kid leather, French "chevreuil." So in
Shakespeare's " Henry VIII." the Old Lady speaks of the " soft
cheveril conscience" of Anne Boleyn ; and in " Twelfth Night " "a
sentence is but a cheveril glove to a good wit,"
Snter Pyrgus and whispers Tucc.i.
How now, my carrier, what news ?
Lus. The boy has stayed within for his cue this half
hour. \_Aside.
Tuc. Come, do not whisper to me, but speak it out : what !
it is no treason against the state I hope, is it ?
Lus. Yes, against the state of my master's purse.
[Aside^ and exit.
Fijr. [Aloud.'\ Sir, Agrippa desires you to forbear him tiU
the ne.xt week ; his mules are not yet come up.
Tuc. His mules ! now the bots, the spavin, and the
glanders, and some dozen diseases more, light on him and his
mules ! What, have thej' the yellows, his mules, that they
come no faster 'i or are they foundered, ha ? his mules have
the staggers belike, have they ?
Pijr. Oh, no, sii' : — then your tongue might be susjjected for
one of his mules. [Aside.
Tuc. He owes me almo.st a talent, and he thinks to bear it
away with his mules, does he ? Sirrah, you nut-cracker, go
your ways to him again, and teU him I must have money, I :
I cannot eat stones and turfs, say. What, will he cleni- me
and my followers ': ask him an he will clem me ; do, go. He
would have me fry my jerkin, would he ? Away, setter,
away. Yet, stay, my little tumbler, this old boy shall supply
now. I wiU not trouble him, I cannot be importunate, I ; I
cannot.be impudent.
Ptjr. Alas, sir, no ; you are the most maidenly blushing
creature upon the earth. [Aside.
Tuc. Dost thou hear, my little six and fifty, or there-
abouts ? thou art not to learn the humours and tricks of that
old bald cheater, Time ; thou hast not this chain for nothing.
Men of worth have their chimeras, as wcU as other creatures ;
and they do see monsters sometimes, they do, they do, brave
boy.
Fyr. Better cheap than he shall see you, I waiTant him.
[Aside.
Tuc. Thou must let me have six — six drachms, I mean, old
boy : thou shalt do it ; I tell thee, old boy, thou shalt, and in
private too, dost thou see ? — Go, walk off [to the Bo v] : — There,
there. Six is the sum. Thy son 's a gallant spark, and must
not be put out of a sudden. Come hither, Callimachus ; thy
father tells me thou art too poetical, boy : thou must not be
so ; thou must leave them, young novice, thou must ; they
are a sort of poor starved rascals, that are ever wrapt uj) in
foul linen ; and can boast of nothing but a lean visage,
peering out of a seam-rent suit, the very emblems of beggary.
No, dost hear, turn lawyer, thou shalt be my solicitor. — 'Tis
right, old boy, is 't ?
Ovid se. You were best tell it,^ captain.
Tuc. No ; fare thou well, mine honest horseman ; and
thou, old beaver [to Lvprs]. — Pray thee, Eoman, when thou
comest to town, see me at my lodging, visit me sometimes ;
thou shalt be welcome, old boy. Do not baulk me, good
swaggerer. Jove keep thy chain from pawning; go thy
ways ; if thou lack money I'll lend thee some : I'U leave thee
to thy horse now. Adieu.
Ovid se. Farewell, good captain.
Tue. Boy, you can have but half a share now, boy.
[Krit, followed bij PvRGUS.
Ovid se. 'Tis a strange boldness that accompanies this
fellow. — Come.
Ocidju. I'll give attendance on you to your horse, sir,
please you
^ Chm, starve. A word still common in provincial English, Ice
laudic " klemma," German '* klemmeu," to piuch.
' Tell it, count it.
A.D. 1601.]
PLAYS.
183
Ovid se. Xo ; keep your chamber, and fall to your studies ;
do so. The gods of Rome bless thee ! [Exit with Lupus.
Ovidjii. And give me stomach to digest this law ;
That should have followed sure, h;id I been he.
sacred Poesy, thou spirit of arts.
The soul of science, and the queen of souls ;
What profane violence, almost sacrilege,
Hath here been offered thy divinities '.
That thine own guiltless poverty should arm
Prodigious ignorance to wound thee thus 1
For thence is all their force and argument
Drawn forth against thee ; or from the abuse
Of thy great powers in adulterate brains : '
When would men learn but to distinguish spirits.
And set true difference 'twixt those jaded wits
That run a broken pace for common hire.
And the high raptures of a happy muse.
Borne on the wings of her immorfcil thought,
That kicks at earth with a disd;iinful heel.
And beats at heaven gates with her bright hoofs ;
They would not then, with such distorted faces.
And desperate censures, stab at Poesy.
They would admire bright knowledge, and their minds
Should ne'er descend on so imworthy objects
As gold or titles ; they would dread far more
To be thought ignorant than be known poor.
The time was once, when wit drowned wealth ; but now
Tour only barbarism is t' have wit, and want.
Xo matter now in virtue who excels,
He that hath coin, hath all perfection else.
Tibiillus then entering Ovid's study cairies bim off
to the house of Albius the jeweller,- where O^id will
find the Princess Julia, the Emperor's daughter, whom
he worships in vei-se as Corinna. Tibullus and Cor-
nelius Gallus too will meet the ladies whom they
love ; TibuUus the Lady Plautia, Cornelius Gallus
the fair Cytheris, who dwells with the jeweller's
wife Chloe ; but still Propertius is full of soitow for
liis Cynthia's deatk
The Second Act is in the jeweller's house, and
oi)en.s with the jeweller'.s welcome of the Poetaster,
Rufus Laberius Crispiniis.' Crispinus has called to
see hLs cousin Cythem ; the jeweller, adoring his
wife Chloe, is met by her with aii-s of a tine lady,
and dLsdain of ad^■ice touching the reception of " the
gi'eate.st ladies and gallantest gentlemen of Rome, to
be entertained in our house now." With empty
daintines.s, Crispinus introduces himself to Mistress
Chloe in a scene of amusing fussiness and low bred
aii's and gi~ices over the arrival of gi-and guests, who
are coming to see C^-theris. False emphasis on the
upholstery of Hfe, with dull indifference to its essen-
tials, is common to Chloe and Crispinus. " Call
Cytheris, I pray you," says Chloe, " and goo<l master
Crispinus, you can observe, you .say. Let me entreat
you for all the ladies' behavioui-s, jewels, jests, and
attu-e.s, that you marking as well as I, we may both
put om- marks together, when they are gone, and
' This passage strikes, it will be observed, the key-note of the play.
' " Stnpet Albins sere." (Horace, Sat. I., iv. 28.}
^ Crispimis was a parasitical Stoic philosopher in the time of Horace,
whose first satire ends with a contemptuous reference to him —
'* Jam satis est : ne me Crispini scrinia Uppi
Compilasse putes, verbum non amplins addara."
confer of them." The gi-eat ladies from the court
come to the jeweUer's house, and disport them.selves
v\-itli the poets. The jeweller is in a lluny of
delight ; hLs wife Ls in a fliury of obseiwation. Says
Chloe to CrLspimus —
H;ive you marked everj-thing, Crispinus?
Oris. Everj-thing, I warrant you.
Chloe. WTiat gentlemen are these r do j-ou know them ?
Cria. Ay, they are poets, lady.
Chloe. Poets: they did not talk of me since I went did
they?
Cris. Oh, yes, and extolled your perfections to the heavens.
Chloe. Now in sincerity they be the finest kind of men
that ever I knew. Poets I Could not one get the emperor to
make my husband a poet, think you ?
Cris. Xo, lady, 'tis love and beauty make poets : and since
you like poets so well, your love and beauties shall make me
a poet.
Chloe. ^^'^lat ! shall they ? and such a one as these ?
Cris. Ay, and a better than these : I would be sorry else.
Chloe. And shall youi- looks change, and your hair change,
and all, like these ?
Cris. AVTiy, a man may be a poet, and yet not change his
hair, lady.
Chloe. Well, we shall see your cunning : yet, if you can
change your hair, I pray do.
There is a musician in the company, Hermogenes,'
who makes the usual musician's difficulty when asked
to sing, and when he does begin, caimot be stopj)ed.
Says Cytheris to her suitor, Cornelius Gallu.s —
Friend, Jlistress Chloe would fain hear Hermogenes sing ;
are you interested in him ?
Gal. Xo doubt his own humanity will command him so
far, to the satisfaction of so fair a beauty ; but rather than
fail, we'll all be suitors to him.
Her. 'Cannot sing.
Gal. Prithee, Hermogenes.
Ser. 'Cannot sing.
Gal. For honour of this gentlewoman, to whose house I
know thou mayest be ever welcome.
Chloe. That he shall, in truth, sir, if he can sing.
Olid. What's that ':
Gal. This gentlewoman is wooing Hermogenes for a song.
Orid. A song! come, he shall not deny her. Hermogenes!
Ser. 'Cannot sing.
G"!. Xo, the ladies must do it : he stays but to have their •
thanks acknowledged as a debt to his cunning.
Jill. That shall not want ; oursclf will be the first shall
promise to pay him more than thanks, upon a favour so
worthily vouchsafed.
Her. Thank you, madam : but 'will not sing.
Tib. Tut. the only way to win him is to abstain from
entreating him.
Cris. Do you love singing, lady ?
Chloe. Oh, passingly.
Cris. Entreat the ladies to entreat me to sing then, 7
beseech you.
< Hermogenes is referred to by Horace in his third satire-
" rt qoamvis tacet Hermogenes, cantor tamen atque
Optimus est modulator."
The same satire contains another contemptuous allusion to the
" ineptiis Crispinus."
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CASSELL'S LIBRARY OP ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1601.
Cliloc. I beseech youi' grace, entreat this gentleman to
sing.
Jill. That we will, Chloe ; can he sing excellently 't
Cliloe. I think so, madam ; for he entreated me to entreat
you to entreat him to sing.
Oris. Heaven and earth ! would you tell that 't
Jul. Good sir, let 's entreat you to use your voice.
Vris. Alas, madam I I cannot in truth.
Pin. The gentleman is modest: I warrant you ho sings
excellently.
Ovid. Hermogenes, clear your throat ; I see by him here 's
a gentleman will worthily challenge you.
Cris. Not I, sii', I'll challenge no man.
Tib. That's your modesty, sii- ; hut we, out of an assurance
of your excellency, challenge him in your behalf.
Cris. I thank you, gentlemen, I'll do my best.
Her. Let that best be good, sir, you were best.
Gal. Oh, this contention is excellent ! What is 't you sing,
sii'!'
Cris. If I freely may discover, six; I'll sing that.
Ovid. One of your own compositions, Hermogenes. He
offers you vantage enough.
Cris. Nay, truly, gentlemen, I'll challenge no man. — I can
sing but one staff of the ditty neither.
Gal. The better : Hermogenes himself will be entreated to
sing the other.
CuiSPiNUs sings.''-
If I freely may discover
What would please me in my lover,
I would have her fail' and witty,
Savouring more of coiu't than city ;
A little proud, but full of pity :
Light and humorous in her toying,
Oft building hopes, and soon destroying,
Long, but sweet in the enjoying;
Neither too easy, nor too hard :
All extremes I would have barred.
Gal. Believe me, sir, you sing most excellently.
Orid. If there were a praise above excellence, the gentle-
man highly deserves it.
Her. Sir, all this doth not j'et make me envy you ; for I
know I sing better than you.
Tib. Attend Hermogenes, now.
Hekmogexes, arcompaitied.
She should be allowed her passions,
So they were but used as fashions ;
Sometimes froward, and then frowning,
Sometimes sickish, and then swowning.
Every fit \vith change still crowning.
Purely jealous I would have her,
Then only constant when I crave her :
'Tis a virtue should not save her.
Thus, nor her delicates would cloy me,
Neither her peevishness annoy me.
Jul. Nay, Hermogenes, your merit hath long since been
both known and admired of us.
Her. You shall hear me sing another. Now will I begin.
Gal. We shall do this gentleman's banquet too much
wrong, that stays for us, ladies.
Jul. 'Tis true ; and well thought on, Cornelius Gallua.
1 The song is a gr.^eeful development by Ben Jonsou of a four-lined
2pigram of Martial's to Flaccus, the 58th Epigram of the First Book.
" Qualem, Flacce, velim quisris nolimve puellam ?
Nolo nimis tacileni. difficilemque nimis.
niud qnod medium est atque inter ntrumque prohamus :
Nee volo quod craciat ; neo volo quod satiat."
Her. Why, 'tis but a short air, 'twill be done presently,
pray stay: strike, music.
Ovid. No, good Hermogenes; we'U end this difference
within.
Jul. 'Tis the common disease of all your musicians, that
they know no mean, to be entreated either to begin or end.
Alb. Please you lead the way, gentles.
All. Thanks, good Albius. \_Exeunt all but Alhius.
^ilb. Oh, what a charm^ of thanks was here put upon me I
Jove, what a setting forth it is to a man to have many
corn-tiers come to his house ! Sweetly was it said of a good
old housekeejjer, / had rather waut meat, than want guests ;
especially if they be courtly guests. For, never ti-ust me, if
one of their good legs ' made in a house be not worth all the
good cheer a man can make them. He that would have fine
guests, let him have a fine wife ; he that would have a fine
wife, let him come to me.
Re-enter Crispints.
Cris. By youi- kind leave. Master Albius.
Alb. What, you are not gone, Master C'rispinus ?
Cris. Yes, faith, I have a design draws me hence : pray,
sir, fashion me an excuse to the ladies.
Alb. Will }-ou not stay and see the jewels, sir ? I pray
you sta}^
Cris. Not for a million, sir, now. Let it suffice, I must
relinquish; and so, in a word, please you to expiate this
compliment.
Alb. Mum. \_E.rit.
Cris. I'U presently go and enghle* some broker for a poet's
go\vn, and bespeak a garland : and then, jeweller, look to
yom' best jewel, i' faith. \_E.vU.
The Tliird Act opens with humorous dramatic
treatment of a theme taken from one of Horace's
Satii-es (the nintli of the First Book), in a scene
between Poet and Poetaster, in which the marks of
the Poetastei', that he is more occupied ^\^th himself
than with his work, and that his enthusiasm spends
itself on trivial accidents of life, and not upon essen-
tials, are delightfully brought out.
The Via Sacra' (or Holy Street).
Enter Horace, Chii^fisvs following.
Hor. Umph 1 yes, I will begin an ode so ; and it shall be
to Mecainas.
Cris. 'Slid, yonder 's Horace ! they say he 's an excellent
poet : Mecasnas loves him. I'll fall into his acquaintance, if
1 can; I think he be composing as he goes in the street I
ha I 'tis a good humour, if he be : I'll compose too.
Hor. " Swell me a bowl with lusty wine,''
Till I may see the plump Lyieus swim
Above the brim :
I diink as I would write.
In flowing measure filled with flame and .sprite."
2 CTwrm, singing as of many birds. (See Note 1, page 105.)
' Good !ejs, polite bows. * En^jhh, see Note 2, page 181.
^ Tlie Via Sacra. The scene is the scene of Horace's Satire (I. ix.),
which begins —
" Ibam forte Via Sacra, sicut mens est mos
Nescio quid meditans ungaruui, totiis in illis ;
Accurrit qiiidem notus mihi nomine tautuni,
Arreptaque manu : Quid agis, dnlcissime rerum ?
Suaviter, ut nunc est, inquam, et ciipio omnia quaevia.
Cum assectaretur : Num quid vis ? occupo. At ille :
Noris nos. iuquit: docti sumus," &c. &c.
^ This, perhaps, is a strain suggested by the close of Horace's niutli
Epode : " Capaciores atfer hue, puer, scyphos," &c.
A.D. 1601.]
PLAYS.
185
Crls. Sweet Horace, Jlinerva and the Muses stand auspi-
cious to thy designs ! How farest thou, sweet man ;- frolic I-
rich ': gallant ': ha 1
Hor. Xot greatly gallant, sir : like my fortunes, well : I
am bold to take my leave, sir ; you'll nought else, sir, would
you ?
Cris. Troth no, but I could wish thou didst know us,
Horace ; we are a scholar, I assure thee.
Hor. A scholar, sir! I shall ho covetous of your fair
knowledge.'
Cris. Gramercy, good Horace. Xay, we are now turned
poet, too, which is more ; and a satirist, too, which is more
than that : I write just in thy vein, I. I am for your odes,
or your sermons, or am-thing indeed ; we are a gentleman
besides ; our name is Euf us Laberius Crispinus ; we are a
pretty Stoic too.
Hor. To the proportion of your beard, I think it, sir.
Cris. By Ph(ebu.s, here's a most neat, fine street, is't notr-
I protest to thee, I am cnamoui-ed of this street now, more
than of half the streets of Rome again ; 'tis so poUtc, and
terse 1 there's the front of a building, now ! I study archi-
tecture too : if ever I should bmld, I'd have a house just of
that prospective.
Hor. Doubtless this gallant's tongue has a good turn,
when he sleeps. \_Asule.
Cris. I do make verses, when I come in such a street as
this: oh, your citj- ladies, you shall have them sit in every
shop like the Muses — offering you the Castalian dews, and
the Thespian liquors, to as many as have the sweet grace and
audacity to — sip of their lips. Did you never hear anj' of
my verses ?
Hor. No, sir ; — but I am in some fear I must now.
[Aside.
Cris. I'll tell thee some, if I can liut recover them; I com-
posed even now of a dressing I saw a jeweller's wife wear,
who indeed was a jewel herself: I prefer that kind of tu-e
now ; what's thy opinion, Horace ?
Hor. With your silver bodkin, it does well, sir.
Crii. I cannot tell ; but it stirs me more than all yom-
court curls, or your spangles, or your tricks : I affect not
these high gable ends, these Tuscan tops, nor your coronets,
nor your arches, nor your pj-ramids ; give me a fine, sweet —
little delicate dressing with a bodkin, as you say; and a
mushroom for all your other omatui-es !
Hor. Is it not possible to make an escape from him ?
[Aside.
Cris. I have remitted my verses all this while ; I think I
have forgot them.
Hor. Here 's he could wish you had else. [Aside.
Cris. Pray Jove I can entreat them of my memory !
Hor. You put your memory to too much trouble, sir.
Cris. No, sweet Horace, we must not have thee think so.
Hor. I cry you mercy ; then they are my ears
That must be tortured : well, you must have patience, ears.
Cris. Pray thee, Horace, observe.
Sor. Yes, sir ; your satin sleeve begins to fret at the rug
that is underneath it, I do observe ; and your ample velvet
bases are not without e\'ident stains of a hot disposition
naturally.
Cris. Oh I'll dye them into another colour, at pleasure.
How many yards of velvet dost thou think they contain ?
^ *' docti siimus. Hie ego : Phiris
Hoc, Luquam, milii eris.' '
(Hor., Sat. I., ix. 7, 8.)
2 " cum quidlibet ille
Garriret, vices, urbein laudaret."
(Hor., Sat. I., ii. 12, 13.)
144
[Aside.
Hor. 'Heart ! I have put him now in a fre^h way
To ve.x me more :— faith, su-, your mercers book
\\ ill tell you with more patience than I can :
For I am crost,^ and so 's not that, I think.
Cns. 'Slight, these verses have lo.st me again !
I shall not inWte them to mind, now.
Hor. Kack not your thoughts, good sir; rather defer it
To a new time ; I'll meet you at your lodging,
Or where you please: tiU then, Jove keep°vou', sir!
Cris. Nay, gentle Horace, stay; I have it now.
Hor. Yes, sir.—ApoDo, Hermes, Jupiter,
Look down upon me !
Cris. " Kich was thy hap, sweet dainty cap,
There to be placed ;
^^^lerc thy smooth black, sleek wliitc may smack,
And both be graced."
White is there usurped for her brow : her forehead ; and
then sleek, as the parallel to smooth, that went before. A
kind of paranomasic, or agnomination : do you conceive, sir':'
Hur. Excellent. Troth, sir, I must be abrupt, and leave
you.
Cris. ^\■^ly. what haste hast thou r prithee, stay a little;
thou shalt not go yet, by Phu?bus.
Hor. I shall not ! what remedy r tie, how I sweat with
suffering !
Cris. And then
Hor. Pray, sir, give me leave to wipe my face a little.
Cris. Yes, do, good Horace.
Hur. Thank j-ou, sir.
Death ! I must crave his leave to [spit] anon ;
Or that I may go hence with half my teeth :
I am in some such fear. This tj-raimy
Is strange, to take mine ears up by commission,
(Whether I will or no,) and make them stalls
To his lewd solecisms, and worded ti-a»h.
Happy thou, bold Bolanus, now I Siiy;*
Whose freedom, and impatience of this fellow,
Would, long ere this, have called him fool, and fool,
And rank and tedious fool ! and have flung jests
As hard as stones, till thou hadst pelted him
Out of the place; whilst my tame modesty
Suffers my wit be made a solemn ass,
'To bear his fopperies
Cris. Horace, thou art miserably att'etted
see. But — prithee, let 's prove to enjoy tliee awhile. Thou
hast no business, I assure me. Wliither is thy journey
dh'ected, ha !•'
Hor. Sir, I am going to visit a friend that 's sick.
Cris. A friend ! what is he ; do not I know liini 'i*
Hor. No, sir, you do not know him ; and 'tis not the worse
for him.
Cris. MTiat 's his name ? where is he lodged ?
[Aside.
to be gone, I
3 Crost, i.e.. crossed out in sign that it is ])iiiil. Tliis ]
caUed a. sneer at Dekier for poverty when Dekker »-ss declared to
be Crispinus. Its meaniui,' is tliat when Crispinus, who has been
deaUn^ in raptures about outsides o£ thiu^, bouses or heads, and is
stiiTed in soul by a cei-tain top knot more than by all your court
curls, &c. kc. when Crispinus, after this babble about outsides, laj-s
his hand on Horace to detain him, and says, •' Pray thee. Horace,
obsei-ve •• Horace whimsically assumes that the arm stretched out in
the same moment to take possession of him is otfei-eil as subject tor
remark on its outside.
4 " Misere discedei-e qnserens.
Ire modo ocius, interdum cousistere, iu aurem
Dicere nescio quid puero, cum sudor ad imos
Mauaret talos ; te. Bolaue, cerebri
Feiicem ! aiebam tacitus."
(Hor., Sat. I., is. S— 12.)
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[A.D. 1601.
Hor. "Where I shall be fearful to draw you out of youi-
way, sii- : a great way hence : pray, sir, let 's part.
Crls. Nay, but where is 't ': I prithee say.
Sor. On the far side of all Tyber yonder, by Ca;sar's
gardens.'
Oris. Oh, that 's my course dii-ectly ; I am for you. Come,
go ; why stand'st thou r
Sor. Yes, sir : marry, the plague is in that part of the
city ; I had almost forgot to tell you, sii-.
Ci-is. Fob ! it is no matter, I fear no pestilenee ; I have not
offended Phoebus.
Hor. J. have, it seems ; or else this heavy scourge
Could ne'er have lighted on me.
Oris. Come along.
Sor. I am to go down some half mile this way, sii', fii'st, to
speak with his physician ; and from thence to his apothecary,
where I shall stay the mixing of divers di-ugs.
Cris. Why, it's all one, I have nothing to do, and I lo\i'
not to be idle ; I'll bear thee company. How call'st thou the
apothecary ':"
Sor. Oh that I knew a name would fright him now ! —
Sir, Rhadamanthus, lihadamanthus, sir.
There 's one so call'd, is a just judge in hell,
And doth inflict strange vengeance on all those
That here on earth torment poor patient spirits.
Oris. He dwells at the Three Furies, by Janus's temple.
Sor. Your pothecary does, sir.
Cris. Heart, I owe him money for sweetmeats, and hi^ has
laid to arrest me, I hear ; but
Sor. Sir, I have made a most solemn vow, I will never
bail any man.
Cris. WeU, then, I'll swear, and speak liim fair, if the
worst come. — But his name is Minos, nut Khadauianthus,
Horace.
Sor. That may be, sir ; I but guessed at his name by hi.3
sign. But your Jlinos is a judge too, sir.
Cris. I protest to thee, Horace (do but taste me once),
if I do know myself, and mine own virtues truly, thou wilt
not make that esteem of Varius, or Virgil, or Tibullus, or
any of 'em indeed, as now in thy ignorance thou dost ; which
I am content to forgive.- I would fain see which of these
could pen more verses in a day, or with more facility, than I .
or that could court his mistress, kiss her hand, make bett<,'r
sport with her fan or her dog
Sor. I cannot bail you yet, sir.
Cris. Or that could move his body more gracefully, or
dance bettor ; you shoidd see me, were it not in the street
Sor. Nor yet.
Cris. Why, I have been a reveller, and at my cloth of
silver suit, and my long stocking, in my time, and will be
again
Sor. If you may be trusted, sir.
Cris. And then, for my singing, Hcrmogenes himself
envies me, that is your only master of music you have in
Eome.-
" Misere cupis, inquit, abii-e:
J.Tin (Inclum video ; sed nil agis : usque teneho ;
Persequar. Hinc quo nunc iter est tibi ?— Nil opus est te
Cii-cumafri : qneudaui volo visere uou tibi uotura ;
Ti-ans Tiberim long-e cubat is, prope Cfesavis hortos.—
Nil liabeo quod agani et non sum piger : usque sequar te."
(Hor., Sat. I., ix. 14—19.1
" iuvideat quod et Herniogeues, ego canto.—
luterpellaudi locus hie erat : Est tibi mater,
Cognati, quis te salvo est opus ? -Haud mihi quisquam ;
Omnes composui,— Felices : nunc ego resto.
Confice : namque instat fatuui milii triste, Sabella
Sor. Is your mother living, sir 't
Cris. Ay I convert thy thoughts to somewhat else, I pray
thee.
Sor. You have much of the mother in you, sir. Your
father is dead ?
Cris. Ay, I thank Jove, and my grandfather too, and all
my kinsfolks, and well composed in their urns.
Sor. The more their happiness that rest in peace,
Free from the abundant torture of thy tongue :
Would I were with them too ! '
Cris. WTiat 's that, Horaces'
Sor. I now remember me, sir, of a sad fate
A cunning woman, one Sabella, sung,
A\nien in her urn she cast my destiny,
I being but a child.
Cris. What was it, I pray thee ?
Hor. She told me I should surely never perish
Ry famine, poison, or the enemy's sword ;
The hectic fever, cough, or pleurisy,
Should never hurt me, nor the tardy gout :
But in my time I should be once surprised
By a strong tedious talker, that should vex
And almost bring me to consumption :
Therefore, if I were wise, she warned me shun
All such long-winded monsters as my bane ;
For if I could but scape that one discourser,
I might no doubt prove an old aged man. —
By your leave, sir. [Goiiic).
Cris. Tut, tut ; abandon this idle humour, 'tis nothing but
melancholy. 'Fore Jove, now I think on 't, I am to appear in
court here, to answer to one that has me in suit : sweet
Horace, go with me, this is my hour : if I neglect it, the law
proceeds against me. Thou art familiar with these things :
prithee, if thou lov'st nu\ go.
Sur. Now let me die, sir, if I know your laws.
Or have the power to stand still half so long
In their loud courts, as while a case is argued.
Besides, you know, sir, where I am to go.
Arid the necessity- —
Cris. 'Tis true.
Sor. I hope the hour of my release be come : he will, upi m
this consideration, discharge me, sure.
Cris. I'roth, I am doubtful what I maj- best do, whether to
leave thee or my affairs, Horace.''
Sor. O Jupiter I me, sir, me, by any means ; I beseech you,
me, sir.
Cris. No, f.aitb, I'll venture those now; thou shalt see I
love thoe : come, Horace.
Sor. Nay, then I am desperate : I follow you, sir. 'Tis
hard contending with a man that overcomes thus.
^';'/,v. And how deals IMecamas with thee i" liberally, ha:
is he open-handed !- bountiful ':
Sor. He 's still himself, sir.
Cris. Troth, Horace, tliou art exceeding happy in thy
Quod puero cecinit divina mota anus iinia ;
Hunc neque dira veneua, nee hosticiis auferefc ensis,
Nee latenmi dolor, aut tussis, nee tarda podagra ;
Gan-ulus buuc quando cousuniet," &c. &c.
(Hor., Sat. I., Ix. '25-33.)
Ben Jonsou is still following Horace's Satire :
" Bubius sum quid faciam, inquit,
Tene relinquam, an rem. — Me, sodes. — Non faciam, ille,
Et i>ra3cedere ccepit : ego, ut contendere durum est
Cmu victore, sequor. — Mfficenas quomodo tecum ?
Hinc repetit ; paucorum hominum et mentis bene sausE ^
Nemo dexterius fortuua est usus. Haberes
Mas-nmn adiutorem," &c. &c.
A.D. 1601.]
PLAYS.
187
friends and acquaintance ; they are all most choice spirits,
and of the first rank of Romans : I do not know that poet, I
protest, has used his fortune more prosperously than thou
liast. If thou wouldst hring me known to Mecainas, 1
should second thy desert well ; thou shouldst find a good sure
assistant of me, one that would speak aU good of thee in thy
absence, and he content -n-ith the next place, not envying thv
reputation with thy patron. Let me not live, hut I think
thou and I, in a small time, should lift them all out of favour-,
both Virgil, Varius, and the best of them, and enjoy him
wholly to ourselves.
Sor. Gods, you do know it, I can hold no longer :
This brize' has pricked my patience. Sir, your silkness
Clearly mistakes Mecsnas and his house.
To think there breathes a spirit beneath his roof,
.Subject unto those poor affections
Of undermining envy and detraction,
^Jloods only proper to base grovelling minds.
That place is not in Rome, I dare aflii-m,
More pure or free from such low common evils.
There "s no man grieved that this is thought more rich,
Or this more learned ; each man hath his place.
And to his merit his reward of grace,
'Which, with a mutual love, they aU embrace.
Cris. You report a wonder ; 'tis scarce credible, this.
Sor. I am no torturer to enforce you to believe it ; but it
is so.
Cris. AVhy, this inflames me with a more ardent desire to
be his than before ; but I doubt I shall find the entrance to
his familiarity somewhat more than difficult, Horace.
Sor. Tut, you'll conquer him, as you have done me ;
there 's no standing out against you, sir, I see that : either
your importunity, or the intimation of your good parts,
or
Cris. Nay, I'U bribe his porter, and the grooms of his
chamber ; make his doors open to me that way first, and then
I'll observe my times. Say he should extrude me his house
to-day, shall I therefore desist, or let fall my suit to-morrow':'
No ; I'U attend him, follow him, meet him in the street, the
highway, run by his coach, never leave Mm. What ! man
hath nothing given him in this life without much labour
Sor. And impudence.
Archer of heaven, I'heebus, take thy bow.
And with a full-drawn shaft nail to the earth
This P)-thon, that I may yet run hence and live :
Or, brawny Hercules, do thou come down.
And, tho' thou mak'st it up thy thii-teenth labour,
Eesoue me from this hydra of discourse here.
Enter Fuscus AiusTius.^
Ari. Horace, well met.
Sor. Oh, welcome, my reliever ;
Aristius, as thou lov'st me, ransom me.
Ari. What ail'st thou, man 'f
Sor. 'Death, I am seized on here
By a land remora ; ^ I cannot stir,
Nor move, but as he pleases.
Cris. Wilt thou go, Horace ?
Sor. Heart ! he cleaves to me like Alcides' shirt,
Tearing my flesh and sinews: oh, I've been vexed
' Brize, gad-fly.
* " Hffic duin agit, ecce
Fuscus Aristius occuiTit, mibi cams," &c.
(Hor., Sat. I., ix. 60 to the end.)
' Eemora. The sucking-fish " echeneis," called by the Latins
" remora," which means "hindrance," because it was said to delay
the course of ships by attaching itself to them.
And tortured with him beyond forty fevers.
For Jove's sake, find some means to take me from him.
Ari. Yes, I will ;— but I'll go first and tell Mccsenaa. [Atide.
Cris. Come, shall we go ?
Ari. The jest will make his eyes run, i' faith. lAtidc.
Sor. Nay, Ai-istius !
Ari. Farewell, Horace. [Going.
Sor. 'Death ! willhe leave me ? Fuscus Aiistius ! do you
hear ? Gods of Rome I You said you had somewhat to say
to me in private.
Ari. Ay, but I see you are now employed with that gentle-
man; 'twere offence to trouble you; I'U take some fitter
oppoi-tunity : farewcU, [Exit.
Sor. Mischief and torment 1 my soul and heart,
How are you cramped with anguish 1 Death itself
Brings not tho like convulsions. Oh, this day \
That ever I should view thy tedious face.
Cris. Horace, what passion, what humour is this ?
Sor. Away, good prodigy, afllict me not. —
A friend, :ind mock me thus ! Never was man
So left under the axe.- —
Then enters, with two Hctors — Roman foi- bailLfis
— Minos, the apothecary, to whom Crispinus owes
money for sweetmeats. Horace escapes ha.stily in
the confusion. Crispinus is arrested, hut Tucca
bullies him fi-ee, fleeces him of his sword, sliarks
also Minos by bullying, and tlien fastens upon
Histrio, a player who is passuig.
HiSTRio passes by.
What 's he that stalks by there, boy, Pj-rgus ? You were best
let him pass, sirrah : do, ferret, let him pass, do
2 I'yr. 'Tis a player, sir.
Tiic. A player ! caU him, caU the lousy slave hither ; what,
wiU he sail by, and not once strike, or vail to a man of war :-
ha!— Do you hear, you player, rogue, stalker, come back
here ; —
Enter Histrio.
No respect to men of worship, you slave! what, you are
proud, you rascal, are you proud, ha ? you grow rich, do you,
and purchase, you two-penny tear-mouth:' you have For-
tune, and the good year on your side, you stinkard, you
have, you have !
SM. Nay, sweet captain, be confined to some reason; I
protest I saw you not, sir.
Tiic. You did not ! where was your sight, (Edipus ? you
walk with hare's eyes, do you ? I'U have them glazed, rogue ;
,an you say the word, thev shaU be glazed for you : come, we
must have you turn fiddler, again, slave, get a base-viol at
your back, and march in a tawney coat, with one sleeve, to
Goose-fair ; then you'll know us, you'll see us then, you will,
gulch,' you will. Then, Will 't please your worsh ip to have any
music, captain ?
Sist. Nav, good captain.
Tnc -What, do vou laugh, Howleglas!' death, you per-
stemptaous varlet, I am none of your fellows; I have com-
manded a hundred and fifty such rogues, I.
2 P:ir. Av, and most of that hundred and fifty have been
leaders of a legion. ^ > .-
Sist. If I have exhibited wrong, I'U tender sabsfaction,
captain.
* Gulc-/i. fat t-hitton ; " to ^-.dch," to swallow greedily.
s Hou.!;,!,.-, the Gennan •• Eulenspiegel," a jester apposed to
have died iu the middle of the fourteenth century, upon whom whim-
sical stupidities were fathered.
188
CASSELL'S LIBRAEY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[i.D. 1601.
Tiic. Say'st thou so, honest vermin ! give me thy hand ;
thou shalt make us a supper one of these nights.
Hist. 'When you please, by Jove, captain, most willingly.
Tuc. Dost thou swear ? To-morrow then ; saj- and hold,
slave. There ai'e some of you players honest gentlemen-like
scoundrels, and suspected to have some wit, as well as your
poets, both at drinking and breaking of jests, and are com-
panions for gallants. A man may skelder )-e, now and then,
of half-a-dozen shillings, or so. Dost thou not know that
Pantolabus ' there ?
Hist. No, I assure you, captain.
Tuc. Go : and be acquainted with him then : he is a gentle-
man, parcel poet, you slave ; his father was a man of worship,
I tell thee. Go, he pens high, lofty, in a new stalking strain,
bigger than half the rhymers in the town again : he was
born to fill my mouth, Minotaui'us, he was ; he will teach thee
into his hand — twenty sesterces I mean, and let nobody see ;
go, do it, the work shall commend itself ; be ilinos, I'll pay. -
Min. Yes, forsooth, captain.
2 Fi/r. Do not we serve a notable shark ? [Aside.
Tuc. And what new matters have j-ou now afoot, sirrah,
ha ? I would fain come «ith my cockatrice one daj-, and see
a play, if I knew when there were a good [filthy] one ; but
they say you have nothing but Humours, Eevels, and Satires,
you slave.
Hist. No, I assure you, captain, not we. They are on the
other side of Tyber : we have as much ribaldry in oui- plays
as can be, as you would ^^•ish, captain : all the sinners in the
suburbs come and applaud our action daUy.
Tuc. I hear you'll bring me o' the stage there ; you'll play
me, they say ; I shall be presented by a sort of copper-laced
scoundrels of you : life of Pluto I and you stage me, stinkard,
The Forttthe THEATBEr or Nitbsert, Golpen Lane. Barbican. (A.D. 1800.)
From J. T. Sinifli's *' Antiquities of London.'*
to tear and rand. Rascal, to him, cherish his muse, go : thou
hast forty — forty .shillings, I mean, stinkard : give him in
earnest, do, he shall write for thee, slave ! If he pen for thee
once, thou slialt not need to travel with thy pumps fuU of
gravel any more, after a blind jade and a hamper, and stalk
upon boards and barrel heads to an old cracked trumpet.
Hist. Troth, I think I have not so much about me, captain.
Tuc. It's no matter; give him what thou hast, stiff-toe,
I'U give my word for the rest ; though it lack a shilling or
two, it skills not ; go, thou art an honest shifter ; I'll have
the statute repealed for thee.— Minos, I must tell thee, BLinos,
thou hast dejected yon gentleman's spirit exceedingly; dost
observe, dost note, little Minos ?
Miu. Yes, sir.
Tuc. Go to, then, raise, recover, do; suffer him not to
droop in prospect of a play, a rogue, a stager : put twenty
' Paii(o!iiJM/.s- (printed in Ben Jonson " PantaJdbns "), All-taker, is
the name given by Horace, Sat. I. viii. 11 ; II. i. 22, to a parasite,
Mallius Vema, known for ninning into debt.
^ The Fortune Theatre, in Golden Lane, near the Bas-bican, was
once the Nursery for Henry TTU.'s ohUdxen. It was timied into a
theatre in Elizabeth's reign.
3-our mansions shall sweat for't, your Tabernacles, varlcts,
your Globes, and your Triumphs.
Hist. Not we, by Phcebus, captain ; do not do us imputa-
tion without desert.
Tuc. I will not, my good two-penny rascal ; reach me thy
neuf . Dost hear !' what wilt thou give me a week for my
brace of beagles here, my little point trussers ? you shall have
them act among ye. — Sirrah, you, pronounce. — Thou shalt
hear him speak in King Darius' doleful strain.^
1 Fi/r. " O doleful days ! direful deadly dump !
wicked world, and worldly wickedness !
How can I hold my fist from crying, thump.
In rue of this right rascal wretchedness ?"
Tuc, In an amorous vein now, sirrah : peace !
1 Pi/r. " Oh, she is wilder, and more hard, withal,
Than beast, or bird, or tree, or stony wall.
Yet might she love me, to uprear her state :
Ay, but perhaps she hopes some nobler mate.
Yet might she love me, to content her fire :
' " A Pretie new Enterlude both pithie and pleaeaunte of the Story I
of Kyng Darins " was printed in 15*>5.
A.u. 1601.]
PLAYS.
189
Ay, but her reason masters her desire.
i'et might she love me as her beauty's thrall :
Ay, but I fear she cannot love at all."
Tiic. Now the horrible, fierce soldier, you, sirrah.
2 Fi/r. " What I will I brave thee r ay, and beard thee too :
A Roman spirit scorns to bear a brain
So fuU of base pusillanimity."
Hist. Excellent I
Tiic. Nay, thou shalt see that shall ravish thee anon ; prick
up thine cars, stinkard. — The ghost, boys ':
\ Pijr. "Vindictal"
2 Fiir. " Timoria ! "
1 Pyr. " Vindicta I"
2 Pyr. " Timoria 1"
1 Pyr. "Veni!"
2 Fijr. "Veni!"
Tue. Now, thunder, sirrah, you the rumbling player.
2 Pyr. Ay, but somebody must cry Miirdir .' then, in a
small voice.
Tiic. Your feUow-sharcr there shaU do 't. Crj-, sirrah, cry.
1 Pyr. '■ Murder, murder ! "
2 Pyr. "Who calls out muider ? lady, was it you ':"
Hist. Oh, admirable good, I protest.
Tiic. Sirrah boy, brace your drum a little straiter, and do
the t'other fellow there, he in the — what sha' call him ': — and
yet stay too.
2 /'//)•. " Nay, an thou dalliest, then I am thy foe,
And fear shall force what friendship cannot win ;
Thy death shall bmy what thy life conceals.
VilL'iin '. thou diest for more respecting her "
1 Pyr. •• Oh, stay, my lord."
2 Pyr. " Than me :
Yet speak the truth, and I wiU guerdon thee ;
But if thou dally once again, thou diest."
Tiic. Enough of this, boy.
2 Pyr. " 'ttTiy then lament therefore : . . . .
Unto King Pluto's hell, and princely Erebus,
For sparrows must have food "
Hint. Pray, sweet captain, let one of them do a little of a
lady.
Tiic. Oh, he will make thee eteniaUy enamoured of him,
there : do, siri-ah, do : 't«-iU allay youi- fellow's fury a little.
1 Pyr. " JIaster, mock on ; the scorn thou givest me,
Pray Jove some lady may return on thee."
2 Pyr. Now you shall see me do the Moor. Master, lend
me your scarf a little.
Tiic. Here, 'tis at thy sen'ice, boy.
2 Pyr. You, Master Minos, hark hither a little.
[Exit irith Mixos, to make himself ready.
Tiic. How dost like him ■ art not rapt, art not tickled now r
dost not applaud, rascal 't dost not applaud ''
Hint. Yes : what will you ask for them a week, captain ?
Presently there is the tirst entry of Demetrius.
Eyiter Demetrivs at a distance.
\Vhat 's he with the half amis there, that salutes us out of his
cloak, like a motion, ha '-
Hist. Oh, sir, his doublet 's a little decayed ; he is otherwise
a very simple honest fellow, sir, one Demetrius, a dresser of
plays about the town here ; we have hired him to abuse
Horace, and bring him in, in a play, with all his gallants,
as TibuUus, Mec;enas, Cornelius Gallus, and the rest.
Tiic. And why so, stinkard I'
Hist. Oh, it will get us a huge deal of money, captain, and
we have need on 't ; for this winter has made us all poorer
than so many starved snakes : nobody comes at us, not a
gentleman, nor a
Tiic. But you know nothing by him, do vou, to make a
play of ?
Hiat. Faith, not much, captain ; but our author will devise
that that shall serve in some sort.
Tiic. ^^■hy, my Parnassus here shall help him, if thou wilt.
Can thy author do it impudently enough ':
Hist. Oh, I warrant you, captain, and spitef uUy enough too ;
he has one of the most overfiowing rank wits in Home ; he
will slander any man that breathes, if he di.^gust him,
Tiic. I'll know the poor, egregious, nitty rascal : an he
have these commendable qualities, I'll cherish him— stay,
here comes the Tartar— I'U make a giithering for him, I," a
purse, and put the poor slave in fresh rags ; tell him so to
comfort him.
The Act ends w-ith a few more touches of the
humour of Captain Tiicca.
The Fourth Act opens with the ambitious of
C'hloe, the jeweller's wife, among the great court
ladies who find it convenient to visit her. The
ladies banquet with their poets at the jeweller's ex-
pense. Horace comes to the fea.st. but the jeweller
soon follows him to introduce Crispinus, Demetrius,
and Captain Tucca.
Enter HoK.tCE.
Gnl. Horace I welcome.
Hor. Gentlemen, hear you the news ?
Tib. What news, my Quintus 'r
Hor. Our melanchoUc friend, Propertius,
Hath closed himself up in his CjTithia's tomb ;
And wiU by no entreaties be drawn thence.
Enter Albu's, introducing Crispixcs and Dehztsivk follotced
by Ticc.\.
Alb. Xay, good Master Crispinus, pray you bring near the
gentleman.
Hor. Crispinus ! Hide me, good Gallus : TibuUus, shelter
me. IGoiiiy.
Cris. Make your approach, sweet captain.
Tib. What means this, Horace i
Hor. I am surprised again ; farewell.
Gal. Stay, Horace.
Hor. "What, and be tired on ' by yond vulture '. Xo :
Phcebus defend me ! [£■>■'' '""til!/-
Tib. 'Slight, I hold my life.
This same is he met him in Holy-street.'
Gal. Troth, 'tis hke enough.— This act of Propertius
relisheth very strange with me.
Tiic. By thy leave, my neat scoundrel : what, is this the
mad boy you talked on ':
Cris. Ay, this is Master Albius, captain.
Tiic. Give me thy hand, Agamemnon: we hoar abroad
thou art the Hector of citizens. VCh'A s;iyest thou : are we
welcome to thee, noble Xeoptolemus r
Alb. Welcome, captain, by Jove and all the gods in the
Capitol
Tue. Xo more, we conceive thee. Which of these is thy
wedlock, Menelausf thy Helen, thy Lucrecei- that we may
do her honour, mad boy.
1 Tii-fd 0.1 piiUed at. as a hawk imUs and tears at meat thrown to
it. The phrase was a term in talconrj-, from the French " tirer.
to dratr or pull.
- Holj-sti-eet, Via Sacra.
190
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[i.D. 1601.
Oris. She in the little fine dressing, sir, is my mistress.
Alb. For fault of a hetter, sir.
TiK. A better ! profane rascal : I cry thee mercy, my good
scroyle,' was 't thou ?
All). No harm, captain.
Tm. She is a Venus, a Vesta, a Melpomene : come hither,
Penelope ; what 's thy name, Iris 'f
Chloe. My n.ame is Chloc, sii- ; I am a gentlewoman.
Tiic. Thou art in merit to lie an empress, Chloe, for an eye
and a lip ; thou hast an emperor's nose : kiss me again ;
so ! Before Jove, the gods were a sort of
gosHngs, when they suffered so sweet a breath to perfume the
bed of a stinkard : thou hadst ill fortune, Thisbe ; the Fates
were infatuate, they were, ....
Chloe. That's sure, sir; let me crave your name, I pray
you, sir.
Tkc. I am known by the name of Captain Tucca, . .
the noble Roman, . . ; a gentleman, and a commander.
Chloe. In good time : a gentleman, and a commander !
that 's as good as a poet, methinks. [ Walks aside.
Cris. A i^retty instrument I It 's my cousin Cytheris' viol
this, is it not ?
Ci/th. Nay, play, cousin; it wants but such a voice and
hand to grace it as yours is.
Cris. Alas ! cousin, you are merrily inspired.
Cyth. Pray you play, if you love me.
Cris. Yes, cousin ; you know I do not hate you.
Til). A most subtile wench I how she hath baited him with
a viol yonder, for a song 1
Cris. Cousin, pray }-ou call Mistress Chloe ; she shall hoar
an essay of my poetrj-.
Tuc. I'll call her. — Come hither, cockatrice : here 's one
wiU set thee up, my sweet . . , set thee up.
Chloe. Are you a poet so soon, air ?
Alb. Wife, mum.
Ciiispiyus plays and sinys.
Love is blind, and a wanton ;
In the whole world there is scant one
— Such another :
No, not his mother.
He hath plucked her doves and sparrows,
To feather his sharp arrows.
And alone prcvaileth,
^Tiilc sick Venus waileth.
But if Cj-pris once recover
The wag ; it .shall be'nove her
To look better to him :
Or she will undo him.
Alb. most odoriferous music !
T/ic. Aha, stinkard ! Another Orpheus, you slave, another
Orpheus ! an Arion riding on the back of a dolphin, rascal !
Gal. Have you a copy of this ditty, sir ?
Cris. Master Albius has.
Alb. Ay, but in tnith they are my wife's verses, I must
not show them.
Tiic. Show them, bankrupt, show them ; the}- have salt in
them, and will brook the air, stinkard.
Gal. How ! " To his bright mistress Canidia I"
Cris. Ay, sir, that's but a borrowed name; as Ovid's
Corinna, or Propertius his C^■nthia, or vour Nemesis, or
Delia, Tibullus.
Gal. It 's the name of Horace his witch, as I remember.
Tib. Why, the ditty 's aU boiTowed; 'tis Horace's: hang
him, plagiar}' !
• Scroyle, scrofulous person.
I'ac. How ! he borrow of Horace ? he shall pawn Ivimself
to ten brokers first. Do you heai-. Poetasters 'r I know you
to be men of worship He shall write with Horace, for a
talent ; and let Mecaenas and his whole college of critics
take his part : thou shalt do 't, young Phtt^bus ; thou shalt,
Phaeton, thou shalt.
Uem. Alas, sir, Horace ! he is a mere sponge ; nothing but
Humom-s and obsers-ation ; he goes up and down sucking
fi'om every society, and when he comes home squeezes him-
self dry again. I know him, I.
Tuc. Thou say'st true, my poor poetical fui-y, he wUl pen
all he knows. A sharp thorny-toothed satirical rascal, fly
him ; he carries hay in his horn ; ^ he will sooner lose his best
friend than liis least jest. "What he once drops upon paper
against a man, lives eternally to upbraid him in the mouth of
every slave, fcmkard-bearer, or waterman ; not a bawd, or a
bov that comes from the bakehouse, but shall point at him :
'tis all dog and scorpion ; he carries poison in his teeth, and
a sting in his tail. Fough ! bod}- of Jove 1 I'U have the
slave whipt one of these days for his Satires and his Humours,
by one cashiered clerk or another.
Cris. We'll undertake him, captain.
Uem. Ay, and tickle him, i' faith, for his arrogancy and
his impudence, in commending his own things ; and for his
translating,^ I can trace him i' faith. Oh, he is the most open
fellow UWng ; I had as lieve as a new suit I were at it.
Tuc. Say no more, then, but do i, ; 'tis the only way to get
thee a new suit ; sting him, my little neufts ; I'U give you
instructions: I'U be your inteUigencer ; we'll aU join, and
hang upon him like so many horse-leeches, the phiyers and
all. We shall sup together soon ; and then we'U conspii-e, i'
faith.
Gal. Oh, that Horace had stayed stiU here !
Tib. So would not I ; for both these would have tuined
Pv-thagoreans then.
Gal. What, mute ?
Tib. Ay, as fishes, i' faith. Come, ladies, .shaU we go ?
Cyth. We wait you, sir. But Mistress Chloe asks, if you
have not a god to spare for this gentleman.
Gal. Who, Captain Tucca ?
Cyth. Ay, he.
Gal. Yes, if we can invite him along, he shaU be Jlars.
Chloe. Has Mars anything to do with Venus r
Tib. Oh, most of all, lady.
Chloe. Nay, then I pray let him be invited. And what
shaU Crispinus be ':
Tib. Mercury, Mistress Chloe.
Chloe. Mercury ! that 's a poet, is it ?
Gal. No, lady, but somewhat inclining that way ; he is a
herald at arms.
Chloc. A herald at arms ! good ; and Mercury ! pretty : he
has to do with Venus too 'r
Tib. A Uttle with her face, lad}', or so.
2 A Eoman phrase for a person of dangrerous temper, from the
custom of winding hay on the horn of a bull that was to be avoided
by the passers-by. The phrase and the following passage are taken
by Ben Jonson from Horace, the fourth Satire of the First Book,
lines ^ and 35 : —
" Ffienum habet in comu, longe fuge ! dummodo risiun
Escutiat sibi, non hie cuiquam parcet amico," &c.
' For ?ius translating. It was a pleasure to Ben Jonson to work
thoughts of the Latin writers into scenes of his plays, in the way
illustrated by the preceding notes. He was censured for it, and called
pedant, by men who were afraid lest they should be hitting unawares
a famous classic author, when they meant only to strike at the wit of
their neighbour. The scene between Horace and Crispimis shows
with how ready a wit of his own Ben Jonson made tliis occasional use
of his goofl scholarship.
A.D. leoi.]
PLAYS.
191
Chloe. 'Tis ver\- well ; pray let us go, I long to be at it.
Cyth. Gentlemen, shaU we in-ay yoiir companies along?
Cris. You shaU. not only jJiay, but prevaQ, lady. — Come,
sweet captain.
Tiic. Yes, I follow : but thou must not talk of this now,
my little bankrupt.
Alb. Captain, look hero, mum.
Dem. I'll go wi-ite, sir.
Ttic. Do, do ; stay, there 's a drachm to purchase ginger-
bread for thy muse. {Exeunt.
In the next scene Asiuius Lupus, having intelli-
gence fi-om Histrio, the player, that there has been
a mysterious hiring of properties, a sceptre and
crown for Jove, a caduceus for Mercury, and so forth,
sees a plot, summons his lictoi-s to follow him, and
arrests Minos his apothecary, wlien he entei-s with a
potion, Ijecause he holds poisoning of himself to be
part of the plot. Then the scene changes to the
palace, where, in the absence of Augustus C»sar,
the poets and the court ladies are disporting them-
selves in the hii'ed properties, and banqueting as
gods and goddesses. Upon their mirth and music
enters Augustus Csesar, with Mecajnas, Horace,
Lupus and his lictoi-s. The crest-fiiUen assembly is
dispersed 1 ly the wrath of Cse.sar. Ovid, for his love
of Ciesar's daughter Julia, is banished. Captain
Tucea, who had slunk out of the company, brags that
he must beat Horace as an informer, but knowing
him to lie a man of the sword, cringes in Ids presence.
Horace and MecLenas revile Histrio as a meddlesome
informer, and the act ends with a scene of parting
between Ovid and Julia.
The Fifth Act opens with Csesar enthi-oned, sur-
rounded bv Mecsenas and tlie poets, pardoning
Cornelius Gallus and Tibullus, and exalting the
l)raise of poesy. The approach of Yii'gil Ls amioimced,
and draws the fullest and the frankest praise of him
from each of his brother poets.
C(es. This one consent in all your dooms of him.
And mutual loves of all your several merits,
Argues a truth of merit in you aU.
Enter Virgil.
See, here comes Virgil : we will rise and greet him.
Welcome to Cajsar, VirgU 1 Ciesar and Virgil
Shall differ but in sound ; to Ca?sar, Virgil,
Of his expressed greatness, shall be made
A second surname, and to VirgU, Csesar.
■ftTiere are thy famous ^^neids : do us grace
To let us see, and sui-feit on their sight.
I'irg. Worthless they are of Cajsar's gracious eyes.
If they were perfect : much more with their wants,
Which are yet more than my time could supply.
And, could great Cjesai's expectation
Be satisfied with any other service,
I would not show them.
CiFs. Virgil is too modest :
Or seeks, in vain, to make oiu- longings more :
Show them, sweet Vii'gil.
yirij. Then, in such due fear
As fits presenters of great works to Caesar,
I humbly show them.
Cfss. Let us now behold
A human soul made visible in life ;
And more refulgent in a senseless paper
Than in the sensual complement of kings.
Read, read thyself, dear Virgil ; let not me
Profane one accent with an untuned tongue :
Best matter, badly shown, shows worse than bad.
See then this chair, of purjwse set for thee
To read thy poem in ; refuse it not.
Virtue, without presumption, place may take
Above best kings, whom only she should make.
Virg. It win be thought a thing ridiculous
To present eyes, and to aU future times
A gross untruth, that any poet, void
Of birth, or wealth, or temporal dignity.
Should, with decorum, transcend Cajsar's chair.
Poor virtue raised, high birth and wealth set under,
Crosseth heaven's courses, and makes worldlings wonder.
f'rt-s. The course of heaven, and fate itself, in this,
Wni Caesar cross ; much more all worldly custom.
Hor. Custom, in course of honour, ever errs ;
And they are best whom Fortune least prefers.
Ctes. Horace hath but more strictly spoke our thoughts.
The vast rude swing of general confluence
Is, in particular ends, exempt from sense :
And therefore Reason (which in right should be
The special rector of all harmony)
Shall show we are a man distinct by it.
From those, whom Custom rapteth in her press.
Ascend then, Virgil ; and where first by chance
We here have turned thy book, do thou first read.'
Virg. Great Ca;sar hath his will ; I will ascend.
'Twcre simple injury to his free hand,
That sweeps the cobwebs from unused Virtue,
.\nd makes her shine proportioned to her worth,
To be more nice to entertain his grace.
Than he is choice, and liberal to afford it.
Cms. Gentlemen of our chamber, guard the doors.
And let none enter ^Exeunt EaciTEs] ; peace. Begin, good
Virgil.
Tirg. " Meanwhile the skies 'gan thunder, and in tail
Of that, fell pouiing storm of sleet and hail ;
The T)Tian lords and Trojan youth, eachwhere,
With Venus' Dardane nephew, now, in fear.
Seek out for several shelter through the plain,
■S\'hilst floods come rolling from the hiUs amain.
Dido a cave, the Trojan prince the same
Lighted upon. There earth and heaven's great dame,
That hath the charge of marriage, fii-st gave sign
Unto his contract ; fire and air did shine.
As guUtv of the match : and from the hUl
The n\-mphs with shriekings do the region fill.
Here first began their bane ; this day was ground
Of all their ills : for now, nor rumour's sound,
Xor nice respect of state, moves Dido ought :
Her love no longer now by stealth is sought :
She caUs this wedlock, and with that fair name
Covers her fault. Forthwith the brmt and tame,
Through all the greatest Libyan to^^•ns is gone ;
Fame, a fleet evil, than which is swnfter none
That moving grows, and fl>-ing gathers strength;
Little at first, and fearful ; but at length
She dares attempt the sk-ies, and stalkmg proud
With feet on gromid, her head doth pierce a cloud.
This child, om- parent earth, stirred up with spite
Of all the gods, brought forth ; and, as some wnte.
action of tlie play.
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CASSELL'S LIBEAEY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1601.
She was last sister of that giant race,
That thought to scale Jove's court : right swift of pace,
And swifter far of wing ; a monster vast,
And dieadful. Look, how many plumes are placed
On her huge corps, so many waking eyes
Stick imderneath ; and, which may stranger rise
In the report, as many tongues she bears,
As many mouths, as many listening ears.
Nightly in midst of all the heaven she flies.
And through the earth's dark shadow shrieking cries ;
Nor do her eyes once bend to taste sweet sleep ;
Bv day on tops of houses she doth keep,
Or on high towers : and doth thence affright
Cities and towns of most conspicuous site :
As covetous she is of talcs and lies.
As prodigal of truth: this monster "
Lup. [V'M'ui.'] Come, follow me, assist me, second me 1
Where 's the emperor 'i
1 Eques. [ If'Uhin.'] Sir, you must pardon us.
2 £gms. [Within.] Ca;sar is private now; you may not
enter.
Tiic. IJfUhiii.] Not enter! Charge them upon their
allegiance, cropshin.
1 £fjii,s. [ rra/iiii.] We Kave a charge to the contrary, sir.
Lup. [Tf'it/dii.] I pronounce you all traitors, horrible
traitors. What, do you know my affairs ': I have matter
of danger and state to impart to Ca'sar.
Cas. ^\^lat noise is there ? who 's that names Caisar ?
Li<p. [Jritliiii.] A friend to Ca;sar.
One that, for Ca'sar's good, would speak with Ca'sar.
Cas. A\'ho is it ? look, Cornelius.
1 Eqtws. \_WithiH.'] Asinius Lupus.
C'iBS. Oh, bid the turbulent informer hence ;
We have no vacant ear now, to receive
The unseasoned fruits of his officious tongue.
Mcc. You must avoid him there.
Zup. \_Within.'] I conjure thee, as thou art Ca>sar, or
respectest thine own safety, or the safety of the state, Ca>sar,
hear me, speak with me, Cfesar ; 'tis no common business I
come about, but such, as being neglected, may concern the
life of Ca-sar.
Cais. The life of Ca'sar I Let him enter. Tii'gil, keep thy
seat.
Eqiiites. [Within.'] Bear back, there: whither will you r
keep back !
Enter Lvrrs, Tucca, and Lietors.
Tuc. By thy leave, goodman usher : mend thy peruke : so.
Lup. Lay hold on Horace there ; and on 5Ieca>nas, lietors.
Romans, offer no rescue, ujion yom' aDegiance : read, royal
Ca3Sar. [Gives a paper.] I'll tickle you, Satyr.
Tuc. He will. Humours, he will ; he will squeeze you, poet
puck-fist.
Lup. I'll lop you off for an improfitablc branch, you satirical
varlet.
Tuc. Ay, and Epaminondas your patron here, with his
flagon chain; come, resign [takes off Mec.^xas' chain]:
though 'twere your great grandfather's, the law has made it
mine now, sir. Look to him, my party-coloured rascals ; look
to him.
Cces. What is this, Asinius Lupus ? I understand it not.
Lup. Not understand it ! A libel, Csesar ; a dangerous,
seditious libel ; a libel in picture.
Cies. A libel !
Lup. Ay ; I found it in this Horace his study, in Mecrenas
his house, here ; I challenge the penalty of the laws against
them.
Tuc. Ay, and remember to beg their land betimes ; before
some of these hungry court hounds scent it out.
Cms. Show it to Horace : ask him if he know it.
Lup. Know it ! his hand is at it, Caesar.
Cies. Then 'tis no libel.
Uor. It is the imperfect body of an emblem, Caisar, I
began for Mecfenas.
Lup. An emblem I right : that 's Greek for a libel. Do but
mark how confident he is.
Hur. A just man cannot fear, thou foolish tribune;
Not though the malice of traducing tongues.
The open vastness of a tyrant's ear,
The senseless rigour of the wi-ested laws,
Or the red eyes of strained authority.
Should, in a point, meet all to take his life :
His innocence is amiour 'gainst all these.
Lup. Innocence 1 oh, impudi'nce 1 let me see, let me see.
Is not here an eagle i and is not that eagle meant by Ca-sar,
ha ? Docs not Ciesar give the eagle ': answer me ; what
Siiyest thou ?
Tuc. Hast thou any evasion, stinkard ?
Lup. Now he 's turned dumb. I'll tickle you, SatjT.
Jlor. Pish : ha, ha !
Lup. Dost thou pish me f Give me my long sword.
Hor. With reverence to great Ciesar, worthy Romans,
Observe but this ridiculous commenter :
The soul to my device was in this distich :
" Thus oft, the base and ravenous multitude
Smwive, to share the spoils of fortitude."
Which in this body I have figui-cd here,
A vulture
Lup. A vulture ! Ay, now, 'tis a vulture. (3h, abominable !
monstrous 1 monstrous ! Has not yom- vulture a beak r has
it not legs, and talons, and wings, and feathers ?
Tuc. Touch him, old buskins.
Hor. And therefore must it be an eagle ?
Mcc. Respect him not, good Horace : say your device.
Hor. A vultui-e and a wolf '
Lup. A wolf! good: that's 1; I am the wolf: my name 's
Lupus ; I am meant by the woH . On, on ; a vulture and a
wolf.
Hor. Preying upon the carcass of an ass
Lup. An ass ! good still : that 's I too ; I am the ass. You
mean me by the ass.
Mcc. Prithee leave braj-ing then.
Hor. If you will needs take it, I cannot with modesty give
it from you.
Mcc. But, by that beast, the old Egyptians
AN'ere wont to figm-e, in theii- hieroglyphics,
Patience, frugality, and fortitude ;
For none of which we can suspect you, tribune.
Vies. Who was it. Lupus, that infoi-med you first.
This should be meant bj- us ': Or was 't yom- comment f
Lup. No, CiL'sar ; a player gave me the first light of it
indeed.
Tuc. Ay, an honest sycophant-like slave, and a politician
besides.
Ca:s. '\^^lere is that phiyer ?
Tuc. He is without here.
Vas. Call him in.
Tuc. Call in the player there. Master JEsop ; call him.
Equites. [Within.] Player! where is the player!' bear
back : none but the player enter.
Enter .S,f,ov , followed bij C'kispini-'s and Demetrivs.
Tuc. Y^es, this gentleman and his Achates must.
Cris. Pray you, master usher : — we'll stand close here.
A.D. 1601.]
PLAYS.
193
Tuc. 'Tis a gentleman of quality, tMs; though he be
.-omowhat out of clothes, I tell ye. — Come, ^sop, hast a
bay-leaf in thy mouth 'i Well said ; be not out, stinkard.
Thou shall have a monopoly of pla}Tng confirmed to thee
and thy covey, under the emperor's broad seal, for this
service.
C<es. Is this he ?
Lup. Ay, Ca3Sar, this is he.
Ctes. Let him be whipped. Lictors, go take him hence.
And, Lupus, for your fierce credulity.
One fit him with a pair of larger ears :
'Tis Csesar's doom, and must not he revoked.
We hate to have our court and peace disturbed
With these quotidian clamours. See it done.
Zup. Ca;sar !
\_Exeunt some of the Lictors, with Lvprs and ^•iOY.
Cees. Gag him. We may have his silence.
Virij. Caesar hath done like Caesar. Fair and just
Is his award against these brainless creatui'es.
"Tis not the wholesome sharp morality.
Or modest anger of a satii-ic spirit,
That hm'ts or wounds the body of the state ;
But the sinister application
Of the malicious, ignorant, and base
Interpreter, who will distort and strain
The general scope and purpose of an author
To his particular and private spleen.
Cas. We know it, our dear Vu'gU, and esteem it
A most dishonest practice in that man
Will seem too witty in another's work.
What would Cornelius Gallus, and Tibidlus .*
{They whisper C.K8AK.
Tuc. \To Mec.^xas.] Xay, but as thou art a man, dost
hear ? a man T)f worship and honourable : hold, here, take
thy chain again. Resume, mad ileca'nas. What ! dost thou
think I meant to have kept it, old boy? no: I did it but
to fright thoe, I, to trv- how thou wouldst take it. 'UTaat !
will I turn shark upon my f ncnds, or my friends' friends ? I
scorn it with my three souls.' Come, I lo"-j bully Horace as
well as thou dost, I : 'tis an honest hieroglyphic. Give me
thy wrist. Helicon. Dost thou think I'll second e'er a
rhinoceros of them all against thee, ha 'r or thy noble Hip-
pocrene, here ? I'll tiu-n stager first, and be whipt too : dost
thou see, buUy ?
i'as. You have your will of Caesar : use it, Romans.
Virgil shall be j'oiu- pnetor ; and ourself
Will here .sit bj', spectator of your sports ;
-Vnd think it no impeach of royalty.
Our ear is now too much profaned, grave Maro,
With these di.stastes, to take thy sacred lines :
Put up thy book, tiU both the time and we
1 3fy i'hree souJs. In Plato's "Timaeus" it is taught that man was
made with an immortal soul, to which were joined two uiortai souls
and a body. In the mortal souls it was necessary to include fear,
anger, appetite. &c. By contact with these the immortal soul is
subject to defilement, but for its better protection it is lodged in the
head, and separated by the isthmus of the neck from the two mortal
souls placed in the body. Of these two, the better— the coui'ageous,
energetic soul— is placed nearer the head in the chest, where it may
more easily i-eceive orders from the head to keep down the inferior
soul of appetite, which is placed in the belly. The immortal soul
13 fastened in the brain ; the two mortal souls are joined to the
line of the spinal maixow, which is the line of communication
between the three. The heart is an outwork of the immort.il soul,
for strengthening its influence over the lower parts. When this
higher soul is stirred by wrong, the heart beats \-iolently, and
pours its exhortations and threats through the blood-vessels to all
subject parts.
145
Be fitted -n-ith more hallowed circumstance
For the receiving so divine a work.
Proceed with your design.
Mcc. Gat. Til,. Thanks to great Cajsar.
Gat. TibuUus, draw you the indictment then, whilst
Horace arrests them on the statute of Calmnny. Mecajnaa
and I will take our places here. Lictors, assist "him.
Sor. I am the worst accuser under heaven.
Gal. Tut ! you must do it ; 'tT\-ill be noble mirth.
Mor. I take no knowledge that they do malign me.
Tib. Ay, but the world takes knowledge.
Mor. AVould the world knew
How heartily I wish a fool should hate me^
Tae. Body of Jupiter ! what ! wiU they arraign my brisk
Poetaster and his poor journeyman, ha!- Would I were
abroad skeldering for a drachm, so I were out of this
labj-rinth again! I do feel myself turn stinkard already,
but I must set the best face I have upon 't now. [Aside.]
Well said, my divine, deft Horace, bring the [misbegotten]
detracting slaves to the bar, do ; make them hold up their
spread goUs : - I'U give in evidence for thee, if thou wUt.
Take courage, Crispinus ; would thy man had a clean band !
CKISPDiTS."
Portrait of Thomas Percy, a GniHeiium Pensioner (1605).
Oris. Whsd, must we do. captain f
Tuc. Thou shalt see anon : do not make diWsion with thy
legs so.
Ores. MTiat 's he, Horace ?
Sor. I only know him for a motion, Caesar.
Tifc. I am one of thy commanders, Ca;sar ; a man of
2 Goll.«. paws. A contemptuous word for haads. "Fy. Mr. Con-
stable, what golls you have ! Is justice so blind you cauuot see to
wash your hands ? " (Beaumont and Fletcher's '■ L'ojcomb.") The
word is alUed, possibly, to Latin " Tola," the hollow of the hand.
But the word " golls " is apphed also to rolls of fat on the body, uud
there may be relation to the Irish " coUan," flesh, and Welsh " gol-
wvth," a piece of flesh.
3 This is taken, for the sake of contemporary costume, from a por-
trait of one who was arraigned for a more serious offence— a shai« iu
the Guuiv>*der Plot.
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CASSELL'S LIBKAHY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1601.
I have
service and action : my name is Pantiliiis Tucca
served in thj- wars against Mark Antony, I.
Cas. Do you know him, Cornelius 't
Gal. He 's one that hath had the musteiing or convoy of a
company now and then : I never noted him by any other
employment.
C<es. We win ohserve him better.
Tib. Lictor, proclaim silence in the court.
Lict. In the name of Citsar, silence !
Tib. Let the parties, the accuser and the accused, present
themselves.
lict. The accuser and the accused present yourselves in
court.
Oris. Dem. Here.
Virg. Read the indictment.
Tib. " Kufus Laherius Crispinus, and Demetrius Fannius,
hold up your hands. You are, before this time. Jointly and
severally indicted, and here presently to be arraigned upon
the statute of calumny, or Lex Rcmmia, the one by the name
of Eufus Laberius Crispinus, alias Cri-spinas, poetaster and
plagiary ; the other by the name of Demetrius Fannius,
play-dresser and plagiary. That you (not having the fear of
Pha'bus, or his shafts, before your eyes) contrary to the peace
of our liege lord, Augustus Ca>sar, his crown and dignity, and
against the form of a statute, in that case made and provided,
have most ignorantly, foolishly, and, more like yourselves,
maliciously, gone about to depravi; and calumniate the person
and writings of Quintus Horatius Flaccus, here present, poet,
and priest to the Muses ; and to that end have mutually con-
spii-ed and plotted, at sundry times, as by several means, and
in sundry places, for the better accomplishing your base and
envious piu-pose ; ta,xing him fiilsely, of self-love, arrogancy,
impudence, railing, filching by translation, &c. Of all which
calumnies, and every of them, in manner and form aforesaid ;
what answer you ? Are you guilty, or not guilty ? "
Tiic. Not guilty, say.
Oris. Dem. Not guilty.
Tib. How will you be tried ?
Tiie. By the Eoman gods, and the noblest Romans.
\_Asi(h to Cris.
Oris. Dem. By the Roman gods, and the noblest Romans.
Virg. Here sits Jlecsenas and Cornelius Gallus.
Are you contented to be tried by these ?
Tiic. Ay, so the noble captain may be joined with them in
commission, say. \^Asiclc.
Cris. Dem. Ay, so the noble captain ma)' be joined with
them in commission.
Virg. "What says the plaintiff ?
Sor. I am content.
Virg. Captain, then take your place.
Tiie. Alas, my worshipful pr;etorI 'tis more of thy gentle-
ness than of my deserving, I wusse. But since it hath
pleased the court to make choice of my wisdom and gravity,
come, my calumnious varlets ; let's hear you talk for your-
selves, now, an hour or two. A\'hat can you say ? Make a
noise. Act, act !
Virg. Stay, turn, and take an oath first.
' ' You shall swear.
By thunder-darting Jove, the king of gods,
And by the genius of Augustus Caesar ;
By your own white and uncorrupted souls,
And the deep reverence of our Roman justice ;
To judge this case with truth and equity :
As bound, by your religion, and your laws."
Now read the evidence : but first demand
Of either prisoner, if that writ be theirs.
[Gives him ttco papers.
Tib. Show this unto Crispinus. Is it yom-s i
Tuc. Say ay : [Aside.] ^^^^at 1 dost thou stand upon it,
. . .': Do not deny thine own Minerva, thy Pallas, tho
issue of thj' brain.
Cris. Yes, it is mine.
Tib. Show that unto Demetrius. Is it yours ?
Dem. It is.
Tuc. There 's a father wUl not deny his own bastard now,
I warrant thee.
Virg. Read them aloud.
Tib. " Ramp up, my genius, he not retrograde ;•
But boldly nominate a spade a spade. -
What, shall thy lubrical and glibbery ■* Muse
Live, as she were defunct ! "
Tuc. Excellent!
Tib. " Alas 1 that wei-e no modem consequence,
To have cothurnal buskins ■* frighted hence.
No, teach thy Incubus * to poetize ;
And throw abroad thy spurious snotteries^
Upon that puft-up lump of balmy froth," ''
1 Ram}i up . . . retrograde. Most of the words ridiculed are m the
early satires of Marston (" Scourge of Villauie "), or in his "Antonio
and Melhda," but were used also hy other writers. The Prologue to
the second part of Marstou's " Antonio and Mellida " opens thus : —
** The rawish dank of duiii.9ii winter ramps
The fluent siunmer's vein."
" Clumsy " is a word ridiculed later in the scene. Shakespeare in
" Hamlet " had used ** retrograde," act i., scene 2 —
"For your intent
In going back to school in Wittenberg,
It is most retrograde to oiur desire."
But he never in his plays used the word *' clumsy," or *' ramp," except
in the participle "rampant," or " ramping."
2 Nomineite a spade a spade. There is jest on affectation of the word
7iomoiflte for call; the same joke on fine language as in "Love's
Labour's Lost," when Sir Nathaniel says (act v., sc. 1), " I did con-
verse this quondam day with a companion of the king's, who is
intituled, nominated, or called, Don Adriano de Armado."
3 Glibhcrij. First Part of " Antonio and Mellida," act i., sc. 1, " His
love is glibbery, there 's no hold ou't, wench," Again, aet ii., sc. 1,
Catzo, eating a cajwn, says to Dildo, "Capon's no meat for Dildo;
milk, milk, ye ghbbery urchin, is food for infants." William Gilford,
in his edition of "Ben Jonson," first pointed out these numerous
references to Marston.
* Cothurnal buskins. Second Part of "Antonio and Mellida," act
ii., sc. 5: —
" O now trageedia eothumaUt mounts !"
^ I7iy Incuhifs. Second Part of " Antonio and Mellida," act i., sc. I —
" Piero. Yet naught but no, and yes !
Strotzo. I would have told you, if the Incubus
That rides your bosom would have patience."
^ Marston's " Scourge of Villanie," Bk. I , Sat. 2—
*' what dry brain melts not shai-p mustard rhyme
To purge the snotterij of oui" sUmy time !"
' Balmy froth. " Scourge of Villanie." To the Headers :—
" Shall each odd puisne of the Lawyers' Inn,
Each barmtj froth that last day did begin
To read his little, or his ne'er-a-whit "
Again, at the beginning of the 6th Satire, in Bk. I., of the " Scourge
of Villanie :" —
" Curio, know'st me ? Why, thou bottle ale,
Thou ^(ii-(iii/ froth ! Oh, stay me, lest I rail
Beyond Nil ultra !"
And in the prose note before the " Scourge of Villanie "addressed " To
those that seem judicial perusers," the word occui*s in a passage which
has been thought to refer to Ben Jonson : " Yet when by some scxuvy
chance it shall come into the late perfumed fist of judicial Torquatnfi
(that, hke some rotten stick in a troubled water, hath got a great deal
of biirmy froth to stick to his sides), I know he will vouchsafe it some
of ills new-minded epithets (as real, iutrinsecate, Delphic), when in
my conscience he understands not the least part of it." Ben Jonson
bad used those words. The energy of the time, as well as its affects^
tions in court speech, caused Euijlish to aboiuid in new-minted words
— some good, some bad — and they were in the latter days of Elizabeth,
and in the early days of James I., a frequent subject of ridicule.
A.D. 1601.]
PLAYS.
195
Tuc. Ah, ha \
Tib. '• Or clumsy ' chilblained j udgment, that with oath
JIagnificates - his merit and bespawls
The conscious time with humourous foam and brawls,
As if his organons of sense would crack
The sinews of my patience. Break his back,
poets all and some 1 for now we list
Of strenuous vengeance to clutch ^ the fist.
Crispixus."
Titf. Ay, marrj', this was written like a Hercules in poetr}-,
now.
Cas. Excellently well thi-eatened I
Virg. And as strangely worded, C'ajsar.
C(es. We observe it.
Virg. The other now.
Tuc. This is a fellow of a good prodigal tongue too ; this
will do well.
Tib. "Our Muse is in mind for th' untrussing a poet ;
1 slip by his name, for most men do know it :
A critic that all the world bescumbcrs ■•
With satirical humom'S and IjTical nimibers ; "
Tuc. Art thou there, boj- ?
Tib. "And for the most part, himself doth advance
With much self-love, and more an-ogance."
Tuc. Good ag-ain !
Tib. "And, but that I would not be thought a prater,
I could tell you he were a transkitor.
X know the authors from whence he has stole.
And could trace him too, but that I understand them not full
and whole."
Tuc. That line is broke loose from aU his fellows : chain
him up shorter, do.
Tib. " The best note I can give you to know him by.
Is, that he keeps gallants' company ,
Whom I could wish in time should him fear,
Lest after they buy repentance too dear.
Peme. F.iN'xns."
Tac. Well said 1 this can-ies palm ' with it.
Ear. And why, thou motley gull, why should they fear f
When hast thou knoNvn us wTong or tax a friend 'f
I dare thy malice to betray it. Speak.
Now thou curl'st up, thou poor and nasty snake,
And shrink'st thy poisonous head into thy bosom :
Out, Viper 1 thou that eat'st thy parents, hence I
Rather such speckled creatures as thyself
Should be eschewed, and shunned : such as ^^•ill bite
And gnaw their absent friends, not cure their fame ;
Catch at the loosest laughters, and affect
To be thought jesters ; such as can de\'ise
Things never seen, or heard, t' impair men's names.
And gratify their credulous adversaries :
Will carrv tales, do basest offices,
• Clumsy. See note 1, page 194.
* Marston's " Pygmalion's Image, and Satires," Sat. 2 —
" With that depaints a church refonnt-d state.
The which the female ton^ies ma^rnificate."
» CTufcfi.
"Seize on. Bevenge, grasp the stem-bended front
Of frowning vengeance with unpaizt-d chdch."
(" Second Part of Ant. and MeU.," act iii., sc. 1.)
And in the same play, act v., sc. 1. " The fist of strenuous vengeance
13 clutcht."
♦ Bescumiifrs. In Marston's " Scourge of Villanie," Bk. III., Sat. 9.
IS the couplet ;
" ri-tutored pedant, Mortimer's numbers
With muck-pit esculine filth J.escmnhcrs."
'' Palm, in the sense of victory. " Palmam qui meroit ferat."
Cherish divided fires, and still increase
Xew flames out of old embers ; will reveal
Each secret that's committed to their trust :
These be black slaves ; Romans, take heed of these.'
Tuc. Thou twang' st right, Uttle Horace : they be indeed a
couple of chap-faUen curs. Come, we of the bench, let 's rise
to the urn, and condemn them quickly.
Virg. Before you go together, worthy Romans,
We are to tender our opinion,
-And give you those instructions that may add
Unto your even judgment in the cause :
Which thus we do commence. First, you must know,
That where there is a true and perfect merit
There can be no dejection ; and the scorn
Of humble baseness oftentimes so works
In a high soul upon the grosser spirit,
That to his bleared and offended sense
There seems a hideous fault blazed in the object
When only the disease is in his eyes.
Here-hence it comes our Horace now stands taxed
Of impudence, self-love, and arrogance.
By those who share no merit in themselves
And therefore think his portion is as small.
For they, from their own guilt, assure their souls
If they should confidently prai.se their works
In them it would appear inflation,
'Which, in a full and well digested man.
Cannot receive that foul abusive name,
But the far title of erection.
And, for his true use of translating men,
It still hath been a work of as much palm,
In clearest judgments, as to invem or make.
His sharpness, — that is most excusable ;
As being forced out of a suft'ering virtue
Oppressed with the Hcence of the time :
And howsoever fools or jerking pedants.
Players, or such Uke buft'oon barking wits,
May with theii- beggarly and banen trash
Tickle base vulgar ears, in their despite
This, like Jove's thunder, shall their pride control,
" The honest satire hath the happiest soul."
Now, Romans, you have heard our thoughts ; withdraw when
you please.
Tib. Remove the accused from the bar.
Tuc. AMio holds the urn to us, ha : Fear nothing, I'll
quit you, mine honest pitiful stinkards : I'll do't.
Oris. Captain, you shall eternally gilt me to you, as I am
generous.
Tm. Go to.
C<cs. Tibullus, let there be a case of vizards privately
provided ; we have found a subject to bestow them on.
Tib. It shall be done, C'a'sar.
Cm. Here be words, Horace, able to bastinado a man's ears.
Hor. Ay.
Please it great Ca;sar, T have pills about me,
Mixt with the whitest kind of hellebore.
Would give him a light vomit that should purge
His brain and stomach of those tumorous heats,
Might I have leave to minister imto him.
C<es. Oh, be his ^sculapius, gentle Horace!
You shaU have leave, and he shall be your patient.
YirgU,
Use your authority, command him forth.
Toliela^ ten or eleven lines of this speech are a "'^■j"" *™" .^""^
lines in one of Horace's " Satires," Book I., Sat. 4. « Uham U.ffonl
ZZZ thLs out, and also supposed reference to Juvenal , opemng of
, Sat. xiii. in Tucca's " We of the bench, let 's rise to the nm.
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[a.d. 1601
Vii-ff. C;esar is careful of your health, Crispinus ;
And hath himself chose a physician
To minister unto you : take his pi'Is.'
Sor. They are somewhat bitter, sir, but very wholesome.
Take yet another ; so ; stand by, they'll work anon.
Tib. Komans, return to your several seats : lictors, bring
forward the urn ; and set the accused to the bar.
Tuc. Quickly, you .... egregious varlets ; come
forward. What ! shall we sit all day upon you ? You make
no more haste now than a beggar upon pattens ; or a
physician to a patient that has no money, you pilchers.
Tib. " Rufus Laberius Crispinus, and Demetrius Fannius,
hold up your hands. You have, according to the Roman
custom, put yourselves upon trial to the urn, for divers and
sundry calumnies, whereof you have, before this time, been
indicted, and arc now presently arraigned: prepare your-
selves to hearken to the verdict of your tryers. Caius
Cilnius Meea;nas pronounceth you, by this hand-writing,
guilty. Cornelius Gallus, guilty. Pantilius Tucca "
Ttic. Parcel-guilty, I.
Dem. He means himself ; for it was he indeed
Suborned us to the calumny.
Tuc. I, you . . . cantharides ! was it I ?
Dem. I appeal to your conscience, captain.
Tib. Then you confess it now ?
Dem. I do, and crave the mercy of the court.
Tib. What saith Crispinus ?
Oris. Oh, the captain, the captain
Sor. My physic begins to work with my patient, I see.
Virff. Captain, stand forth and answer.
Tuc. Hold thy peace, poet praetor ; I appeal from thee to
Cieaar, I. jDo me right, royal Csesar.
Cees. Marry, and I will, sir. — Lictors, gag him ; do.
And put a case of vizards o'er his head,
That he may look bifronted, as he speaks.
Tkc. Gods and fiends ! C;esar ! thou wilt not, C^sar, wilt
thou ? Away, you . . . vultures ; away. You think I
am a dead corps now, because Ca;sar is disposed to jest with
a man of mark, or so. Hold your hooked talons out of my
flesh, you inhuman harpies. Go to, do 't. What ! will the
royal Augustus cast away a gentleman of worship, a captain
and a commander, for a couple of condemned caitiff calum-
nious cargoes ?
Cees. Disjjatch, lictors.
Tiie. Cajsar! [The rizariis are put upon him.
Cws. Forward, Tibullus.
Virg. Demand what cause they had to malign Horace.
Dem. In troth, no great cause, not I, I must confess ; but
that he kept better company, for the most part, than I ; and
that better men loved him than loved me ; and that his
writings thrived better than mine, and were better liked and
graced : nothing else.
Virg. Thus envious souls repine at others' good.
Hor. If this be all, faith, I forgive thee freely.
Envy me still, so long as Virgil loves me,^
GMlus, Tibullus, and the best-best Caesar,
1 This pill, witli its consequences, is a clever adaptation from the
Lexiphanes of Luciiiu. a lively Greek satirist of the second century.
He was bom at Samosata, near the Euphrates, and began life as a
sculptor, then turned to law, and finally lived a life of his own by the
practice of rhetoric in many cities. He saw much of the world, and
rose from the delivery of lighter essnys as a rhetorician to the most
vigorous and inirenious satire upon vices and foUies of his time. He
died about A.D. 200. Lucian's Lexiphanes (word-shiner) is a great fop,
who thinks he has written better than Plato, pronimps affected Greek,
and " antisjTiiposiazes Aristo." Ben Jonsou closely imitates the
manner in which Lexiphanes is relieved of his bad words by a pill.
" This passage is directly taken from Horace's " Satires " (I. x.)
My dear Jlecainas ; while these, with many more.
Whose names I wisely slip, shall think me worthy
Their honoured and adored society,
And read and love, prove and applaud my poems ;
I would not wish but such as you should spite them.
Cris. O !
Tib. How now, Crispinus ?
Cris. Oh, I am sick !
Hor. A bason, a bason, quickly ; our physic works. Faint
not, man.
Cris. — retrograde — reciprocal — incubus.
Cas. What's that, Horace?
Hor. Sctrograde, reciprocal, and incubus are come up.
Gal. Thanks be to Jupiter !
Cris. — glibbcry — lubrical — defunct — — '.
Hor. Well said; here's some store.
Virg. What are they ?
Hor. Glibbery, lubrical, and defunct.
Gal. Oh, they came up easy.
Cris. O !
Tib. What's that ?
Hor. Nothing yet.
Cris. Magnijicate
Mec. Magnificat e ! That came up somewhat hard.
Hor. Ay. What cheer, Crispinus '■!
Cris. Oh ! I shall cast up my — spurious — snotteries —
Hor. Good. Again.
Cris. Chilblained — — — clumsic
Hor. That clumsie stuck terribly.
3Icc. What 's all that, Horace ?
Hor. Spurious, snotteries, chilblained, clumsie.
Tib. Jupiter !
Gal. Who would have thought there should have been
such a deal of filth in a poet ?
Cris, — barmy froth
Cces. What's that ?
Cris. Puffic — inflate — turgidous — venfosity.
Hor. Barmy froth, pujie. inflate, turgidous, and icntosity
are come up.
Tib. Oh, terrible windy words !
Gal. A sign pf a windy brain.
Cris. O — oblatrant — furibnnd — fatuatc — strenuous.
Hor. Here's a (leal : oblatrant, furibund, fatuatc, strenuous.
Cces. Now all 's come up, I trow. "VNTiat a tumult he had
in his belly ?
Hor. No, there's the often conscious da>up behind still.
Cris. O — conscious — damp.
Hor. It is come up, thanks to Apollo and ^Esculapius ; yet
there's another ; you were best take a pill more.
Cris. Oh, no ; 0—0—0—0—0 !
Hor. Force yourself then a little with your finger.
Cris. O — — prorumpcd.
Tib. Prorumpcd .' WTiat a noise it made ! as if his spirit
would have prorumpt with it.
■ Cris. 0—0—0!
Virg. Help him, it sticks strangely, whatever it is.
Cris. O — clutcht.
Hor. Now it is come ; clutcht.
Cces. Clutcht .' it is well that 's come up; it had but a
naiTow passage.
Cri.'i. !
Virg. Again ! hold him, hold his head there.
Cris. Snarling gusts — quaking custard.'-^
Hor. How now, Crispinus ?
2 " Let custards quake, my zeal must freely run."
Villanie," Bk. I., Sat. 2.)
(" Scourge o;
TO A.D. 1602.1
PLAYS.
Cris. O — obstiipefact.
Tib. Xay, that are all we, I assuie you.
Hor. Hoiv do you feel yourself ■
Cris. Pretty and well, I thank you.
Tirg. These pills can hut restore him for a time,
Not cure him quite of such a malady
Caui;ht hy so many surfeits, which have filled
His Mood and brain thus full of crudities :
'Tis neeessarj' therefore he observe
A strict and wholesome diet.' Look you take
Each morning of old Cato's principles
A good draught next youi' heart ; that walk upon,
Till it be well digested ; then come home.
And taste a piece of Terence, suck his phrase
Instead of liquorice ; and, at any hand,
Shun Plautus and old Ennius — they are meats
Too harsh for a weak stomach. Use to read
(But not ■nnthout a tutor) the best Greeks,
As Orpheus, Musfeus, Pindarus,
Ilesiod, CaUimachus, and Theocrite,
High Homer ; but beware of Lycophron,
He is too dark and dangerous a dish.
You must not hunt for wild outlandish terms.
To stu£E out a peculiar dialect ;
But let your matter run before your words.
And if at any time you chance to meet
Some Gallo-Belgic phrase, you shall not straight
Rack your poor verse to give it entertainment,
But let it pass ; and do not think yoiu'self
JIuch damnified if you do leave it out,
^VTien nor your understanding nor the sense
Could well receive it. This fair abstinence.
In time, will render you more sound and clear :
And this have I prescribed to you, in place
Of a strict sentence ; which till he perform,
Attire him in that robe. And henceforth leam
To bear yourself more humbly ; not to swell.
Or breathe your insolent and idle spite
On him whose laughter can your worst affiight.
Tib. Take him away.
Cris. Jupiter guard Ca?sar !
Virg. And for a week or two see him locked up
In some dark place, removed from company ;
He wiU talk idly else after his physic.
Xow to you, sir. \_To Demetrius.] The extremity of law
Awards you to be branded in the front
For this your calumny : but since it pleaseth
Horace, the party wronged, t' intreat of (Ja>sar
A mitigation of that juster doom,
With C'sesar's tongue thus we pronounce your sentence.
Demetrius Fannius, thou shalt here put on
That coat and cap, and henceforth think thyself
No other than they make thee ; vow to wear them
In every fair and generous assembly.
Till the best sort of minds shall take to k-nowledge
As well thy satisfaction, as thy wrong.s.
Hor. Only, grave praetor, here, in open court,
I crave the oath for good behaviour
May be administered unto them both.
Virg. Horace, it shall : Tibullus, give it them.
Tib. " Eufus Laberius Crispinus, and Demetrius Fannius,
lay your hands on your hearts. You shall here solcnmly
attest and swear, that never, after this instant, either at
booksellers' stalls, in taverns, two-penny rooms, tiring-
1 This whole speech is adapted from Lucian, who gives it as the
advice of Lycinus to Lexipliaues.
I9'r
houses, noblemen's butteries, puisnes chambers (the bcrt and
farthest places where you aie admitted to come), you shaU
once oflter or dare (thereby to endear yourself the more to
any player, enghle, or guilty gull in your comj^aiy) to
malign, traduce, or detract the person or writings of (iuinto?
Horatius Flaccus, or any other eminent man, transcending
you in merit, whom your envy shall find cause to work ui»n,
either for that, or for keeping himself in better acquaintance
or enjoying better fiiends ; or if, transported hy any sudden
and desperate resolution, you do, that then you ■■.liall not
under the batoon,- or in the next presence, being an honour-
able assembly of his favourers, be brought as voluntarj-
gentlemen to undertake the forswearing of it. Neither .shall
you, at any time, ambitiously affecting the title of the Dn-
trussers or ^Vhippers of the age, suffer the itch of writing to
over-run your performance in hbel, upon pain of being taken
up for lepers in wit, and, losing both your time and your
papers, be irrecoverably forfeited to the hospital of fools. So
help you our Koman gods, and the Genius of great Civsar ! "
Virg. So I now dissolve the court.
Hor. Tib. Gal. Mcc. And thanks to CiEsar,
That thus hath exercised his patience.
Cms. We have, indeed, you worthiest friends of Cxsar.
It is the bane and torment of om" ears
To hear the discords of those jangling rhymers,
That with their bad and scandalous practices
Bring all time arts and learning in contempt.
But let not )-om- high thoughts descend so low
As these despised objects; let them fall
With their flat grovelling souls : be you yourselves ;
And as with our best favours you stand crowned.
So let your mutual loves be still renowned :
Emy will dwell where there is want of merit,
Though the deserring man should crack his spirit.
"Blush, folly, blush : here 's none that fears
The wagging of an ass's ears.
Although a wolfish case he wears.
Detraction is but baseness' varlet :
And apes are apes, though clothed in scarlet." [Excant.
Ben Jonson's " Poetaster " wa.s replied to at once
by Thomas Dekker and Jolm Mai-ston, who con-
sidered themselves to be personally attacked in the
characters of Crispinus and Demetrius. Dekker was
born in London, perhaps a little earlier than 1577.
He began to write for the stage in 1.597. His iiret
play was a light-heai-ted comedy, " Tlie Shoenuiker's
Holiday," that Ben Jonson could only have tlunight
well of, for it is Iniuiful of honest mirth, and paints
a blunt and jolly shoemaker with a true dniuuitic
humour that Ben Jonson would not fail to ai>preciaU-.
His next plav, " Old Fortuiiatus," half play, half
faiiT masque, "had, moreover, an elevation of puq)Ose
that entb-elv raised Dekker above the " Poetaster."
John Mai-ston was, at the end of Eliziibeth's reijm.
a young m:m of about Dekker's iige. Mai-ston s
father, also John Marston, was a gentleman of
Coventry, a counsellor at law, who "» ];>^2, ^vas
Lecturer of the Middle Temple. In l.->9.3, John
Marston the younger graduated at Cambridge as
B \ In 1598 he published satii-es— wide oiieii to
charges of rough pei-soiiality-under the name of
"The Scourge of YiUanie." also as "=unori.st or
love-poet, a poem caUed " Pygmalion s Image, with
! Bofooii, staff. French " bitoa.'
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CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1C02.
a Satire or two added, and in 1599 he was refen-ed
to in manager Henslowe's diaiy as "the new poet."
His first plays (printed in 1602) were " Antonio and
Mellida," and the second part of that play, called
" Antonio's Revenge." There was some gi-ound for
Marston's opinion tliat he was pointed at in Cris-
pinus, because Crispinus, in the last scene of the
" Poetastei-," Lrought np many words out of the
" Scource of VOlanie " and " Antonio and Mellida."
But .lonson spoke truly, when he said that he
was dealing with principles, and not with persons.
Dekker and INIarston liked Ben Jonson, but agreed
with the to\\ai that he had for three years been
putting his friends into his plays, to lay the whip of
satire on their shoulders. Therefore they thought
it time that he should be asked how he himself would
like such treatment. They wrote the threatened play,
therefore, which they called a whip for the satirist —
SATIROMASTIX,
"or the Untrussmg of the Humoiirous Poet." In
this Ben Jonson appears as Horace Junior, his own
Captain Tucca is set to bully him in 'prose, and his
fiiends, Mar.stou and Dekker, as Crispinus and Deme-
trius, reason with him courteously, in sober, eai-nest
vei-se. A feeble story of the days of William Rufus
iims through the piece to make a play of it ; but the
work was written only for the .sake of the return fire
upon the " Poetaster," and its best .scenes are those in
which the two poets administer what they believe to
be a needed lesson to the friend for whom they have
a goodwill, of which they blend heartiest expression
with their satire. The play opens with the strewing
of flowers for a wedding, ixi the house of Sir Quin-
tilian Sliorthose. His daughter, Ca?lestine, is liride.
Su- Adam Prickshaft, and Sir Rees ap Vaughan, and
the ^\^dow Miniver, are guests. So are Crispinus
and Demetrius, and the bridegroom is Sii' Walter
Tyrrel. After this opening of the story, the next
scene presents Ben Jonson as
Horace sittmr; in a stiiihj behind a curtnin, a candle by him
bmniiiff, books lying confusedly ; to himself :
Hor. To thee whose forehead swells with roses,
Whose most haunted bower
Gives life and scent to every flower.
Whose most adored name encloses
Things abstruse, deep and divine ;
Whose yellow tresses shine.
Bright as Eoau fire.
Oh, mo thy priest inspire 1
For I to thee and thine immortal name.
In — in — in golden times,
For I to thee and thine immortal name —
In — sacred raptures flowing, flowing, swimming, swimming:
In sacred raptures swimming.
Immortal name, game, dame, tame, lame, lame, lame,
[Fob,] hath, shame, proclaim, oh —
In sacred raptures flowing, wiU proclaim, not —
Oh, me thy priest inspire !
For I to thee and thine immortal name,
In flowing numbers filled with spright and flame, —
Good, good, — in flowing numbers filled with spright and
flame —
Unter Asixius Buko.'
Asi. Horace, Horace, my sweet ningle," is always in labour
when I come ; the nine Muses be his midwives, I pray
Jupiter, ningle.
Mor. In flowing numbers filled with spright and flame —
To thee—
Asi. To me ': I pledge thee sweet ningle, by Bacchus'
quafling bowl, I thought thou had'st drunk to me.
Kor. It must have been in the divine liquor of Parnassus,
than in which, I know you would scarce have pledged me,
but come, sweet rogue, sit, sit, .sit.
Asi. Over head and ears i' faith ': I have a sack-full of
news for thee ; thou shalt plague some of them, if God sends
us life and health together.
Hor. It 's no matter ; empty thy sack anon, but come here
fij-st, honest rogue, come.
Asi. Is 't good, is 't good, pure Helicon, ha ?
Hor. [Hang] me if it be not the best that ever came from
me, if I have any judgment. Look, sir, 'tis an Epithalamium
for Sir Walter Tyn-el's wedding; my brains have given
assault to it but this morning.
Asi. Then I hope to see them fly out like gunpowder ere
night.
Hor. Nay, good rogue mark, for they are the best lines
that ever I drew.
Asi. Here's the best leaf in England: but on, on, I 'U but
tune this pipe.'
Hor. JIark, To thee whose forehead stoells with roses.
Asi. Oh, sweet; but wiU there be no exceptions taken,
because forehead and swelling comes together ?
Hor. Push away, away, it 's proper, besides 'tis an elegancy
to say the forehead swells.
Asi. Nav, an' 't be proper, let it stand, for [Heaven's] love.
Hor. Whose most haunted bower
Gives life and scent to eveiy flower,
Whose most adored name encloses
Things abstruse, deep and divine ;
Whose yellow tresses shine.
Bright as Eoan fire.
Asi. Oh, pure, rich; there's heat in this; on, on.
Hor. Bright as Eoan fire.
Oh, me thy priest inspire I
For I to thee and thine immortal name . . . mark this.
In flowing numbers filled with spright and flame —
Asi. Ay, maiTV, there's spright and flame in this.*
Hor. A [plague] on this tobacco.
Asi. Would this case were my last, if I did not mark. Nay,
aU 's one, I have always a comfort of pipes about me. Mine
ingle is all tire and water ; I marked, by this candle (which is
none of God's angels) ; I remember, you started back at
spright and flame.
Hor. For I to thee and thine immortal name.
In flowing numbers filled with spright and flame,
To thee. Love's mightiest long,
Hj-men, Hymen, does our chaste muse sing.
Asi. There 's mvisic in this.
Hor. Mark now, dear Asinius. —
Let these \-irgins quickly see thee.
Leading out the bride.
Though tlieir blushing cheeks they hide.
Yet with kisses will they fee thee,
Yet with kisses will thev fee thee, mv muse has marched
1 Asinivs Bubo. A name foiined from Ass and Owl.
2 Ningle is contracted from mine tn<;?e, as a word of endearment. See
note 2, page 181. ' Fill it with tobacco.
* Lighting his pipe, and intent upon the process.
1602."
PLAYS.
199
(dear rogue) no farther yet : hut how is 't 'r how is 't ? Kay,
prithee good Asinius, deal plainly, do not flatter me, come,
how 't —
Asi. If I have any judgment —
Hor. Nay, look you, sir, — and then follow a troop of other
rich and hihoured conceits : oh, the end shall be admirable !
but how is 't, sweet Bul>o, how, how ?
As\. If I have any judgment, 'tis the best stuff that ever
diopped from thee.
Sor. You have seen my acrostics ?
A»i. I 'U put up my pipes, and then I '11 see anything.
Sor. Thou hast a copy of mine odes too, hast not, Bubo ?
Aii. Your odes f Oh, that which you spoke by word of
mouth at the ordinary, when ilusco, the gull, cried mew at it.
Hnr. A [plague] on him, poor brainless rook ; and, you re-
member. I told him his wit lay at pawn with his new satin
suit, and both would be lost for not fetching home by a day.
Asi. At which he would fain have blushed, but that his
painted cheeks would not let him.
Mor. Nay, sirnih, the Palinode which I mean to stitch to
my Eevels shall be the best and most ingenious piece that
ever I sweat for ; stay, rogue, I 'U fat thy spleen, and make
it plump with laughter.
Asi. Shall I ? faith, ningle, shall I see thy secrets?
B.or. Pooh ! my fiiend's.
Asi. But what fardle 's that f ' what fardle "s that ?
Hor. Fardle ! awaj-, 'tis my packet ; here lie entombed the
loves of knights and earls, here 'tis, here 'tis, here "tis — Sir
Walter TjTrel's letter to me, and my answer to him. I no
sooner opened his letter, but there appeared to me three
glorious angels, whom I adored as subjects do theii- sovereigns ;
the honest knight angles for my acquaintance, with such
golden baits — but why dost laugh, my good rogue f how is
my answer, prithee, how, how f
Aai. Answer, as God judge me, ningle, for thy wit thou
may'st answer any justice of peace in England, I warrant ;
thou writ'st in a most goodly big hand too, I like that, ay,
and read' St as legibly as some that have been saved by their
neck- verse.
Hor. But how dost like the knight's inditing ?
Asi. If I have any judgment ; a [plague] on 't, here 's wor-
shipful lines indeed, here's stuff: but, siiTah ningle, of what
fashion is this knight's wit, of what block f
Hor. TMiy, you see, — well, well, an ordinary ingenuity, a
good wit for a knight : you know how, before [Heaven], I
am haunted with some, the most pitiful dry gallants.
Asi. Troth, so I think; good pieces of landscape show
best afar off.
Hor. Ay, ay, ay, excellent sumpter horses carry good
clothes ; but, honest rogue, come, what news, what news
abroad 'i I have heard of the horses walking at the top of
Paul's.
Asi. Ha' ye? why, the Captain Tucca rails upon you
most preposterously behind your back, did you not hear him ?
Hor. A [plague] upon him : by the white and soft hand of
Minerva, I '11 make him the most ridiculous ; [hang] me if I
bring not his humour on the stage : and— scurvy, limping-
tongued captain, poor greasy buff jerkin, hang him. 'Tis out
of his element to traduce me, I am too well ranked, Asinius,
to be stabbed with his dudgeon wit. Sirrah, I '11 compose
an epigram upon him, shall go thus —
Asi. Nay, I have more news : there 's Crispinus, and his
journeyman poet Demetrius Fannius, too ; they swear they "U
bring your life and death upon the stage like a bricklayer m
•.play.
1 Fard!f, a pack or burden j Italian " fardello ; ■' French " f;mJeau."
Hor. Bubo, they must press more valiant wits than their
own to do it ; me on the stage ? ha, ha. I 'U star^-c their
poor copper-lace work masters that dare play me. I ran
biing (and that they quake at) a prepared troop of gallanU.
who, for my sake, shall distaste every unsalted line in thei:
fly-blown comedies.
Asi. Nay, that's certain; I'll bring one hundred gallants
of my rank.
Hor. That same Crispinus is the silliest dor, and Fanrntt
the slightest cobweb-lawn piece of a poet, God !
Why should I care what every dor doth buz
In credulous ears, it is a crown to mc
That the best judgments can report me wrong'd.
Asi. I am one of them that can report it.
Hor. I think but wluit they are, and am not mov'd.
The one, a Ught voluptuous reveller ;
The other, a strange arrogating puff ;
Both impudent, and arrogant enough.
Asi. S'Hd, do not Criticus revel in these lines, ha, ningle,
ha ': \Knocking.
Hor. Yes, they 're my own.
Cris. Horace!
Dem. Flaccus!
Cris. Horace, not up yet ?
Hor. Peace I tread softly, hide my papers ; who "s this so
early ? Some of my rooks, some of my gulls ?
Cris. Horace 1 Flaccus !
Hor. 'WTio 's there ? stay, tread softly ; Wat Tj-rrel, on
my life ; who 's there ? my gown, sweet rogue, so, come up,
come in.
Enter CkisI'IXIs and Demetkivs.
Cris. Good morrow, Horace.
Hor. Oh, God s;ive you gallants.
Cris. Asinius Bubo, well met.
Asi. Nav, I hope so, Crispinus, yet I was sick a quarter ol
a year ago of a vehement great toothache : a [plague] on 't, it
bit me \-ilely. As God save me, la, I knew 'twas you by your
knocking so soon as I saw you. Demetrius Fannius, «t11 you
take a whiff this morning f I have tickling gear now, here 's
that \\t11 play with your nose, and a pipe of mine own scour-
ing, too.
Dcm. Ay, and a hogshead, too, of your own, but that will
never be scoured clean, I fear.
Asi. I burnt my pipe yesternight, and 'twas never used
since : if vou wiU.'tis at your service, galhmts, and tobacco,
too : 'tis right pudding,' I can tell you. A lady or two took
a pipe full or two at my hands, and praised it for the heavens.
Shall I fiU, Fannius :-
Bern. I thank you, good Asinius, for your love \
I seldom take that physic, 'tis enough
Having so much fool to take him iu snuff.'
Hor Good Bubo, read some book, and give us leave . . .
Asi. Leave have vou, dear ningle. Marry, for reading
.anv book, I 'U take my death >ipon 't (as my mngle says),
'tis out of my element; no faith, ever since I felt one hit
me i' th- teeth that the greatest clerks are not the wisest
men, could I abide to go to school, I was at As in prcscuU
and left there; yet, because I 'U not be comited a worse fool
than I am, I '11 turn over a new leaf. . , ^,
[Asnilis rtads and takes tobatco.'
'. BfsM pudding. Tobacco was sold in '»".'<'™=-*^";i*'-i^^
and pudding. Shakespeare never aUuded to .t in any torn,. In hu«
noetrr no smokinff was allowed. ti.«m
3 ^(al-c w. ....,./ was a phrase (or being angnlj- unpiUent. Then.
is a play of words intended.
• Leaf tobacco now.
200
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE
[a.d. 1602.
Bor. To si'f my fate, that when I dip my pen
[n distill'd roses, and do strive to drain
aut of my ink all gall ; that when I weigh
Each syllable I write or speak, because
Mine enemies with sharp and searching eyes
Look through and through me, carving my poor labours
Like an anatomy : O heavens, to see
That when my hues are measured out as straight
As even parallels, 'tis strange that still,
titill some imagine they are di-awn awry
The error is not mine, but in their eye
That cannot take proportions.
Cris. Horace, Horace,
To stand within the shot of galling tongues
Proves not your guilt ; for could we write on paper
Made of these turning leaves of heaven, the clouds,
Or speak with angel's tongues, yet wise men know
That some would shake the head; though saints should
sing
Some snakes must hiss, because they 're born with sting.
IToi: 'Tis true.
Oris. Do we not see fools laugh at heaven and mock
The Maker's workmanship : be not )-ou griev'd
If that which you mould fair, upright, and smooth.
Be screwed awry, made crooked, lame and vile,
By racking comments and calumnious tongues,
So to be bit it rankles not : for innocence
.May with a feather brush off the foulest wrongs.
But when your dastard wit will strike at men
In corners, and in riddles fold the vices
( )f your best friends, you must not take to heart,
It they take off all gilding from their piUs
And only offer you the bitter core.
Mor. Crispinus —
Cris. Say that you have not sworn unto your paper
To blot her white cheeks with the di'egs and bottom
Of your friends' private vices : say j'ou swear
Your love and your allegiance to bright virtue
Makes you descend so low as to put on
The office of an executioner.
Only to strike off the swollen head of sin
Where'er you find it standing :
Say you swear,
And make damnation parcel of your oath,
That when your lashing jests make all men bleed,
Yet you whip none. Court, city, country, friends.
Foes, all must smai-t alike ; yet court, nor city,
Nor foe, nor friend, dare wince at 3'ou ; gi'eat pitj".
Dem. If you swear, [to] Fannius, or Crispinus,
Or to the law (our kingdom's golden chain) ,
To poets or to players [let me die].
If I brand you, or you, tax you, scourge you :
t wonder then, that of five hundred, four
Should all point with their fingers in one instant
At one and the same man ':'
Mor. Dear Fannius —
Dcm. Come, you cannot excuse it.
Sor. Hear me, I can —
Dem. Y'ou must daub on thick colours, then, tD hide it.
Cris. We come like your physicians, to purge
Your sick and dangerous mind of her disease.
DeiH. In troth wo do, out of our loves we come,
\nd not revenge, — but if you strike us still.
We must defend our reputations.
Our pens shall like our swords be always sheath'd,
Unless too much provoked : Horace, if then
Th..^y draw blood of you, blame us not, we are men :
Come, let thy muse bear up a smoother sail,
'Tis the easiest and the basest art to rail.'
Har. Deliver me your hands, I love you both,
As dear as my own soul; prove me, and when
I shall traduce you, make me the scorn of men.
Jiot/i. Enough : we are friends.
Cris. AVhat reads Asinius r
Asi. By my troth here 's an excellent comfortable book ;
it 's most sweet reading in it.
Dem. ^^^^y, what does it smell of. Bubo ?
Asi. Mass, it smells of rose-leaves a little, too.
Mor. Then it must be a sweet book ; he would fain per-
fume his ignorance.
A.ii. I warrant he had wit in him that penn'd it.
Cris. 'Tis good, yet a fool will confess truth.
Asi. The [rascal] made me meet with a hard stile, in two
or three places, as I went over him.
Dtiii. I believe thee, for they had need to be very low and
easy stiles of wit that thy brains go over.
Enter Blvnt ain! Tvct.i.
Blunt. Where 's this gallant ': Morrow, gentlemen : what's
this device done yet, Horace f
Mor. Odso, what mean you to lit this fidlow dog you into
my chamber ':'
Blunt. Oh, our honest captain : come, prithee, let us sec.
Tuc. Why, you .... muses, why do you walk here
in this gorgeous gallery of gallant inventions, with that . .
poor lime-and-hair rascal 'i ^ why —
Cris. Oh, peace, good Tueca ; we are all sworn friends.
Tuc. Sworn, that Judas yonder, that walks in rug, will dub
you knights of the post, if you serve under his band of oaths.
The copper-faced rascal will, for a good supper, outswcar
twelve dozen of grand juries.
Blunt. A [plague] on't; not done yet, and been about it
thi-ee days ?
Mor. By [Jove], within this hour. Save you. Captain Tucca.
Tuc. [Hang] thee, thou thin-bearded hermaphrodite, [hang]
thee, I '11 save myseU, for one, I waiTant thee. Is this thy tub,
Diogenes 'i
Mor. Yes, captain, this is my poor lodging.
Asi. Morrow, Captain Tucca : will you whiff this morning ?
Tuc. Art thou there, . . . ; no, . . . Cain, I
am for no whifl's, I : come hither, sheepskin-weaver, . . . ;
thou look'st as though thou hadst begged out of a gaol ;
draw, I mean not thy face (for 'tis not worth drawing), but
draw near ; this way, march, follow your commander, you
scoundrel : so, thou must run of an errand for me, Jlephis-
topheles.
Mor. Dear captain, but one word.
Tuc. Out, bench-whistler, out 1 I '11 not take thy word for a
dagger pie ; you bro^\Ti-bread-mouth stinker, I '11 teach thee
turn me into Banks his horse,' and to tell gentlemen I am a
juggler, and can .show tricks.
Mor. Captain Tucca, but half a word in your car.
1 It certainly is not the fact that in this play, as Gififord said. Dekker
" writes in a downright passion, and foams through every page."
Crispinus and Demetrius speak like gentlemen and fellow-poets here,
and still more conspicuously in a later scene. Tucca bullies as be-
comes his nature, and makes rude personal allusions ; but there is
more mir th than malice in the way of pulling the strings of that
puppet, who keeps very well to his character as Jonson painted it.
2 liime-and-hair rascal. Tucca's first allusion to the bricklayer's
mortar.
3 Baitkfi Jt/.s horse.
" White oat-eater that doth dwell
In stable small at sign of ' Bell,'
A.D. 1602.T
PLAYS.
201
Tuc. No, yon starv'd rascal, thou't bite off mine ears then;
vou must hare three or four suits of niimes, when
th' 'ast but one suit to thy back ; you must be called Asper,
and Criticus, and Horace — thy title 's longer a reading than
the stile of the big Turks — Asper, Criticus, (Juiutus Horatius
Flaccus.
Hot: Captain, I know upon what even bases I stand, and
therefore —
Tuc. Bases ': would the rogue were but ready for me.
Blunt. Nay, prithee, dear Tucoa, come you shall shake —
Tiie. Not hands with great Hunks there, not hands, but
I '11 shake the gull-groper out of his tann'd skin.
Cris. anil Dem. For our Siike, captain, nay, prithee hold.
Tuc. Thou wi-ong'st here a go(jd honest rascal Crispinus,
and a poor varlct Demetrius Fannius (brethren in thine
own trade of poetry), thou say'st Crispinus' satin doublet is
laveUed out here, and that this penurious sneaker is out of
elbows; go to, my good full-mouth' d ban-dog, I'U have
thee friends with both.
Hot. AA'ith all my heart. Captain Tucca, and with you too.
I'll lay my hands under your feet, to keep them from aching.
Omnes. Can you hxive any more y
Tuc. Say'st thou me so, old Coal come ? do it then ; yet
'tis no matter, neither ; I '11 have thee in league first with
these two rolly-poUies ; they shall be thy Damons, and tliou
their Pythias ; Crispinus shall give thee an old cast satin
suit, and Demetrius shall write thee a scene or two, in one
of thy strong garlick comedies ; and thou shall take the guilt
jf conscience for't, and swear 'tis thine own, old lad, 'tis
thine own. Thou never yet fell'st into the hands of Satin,
didst r
Jlor. Never, captain, I thank [Heaven].
Tuc. Go to, thou shalt now. King Uorboduc, thou shalt,
because I '11 have thee [diabolical], I 'U have thee all in satin :
-Vsper. Criticus, Quintus Horatius Flaccus, Crispinus shall
do it, thou shalt do it, heir apparent of Helicon, thou shalt
do it.'
^«i. Mine ingle wear an old cast satin suit ?
Tuc. I wafer-face your ningle.
Asi. If he carrj- the mind of a gentleman, he '11 scorn it at
his heels. ......
Tifc. Scorn it, dost scorn to be arrested at one of his old
suits ':
Eor. No, captain, I '11 wear anything.
Tuc. I know thou wilt, I know thou'rt an honest low-
minded pigmy, for I have seen thy shoidders lapped in a
player's old cast cloak, like a sly knave as thou art : and when
thou ran'st mad for the death of Horatio,'- thou bon-owed'st a
gown of Roscius the Stager (that honest Nicodeuuis), and
sent'st it liome lousy, did'st not 'i Respond, did'st not ':
liliint. .So, so, no more of this. "Within this hour —
Uor. If I can sound retreat to my wits, with whom this
leader is in skirmish, I 'U end within this hour.
Tuc. What wut end ': wut hang thyself now ? has he not
writ finis yet. Jack ? what, will he be fifteen weeks about
this cockatrice's egg too 'i has he not cackled yet ': not
laid vet ?
Tliat lifts up hoof to show the pranks
T.iught liy Masjician styled Banks-"
(" "Wit and Droller}-," 1656.)
The allitsion is to the scene iu which Tucca exhibited the performance
of his pages.
' Axper, Cniicrts, &c. Ben Jonson put his own comments into the
characters of Asptr in " Every Man Out of His Humour," and Crites,
which Tucca twists into Criticus in " Cynthia's Revels," and he asso-
ciated himself with Horace in " The Poetaster."
^ When Ben Jonson, at the outset of his career, acted Jeroniino in
Kyd's *' Spanish Tragedy."
146
^/»«(^Not yet ; he swears he will within this hour.
i«c. His OTts are somewhat hard bound; . . . , his
muse, . . . the poor s^itfion-cheek, sun-burnt aHi«v
wants physic: give the hmigry-face pudding-pie-eater ten
pdls; ten shilhngs, my f.air AngeUca, they 'U make his muse
as yare as a tiunbler.
£lunt. He shall not want for monev if he'U write.
Tuc. Go by, Jeronimo, go by ; a and here, drop the ten shil-
hngs mto this basin ; do, diop, when Jack 'r he shaU call n.e
his Maecenas ; besides, I 'U dam up his oven-mouth for raiUng
at us: so, is it right. Jack? is it sterling 'r fall off now to
the vanward of yonder four stinkers, and ask aloud if we
shaU go :- the knight shall defray. Jack, the knight, when it
comes to sumnm tofulis, the knight, the knight.—
Blunt. Well, gentlemen, we '11 leave you ; shall we go,
captain ? good Horace, make some haste.
Sor. I'll put on wings.
Asi. I never saw mine ingle so dash'd m my life before.
Cris. Yes, once, Asinius.
Asi. Mass, you say true, he was dash'd woi-se once, going
(in a rainy day) with a speech to the tilt-yard, .....
has called him mimes a dog would not put up, that had any
discretion.
Tuc. Hold, hold up thy hand, I ha' seen the day thou
did'st not scorn to hold up thy golls; there's a soldier's
spur-royal, twelve pence ; stay, because I know thou cau'st
not write without iiuicksUver; up again, this goll ag:iin. I
will give thee double press-money ; stay, because I know
thou hast a noble head, I 'U divide my crown : O royal
Porrcx, there's a testou* more; go, thou and thy muse
Captain Trrc.i.
A Soldier in hulT jerhn; from the "Harigator" o/ Captain Cliartes
Salloiislul! (16*2).
munch, do, munch : come, my dear mandrake, if skeldering
fall not to decay, thou shalt flourish : farewell, my sweet
Ammlis tie Gaul, farewell.
Kor. Dear captain.
s Go I19, J.-idiiimo. A phrase from "The Spanish Tragedj-." much
quoted in its time.
* Teuton, still called U^er, sixpence. The name was originally that
of a French coin, and taken from the " teste " (head) uiwu it. It fell
in value from eighteenpeuce to sixpence.
202
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.o. 1602.
Tuc. Come, Jack.
Sein. Nay, captain, stay ; wo arc of your band.
Tnc. March fair, then.
Oris. Horace, farewell ; adieu, Asinius. [Ei-emit.
Asi. Ningle, let 's go to some tavern, and dine together,
for my stomach rises at this scurvy leather captain.'
Sor. No, they have choked me with mine own disgxace.
Which, fools, I '11 si)it again even in your face.
Tlie wedding guests are next upon the scene. Sir
V^aughiin ap Rees talk.s stage Welsh to Mistress
JNIiniver, and defies the rivalry of Sir Quintilian and
Sir Adam. The bridegroom enters, and is followed
by King William Rufus. There is song and dance,
during which his J\Iajesty falls in love \vith the bride
CiBlestine, and then dares the bridegroom to trust her
at court that night. There follows a short scene
with Horace and Asinius on the way to the wedding
festival ; tlien come humours of the Welsh knight
and his rivals with Mistress Miniver. Tucca joins.
Demetrius and Crispinus enter with epigrams on
Tucca composed by Horace. Tucca vows vengeance.
Then follows, between the bride, the bridegroom, and
the bride's father, the question of the going to the
King. The next scene is of a banquet by Sir
Vaughan to tlie " Ladies and Sentlemen," who are
"almost all welcome to this sweet nuncions of
plums."
Dicac/i. Almost all. Sir Vaughan ? why, to which of us are
you so niggardly, that you cut her out but a piece of welcome ?
Sir Vail. My interpretations is that almost all are welcome,
because I indited a brace or two more that is not come. I am
sorry my Lady Pride is not among you.
Asi. Slid, he makes hounds of us, ningle, a brace quoth a ?
Sir Villi. Peter .Salamanders, draw out the pictures of all
the joint stools, and ladies sit down ujiou their wooden face.s.
Flash. I warrant, sir, I'll give every one of them a good
stool.
Sir Vail. Master Horace, Master Horace, when I pray
and desire in hypocritness that bald Sir Adams were here,
then, then, then begin to make your rails at the poverty
and beggarly want of hair.
Mor. Leave it to my judgment.
-Sir Vail. Master Bubo sit there, you and I will think
upon our ends at the tables : Master Horace, put yoiu- learned
body into the midst of these ladies ; so 'tis no matter to speak
gTaces at nuncions, because we are all past gi'ace since dinner.
Asi. Mass, I thank my destiny I am not past grace, for
by this handful of carraways, I could never abide to say
grace.
Diea. Mistress Miniver, is not that innocent gentleman a
kind of fool ?
Mill. Why do you ask, madam ?
JDica. Nay, for no harm : I ask because I thought you two
had been of acquaintance.
Mill. I think he's within an inch of a fool.
Dica. Madam Philocalia, you sit next that spare gentleman,
would you heard what Mistress i\Iiniver says of you ?
2'hilo. Why, what says she, Madam Dicache Y
Hica. Nay, nothing, but wishes you were married to that
small timber'd gallant.
' Leather captain. Tuoca was in the buff leather suit worn then,
and for some years afterwards, under armour, as shown in the wood-
cut on the preceding paie. Tliere ave several references to it hoth in
" Poetaster " and " Satiro-mastiji. "
Fliilo. Your wish and mine are twins; I wish so too, for
then I should be sure to lead a merry life.
Asi. Yes, faith, lady, I'd make you laugh, my bolts now and
then should be soon shot ; by these comfits, we'd lot all slide.
Petu. He takes the sweetest oaths that ever I heard a
gallant of his pitch swear ; by these comfits, and these carra-
ways, I warrant it does him good to swear.
Asi. Yes, faith, 'tis meat and drink to me.
I am glad. Lady Petula, by this apple, that they please you.
Sir Van. Peter Salamanders, wine ; I beseech you. Master
Asinius Bubo, not to swear so deeply, for there comes no
fruit of your oaths ; here, ladies, I put you all into one
corners together, you shall all drink of one cup.
Asi. Peter, I prithee, fill mo out too.
Flash. I'd fling you out too, an I might have my will ; a
[plague] of all fools.
Sir Vail. MistressMinivers,pray be lusty, would Sir Adams
Prickshaft stuck by you.
Ilur. Who, the bald knight. Sir Vaughan P
Sir Van. The same, JIaster Horace, he that has but a rem-
nant or parcel of hair, his crown is cUpt and par'd away ;
methinks 'tis an excellent quality to be bald ; for an there
stucli: a nose and two neyes in his pate, he might wear two
faces under one hood.
Asi. . . . save me la, if I might have my will, I'd rather
be a bald gentleman than a hairy ; for I am sure the bftst and
tallest yeomen in England have bald heads : methinks hair
is a scurvy commodity.
Hor. Bubo, herein you blaze j-our ig-norance.
Sir Vail. Pray stop and fill yoiu- mouths, and give Master
Horace all your ears.
Hor. For, if of all the body's parts, the head
Be the most royal : if discourse, wit, judgment,
And all our understanding faculties,
Sit there in theii' high Court of Parliament,
Enacting laws to sway this humourous world :
This little Isle of Man : needs must that crown.
Which stands upon this supreme head, be fair.
And held invaluable, .and that crown's the hair:
The head that wants this honour stands awry,
Is bare in name and in authority.
Sir Van. He meanes bald-pates, Mistress Minivers.
Hor. Hair, 'tis the robe which curious nature weaves.
To hang upon the head : and does adorn
Our bodies in the first hour we are bom :
God does bestow that garment : when we die,
That (like a soft and silken canojjy)
Is still spread over us ; in spite of death
Our hair grows in our grave, and that alone
Looks fresh, when all our other beauty 's gone.
The excellence of hair in this shines clear,
That the four elements take pride to wear
The fashion of 't : when fire most bright docs bum,
The flames to golden locks do strive to turn ;
When her lascivious arms the water hurls
About the shore's waist, her sleek head she curls :
And rorid " clouds being sucked into the air.
When down they melt, hang like fine silver hair.
You see the earth, whose head so oft is shorn.
Frighted to feel her locks so rudely torn.
Stands with her hair on end, and (thus afraid)
Turns every hair to a green naked blade.
Besides, when, struck with grief, wo long to die,
We .spoil that most which most does beautify.
We rend this head-tire off. I thus conclude.
2 Rorii, dewy. From Latin " ros, roris," dew.
A.D. 1602.]
PLAYS.
203
Colours set colours out ; our eyes judge right
Of vice or virtue by their opposite :
So, if fair hair to beauty add such grace,
Baldness must needs be ugly, vile, and base.
tiir Vau. True, JIaster Horace, for a bald reason is a reason
th;it has no hairs upon 't, a sciu-vj' scaUed reason.
Mill. By my truly, I never thought you could have picked
such strange things out of hair before.
Asi. Kay, my ningle can tickle it, when ho comes to it.
Mill. Troth, I shall never be enamelled of a bare-headed
man for this, what shift soever I make.
Sir Vau. Then Mistress Miniver, Sir Adams Prickshaft must
not hit you ; Peter, take up all the deaths at the table and
the plums.
E>der TucCA and his boy.
Tiic. Save thee, my little worshipful harper; how do ye
my little cracknels ? how do ye f
Sir Vau. Welcome, Master Tucca, sit and shoot into youi'
belly some sugar pellets.
Tue. No, gramercy, Cadwallader : how do you, Horace '<
Hor. Thanks, good Captain.
Tue. Where 's the thing thou earnest about thee ? Oh, have
I found thee, my scouring-stick ; what 's my name. Bubo 'i
Asi. Would I were hang'd if I can call you any names but
Captain and Tucca.
Tue. No . . . ; my name's ' Hamlet revenge ; ' thou 'st
been at Paris Garden, hast not ?
Hor. Yes, Captain, I have played Zulziman there.
Sir Van. Then, Master Horace, you pUyed the part of an
honest man.
Tue. Death of Hercules, he could never play that part well
in 's life — no, Fulkes, you could not : thou call'st Demetrius
joumej-man poet, but thou put'st up a supplication to be a
poor journeyman player, and hadst been still so, but that
thou couldst not set a good face upon it : thou hast forgot
how thou amblest (in leather pilch) by a play-wagon, in the
highway, and tookst mad Jeronimo's part, to get service
among the mimics : and when the stagerites banished thee
into the Isle of Dogs, thou tum'dst ban-dog (viUanous Guy),
and ever since bitest ; therefore I ask if thou 'st been to Paris
Garden, because thou hast such a good mouth ; thou baitst
well, read, Icffc. save thyself and read.
Sor. WTiy, Captain, these are epigrams composed on you.
Tue. Go not out, farthing candle, go not out, for trusty
Damboys, now the deed is done, I'll pledge this epigram in
wine, I'U swallow it, I, yes.
Sir Vau. God bless us, will he be drunk with nittigrams
now.
Tue. So, now arise, sprite o' th' butterj' ; no, herring-bone,
I'll not pull thee out ; but arise, dear echo, rise, rise devil, or
I'll conjure thee up.
Min. Good Master Tucca, let 's have no conjuring here.
Sir Vau. . . . you scald gouty Captain, why come
you to set encumbrances heere between the ladies ?
Tue. Be not so tart, my precious Metheglin, be not ; (my
old woman of Babylon, sit fast).
Min. [mercy] if I know whereabouts in London Babylon
stands.
Tue. Feed and be fat, my fair Calipolis, stir not my beau-
teou.-, wriggle-tails, I'll disease' none of you, I'll take none of
you up, but only this table-man, I must enter him into some
filthy cinque point, I must.
Hor. Captain, you do me wrong thus to disgrace me.
Tue. Thou thinkst thou mayst be as saucy -n-ith me as my
buff jerkin, to sit upon me, dost ?
1 Disease, put to discomfort.
Hor. [Let me die], if ever I traduced your name.
What imputation can you charge me with ?
■Sir Vau. [Ay], what coputations can you lay to his sarge ?
answer, or by [Supiter] He canvas your coxcomb, Tucky.
Miu. If they di-aw, sweethearts, let us shift for ourselves.
Tue. My noble swaggerer, I will not fall out with thee ; I
cannot, my mad comi-ade, find in my heart to shed thy Mood.
-Sir Vau. Cumrade ? by [Sove], call me cumradc againe, and
lie cumrade ye about the sinnes and shoulders ; ownds, what
come you to smell out here :' did you not dine and feed
horribly well to-day at dinner, but you come to munch here,
and give us winter-plums ? I pray depart, goc marse, marse,
marse out a doors.
Tue. Adieu, Sir Eglamour ; adieu Lute-string, Curtain-rod,
Goose-quill ; here, give that fuU-nos'd Skinker these rhjnncs.
Asi. Dost tlireaten me ? . . . I'll bind thee to the
good forbearing.
Sir Vau. Will you amble, hobby-horse, will you trot and
amble ?
Tue. Raw artichoke, I shall sauce thee. [Exit.
Tucca challenges Asinius. Sir Adam Pricksliaft,
who is bald, has been thrown out of the good gi-aces
of Mistre.ss Miniver by Horace'.s praise of hair. She
.say.s she will not marry a bare-headed man. Tucca
will tiu-n the tables for Sir Adam :
Tue. Thus. Go, cover a table with sweetmeats, let all the
gentlewomen, and that same Pasquils-madcap (mother Bee
there) nibble, bid them bite : they will come to gobble down
plums ; then take up that pair of basket lults, with my com-
mission, I mean Crispinus and Fannius ; charge one of them
to take up the bucklers against that hak-monger Horace,
and have a bout or two in defence of bald pates : let them
crack every crown that has hair on 't : go, let them lift uj)
baldness to the sky, and thou shalt see 'twUl tiu-n Miniver's
heart quite against the bail-.
.S'ic Ada. Excellent ; why then, Master Tucca
Tue. Nay, whu-, nimble Priekshaft ; whii-, away, I go upon
life and death ; away, fly, Scanderbag, fly. [Exit.
Enter Asixiis Bubo, and Hor.ice ahof.
Boy. Arm, Captain, arm, arm, arm ; the foe is come down.
TrccA offers to shoot.
Asi. Hold, Captain Tucca, hold; I am Bubo, and come to
answer anything you can lay to ray charge.
Tue. What, dost summon a parley, my little drumstick ':
'tis too late ; thou seest my red flag^ is hung out. • • •
Asi. Use me how you will; I am resolute, for I have made
mv wUl.
Tue. Wilt fight, Turk-a-ten-pence :- wilt fight, then .-
Asi. Thou shalt find I'll fight in a godly quaixel, if I be
once fir'd. ., •, ^ i.
Tue Thou Shalt not want fire, I'U have thee burnt when
thou wilt, mv cold Cornelius: but come: Respiee Juncm
look, thou se;st; open thyself, my httle cutlers shop. I
challenge thee, thou slender gentlen.an, at four s.mdr>
"T'Thy chaUenge was but at one, and I'U answer but
°°^'<,,/. Thou Shalt answer two. for thou shalt answer me and
"rliwdl said, cockerel, out-crow him : art hardy, noble
Huon? art magnanimous? lick-trencher; look, search lest
» My red flag. A reference to Morlo..e's Tamburlalne (see page lU).
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[a.d. 1602.
some lie in ambush; for this man at anns ha^ paper in
[him], or some friend in a corner, or else he durst not be so
crank.
Boy. Captain, cjiptain, Horace stands sneaking here.
Tuc. I smelt the foul-fisted mortar-treader. Come, my
most . . . fastidious rascal, I have a suit to both of you.
Asi. Oh, hold, most pitiful captain, hold.
Hot: Hold, captain, 'tis known that Horace is valiant, and
a man of the sword.
Titc. A gentleman or an honest citizen shall not sit in your
penny -bench theatres, with his squirrel by his side cracking
nuts ; nor snoak into a tavern with his mermaid ; but he shall
be satired, and epigram'd upon, and his himiour must run
upon the stage : you'll have Every Gentleman in his Humour,
and Every Gentleman Out on 's Humour : we that are heads
of legions and bands, and fear none but these same shoulder-
clappers, shall fear )-ou, you serpentine rascal.
Hor. Honour'd captain —
Tuc. Art not famous enough yet, my mad Horastratus, for
killing a player, but thou must cat men alive '? thy friends,
.sirrah wild-man ? thy patrons, thou anthropophagite 'i thy
Heeajnases ;■'
Hor. Captain, I'm sorry that you lay this wrong
So close unto your heart ; dear captain, think
I writ out of hot blood, which now being cold,
I could be pleased (to please you) to qualf down
The poisoned ink in which I dipt your name.
Tuc. Sayest thou so, my palinodical rhj-mester ?
Sor. Henceforth I'll rather breathe out solecisms,
(To do which I'd as soon speak blasphemy)
Than with my tongue or pen to wound your wortli.
Believe it, noble captain ; it to me
Shall be a crown, to crown j'oui- acts with praise,
Out of your hate youi- love I'll strongly raise.
Tuc. I know now thou hast a number of these quiddits to
bind men to the peace : 'tis thy fashion to fiiit ink in every
man's face ; and then to crawl into his bosom, and damn thy-
self to wipe it oft" again, yet to give out abroad, that he was
glad to come to composition with me : I know, jSIonsieur
JIachiavel, 'tis one of thy rules ; my long-heel'd trogiodite,
I could make thine ears bm-n now, by dropping into them aU
tliose hot oaths, to which thysoH gav'st voluntary fire, (when
thou wast the man in the moon) that thou would' st never
squib out any new saltpetre jests against honest Tucca, nor
those maligo-tastcrs, his Poetasters ; I could, Cj-noccphalus,
but I will not, yet thou knowest thou hast broke those oaths
in print, my excellent infernal.
Sor. Captain —
Tuc. Nay, I smell what breath is to come from thee. Thy
answer is, that there's no faith to be held with heretics and
infidels, and therefore thou swear'st anything : but come,
lend me thy hand, thou and I henceforth wiU be Alexander
and Lodowiek, the Gemini, sworn brothers; thou shalt be
rii-ithous and Tucca Theseus : but I'll leave thee in the lurch
when thou mak'st thy voyage into hell: till then, thine
assuredly.
Hor. With all my soul, dear captain.
Tiic. Thou 'It shoot thy quills at me, when my terrible back
is turned, for all this, wilt not, porcupine 'i and bring me and
my heliconists into thy dialogues to make us talk madly,
wilt not, Lucian ?
Hor. Captain, if I do
Tuc. Nay, an thou dost, horns of Lucifer, the parcel-poets
shall sue thy wrangling muse, in the coui-t of Parnassus, and
never leave hunting her, till she plead in forma pauperis.
But I hope thou hast more gi-ace ; come, friends, clap hands,
'tis a bargain ; amiable Bubo, thy fist must walk too. So, I
love thee, now I see thou art a little Hercules, and wilt fight ;
I'll stick thee now in my company like a sprig of rosemary.
Then comes Sir Rees ap Vaiiglian to fight Tucca
for fleecing the widow IVIiniver of five gold piece.s.
And then comes Sir Adam's nuncheon ofphims, with
tlie defence of baldness wherewith Crispinus, in Sir
Adam's interest, is to vanquish Horace's praise of a
hairy pate.
Ladits. Thanks, good Sir Adam.
Sir Ada. Welcome, red-cheeked ladies.
And welcome cornel)' widow ; gentlemen.
Now that oiu- soiTy banquet is put by
From stealing more sweet kisses from your lips,
Walk in my garden : ladies, let your eyes
Shed life into these flowers by their bright beams :
Sit, sit, here's a large bower, here all may hear.
Xow, good Crispinus, let your praise begin,
There, where it left ofi, — baldness.
C'ris. I shall win
No praise, by praising that, which to deprave.
All tongues are ready, and which none would have.
Blu. To prove that best by strong and armed reason
Whose part reason fears to take, cannot but prove
Your wit's fine temper, and from these win love.
Mill. I promise you have almost converted me. I pny
bring forward your bald reasons, Mj. Poet.
Oris. Jlistress, you give my reasons proper names,
For arguments (like children) should be like
The subject that begets them ; I must strive.
To crown bald heads, therefoi-e must baldly thrive ;
But be it as it can ; to what before
Went arm'd at table, this force bring I more,
If a bare head (being like a dead man's skull)
Should bear up no praise else but this, it sets
Our end before our eyes : should I despair,
From gi\Tng- baldness higher place than hair ?
Mill. Nay, perdie, hair- has the higher place.
Cris. The goodliest and most glorious strange-built wond- •
Which that great Architect has made, is heaven ;
For there He keeps His co\ixt, it is His kingdom,
That's His best masterpiece; yet 'tis the roof.
And ceiling of the world : that may be called
The head or crown of earth, and yet that 's bald,
All creatures in it bald ; the lovely sun.
Has a face sleek as gold ; the fuU-cheeked moon.
As bright and smooth as silver : nothing there
Wears dangling locks, but sometime blazing stars.
Whose flaming curls set realms on fire with wars.
Descend more low ; look thi'ough man's five-fold fence.
Of all, the eye, bears greatest eminence ;
And yet that 'a bald, the hairs that like a lace
Ai-e stitched unto the lids, borrow those forms,
Like pent-houses to save the eyes from storms.
Sir Ada. Eight, well slid.
Cris. A head and face o'cr-grown with shaggy dress.
Oh, 'tis an Orient pearl hid all in moss ;
But when the head's all naked and uncrowned.
It is the world's globe, even, smooth, and round ;
Baldness is Nature's butt, at which our life
Shoots her last arrow : what man ever led
His age out ivith a staff, but had a head
Bare and uncovered ? he who.se years do rise
To their full height, yet not bald, is not wise.
The head is wisdom's house, hair but the thatch.
Hail- ? It 's the basest stubble ; in sconi of it,
A.D. 1602.]
PLAYS.
205
Ttis i>roverb sprung, He lias more hair than wit :
Mark you not in derision how we call
A head grown thick with hau-, hush-natui-al ?
Jliii. By youi- leave (master poet) but that bush-natural is
one of the trimmest and most entangling' st beauty iji a woman.
fVis. Right, but believe this (pardon me, most fair),
You would have much more wit, had you less hair :
I could more weary you to tell the proofs,
As they pass by, which tight on baldness' side,
Than were you tasked to number on a head
The hairs : I know not how your thoughts are led.
On this strong tower shall my opinion rest,
Heads thick of hau- are good, but bald 's the best.
Whilst this paradox is in speaMng, TucoA enters with Sm
V.iVGH.iN at one door, and secretly places him: then exit
and brings in Horace muffied, placing him : Ticca sits
among them.
Tiic. Thou art within a hair of it, my sweet Wit-whither-
wilt-thou : my delicate poetical fmy, thou hast hit it to a
hair.
Sir Vavghan steps out.
Sir Vau. By your favour, Master Tucky, his bald reasons
•ire wide above two hairs. I besees j'ou pardon me, Ladies,
that I thiiist in so malepartly among you, for I did but mich'
liere, and see how this cruel poet did handle bald heads.
Sir Ada. He gave them but theii' due, Sir- Vaughan ;
widow, did he not ?
Min. By my faith, he made more of a bald head than ever
I shall be able : he gave them theii- due truly.
Sir Vau. Xay . . . , their due is to be o' the right
hair as I am, and that was not in his fingers to give, but in
God a mighties. Well, I will hii-e that humorous and fan-
tastical poet. Master Horace, to break youi' bald pate. Sir
Adam.
Sir Ada. Break my bald pate ?
Tuc. Dost hear, my worshipful blockhead ?
Sir Van. Patience, Captain Tucky, let me absolve him ; I
means he shall iirick, prick youi' head or sconce a Uttle with
his goose-quiUs, for he .shall make another Thalimum, or
cross-stickes, or some PoUnodyes, with a few nappy-grams
in them that shall Uft up hair, and set it an end, with his
learned and hearty commendations.
Hur. This is excellent ; all will come out now.
Dicn. That same Horace, methinks, hast the most ungodly
face, by my fan ; it looks for all the world like a rotten
russet apple, when 'tis bruised: it's better than a spoonful
of cinnamon-water next my heart for mo to hear him speak ;
he sounds it so i' the nose, and talks and rants for all the
world, like the poor fellow under Ludgate : oh fie upon him !
Min. By my troth, sweet ladies, it's cake and pudding to
me to see his face make faces, when he reads his songs and
sonnets.
Hor. I'U face some of you for this, when you shall not
budge.
Tuc. It 's the stinkingest dung-farmer— foh upon him !
Sir Vau. Foh ? oundes, you make him urse than old
herring: f oh f by [Supiter], I thinke he's as tidy, and as
iaU a poet as ever drew out a long verse.
Tuc. The best verse that ever I knew him hack out, was
his white neck-verse : noble Ap Rees, thou wouldst scorn to
lay thy lips to his commendations, an thou smell' dst him out
as I do : he calls thee the burning Knight of the Salamander.
1 Mich., skulk, hide. The wora in Shakespeare's phrase of " Miching
mallecho."
Sir
Vau. Eight, Peter is my Salamander; what of him?
but Peter is never burnt : how now •• so, go to, now.
Tuc. And says, because thou clipst the King's English,—
Su- Van. Oundes me ? that 's treason : cUp I' horrible trea-
sons, [Sove] hold my hands ; clip ? he baits mouse-traps for
my life.
Tuc. Right, Uttle twinkler, right : he says because thou
speak' st no better, thou ean'st not keep a good tongue in thy
head.
Sir Vau. By [Supiter], 'tis the best tongue I can buy for
love or money.
Tuc. He shoots at thee, too, Adam Bell, and his arrows
stick here : he calls thee bald-pate.
-Sir Vau. Oundes, make him prove the.se intolerabilities.
Tuc. And asks who shall carry the -N-inegar-bottle ? and
then he rhymes to it, and says Prickshaft : nay, M'niver, he
crumples thy cap too ; and
Cns. Come, Tucca, come, no more ; the man's will known,
thou need'st not paint him : whom does he not wrong 1'
Tuc. Mam-, himself, the ugly Pope Boniface, pardons him-
self, and therefore my judgment is, that presently he be had
from hence to his place of execution, and there be stabbed.
stabbed, stabbed. [Ht stabs at him.''
Em: Oh, gentlemen, I am slain! slave, art hir'd to
mmdcr me, to murder me, to mmder me I
Ladies. O [Jovel]
Sir Vau. Ounds, Captain, you have put all poetry to the
dint of sword ! blow wind about him : ladies, for yom- Ix)rds
sake, )-ou that have smocks, teare off pieces to shoot through
his oundes : Is he dead and buried ? is he ;- pidl his n08e,
pinch, rub, rub, rub, rub.
Tut. If he be not dead, look here; I had the stab and
pippin for him : if I had kUl'd him, I could have pleased tln^
great fool with an apple.
Oris. How now ? be well, good Horace, here 's no wound ;
You' re slain by yom' own fears ; how dost thou, man ':
Come, put thy heart into his place again ;
Thy outside 's neither pierced, nor inside slain.
Sir Vau. I am glad. Master Horace, to see you walking.
Hor. Gentlemen, I am black and blue the breadth of a
groat.
Tuc. Breadth of a groat ': there's a testoh, hide thy infir-
mities, my scurvy Lazaius ; do, hide it, lest it pYoVe a scab
in time ; hang thee, desperation, hang thee ; thou knowcst I
cannot be sharp set against thee : look, feel . . . ' feel
my weapon.
Min. Oh, most pitiful, as blunt as my great thumb.
Sir Vau. By [Supiter], as blunt as a Welsh bag-pudding.
Tuc. As blunt as the top of Paul's ; 'tis not like thy aloe,
cicatrino tongue, bitter : no, 'tis no stabber, but like thy
o-oodly and glorious nose, blunt, blunt, blunt : dost i-oar bul-
chin:' dost roarr thou hast a good rouncival voice to crj-
lanthom and candle-Hght.
Sir Vau. Two 'urds Horace about your ears : how chance
it passes, that you bid good b'ye to an honest trade of
building simnevs, and lanng down bricks, for a woisi'
handicraftnes, to make nothing but rails; your JIuse lean<
upon nothing but filthy rotten rails, such as stand on Poulcs
head, how chance ':
Hor. Sir Vaughan—
Sir Vau. You he, sir varlet, sir villain. I am Sir Salaman-
ders, ounds, is my man JIaster Peter Salamanders face as
urse as mine? Sentlemen all, and ladies, an. you siy on.o
or twice Amen. I wiU lap this Httlo sildo. this Ixwby in h.s
blankets agen.
» Stall's, not with a dagger, but with a small apple in his fist.
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[a.d. 1602
Omnes. Agreed, agi-eud.
Tuc. A blanket, these cnifked Yenice glasses shall fill him
out, they shall toss him !— Hold fast -n-ag-tails : so, come, in,
take this bandy with the racket of patience ! "S\Tiy, when ?
dost stamp, mad Tamberlaine, dost stamp i thou thinkst thou
hast mortar under thy feet, dost :- '
Ladies. Come, a bandy ho !
Mor. Oh, hold, most sacred beauties.
Sir Vail. Hold, silence ; the puppet-teacher speakes.
Sor. Sir Yaughan, noble captain, gentlemen,
Crispinus, dear Demetrius, oh redeem me.
Out of this infamous ....
Oris. Nay, swear not so, good Horace, now these ladies
Are made your executioners : prepare
To suffer like a gallant, not a coward;
rU try t' unloose theii- hands : impossible ;
Nay, women's vengeance are implacable.
So?: AYhy would you make me thus the baU of scorn ?
Tne. I'U tell thee why, because thou hast entered actions of
assault and battery against a company of honourable and
worshipful fathers of the law : you wrangling rascal, law is
one of the pillars of the land, and if thou beest bound to it
(as I hope thou shalt be), thou 'It prove a skip- Jack, thou 'It
be whipp'd. I'U tell thee why, because thy sputtering chaps
yelp, that arrogance and impudence and ignorance are the
essential parts of a courtier.'
Sir Vail. You remember, Horace, they will
pink, and pump you, an they catch you by the coxcomb ;
on I pray, one lash, a little more.
Tiic. I'll tell thee why, because thou criest ptrooh at wor-
shipful citizens, and call'st them hat-caps and bankrupts, and
modest and rii-tuous wives cockatrices." I'll tell thee why,
because thou hast arraigned two poets against all law and
conscience ; ^ and not content with that, hast turned them
amongst a company of hon-ible black friars.
Sir Van. The same hand still, it is your own another day,
Master Horace, admonitions is good meat.
Tiic. Thou art the true arraigned poet, and shouldst have
been hanged, but for one of these part-takers, these charitable
copper-laced Christians, that fetched thee out of piu-gatorj-,
(plaj'crs I mean), theaterians pouch-mouth, stage- walkers ;
for this, poet, for this, thou must lie . . . in that blanket,
for this
Hor. 'ftTiat coiUd I do out of a just revenge,
But bring them to the stage 1- they envy me
Because I hold more woi'thj- company.
Sem. Good Horace, no ; my cheeks do blush for thine,
As often as thou spcak'st so, where one true
And nobly virtuous spirit for thy best part
Loves thee, I wish one ten, even from my heart.
I make account I put up as deep sharp
In any good man's love, which thy worth cams,
As thou thyself ; we envy not to see
Thy friends with bays to crown thy poesy.
No, here the gall lies, we that know what stuff
Thy very heart is made of, know the stalk
On which thy learning grows, and can give life
To thy once dying baseness ; yet must we
Dance antics on your paper.
Hor. Fannius —
Oris. This makes us angry, but not envious.
No ; were thy warjjed soul put in a new moidd,
I'd wear thee as a jewel set in gold.-*
' A reference to " Cj-ntlii-i's Revels."
* A reference to " Every Man Out of His Humour."
' A reference to " The Poetaster."
♦ Passages like this sliow liow little there was of petty spite and
Sir Van. And jewels, Master Horace, must be hanged, you
know.
'Tiie. Grood Pagans, well said, they have sewed up that
broken seam-rent lie of thine, that Demetrius is out at elbows,
and Crispinus is fallen out with satin here, they have ; but
bloat herring, dost hear i
Hor. Yes, honoui-ed captain, I have ears at will.
Tuc. Is 't not better be out at elbows, than to be a bond-
slave, and to go all in parchment as thou dost ':
Hor. Parchment, captain ■■ 'tis perpetuana, I assiu'c you.
Tuc. My perpetual pantaloon, true, but 'tis waxed over;
thou art made out of wax ; thou must answer for this one day ;
thy muse is a haggler, and wears clothes upon best-bc-trust :
thou art great in somebody's books for this, thou knowest
where; thou would' st be out at elbows, and out at heels too,
but that thou layest about thee with a bill for this, a bill —
Hor. I confess, captain, I followed this suit hard.
Tuc. I know thou didst, and therefore we have Hiren here ;
speak, my little dish-washers, a verdict . . .
Omiies. Blanket.
Sir Vail. Hold, I pray, hold, by [Supiter] I have put upon
my head a fine device, to make you laugh : 'tis not your fool's
cap. Master Horace, which you cover'd your poetasters in, but
a fine trick, ha, ha, is jumbling in my brain.
Tuc. I'U beat out thy brains, my handsome dwarf, but I'U
have it out of thee.
Omnes. "\^'Tiat is it, good Sir Yaughan ?
Sir Vau. To conclude, 'tis after this manners: because Ma.
Horace is ambition, and docs conspire to be more high and
taU as God a mightie made him, wee'U carry his teniblo
person to Court, and there before his Majestie dub, or what
you call it, dip his muse in some Hquor, and christen him, or
dye him, into colours of a poet.
Omnes. ExceUent.
Tuc. Super, super-excellent I EeveUers go, proceed you
masters of art in kissing these wenches, and in dances, bring
you the quivering biide to court in a mask; come, GrumboU,
thou shalt mum with us ; come, dog me, skneak's-biU.
Hor. O thou my muse !
Sir Vau. CaU upon God a mighty, and no Muses ; your
Muse, I warrant, is otherwise occupied, there is no dealing
with your JIuse now ; therefore I pray marse, marse, marse,
oudncs your Jloose. [JErtunf.
Cris. We shaU have sport to see them ; come, bright beauties,
The sun stoops low, and whispers in oiu' ears
To hasten on our mask ; let "s crown this night.
With choice composed wreaths of sweet delight.
Tlien follows a scene witli bride, bridegroom, and
Sii- Qiiintilian, in which CiJelestine takes a sleeping
ciraiight, given to her as poison, that she may e.scape
the danger of her meeting with the king. Tlie king
comes ; a masque is presented. Cselestine is brought
to him in a chair as a dead bi-ide. After due won-
demient, and plain speaking by the bridegroom to
the king, the father explains :
My king, my .son, know aU :
I am an actor in this mystery.
And bear the chiefest part. The father I,
'Twas I that ministered to her chaste blood
A true somniferous potion, which did steal
Her thoughts to sleep, and flattered her with death.
I caU'd it a quick poisoned drug, to try
malice in a rou>rh wit combat anions Lealtby men, who were to be
foiind soon afterwards in cordial fellowship together.
A.D. 1602.]
PLAYS.
207
The bridegroom's lore and the bride's constancy.
}Ie in the passion of his love did tight
A combat with aii'ection ; so did both.
She for the poison strove, he for his oath.
Thus, like a happy father, I have won
A constant daughter and a lo^ng son.
King. Mirror of maidens, wonder of thy name,
I give thee that art given, pure, chaste, the same.
Here, "Wat, I would not part lor the world's pride
.So true a bridegi'oom and so chaste a bride.
Oris. My liege, to wed a comical event
To presupposed tragic argument.
Vouchsafe to exercise your eyes, and see
A humorous dreadful poet take degree.
King. Dreadful in his proportion or his pen ?
Cris. In both : he calls himself the whip of men.
King. If a clear merit stand upon his praise,
Keach him a poet's crown, the honoured bays ;
Hut if he claim it, wanting right thereto,
As many bastard sons of poesy do.
Raze down his usurpation to the gi-ound.
True poets are with art and nature crown'd.
But in what mould soe'er this man be cast,
We make him thine, Crispinus. AVit and judgment
Shine in thy numbers, and thy soul, I know,
WOl not go arm'd in passion 'gainst thy foe ;
Therefore be thou ourself, whUst om-self sit
But as spectator of this scene of wit.
Ciis. Thanks, royal lord, for these high honours done
To mo unworthy : mj' mind's brightest fires
Shall all consume themselves in purest flame
On the altar of your dear eternal name.
King. Not under us, but next us take thy seat :
-Vrts nourished by kings will make kings great.
Use thy authority.
Cris. Demetrius,
Call in that self-creating Horace, bring
Him and his shadow forth.
His Majesty's Most Excellvnt Doc5.
Fi-oiii (he Title-page to Dekker's " Lantliorue and Candlelight" (1609).
Dem. Both shall appear :
Ko black-eyed star must stick in virtue's sphere.
£/ttcr Sir V.mt,h.\x.
iS'i'r Van. 'Ounds, did you see him ? I pray let all his
majesty's most exceUent dogs be set at liberties, and have
their freedoms to smell him out.
Dem. Smell whom ':
Sir ran. "WTiomr The composer, the prince of poets,
Horace, Horace ; he's departed. In God's name and the king's
I sarge you to ring it out fiom all our ears, for Horact'.^
body is departed ; master, hue and crj- shall God blc»a
King Williams, I crj- you mercy and ask forgiveness, for
mine eyes did not find in their hearts to look upon your
majesty.
King. What news with thee, Sir A'aughan ?
-Sir Vau. News? 'Tis as urse news as I can desire to
bring about me: our unhandsome-fac'd poet docs play at
bo-peeps with your grace, and cries " All hid," as boys do.
Officers. Stand by, room there, back, room for the poet.
Sir Van. He's reprehended and taken, by [Supiter] : I re-
joice very near as much as if I had discovered a Xew-fouiirl
Land, or the North and East Indies.
JEnter TuccA, /us bog after him with two picture) under /ii»
cloak, and a wreath of nettles ; Hok.4ce and Biuo pulled
in bg the horns, bound both like Satgrs, SiK Ad.im follow
ing, Mistress Miniver tiith him, wearing Tucca's chain
Tue. So, tug, tug, puU the mad bull in by the horns. So,
bait one at that stake, my place-mouth yelpers, and one at
that stake, gurnet's head.
King. \rha.t busy fellow 's this ':
Tue. Save thee, my most gi-acious king of hearts, save thee
All hats and caps arc thine, and therefore I vail ; for but to
thee, great Sultan Soliman, I scorn to be thus put off, or to
deliver up this sconce, I would.
King. Sir Vaughan, what 's this jolly captain's name ?
Sir Van. Has a veiy sufliciont name, and is a man has done
God and his country as good and as hot serrice, in conquerin;;
this rile monster poet, as ever did St. George his horseback
about the dragon.
Tue. I sweat for 't, but Tawsoonc, hold thy tongue, won
Sieu ; if thou 'It praise me, do 't behind my back. I am, my
weighty sovereign, one of thy grains, thy valiant vassal.
Ask not what I am, but read, tm-n over, unclasp thy
chronicles; there thou shalt find buff jerkin, there read my
points of war : I am one of thy mandilian leaders ; one that
enters into thy royal bands for thee ; Pantilius Tueca ; one
of thy kingdom's chiefest quaiTellers ; one of thy most
faithf"ul-fi— fi— fi
-Si)- Vim. Drunkards, I hold my life.
Tue. No, whirhgig, one of his faithful fighters ; thy
drawer, O royal Tamor Cham.
.Sir Vau. Go to, I pray, Captain Tucca : give us all leave
to do om- business before the k-'ng.
Tue. With aU my heart ; shi—shi—shi— shake tiiat bear-
whelp when thou wUt.
.Sir Vau. Horace and Bubo, pray send an answer into his
majesty s ears, why you go thus in Ovids Mortai-Morphosis
and strange fashions of apparel.
Tue. Cur, whv ':
Asi. My lords, I was drawn into this beastly smt by head
and shoulders only for love I bare to my ninglc.
Tue. Speak ningle, thy mouth's next, belch out, belch,
whv
Sor. I did it to retire me from the world.
And turn my muse into a Timonist,
Loathing the general leprosy of sin.
Which Uke a plague runs through the souls of men :
I did it but to
But to bite eveiT motley-head \-ice by the nose. » oa
Tue
did
it, ningle, to play the bugbear satire, and make a camp
208
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.u. 1G02
j-oyal of fashion-mongers quake at your paper bullets. You
nasty tortoise, you and your itchy poetry break out like
<'!hristmas, but once a year, and then you keep a revelling;,
and arraigning- and a scratching of men's faces, as though j'ou
were Tyber, the long-tailed Prince of Kats, do you ':'
Cris. Horace —
Sir V(it<. Silence; pray let all 'urds be strangled, or held
fast between your teeth.
Cris. Under control of my dread sovereign,
We are thy judges ; thou that didst arraign
.\rt now prepared for condemnation '(
Should I but bid thy muse stand to the bar,
Thyself against her would give evidence,
For flat rebellion 'gainst the sacred laws
Of divine poesy : herein most she mist,
Thy pride and scom made her turn satirist.
And not her love to virtue, as thou preachest.
Or should we minister strong pills to thee.
What lumps of hard and indigested stuff,
Of bitter satirism, of arrogance.
Of self-love, of detraction, of a black
And stinking insolence, should we fetch up ?
But none of these ; we give thee what's more fit ; —
With stinging nettles crown his stinging wit.
Ttic, AVcU said, my poetical huckster ; now he's in thy
handling, rate him, do, rate him well.
Unr. Oh, I beseech your majesty, r.ather than thus to Tie
nettled, I'll have my satyr's coat puU'd over mine ears, and
be turn'd out of the nine Muses' service.
Asi. And I too, let me be put to my shifts with my ningle.
Sir Vim. By [Sove], so you shall, 11. Bubo. Flea off this
hairy skin, JI. Horace ; so, so, so, untruss, imtruss.
Tiir. His poetical wreath, my dapper [tit].
Hur. Ooh
Sir Van. Nay, your oohs, nor your calinoes cannot serve
your turn. Your tongue, you know, is full of blisters with
railing, your faco full of pockey-holes and jiimples, with your
fiery inventions ; and therefore, to preserve your head from
aching, this biggin is yours. Nay, by [Supiter], j'ou shall be
a poet, though not laurefied, yet nettlefied, so.
Tiic. Sirrah .stinker, thou 'rt but untrussed now ; I owe thee
a whipping stiU, and I'll pay it. I have laid rods in . . .
vinegar for thee. It shall not be the whijjping of the
satyr, nor the whipping of the blind bear, but of a counter-
feit juggler that steals the name of Horace.
Kiiiri. How 'i counterfeit ? does he usurp that name ?
Sir Vnn. Yes, indeed, an 't please your grace ; he does sup
lip that abhominable name.
Tiir. He does, King Cambyses, he does. Thou hast no
part of Horace in thee but his name and his damnable vices ;
thou hast such a terrible mouth that tliy beard's afraid to
peep out. But look here, you staring leviathan, here 's the
sweet visage of Horace ; look, parboiled face, look : Horace
had a trim, long beard, and a reasonable face for a poet, as
faces go now-a-days ; Horace did not screw and -wriggle him-
self into great men's familiarity, impudently, as thou dost,
nor wear the badge of gentlemen's company, as thou dost thy
taffety sleeves, tacked too only with some points of profit.
No, Horace had not his face punched full of eyelet-holes, like
the cover of a warming-pan ; Horace loved poets -n'cll, and
gave coxcombs to none but fools ; but thou lovest none, neither
wise men nor fools, but thyself. Horace was a goodly corpu-
lent gentleman, and not so lean a hollow-cheeked scrag as
thou art.i No ; here 's the copy of thy countenance ; by this
• Here is evidence that Beu Jousou acqiiii-ed Ms gi-eat bulk after
tlie age of thirty.
will I learn to make a number of villainous faces more, and
to look scuri-ily ujion the world, as thou dost.
Oris. Su- Vaughan, will you minister their oath ?
Sir Van. Master Asinius Bubo, you shall swear as little as
you can ; one oath shall dam up your innocent mouth.
Asi. Any oath, sir, I'll swear anything.
Sir V'lii. You shall swear by Phcebus (who is your poet's
good lord and master) that hereafter you will not hire Horace
to give you poesies for rings, or handkerchers, or knives,
which you understand not, nor to write your love-letters,
which you, in turning of a hand, set your marks upon as your
own ; nor you shall not carrj' Latin poets about you, till you
can write and read Engli.sh at most ; and lastly, that you
shall not call Horace j'our Ningle.
Asi. By Phoebus, I swear all tliis, and as many oaths as
you will, so I may trudge.
Sir Vnii. Trudge then, pay your legs for fees, and be dis-
charged.
Tiic. Tprooth . . run, Red-cap ; wear horns there.
l£xit AsiNius.
Sir run. Now, lilaster Horace, j'oumust be a more hon-ible
swearer, for your oath must be like your "wits, of many
colours, and like a broker's book, of many parcels.
Tiic. Read, read the inventory of his oath.
Hor. I'll swear till my hail' stands up an end, to be rid of
this sting. Oh, this sting !
Sir Van. 'Tis not your sting of conscience, is it ?
Tne. Upon him: imprimis.
Sir Villi. Tnqjrimis, you shall swear by Phoebus and the
half a score Sluses lacking one, not to swear to hang your-
self, if you thought any man, woman, or child could write
plays and rhymes as well-favoui-ed ones as yourself.
Tnc. Well said. Hast brought him to the gallows ah'eady r
Sir Van. You shall swear not to bumbast out a new play
with the old linings of jests, stolen from the Temple's Revels.
Tnc. To him, old Tango.
Sir Van. Moreover, you shall not sit in a gallerj- -n-hen
your comedies and interludes have entered their actions, anci
there make vile and bad faces at evei-y line, to make gentle-
men have an eye to j'ou, and to make players afraid to take
your part.
Tnc. Thou shalt be my ningle for this.
Sir Vnn. Besides, j'ou must forswear to venture on the
stage when your play is ended, and to exchange courtesies
and compliments with gallants in .the lords' rooms, to
make all the house rise up in arms, and to cry, " That 's
Horace ; that 's he, that 'a he, that's he that pens and purges
humours and diseases."
Tnc. There, boy, again.
Sir Vnn. Secondly, when you bid all j'our friends to the
marriage of a poor couple — that is to say, your -wits and
necessities, alias diclns, to the rifling of your muse, alias
your muse's upsitting, alias a jDoet "VATiitsun-ale — you shall
swear that within three daj-s after you shall not abroad, in
book-binders' shops, brag that your viceroys or tributary
kings have done homage to you, or paid quarterage.
Tnc. I'll buff thy head, Holofemes.
Sir Vnn. Moreover and imprimis, when a knight or gentle-
man of wor.ship does give you his passport to travel in and
out to his company, and gives you money for God's sake, I
trust in [Sovc] you will swear, tooth and nail, not to make
scald and wry-mouth jests upon his knighthood, will }-ou
not?
Ilor. I never did it, by Parnassus.
Tnc. Wilt swear by Parnassus and lie too. Doctor
Dodipol ;-
Sir I'ttu. Thirdly, and last of all saving one, -n-hen your
T3 A.D. H>0o.
PLAYS.
209
plays are mislikcd at court, you shall not cry Mew like a
pussy-cat, and say you are gliid you vrrite out of the
courtiers' element.
Tiic. Let the element alone ; 'tis out of thy reach.
Sir Vail. In briefl_\Tiess, when you sup in taverns amongst
youi' betters, you shall swear not to dip your manners in
too much sauce, nor at table to fling epigrams, emblems, or
play-speeches about you, like hailstones, to keep you out of
the terrible danger of the shot, upon pain to sit at the upper
end of the table, at tlie left hand of Carlo Buifon. Swear all
this by Apollo and the eight or nine JIuses.
Uor. By Apollo, Helicon, the Muses (who march three and
three in a rank), and by all that belongs to Parnassus, I swear
iOl this.
Tiie. Bear witness.
Crif. That fearful wreath, this honour is your due ;
.\11 poets shall be poet-apes but you.
Thanks (learning's true Jleca^nas, poesy's king).
Thanks for that gracious ear which you have lent
To this most tedious, most rude argument.
K'mij. Our spirits have well been feasted ; he whose pen
Draws both corrupt and clear blood from all men,
(Jareless what vein he pricks, let him not rave
When his own sides are struck : blows, blows do crave.
A few lines more of dialogue end the play, by
making Captain Tiicca cany otf the widow Miniver
for his own bride, cheating the knights who had paid
court to her.
Too much stress is not to be laid on the personali-
ties of the " Satiromastix." If Ben Jonson's fellow-
dramatists shared the common belief that a real
Captain Hannam sat for Captain Tucca, of the
" Poetaster," and that lie attacked them personally
when he brought off the Poetaster'.s stomach many
words that had Ix'en used in ]ilays of theirs, they could
give him a taste of his own wliip by waj' of coiTection,
while expressing hearty admiration of his genius ; as
in the " Satiromastix "they distinctly did through their
own assumed characters of Crispinus and Demetrius
Fanning. Ben Jonson is sllo\^^l by an entry in
Henslowe's Diary to have been fellow-worker with
Dekker upon two plays in l.'iOil. The " Poeta.ster "
was in 1601 ; "Satiromastix" was in 1G02. In March,
1603, Ben Jonson and Dekker were joint-authore of
the pageant prejiared in London for the reception
of James I. In 1604, John Marston dedicated "The
Malcontent" to Ben Jonson as "his candid and cordial
frienil." ]\Ien strong in intellect can wrestle intellec-
tually without narrow spite, and if they lose temper
it can soon be found again. Ben Jonson did not
intend to deal ungenerously by his fellow-poets, and
they had no thought of him that was at all fatal
to healthy friendship. Ben Jonson replied to the
attack upon him in an Epilogue to the " Poetaster,"
where he made the Author say of it in a dialogue —
I never writ tliat jriece
More innocent, or empty of offence.
Some salt it had, but neither tooth nor gall,
Nor was there in it any circumstance
Which, in the setting do-!vn, I could suspect
Slight be perverted by an enemy's tongue ;
Only it had the fault to be called mine ;
That was the crime.
147
P. No ! ^Vhy, they sjiy you taxed
The law and lawyers, captains and the playere,
By their particuLir names.
Author. It is not so.
I used no name. My books have still been tauglit
To spare the persons and to speak the vices.
Of the attack >ipon the lawyci-s of wliich Le was
accused, he said :
Indeed, I brought in Ond
Chid by his angry father for neglecting
The .study of their laws for poetry ;
And I am warranted by his own words :
Sape pater dixit, stitdium quid inutile tenlan ?
Mieoiiidcx millas ipse re/irjuit opes.
And in far harsher terms elsewhere, as these :
Xon me verhosas leges ediseere, non me
Ingrato roees prostituisse foro.
But how this should relate unto our laws,
Or the just ministers, with least abuse,
I reverence both too much to understand.
Then, for the Captain, I will only speak
An epigram I here have made : it is
Unto Tki e Soldiers. That 's the lenmia : mark it : —
Strength of my country, whil.st I bring to view
Such as are miscalled capt.iins and wrong you
And your high names, I do desire that thence
Be nor put on you, nor you take, offence :
I swear, by your true friend, my JIuse, I love
Youi' great profession wliich I once did prove ;
And did not shame it by my actions then.
No more than I dare now do with my pen.
He that not trusts me, having vowed thus much,
But 's angTV for the Captain still, is such.
JJiifinpart
A1..MUC8 or IKE Ekiox ok Jami;s I.
From the Translation of JBlianS Tactics, bj John Binslmm (16ie).
Now, for the Players ; it is true T taxed them
And yet but some, and those so sparingly
As all the rest might have Siit still unquestioned
Had they but had the wit or conscience
To think well of themselves. But. impotent, they
210
CASSELL'S LIBKARY OF ENGLISH LITERATUEE.
[a.d. 1603
Thought each man's vice helonyiJ to thuir whole tribe ;
And much good do 't them ! What they have done 'gainst me
1 am not moved with : if it gave them meat,
Or got them clothes, 'tis well ; that was theii- end.
Only amongst them I am sorry for
■Some better natures, by the rest so di'awn
To run in that vile line.
P. And is this all ?
AVill you not answer, then, the libels ?
Author. No.
1'. Nor the TJntrussers ?
Author. Neither.
With the disdainful self-assertion of his Epilogue,
Ben Jonson joined a resolve to turn from Comedy,
that had been so pei"sistently mistaken by low natures.
And, since the Comic JIusc
Hath proved so ominous to me, I will try
If Tragedy have a more kind aspect ;
Her favours in my next I will pursue,
Where, if I prove the pleasure but of one.
So he judicious be, he shall be alone
A theatre unto me. Once I 'U 'say '
To strike the ear of time in those fresh strains
As shall, beside the cunning of their ground,
(jive cause to some of wonder, some despite,
And more despair to imitate their sound.
I, that spend half my nights and all my days
Here in a cell, to get a dark, pale face.
To come forth worth the ivy or the bays,
And in this age can hope no other grace
Leave me ! There 's something come into my thought
That must and shall be sung, high and aloof,
.Safe from the wolf's black jaw, and the dull ass's hoof.
The fresh strain was liis tragedy of " Sejanus,"
produced in 1603, tlie year of the death of Queen
Elizabeth. Tliis is a fine poem of the fate of power
built upon injustice. The favourite of Fortune, wlio
lias sought no other God, and who spurns even that
deity when adverse to his worldly gain, is .showi with
his house built upon sand, rising as if to touch the
Srty, essay.
skies, and tumbling to dire ruin suddenly at last.
The play had its purpose summed up in the closing
words : —
Lt-pldus. How Kurluue plies her sports, when she begins
To practise them ! pursues, continues, adds,
Confounds with varying her impassioned moods I
Arrlanus. Dost th<ju hope. Fortune, to redeem thy ciimcs.
To make amend for thy ill-placed favours,
With these strange punislmients ': Forbear, you things
That stand upon the pinnacles of state,
To boast your slippeiy height ; when you do fall.
You pash youi-selves in pieces, ne'er to rise;
And he that lends you pity, is not wise.
I'fri'iitiiis. Let this example move the insolent man
Not to grow proud and careless of the gods.
It is an odious wisdom to blaspheme,
JIuch more to slighten, or deny their powers :
For, whom the morning saw so great and high.
Thus low and little 'fore the even doth lie.
When this play was printed, in IGO.'), there wiis
pi'inted with it John Marston's praise of liis " mo.st
worthy friend " for a work that woukl, as he said,
"even force applause from despairful envy." Tho.se
critics who had no eyes of the understanding for the
noble treatment of a poet'g theme, and for the genius
with which, in some scenes, Ben Jonson has apj)lied
even his mastery of humour to a tragic purpose,
could see with the eyes over their noses that the
bottom of each printed page was charged with re-
ferences to the Roman authors who had enabled him
to set his work in a true j)icture of old Roman life.
His reason for doing so Ben Jonson had given in a
j)reface " To tlie Readers : " — '■ Lest in some nice
nostril the cpiotations might savour aflected, I do let
you know that I abhor nothing more ; and I have
only done it to show my integrity, and save myself
in those common torturers that bring all wit to the
rack." The torturers are not to be escaped so ea.sily.
They see a play with its text justified by many refer-
ences — Suetonius, Tacitus, and other Latin writers
— and deliver judgment against " Sejanus " on the i
e\idence of the foot-notes, sajing to one another,
with great satisfaction, " It is a pedantic phiy."
lo i.D. 16J8.J
PLAYS.
211
CHAPTER YI.
Ix THE Reign of James I. — a.d. 1603 to a.d. 1625.
Fr(»n a Folio oj Btii Juji.-^oii's
■;,-s (lijil).
r~\ ^ ^-s^ /- Oi ^"'^^'^ '*^-^ highest
feKV-f .^^^^^-/ m ^ point, reached in
~ the reigii of James
I., the English
drama, before that
reigii was at an
end, began to fall.
A mastery ac-
quired under
Elizabeth was
brought into the
reign of James
by Shakespeare
and Ben Jonson.
The company of
Lord Chamber-
lain's playei-s, to which Shakespeare Ijelonged, became
after change of reign the King's players. Shake-
speare wa.s at that time thiity-nine yeare old, Ben
Jonson thirty. Shakesjjeare's "Othello" was pro-
duced at court on the 1st of Novemter, 1604, and
" Measure for Measure " a few weeks later. " Mac-
beth" and "King Lear" were acted in 1606.
"Julius Cajsar," "Antony and Cleopatra," " Cymbe-
line," " Coriolanus," are all masterpieces of the i-eign
of James I., produced before the date of the earliest
notice of a performance of " The Tempest," which is
in 1611. With that play, or with "King Henry
VIIL," which was being acted when the Globe
Theatre was burnt down in 1613, Shakespeare's
work as a dramatist ended. In his latter years
he had retired to Stratford, where he died at the
age of fifty-two, on the 23rd of Aj)ril, 1610.
Ben Jonson having produced his " Sejanus," wTitten
in the last days of Elizabeth's reign, turned to comedy
again, but did not continue the line of tlie three
humorou-s dramatic homilies which had followed his
true comedy of "Every Man in his Humour." He
returned to comedy proper, with the humours of men
shown through the skilful develo[iment of an ingenious
and well-consideied plot. Three of his best comedies
— " Volpone, or the Fox," in 160."") : " Epicene, or the
Silent Woman," in 1609 ; and "The Alchemist," in
1610 — came between " Sejanus," and his one other
tragedy, "Catiline," in 1611. In 160.5, he was also
feUow-worker with Marston and Chapman upon
"Eastward Hoe." He had produced also Court
Masques— "The Masque of Blackness." in 1605;"
"The Masque and Barriers," representetl in 1606 at
Whitehall, in the Christmas celebration of the mar-
riage of the Earl of Essex ; " " The Masque of
Beauty," in 1608; in 1609, the third of the masques
in which the Queen herself took j)art,
THE MASQUE OF UUEENS ;
" celebrated from the House of Fame, by the Queen
of Great Britain, with her Ladies, at Whitehall,
Feb. 2nd, 1609."
It increasing now to the third time of my being used in
these services to Her Majesty's personal presentations, with
the ladies whom she pleascth to honour ; it was my first and
special regard, to see that the nobiHty of the invention sh.mld
he answerable to the dignity of their persons. For which
reason I chose the argument to be, A celebration of honamnbte
and tnw Fame, bred out of Virtue : observing that rule of the
best artist, to suffer no object of delight to pass witliout his
mixture of profit and example.' And because Her Majesty
(best knowing that a principal part of life, in these spectacles,
lay in their variety) had commanded me to think on some
dance, or shew, that might precede hers, and have the place
of a foil, or false masque ; I was careful to decline, not only
from others, but mine own st;eps in that kind, since the last
year, I had an anti-masque of boys ; and therefore now de-
ir-ised, that twelve women, in the habit of hags, or witches,
sustaining the persons of Ignorance, Suspicion, Credulity,
&c., the opposites to good Fame, should fill that part ; not as
a masque, but a spectacle of strangeness, producing multi-
plicity of gesture, and not unaptly sorting with the current,
and whole fall of the dence.
His Majesty, then, being set, and the whole company in
full expectation, the part of the scene which first presented
itself was an ugly Hell ; which flaming beneath, smoked unti)
the top of the roof. And in respect all e^'ils are morally said
to come from hell : as also fi-om that observation of Torrentius
upon Horace's Canidiu, qitic tot instructa reneiiis, ex Orel
fuucibus frofecta rideri possit .' these witches, with a kind
of hollow and infernal music, came forth from thence. First
one, then two, and thi-ee, and more, till their nmnber increased
to eleven ; all differently attired : some with rats on their-
heads, some on their shoulders ; others with ointment-pots
at their girdles: all with spindles, timbrels, rattles, or other
venefical instruments, making a confused noise, with strange
gestui-es. The dence of their attire was JIaster Jones's,
with the invention, and architecture of the whole scene,
and machine. 3 Only I prescribed them their properties of
vipers, snakes, bones, herbs, roots, and other ensigns of their
magic, out of the authority of ancient and kite writers,
■wherein the faidts are mine, if there be any found ; and for
that cause I confess them.
These eleven witches beginning to dance (which is an usual
ceremony at their convents or meetings, where sometimes also
they are' vizarded and masked), on the sudden one of them
missed their chief, and interrupted the rest with this speech.
Eaff
1 Chan
Sisters, stay, we want our Dame ;
Call upon her by her name.
And the charm we use to say ;
That she quickly anoint, and come away.
Dame, d;ime 1 the watch is set :
Quickly come, we all are met.—
From the lakes, and from the fens,
From the rocks, and from the dens.
From the woods, and from the caves,
From the church-yards, fa'om the gi-aves.
1 A nUe foUowed by every great English poet.
= Canidia who, instructed in so many poisons, might seem to lla^e
come from the throat of Orcus, (A note on Horace, Epmle^ I
3 Inigo Jones, who became architect to the Queen in 1606, shared
honours in the construction of these masques.
212
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1()08
From tho dungeon, from the tree
That they die on, here are we !
Comes she not yet ?
Strike another heat.
2 Charm. The weather is fair, the wind is good,
Up, dame, on your horse of wood :
Or else tuck uj) your gray frock,
And saddle your goat, or your green cock,
And make his bridle a bottom of thread,'
To roll up how many miles you have rid.
Quickly come away ;
For we all stay.
Nor yet ;-■ nay, then,
We '11 try her agen.
3 Charm. The owl is abroad, the bat, and the toad,
And so is the cat-a-mountain,
The ant and the mole sit both in a hole,
And the frog peeps out o' the fountain ;
The dogs they do bay, and the timbrels play,
The spindle is now a turning ;
The moon it is red, and the stars arc fled.
But all the sky is a burning :
The ditch is made, and our nails the spade,
With pictures full, of wax and of wool ;
Their livers I stick, with needles quick ;
There lacks but the blood, to make up tho flood.
Quickly, dame, then bring your part in,
Spur, spur upon little JIartin,
Slcrrily, merrily, make him sail,
A worm in his mouth, and a thorn in liis tail.
Fire above, and fire below,
With a whip in your hand, to make him go.
Oh, now she 'a come !
Let all be dumb.
At this the Dame entered to them, mtkeil-urmed, bare-
footed, her frock tucked, her hair knotted, and folded
with vipers ; in her hand a toreh made of a dead
mail's arm, lighted, girded with a snake. To whom
they all did recerenee, and she spake, uttering, hy way
of question, the end wherefore they eame.
Same. Well done, my Hags ! And come we fraught
with spite.
To overthrow the glory of this night ?
Holds our great purpose ?
Hag. Yes.
Dame. But wants llicrc none
Of our just number 'i
Hugs. Call us one by one.
And then our dame shall see.
JJaiiie. First, then advance,
Jly drowsy servant, stupid Ignorance,
Known by thy scaly vesture ; and bring on
Thy f(!arful sister, wild Suspicion,
[As she names them they come forward
Whose eyes do never sleep ; let her knit hands
With quick Credulity, that ne.\t her stands,
Who hath but one eai', and that always ope ;
Two-faced Falsehood follow in the rope ;
Ben Jonson, in his notes to his Masque, refers several times to
"the King's Majesty's book (our sovei'eign) of Demonology." Tlie
goat ridd.™ was said to be often the devil himself, but " of the gi-eeu
cock, we have no other ground (to confess ingenuously) than a vulgar
fable of a witch, that with a cock of that colour, and a bottom of blue
thread, would transport herself through the air ; and .so escaped (at
the time of her beint- brought to execution) from the hiuid of justice.
It was a tale when I went to school."
And lead on JIurmur, with the cheeks deep hung ;
She, Malice, whetting of her forked tongue ;
And Malice, Impudeuce, whose forehead 's lost;
Let Impudence lead Slander on, to boast
Her oblique look ; and to her subtle side,
Thou, black -mouth' d Execration, stand applied;
Draw to thee Bitterness, whose pores sweat gall ;
She, flame-ey'd Eage ; Rage, Mischief.
Hags. Here we are all.
Dame. Join now our hearts, we faithful opposites
To Fame and Glory. Let not these bright nights
Of honour blaze, thus to oft'end our eyes :
Shew ourselves truly envious, and let rise
Our wonted rages : do what may beseem
Such names, and natures ; Virtue else will deem
Our powers decreas'd, and think us banish'd earth,
No less than heaven. All her antique birth.
As Justice, Faith, she will restore ; and, bold
Upon our sloth, retrieve her age of gold.
We must not let our native manners, thus.
Corrupt with ease. HI lives not, but in us.
I hate to see those fruits of a soft peace.
And cui'se the piety gives it such increase.
Let us disturb it then, and blast the light;
Mix hell with heaven, and make nature fight
Within herself ; loose the whole hinge of things ;
And cause the ends run back into their springs.
Hags. What our Dame bids us do,
We are ready for.
Dame. Then fall to.
But first relate me, what you have sought,
AAThere you have been, and what you have brought.
1 Hag. I have been all day, looking after
A raven, feeding upon a quarter ;
And, soon, as she turu'd lu^r beak to the south,
I snatch'd this morsel out of her mouth.
2 Hag. 1 have been gathering wolves' hairs,
The mad dog's foam, and the adder's ears ;
Tho spurging of a dead man's eyes.
And all since the evening star did rise.
3 Hag. I last night lay all alone
On tho ground, to he.-ir the mandrake groan;
And jjluek'd hiui up, though he grew full low;
And, as I had done, the cock did crow.
4 Hag. And I have been choosing out this skull.
From charnel houses, that were full ;
From private grots, and public pits :
And frighted a sexton out of his wits.
.'5 Hag. Under a cradle I did creep.
By day ; and when the child was asleep.
At night, I sucked the breath ; and rose.
And pluck'd the nodding nurse by the nose.
fi Hag. I had a dagger : what did I with that ?
Kill'd an infant to liave his fat."
A pijier it got, at a church-ale,
I bade him again blow wind in the tail.
7 Hag. A murderer, yonder, was hung in chains,
The sun and the wind had shrunk his veins ;
I bit off a sinew ; I clipp'd his hair ;
I brought off his rags that danced in (he air.
8 Hag. The screeeh-owl's eggs, and the fi'athorsblaik.
The blood of the frog, and tho bone in his back,
- Infants' fat boiled was said to be the chief ingredient in the
ointment which en;ibled witches to ride in the air. It was mixed
with poppy and narcotic drugs. The witfhes anointed tboiuselves
with it, and also sometitues their broomsticks. Killing of infants
was also one of a witch's occasional recreations.
TO A.D. 1609.]
PLAYS.
213
I hiivu been getting* : auil iiiude ut hi:^ 8k. u
A pursct, to keep sir Cranion in,
9 Hiiij. And 1 liave been plucking, plants among,
Hemlock, henbane, adder' s-tongue,
Night-shade, moon- wort, libbard's-bane ;
And twice, by the dogs, was like to be ta'en.
10 Hng. I, from the jaws of a gardener's bitch,
Did snatch these bones, and then leap'd the ditch :
Vet went I back to the house again.
Killed the black cat, and here 's the brain.
11 linij. I went to the toad breeds under the wall,
I charmed him out, and he came at my call ;
I scratch' d out the eyes of the owl before,
I tore the bat's wing ; what would you have more ?
Dame. Yes, I have brought, to help our vows,
Horned poppy, cypress boughs,
The fig-tree wild that gTOws on tombs,
And juice that from the larch-tree comes,
The basilisk's blood, and the viper's skin :
And now our orgies let us begin.
Here the Dame pat her^trlj' in the midst of thihi, ami be<ja>i her
follotruig Invoeatlon :
You fiends and furies (if yet any be
Worse than ourselves}, you that have quaked to see
These knots untied, and shrunk, when we have charmed ;
You, that to arm us, have yourselves disarmed,
And to our powers rcsign'd your whips and brands
^^'^len we went forth, the scourge of men and lands ;
You that have seen me ride, when Hecate
Durst not take chariot ; when the boisterous sea,
Without a breath of wind, hath knock'd tin- sky.
And that hath thundered, Jove not knowing why :
AVheu we have set the elements at wars.
Made midnight see the sun, and day the stars ;
W^heu the wing'd lightning, in the coui'sc hath staid,
And swiftest rivers have run back, afraid,
To see the corn remove, the groves to range,
Whole places alter, and the seasons change ;
'When the pale moon, at the first voice down fell
Poisoned, and dui'st not stay the second spell :
You, that have oft been conscious of these .sights ;
Ajid thou, three-formed star, that on these nights
Art only powerful, to whoso triple name
Thus we incline, once, twice, and thrice the same ;
If now with rites profane, and foul enough,
We do invoke thee ; darken all this roof,
AVith present fogs: exhale earth's rot' nest vajiours,
.\nd strike a blindness through these blazing tapers !
Come, let a mminuring charm resound.
The whilst we bury all i' the gi'ound.
But first, see every foot be bare ;
And every knee.
Hag. Yes, Dame, the}' are.
4 Charm. Deep, deep we lay thee to sleep :
We leave thee drink by, if thou chance to be dry;
Both milk and blood, the dew and the flood.
We breathe in thy bed, at the foot and the head ;
We cover thee warm, that thou take no harm :
And when thou dost wake,
Dame earth shall quake,
And the houses shake.
And her belly .shall ake.
As her back were brake,
Such a birth to make,
As is the blue drake :
"WTiose form thou shalt take.
Dame. Xever a star yet shot !
Where be the ashes ?
Sag. Here in the pot.
Dame. Cast them up ; and the Hint-stone
Over the left shoulder-bone ;
Into the west.
Hag. It will be best.
5 Charm. The sticks are across, there can be no loss,
The sage is rotten, the sulphur is gotten
Tjp to the sky, that was in the gi-ound,
FoUow it then with our rattles, roimd ;
Under the bramble, over the brier,
A httle more heat will set it on fire :
Put it in mind to do it kmd.
Flow water and blow wind.
Rouncy is over, Robbie is under,
A flash of light, and a clap of thunder,
A storm of rain, another of hail.
We aU must home in the egg-shell sail ;
The mast is made of a gi'eat pin,
The tackle of cobweb, the sail as thin.
And if we go thi'ough and nut fall in
Dame. Stay, all our charms do nothing win
Upon the night ; our labom- dies.
Our magic feature will not rise—
Nor yet the storm 1 we must repeat
More dir'eful voices far, and beat
The ground with vipers, till it sweat.
6 Charm. Bark dogs, wolves howl.
Seas roar, woods roll.
Clouds crack, all be black,
But the light our charms do make.
Dame. Not yet '. my rage begins to swell ;
Darkness, Devils, Night and Hell,
Do not thus delay my spell.
I call you once, and I call you twice :
I beat you again, if you stay my thi-ice :
Thorough these crannies where I peep,
I '11 let in the Ught to see yom- sleep.
And all the secrets of yom- sway
Shall lie as open to the day.
As unto me. Still are you deaf I
Beach me a bough, that ne'er bare leaf.
To strike the air : and Aconite,
To hurl upon this glaring light :
A rusty knife to woimd mine ann ;
And as it di-ops I '11 speak a chann.
Shall cleave the ground, as low as lies
Old slu-unk-up Chaos, and let rise,
Once more, his d;irk and reck-ing head.
To strike the world, and nature dead.
Until my magic birth be bred.
7 Charm. Black go in, and blacker come out :
At thy going down, wc give thee a shout.
Hoc:
At thy rising again, thou shalt have two.
And if thou dost what we woidd have thee do.
Thou shalt have three, thou shalt have four,
Thou shalt have ten, thou -shalt Imve a score.
Hool Har: Har! Hoo!
8 Charm. A cloud of pitch, a spur and a switch.
To haste him away, and a whirlwind play.
Before and after, with thunder for laughter,
And storms for joy of tlie roaring boy :
His head of a di-ake. his tail of a snake.
9 Chiirm. About, about, and about.
Till the mists arise, and the lights fly out.
214
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 16U8
The images neither be seen, nor felt :
The woollen burn, and the waxen melt ;
Sprinkle yoiir liquors upon the ground,
And into the air ; around, around.
Around, around.
Around, around.
Till a music sound.
And the pace be found,
To which we may dance.
And our charms advance.
At which, ivith a strange niiil suMcii music, they fell
into a magical dance, full of preposterous change and
gesticulation.
In the heat of their dance, on the sudden teas heard a
sound of loud music, as if many instruments had made
one blast ; with which not only the hags themselves,
but the hell into which they ran, quite vanished, and
the whole face of the scene altered, scarce suffering the
memory of such a thing; hut in the place of it appeared
a glorious and magnificent building, figuring the House
OF Fame, ' in the top of wh ich were discovered the tirelvc
Masquers, sitting upon a throne triumphal, erected in
form of a pyramid, and circled with all store of light.
From tvhom a person by this time descended, in the fur-
niture of Per.ietis, and e.rpressing heroic and masculine
Virtue, begun to spca/i.
Dkess of a Masqcer at the Court of James I.
From Hie Figure before Dr. Thomas Campion's Masque at lord Hai/rs's
Marriage, February, 1607.
Heroic ViuTrE.
So should, at Fame's loud sound, and Virtue's sight.
All dark and envious witchcraft fly the light.
I did not borrow Hermes' wings, nor ask
II is crooked sword, nor put on Pluto's casque,
• Ben J«nson gives in a note the following description of Inigo
Jjues's design for this scene :— " There rests only that we give the
ileseription we promised of the scene, which was the house of F.inie,
The structure and ornament of which (as is protest before) was
ontii-ely master Jones's invention and design. First, for the lower
Nor on my arm advanced with Pallas' shield,
(I?y which, my face aversed, in open field
I slew the Gorgon) for an empty name :
When Virtue cut oif Terror, he gat Fame.
And if, when Fame was gotten. Terror died,
What black Erynnis, or more hellish Pride,
Durst arm these hags, now she is grown and great.
To think they could her gloi-ies once defeat ?
I was her parent, and I am her strength,
Heroic Virtue sinks not under length
Of years, or ages ; but is still the same
While he preserves as when he got good fame.
lly daughter, then, whose glorious house you see
Built all of sounding brass, whose columns be
Men-making poets, and those well-made men,
WTiose strife it was to have the happiest pen
Renown them to an after-life, and not
With pride to scoi-n the muse, and die forgot ;
She, that enquireth into all the world,
And h.'ith about her vaulted palace hurled
All rumours and rejiorts, or true or vain,
What utmost lands or deepest seas contain,
But only hangs great actions on her file ;
She, to this lesser world, and greatest isle.
To-night sounds honour, which she would have seen
In yond' bright bevy, each of them a queen.
Eleven of them are of times long gone.
Penthesilea, tlu^ brave Amazon,
Swift-foot Camilla, queen of Volscia,
Victorious Thomyris of Scythia,
Chaste Artemisia, the Carian dame,
And fair-hair'd Berenice, Egypt's fame,
Hypsicratea, glory of Asia,
Candace, pride of Ethiopia,
The Britain honour, Boadicea,
The virtuous Palmyrene, Zenobia,
The wise and warlike Goth, Amalasunta,
The bold Valasca of Bohemia ;
These, in their lives, as fortunes, crown' d the choice
Of womankind, and 'gainst all opposite voice
Made good to time, had, after death, the claim
To live etemiz'd in the House of Fame.
Where hourly hearing (as what there is old?)
The glories of Bell-anna so well told.
Queen of the Ocean ; how that she alone
Possest all virtues, for which one by one
They were so fam'd : and wanting then a head
To form that sweet and gracious p}ramid
columns, he chose the statues of the most excellent poets, as Homer,
Virgil, Lncan, &c., as being the substantial supporters of Fame. For
the upper, Achilles, ^neas, CEesar, and those great heroes, which
these poets had celehr.ated. All which stood as in massy gold. Be-
tween the pillars, underneath, were figiu'ed land-battles, sea-fights,
triumphs, loves, sacriiices, and all magnificent subjects of honour, in
brass, and heightened with silver. In which he profest to follow that
noble description made by Chaucer of the place. Above were sited
the masquers, over whose heads he devised two eminent figures of
Honour and Virtue for the arch. The fi-iezes, both below and above,
were filled with several-coloured lights, like emeralds, rubies,
sapphires, carbuncles, &c., the reflex of which, with our lights placed
in the concave, upon the masquers' habits, was full of glory. These
habits had in them the excellency of all device and riches : and were
worthily varied by his invention, to the nations whereof they were
queens. Nor are these alone his due ; but divers other accessions to
the strangeness and beauty of the spectacle : as the hell, the going
about of the chariots, and binding the witches, the turning machine,
with the presentation of Fame. All which I willingly acknowledge
for him : since it is a virtue planted in good natures, that what
respects they wish to obtain fruitfully from others, they will give
ingenuously themselves."
TO A.D. 1609.]
PLAYS.
215
WTierein they sit, it being the sov'ieigu place
Of all that palace, and reserved to grace
The worthiest queen : these, without envy" on her,
In life, desired that honour- to confer,
Which, with their death, no other should enjoy.
She this embracing with a virtuous joy.
Far from self-love, as humbling all her worth
To him that gave it, hath again brought forth
Their names to memory ; and means this night.
To make them once more \'isible to light ;
And to that light, from whence her truth of spii-it
Confesseth all the lustre of her merit ;
To you, most royal and most happy king,
Of whom Fame's house in every part doth ling
For every virtue, but can give no increase :
Xot, though her loudest trumpet blaze your peace.
Lo you, that cherish every great exannjle
Contracted in yourself ; and being so ample
A field of honour, cannot but embrace
A spectacle, so full of love, and grace
Unto your court : where every princely dame
Contends to be as boimteous of her fame
To others, as her life was good to her ;
For by their lives they only did confer ,
Good on themselves ; but, by their fame, to j'ours,
And every age, the benefit endui-es.
litre the throne wherein they sat^ being machina versatilis,
anfldenlij changed ; and in the place of it appeared Fama
bona, as she is described {in Iconolog. di Cesare Eipa)
iittired in white, with white wings, having a collar of
gold about her neck, and a heart hanging at it : which
Orus Apollo, in his hierogl., interprets the note of a
good Fame. In her right hand she bore a trumpet,
in her left an olive-branch : and for her state, it ivas,
as Virgil describes her, at the fall, her feet on the
ground, and her head in the clouds. She, after the
music had done, which waited on the turning of tJie
machine, called from thence to Heroic Virtue, and spake
this following speech.
Fa.me.
Virtue, my father and my honour ; thou
That mad'st me good as great ; and dar'st avow
No Fame for thine but what is perfect : aid.
To-night, the triumphs of thy white-wing'd maid.
Do those renowned queens all utmost rites
ITicir states can a.sk. This is a night of nights.
In mine own chariots let them, crowned, ride ;
And mine own birds and beasts, in gears applied
To draw them forth. L'nto the first car tie
Far-sighted eagles, to note Fame's sharj) eye.
Unto the second, griffons, that design
Swiftness and strength, two other gifts of mine.
Unto the last, our hons, that imply
The top of graces, state, and majesty.
And let those hags be led as captives, bound
Before their wheels, whilst I my trumpet sound.
At which the loud music sounded as before, to give the
masquers time- of descending.
By this time, imagine the masquers descended ; and again
mounted into three triumphant chariots, ready to come forth.
The first four were drawn with eagles (whereof I gave the
reason, as of the rest, in Fame's .speech), their four torch-
bearers attending on the chariots' sides, and four of the hags
bound before them. Then followed the second, drawn by
gnffous, with their torch-bearers, and four- other hags. Then
the last, which was drawn by lions, and more eminent (wherein
Her Majesty was), and had six torch-bearers more, peculiar
to her, with the like number of hags. After which, a full
triumphant music, singing this song, whUe they rode in state
about the stage :
Help, help, all tongues, to celebrate this wonder:
The voice of Fame should be as loud as thunder.
Her house is all of echo made,
Where never dies the sound ;
And as her brow the clouds invade,
Her feet do strike the ground.
Sing then, good Fame, that "s out of Virtue bom :
For, who doth Fame neglect, doth Virtue scorn.
Here they lighted from their chariots, and danced forth
their first dance: then a .second, immediately following it:
both right curious, and full of subtle and excellent changes,
and seemed performed with no less spiiits, than of those they
personated. The first was to the comets, the second to the
violins. After which, they took out the men, and danced the
measures ; entertaining the time, almost to the space of an
hour, with singular variety : when, to give thtm rest, from
the mu.sic which attended the chariots, by that most e.vcellcnt
tenor voice, and exact singer (her Majesty's servant, master
Jo. Allen) this ditty was sung :
"UTien all the ages of the earth
Were crown'd, but in this famous birth :
And that, when they would boast their store
Of worthy queens, they knew no more :
How happier is that age, can give
A queen, in whom all they do Uve I
After it, succeeded their third dance : than which, a more
numerous composition could not be seen : graphically disix)sed
into letters, and honoming the name of the most sweet and
ingenious prince, Charles duke of York. A\'hereiii, beside
that principal gi-ace of jjerspicuity, the motions were so even
and apt, and their expression so just, as if mathematicians
had lost proportion, they might there have found it. The
author was master Thomas Giles. After this, they d:mccJ
gaUiards and coiTantos. And then their last d:ince. no less
elegant in the place than the rest, with which tliey took their
chariots again, and triumphing aljout the stage, had their
return to the House of Fame celebrated with this la.st .■^ong:
whose notes (as the foi-mer) were the work and honour of my
excellent friend, Alfonso Ferrabosco.
Who, Virtue, can thy power forget.
That sees these Uve, and triumph yet ?
Th' Ass)-rian pomp, the Persian pride,
Greeks' glory, and the Romans' died :
And who yet imitate
Their noises taiTy the same fate.
Force greatness all the glorious ways
You can, it soon decays :
But so good Fame shaU never :
Her triumphs, as their causes, are for ever.
To conclude which, I k-now no worthier way of epilogue,
than the celebration of who were the celebraters.
The Queen's Majesty. The Co. of Montgomery.
The Co. of Ari-ndel. The Vise, of Crankokne.
The Co. of Derby. The La. Euz. Giilfokd.
The Co. of HrNTixGDox. The La. Anne Winter.
The Co of Bedford. The La. Windsor.
The Co. of Essex. The La. Asse Clifforb-
216
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[a.i>. 1608
Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher are drama-
tists who wrote much together, and whose plays
belong only to the reign of James I. Fletcher was
tlie son of a bishop, Beaumont the son of a judge.
Fletcher was born in 1576, Beaumont in 1586.
Beaumont, who was ten years younger, died nine
years before Fletcher, Beaumont dying in Marcli,
1616 (a month before Shakespeare), and Fletcher —
of the plague — in August, 1625, not many months
after the death of James I. The friends began their
fellowship as poets in 1607, when there appeared
some lines of verse from each of them among the
tributes of honour paid to Ben Jonson for his
" Volpone." There were eighteen years of activity
as a dramatist in Fletcher's life. During nine or
ten of them he and Beaumont worked together, but
memory of the fellowship clings to the work done
by himself, sometimes alone, sometimes with other
dramatists, during the other nine years, and the
whole body of his plays is contained in volumes
known as the works of Beaumont and Fletcher.
Tlieir first thorough success together was achieved
in 1608 with the jtlay of —
PHILASTEE.
The Fu-st Act opens in the palace of the usuii^ing
King of Sicily and Calabria, with a dialogue between
Dion, a Lord (father to the sad Eufrasia, who is
tli.sguised as the page Bellario, in Philaster's .service),
and Cleremont and Thrasiline, two noble gentlemen,
his associates. Tlieir speech is of the King's daughter,
the Princess Arethnsa —
Cle. Here 's nor lords, nor ladies.
Dion. Credit me, gentlemen, I wonder at it. They received
strict charge from the king to attend here : besides, it was
loudly published, that no officer should foi'bid any gentlemen
that desired to attend and hear.
Clc. Can you guess the cause ?
Dion. Sir, it is plain, about the Spanish Prince that 's
come to marry our kingdom's heir, and be our sovereign.
Thra. Man)-, that will seem to know much, say, she looks
not on him like a maid of love.
Dion. Oh, sir, the multitude (that seldom know anything
but their own opinions) speak that they would have ; but
the Prince, before his own approach, received so many con-
fident messages from the State, that, I think, she's resolved
to be ruled.
Clc. Sir, it is thouglit, with her he sh.-ill enjoy both these
kingdoms of Sicily and Calabria.
Dion. Sir, it is, without controversy, so meant. But
'twill be a troublesome labom- for him to enjoy both these
kingdoms with safety, the right heir to one of them liWng,
and living so virtuously ; especially, the people admiring the
bravery of his mind, and kmenting his injui-ies.
Vie. Who ? Philaster ?
Dion. Yes, whose father, we all know, was by our late king
of Calabria unrighteously deposed from his fruitful Sicily.
Myself drew some blood in those wars, which I would give
my hand to be washed from.
Cle. Sir, my ignorance in State policy will not let me know,
why, Philaster being heir to one of these kingdoms, the king
should suffer him to walk abroad with such free liberty.
Dion. Sir, it seems, your nature is more constant than to
enquire after State news. But the king, of late, made a
hazard of both the kingdoms, of Sicily and his own, with
offering but to imprison Philaster. At which the city was
in arms, not to be charmed down by any State order or pro-
clamation tiU they saw Philaster ride thi-ough the streets
pleased, and ^vithout a guard ; at which they threw their
hats, and their arms from them ; some to make bonfires, some
to drink, all for his deliverance : which, Arise men say, is the
cause the king labours to bring in the power of a foreign
nation to awe his own with.
Then enters Galatea, a discreet and modest lad}-
attending on the Princess, with Megra, a ladj' of
opposite nature, and another lady of weak character.
A sliort exchange of words by these, prehides the
entrance of the King and his train, with his daughter
Arethnsa, and with Pharamond, the Prince of Spain.
The King commends his daughter to the Prince of
Spain, and adds —
Last, noble son, (for so I now must call you)
What I have done thus puljhc, is not only
To add a comfort in particular
To you or me, but all ; and to confirm
The nobles and the gentry of these kingdoms
By oath to your succession, which shall be
Within this month at most.
Thra. This will be hardly done.
Clc. It must be ill done, if it be done.
Dion. When 'tis at best, 'twill be but half done, whilst
So brave a gentleman 's wrong'd and flung off.
Tina. I fear.
Clc. Who docs not ?
Dion. I fear not for myself, and yet I fear too.
Well, we .shaU see, we shall see : no more.
Pha. Kissing your white hand, mi.stress, I take leave
To thank your royal father ; and thus far
To be my own free trumpet. Understand,
Great King, and these your subjects, mine that must be,
(For so deserving you have spoke me, sir,
And so deserving I dare speak myself,)
To what a person, of what eminence,
Ripe expectation, of what fac\dtii'S
Slanners and virtues you would wed your kingdoms :
You in me have your wishes. I)h, this country !
By more than aU my hopes, I hold it happy ;
Happy, in their dear memories that have been
Kings gi'eat and good; happy in yours, that is;
And from you (as a chronicle to keep
Your noble name from eating age) do I
Opine it in myself most happy. Gentlemen,
Beheve me in a word, a Prince's word,
There shall be nothing to make up a kingdom
Slighty, and flourishing, defenced, feared.
Equal to be commanded and obeyed.
But through the travels of my life I '11 find it,
And tie it to this country. And I vow.
My reign shall be so easy to the subject.
That every man shall be his prince himself.
And his own law : yet I his prince, and law.
And dearest lady, to your dearest self
(Dear, in the choice of him, whose name and lustre
Must make you more and mightii'r) let me say,
You are the blessed'st living ; for, sweet princess,
Ynu sliall enjoy a man of men to be
Your servant; you shall make him yours, for whom
Great queens must die.
TO i.I>. 1»0.]
PLAYS.
217
Thra. Miraculous !
Cle. This speech calls him Spaniard, being nothing hut
A large inventory of his own commendations.
Enter Philaster.
Dion. I wonder what 's his price ? For, certainly,
He "11 sell himself, he has so praised his shape :
But here comes one more worthy those large speeches
Than the large speaker of them.
Let me be swaUow'd quick if I can find.
In all th' anatomy of yon man's vii-tues,
(Jne sinew sound enough to promise for him
He shall be constable.
By this sun, he '11 ne'er make king.
Unless it be of trifles, in my poor judgment.
Phi. Eight noble sir, as low as my obedience,
And with a heart as loyal as my knee,
I beg your favour.
King. Rise, you have it, sir.
Dion. Mark but the King, how pale he looks ! he fears.
Oh ! this same [ill-bom] conscience, how it jades us !
King. Speak your intents, sir.
Phi. Shall I speak them freely ?
Be still mj- royal sovereign.
King. As a subject,
We give you freedom.
Dion. Now it heats.
Phi. Then thus I turn
My language to you. Prince ; you, foreign mau.
Never stare, nor put on wonder, for you must
Endure me, and )-ou shall. This earth you trt-ud un
(A dowry, as you hope, with this fair princess,}
By my dead father (oh 1 I had a father,
"Whose memory I bow to) was not left
To j'our inheritance, and I up and li%'ing.
Having myself about me and my sword.
The souls of all my name, and memories.
These arms and some few friends, besides the gods.
To part so calmly with it, and sit still.
And say, I might have been. I tell thee, Pharamoud,
"V\Tien ihou art king, look, I be dead and rotten.
And my name ashes ; for hear me, Pharaniond,
This very ground thou goest on, this fat earth
My father's friends made fertile with their faiths,
Before that d;iy of shame, shall gape and swallow
Thee and thj- nation, like a hungry grave.
Into her hidden bowels : Prince, it shall ;
By Xemesis, it shall.
Pha. He 's mad beyond cure, mad.
Dion. Here is a fellow has some fire in 's veins :
Th' outlandish Prince looks Hke a tooth-drawer.
Phi. Sir, Prince of Popinjays, I '11 make it well appear
To you, I am not mad.
King. You do displease us :
You are too bold.
Phi. No, sir, I am too tame.
Too much a turtle, a thing bom without passion,
A faint shadow, that every drunken cloud sails over
And maketh nothing.
King. I do not fancy this.
Call our physicians ; sure, he is somewhat tainted.
Thra. I do not think, 'twill prove so.
Dion. H' as given him a general purge already, for all
the right he has ; and now he means to let him blood : be
constant, gentlemen; by these hilts, I'll run his hazard,
although I run my name out of the kingdom.
148
Cle. Peace ! we are one soul.
Pha. \Miat you have seen in me to stir offence
I cannot find ; unless it be this lady
Offer'd into mine arms, with the succession.
Which I must keep though it hath pleas' d your fury
To mutiny within you, without disputing
Your genealogies, or taking knowledge
WTiose branch you are. The king will leave it me,
And I dare make it mine. You have your anawc-r.
Phi. H thou wert sole inheritor to him
That made the world his, and couldst see no sun
Shine upon anything but thine ; were Pharamond
As truly vaUant as I feel him cold.
And ring'd among the choicest of his friends,
(Such as would blush to talk such serious follies.
Or hack such beUied commendations,)
And from this presence, ' spite of all these bugs,
You should hear further from me.
King. Sir, you wrong the Prince :
I gave you not this freedom to brave our best friend".
You do deserve our frown ; go to, be better tempered.
Phi. It must be, sir, when I am nobler used.
Gal. Ladies,
This would have been a pattern of succession,
Had he ne'er met this mischief. By my life,
He is the worthiest the true name of man
This day within my knowledge.
Meg. I cannot tell
\Miat you may call your knowledge, but th' other is
The man set in mine eye ; oh ! 'tis a prince
Of wax.
Gal. A dog it is.
King. Philaster, tell me
The injuries you aim at, in your riddles.
Phi. If you had my eyes, sir, and sufferance,
My griefs upon you, and my broken fortunes.
My wants great, and now nought but hopes and fears.
My wrongs would make ill riddles to he laugh' d at.
Dare you be stiU my king, and right me not ':
King. Give me your wrongs in private. [r/iry tckuper.
Phi. Take them then,
And ease me of a load would bow strong Atlas.
Cle. He dares not stand the shock.
Dion. I cannot blame him, there 's danger in "t. Evpr>-
man in this age has not a soul of crystal for all men to read
their actions through : men's hearts and faces are so far
asunder, that thev hold no intelligence. Do hut view yon
stranger weU, and vou shall see a fever through all h.s
braverv, and feel him shake like a true reo-eant : if he
give not back his crown again, upon the report of an elder
gun, I have no augury.
King. Go to :
Be more vourself, as you respect our favour;
You '11 stir us else : sir. I must have you know.
That vou 're, and sh.ill be, at our pleasure, what fa.shmn we
Wm put upon vou : smooth your brow, or by the .iKuU
Phi. I am dead, sir, you 're my fate : it was not I
Said I was wrong' d: I carry all about me
My weak stars led me to, aU my we.ik fortunes.
"Who d.ares in all this presence spe.ak (that is
But man of flesh and may be mortal) teU me,
I do not most entirely love this prince.
And honour his full virtues !
King.
Sure, he 's possest.
. from «.« pr««.«. Away from it. not now in present of th. kiug.
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Fhi. Yes, -n-ith my father's spirit : it 's here, Kiug 1
A dangerous spirit ; now he tells me, king,
I was a king's heir, bids me he a king ;
And whispers to me, these be all my subjects.
'Tis strange, he will not let me sleep, but dives
Into my fancy, and there gives me shapes
That kneel, and do me service, cry me king :
But I 'U suppress him, he 's a factious spirit,
And will imdo me : noble sir, your hand ;
I am your servant.
Kill!/. Away, I do not like this :
I '11 make you tamer, or I '11 dispossess you
Both of your life and spirit : for this time
I pardon your wild speech, without so much
As your imprisonment. [£x. Ki.ng, Pha., and Are
Dion. I thank you, sir, you dare not for the people.
Gal. Ladies, what think you now of this brave fellow ?
Meg. A pretty talking fellow, hot at hand ; but eye yon
stranger, is not he a fine complete gentleman?' Oh, these
strangers, I do affect them strangely : they do the rarest
home things, and please the fullest ! As I live, I could love
all the nation over and over for his sake.
Gal. Gods comfort your poor head-piece, lady : 'tis a weai
one, and had need of a night-cap.
Jjion. See, how his fancy labours ; has he not
Spoke home, and bravely i What a dangerous train
Did he give fire to 1 how he shook the King,
Made his soul melt within him, and his blood
Run into whey ; It stood upon his brow,
Like a cold winter dew.
m. Gentlemen,
You have no suit to me 'f I am no minion :
You stand, methinks, like men that would be courtiers.
If you could well be flatter'd at a price
Not to undo your childi-en, you 're all honest :
Go, get you home again, and make your country
A virtuous court ; to which your great ones may,
In their diseased age, retire, and live recluse.
Cle. How do you, worthy sir i
Thi. Well, very weU;
And so weD, that if the king please, I find,
I may live many years.
Dion. The king must please,
A\Tiilst we know what you are, and who you are,
Your wrongs and injuries : shrink not, worthy sir.
But add your father to you : in whose name,
AVe 'II waken all the gods, and conjure up
The rods of vengeance, the abused people ;
A\Tio, like to raging torrents, shall swell high.
And so begirt the dens of these male dragons,
That, through the strongest safety, they shall beg
For mercy at youi' sword's point.
f/>i. Friends, no more ;
Our ears may be corrupted : 'tis an age
We dare not trust our wiUs to : do you love me ?
Thra. Do we love heaven and honom- ?
F/ii. lly lord Dion,
You had a virtuous gentlewoman caU'd you father;
Is she }-et alive ?
Dion. Most honour'd sir, she is :
And for the penance but of an idle dream,
Has undertook a tedious pilgrimage.
i:>itcr a Lady.
PJii. Is it to me, or any of these gentlemen you come ?
Zadi/. To you, brave lord ; the Piincess would intreat your
present company.
Fhi. The Princess send for me 1 You are mistaken.
Lady. If you be called Philaster, 'tis to you.
Fhi. Kiss her fair hand, and say, I will attend her.
Dion. Do you know what you do ?
Phi. Yes, go to see a woman.
Cle. But do you weigh the danger you are in ?
Phi. Danger in a sweet face f
By Jupiter, I must not fear a woman.
Tkra. But are you sure, it was the Princess sent ?
It may be some foul train to catch your life.
Phi. I do not think it, gentlemen ; she 's noble ;
Her eye may shoot me dead, or those true red
And white friends in her face may steal my soul out .
There 's all the danger in 't : but be what may,
Her single name hath armed me. \^Ex. Phil.
Dion. Go on :
And be as truly happy as thou art fearless :
Come, gentlemen, let 's make our friends acquainted.
Lest the king prove false. [£x. Gentlemen.
Enter Aeethusa and a Lady.
Are. Comes he not ?
Lady. Madam ?
Are. Will Philaster come ?
Lady. Dear madam, you were wont
To credit me at first.
Are. But didst thou tell me so ?
I am forgetful, and my woman's strength
Is so o'ercharg'd with danger like to grow
About my marriage, that these under things
Dare not abide in such a troubled sea :
How look'd he, when he told thee he would come ?
Lady. Why, well.
Are. And not a little fearful ?
Lady. Fear, madam ;-" sure, he knows not « hat it is.
Are. You are all of his faction ; the whole court
Is bold in praise of him ; whUst I
May live neglected, and do noble things.
As fools in strife throw gold into the sea,
Drowu'd in the doing : but, I know, he fears.
Lady. Fear '( Madam, methought, his looks hid more of
love than fear.
Are. Of love ? to whom ? to you ?
Did you deliver those plain words I sent
With such a winning gesture, and quick look,
That you have caught him f
Lady. Madam, I mean you.
Are. Of love to me ? Alas ; thy ignorance
Lets thee not see the crosses of our births.
Xature, that loves not to be questioned why
She did or this, or that, but has her ends.
And knows she does well, never gave the world
Two things so opposite, so contrary.
As he and I am : if a bowl be of blood.
Drawn from this ann of mine, would poison thee,
A draught of his would cure thee. Of love to nie 'i
Lady. Madam, I think, I hear him.
Are. Bring him in :
You gods, that would not have your dooms withstood,
Wliose holy wisdoms at this time it is,
To make the passion of feeble maid
The way unto your justice, I obey.
Enter Philaster.
Lady. Here is my Lord Philaster.
Are. Oh! 'tis well:
Withdraw youi'self.
Phi. Madam, your messenger
TO A.n, 1609.]
JIade me Relieve, you wish'd to speak with me.
Are. 'Tis true, Philaster, but the words are such
I have to say, and do so ill beseem
The mouth of woman, that I wish them said.
And yet am loth to speak them. Have you known
That I have aught detracted from your worth ?
Have I in person wronged you ? or have set
lly baser instruments to throw disgrace
Upon your virtues ?
F/ii. Xever, madam, — youl
Are. \V hy then should }'ou, in such a public place.
Injure a princess, and a scandal lay
I'pon my fortunes, famed to be so great :
Calling a great part of my dowry in question ?
P/n. iladara, this truth, which I shall speak, wiU be
Foolish : but for your fair and virtuous self,
I could afford myself to have no right
To anything you wish'd.
Are. Philaster, know,
I must enjoy these kingdoms.
Phi. Madam, both?
Are. Both, or I die : by fate, I die, Philaster,
If I not calmly may enjoy them both.
Plii. I would do much to save that noble life :
Yet would be loth to have posterity
Find in our stories, that Philaster gave
His right unto a sceptre, and a crown.
To save a lady's longing.
Are. Nay, then hear :
I must, and will have them, and more.
Phi. What more?
Are. Or lose that little life the gods prepar'd
To trouble this poor piece of earth withal.
Phi. Madam, what more ?
Are. Turn then away thy face.
Phi. No.
Are. Do.
Phi. I can't endure it : turn away my face ?
I never yet saw enemy that look'd
So dreadfully, but that I thought myself
As great a basUisk as he ; or spake
So horribly, but that I thought my tongue
Bore thunder underneath, as much as his :
Xor beast that I could turn from : shall I then
Begin to fear sweet sounds ? a lady's voice,
"V^Tiom I do love ? Say, you would have my life ;
'WTiy, I will give it you ; for it is of me
A thing so loathed, and unto you that ask
Of so poor use, that I shall make no price.
If you entreat, I will immov'dh- hear.
Are. Yet for my sake a little bend thy looks.
Phi. I do.
Are. Then know I must have them — and thee.
Phi. And me?
Are. Thy love ; without which, all the land
Discover'd yet will serve me for no use
But to be buried in.
Phi. Is 't possible ?
Are. With it, it were too little to bestow
On thee : now, though thy breath doth strike me dead,
(^Vhich, know, it may) I have unript my breast.
Phi. Madam, you are too full of noble thoughts.
To lay a train for this contemned Ufe,
Which you may have for asking : to suspect
Were base, where I deserve no ill : love you !
By all my hopes, I do, above my Ufe :
But how this passion should proceed from you
PLAYS.
219
So violently, would amaze a man,
That would be jealous.
Are. Another soul, into my body shot.
Could not have fiUd me with more strength and spirit,
Than this thy breath : but spend not hasty time,
In seeking how I came thus: 'tis the gods.
The gods, that make me so ; and, sure, our love
Will be the nobler, and the better blest.
In that the secret justice of the gods
Is mingled with it. Let us leave and kiss ;
Lest some unwelcome guest should fall betwixt ns.
And we should part without it.
■P^i. 'Twin be ill,
I should abide here long.
■^re. 'Tis true, and worse.
You should come often : how shall we devise
To hold intelligence, that our true loves.
On any new occasion may agree,
Wliat path is best to tread ?
-PA'. I have a boy
Sent by the gods, I hope, to this intent,
Not yet seen in the court. Hunting the buck,
I found him sitting by a fountain-side.
Of which he borrow'd some to quench his tliirst,
And paid the njTnph again as much in tears ;
A garland lay by him, made by himself
Of many several flowers bred in the bay.
Stuck in that mystick order that the rareness
Delighted me : but ever when he turned
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, I asked him all his story ;
He told me, that his parents gentle died.
Leaving him to the mercy of the fields.
Which gave him roots ; and of the crystal springs,
WTiich did not stop their courses ; and the sun.
Which still, he thank' d him, yielded him his light;
Then took he up his garland, and did show
^V^lat every flower, as country people hold,
Did signify ; and how all, ordered thus,
Exprest his grief ; and to my thoughts did read
The prettiest lecture of his country art
That could be wished : so that, methought, I could
Have studied it. I gladly entertained him,
^^^lO was as glad to foUow ; and have got
The truest, lo\'ing'st, and the gentlest boy
That ever master kept : him will I send
To wait on you, and bear our hidden love.
Snter Lady.
Are. 'Tis well, no more.
Xrtrfy. Madam, the Prince is come to do his service.
Are. 'ttTiat wiU you do, Philaster, with yourself f
Phi. Why, thatwhich all the gods have appointed out
for me.
Are. Dear, hide thyself. Bring in the Pnncc.
Phi. Hide me from Pharamond !—
When thunder speaks, which is the voice of Jove,
Though I do reverence, yet I hide me not :
.And shall a stranger prince have leave to brag
Unto a foreign nation, that he made
Philaster hide himself ?
Are. He cannot know it.
Phi. Though it should sleep for ever to the worla.
It is a simple sin to hide myself.
Which will for ever on my conscience Ue.
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Are. Then, good I'hilastor, give him scope and way
In what he says ; for he is apt to speak
^\'hat you are loth to hear : for my sake do.
Fhi. I ■«il'-
Enter Ph.\ramoxd.
Tha. My princely mistress, as true lovers ouglit,
I come to kiss these fair hands ; and to shew,
In outward ceremonies, the dear love
Writ in my heart.
Fhi. If I shall have an answer no directlier,
I am gone.
Fha. To what would he have an answer ?
Are. To his claim unto the kingdom.
Pha. Sirrah, I forbare you before the king.
Flu. Good sir, do so stiU, I would not talk with you.
Pha. But now the time is fitter, do but offer
To make mention of your right to any kingdom,
Though it be scarce habitable,
pid. Good sir, let me go.
PJia. And by my sword,
Phi. Peace, Pharamoud ; if thou
Are. Leave us, Philaster.
Phi. I have done.
Pha. You are gone ; by heaven, I '11 fetch you back.
Phi. You shall not need.
Pha. 'What now ?
Phi. Know, Pharamond,
I loath to brawl with such a blast as thou,
"\^^lo art nought but a valiant voice : Dut if
Thou shalt provoke me further, men shall say.
Thou wert, and not lament it.
Pha. Do you slight
My greatness so, and in the chamber of the Princess ?
Phi. It is a place, to which, I must confess,
I owe a reverence : but were 't the chui'ch,
A)', at the altar, there 's no place so safe,
Where thou dar'st injure me, but I dare kill thee :
And for your greatness, know, sir, I can grasp
You, and your greatness thus, thus into nothing :
Give not a word, not a word back : farewell.
\_Eiit PllILASTEll.
A few words more of dialogue with Aretlmsa
add signs of a low brutish instinct to the cowardice
of Pharamond, and close the First Act of the play.
The Second Act opens with this scene between
Philaster and Dion's daughter Eujjhrasia, who follows
him disguised as a page, Bellario : —
Fhi. And thou shalt find her honourable, boy ;
Full of regard unto thy tender j-outh,
For thine own modesty ; and for my sake,
Apter to give than thou wilt be to ask.
Ay, or deserve.
Bel. Sir, you did take me up
"VNTien I was nothing ; and only yet am something
By being yours ; you trusted me unknown ;
And that which you are apt to construe now
A simple innocence in me, perhaps
Might have been craft, the cunning of a hoy
Hardened in lies and theft, yet ventur'd you
To part my miseries and me : for which,
I never can expect to serve a lady
That bears more honour in her breast than yon .
Phi. But, hoy, it will prefer thee ; thou art young.
And bear'st a childish overflowing love
To them that clap thy cheeks, and speak thee fair yet :
But when thy judgment comes to rule those passions.
Thou wilt remember best those careful friends
That plac'd thee in the noblest way of life.
She is a princess I prefer thee to.
Bel. In that small time that I have seen the world,
I never knew a man hasty to part with
A servant he thought trusty ; I remember,
Mv father would prefer the boys he kept
To greater men than he : but did it not
Till they were grown too saucy for himself.
Fhi. Why, gentle boy, I find no fault at all
In thy behaviour.
Bel. Sir, if I have made
A fault of ignorance, instruct my youth ;
I shall be willing, if not apt, to leara ;
Age and experience will adorn my mind
With larger knowledge : and if I have done
A wilful fault, think me not past all hope
For once. What master holds so strict a hand
Over his boy, that he will part with him
Without one warning ? let nie be connected.
To break my stubboniness, if it be so,
Rather than turn me off, and I shall mend.
Fhi. Thy love doth plead so prettily to stay.
That, trust me, I could weep to part with thee.
.\la3 ! I do not turn thee off ; thou know'st.
It is ray business that doth call thee hence ;
And when thou art with her thou dwell' st « ith me :
Think so, and 'tis so ; and when time is full
That thou hast well discharg'd this heavy trust
Laid on so weak a one, I will again
With joy receive thee ; as I live, I will.
Nay, weep not, gentle boy ; 'tis more than time
Thou didst attend the Princess.
Bel. I am gone ;
But since I am to part with you, my lord.
And none knows whether I shall live to do
More service for you ; take this little prayer :^
Heaven bless your loves, your fights, all your designs !
May sick men, if they have your wish, be well ;
And heaven hate those you curse, though I be one ! [£ri<.
Phi. The love of boys unto their lords is strange,
I have read wonders of it ; yet this boy
For my sake (if a man may judge by looks
And speech) would out-do story. I maj- see
A day to pay him for his loyalty. [&</ Phil.
Tlie next scene shows the base nature of Phara-
mond in contact with the honesty of Galatea, wliom
he offends, and with the frail spu'it of Megra, whom
lie pleases. Then
Enter Arethusa and a Lady.
Are. Where's the boy ?
Ladij. Within, madam.
Are. Gave you him gold to buy him clothes ?
Lady, I did.
Are. And has he done 't ?
Lady. Yes, madam.
Are. 'Tis a pretty sad-talking boy, is it not ?
Ask'd you his name ?
Lady. Ko, madam.
Galatea enters with news of her knowledge that
Pharamond has made an appoiutmeut to meet Megra.
TO A.n. 1609.]
PLAYS.
221
Slie is dismissed to the presence, leaving Aretliusa I
to act on hei- infoi-matiou, for the breaking of the '
Spanish match. Then
Are. Where's the boy ?
Ladi/. Here, madam.
£nter Bellahio.
Are. Sir, vou are sad to change your service, is't not so ?
Sel. Madam, I have not changed ; I wait on vou.
To do him service.
Are. Thou di.sclaim'st in me:
Tell me thy name.
Be/. Bellario.
Are. Thou can'st sing and play ?
St/. If grief will give me leave, madam, I can.
Are. Alas ! WTiat kind of grief can thy years know ?
Had' St thou a curst master when thou went'st to school ?
Thou art not capable of other grief ;
Thy brows and cheeks are smooth as waters be.
When no breath troubles them ; believe me, boy,
Care seeks out wrinkled brows and hollow eyes.
And builds himself caves, to abide in them.
Come, sir, tell me truly, does your lord love me ?
Bel. Love, madam ? I know not what it is.
Are. Can'st thou know grief, and never yet knew'st love?
Tliou are deceived, boy ; does he speak of me
As if he wished me weU ?
Btl. If it be love.
To forget all respect of his own friends
In thinking on your face ; if it be love,
To sit cross-ai-m'd, and sigh away the day,
Mingled with starts, crj-ing your name as loud
And hastily as men i' th' the streets do fire ;
If it be love, to weep himself away
AMien he but hears of any lady dead
Oi' kill'd, because it might have been your chance;
If, when he goes to rest (which will not be),
'Twi.xt ev'ry prayer he says he names you once.
As others drop a bead, be to be in love ;
Then, madam, I dare swear he loves you.
Are. Oh!
You are a cunning boy, and taught to lie
For your lord's credit ; but thou know'st a lie
That bears this sound, is welcomer to me
Than any truth that says he loves me not.
Lead the way, boy : do you attend me too ;
'Tis thy lord's business hastes me thus ; away.
The act ends with the breaking up of the court at
evening, after general obser\'ation of the beauty of
Bellario, — "The princess has a Hylas, an Adonis;"
and Arethusa's bringing the king himself to Phara-
niond's lodging, with the result of open shame to
Pharamond and Megi-a. Megi-a retoi-ts upon Are-
tliusa, who has grown, she says, enamoured of a boy
now in her service.
The Third Act opens in dialogue between Dion,
Cleremont, and Thrasiline, with current belief of this
tale, and growing desire to recover the throne for
Philaster from the king and his dishonest daughter.
Persuaded in their own minds of the story against
Arethusa, they resolve to assert more direct evidence
than repoi-t for the persuading of Philaster, whom
they wish to stir to the seizing of his lawful crown.
He enters, they do as they puri^sed, meet liis passion
of disbelief by putting certaintv for suspicion, and
so leave him m a wUd tumult of jealousy. It is a
tragic element in this scene that Dion unwittingly
is foremost m an act that strikes at the heart of
his o^vn child. Upon the full fuiy of Philaster's
wrath, enters Bellario.
" '• See, sec, you gods,
£nter Belurio.
He walks still ; and the face, you let him wear
WTien he was innoceni, is still the same.
Not blasted ; is this justice f Do you mean
To entrap mortality, thai you allow
Treason so smooth a brow ? I cannot now
Think he is guilty.
Sel- Health to you, my lord !
The Princess doth commend her love, her life.
And this unto you.
I'hi. ' Oh, Bellario,
Sow I perceive she loves me, she does show it
In loving thee, my boy ; she has made thee brave.
Bel. My lord, she has attired me past my wish.
Past my desert ; more fit for her attendant,
Though far unfit for me who do attend.
J'lii. Thou art grown courtly, boy. Oh, let all women
That love black deeds, learn to dissemble here I
Here, by this paper she does write to me,
.\s if her heart were mines of adamant
To all the world besides, but unto me
A maiden-snow that melted with my looks.
Tell me, my boy, how doth the Princess use thee ?
For I shall guess her love to me by that.
Bel. Scarce like her servant, but as if I were
Something allied to her ; or had preserved
Her life three times by my fidelity ;
As mothers fond do use their only sons ;
As I 'd use one, that 's left unto my trust,
For whom my life should pay if he met harm.
So she does use me.
I'hi. Why, this is wondrous well !
But what kind linguage does she feed thee with ?
Bel. Why, she does tell me she will trust my youth
With all her loving secrets ; and does call me
Her pretty servant, bids me weep no more
For leaving you ; she '11 see my serinces
Regarded ; and such words of that soft strain.
That I am nearer weeping when she ends
Than ere she spake.
J>hi. This is much better still !
Bel. Are vou not ill, my lord ?
J>hi. HI? Xo, Bellaiio.
Bel. Methinks, your words
Fall not from off your tongue so evenly,
Xor is there in your looks that quietness.
That I was wont to see.
F/ii. Thou art deceived, boy.
And she strokes thy head ?
Bel. Yes.
Phi. And does clap thy checks ?
Bel. She does, my lord.
Phi. And she does kiss thee, boy f ha !
Bel. How, my lord ?
Pf,i_ She kisses thee ?
Bel. Xever, my lord, by Heaven.
Phi. Come, come, I know she does.
Bel. Ko, by my life.
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.n. ic:8
The passion of jealousy becomes more manifest in
the next words. Belhirio understands them then,
and says,
You are abus'd,
Some villain has ahus'd you ; I do see
"Whereto you tend ; fall rocks upon his head
That put this to you ! Tis some subtle train,
To bring that noble frame of yours to nought.
Philaster's passion still shapes all his words.
Bellario declares the Princess innocent, and adds
that were she guilty.
The points of swords, tortures, nor bulls of brass.
Should draw it from me.
Phi. Then it is no time
To dally with thee ; I will take thy life.
For I do hate thee ; I could cur.se thee now.
Bel. If you do hate, you could not curse me worse ;
The gods have not a punishment in store
Greater for me, than is your hate.
Phi. Fie, fie !
So young and so dissembling I Tell me when
And where thou didst enjoy her, or let plagues
Fall on me straight, if I destroy thee not 1
Bel. Heav'n knows, I never did ; and when I lie
To save my life, may I live long and loathed 1
Hew me asunder, and, whilst I can think,
I 'U love those pieces you have cut away
Better than those that grow ; and kiss those Umbs,
Because you made 'em so.
Phi. Fear'st thou not death?
Can boys contemn that ?
Bel. Oh, what boy is he
Can be content to live to be a man.
That sees the best of men thus passionate,
Thus, without reason ?
Phi. Oh, but thou dost not know
What 'tis to die.
Bel. Yes, I do know, my lord ;
'Tis less than to be bom ; a lasting sleep,
A quiet resting from all jealousy ;
A thing we all pursue ; I know, besides.
It is but giving over of a game
That must be lost.
Phi. But there are pains, false boy.
For perjur'd souls ; think but on these, and then
Thy heart will melt, and thou wilt utter all.
Bel. May they fall all upon me whilst I live,
If I be perjur'd, or have ever thought
Of that you charge me with ! If I be false.
Rend me to suffer in those punishments
You speak of ; kill me.
Phi. Oh, what should I do ?
Why, who can but believe him ? He does swear
So earnestly, that if it were not true
The gods would not endure him. Rise, Bellario ;
Thy protestations are so deep, and thou
Dost look so truly when thou utterest them.
That though I know them false, as were my hopes,
I cannot urge thee further. But thou wert
To blame to injure me, for I must love
Thy honest looks, and take no vengeance on
Thy tender youth : a love from me to thee
Is firm whate'er thou dost ; it troubles me
That I have caU'd the blood out of thy cheeks.
That did so well become thee ; but, good boy.
Let me not see thee more ; something is done.
That will distract me, that will make me mad,
If I behold thee ; if thou tender' st me.
Let me not see thee.
Bel. I will fly as far
.\s there is morning, ere I give distaste
To that most honoured mind. But through these tears,
Shed at my hopeless parting, I can see
A world of treason practised upon you,
.\nd her, and me. Farewell, for evermore !
If you shall hear that sorrow struck me dead.
And after find me loyal, let there be
A tear shed from you in my memory,
.A.nd I shall rest at peace. \_Exit Bel.
Phi. Blessing be with thee,
Whatever thou deserv'st ! Oh, where sh-iU I
tro bathe this body ? Nature, too unkind,
That made no medicine for a troubled mind !
\_Exit Philaster.
Enter Arethvsa.
Are. I marvel, my boy comes not back again.
But that, I know, my love will question him
< )ver and over ; how I slept, waked, talked ;
How I remembered him when his dear name
Was last spoke, and how, when I sighed, wept, sung,
.Vnd ten thousand such, I should be angry at his stay.
Enter King.
King. What, at your meditations ? "WTio attends you ?
Are. None but my single self, I need no guard ;
I do no wrong, nor fear none.
King. Tell me : have you not a boy ?
Are. Yes, sir.
King. What kind of boy ?
Are. A page, a waiting boy.
King. A handsome boy ?
Are. I think, he be not ugly ;
Well quaUfied and dutiful I know him ;
I took him not for beauty.
King. He speaks, and sings, and plays ?
Are. Yes, sii'.
King. About eighteen ?
Are. I never asked his age.
King. Is he full of service ?
Are. By your pardon, why do you ask ?
King. Put him away.
The scandal raised by Megra now comes home
to Arethusa through her father. While she is left
alone in gi-ief at this, Pliila.ster enters.
Phi. Peace to your fairest thoughts, my deartist mistress !
Are. Oh, my dearest servant, I have a war within me.
Phi. He must be more than man, that makes these crystals
Run into rivers ; sweetest fair, the cause '■"
-Vnd as I am your slave, tied to your goodness,
Vour creature made again from what I was,
.\nd newly spirited, I '11 right your honours.
Are. Oh, my best love, that boy I
Phi. "Wliat boy ?
Are. The pretty boy you gave me,
Phi.
Are.
Phi.
Are.
Phi.
"VMiat of him ?
Must be no more mine.
They are jealous of him.
Why?
Jealous, who ?
TO A D 1609.]
PLAYS.
i:23
Are. The king.
J'hi. Oh, my fortune '.
Then 'tis no idle jealousy. Let him go.
Are. Oh, cruel,
Are you hard-hearted too ? 'WTio shall now tell you,
How much I lov'd you ? Who shall swear it to you.
And weep the tears I send ? AVho shall now briuy you
Letters, rings, bracelets, lose his health in service ':
AVake tedious nights in stories of your praise Y
A\'ho now shall sing your crying elegies ?
And strike a sad soul into senseless pictures.
And make them mourn ':^ WTio shall take up his lute.
And touch it, tUl he crown a silent sleep
Upon my eyelid, making me dream and cry.
Oh, my dear, dear Philaster.
Fhi. Oh, my heart 1
"Would he had broken thee that made thee know
This lady was not loyal '. Mistress, forget
The boy, I'U get thee a far better one.
Are. Oh, never, never, such a boy again,
As my Bellario.
Fhi. 'Tis but your fond afiection.
Are. With thee, my boy, farewell for ever
All secrecy in servants : farewell faith,
And all desire to do well for itself :
Let all that shall succeed thee, for thy wrongs,
Sell and betray chaste love !
Fhi. And all this passion for a boy ?
Are. He was j'our boy, you put him to me, and
The loss of such must have a mourning for.
Fhi. thou forgetful woman '.
Are. How, my lord ;■'
Fhi. False Arethusa !
Hast thou a medicine to restore my mts
When I have lost 'em ? If not, leave to talk,
And to do thus.
Are. Do what, sir ? Would you sleep ?
Fhi. For ever, Arethusa. Oh, you gods,
Give me a worthy patience ! Have I stood
Naked, alone, the shock of many fortunes 'f
Have I seen mischiefs numberless, and mighty,
Grow like a sea upon me 'f Have I taken
Danger as stern as death into my bosom.
And laughed upon it, made it but a mirth.
And flung it by ? Do I live now like him.
Under this tyrant king, that languishing
Hears his sad bell and sees his mourners '^ Do I
Bear all this bravely, and must sink at length
Under a woman's falsehood ? Oh, that boy,
The cursed boy 1
Are. jS'ay, then I am betrayed,
I feel the plot cast for my overthrow ;
Oh, I am wretched.
Fhi. Now you may take that little right I have
To this poor kingdom ; give it to your joy,
For I have no joy in it. Some far place.
Where never womankind durst set her foot
For bursting with her poisons, must I seek,
And live to curse you ;
There dig a cave, and preach to birds and beasts
What woman is, and help to save them from you.
How heaven is in your eyes, but in your hearts
Jlore hell than hell has ; how your tongues, like scorp'ons.
Both heal and poison ; how your thoughts are woven
With thousand changes in one subtle web,
And worn so by you. How that foolish man
That reads the story of a woman's face.
And dies beheving it, is lost for ever.
How all the good you have is but a shadow,
1' th' morning with you and at night behind you.
Past and forgotten. How your vows are frosta.
Passed for a night, and with the next sun gone.
How you are, being taken altogether,
A mere confusion, and so dead a chaos,
That love cannot distinguish. These sad texts,
Till my last hour, I am bound to utter of you.
So farewell all my woe, all my deUght ! [Exit Phil.
Are. Be merciful, ye gods, and strike me dead 1
What way have I deserved this 'r Hake my breast
Transparent as pure crystal, tliat the world.
Jealous of me, may see the foulest thought
My heart holds. Where shall a woman turn her eyes
To find out constancy ? Save me, how black,
Enter Bellakio.
And guOtUy, raethinks, that boy looks now ';•
thou dissembler, that, before thou spak'st,
Wert in thy cradle false ! sent to make lies
And betray innocents ; thy lord and thou
May glory in the ashes of a maid
Fooled by her passion ; but the conquest is
Nothing so great as wicked. Fly away
Let my command force thee to that, which shame
Would do without it. If thou understood'st
The loathed oiBce thou hast undergone,
VThy, thou would' st hide thee under heaps of hills,
Lest men should dig and tind thee.
Bel. Oh, what god.
Angry with men, hath sent this strange disease
Into the noblest minds Y Madam, this grief
You add unto me is no more than di-ops
To seas, for which they are not seen to swell ;
My lord hath struck his anger through my heart.
And let out all the hope of future joys :
You need not bid me fly, I came to part,
To take my late-st leave ; farewell for ever.
1 durst not run away, in honesty.
From such a lady, Uke a boy that stole
Or made some grievous fault ; the power of gods
Assist you in your sufferings 1 hasty time
Reveal the truth to your abused lord
And mine, that he may know your worth '. whilst I
Go seek out some forgotten place to die. [Exit Bel.
Are. Peace guide thee! thou hast overthrown me once;
Yet if I had another Troy to lose.
Thou, or another villain with thy looks,
Might talk me out of it, and send me naked,
My hair dishevell'd, through the fiery streets.
Enter a Lady.
Lady. Madam, the k-ing would hunt, and calls for you
With earnestness.
j^yg_ I am in time to himt 1
Diana, if thou canst rage with a maid.
As with a man, let me discover thee
Bathing, and turn me to a fearful hind.
That I may die pursued by cruel hounds :
And have my storj- written in my wounds. [£r<-«ii(.
So the Third Act ends, and the Fourth opens with
the huntsmen in the wood. The king is then with
the Princess Ai-ethnsa, Pharamond, and the chief
people of the court, and tlie kinsr asks Arethus;i,
"Is your boy turned away!" She answers hini,
"You did coinmaud it, sir; iind I obeyeil you.
224
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
After a dialogue, associated with the hunting scene,
that shows tlie scandal of a court, the wood is left to
its solitude, and then enters Phiiaster.
Fhi. Oh, that I had heen nourished in these woods
With milk of goats, and acorns, and not known
The right of crowns, nor the dissemhling trains
Of women's looks ; but digged myself a cave.
Where I, my fire, my cattle, and my bed,
Jlight have been shut together in one shed ;
And then have taken me some mountain girl.
Beaten with winds, chaste as the harden' d rocks
Whereon she dwells ; that might liave strew'd my bed
With leaves, and reeds, and with the skins of beasts.
Our neighbours, and have borne at her big breasts
My large coarse issue. This had been a life
Free from vexation.
Enter Bellakio.
Bel. wicked men !
An innocent may walk safe among beasts,
Notliing assaults me here. See, my grieved loi'd
Sits as his soul were searching out the way
To leave his body. Pardon me, that must
Break through thy last command ; for I must speak ;
You, that are grieved, can pity ; hear, my lord.
Phi. Is there a creature yet so miserable.
That I can pity ?
Bel. Oh, my noble lord.
View my strange fortune, and bestow on me,
According to your bounty (if my service
Can merit nothing), so much as may serve
To keep that little piece I hold of life
From cold and hunger.
Phi. Is it thou i Be gone ;
Go, sell those misbeseeming clothes thou wear'st.
And feed thyself with them.
Bel. Alas ! my lord, I can get nothing for them :
The silly country people think 'tis treason
To touch such gay things.
Phi. Now, by my Ufe, this is
Unkindly done, to vo.x me with thy sight,
Thou 'rt fallen again to thy dissembling trade :
How shouldst thou think to cozen me again 'i
Kcmains there yet a plague untried for me r"
Even so thou wept'st, and looked' st, and spoke' st, when first
I took thee up ; curse on the time ! If thy
Commanding tears can work on any other.
Use thy old art, I '11 not betray it. Which
Way wilt thou take, that I may shun thee ; for
Thine eyes are poison unto mine ; and I
Am loth to grow in rage. This way, or that way ?
Bel. Any will serve. But I will choose to have
That path in chase that leads unto my grave.
l^Exeiint Phil, and Bel. serrraUi/.
Then comes Dion, who asks woodmen whether
they have seen a lady ride by on a sable horse
studded with stars of white, tlie King enters in
passion. It is his daugliter wlio is lost.
King. I wish to see my daughter, show her me ;
I do command you all, as you are subjects.
To show her me. What, am I not your king ?
If, ay ; then am I not to be obeyed ?
Dion. Yes, if you command things possible and honest.
King. Things possible and honest ! Hear me, thou.
Thou traitor, that dar'st confine thy king to things
Possible and honest ! show her me,
Or let me perish, if I cover not
All Sicily with blood.
Dion. Indeed, I cannot, unless you tell me where she is.
King. Y'ou have betrayed me, you have let me lose
The jewel of my life ; go, bring her me.
And set her here before me ; 'tis the King
Will have it so, whose breath can still the winds,
Uncloud the sun, charm down the swelling sea.
And stop the floods of heaven ; speak,- can it not ?
Dion. No.
King. No ! cannot the breath of kings do this ?
Dion. No; nor smell sweet itself, if once the lungs
Be but corrupted.
King. Is it so ? Take heed !
Dion. Sir, take you heed ; how you do dare the pow'rs
That must be just.
King. Alas ! what are we kings ?
AVhy do you, gods, place us above the rest ;
To be served, flattered, and adored, tiU we
Believe we hold witliin our hands your thunder ;
And when we come to try the power we have,
There 's not a leaf shakes at our thrcatenings.
I have sinned, 'tis true, and here stand to be punished ;
Yet would not thus be punished ; let me choose
My way, and lay it on.
Dion. He articles with the gods; 'would, somebody diaw
bonds, for the performance of covenants betwixt them !
Etiter Phakamond, Galatea, and Megka.
King. What, is she found ?
Pha. No, we have ta'cn her horse.
He galloped empty by : there is some treason ;
You, Galatea, rode with her into the wood ; why left you
her?
Gal. She did command me.
King. Command 1 you should not.
Gal. 'Twould ill become my fortunes and my birth
To disobey the daughter of my king.
King. You 'ro all cunning to obey us for our hurt.
But 1 will have her.
All separate for search, and then entere the lost
Arethusa.
Are. Where am I now P Feet, find me out a way,
Without the counsel of my troubled head ;
I 'U foUow you boldly about these woods.
O'er mountains, through brambles, pits, and floods ;
Heaven, I hope, will ease me. I am sick.
Enter Bellauio.
Bel. Yonder 's my lady ; Heav'n knows, I want nothing.
Because I do not wish to live, yet I
Will try her charity. Oh, hear, you that have plenty,
And from that flowing store, drop some on dry ground. See
The lively red is gone to guard her heart ;
I fear she faints. IVIadam, look up ; she breathes not ;
Open once more those i-osy twins, and send
Unto my lord, your latest farewell ! Oh, she stirs :
How is it, madam f Sijeak comfort.
Are. 'Tis not gently done,
To put me in a miserable life,
And hold me there ; I pray thee, let me go,
I shall do best without thee ; I am well.
Enter Puilasteh.
Phi. I am to blame to be so much in rage,
I '11 tell her coolly, when and where I heard
TU A.I). 1609.1
PLAYS.
5-2,
20
This killing truth. I will be temperate
In speaking, and as just in hearing it.
Oh, monstrous 1 tempt me not, ye gods! good gods,
Tempt not a frail man ! What 's he that has a heart,
But he must ease it here ?
Bel. My lord, help the princess.
Are. I am well : — forbear.
P/ii. Let me love lightning, let me be embraced
And kissed by scorpions, or adore the eyes
Of basilisks, rather than trust the tongues
Of hell-bred women ! Some good gods look down.
And shrink these veins up ; stick me here a stone,
Lasting to ages in the memory
(_)f this damn'd act. Hoar me, you wicked ones I
You have put hills of fire into this breast.
Not to be quenched with tears ; for which may guilt
Sit on your bosoms ! at your meals, and beds.
Despair await you ! What, before my face ?
Poison of asps between your lips ! diseases
Be your best issues ! Nature make a curse.
And throw it on you !
Arc. Dear Philaster. leave
To be enraged, and hear me.
P/ii. I have done;
Forgive my passion. Not the calmed sea.
When iEolus locks up his windy brood.
Is less disturbed than I ; I '11 make you know it.
Dear Arethusa, do but take this sword,
.And search how temperate a heait I have ;
Then you, and this your boy, Wilt thou, Bellario r
I prithee, kill me ; thou art poor, and may'st
Noui'ish ambitious thoughts : when I am dead.
This way were freer. Am I raging now r
If I were mad, I should desire to live.
Sirs, feel my pulse; wherever have you known
A man in a more equal tune to die ':
Del. Alas, my lord, your pulse keeps madman's time,
So does j-Qur tongue.
riii. You will not kill me thtn ':
Are. Kill you ;■'
Bel. Not for a world.
Fill. I blame not thee,
Ticllario ; thou hast done but that, which gods
Would have trtmsformed themselves to do : begone.
Leave me without reply; this is the last
I )f all our meeting. Kill me with this sword ;
He wise, or worse \\*iU follow : we are tw(»
Earth cannot bear at once. Resolve to do or sutler.
Are. If my fortunes be so good to let me fall
Cjion thy hand, I shall have peace in death.
Vet tell me this, will there be no slanders,
No jealousies in the other world, no ill there ?
Phi. No.
Are. Show rac then the way.
Phi. Then guide
My feeble hand, you that have power to do it.
For I must perform a piece of justice. If your youth
Have any way offended Heaven, let prayers
Short and effectual reconcile you to it.
Are. I am prepar'd.
Enter a Country Fellow.
Cou». I'll sec the king if he be in the forest. I have
hunted him these two hours ; if I should come home and not
see him, my sisters would laugh at me. I can see nothmg
but people better horsed than m>self. that outride me; I can
hear nothing but shouting. TIk'sc kings had need of good
149
brains, this whooping is able to put a mean man out of his
mts. There 's a courtier with his sword drawn ; by this
hand, upon a woman, I think.
Phi. Are you at peace ':■
Arc. With heavens and earth.
Phi. May they divide thy soul and body \
Conn. Hold, dastard! strike a woman ! thou'rt a craven, I
warrant thee ; thou would'st be loth to play h;ilf a dozen of
venies at wasters ' with a good fellow for a broken head.
Phi. Leave us, good friend.
Are. What ill-bred man art thou, to intrude thyself
Upon our private sports, our recreations 'r
Coun. Gad 'uds me, I understand you not ; but, I know, the
rogue has hurt you.
Phi. Pursue thine own atfaii-s : it will be ill
To multiply blood upon my head; which thou wilt force
me to.
Coun. I know not your rhetoric ; but I can lay it on, if
you touch the woman. \_Theij f<jht.
Phi. Slave, take what thou dcserv'st.
Are. Heav'ns guard my lord !
Conn. Oh, do you breathe •'
Phi. I hear the tread of people : I am hurt.
The gods take part against me, could this boor
Have held me thus else 't I must shift for life,
Though I do loath it. I would find a course
To lose it rather by my will, than force. \_Exit Phi.
Conn. I cannot follow the rogue. I pray thee, wench, come
and kiss me now.
Enter Ph.^uamoxii, Diox, Clekemoxt, Tiiuasilixe, and
Woodmen.
Phri. What art thou ?
Coun. Almost killed I am for a foolish woman; a knave
has hurt her.
Phil. The princess, gentlemen ! AATiere 's the wound,
madam ':
Is it dangerous ':
Arc. He has not hurt me.
Coun. I' faith, she lies ; h' as hm't her in the bi-east, look
else.
Pha. sacred spring of innocent blood !
Bion. 'Tis above wonder ! Who should dare do this?
Are. I felt it not.
Pha. Speak. Wllain : who has hm-t the princess I-"
Coun. Is it the princess 'f
Dion. Ay.
Conn. Then I have seen something yet.
Pha. But who has hwit her f
Coun. I told you, a rogue; I ne'er saw him before. I.
Pha. Madam, who did it ?
_^,.(,_ Some dishonest wTctch ;
Alas ! I knon- him not, and do forgive him.
Coun. He's hurt too, he cannot go far; I made my father's:
old fox fly about his ears.
Pha. How will you have me kill him 'f
Are. Not at aU,
'Tis some distracted fellow.
pj^^i By this hand,
I '11 leave ne'er a piece of him bigger than a nut.
And bring him all in my hat to you.
Are. Nav, good sir ;
If you do take him, bring him quick-' to \w.
And I will study for a punishment.
Great as his fault.
1 Vmcs at «a.*rs, flss.iults in cudpel jflny.
2 Quiet, alive.
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[a.u. 1G08
I will.
Fha.
_^re. Jj'it swear.
P/ia. By all my love, I will : woodmen, conduct the princess
to the king, and bear that womided fellow to di-essing : come,
gentlemen, we '11 follow the chase close.
[Hxit Ake., Pha., Dion, Cle., Thk.^., and 1
Woodman.
Coim. I pray you, friend, let me see the king.
2 JFood. That you shall, and receive thanks.
Conn. If I get clear of this, I '11 go see no more gay sights.
\_E.va<>it.
Enter Bellauio.
Bii. A heaviness near death sits on my brow,
And I must sleep : bear me, thou gentle bank,
For ever if thou wilt : you sweet ones all,
Let me uaworthy press you : I could wish
I rather were a corse strew'd o'er with you,
Than quick above you. Dulness shuts mine eyes,
And I am giddy. Oh, that I could take
Ho soimd a slet'p that I might n(,-ver wake !
Enter Philasteu.
riii. I have done ill, my censcience calls me false.
To strike at her that would not strike at me.
When I did fight, methought, I heard her pray
The gods to guard me. She may be abused,
And I a loathed villain : if she be,
She will conceal who hurt her ; he has wounds,
And cannot follow, neither knows he me.
Wlio 's this ? Bellario .sleeping ? If thou beest
Guilty, there is no justice that thy sleep [O-y within.
Should be so sound; and mine, whom thou hast wrong' d,
So broken. Hark 1 I am pursued. You gods,
1 'U take this offer' d means of my escape :
They have no mark to know me but my wounds.
If she be true ; if false, let mischief light
( )n all the world at once ! Sword, print my wounds
Upon this sleeping boy : I ha' none, I think.
Are mortal, nor would I lay greater on thee. [IFoii/irls him.
Bii. Oh 1 death, I hope, is come ; blest be the hand !
It meant nie well ; again, for pity's sake.
m. I have caught myself, [Vhi. falh.
The loss of blood hath stayed my Hight. Here, here,
Is he that struck thee : take thy full revenge.
Use me, as I did mean thee, worse than death :
I '11 teach thee to revenge : this luckless hand
Wounded the princess ; tell my followers
Thou didst receive these hurts in staying me.
And I will second thee : get a reward.
Bvl. Fly, fly, my lord, and save yourself.
Phi. How's this?
Wouldst thou, I should be safe ?
Bel. Else it were vain
For me to live. These little wounds, I have.
Ha' not bled much, reach me that noble hand,
I '11 help to cover you.
Phi. Art thou true to me ?
Bel. Or let me perish loathed ! Come, my good lord,
< 'icep in amongst those bushes : who does know.
But that the gods may save your much-loved breath ?
Phi. Then I shall die for gTief, if not for this.
That I have wounded thee : what wilt thou do ?
Bel. Shift for myself well : peace ! I hear them come.
Within. Follow, follow, follow ; that way they went.
Bel. With my own wounds I '11 bloody my own sword.
I need not counterfeit to fall ; heav'n knows.
That I can stand no longer.
Enter Phauamoxu, Dion, Clekemont, and Thkasilixe.
Pha. To this place we have track'd him by his blood.
Cle. Yonder, my lord, creeps one away.
Dion. Stay, sir-, what are you?
Bel. A wretched creature wounded in these woods
By beasts ; relieve me, if your names be men.
Or I shall perish.
Dion. This is he, my lord.
Upon my soul, that hurt her ; 'tis the boy.
That wicked boy that served hci-.
Pha. thou damned
In thy creation ! What cause could' st thou sh:ipe
To hurt the princess ?
Bel. Then I am betray'd.
Dion. Betray'd ; no, apprehended.
Bel. I confess.
Urge it no more, that, big with evil thoughts,
I set upon her, and did make my aim
Her death. Feu- charity, let fall at once
The punishment you mean, and do not load
This weary flesh with tortures.
Phil. I will know
Who liircd thee to this deed ?
Bel. Mine own revenge.
Pha. Revenge, for what ?
Bel. It pleased her to receive
He as her page, and, when my fortunes ebbed.
That men strid o'er them careless, she did shower
Her welcome graces on me, and did swell
My fortunes 'tiU they overflow" d their banks,
Threat'ning the men that crost 'em ; when, as swift
As storms arise at sea, she turned her eyes
To burning suns upon me, and did dry
The streams she had bt'stowcd ; leaving me worse,
And more contemn' d than other little brooks.
Because I had been great : in sliort, I knew
I could not live, and therefore did desire
To die revenged.
Pha. If tortures can be found
Long as thy natural life, resolve to feel
The utmost rigour. [Philasteu ereeps out of a bitsh.
Cle. Help to lead him hence.
Phi. Turn back, you ravishers of innocence,
Know ye the price of that }-ou bear away
So rudely ?
Pha. Who's that?
Dion. 'Tis the Lord Philaster.
Phi. 'Tis not the treasure of all kings in one,
The wealth of Tagus, nor the rocks of peail
That pave the court of Neptune, can weigh down
That «rtue. It was I that hurt the princess.
Place me, some god, upon a pj-ramis
Higher than hills of earth, and lend a voice
Loud as your thunder to me, that from thence
I may discourse to all the under- world
Th(^ worth that dwells in ^lim.
Pha. How's this?
Bel. My lord, some man
Weary of life, that would be glad to die.
Phi. Leave these untimely courtesies, Bellario.
Bel. Alas ! he 's mad ; come, will you lead me on ?
Plii. By all the oaths that men ought most to keep,
And gods do punish most when men do break,
He touched her not. Take heed, Bellario,
How thou dost drown the viitues thou hast shown.
With perjury. By all that 's good 'twas I :
You know, she stood betwixt me and my right.
TO A.D. 1609.;
PLAYS.
rhi'. Thy own tongue be thy judge.
Cle. It was Philastcr !
Lion. Is 't not a brave boy?
Well, sirs, I fear me, we are all deceived.
Fhi. Have I no friend here ?
Dion. Yes.
Ph i. Then show it ; some
( iood body lend a hand to draw us nearer.
Would you have tears shed for you when you die f
Then lay me gently on his neck, that there
I may weep floods, and breathe out my spirit :
'Tis not the wealth of Plutus, nor the gold
Locked in the heart of earth can buy away
This ;irm-fidl from me ; this had been a ransom
To have redeemed the great Augustus C'iosar,
Had he been taken : you hard-hearted men,
More stony than these moimtains, can you sec
Such clear pure blood drop, and not cut your flesh
To stop his life ? To bind whose bitter wounds
<<ueens ought to tear their hair, and with their tears
Uathe 'em. Forgive me, thou that ait the wealth
Of poor Philaster.
Enter Kisg, Arethus-I, anrt a Guard.
King. Is the viUain ta'en ?
Phn. Sir, here be two confess the deed ; but say it was
PhiLa.ster.
Phi. Question it no more, it was.
King. The fellow that did fight with him will tell us.
Are. Ay me ! I know he will.
King. Did not you know him :•
Are. No, sir; if it was he, he was disguised.
Phi. I was so. Oh, my stars 1 that I should live still.
King. Thou ambitious fool!
Thou that hast laid a train for thy own life ;
Xow I do mean to do, I '11 leave to talk.
Bear him to prison.
Are. Sir, they did plot together to take hence
This harmless life ; should, it pass unrevenged,
I should to earth go weeping : grant me then
(By all the love a father bears his child)
Their custodies, and that I may appoint
Their tortures, and their death.
Dion. Death ': soft I our law
Will not reach that, for this fault.
King. 'Tis granted, take 'cm to you, with .a guard.
< 'ome, princely Pharamond, this business past,
We may with more security go on
To your intended match.
Cli . I pray that this action lose not Philaster the hearts of
the people.
Dion. Fear it not, their overwise heads will think it but a
trick. \_Exeiint.
Here the Fourth Act ends ; the Fifth thus closes
the story.
Kntcr Dios, Clekemont, and Thr.\silixe.
Thrir. Has the king sent for him to death ':
Dion. Yes, but the king must know, 'tis not in his power
to war with heaven.
Cle. We linger time ; the king sent for Phikistcr and the
headsman an hour ago.
Thra. Are all his wounds well ':
Jlian. All ; they were but scratches : but the loss of blood
made him faint.
Cle. We dally, gentlemen.
Thru. Away.
Dion. We 'U scuffle hard before we perish. ^Exeunt.
Enter PuaASTEB, Akethcsa and, Bellakio.
Are. Xay, dear PhUaster, grieve not ; we are weU.
Bd. Nay, good my lord, forbear ; we are wondrous well.
Phi. Arethusa ! Bellario ! leave to be kind :
I shall be shot from heaven, as now from earth,
If you continue so ; I am a man.
False to a pair of the most trusty ones
That ever earth bore ; can it bear us all r
Forgive and leave me, but the king hath sent
To call me to my death ; oh, show it me,
And then forget me. And for thee, my boy,
I shall deliver words will mollify
The hearts of beasts, to spare thy innocence.
Bel. Alas, my lord, my life is not a thing
Worthy your noble thoughts ; 'tis not a life,
'Tis but a piece of childhood thrown away.
Should I outlive you, I should then outhve
Yirtue and honour : and, when that day comes.
If ever I shall close these eyes but once,
May I live spotted for my perjury
And waste my limbs to nothing !
Are. And I (the woful'st maid that ever was.
Forced with my hands to bring my lord to death)
Do by the honour of a ^nrgin swear
To tell no hours beyond it.
Phi. Make me not hated so.
Arc. Come from this prison, all joj-ful to our deaths.
Ph i. People ^vill tear me, when they find you true
To such a wretch as I ; I shall die loathed.
Enjoy your kingdoms peaceably, whilst I
For ever sleep forgotten with my faults :
Everj' just servant, every maid in love,
Will have a piece of me, if you be true.
Are. My dear lord, say not so.
Bel. A piece of you ?
He was not bom of woman that can cut
It and look on.
Phi. Take me in tears betwi.\t you,
For my heart will break with shame and sorrow.
Are. 'V\Tiy, 'tis well.
Bel. Lament no more.
p/,i. ^Tiat would you have done
If you had wronged me basely, and had found
My life no price, compared to yours? for love, sirs, d.al with
me plainly.
Bel. 'Twas mistaken, sir.
j>;i;_ ^\1iy, if it were ':
Bel. Then, sir, we would have asked yoiur pirdon.
Phi. And have hope to enjoy it?
Are. Enjoy it r ay.
Phi. AYoiUd you, indeed? be plain.
Bel. We would, my lord.
Phi. Forgive me then.
Are. f^o. so-
Bel. 'Tis as it should be now.
Phi. Lead to my death. [ExeiiHt.
Enter KixG, Dion, Cleiie.moxt, and Thuasilixe.
King. Gentlemen, who saw the prince?
Cle. So please you, sir, he 's gone to see the city
,tod the new platform, with some gentlemen
Attending on him.
King.
Is the princess ready
To bring her prisoner out ?
Thra.
She waits your grace.
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[i.D. 16D3
King. Tell her, we stay.
Dion. King, you may be deceived yet :
The head you aim at cost more setting on
Than to be lost so lightly : if it must oif,—
Like a wild overflow, that swoops before him
A golden stack, and with it shakes down bridges.
Cracks the strong hearts of pines, whose cable roots
Held out a thousand storms, a thousand thunders,
And, so made mightier, takes whole vUlagea
Upon his back, and in that heat of pride,
Chai-ges strong towns, towers, castles, palaces.
And lays them desolate ; so shall thy head.
Thy noble head, bury the lives of thousands
That must bleed with thee like a sacrifice
In thy red ruins.
Muter Phil.vster, Ahethuba, and Bellario in a robe and
garland.
King. How now, what masque is this ?
Bel. Right royal sir, I should
Sing you an epithalamium of these lovers ;
But having lost my best airs with my fortunes.
And wanting a celestial harp to strike
This blessed union on, thus in glad story
I give you all. These two fair cedar-branches.
The noblest of the mountain where they grew,
Straitest and tallest, under whose still shades
The worthier beasts have made their lairs, and slept
Free from the Sirian star and the fell thunder-stroke.
Free from the clouds when they were big with humour
And delivered in thousand spouts their issues to the earth :
Oh, there was none. but silent quiet there !
'Till never-pleased Fortune shot up shrubs.
Base under-brambles, to divorce these branches ;
And for a while they do so ; and did reign
Over the mountain, and choked up his beauty
With brakes, rude thorns and thistles, till the sun
Scorched them even to the roots, and di-ied them there :
And now a gentle gale hath blown again.
That made these branches meet, and twine together,
Jfovor to be divided. The god that sings
His holy numbers over marriage-beds.
Hath knit their noble hearts, and here they stand
Youi' children, mighty 'Jving ; and I have done.
King. How, how ?
Are. Sir, if you love it in plain truth.
For now there is no masquing in 't ; this gentleman,
The prisoner that you gave me, is become
3Iy keeper, and thi-ough .\11 the bitter throes
Your jealousies and his ill fate have wi'ought him,
Thus nobly hath he struggled, and at length
Arrived here my dear husband.
King. Your dear husband ! Call in
The captain of the citadel ; there you shall keep
Y'our wedding. I '11 provide a masque shall make
Your Hymen turn his saffron into a sullen coat.
And sing sad requiems to your parting souls :
Blood shall put out your torches, and, instead
Of gaudy flowers about your wanton necks,
An axe shall hang like a prodigious meteor.
Ready to crop your loves' sweets. Hear, you gods :
From this time do I shake aU title off
Of father to this woman, this base woman ;
And what there is of vengeance in a lion
Cast amongst dogs, or robbed of his dear young,
The same enforced moi'O terrible, more mighty,
Expect from me.
Arc. Sir, by that little life I have left to swear by,
There 's nothing that can stir me from myself.
What I have done, I 've done without repentance ;
For death can be no bugbear unto me
So long as Pharamond is not my headsman.
Dion. Sweet peace upon thy soul, thou worthy maid,
Whene'er thou diest ! for this time I 'U excuse thee.
Or be thy prologue.
Fhi. Sir, let me speak next ;
And let my dying words be better with you
Than my dull living actions. If you aim
At the dear life of this sweet innocent,
Y'ou are a t jTant and a savage monster ;
Your memory shall be as foul behind you.
As you are, living ; all your bettor deeds
Shall be in water writ, but this in marble ;
No chi'onicle shall speak you, though your own.
But for the shame of men. No monument.
Though high, and big, as Pelion, .shall be able
To cover this base mui'der ; make it rich
With brass, with pui'est gold, and shining jasper.
Like to the pyramids, lay on epitaphs.
Such as make great men gods, — my little marble,
That only clothes mj' ashes, not my faults.
Shall far outshine it. And for after issues.
Think not so madly of the heavenly wisdoms
That they will give you more for your mad rago
To cut oft', 'less it be some snake, or something
Like to youi'sclf, that in his birth shall strangle you.
Remember my father, king ; there was a fault,
But I forgive it : let that sin persuade you
To love this lady. If you have a soul,
Think, save her, and be saved ; for myself,
I have so long expected this glad hour.
So languished under you, and daily withered,
That, heaven knows, it is my joy to die ;
I find a recreation in 't.
£)iter a Messenger.
Mes. Whore 's the king i
King. Here.
Mrs. Get you to your strength,
And rescue tlic Prince Pharamond from danger ;
He's taken prisoner by the citizens.
Fearing the Lord Philaster.
Dion. O brave followers !
Mutiny, my tine dear countrjmien, mutinj- !
Now, my brave valiant foremen, show your weapons
In honour of your mistresses.
Enter another Messenger.
Men. .\i-m, anil, arm I
King. A thousand devils take 'era !
JJioii. A thousand blessings on '<;ml
Me.i. Arm, arm, () king! the city is in mutiny.
Led by an old gi-ey ruffian, who comes on
In rescue of the Lord Philaster.
[Exit u-ith .\ke.. Phi., BeI.
King. Away to the citadel ; I '11 see them safe.
And then cope with these burghers : let the guard
And all the gentlemen give strong attendance. [Exit KixG.
[Manent Dion, Cleremont, Thkasiline.
Cle. The city up ! this was above our wishes.
DioH. Ay, and the marriage too ; now, by my life, tliis
noble lady has deceived us aU. A plague upon mysdf ; a
thousand plagues, for having such unworthy thoughts of her
dear honour ! Oh, I could beat myself, or do you beat me
and I '11 beat you, for we had all one thought.
TO A.D. llilR'/l
PLAYS.
;2'J
Cle. No, no, 'twill but lose time.
Dion. You say true : are your swords sharp ':■ well, my dear
countrymen, what ye lack, — If you continue and fall not
back upon the first broken shin, I '11 have you uhi-onicled, and
chronicled, and cut and chronicled, sung in all-to-be-i)raised
sonnets, and graved in new brave ballads, that all tongues
shall troll you in sicciila sceciiloriim, my kind ran-carricrs.
Thra. \Vhat if a toy take 'em i' the heels now, and they
run all away, and cry, Tlic devil take the hindmost^
I)ioii. Then the same devil take the foremost too, and souse
him for his breakfast ! if they all prove cowards, my cui'ses
fly amongst them and be speeding ! May they have murrains
rain to keep the gentlemen at home, unbound in easy fleece 1
may the moths branch their velvets, and their silks only be
worn before sore eyes ! may their false lights undo 'em, and
discover presses, holes, stains, and oldness in theii- stuffs, and
make them shoji-rid ! may they live mewed up with necks of
beef and turnips ! may they know no language but that
gibberish they prattle to their parcels ; unless it be the Gothic
Latin they write in their bonds, and may they wiite that
false, and lose their debts !
Enter the King.
King. Xow the vengeance of all the gods confound them ;
how they swarm together 1 what a hum they i-aise I devils
choke j-our wild throats ; if a man had need to use theii'
valours, ho must pay a brokage for it, and then bring 'em on,
they will fight like sheep. 'Tis Philaster — none but Philaster
— must allay this heat : they will not hear- me speak, but
fling dirt at me, and call me tyrant. Oh, run, dear- fiiend,
and bring Lord Philaster ! 8peak him fair, caU him prince,
do him all the courte.sy )-ou can, commend me to him. Oh,
my wits, my wits ! [Exit Cle.
Dion. Oh, my brave countrymen ! as I live, I will not buy
a pin out of your walls for this ; nay, you shall cozen me, and
I 'U thank you ; and send you bra\vn and bacon, and soil ' you
every long vacation a brace of foremen, that at JIichaclm;is
shall come up fat and kicking.
King. What they will do with this poor prince, the gods
know, and I fear.
Dion. Why, sir, they 'U flay him, and make church-buckets
on's skin to quench rebellion, then clap a rivet in's sconce,
and hang him up for a sign.
Kilter Clehemost icith Philastek.
King. Oh, worthy sir, forgive me ; do not make
Your miseries and my faults meet together.
To bring a greater danger. Be youi'self,
Still found amongst diseases. I have wronged you,
And though I find it last, and beaten to it,
Let first your goodness know it. Calm the people,
And be what you were bom to : take yoiu' love,
And with her my repentance, and my wishes,
And all my prayi;rs ; by the gods, my heart speaks this :
And if the least fall from me not performed,
Jlay I be sti-uck with thunder !
Phi. Mighty sir,
I will not do your greatness so much wrong.
As not to make your word truth ; free the princess,
And the poor boy, and let me stand the shock
Of this mad sea-breach, which I 'U either tm-n
Or perish with it.
King. Let your own word free them.
' Soil, teed high ; a term applied to horses, from French " saoul."
So in " King Lear," act iv., sc. 6., of the dame that shakes her head
at pleasure :
" The fitchew nor the soiled horse goes to t
With a more riotous ai>petite."
Fhi. Then thus I take my leave, kissing your hand,
And hanging on your royal word : he kingly,
.\nd be not moved, sir ; I shall bring you peace,
Or never brmg myself back.
King. All the gods go with thee ! [Ej-eimt.
Enter an old Capt;iin uiid Citizens icith Ph.iu.\monu.
Cup. Come, my brave myi-midons, let us fall on.
Let our caps swarm, my boys,
And let your nimble tongues forget your mothers'
Gibberish, of " ^Vhat do you lack," and set your mouths
Up, childi-en, till your palates fall flighted half a fathom,
Past the cure of bay-salt and gross pepper.
And then cry Philaster, brave Philaster,
Let Philaster be deeper in request, my ding-dongs,
3Iy pairs of dear indentmes, kings of clubs.
Than your cold water camblets or yom- paintings
.Spotted with copper ; let not yom- hasty silks.
Or yom- branch' d cloth of bodkin,'- or yom- tissues,
Dearly beloved of spiced cake and custard,
Yom- Robin-hoods, Scarlets, and Johns, tie your affections,
In dm-ance to your shops ; no, dainty duckers.
Up with your thiee-pUed spuits, your wrought valours ;
And let yom- uncut choler make the king feel
The measm-e of your mightiness. Pliilaster !
Cry, my rose nobles, cry '.
-J «. Philaster! Philaster!
Cap. How do you Uke this, my lord prince ': these are mad
boys, I tell you ; these are things tkit wiU not strike their
top-sails to a foist,' and let a man of war, an argosy, hull and
cry cockles.*
Plia. Why, you rude slave, do you know wluit you do ':
(-'up. 3Iy pretty Prince of Puppets, wo do know.
And give yom- greatness warning that you talk
Xo more such bug-words, or that soldered crown
Shall be scratch'd %vith a musket : dear Prince Pippin,
Down with youi- noble blood ; or, as I live,
I 'U have you codled: * let him loose, my spirits,
ilake us a round ring with your bills, my Hectors,
And let us see what this trim man dares do.
Xow, sir, have at you ; here I lie.
And -n-ith this swashing blow, (do you sweat, prince :-)
I could hulk yom- grace, and hang you up cross-legg'd
Like a hare at a poulterer's, and do this with this wipi-r.
F/ia. You will not see me mm-dered, wicked villains 'r
1 at. Yes, indeed, \vi]l we, sir ; we have not seen one so a
gi-eat while.
Cap. He would have weapons, would he ': give him a bi-oad-
side, my brave boys, with your pikes : branch me his skm m
flowers Uke a satin, and between every flower a mortal cut ;
yom- royalty shall ravel ; jag him, gentlemen ; I'll have him
cut to tiie keU,« then do%ra the seams ; oh, for a whip to make
him galoon-laces.
ril have a coach-whip.
Elia. Oh, spare me, gentlemen.
Cap. Hold, hold, the man begins to fear and know himself.
He shall for this time only be sealed up
With a feather through his nose, that he may only
= Cloth ofhodkin, a rich cloth of interwoven silk and gold : its name
was comipted from hauikh,. ba!cia.,,„„, which is said to be from
Baldach, an Oriental name for Bagdad, whence it was hrst brougU..
3 Foist, barge or pinnace ; fi-om the Dntch " fnste. '
4 Hull and crv cockles, float idly, and follow .h mean callmg. They 11
not lower their fl:ig to a flat, and let the man-of.war, the treasutx- ship.
'■'"/o7r.t'd!-softened by soaKng in hot water or parboiling,
as pippins were, or codlins, i.e., young apples fit for boOmg.
6 i'eii, covering of thfe intestines. Allied to " caul.
230
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[a.u. 10)8
See heaven, and think whither he is going.
Nay, heyond-sea sir, we will proclaim you, you'd
Bo king-, thou tender heir apparent to
A ehm-eh-ale, thou sUght prince of single sarcenet.
Thou royal ring-tail, tit to fly at nothing
But poor men's poultry, and have every boy
Beat thee from that too with his bread and butter.
IVki. Gods keep me from these heU-hounds !
Enter Philaster.
All. Long live Philaster, the brave prince Philaster !
Flti. I thank you, gentlemen: but why are these
Rude weapons brought abroad, to teach youi- hands
Cncivil trades ?
Crip. My royal rosiclear,
We are thy myrmidons, thy guard, thy roarers ;
And when thy noble body is in durance,
Thus do we clap our musty morions on,
.\nd trace the streets in tciTor. Is it peace,
Thou JIars of men. Is the king sociable,
.Vnd bids thee live ':' Art thou above thy foemen,
.Vnd free as Phtebus r Speak : if not, this stand
I »f royal blood shall be abroach, a-tilt, and run
Even to the lees of honour.
Phi. Hold and be satisfied, I am myself
Free as my thoughts are ! by the gods, I am.
Cap. Art thou the dainty darling of the king ?
Art thou the Hylas to our Hercules 'i
Do the lords bow, and the regarded scarlets
Kiss the gum-goUs,' and cry. We are your servants ?
Is the court navigable, and the presence stuck
With flags of friendship ? If not, we are thy castle.
And this man sleeps.
Jflil. I am what I desire to be, your friend;
1 am what I was born to be, your prince.
I'kii. Sir, there is some humanity in you :
You have a noble soul ; forget my name,
-Vnd know my misery ; set me safe aboard
From these -wHi. cannibals, and, as I live,
I 'U quit this land for ever : there is nothing,
Perpetual prisonment, cold, hunger, sickness,
.Ul dangers of all sorts and all together,
The worst company of the worst men, madness, age,
To be as many creatures as a woman,
And do as all they do ; nay, to despair :
But I would rather make it a new nature.
And live with all those, than endure one hour
Amongst these wild dogs.
I'hi. I do pity }'ou : friends, disehai-ge your fears.
Deliver me the prince ; I '11 warrant you,
I shall be old enough to find my safety.
3 ('it. Good sir, take heed he does not hurt \o\i :
lie's a fiei-ce man, I can tell j-ou, sir.
Cnp. Prince, by your leave, I '11 have a surcinglc,-
And mail you like a hawk.' \_He stir
Plii. Away, away, there is no danger in him :
.Vlas, he had rather sleep to shake his fit off.
Look you, friends, how gently he leads ; upon my word,
He 's tame enough, he needs no further watching.
I iood, my friends, go^to your houses, and by me have
Your pardons, and my love ;
And know, there shall be nothing in my power
' Giimgolls. GolU are hands, and gmngolU perhaps royal hands
made for the servile part of humanity to press their grims against.
- Siirdngle, hand, girth. Old French " snrsangle."
^ .Wail a lifiui-, pinion, fasten tlie winire down with a girdle. Lat.
"macula." a mesh; Italian "maglia," a mesh, net, coat of mail;
whence mail armour.
You may deserve, but you shall have your wishes.
To give you more thanks, were to flatter you ;
Continue still your love, and for an earnest.
Drink this.
All. Long mayest thou live, brave prince !
Brave prince ! brave prince ! Exeunt Phi. and Pii.\.
Cap. Go thy ways ; thou art the king of Coiu'tesy :
Fall off again, my sweet youths ; come, and every man trace
to his house again, and hang his pewter up ; then to the
tavern, and bring your wives in muffs : we wUl have music,
and the red grape shall make us dance, and rise, boys.
\_Exei(iit.
Enter King, Arethvs.i, Gal.itea, SLegra, C'leremont,
Dion, Thrasilixe, Bellario, and Attendants.
King. Is it appeased ?
Dion. Sir, all is quiet as the dead of night,
As peaceable as sleep ; my lord Philaster
Brings on the prince himself.
Kinff. Kind gentleman !
I will not break the least word I have given
In promise to him ; I have heaped a world
Of giief upon his head, which yet, I hope.
To wash away.
Enter Philaster and Phaeamoxd.
Cle. Jly lord is come.
King. My son !
Blest be the time, that I have leave to call
Such ra-tue mine ! Now thou art in mine arms,
Methinks, I have a salve unto my breast
For aU the stings that dweU there ; streams of grief
That I have wronged thee, and as much of joy
That I repent it, issue from mine eyes :
Let them appease thee : take thy right ; take her,
She is thy right too, and forget to urge
My vexed soul with that I did before.
Phi. Sir, it is blotted from my memory.
Past and forgotten. For you, prince of Spain,
'Whom I have thus redeemed, you have full leave
To make an honourable voyage home.
And if you would go furnished to your realm
With fair provision, I do see a lady,
Metliinks, would ghidly bear you company :
How like you this piece ':
Meg. Sir, he likes it well,
For he hath tried it, and has found it worth
His princely liking ; . . .
I know your meaning : I am not the fir.st.
That nature taught to seek a fellow forth :
Can shame remain perpetually in me.
And not in others r or have princes salves
To cure ill names, that meaner people want f
Phi. ^\'hat mean you ':
Meg. Y'ou must get another ship
To bear the princess and the boy together.
Dion. How now !
The old slandei' is revi\ed in the king'.s niiiid. He
asks one favour of Philaster.
Phi. Command whate'er it be.
King. Swear to be true
To what you promise.
Phi. By the powers above.
Let it not be the death of her or him,
And it is granted.
TO i.D. 1609.]
PLAYS.
231
King. Beai' away the boy
To tortuie ; I will have her cleared or buried.
Fill. Oh, let me call my words back, worthy sir;
Ask something else, buiy my life and right
In one poor grave, but do not take away
Jly lite and fame at once.
Kiiig. Away T^-ith him, it stands irrevocable.
Fill. Turn all your eyes on me : here stands a man
The fiilsest and the basest of this world.
.Set swords against this breast, some honest man.
For I have liv'd till I am pitied.
My former deeds were hateful, but this last
Is pitiful ; for I unwi llin gly
Have given the dear preserver of my life
Unto his torture : is it in the power
(Jf flesh and blood to carry this, and live ?
[Offers to kill himself.
Are. Dear sir, be patient yet ; oh, stay that hand.
Kiiiff. Sirs, strip that boy.
Dioii. Come, sir, your tender flesh will try your constancy.
Bel. Oh, kill me, gentlemen.
Dion. No ; heljj, sirs.
Sel. "Will you torture me Y
King. Haste there : why stay you ?
Jiel. Then I shall not break my vow,
You know, just goda, though I discover all.
King. How "s that f Will he confess ?
Dion. Sir, so he says.
Ki)ig. Speak then.
£el. Great king, if you command
This lord to talk with me alone, my tongue,
Urged by my heart, shall utter all the thoughts
Mv youth hath known, and stranger things than these
You hear not often.
King. Walk a.sidc with him.
Dion. Why speak' st thou not y
Jiel. Know you this face, my lord ?
Dion. No.
Fel. Have you not seen it, nor the Uke ?
Dion. Y'es, I have seen the like, but readily
I know not where.
Bel. I have been often told
In court of one Euphrasia, a lady.
And daughter to you ; betwi.xt whom and me
They that would flatter my bad face would swear
ITiere was such strange resemblance, that we two
Could not be known asunder, di'est alike.
Dion. By Heaven, and so there is.
Bel. For her fair sake,
Who now doth spend the spring-time of her life
In holy pilgrimage, move to the king
That I may 'scape this torture.
Dion. But thou spcak'st
As like Euphrasia, as thou dost look.
How came it to thy knowledge that she lives
In pilgrimage ?
Bel. I know it not, my lord.
But I have heard it, and do scarce believe it.
Dion. Oh, my shame ! Is it possible ? Draw near,
That I may gaze upon thee. Art thou she ':
Or else her murderer ? 'Where wert thou bom ?
Bel. In Siracusa.
Dion. What 's thy name ?
Bel. Euphrasia.
Dion. 'Tis just, 'tis she now, I do know thee. Oh
That thou hadst died, and I had never seen
Thee nor my shame '. How shall I own thee ? Shall
This tongue of mine e'er call thee daughter more :
Bel. 'Would I had died, indeed ; I wish it too ;
And so I must have done by vow, ere published
What I have told, but that there was no means
To hide it longer. Yet I joy in this.
The piincess is all clear.
£^ing. 'What have you done ?
Dion. All is discovered.
P^'- Why then hold you me ?
[iff o^irt to stab /limiclj
All is discovered : pray you, let me go.
King. Stay him.
Are. What is discovered 'f
Dion. Why, my shame.
It is a woman ; let her speak the rest.
Flii. How! that again.
Dion. It is a woman.
F/i i. Blest be you powers that favour innocence !
King. Lay hold upon that lady.
P/ii. It is a woman, sir ; hark, gentlemen !
It is a woman. Arethus;i, t;ike
ily soul into thy breast, that would be gone
With joy : it is a woman. Thou art fau',
Aiid virtuous still to ages, .spite of malice.
King. Speak 5"0u, where Ues his shame ?
Bel. I am his daughter.
Flii. The gods are just.
Dion. I dare accuse none, but before you two,
The \'irtue of om- age, I bend my knee
For mercy.
Flii. Take it fi-eely ; for, 1 know.
Though what thou didst were indiscreetly done,
'Twas meant well.
Are. And for me,
I have a pow'r to pardon sins as oft
As any man has power to wrong me.
Cle. Xoble and worthy.
p/,j. But, BeUario
(For I must call thee stiU so), tell me, why
Thou didst conceal thy sex ; it was a fault ;
A fault, Bellario, though thy other deeds
Of truth outweighed it : all these jealousies
Had flown to nothing, if thou hadst discovered
What now we know.
Bel. My father oft would speak
Your worth and rirtue ; and as I did grow
More and more apprehensive, I did thirst
To see the man so praised ; but yet aU this
Was but a maiden-longing, to be lost
As soon as found ; till .•fitting in ray window.
Printing my thoughts in la«-n, I s:>w a god
I thought (but it was you) enter our gates,
ily blood flew out, and back again as fast,
As I had pufFd it forth and sucked it in
Like breath, then was I called away in ha.ste
To entertain you. Never was a man.
Heaved from a sheep-cote to a sceptre, raised
So high in thoughts as I : you left a k-iss
Upon these Hps then, which I mean to keep
From vou for ever : I did hear you talk.
Far above singing. After you were gone,
I .rrew acquainted with my heart, and search d
^\^lat stirr'd it so : alas ! I found it love ;
Yet far from lust, for could I have but bved
In presence of you, 1 had had my end.
From this I did delude my noble father
With a feigned pilgiiniage, and di-essed myself
232
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1613.
In habit ot a boy ; ami, for I knew
Jly birth no match for you, I was past hope
<.)f having you ; and under-standing well
That when I made discovery of my sex,
1 could not stay with you, I made a vow,
By aU the most religious things a maid
Could call together, never to be known,
WTiilst there was hope to hide me from men's eyes,
For other than I seemed, that I might ever
Abide with you. Then sat I by the fount,
Where first you took me up.
Kiiiri. Search out a match
Within our kingdom, where and when thou wilt,
And I will pay thy dowi-y ; and thyself
Wilt well deserve him.
Bel. Never, sir, will I
Marry ; it is a thing within my vow.
But if I may have leave to serve the princess,
To see the virtues of her lord and her,
I shall have hope to live.
Arc. And I, Thilaster,
Cannot be jealous, though you had a lady
Drest like a page to serve you, nor will I
Suspect her living here. Come, live with me,
Live free, as I do ; she that loves my lord.
Curst be the wife that hates her '.
Phi. I gi'ieve, such virtues should be laid in earth
Without an heir. Hear me, my royal father.
Wrong not the freedom of oiu' souls so much,
To think to take revenge of that base woman.
llcr malice cannot hurt us ; set her free
As she was bom, saving from shame and sin.
Kwq. Set her at liberty. But leave the court ;
This is no place for such. You, Pharamond,
Shall have free passage, and a conduct home
Worthy so great a piiuce. When you come there,
Remember, 'twas your faults that lost you her.
And not my purposed will.
P'na. I do confess.
Renowned sir.
Eiii;/. Last, join your hands in one. Enjoy, Philaster.
This kingdom which is yours, and after me
WTiatever I call mine, my blessing on you !
All happy hours be at your marriage-joys.
That you may grow yourselves over all lands.
And live to see your plenteous branches spring
Wherever there is sun ! Let princes learn
By this to rule the passions of their blood :
For what Heaven wills can never be withstood.
l^Ereimt ontnes.
George Chapman, who was liorn at Hitchin in
1/).T7 or IS.TD. and was about forty-five yeare okl
when Queen Elizabeth died, was a good schohir as well
as dramatist, a fiiend of Ben Jonson's and of the best
men of his time. He did not begin to write plays
till he was forty ; and about tlie time of Shakesj)eai'e's
deatli, wlien Cliapman's age was nearly sixty, he
completed his famous translation of all the works
ascribed to Homer. As a dramatist, he vn-ote one or
two good comedies, especially " All Fools," based upon
Terence's " Self Tormentor" (Heautontimoroumenos),
and "Monsieur d'Olive." His chief tragedies wei-e, two
on " The Conspiracy " and " The Tragedy " of Charles
Duke of Byron, Marehal of France under Henri IV.,
who v,-as still living when the plays were produced,
at about the same date as "Philaster;" and two on
the story of Bussy dAmbois, a tale of the days of
Heiav III. Bussy d' Ambois, a soldier of fortune, was
introduced at court by Monsieur, the king's brother,
who meant to use him as a tool. He proved no tool,
and the Duke of Guise and the king's brother pro-
cured his death by disclosing to the Count of INIont-
surry a love between his wife Tamyra and the bold
adventvn-er. This play was printed in 1607 ; the
sequel, prt'iuted in 1G13, was more meditative in its
tone, a sort of Odyssey to the Iliad of its predecessor.
Ui,nU,- I'm
■ ilif.or jor Mngisl.-nds " (IdlUl.
It had this dedication to Sir Thomas Howard, which
I leave in the old spelling ; —
fih; — Since VVorkes of this kindc haue bcenc lately
esteemed worthy the Patronage of some of our worthiest
Nobles, I haue made no doubt to prefcrre this of mine to
your i-ndoubted Vertue, and exceeding true Noblesse : as
contayning matter no lesse deseruing your reading, and
excitation to Heroycall life, then any such late Dedication.
Nor haue the gi-eatest Princes of Italic, and other Countries,
conceiued it any least diminution to their grcatnesse, to haue
their Names wing'd with these Tragieke Plumes, and disperst
bv way of Patronage, through the most Noble Notices of
Europe.
Howsoeuer therefore in the Sca>nicall ijresentation, it
might meete with some maligners, j'et consideiing, euen
therein, it past with approbation of more worthy iudgen\cnts;
the BaUance of their side (especiaUj- being held by your
impartiall hand) I hope will to no giaine abide the out-
weighing. And for the autenticall truth of eyther person or
action, who (worth the respecting) will expect it in a Poenie,
whose subicct is not truth, but things like truth!- Poore
cnuious .soules they are that eauiU at truths want in these
naturall iictions : materiall instruction, elegant and senten-
tious excitation to Vertue, and deflection fi'om her contrary ;
being the soule. lims, and limits of an autenticall Tragedie.
But whatsoeuer merit of your fuU countenance and fauour
suffers defect in this, I shall soone supply with some other of
more generall account : wherein your right vertuous Name
ni.'ide famous and preserucd to posteritie, j'our future comfort
and honour in your present acceptation, and loue of all
\ertuous and diuine expi'cssion ; may be so much jiast others
of your Kancke cncreast, as they are short of your ludiciall
Ingenuitie, in their due estimation.
For, howsoeuer those Ignoble and sowrebrow'd World-
lings are carelesse of whatsoeuer future, or present opinion
spreads of them : yet (with the most diuine Philosopher, if
Scrijiture did not confirme it) I make it matter of my Faith ;
that we truely rctaine an intellectuall feeling of Good or Bad
after this life : proportionably answerable to the loue or
neglect we beare here to all Vertue, and truely-humane
Instruction ; In whose favour and honour I wish you most
eminent ; And rest cuer.
Yottr tfffi' Vertiica
most true obseruer,
Geo. Chapman.
A.D. 161:i.J
PLAYS.
233
The play opens with dialogue between Baligny,
Lord Lieutenant of Cambray (who is brother m-law
to the murdered Bussy), and Marqnis Renel. The
murder of Bussy has been permitted to pass un-
punished, war and the spirit of war have died out,
men rust in idleness, but, says Baligny, affecting to
be faithful follower of the Duke of Guise —
Well thou most worthy to bo greatest Guise,
JIake with thy gieatncss a new world arise.
Such deprcst nobles (followers of his)
As you, myself, my lord will find a time
When to revenge your wrongs.
Sen. I make no doubt :
In meantime, I coidd wish the wrong were righte<l
Of your slain brother-in-law, brave Bussy d'Ambois.
Bal. That one accident was made my charge.
My brother Bussy's sister, now my wife,
By no suit would consent to satisfy
My love of her with manaagc, till I vow'd
To use my utmost to revenge my brother :
But Clermont d'Ambois, Bussy's second brotlier,
Had since his aj>parition and e.Kcitement
To suffer none but liis hand in his wreak,
Which he hath vowed, and so will needs accjuit
Me of my vow, made to my wife, his sister,
And undertake himself Bussy's revenge :
Yet loatliing any waj- to give it act
But in the noblest and most manly course.
If the Earl dares take it, he resolves to send
A challenge to him, and myself must bear it,
To which delivery I can use no means ;
He is so barricaded in his house,
And ai-med with guard still.
Rill. That means lay on me,
Which I can strangely make. 5Iy last lands' sale.
By his great suit, stands now on price witli him.
And he, as you know, passing covetous
With that blind greediness that follows g.iin.
'WiU cast no danger where her sweet feet tread.
Besides, you know, his lady by his suit,
AVooing as freshly as when first Love shot
His faultless aiTows from her rosy eyes.
Now lives with him again, and she, I know,
Will join with all heli)s in her fi-iend's revenge.
Bal. No doubt, my lord, and therefore let me pray you
To use all .speed : for so on needles' points
My wife's heart stands with haste of the revenge,
Being, ;;s you know, full of her brother's fire.
That she imagines I neglect my vow :
Keeps off her kind embraces, and still asks :
When, when, will this revenge come ': when performed
Will tliis dull vow be ? And I vow to heaven
iSo sternly, and so past her sex she urges
My vow's performance, that I almost fear
To see her, when I have a while been absent.
Not .showing her, before I speak, the blood
She so much thirsts for freckling hands and face.
Ren. Get you the challenge writ, and look from me
To hear your passage cleared no long time .after. [E-rit Ren.
Bal. AU restitution to your worthiest lordship.
Whose errand I must carry to the king.
As ha\'ing sworn my service in the search
Of all such malcontents and their designs
By seeming one aft'ected with their faction
And discontented humours 'gainst the state :
Nor doth mv brother Clermont 'scape my counsel
150
Given to the king about his Guiseaij greatn.'s.
Which, as I spice it, hath possessed the kHng '
(Knowing his d.-iring sj.irit) of much dan-^er
Charged in it to his person. Though mv conscience
Uare swear him clear of any power to be
Infected with the least dishonesty.
Yet that sincerity, we politicians
Must say, grows out of envy, since it cannot
Aspire to poHcy's greatness : and the more
We work on all respects of kind and virtue.
The more our service to the king seems great.
In sparing no good that seems bad to him :
And the more bad wc make the most of good.
The more our policy searcheth ; and onr sen-ice
Is wondered at for wisdom and sincereness.
'Tis easy to make good suspected still,
■RTiere good, and God, are made but cloaks for ill.
See Monsieur taking now his leave for Brabant,
Enter Hexrv, Moxsievk, Giise, Clermoxt, Espersoxe,
Soissox. MoxsiEiu fiikin;! lean- nf the Kixo.
Tlic Guise, and his dear minion, Clemiont d'Ambois,
Whispeiing together, not of state affairs
I durst lay wagers, (tliough the Guise be now
In chief heat of his faction), but of something
Savouring of that which all men else despise.
How to be tridy noble, truly wise.
Mons. See how he hangs upon tlic ear of Guise,
Like to his jewel.
Esp. He 's now whispering in
Some doctrine of stability and freedom,
Contempt of outward greatness and tlie guises
That vidgar great ones make their pride and zeal.
Being only servile trains and sumptuous houses,
High jjlaces. offices.
Mons. Contempt of these
Does he read to the Guise ': 'Tis passing needful.
And he, I think, makes show to affect his doctrine.
Esp. Commends, admires it.
Mons. And pursues another.
'Tis fine hypocrisy, and cheap, and vulgar.
Known for a covert practice, yet believed
By those .abused souls, that they teach and goveni, . . .
As made by custom nothing. This same D'Ambois
Hath gotten such opinion of his virtues.
Holding all learning but an art to live well.
And showing he hath learned it in his life.
Being thereby strong in his persuading others.
That this ambitious Guise, embracing him.
Is tliought t' embrace liis virtiu-s.
Esp. Yet in some
His virtues are held false for the other's \-iccs :
For 'tis more cunning held, and much more common.
To suspect truth than falsehood : and of both.
Truth stiU fares worse : as hardly being believed
As 'tis unusual and ran'ly kmowii.
Mons. I'll part engendering virtue. Men affirm
Though this same Clermont hath a D'Ambois' spirit
.\nd breathes his brother's v.alour. yet his tempi-r
Is so much past liis, that you cannot move him :—
I 'U try that temper in him.— Come, you two
Devour each other with your Wrtue's zeal.
And leave for other friends no fragment of ye :
I wonder. Guise, you will thus ravish him
Out of my bosom, that first gave the life
His manhood breathes, spirit, and mc.ins and lustre.
■«Tiat do men think of me, I pray thee, Clei-mont r
■2U
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1613.
< ince give mo leave (for trial of tluit love
Tliat f lom thy brother Bussy thou inheritest)
T' nnrlasp thy bosom.
C7(r. As how, sir ?
J/o«s. Be a true glass to me, in which I may
Behold what thoughts the man}"-hea(led beast,
And thou thyself, breathes out concerning me,
ilv ends, and new upsfcirted state in Brabant,
For which I now am bound ; my higher aims.
Imagined hero in France : speak, man, and let
Thy words be bom as naked as thy thoughts : —
(_)h, were brave Bussy li%'ing !
t '111-. Living, my lord ^
JIiiiix. Tis true, thou art his brother, but durst thou
Have braved the Guise ; mauger his presence, coui-ted
His wedded lady ; emptied even the dregs
Of his worst thoughts of me, even to my teeth :
Discern'd not me his rising sovereign
From any common groom, but let mc hear
Jly grossest faults, as grossful as they were.
Durst thou do this ?
('/er. I cannot tell : a man
Does never know the goodness of his stomach
Till ho sees meat before him. Were I dared,
Perliaps, as he was, I durst do like him.
Moiis. Dare then to pour out here thy freest soul.
Of what I am.
(.'/it. 'Tis stale. He told you it.
JIoiis. He only jested, spake of spleen and envy :
Thy soul, more learned, is more ingenuous,
.Searching, judicial ; let me then from thee
Hear what I am.
C/er. "What but the sole support
And most expecfcint hope of all our France,
The toward victor of the whole Low Countries ?
.Moils. Tush, tliou wilt sing encomiums of my praise.
Is this like D'Ambois ? I must vex the Guise,
(3r never look to hear free truth ; tell me,
For Bussy lives not : he durst anger me,
Yet for my love would not have feared to anger
The king himself. 'Thou understand' st nir, dost not ?
C/ir. I shall, my lord, with study.
Jloiis. Dost understand thyself 'r I pray thee tell me,-
Dost never search thy thoughts, what my design
Might be to entertain thee and thy brother y
What turn I meant to serve with you ?
Cler. Even what you please to think.
^^Ol>s. But what think' st thou ?
Had I no end in 't, think'st Y
Clcr. I think j-ou had.
Moils. Wlien I took in such two as you two were,
A ragged couple of decayed commanders,
Wlien a French crown would plentifully serve
To buy you both to anything i' th' earth, —
C/er. So it would you.
.Voiis. Nay, bought you both outright.
You and your trunks : I fear me, I ofEend thee.
C/iT. No, not a jot.
-Vow.s. The most renowned soldier
Epaminondas (as good authors say)
Had no more suits than backs, but you two shared
But one suit 'twixt you both, when both your studies
Were not what meat to dine with ; if your partridge.
Your snipe, your woodcock, lark, or your red hening ;—
But where to beg it, whether at my house.
Or at the Guise's (for you know you were
Ambitious beggars), or at some cookshop,
To eternise the cook's trust, and score it up.
Dost not offend thee ?
Cler. No, sir. Pray proceed.
Moits. As for thy gently, I dare boldly take
Thy honourable oath : and yet some say
Thou and thy most renowned noble brother
Came to the court first in a keel of sea-coal.
Dost not offend thee '^
Cler. Never doubt it, sir.
Mom. Why do I love thee then ? why have I raked thee
Out of the dunghill ? cast my cast wardi-obe on thee ':
Brought thee to coui-t too, as I did thy brother 'i
Made ye my saucy boon companions ;■"
Taught ye to call our bravest noblemen
By the con'uption of their' names : Jack, Tom ?
Have I blown both for nothing to this bubble "?
Though thou art learn'd ; thou 'st no enchanting wit,
Or were thy wit good, am I therefore bound
To keep thee for my table •'
Cler. Well, sir, 'twere
A good knight's place. Many a proud dubb'd gallant
Seeks out a poor knight's living from such cmrods.'
Moiis. Of what use else should I design thee to P
Perhaps you '11 answer me, to be my pander.
Cler. Perhaps I shall.
Mons. Or did the sly Guise put thee
Into my bosom, to undermine my projects ?
I fear thee not ; for though I be not sure
I have thy heart, I know thy brain-pan yet
To be as empty a dull piece of wainscot
As ever anned the scalp of any courtier ;
A fellow onl}' that consists of sinews ;
Mere Swisser, apt for any execution.
Cler. But killing of the king.
Moiis. Kight : now I see
Thou understand' st thyself.
Cler. Ay, and you better.
You are a king's son bom.
Moiis. Kiglit.
Cler. .And a king's brotht_r.
Moiis. True.
Cler. And might not any fool have been so too,
As well as yon Y
Mons. A [plague] upon you.
Clcr. Y'ou did no princely deeds
Ere you were born, I take it, to deserve it ;
Nor did you any .since that I have heard ;
Nor will do ever any, as all think.
Mons. The devil take him. I "11 no more of him.
Guise. Na}' : staj-, my lord, and hear him answer j-ou.
Moiis. No more, I swear. Farewell.
[£.r. Moxs., EsPER., Soiss.
Guise. No more f 111 fortune I
I would have given a million to have heard
His scoffs retorted ; and the insolence
( )f his high birth and greatness (which were never
Effects of his deserts, l)ut of his fortune)
JIade show to his dull eyes beneath the worth
That men aspire to by their knowing virtues,
Without which greatness is a shade, a bubble.
Cler. But what one great man dreams of that, but you ?
All take their births and birthrights left to them.
Acquired by others, for their own worth's purchase.
EmrodSy emeralds : held restoi*ative as princes —
" in whose fresh regard
Weak sights theii* sickly radiance do amend."
(Shakspeare, " Lover's Complaint.")
i.D. 1613.]
PLAYS.
23.5
When many a fool in both is great as tliev :
And who would t hink they could win with their worths
Wealthy possessions when, won to their hands,
They neither can judge justly of their value
Xor know their use ; and therefore they are puff'd
With such proud tumours as this Monsieiu- is :
Enabled only by the goods they have
To scorn all goodness : none great, fill their fortunes.
But as those men that make their houses gi-eater
Their households being less, so fortune raises
Huge heaps of outside in these mighty men.
And gives them nothing in them.
Guise. True as truth :
And therefore they had rather drown their substance
In superfluities of bricks and stones :
Like Sisyphus, advancing of them ever.
And ever pulling down ; than lay the cost
<jf any sluttish comer on a man
Built with God's finger and enstiled his temple.
Bat. 'Tis nobly said, my lord.
Guise. I would have these things
Brought upon stages, to let mighty misers
.See all their grave and serious miseries played.
As once they were in Athens and old Rome.
Clcr. Nay, we must now hare nothing brought on stages
But puppetry and pied ridiculous antics :
Men thither come, to laugh, and feed fool-fat,
(Aeck at all goodness there, as being profaned :
When wheresoever Goodness comes, she makes
The place still sacred, though with other feet
Never so much 'tis scandal'd and polluted.
Let me learn anything that fits a man.
In any st.ables shown as well as stages.
Bill. \Vhy ? is not all the world esteemed a stage ?
Cler. Yes : and right worthily : and stages too
Have a respect due to them, if but only
For what the good Greek moralist says of them :
Is a man proud of greatness, or of riches 'r
Give me an expert actor, I '11 show all
That can within his greatest glory fall.
Is a man 'fraid with poverty and lowness ?
fiive me an actor, I '11 show every eye
AATiat he laments so, and so much doth fly.
The best and worst of both : if but for this then,
To make the proudest outside that most swells
With things without him and above his worth
See how small cause he has to be so blown up ;
And the most poor man to be grieved with poorness :
Both being so easily borne by expert actors.
The .stage and actors are not so contemptful
As every innovating Puritan
And ignorant sweater out of zealous envy
Would have the world imagine. And besides
That iill things have been likened to the mirth
T'sed upon stages, and for stages fitted.
The splenetive philosopher that ever
Laughed at them all, were worthy the enstaging.
All objects, were they ne'er so full of tears.
He so conceited that he could distil thence
Matter that still fed his ridiculous humour.
Heard he a law)-er, never so vehement pleading :
He stood and laughed. Heard he a tradesman swearing
Never so thriftily, selling of his wares ;
He stood and Laughed. Heard he a holy brother,
For hollow ostentation, at his pniyers
Ne'er so impetuously ; he stood and laughed.
Saw he a great man never so insulting.
I .Severely inflicting, gravely giving laws.
Not for their good, but his ; he stood and laughed.
Saw he a youthful widow
Never so weeping, wringing of her Kinds,
For her lost lord ; still the philosopher Laughed.
Now whether he supposed all these presentments.
Were only maskeries, and wore false faces.
Or else were simply vain, I take no care.
But stiU he Laughed, how grave soe'er they were.
ff«(sc And might right well, my Clermont : and for this
Virtuous digression, we will thank the scoffs
Of vicious Monsieur. But now fr.v the main point
Of your late resolution for revenge
Of yoiu- slain friend.
Ckr. I have here my challenge,
■\Miich I will pray my brother BaUgny
To boar the murderous earl.
Bal. I have prepared
Means for access to him, through all his guard.
Guise. About it then, my worthy Balignv,
And bring us the success.
BnL I will, my lord. [£..■,„„■.
Tlieu the scene turns to Tamp-a breatLing revengt-
witli thought of the slain Bus.sy, turns to Jlontsiirry,
and the de^-ice for a half forcible delivery to liini by
Baligiiy of the challenge from Bussy's brother f'ler
niont. The opening of the Second Act shows I'aligiiv,
a treacherous spy on the Duke of Guise, in pri\ate
discotuse \rith Henri III. This is the whole Act.
Hesuv : Baligxy.
Sen. Come, Balignv, we now are private. Say.
A^^lat service bring' st thou? make it short ; the Guisr
(Wliose friend thou seem'st) is now in court, and near.
And may observe us.
Bui. This, sir, then, in short.
The faction of the Guise (with which my poUcy,
For service to your highness seems to join)
Grows ripe, and must be gather'd into hold ;
Of which mj- brother Clermont being a p.irt
Exceeding capital, deserves to have
A capital eye on him. And as you may
With best advantage, and your speediest charge.
Command his apprehension : which (because
The Coiut. you know, is strong in liis defence)
We must ask country swinge ' and open fields.
And therefore I have wrought him to go down
To Ciimbray with me (of which government
Vour highness' boimty made me your lieutenant] :
Where when I have him, I will leave my house
And feign some service out about the confines,
A\'hen in the meantime, if you please to give
Command to my Ueutenant. by your letters.
To train'- him to some muster where he may,
Much to his honour, see for him your forces
Put into battle ; when he comes, he may
With some close stratagem be apprehended.
For otherwise your whole powers there \vill fail
To work his apprehension : and with that
My hand needs never be discerned therein.
Hen. Thanks, honest Bahgny.
Bnl. Yoiu- highness knows
I will be honest and betray for you
Brother and father : for, I know, my lord.
■ Sirinar, or mm,, space for actiou • Tram, draw deceitfully.
■2M
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1613.
Treachery for kings is truest loyalty ;
Nor is to bear the name of treachery,
IJut gi-ave, deep policy. All acts that seem
ni in particular respects, are good
As they respect your universal rule,
As in the main sway of the universe
The supreme Itector's general decrees
To guard the mighty globes of earth and heaven ;
Since they make good that guard to preservation
Of both those in their order and first end,
N'o man's particular (as he thinks) wrong
Must hold him wrong'd: no, not though all men's reasons,
.\11 law, all conscience, concludi>s it WTOng.
Nov is comparison a tiatterer
To liken you here to the King of kings,
Xor any man's particular offence
Against the world's sway, to offence at yours
In any subject, who as little 7nay
(hiulgc thcii- particular wi'ong if so it seem
For th' universal right of your estate :
As (being a subject of the world's whole sway
As well as yours, and being a righteous man
To whom heaven promises defence, and blessing,
llrought to decay, disgi'ace, and quite defenceless,)
lie may complain of heaven for wrong to him.
Ihii. 'Tis true: the simile at all j)arts holds,
.\s all good subjects hold, that love our favoiu'.
Jill/. Which is our heaven here ; and a misery
Incomparable, and most truly hellish
To live deprived of our king's grace and countenance,
\Vitli<.nit which best conditions are most cursed.
Life of that nature, howsoever short,
Is a most lingering, and tedious life ;
I >v rather no life, but a languishing,
And an .ibuse of life.
Hill. 'Tis well conceited.
Jill/. I thought it not amiss to yield your highness
A reason of my speeches ; lest perhaps
Vou might conceive I flattered : which I know
< If all ills under heaven you most abhor.
Ifiii. .Still thou art right, my virtuous I'alignv,
For which I thank and love thee. Thy advice
1 'II not forget: haste to thy government,
.\nd carry D'Ambois with thee.— So farewell. [Exit.
Bill. Youi- majesty fare ever like itself.
Eiitir (IrisE.
(jiiise. lly sure friend Baligny I
Jial. Noblest of princes !
Gidse. How stands the State of Camliray ?
Jiiil. Strong, my lord,
.\nd tit for serWce : for whose readiness
\ our crcaturi' Clennont d'Ambois and myself
Ride shortly down.
tiiii.w. That C'lemiont is my love;
Franco never bred a nobler gentleman
Fur all parts : he exceeds his brother Bussy.
Jliil. Ay, my lord ?
Guise. Far : because besides his valour
lie hath the crown of man, and all his parts,
\yhich learning is ; and that so true and ^^rtuous,
That it gives power to do, as well as say,
WTiatcver fits a most accomplished man ;
Which Bussy, for his valour's season, lacked.
And so was rapt with outrage oftentimes
ll<'yond decorum, where this aljsolute Clennont,
Though only for his natural zeal to right
He will be fiery when he sees it crossed,
And in defence of it ; yet when he lists
He can contain that fire, as hid in embers.
Sal. No question, he 's a true, learn'd gentleman.
Guise. He is as true as tides, or any star
Is in his motion : and for his rare learning,
He is not (as all else are that seek knowledge)
Of taste .so much depraved, that they had rather
Delight and satisfy themselves to drink
Of the stream troubled, wand' ring ne'er so far
From the clear fount, than of the fount itself.
In all, Rome's Brutus is revived in him.
Whom he of industry doth imitate.
Or rather, as great Troy's Euphorbus was
After Pythagoras ; so is Brutus, Clermont.
And were not Brutus a conspirator
£<il. Con.spiiator, my lord 'f Doth that impair him ?
Cicsar began to tyrannise ; and when viiiuo
Nor the religion of the gods could serve
To curb the insolence of his proud laws,
Brutus would be the gods' just instrument.
AVHiat said the princess, sweet Antigone,
In the-gi-ave tTrcek tragedian, when the question
'T\vixt her and Creon is, for laws of kings r
^Vhich when he urges, she rei)lies on him.
Though his laws were a king's, they were not God's ;
Nor would she value Creon' s written laws
With God's unwrit edicts : since they last not
This day and the next, but every day and ever,
Where king's laws alter every day and hour.
And in that change imply a bounded power.
Oiii. Well, let us leave these vain disputings what
Is to be done, and fall to doing something.
Whi'n iU'e )'ou for your government in Cambray ?
Jltil. When you command, my lord.
Giii. Nay, that's not fit.
Continue your dcsignments with the king,
With all yoiu' service ; only if I send,
Kcspect me as your friend, ajid love my Clermont.
Hill. Your highness knows my vows.
Giii. Ay, 'tis enough. [£ri< GrisE. Manet B.\L.
£iil. Thus must we play on both sides, and thvis hearten
In any ill those men whose good we hate.
Kings may do what they list, and for kings, subjects;
Either exempt from censui'e or exception :
For, as no man's worth can be justly judg'd
But when he shines in some authority.
So no authority should suffer censure
But by a man of more authority.
Great vessels into less arc emptied never.
There 's a redundance past their continent ever.
These virtuosi are the poorest creatures ;
For look how spinners weave out of themselves
Webs, who,se strange matter none before can see ;
So these, out of an unseen good in A'irtue,
Jlake argimients of right and comfort in her.
That clothe them like the poor web of a spinner.
Enter Cleumont.
Cler. Now, to my challenge. What's the place, the weapon?
Bui. Soft, sir : let first your challenge be received.
H(? would not touch, nor see it.
Cler. Possible!
How did you then ?
Bal. Left it, in his despite.
But when he saw me enter, so expectless,'
1 E.r^e(rf?ftw, uuespecteil.
1«13.]
PLAYS.
237
To hear his base exclaims of murdei', murder,
JIadi; me think noblesse lost in him, quick bmied.'
I'll r. They aie the breathing sepulchres of noblesse ;
Xo trulier noblemen, than lions' pictures
llimg up for signs are lions. A^Tio knows not
That Uons the more soft kept, are more ser^ole ':
And look how lions close kept, fed by hand.
Lose quite th' innative fire of spirit and gi-eatness
That lions flee breathe, foraging for prey ;
And gi-ow so gross, that mastitis, cm-s, and mongiels
Have spirit to cow thi-m ; so oui- soft French nobles
Chained up in ease and numbed seeuiity,
Thi.ii- spiiits shrunk up like theii- covetous fists ;
And never opened but Domitian-like,
,Vnd all his base, obsequious minions.
When they were catching, though it were but flies ;
Besotted with their ix'as;ints' love of gtiin,
Rusting at home, and on each other proving,
-Vie for their greatness but the gieater slaves.
And none is noble but who scrapes and saves.
Sal. 'Tis base, 'tis base ; and yet they think them high.
C/er. So children mounted on then- hobby-horsi-.
Think they are riding, when with wanton toil
They bear what should bear them. A m;m may weU
Comi>are them to those foolish great-spleened camels.
That to theii' high heads, begged of Jove horns higher ;
Wh' .se most uncomely and ridiculous pride
MTien he had satisfied, they could not use,
liut where they went upright before, they stooped,
,\iid bore their- heads much lower for their horns ;
As these high men do, low in all true gi-ace.
Their height being privileged to all things base.
.Vnd as the foolish poet tluit still writ
.\11 his most self-lov'd vei-se in paper royal,
I >i iiarchment nil'd with lead, smoothed with the pumice,
Bijimd richly up, and stning with ciimsou strings;
Xever so blest as when he writ and read
The ape-lov'd i-isuc of his bniin ; and never
But jo)"ing in himself : admiring ever : —
Yet in his works behold him, and he show'd
liike to a ditcher : so these painted men,
.\11 set on outside, look up<in within,
-Vnd not a peasant's entrails you shall find
Jlore foul and measled, nor more starved of mind.
Bnl. That makes theii- bodies fat. I fain would know
How many mUUons of our other nobles
\V(juld make one Guise. There is a true ti nth worthy,
Who, did not one act only blemish him
C/ir. One act ': what one ?
Ba/. One, that (though years past done)
.Sticks by him still, and will distain him ever.
Cler. Good heaven '. wherein ? wh;it one act can you name
Suppos'd his atain, that I U not prove his lustre?
Jl"!. To satisfy you, 'twas the JIassacre.
f'/ti: The Mas.sacre r I thought 'twas some such blemish.
Bnl. Oh, it was heinous.
<'/ir. To a brutish sense.
But not a manly reason. We so tender
The vile part in us, that the part divine
We see in heU and shrink not. AMio was first
Head of that JIassacre ?
Bid. Tlie Guise.
Cler. 'Tis nothing so.
A\"ho was in fault for all the slaughters made
1 Qxic/i' hxt,-ief\, buried alive.
In Ilion, and about it ? Were the Greeks ?
Was it not Paris ravishing the queen
Of Laceda;mon : Breach of shame and faith ?
And all the kiws of hospitality ':
This is the beastly slaughter nude of men.
When Truth is overthrown, his Liws coiTupted ;
When souls are smother'd in the flattered flesh,
Skin bodies iu-e no more than o.\en slain.
Bill. Differ not men fi-om oxen ?
Cler. Who says so ?
But see wherein. In the understanding rules
Of their opinions, Uves, and actions ;
In their communities of faith and reason.
Was not the wolf that nourished Houmlus
More human than the men that did expose him r
Biil. Th;it nuikes ag:iinst yuu.
Clir. Xot, sir, if you note
That by that deed, the actions difference make
'T^rixt men and beasts, and not their n.auies nor fomis.
Had fciith nor, shame, all hospitable rights
Been broke by Troy, Greece had not made that slaughter.
Had that been s;ived (says a philosopher),
The Iliads ;md Odysseys had been lost :
Had faith and true religion been preferred,
Keligious Guise had never mass;icred.
Bill. Well, sii-, I cannot when I meet with you
But thus digiess a little, for my learning.
From any other business I intend.
But now the voyage we resolv'd for C'ambiay,
I told the Guise, begins ; and we must haste.
And tiU the Loi-d Kenel hath found some means
(Conspiiing with the countess) to make sure
Tour sworn wreak on her husband, though this failed,
In my so brave command we 11 spend the time.
Sometimes in training out in skirmishes
And battles all om- troops and companies.
And sometimes breathe yom- brave .Scotch running horse,
That great Guise gave you, that aU th' horse in France
Far over-runs at every race and hunting
Both of the hare and deer. You shall be honoured
Like the great Guise himself, above the king.
And (can vou but appease your great-spleened sister,
For om- delayed wTeak of yom- brother's slaughter)
At all pai-ts you 'U be welcomed to your wonder.
Ckr. I 'U sec my lord the Guise again before
We take om- join-ney.
Bill. Oh. sir, by all means :
You cannot be too cai-eful of his love.
That ever takes occasion to be raising
Tour virtues, past the reaches of this age.
And ranks you -n-ith the best of th' .ancient Romans.
Chr. That pi-aise at no part moves me, but the worth
Of aU he can give othci-s sphered in him.
Bal. He yet is thought to entertain strange aims.
Cler. He may be, weU: yet not as you think sU-ange.
His sti-ange aims are to cross the common custom
Of serv-ile nobles : in which he 's so ravished.
That quite the earth he leaves, :md up he leaps
On Atlas' shouldei-s, and from thence looks do«-n,
Viewing how far off other high ones creep :
Rich, poor of reason, wander ; all p.ile looking,
And ti-embling but to think of their sure deaths,
Theii- lives so base are, and so rank their breaths,
"Which I teach Guise to heighten, and make sweet
With life's dear odours, a good mind and name;
For which, he only loves me, and deserves
lly love and Ufe, which thi-ough all deaths I vow :
238
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[i.D. 1013.
Resolving this, whatever change can be,
Xhou hast created, thou hast ruined me.
[Exit.
In tlie Thii-d Act Captain Maillard, Cbalou, and
.A.umale are in Cambray -ndth troops, having secret
instructions to arrest Clermont, who has, according
to the design ah-eady set forth, been left by Baligny,
and upon whom the troops have come with an out-
ward show of paying him honour. He is warned.
Those plotting his ruin deceive liim ^vith false oaths.
He doubts ; but alike philosophical and brave, goes
at the close of the Act to see a review held in Ids
honour, at which two soldiei-s, sent to him in the
dLsguLse of attendant lacqueys, have been appointed
to strike him down and seize him. Then these are
tlie Foiu-th and Fifth Acts.
CENA PRIMA.
Alnrtim uifhin. Excur-
sions over the stage.
The Lacqueys rmini»(i,
Maillard following
them.
Mail. Villains, not
hold him when ye
had him do«Ti.
1 . "WTio can hold light-
ning 'r 'Sdeath, a
man as well
Might catch a cannon
bullet in his mouth,
Ana Keeps such strength that when it softliest moves.
It piecemeal shivers any let it proves, —
So flew brave Clermont forth, till breath forsook him :
His spirit's convulsions made him bound again,
Past all their- reaches, till, all motion spent.
His fixed eyes cast a blaze of such disdain.
All stood and stared, and untouched let him lie.
As something sacred fallen out of the sky.
[A crii v-: thill.
Oh, now some rude hand hath laid hold on him !
From Wanivr's " Aiiion's Eittjlami," Itjljtj.
And spit it in your hands, as take and hold him.
Mail. Pursue ; enclose him ; stand, or fall on him.
And ye may take him. 'Sdeath, they make him guards.
[£jrit.
Alanim still, ami enter Chalox.
Chal. Stand, cowards, stand, strike, send your bullets at
him.
1. AVe came to entertain him, sir, for honour.
2. Did ye not say so 1'
Chal. Slaves, he is a traitor :
Command the horse troops to overrun the traitor. \_E.eit.
S/touts within. Alarum still, and chambers shot off. Thin
enter AuM.\LE.
Aum. What spirit breathes thus in this more than man.
Turns flesh to air possessed, and in a storm
Tears men about the field like autumn leaves ?
He turned wild lightning in the lackey's hands,
WTio, though their sudden Wolent twitch unhorsed him,
\ et when he bore himself, their saucj- fingei-s
Flew as too hot off, as he had been fire.
The ambush then made in, through all whose force,
He drove as if a fierce and fire-given cannon
Had spit his iron vomit out amongst them.
The battles then, in two half-moons enclosed him.
In which he showed as if he were the light
.And they but earth, who wond'ring what he was
Shrunk their steel horns, and gave him glorious pass :
.\nd as a great shot from a town besieged
At foes before it flies forth black and roaring.
But they too far, and that ^vith weight oppress'd.
As if disdaining earth doth only gi-aze,
Strike earth, and up again into the air.
Again sinks to it, and again doth rise.
Enter Maillard, Chaxox leading Clekmont, C:iptains ami
Soldiers following.
See, prisoner led, with Ids bonds honoured more
Than all the freedom he enjoyed before.
Mail. At length we have you, sir.
Cler. You have much joy too,
I made you sport yet. But I pray you tell me,
Are not you perjurd ':
Mail. No : 1 swore for the king.
Cler. Yet perjury I hope is iierjury.
Mail. But thus forswearing is not perjury.
You are no politician. Not a faidt.
How foul soever done for private ends.
Is fault in us sworn to the public good.
We never can be of the damned crew.
We may impolitic ourselves, as 'twere.
Into the kingdom's body politic,
AATiereof indeed we are members. You miss terms.
Cler. The things are yet the same.
Mail. 'Tis nothing so : the property is alter'd:
You are no lawyer. Or say that oath and oath
Are stUl the same in number, yet their species
Differ extremely.
Cler. "VMio liath no faith to men, to God hath none :
Retain you that, sir r who said so ':
Mail. 'Twas I.
Cler. Tliy own tongue damn thine infidelity.
But captains all, you know me nobly bom,
Use ye t" assaxUt such men as I with lai-kcys ':
Chal. They are no lackeys, sir, but soldiers.
Disguis'd in lackeys' coats.
I . Sir, we have seen the enemy.
Cler. Avaimt, ye rascals, hence !
Mail. Now leave your coats.
Cler. Let me not see them more.
Aum. I grieve that Virtue lives so undistinguishJ
From Vice in rmy ill, and though the crown
Of sovereign law she should be yet her footstool,
Subject to censui'e, all the shame and pain
Of all her rigom-.
Cler. W't false policy
Would cover all, biing like offenders hid.
That, after notice taken where they hide,
The more they crouch and stir the more are spied.
Aum. I wonder how this ehanc'd you.
Cler. Some infonner.
Bloodhound to mischief, usher to the hangman.
Thirsty of honour for some huge state act.
Perceiving me great with the worthy Guise,
^Vnd he, I know not why, held dangerous.
Made me the desperiite organ of his danger.
Only with that poor coloiu- : 'tis the common
.Vnd more than [cat]-like trick of treachery,
.\nd vermin bred to rapine and to nun :
For which this fault is still to be accus'd;
A.D. iBia.)
PLAYS.
239
Since good acts full, crafts and deceits are us'd.
If it be other, never pity me.
Aiim. Sir, we are glad, believe it, and have hope
Tlio king will so conceit it.
Cler. At his pleasure.
In meantime, what's your will, lord- lieutenant ':*
Mull. To leave youi- own horse, and to mount the trumpet's.
Vkr. It shall he done : this heavily prevents
My purposed recreation in these parts ;
■Which now I think on : let me beg you, sir,
To lend me some one captain of your troops,
To bear the message of my hapless service
And misery, to mj- most noble mistress.
Countess of Cambray : to whose house this night
I promis'd my repair, and know mo.st truly
AVith all the ceremonies of her favour
She sui-e expects me.
Mvil. Think you now on that 'i
Cler. On that, sii-? Ay, and that so worthily,
That if the king, in spite of your great sen-ice,
Would send me instant promise of enliirgement,
Condition I would set this message by,
I would not take it, but had rather die.
J II III. Your message shall be done, sir : I myself
WiU be for you a messenger of ill.
Vkr. I thank you, sir, and doubt not yet to live
To quit your kindness.
All III. Jlean space use your spirit
And knowledge for the cheerful patience
Of this so sti'ange and sudden consequence.
Cler. Good sir, believe that no particular torture
Can force me from my glad obedience
To anything the high and genei-al Cause,
To match with his whole fabric, hath ordained.
And know ye all (though far from all your aims.
Yet worth them all, and all men's endless studies)
I'hat in this one thing, all the discipline
Of manners and of manhood is contjiin'd :
A man to join himself with th' universe
In his main sway, and make, in all things fit.
One with that all, and go on, romid as it ;
Xot plucking from the whole his wretched part,
And into straits, or into nought revert.
Wishing the complete universe might be
.Subject to such a rag of it as he :
But to consider great necessity
All things, as well refract as voluntary-,
Keduceth to the prime celestial Cause, —
%\Tiieh he that yields to with a man's applause.
And cheek by cheek goes, crossing it no breath.
But like God's image follows to the death.
That man is truly wise ; and everj-thing.
Each cause, and every part, distinguishing
In nature, with enough art understands,
.\.nd that full glory merits at all hands,
That doth the whole world at all part.s adorn.
And appertains to one celestial bom. ^Exeunt omnes.
filter B.\LIGXY, Renel.
Snl. So foul a scandal never man sustained.
Which caus'd by the king, is rude and t>Tannous :
Give me a place, and my lieutenant make
TTie fiUer of it !
Jleii. I should never look
For better of him ; never tru.st a man.
For any ju.stice, that is rapt with pleasure ;
To order arms well, that makes smocks his ensigns.
And his whole govci-nments sails : you heard of late,
He had the four-and-twenty ways of vencrj-
Done all before him.
Hal. 'Twas abhon'd and bea.stly.
lioi. 'Tis more than nature's mighty hand can do
To make one humaue and a lecher too.
Look how a wolf doth hke a dog appear,
So, like a friend is an adulterer.
Voluptuaries, and these belly-gods
No more true men are, than so mimy toads.
A good man happy, is a common good ;
VOe men advanced live of the conun(m blood.
Sal. Give and then take, hke diildieu.
lien. Bounties are
As soon repented as they hapiicn rare.
£al. AMiat should kings do, and men of eminent places ;
But as they gather, sow gifts to the graces ':
And where they have given, rather give again,
(Being given for virtue) than like babes and fools.
Take and repent gifts ; why are wealth and \)Ov,it?
Jteii. Power and wealth move to tjTanny, not bounty.
The merchant for his wealth is swollen in mind,
When yet the chief lord of it is the wind.
Bill. That may so chance to our state-merchants too :
Something pert'onraed, that hath not far to go.
Sen. That's the main point, my loi-d; insist on that.
Bill. But doth this tire i-age further ;- hath it taken
The tender tinder of my wife's sere blood f
Is she so passionate Y
Ren. So wild, so mad,
She cannot live, and this imwreaked sustain.
The woes are bloody that in women reign.
The Sicile gulf keeps f eai- in less degi-ee ;
There is no tiger, not more tame than she.
Hal. There is no looking home then Y
Ren. Home? Medea
AVith all her herbs, channs, thunders, lightenings.
Made not her presence ;md black haunts more dreadful.
Bal. Come, to the king, if he refonn not all,
Mark the event, none stand where that must fall. [A'rfMMt
Enter Countess, RiouA, and an Usher.
Vsh. Madame, a captain come from Clermont D'Ambois
Desires access to you.
Count. kjv\ not himself r
Jjsh. Xo, madame.
Count. That 's not well, -\ttend him in.
The last hour of his promise now run out
And he break '? some brack' 's in the frame of nature
That forceth his breach.
Enter Usher uiid Aimale.
Aiim. Save your ladyship.
Count. All welcome. Come you from my worthy servant ?
Aum. Ay, madame, and confer such news from him.
Count. Such news ? what news ?
Anm. News that I wish some other had the charge of.
Count. Oh, what charge r whsitnews'r
Aum. Your ladyship must use some patience
Or else I cannot do him that desire.
He urg'd with such affection to your grace's.
Coimt. Do it ; for heaven's love do it, if you serve
His kind desires ; I will have patience.
Is he in health ?
Aum. He is.
[Exit Usher.
» Brad:, flaw.
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Count. Why, that's the gi-ound
Of all the good estate we hold in earth ;
All our ill hiiilt upon that, is no more
Than we may bear, and should. Express it all.
Aiini. Madam, 'tis only this ; his liberty.
Count. His liberty '. Without that, health is nothing.
WTiy live I, but to ask in doubt of that,
Is that bereft him 'r
Aiaii. You'll again prevent me.
Co>iiit. Xo more, I swear, I nuist hear, and together
Come all my misery. I '11 hold though I burst.
Aiim. Then, madame, thus it fares: he was invited
By wav of honour to him, to take view
( If all the powers his brotlier Baligny
Hath in his government; wliieli rang'd in battles,
Maillard, lieutenant to the governor.
Having received stiict letters from the king,
To ti-ain him to the musters, and betray him,
To theii- surprise, which, with t'halon in eliief,
,\nd other captains, all thi' Held put liard
liy his incredible valour for liis 'scape.
They haplessly and guiltlessly perform' d.
And to BastiUc he 's now led prisoner.
Coioit. What change is here ? how are my hopes prevented r
< )li, my most faithful servant : thou betrayed !
Will kings make treason lawful ? Is society
(To keep which only, kings were ijrst ordain'd,
Less broke in breaking faith 'twixt friend ami friend,
Than 'twixt the king and subject ? let them fear.
Kings' precedents in licence lack no danger.
Kings are compar'd to gods, sliould be like them
Full in all right, in nought superfluous ;
Nor nothing straining pass right, for tlieir right :
Reign justly, and reign safely. Policy
Is but a guard corrupted, and a way
Ventured in deserts, without guide or path.
Kings punish subjects' errors with their own.
Kings are like archers, and their subjects, sliafts :
For as when archers let their arrows fly.
They call to them, and bid them fly or fall,
As if 'twere in the free power of the shaft
To fly or fall, when only 'tis the strength,
Straight shooting, compass given it by the archer.
That makes it hit or miss ; and doing either.
He 's to be praised or blamed, and not the shaft :
So kings to subjects crying, " Do, do not this."
Must to them by their own example's strengtli.
The straightness of th(-ir acts, and equal compass,
Give subjects power to obey them in the like :
Not shoot them forth with faulty aim and stieng-th.
And lay the fault in them for flying amiss.
Ainii. But for your servant, I dare swear him guiltless.
fount. He would not for his kingdom traitor be;
His laws are not so true to him, as he.
Oh, knew I how to free him, by way forced
Tludugh all their army, I would fly, and do it :
And had I, of my courage and resolve.
But ten such more, they should not all retain him;
But I will never die, before I give
Maillard a hundred slashes with a sword,
( 'baton a bundi-ed breaches with a pistol.
They could not all have taken Clermont D'Ambois,
Without their treachery; he had bought his bands out
With their slave bloods : but he was credulous ;
He would believe, since he would be believ'd ;
"\ our noblest natures are most credulous.
A\Tio gives no trust, all trust is apt to break ;
Hate like hell-mouth, who think not what they speak.
Aiiin. Well, madame, I must tender my attendance
On him again. WiU 't please you to return
No service to him by me ?
Count. Fetch me straight
My little cabinet. [Krit Nvuse] 'Tis little, tcU him,
And mu<-h too little for his matchless love :
But as in him the worths of manj- men
Arc close eontr,acted ; \_Entcr Nvrse] so in this are jewels
Worth many cabinets. Here, with this, good sir.
Commend my kindest service to my servant.
Thank him, with .all my comforts ; and, in them.
With all my life for them : all sent from him
In his remembrance of me, and true love :
And look you tell him, tell him how I lie
[^S!hf /ciiff/x iloini nt jiis feet.
Prostrate at feet of liis accursed misfortune.
Pouring my tears out, which shall ever fall,
Till I have pour'd for him out eyes and all.
Akiii. Oh, madame, this will kill him: comfort you
With full assurance of his quick acquittal ;
Be not so passionate : rise, cease j-oiu- tears.
Count. Then must my life cease. Tears are all the vent
My life hath to 'scape death : tears please me better
Than all life's comforts, being the natural food
Of hearty .sonow. As a tree fruit bears,
So doth an imdissembled sorrow, tears.
[/Tf raises her, and leads liir oat. E.rei(iit.
Usii. This might have been before, and saved nuu'h charge.
[E.r:t.
Enter Hknkv, Giise, Baligny, Esp., Soissox, Peuicot with
pen, in/i, and paper.
Gni. Now, sir, 1 hope your much abused eyes see
In my word for my Clei-mont, what a villain
He was who whispered in your jealous ear
His own black treason in suggesting Clermont's.
Colour'd witli nothing but being great with me.
Sign tlien this writ for his delivery,
Your hand was never urg'd with worthier bipldness:
Come, pray sir, sign it : why should kings be pray'd
To acts of justice 'f 'tis a reverence
Makes them despised, and shows they stick and tire
In what their free powers shmdd be hot as fire.
Een. Well, take your will, sir ; I 'U have mine ere long.
\_Arrrse.
But wlierein is this Clermont such a rare one ':
Gifi. In liis most gentle and unwearied mind,
Kigbtly to virtue fram'd ; in very nature ;
In liis most firm inexorable spirit
To be removed from anything he choosetli
For worthiness; or bear the least persuasion
To what is base, or fitteth not his object ;
In his contempt of riches and of greatness ;
In estimation of th' idolatrous vulgar ;
His scorn of all things servile and ignoble,
Tliough they could gain him never such advancement ;
His lilieral kind of speaking what is truth.
In sjiite of temporising ; the great rising.
And learning of his soul, so much the more
Against ill Fortune, as she set herself
.Shai-i) against him, or would present most hard.
To slum the malice of her deadliest charge ;
His detestation of his special friends
Wben lie perceived their tyrannous will to do.
Or their objection basely to sustain
Any injustice that they could revenge;
A.D. 1613.]
PLAYS.
241
The flexibility of his most anger,
Even in the main career and fury of it,
When any object of desertful pity
Offers itself to him ; his swoct disposure
As much abhorring to behold as do
Any unnatural and bloody action ;
His just contempt of jesters, parasites,
Servile observers, and polluted tongues :
In short, this Senecal man' is found in him.
He may with heaven's immortal powers compare,
To whom the day and fortune equal are.
Come fair or foul, whatever chance can fall,
Fixed in himself, he stUl is one to all.
Sen. Shows he to aU others thus?
Omnes. To all that know him.
Hoi. And apprehend I this man for a traitor ?
Gi<i. These are your JIachiavelian villains,
Your bastard Teucers that, their mischiefs done.
Run to your shield for shelter : Cacuses,
That cut their too large murderous thieveries
To their den's length still : woe be to that state
Where treachery guards, and ruin makes men great.
Hen. Go, take my letters for him, and release him.
Om. Thanks to your highness I Ever live your highness !
\_Ej:etlnt,
Bal. Better a man were buried quick, than live
A property for state, and spoil to thrive. \_Exit.
Enter Clermont, M.\illakd, Chalox, with Soldiers.
Mail. We joy you take a chance so ill, so wcU.
Cler. 'WTio ever saw me differ in acceptance
Of either fortune ':
Chal. 'What, love bad like good ?
How should one learn that ?
Cler. To love nothing outward
Or not within own powers to command ;
And so being sure of everj-thing we love,
^^^l0 cares to lose the rest ': If any man
Would neither live nor die in his free choice.
But as he sees necessity will have it,
(Which if he would resist, he strives in vain,)
What can come near him that He doth not well.
And if in worst events His will be done
How can the best be better ? all is one.
Mail. Methinks 'tis pretty.
Cler. Put no difference
If you have this, or not this ; but as children
Plaj-ing at quoits ever regard their game
And care not for then- quoits, so let a man
The things themselves that touch him not esteem.
But his free power in well disposing them.
Chnl. PrettTi", from toys.
Cler. Jlethinks this double distich
Seems prettily too, to stay superfluous longings : —
Not to have want, what riches doth exceed ?
Not to be suliject, what superior thing ?
He that to nought aspires, doth nothing need.
N\Tio breaks no law, is subject to no king.
Mail. This goes to mine ear well, I promise you.
Chnl. Oh, but 'tis passing hard to stay one thus.
Cler. 'Tis so ; rank custom raps- men so beyond it,
And as 'tis hard, so well men's doors to bar
To keep the cat out, and th' adulterer,
So 'tis as hard to curb affections so
We let in nought to make them overflow.
' Semcal man. With a mind pliilosopliical as Seneca's.
2 i?ap)!, sixatcbes. From Latin "rapio."
151
And as of Homer's verses, many critics
On those stand of which Time's old moth hath eaten
The first or last feet, and the perfect parts
Of his unmatched poem sink beneath,
With upright gasping and sloth dull as death :
So the unprofitable things of life,
And those we cannot compass, we affect;
AU that doth profit, and we have, neglect,
Like cautious and basely-getting men
That, gathering much, use never what they keep,
But for the least they lose, extremely weep.
Mail. This pretty talking and our horses walking
Down this steep hill, spends time with equal profit."
Cler. 'Tis well bestow'd on ye, meat and men sick
Agree Kke this and you : and yet even this
Is th' end of all skill, power, wealth, all that is.
Chal. I long to hear, sir, how your mistress takes this.
Enter Avmale u-ith a cabinet.
Mail. We soon shall know it : see Aumale retmned.
Aiim. Ease to your bands, sir.
Cler. Welcome, worthy friend.
Chal. How took his noblest mistress j-our sad message ':
Aum. As great rich men take sudden poverty.
I never mtnesscd a more noble love.
Nor a more ruthf ul son-ow : I well wished
Some other had been master of my message.
Mail. You are happy, sir, in all things but this one
Of your unhappy apprehension.
Cler. This is to me, compared with her much moan.
As one tear is to her whole passion.
Aum. Sir, she commends her kindest sernce to you,
And this rich cabinet.
Chal. Oh, happy man !
This may enough hold to redeem your bands.
Cler. These clouds, I doubt not, will be soon blo«-n over.
Enter Baligxy with his discharge : Rexel, and othcrt.
Aum. Your hope is just and happy ; see, sir, both
In both the looks of these.
Eal. Here's a discharge
For this your prisoner, my good lord lieutenant.
Mail. Alas, sir, I usurp that style enforced.
And hope you know it was not my aspiring.
Bal. AVeU, sir, my wrong aspired past all men's hope.
Mail. I sorrow for it, sir.
Ren. You see, sir, there
Your prisoner's discharge authentical.
Mail. It is, sir, and I %-ield it him with gladness.
Bal. Brother, I brought you down to much good purpose.
Cler. Repeat not that, sir : the amends makes all.
Ren. I joy in it, my best and worthiest friend :
Oh, you 've a princely fautor^ of the Guise.
Bal. I think I did my part too.
Ren. Well, sir ; all
Is in the issue well : and, worthiest friend,
Here 's from your friend the Guise ; here from the countess.
Your bi-other's mistress, the contents whereof
I know, and must prepare you now to please
Th' unrested spirit of your slaughtered brother,
If it be true, as you imagined once,
His apparition showed it. The complot
Is now laid sure betwi.xt us ; therefore haste
Both to your great frimd, who hath some use weighty
For vour repair to him, and to the countess,
\Miose satisfaction is no less important.
a Fciutor, favourer, patron. A Latin word.
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Cler. I see all, and will haste as it importeth.
And, good friend, since I must delay a little
My wished attendance on my noblest mistress,
Excuse me to her, with return of this.
And endless protestation of my service.
And now become as glad a messenger,
As you were late a woeful.
Aiun. Hapjjy change !
I ever will salute thee with my service. [^Exit.
Sal. Yet more news, brother; the late jesting Monsieur
Makes now your brother's dying prophecy equal
At all parts, being dead as he presaged.
Ren. Heaven shield the Guise from seconding that truth.
With what he likewise prophesied on him.
Cler. It hath enough, 'twas graced with truth in one.
To the other falsehood and confusion.
Lead to the court, sir.
£al. You I 'II lead no more.
It was too ominous and foul before. [Exemit.
Finis actus qiiarti.
ACTUS QUINTI, SCjENA PRIMA.
Asccndit Umbra Bussi.'
Vmb. Up from the chaos of eternal night,
(To which the whole digestion of the world
Is now returning) once more I ascend.
And bide the cold damp of this piercing ail',
To urge to Justice, whose almighty word
Pleasures the bloody acts of impious men
With equal penance, who in the act itself
Includes the iiitiiction, which like chained shot
Batter together still ; though, as the thunder
•Seem-s, by men's duller hearing than their sight,
To break a great time after lightning forth.
Yet both at one time tear the labouring cloud,
So men think penance of their ills is slow
Though the ill and penance still together go.
Reform, ye ignorant men, your manless lives
AVhose laws ye think are nothing but your lusts !
AVhen leaving, but for sujiposition sake.
The body of felicity, Ileligion,
Set in the midst of Christendom, and her head
Cleft to her bosom, one half one way swaying,
Another the other, all the Christian world,
And all her laws, whose observation
Stands upon faith, above the power of reason ;
Leaving (I say) all these, this might suffice,
To fray ye from j-our vicious swinge in ill.
And set you more on fire to do more good :
That since the world (as which of you denies)
Stands by proportion, all may thence conclude
That all the joints and nerves sustaining nature
As well may break and yet the world abide,
As any one good unrewarded die.
Or any one iU 'scape his penalty. [The ghost stands close.
Enter GrisE, Clermont.
Giii. Thus, friend, thou sce'st how all good men would
thrive.
Did not the good thou prompt'st mo with prevent
The jealous iU pursuing them in others.
But now thy dangers are dispatched, note mine :
Hast thou not heard of that admired voice.
That at the harricadocs spake to me,
(No person seen,) Let 's lead, my lord, to Rheims ?
^ Tlie Ghost of Biissy rises.
Cler. Jsor could you learn the person ?
Giii. By no means.
Cler. 'Twas but your fancy then, a waking dream.
For as in sleep, which binds both th' outward senses,
And the sense common too, th' imagining power,
Stii-red up by forms hid in the memory's store,
Or by the vapours of o'er-fiowing humoui's
In bodies full and foul and mixed with spirits.
Feigns man}' strange, miraculous images.
In which act it so painfully applies
Itself to those forms, that the common sense
It actuates with his motion, and thereby,
Those fictions true seem, and have real act :
.So, in the strength of our conceits, awake,
The cause alike doth of like fictions make.
Giii. Be what it will, 'twas a presage of something
Weighty and secret, which th' advertisements
I have received from all parts, both without.
And in this kingdom, as from Rome and Spain
Soccain and Savoy, gives me cause to think ;
All writing that our plot's catastrojjhe
For propagation of the Catholic cause
Will bloody prove, dissolving all our councils.
Cler. Retire then from them all.
Giii. I must not do so.
The Archbishop of Lyons tells me plain
I shall be said then to abandon France
In so important an occasion :
.\nd that mine enemies, their profit making
( )f my faint absence, soon would let that fall.
That all mj' pains did to this height exhale.
Clu: Let all fall that would rise unlawfidly.
JIake not your forward spirit in virtue's right
A projierty for vice, by thrusting on
Further than all your powei-s can fetch you off.
It is enough, your will is infinite
To all things virtuous and religious.
Which, within limits kept, may without danger
Let virtue some good from your graces gather,
Avarice of all is ever Kothing's father.
Ghost. Danger, the spur of all great minds, is ever
The curb to your tame spu'its ; you respect not.
With all your holiness of life and learning.
More than the pi-escnt, like illiterate vulgars.
Your mind, you say, kept in your flesh's bounds,
Shows that man's wiU must ruled be by his power :
^Tien by true doctrine you are taught to live
Rather without the body than within.
And rather to your Ciod still than yourself.
To live to Him, is to do all things fitting
His image, in which, like Himself we live ;
To be His image, is to do those things
That make us deathless, which by death is only
Doing those deeds that fit eternity,
.A.nd those deeds are the perfecting that justice
That makes the world last, which proportion is
Of punishment and wreak for every wrong.
As well as for right a reward as strong : —
Away then, use the means thou hast to right
The wrong I suffered ! What corrupted law
Leaves unperformed in kings, do thou supply.
And be above them all in dignity. [Exit.
Giii. Why stand" st thou still thus, and ajipliest thine ears
And eyes to nothing ?
Cler. Saw you nothing here ?
Giii. Thou dream'st. Awake now : what was here to see ?
Cler. My brother's spirit! urging his revenge.
A.D. 1613.1 PLAYS.
243
Gui. Thy brother's spirit 1 pray thee mouk me not.
Cler. No, by my love and service.
Gui. Would he rise,
And not be thund'ring threats against the Guise ?
C7ir. You make amends for enmity to him
With ten parts more love, and desert of me ;
And as you make your hate to him no let
Of any love to me, no more bears ho
(.Since you to me supply it) hate to you.
Which reason and which justice is performed
In spirits ten parts more than ticshy men ;
To whose foresights oiu- acts and thoughts lie open.
And therefore, since he saw the treachery
Late practised by my brother Baligny,
He would not honour his hand with the justice
(As he esteems it) of his blood's revenge.
To which my sister needs would have him sworn
Before she would consent to marry him.
Gui. Baligny, who would believe there were
A man, that (only since his looks are raised
Upwards, and have but sacred heaven in sight)
Could bear a mind so more than devilish
As for the painted glory of the countenance
Flitting in kings, doth good for nought esteem,
And the more iU he does the better seem.
C7tr. We easily may believe it, since we see
In this world's practice few men better bo.
Justice to Uve doth nought but justice need,
But jiolicy must still on mischief feed.
Untruth, for all his ends, truth's name doth sue in ;
None safely Uve but those that study ruin.
A good man happy, is a common good ;
HI men advanced live of the common blood.
Gui. But this thy brother's spirit startles me.
These spirits seld or never haunting men
But some mishap ensues.
C/er. Ensue what can :
Tyrants may kiU, but never hurt a ilan ;
All to his good makes, spite of death and hell.
Unter AuM.iLE.
All III. All the desert of good, renown yoxir highness !
Gui. Welcome Aumale.
Cler. 3Iy good fiiend, friendly welcome.
How took my noblest mistress the changed news ?
Aum. It came too late, sir, for those loveliest eyes,
Through which a soul looked so divinely loving,
Tears nothing uttering her distress enough,
!She wept quite out, and like two falling stars
Their dearest sights quite vanished with her tears.
C'/tr. All good forbid it !
Gui. What events are these ?
Cler. All must be borne, my lord. — And yet this chance
AVould wOlingly enforce a man to cast off
All power to bear with comfort, since he sees
In this, our comforts made our miseries.
Gui. How strangely thou art loved of both the sexes;
Yet thou lov'st neither, but the good of both.
Cler. In love of women, my affection first
Takes fire out of the frail parts of my blood ;
^\^lich till I have enjoyed, is passionate,
Like other lovers : but fruition past,
I then love out of judgment ; tlie desert
Of her I love still sticking in my heart,
Though the desire and the delight be gone ;
Which must chance still, since the comparison
Made upon trial 'twixt what reason loves.
And what affection, makes in me best
Ever preferred ; what most love, valuing least.
Gui. Thy love being judgment then, and of the mind.
Marry thy worthiest mistress now being bUnd.
Cler. If there were love in marriage, so I would.
But I deny that any man doth love,
Affecting wives, maids, widows, any women :
For neither flies love milk, although they diown
In greedy search thereof ; nor doth the bee
Love honey, though the labour of her hfe
Is spent in gathering it ; nor those that fat
Or beasts, or fowls, do any thing therein
For any love : for as when only Nature
Moves men to meat, as far as her power rules
She doth it with a temperate appetite.
The too much men devour abhorring nature ;
And in the most health, is om- most disease.
So, when humanity rules men and women,
'Tis for society confined in reason.
But what excites the [mere] desii'e in blood
By no means justly can be construed love ;
For when love kindles any knowing spirit,
It ends in virtue and eft'ects divine ;
And is in friendship chaste and masculine.
Gui. Thou shalt my mistress be ; methinks my blood
Is taken up to all love with thy virtues.
And howsoever other men despise
These paradoxes strange and too precise.
Since they hold on the right way of our reason
I could attend them ever. Come, away ;
Pert'oi-m thy brother's thus importuned wreak ;
And I will see what gieat affaiis the king
Hath to employ my counsel, which he seems
Much to desire, and more and more esteems. [JErit.
JSnier Henry, Baligxy, with six of tht guard.
Ben. Saw you his saucy forcing of my hand
To D'Ambois' freedom ?
Bal. Saw, and through mine eyes
Let fire into my heart, that burned to bear
An insolence so giantly austere.
UcH. The more kings bear at subjects' hands, the more
Their lingering justice gathers ; that resembles
The weighty and the goodly-bodied eagle,
^\^^o being on earth before her shady wings
Can raise her into air, a mighty way
Close by the ground she runs ; but being aloft,
All she commands she flics at ; and the more
Death in her seres' bears, the more time she stays
Her thund'ry stoop from that on which she preys.
Bal. You must be then more secret in the weight
Of these vour shady counsels, who will else
Bear, where such sparks fly as the Guise and D'Ambois,
Powder about them. Counsels, as your entrails,
Should be unpierccd and sound kept; for not those
"SMiom you discover you neglect, but ope
A ruinous passage to your own best hope.
Hen. We have spies set on us, as we on others ;
And therefore they that serve us must excuse us
If what we most hold in our hearts take wind,
Deceit hath eyes that see into the mind.
But this plot shall be quicker than their t«nnklmg,
On whose Uds fate with her dead weight shall he
And confidence that Ughtens ere she die.
1 Scrs. claws. " Sere " is the claw of an e»gle or bird of proy, from
the Frencli " serre."
244
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1013.
Friends of my guard, as ye gave oath to be
True to your sovereign, keoji it manfully :
Your eyes have witnessed oft th' ambition
That never made access to me in Guise
But treason ever sparkled in his eyes :
Which if you free us of, our safety shaU
You not our subjects but oui- patrons call.
Omtics. Our duties bind us : he is now but dead.
Hen. We trust in it, and thank ye. Baligny,
Go lodge their ambush, and thou God that art
Fautor of jirinccs, thunder from the skies
Beneath his hiU of pride this giant Guise. [Exeunt.
Enter Tamyk.\ with a letter, Charlotte' in man's attire.
Tarn. I see you are servant, sir, to my dear sister.
The lady of her loved Baligny.
Char. Sladam, I am bound to her virtuous bounties
For that life which I offer in her virtuous service
To the revenge of her renowned brother.
Tarn. She writes to me as much, and much desires
That you may be the man whose spirit she knows
Will cut short off these long and duU delays,
Hitherto bribing the eternal justice :
Which I believe, since her unmatched spirit
Can judge of spirits that have her sulphur in them.
But I must tell you, that I make no doubt
Her living brother will revenge her dead,
On whom the dead imposed the task ; and he,
I know, will come to effect it instantly.
Char. They ar.. but words in him. Believe them not.
Tarn. See ; this is the vault, where he must enter :
Where now I think he is.
Enter Remel at the vault, u'ith the Countess beini/ Mind.
Ren. God save you, lady.
What gentleman is this, with whom you trust
The deadly weighty secret of this hour- ?
Tarn. One that yourself will say, I well may trust.
Sen. Then come up, madam. [He helps the Countess up.
See here, honoured lady,
A countess that in love's mishap doth equal
At aU parts your wronged self ; and is the mistress
Of your slain servant's brother, in whose love.
For his late treacherous apprehension,
She wept her fair eyes from her ivory brows.
And would have wept her soul out, had not I
Promised to bring her to this mortal quarry,
That by her lost eyes for her servant's love
She might conjure him from this stern attempt,
In which (l)y a mo.st ominous dream she had)
She knows his death fixed, and that never more
Out of this place the sun shall seo him live.
Char. I am provided then to take his place
And undertaking on me.
Ren. You, sir, why ?
Char. Since I am charged so by ray mistress,
His mournful sister.
Tarn. See her letter, sir. \_Hc reads.
Good madam, I rue j'our fate more than mine,
And know not how to order these affairs.
They stand on such occurrents.
Ren. This indeed
I know to be your lady mistress' hand.
And know besides his brother's will, and must
Endure no hand in this Revenge but his.
1 ChaWoHc, it should be remembered, is herself Baligny's wife,
sister of Bussy D'Ambois, beut on the reveuging of his death.
Enter Umbra Bussy."
Vmb. Away, dispute no more : get up, and see,
Clermont must author this just tragedy.
Coun. Who 's that ?
Ren. The spirit of Bussy.
Tam. Oh, my servant ! let us embrace.
Umb. Forbear. The air, in which
My figure's likeness is impressed, will blast.
Let my Revenge for all loves satisfy,
In which, dame, fear not, Clermont shall not die
No word dispute more : up, and see the event.
[Exeunt Ladies.
JIake the guard sure, Renel ; and then the doors
Command to make fast, when the earl is in. [Exit Ren.
The black soft-footed hour is now on wing
Which for my just wreak ghosts shall celebrate
With dances dire and of infernal state. [Exit.
Enter Guise.
Gui. Who says that death is natui-al, when nature
Is with the only thought of it dismayed ?
I have had lotteries set up for my death.
And I have ch-awn beneath my trencher one,
Knit in my handkerchief another lot.
The words being : you are a dead man if j'ou enter.
And these words, this imperfect blood and flesh
Shrink at in spite of me ; theii- solid' st part
Jlelting like snow within me, with cold fire.
I hate myself, that seeking to rule kings
I cannot curb my slave. AVould any spirit
Free, manly, princely, wish to live to be
Commanded by this mass of slavery,
Since reason, judgment, resolution.
And scorn of what we fear, will yield to fear ?
While this same sink of sensuality swells.
Who would live sinking in it, and not spring
Up to the stars, and leave this carrion here.
For wolves, and vultvires, and for dogs to tear ?
O Clei-mont D'Ambois, wert thou here to chide
This softness from my flesh, far as my reason,
Far as my resolution, not to stir
One foot out of the way, for death and hell I
Let my false man by falsehood perish here,
There 's no way else to set my true man clear.
Entur Jlessengor.
Mess. The king desires your grace to come to council.
Gui. I come. It cannot bo : he will not dare
To touch me with a treachery so profane.
Would Clermont now were here, to try how he
Would lay about him, if this plot should be :
Here would be tossing souls into the sky !
Who ever knew blood saved by treachery ?
Well, I must on, and wUl ; what should I fear ?
Not against two, Alcides ? against two.
And Hercules to friend, the Guise will go.
[He takes up the arras, and the guard enters upon h im : he draws.
Gui. Hold, murderers !
[They strike him down. The King eomcs in, fujlit with Es.,
So then, this is confidence [Suis., and others.
In greatness, not in goodness ! Where is the king ?
Let him appear to justify his deed.
In spite of my betrayed wounds, ere my soul
Take her flight through them, and my tongue hath strength
To urge his tyranny
2 The Ghost of Bussy.
. 1613.]
PLAYS.
245
Sen. See, sir, I am come
To justify it before men, and God,
AATio knows with what wounds in my heart for woe
Of your so wounded faith, I made these wounds ;
Forced to it by an insolence of force
To stir a stone ; nor is a rock opposed
To all the billows of the churlish sea
More beat, and eaten with them, than was I
■\Vith yoiu- ambitious mad idolatry ;
And this blood I shed is to save the blood
Of many thousands.
Giti. That 's your white pretext.
But you will find one drop of blood shed lawless
Will be the fountain to a purple sea.
The present lust and shift made for kings' lives
Against the pure form and just power of law,
WiU thiive like shifter's purchases ; there hangs
A black star in the skies, to which the sun
Ciires yet no light, will rain a poisoned shower
Into your entrails, that will make you feel
How little safety lies in treacherous steel
Heti. Well, sir, I '11 bear it. Ypu're a brother too,
Bursts with like threats, the scarlet cardinal :
Seek, and lay hands on him ; and take this hence, —
Their bloods, for all you, on my conscience. [^Exit.
Giii. So, sir, your fuU swing take: mine, death hath curbed.
Clermont, farewell ! Oh, didst thou see but this :
But it is better, see by this the ice
Broke to thine own blood, which thou wilt despise
AVTien thou hear'st mine shed. Is there no friend here
Will bear my love to him !"
Aiim. I win, my lord.
Gid. Thanks with my last breath : recommend me then
To the most worthy of the race of men. [Dies. Exeunt.
Enter lIoNLS. and T.iMVK.i.
Mont. WTio have you let into my house ?
Tarn. I. none.
Mont. 'Tis false, I savour the rank blood of foes
In every comer.
Tain. That you may do well ;
It is the blood you lately shed, you smell.
Mont. 'Sdcath, the vault opes. [The giiJf opens.
Tarn. What vault ': hold yom- sword. [Clermont ascends.
Cler. No, let him use it.
Mont. Treason! murder, murder !
Cler. E.xclaim not ; 'tis in vain, and base in you.
Being one, to only one.
Mont. O bloody strumpet 1
Cltr. With what blood charge you her ? It may be mine
As well as yours. There shall not any else
Enter or touch you. I confer no guards,
■NTor imitate the murderous course you took :
But single here, wiU have my former challenge
Now answer'd single. Not a minute more
My brother's blood shall stay for his Eevcnge,
If I can act it ; if not, mine shall add
A double conquest to }-ou, that alone
Put it to fortune now, and use no odds.
Storm not, nor beat yourself thus 'gainst the doors,
Like to a savage vermin in a trap :
AH doors are sure made, and you cannot 'scape,
But by your valour.
Mont. No, no, come and kill me.
Cler. If you will die so Hke a beast, you shall.
But when the spirit of a man may save you,
Do not so shame man, and a noble man.
Mont. I do not show this baseness that I fear thee,
But to prevent and shame thy victory,
AVTiich of one biise is base, and so I '11 die.
C'"- Here then.
Mont. Stay, hold, one thought hath hardened me,
[lie Dtarts up.
Ani. since I must afford thee victorj-,
It shi'iU be great and brave, if one request
Thou -BTlt admit me.
Cler. What 's that ?
Mont. Give me leave
To fetch and use the sword thy brother gave mo
When he was bravely giving up his life.
Cler. No, I'U not fight against my brother's sword:
Not that I fear it ; but since 'tis a trick
For you to show your back.
Mont. By all truth, no :
Take but my honourable oath, I will not.
Cler. Your honourable oath 1 Plum truth no place has
Where oaths are honom'able.
Tain. Trust not his oath.
He win lie like a lapwing, when she flics
Far from her sought nest, stiU " here 'tis" she cries.
Mont. Out on thee, dam of devils, I will quite
Disgrace thy brave's conquest, die, not fight. [Lies doum.
Tain. Out on my fortune to wed such an abject.
Now is the people's voice the voice of God ,
He that to woimd a woman wants so iiwch.
As he did me, a man dares never touch.
Cler. Revenge your wounds now, madam, I resign him
Up to your full will, since he will not fight.
First you shall torture him (as he did you.
And justice wills) , and then pay I my vow.
Here, take this poignard.
Mont. Sink earth, open heaven.
And let fall vengeance.
Tain. Come, sir, good sir, hold him.
Mont. shame of women, whither art thou fled'.
Cler. "WTiy, good my lord, is it a greater shame
For her than you ? Come, I wiU be the bands
You used to her, profaning her fan- hands.
Mont. No, sir, I 'U fight now, and the terror be
Or all you champions to such as she.
I did but thus far daUy : now observe,
all you aching foreheads that have robb'd
Your hands of weapons tmd yom: hearts of valour,
Join in me all your rages and rebutters,
And into dust ram this s.ame race of furies
In this one reUc of the Ambois gall,
In his one purple soul shed, d^■o^^•n it all. [FigU.
Mont. Now give me breath a while.
rji^^. Receive it freely.
Mont. What think you of this now f
Cler. It is verj' noble ;
Had it been free", at least, and of yourself.
And thus we see, where valom- most doth vaunt,
What 'tis to make a coward valiant.
Mont. Now I shall grace your conquest.
Cler. That you shall.
Mont. If )'0U obtain it.
Cler. True, sir, 'tis in fortune.
Mont If vou were not a D' Ambois. I would scarce
Change lives with you, I feel so great a change
In my taU spirits breathed, I think with the breath
A D' Ambois breathes here ; and Necessity,
AVith whose pomt now pri
eked on, and so, whose help
Jly hands may chaUenge, that doth aU men conquer.
246
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[i.e. 1613.
If she except not you of all men only,
Jlay change the ease here.
Ckr. True, as you ure chang-eJ,
Her power in me urged, makes you another man
Than yet you ever were.
Mont. Well, I must on.
Ckr. Your lordship must by all means.
Mon. Then at all.
Fights, and D'Ambois Imrts him.
Chaklotte above.
Char. Death of my father I What a shame is this !
Stick in his hands thus ?
Men. Gentle sir, forbear.
Coun. Is he not slain yet ? [fihe gets down.
Sen. No, madam, hut hurt in divers parts of him.
Mont. Y'have given it me.
And yet I feel life for another vennie.'
Enter Ch.\rlotte.
Ckr. Wh.at would you, sir ?
Char. I would perform this combat.
Ckr. Against which of us r
Char. I care not much if 'twere
Against thyself : thy sister would have shamed
To have thy brother's wreak with any man
In single combat stick so in her fingers.
Ckr. My sister ':' know you her ?
Tam. Ay, sir, she sent him
With tliis kind letter, to pel-form the wreak
Of my dear servant.
Cler. Now alas, good sir,
Think you you could do more ?
Char. Alas 1 I do.
And wer 't not, I, fresh, sound, should charge a man
Weary and wounded, I would long ere this
Have proved what I presume on.
Ckr. You have a mind
Like to my sister, but have patience now ;
If next charge speed not, I '11 resign to you.
Mont. Pray thee let him decide it.
Ckr. No, my lord,
I am the man in fate ; and since so bravely
Your lordship stands me, 'scape but one more charge,
And on my life, I '11 set yom- life at large.
Muiil. Said like a D'Ambois, and if now I die,
Sit joy and all good on thy victory.
fights and falls down. He gives his hand to Clek. and his wife.
Mont. Farewell ; I heartily forgive thee,— wife.
And thee, let penitence spend thy rest of life.
Ckr. Noble and Christian I
Tam. Oh, it breaks my heart.
Ckr. And should ; for all faults found in him before,
These words, this end, makes full amends and more.
Rest, worthy soul, and with it the dear spirit
Of my loved brother, rest in endless peace !
Soft lie thy bones, heaven be your soul's abode.
And to your ashes be the earth no load.
[Masic, ami the Ghost of BrssY enters, leading the Ghosts of
the Guise, JIon.sieuk, Cardinal Guise, and Cn.iTTiLLOX,
they dance about the dead bod;/, niid E.reunt.
Cler. How strange is this! the Guise amongst these
spirits 1
• Yermie, venne, an assault in fencing. Frencli " venue,"
coming on.
And his great brother Cardinal, — both yet living !
And that the rest with them with joy thus celebrate
This our revenge ! This certainly presages
Some instant death both to the Guise and Cardinal.
That the Chattillon's ghost too should thus join
In celebration of this just revenge.
With Guise, that bore a chief stroke in his death, —
It seems that now he doth approve the act.
And these true shadows of the Guise and Cardinal,
Forerunning thus their bodies, may approve
That all things to be done, as here we Uve,
Are done before all times in the other life.
That spirits should rise in these times, yet are fables ;
Though learnedst men hold that our sensive spii'its
A little time abide about the graves
Of their deceased bodies ; and can take.
In cold condensed air, the same forms they had
When they were shut up in this body's shade.
Enter Aum.\le.
Anm. Oh, sir, the Guise is slain !
Cler. Avert it. Heaven !
Amn. Sent for to council by the king, an ambush
Lodged for the purpose rushed on him, and took
His princely life ; who sent, in dying then.
His love to you, as to the best of men.
Cler. The worst, and most accursed of things creeping
On earth's sad bosom. Let me pray ye all
A little to forbear, and let me use
Fi'eely mine own mind in lamenting him.
I 'U caU }-e straight again.
Anm. We will forbear, and leave you free, sir. \^Ej:eunt.
Cler. Shall I live, and he
Dead, that alone gave means of life to me ':
There 's no disputing with the acts of kings,
Revenge is impious on their sacred persons :
And could I play the worldling (no m.-m loWng
Longer than gain is reaped, or grace from him)
I should survive, and shall be wondered at,
Though in mine own hands being I end with him :
But friendship is the cement of two minds.
As of one man the soul and body is.
Of which one cannot sever but the other
Suffers a needful separation.
Sen. I fear your servant, madam : let 's descend.
[Descend Eex. and Countess.
Ckr. Since I could skill of man, I never lived
To please men worldly, and shall I in death
Kespect their pleasures, making such a jar
Betwixt my death and life, when death should make
The comfort sweetest ; th' end being proof and crown
To all the skill and worth we truly own ?
Guise, O my lord, how shall I cast from mo
The bands and coverts hind' ring me from thee ?
The garment or the cover of the mind
The human soul is ; of the soul, the spirit
The proper robe is ; of the spirit, the blood ;
And of the blood, the body is the shroud.
With that must I begin then to unclothe.
And come at the other. Now then as a ship.
Touching at strange, and far removed shores.
Her men ashore go for their several ends.
Fresh water, victuals, precious stones, an^l pearl,
All yet intentive when the master calls
The ship to put off, ready to leave all
Their gi-eediest labours, lest they there be left
To thieves or beasts or be the countrv's slaves :
A.u. 1613.] PLA YS.
.'47
So, now my master calls, my ship, ray vonture
All in one bottom put, all quite put off,
Gone under saO, and I left negligent,
To all the horrors of the vicious time,
The far removed shores to all virtuous aims ;
Xone favouring goodness ; none but he respecting
Piet)- or manhood. Shall I here survive ?
Xot cast me after him into the sea
Kather than here live, ready every hour
To feed thieves, beasts, and be the slave of power ?
I come, my lord I Clermont, thy creature, comes !
J^nter Aum.ile, T.imyk.\, Ch.iklotte.
Aiim. "What ? lie and languish, Clermont ? Cursed man
To leave him here thus ! He hath slain himscU.
Tinn. Slisery on miserj' ! me, wretched dame
Of all that breathe 1 All Heaven turn all his eyes
In hearty envy thus on one poor dame !
Char. Well done, my brother : I did love thee ever,
But now adore thee. Loss of such a friend
Xone shoiUd survive, — of such a brother.
With mj- false husband live, and both these slain !
Ere I return to him, I '11 turn to earth.
Enter Eexel leading the Countess.
Ben. Horror of human eyes, Clermont D'Ambois !
Madam, we stayed too long, your servant 's slain.
Coun. It must be so, he liv'd but in the Cruise,
As I in him. Oh, follow, life, mine eyes.
Tarn. Hide, hide thy snaky head! To cloisters fly!
In penance pine ! Too easy 'tis to die.
Cler. It is. In cloisters then let 's all survive.
Madam, since wrath nor grief can help these fortunes.
Let us forsake the world, in which they reign,
And for their wish'd amends to God complain.
Count. 'Tis tit and only needful : lead me on, —
In heaven's course comfort seek, in earth is none. [^E.rennt.
Enter Hen-rt, Esperxone, Soissoxs, and others.
Hen. We came indeed too late, which much I rue.
And would have kept this Clermont as my crown.
Take in the dead, and make this fatal room.
The house shut up, the famous D'Ambois Tomb. [Excinit.
F,-OM KnoUe^'s " Higtury of the Turla" (1010).
MontsniTv liaJ, in tlie ethics of old poetry, so
much of a right to kill Bussy d'Ambois that one
might Ije content if Bns.sy's death went nnrevenged.
But the wealth of thought lavished upon the stud}^
of the philosophic Clermont, whom in the play of
" the Revenge " he has thus painted as brother to
the headstrong man of action, is very characteristic
of George Chapman's geniu.s. His sentences, though
often clouded with an overweight of thought, flash
out again and again with vivid utterances that bring
truth to light.
Thomas Heywood, a Lincolnshire man and Fellow
of Peterhousp, had joined the [ilayers about the same
time as Ben Joiison, and wrote many plays during the
reigns of James I. and Charles I. He died about the
year 1641, having had, as he said, "either an entire
hand or at least a main finger in two hundred and
twenty dramas." Tliere remain two hLstorical plays
on the reign of " King Edward the Fourth." He
wrote a play called " the Fair .Maid of the Exchange,"
in which the heroine is rescued from danger by a
magnanimous cripple, who fights two rascals with
his crutch, and who, when she falls in love wth
him, leads her to happy life with a more suitable
husband. " The Loyal" Subject " and " A Woman
Killed with Kindness" are two of Hej^vood's best
plays, and he wrote four mythological dramas, on the
four Ages — the Golden, the SUver, the Brazen, and
the Iron. " The Golden Age, or the Lives of Jupiter
and Saturn, with the defining of the Heathen Gods,"
was prmted in 1611 "as it hath beene sundry times
acted at the Red Bull, by the Queenes Maiesties
Seruants."
A Check used at the Red Bpll.
Homer plays Chorus and explains the show, saying
when he first introduces himself —
I was the man
That flourished in the world's first infancy ;
"When it was young and knew not how to speak
I taught it speech and understanding both,
Even in the cradle. Oh, then farther me,
You that are in the world's decrepit age.
When it is near his uni\-ersal grave.
To sing an old song, and in this Iron Age
Show you the state of the first Golden world.
I was the Muses' patron. Learning's spring.
And you shall once more hear old Homer sing.
Thomas Middleton was another active dramatist,
who was aljout thirty-two years old at the accession
of James I., and wrote, in 1613, a play called "The
Witch" with incantations that, like those in Ben
Jonson's " Ma.sque of Queens," some speak of in
connection with the ijicantations in Shakespeare's
" Macbeth."
Cvril Tourueur, who wrote only m the reign of
James L, has left us "The Atheist's Ti-age<ly.;|
"The Revenger's Tragedy," and "The Nobleman.
William Rowlev and Nathaniel Field also art-
dramatists of the reisn of James I. But a .gi-eater
than these is John Webster, whose tragic power may
be illustrated by his " Duchess of Malfi." The in-
fluence of Italy is indicated in our drama by the
frequent use of stories (there are ten among the
rilays of Shakespeare) that have their scene laid in
Italy Some of the most familiar characters in our
old 'English plays are indiridual forms of typeE
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[a.d. 1611.
familial- iii Italian burlesque comedy; but ill the
time of James I., when our drama was at it.s
ripest, though with traces of incipient decay, Italian
literature had lost its vigour, and was, perhaps,
at its weakest on the stage. Thomas Coryat,
writing in 1611 of a visit to Venice, said of the
theatre there that "the house is very beggarly
and base in comparison of our stately playhouses
in England ; neither can theii- actors compare with
ours for apparel, shows, and music. Here I oli-
served certain things that I never saw before; for
I saw women act, a thing that I never saw before,
though I have heard that it hath been sometime
used in London ; and they peii'ormed it with as good
a grace, action, gesture, and whatsoever convenient
for a player, as ever I saw any masculine actor."
The Italians also had by this time developed the
beginnings of their musical drama. The first drama
with musical accompaniments is said to have been
represented in 14bO, in the Castle of St. Angelo in
Rome. Orazio Vecchi, of Modena, in a piece called
" Antiparnaso," of which every scene is said by Dr.
Burney to be nothing more than a five-jtart madrigal
in action, made all the actors sing, not excepting the
Pantaloon, the Zany, Doctor Graziano, and Captain
Characters of the Old Italian Comedy.
Spagnuolo, who all ajipoared ujion his scene. These
were stock characters. Captain Spagnuolo was the
bragging soldier, the rudimentary form of Captain
Bobadil and Captain Tucca. Doctor Graziano was
tlie foolish .scholar ; not only the pantaloon, but also
the harlequin had now made his appearance on the
Italian stage. The first musical piece that put the
clialogue into recitative with songs interspersed,
is_ said_ to have been the "Euridice" of Ottavio
Riuuccini, a Florentine, ]iroduced in December,
1600, on the occasion of the marriage of Mary de'
Medici with Henri IV. of France.
Little is kno\TO of John Webster. He was born
free of the Merchant Taylors' Company, and was,
perhaps, the son of a John Webster who was de-
scribed as a citizen and merchant tailor of London
in 1.591. The poet had a jjlay out in 1601, which is
not now in existence, on " The Guise ; or the Massacre
The Old Italian Pantaloon and HAKLEQriN.
of France ;" and his career as a dramatist, beginning
about that time, brought him to the fulness of his
power in 1612, when " the White De^il, or Vittoria
Corombona," was printed. Tliis is one of his two
finest plays. The other, produced on the stage about
the year 1616, the year of the death of Shakespeare,
and first printed in 1623, was
HE
DrCHESS
MALFI.
OF
From Knoll
•■Hixtm-ij of the Tttrks
(1610).
At Malfi, or
Amalfi, a seaport in
Southern Italy, on
the north .shore of
the Gulf of Salerno,
the scene opens in
the presence-cham-
ber of the Duchess
who, as a widow,
rules the place. Of
her two brothers,
one — her twin bro-
ther — is Fei-dinaiul,
Duke of Calabria,
and the other is a
cardinal, living at Rome. They have been paying
a visit to her at her court when the play ojiens, and
are about to sail away again. At the same time,
Antonio Bologna, steward of the Duchess's house-
hold, whom she secretly intends to many, has jiist
returned from a long visit to France, an accomplished
gentleman, who is victor at the sports that served
to entertain the visitors to Malfi. With the wel-
come home of Antonio by Delio, one of his old
friends, the story begins thus.
IJider AuToxio and Delio.
Dc/in. You nro welcome to your country, dear Antonio ;
\ou liave been long in France, and you return
TO A.D. 1623.1
A very formal Frenchman in your habit :
How lio you like the French court ?
PLAYS.
249
CODKT OF AN OlD ITALIAN PALACE. (THE OlD PaLACE .41 FloKKNCE. )
Ant. I admiie it :
In seeking to reduce both state and people
To a fixed order, their judicious king
Begins at home ; quits first his royal palace
Of flattering sycophants, of dissolute
And infamous persons, — which he sweetly terms
His master's master-piece, the work of heaven ;
Considering duly that a prince's court
Is like a common fountain, whence should flow
Pure silver drops in general, but if 't chance
Some curs'd example poison't near the head.
Death and diseases through the whole land spread.
And what is 't makes this blessed government
But a most provident council, who dare freely
Inform him the corruption of the times ':
Though some o' the court hold it presumption
To instruct princes what they ought to do.
It is a noble duty to inform them
"What they ought to foresee. — Here comes Bosola,
The only court-gall ; yet I observe his railing
Is not for simple love of piety :
Indeed, he rails at those things which he wants ;
Would be as lecherous, covetous, or proud.
Bloody, or en^-ious, as anj- man,
If he had means to be so. — Here 's the Cardinal.
Enter Cardinal ond BosoL.\.
Bos. I do haunt j'ou still.
Card. So.
Bos. I have done you better service than to be slighted
thus. Miserable age, where only the reward of doing well
is the doing of it!
152
Card, "i'ou enforce your merit too much.
Bos. I fell into the gaUeys in your service ; where, for
two years together, I wore two towels instead of a shirt, «-ith
a knot on the shoulder, after the fashion of a Koman mantle.
SUghted thus ! I wiU thrive some way : black-birds fatten
best m hard weather ; why not I in these dog-days ?
Card. Would you could become honest !
Bos. With aU your divinity do but direct me the way to it.
I have k-nown many travel far for it, and yet return as arrant
knaves as they went forth, because they carried themselves
always along with them. [Exit Cardinal.] Are you gone ?
Some fellows, they say, are possessed with the devil ; but this
great fellow were able to possess the greatest devil, and make
him worse.
Ant. He hath denied thee some suit?
Bos. He and his brother are like plum-trees that grow
crooked over standing pools ; they are rich and o'er-Iaden
with fruit, but none but crows, pies, and caterpillars feed on
them. Could I be one of their flattering panders, I would
hang on their ears Uke a horseleech, till I were full, and then
drop off. I pray, leave me. Who would rely upon these
miserable dependencies, in expectation to be advanced to-
nioiTow ? what creature ever fed worse than hoping Tan-
talus ;•' nor ever died any man more fearfully than he that
hoped for a pardon. There are rewards for hawks and dogs
when they have done us service ; but for a soldier that
hazards his Umbs in a battle, nothing but a kind of geometry
is his last supportation.
Dilio. Geomctiy !
Bos. Ay, to hang in a fair pair of slings, take his latter
swing in the world upon an honourable pair of crutches, from
hospital to hospital. Fare ye well, sir : and yet do not you
scorn us; for places in the court are but like beds in the
hospital, where this man's head lies at that man's foot, and
so lower and lower. [Exit.
Del. I knew this fellow seven years in the galleys
For a notorious murder ; and 'twas thought
The Cardinal suborned it : he was released
By the French general, Gaston de Foix,
When he recovered Naples.
Ant. 'Tis great pity
He should be thus neglected : I have heard
He 's very valiant. This foul melancholy
Will poison all his goodness ; for, I '11 tell you.
If too immoderate sleep be truly said
To be an inward rust unto the soul,
It then doth follow want of action
Breeds all black malcontents ; and their close rearing.
Like moths in cloth, do hurt for want of wearing.
I)e/io. The presence 'gins to fiU : you promis*
To make me the partaker of the natures
Of some of your great courtiers.
Ant. The lord Cardinal's,
And other strangers' that are now in court ?
I shall.— Here comes the gi-eat Calabrian duke.
Enter Fermxand, Castruccio, Silvio, Roderigo.
Gkisolax, and Attendants.
Eerd. Who took the ring oftcnest ?
Sil. Antonio Bolo.gna, my lord.
Eerd. Our sister Duchess' gi-cat-master of her household ?
give him the jewel.-AMien shall we leave this sportive
action, and fall to action indeed ?
Cast. Jlethinks, my lord, you should not desire to go to
■ing.
war in person.
Eerd. Now for some gravity :— why
my lord ?
Some talk with the courtiei-s developes the weak-
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[a.d. 1C16
ness of Ciisti-uccio, whose wife, Julia, is mistresK to
the Cardmal. Duke Ferdinand tlien turns to Antonio.
Fcrd. You are a good horsuiiiiin, Antonio : you have
excellent riders in France : what do you think of good horse-
manship ?
Ant. Nohly, my lord : as out of the Grecian horse issued
many famous princes, so out of brave horsemanship arise the
first sparks of growing resolution, that raise the mind to
noble action.
Fcrd. You have bespoke it worthily.
Silvio. Y'oui' brother, the lord Cardinal, and sister Duchess.
Sc-enter Cardinal, with Duchess, Cariol.v, lier Attendant,
and Julia.
Card. Are the galleys come about ?
Gris. They are, my lord.
Ferd. Here's the Lord Silvio come to take his leave.
Delia. Now, su-, your promise : what 's that Cardinal ?
I mean his temper ? they say he ' s a brave fellow.
Will play his five thousand crowns at tennis, dance,
Com-t ladies, and one that hath fought single combats.
Ant. Some such flashes superficially hang on him for form ;
but observe his inward character : he is a melancholy chui-cli-
man ; the spring in his face is nothing but the engendering
of toads; where he is jealous of any man, he lays w-orse
plots for them than over was imposed on Hercules, for he
strews in his way flatterers, panders, intelligencers, atheists
and a thousand such political monsters. He should have
been Pope ; but instead of coming to it by the primitive
decency of the church, he did bestow bribes so largely and so
impudently as if he would have carried it away without
heaven's knowledge. Some good he hath done
Delia. Y'ou have given too much of him. 'What 's his
brother ?
Ant. The Duke there ? a most perverse and turl)ulent
nature :
'What appears in him mirth is merely outside ;
If he laugh heartily, it is to laugh
All honesty out of fashion.
Delia. Twins ?
Ant. In quality.
He speaks with others' tongues, and hears men's suits
With others' ears ; will seem to sleep o' the bench
Only to entrap oft'cnders in their answers ;
Dooms men to death by information ;
Rewards by hearsay.
Delia. Then the law to him
Is like a foul black cobweb to a spider, —
He makes it his dwelling, and a prison
To entangle those shall feed him.
Ant. Most true :
He never pays debts unless they be shrewd turns.
And those he will confess that he doth owe.
Last, for his brother there, the Cardinal,
They that do flatter him most say oracles
Hang at his lips ; and verily I believe them.
For the deril speaks in them.
But for then- sister, the right noble Duchess,
Y'ou never fixed your eye on three fair medals
Cast in one figure, of so different temper.
For her discourse, it is so full of rapture.
You only will begin then to be sorry
"When she doth end her speech, and wish, in wonder.
She held it less vain-glory to talk much
Than your penance to hear her : whilst she speaks.
She throws upon a man so sweet a look,
That it were able to raise one to a gaUiard
That lay in a dead palsy, and to dote
On that sweet countenance ; but in that look
There sjjeaketh so divine a continence
As cuts off all lascivious and vain hope.
Her days are practised in such noble virtue.
That sui-e her nights, nay, more, her very sleeps,
Ai'C more in heaven than other ladies' shrifts.
Let all sweet ladies break their flattering glasses,
And dress themselves in her.
Delia. Fie, Antonio,
You Jjlay the wire-drawer with her commendations.
Ant. I '11 case the picture up : only tlius much :
All her particular worth grows to this sum, —
She stains the time past, lights the time to come.
Cari. Y'ou must attend my lady in the gallery.
Some half an hour hence.
Ant. I shall. \_E.reiint Antonio and Delio.
Ferd. Sister, I have a suit to you.
Daeh . To me, sir ?
Fcrd. A gentleman here, Daniel de Bosola,
One that was in the galleys-
DueJi. Y'es, I know him.
Ferd. A worthy fellow he is : pray, let me entreat for
The provisorship of your horse.
Dueh. Y'our knowledge of him
Commends him and prefers him.
Fcrd. Call him hither. [Exit Attendant.
We are now upon paiting. Good Lord Silvio,
Do us commend to all oui' noble friends
At the leaguer.
Silvio. Sir, I shall.
Fcrd. Y'ou are for Milan ?
Silvia. I am.
Duclt. Bring the caroches. — We 'U bring you down to the
haven.
[Fxeiint Duchess, Silvio, Castruccio, Roderigo,
Gbisolan, Cariola, Julia, and Attendants.
Card. Be sure )-ou entertain that Bosola
For your intelligence : I would not be seen in 't ;
And therefore many times I have slighted him
\\nien he did court our furtherance, as this morning.
Ferd. Antonio, the great-master of her household.
Had been far fitter.
Card. Y'ou are deceived in him :
His nature is too honest for such business. —
He comes : I '11 leave you. lExit.
Itc-enter Bosola.
Dos. I was lured to you.
Ferd. My brother, hero, the Cardinal could never
Abide you.
Bos. Never since he was in my debt.
Ferd. Maybe some oblique character in your face
IMade him suspect you.
Bos. Doth ho study physiognomy ?
He did suspect me wrongfully.
Ferd. For that
You must give great men leave to take their times.
Distrust doth cause us seldom be deceived :
You see the oft shaking of the cedar-tree
Fastens it more at root.
Bos. Yet, take heed ;
For to suspect a friend unworthily
Instructs him the next way to suspect you.
And prompts him to deceive you.
(
TO A.D. 1623.]
PLAYS.
251
Ferd. There 's gold.
Bos. So:
What follows ? never rained such showers as these
Without thimderholts i' the tail of them. Whose throat must
I cut?
Ferd. Your inclination to shed blood rides post
Before my occasion to use you. I give j-ou that
To live i' the court here, and observe the Duchess ;
To note all the particulars of her 'haviour,
What suitoi-s do solicit her for marriage,
And whom she best affects. She 's a young widow :
I would not have her marry again.
Bos. No, sir ?
Ferd. Do not you ask the reason ; but be satisfied
I say I would not.
Bos. It seems you would create me
One of your familiars.
Ferd. Familiar! what 's that ?
Bos. Why, a very quaint inrisible devil in flesh, —
An inteUigencer.
Ferd. Such a kind of thriving thing
I would wish thee ; and ere long thou mayst arrive
At a higher place by 't.
Bos. Take your devils,
Which heU calls angels : these curs'd gifts would make
You a corrupter, me an impudent traitor ;
And should I take these, they 'd take me to hell.
Ferd. Sir, I 'U take nothing from you that I have given :
There is a place that I procured for you
This morning, the provisorship o'the horse ;
Have you heard on 't 'i
Bos. No.
Fird. 'Tis yours : is 't not worth thanks ?
Bos. I would have you curse yourself now, that your
bounty
(Which makes men truly noble) e'er should make me
A villain. Oh, that to avoid ingratitude
For the good deed you have done me, I must do
All the ill man can invent ! Thus the devil
Candies all sins o'er ; and what heaven terms \Tle,
That names he complimental.
Ferd. Be yourself ;
Keep j-our old garb of melancholy ; 'twill express
You envy those that stand above your reach.
Yet strive not to come near 'em : this will gain
Access to private lodgings, where yourself
May, like a politic dormouse
Bos. As I have seen some
Feed in a lord's dish, half asleep, not seeming
To listen to any talk ; and yet these rogues
Have cut his throat in a dream. Wliat 's my place ?
The provisorship o' the horse ? say, then, my corruption
Grew out of horse-dung : I am your creature.
Ferd. Away !
Bos. Let good men, for good deeds, covet good fame.
Since place and riches oft are bribes of shame.
Sometimes the devil doth preach. [F.fit.
He-enter Duchess, Cardinal, ni/d Cariola.
Card. We are t» part from you ; and your o-rni discretion
Must now be your director.
Ferd. You are a widow :
You know already what man is ; and therefore
Let not youth, high promotion, eloquence •
Card. K'o.
Nor any thing without the addition, honour,
Sway your high blood.
F'lrd. Marry ! they are most luxurious
Will wed twice.
Card. Oh, fie!
Ferd. Theii- livers are more spotted
Than Laban's sheep.
Duc/i. WiU you hear me ?
I '11 never marry.
Card. So most widows say ;
But commouly that motion lasts no longer
Than the turning of an hour-glass : the funeral sermon
And it end both together.
Ferd. Now hear me :
You Uve in a rank pasture, here, i' the court ;
There is a kind of honey-dew that 's deadly ;
'Twill poison your fame ; look to 't : be not cunning ;
For they whose faces do beUe their hearts
Are witches ere they arrive at twenty years.
Ay, and give the devil suck.
Siieh. This is temble good counsel.
Ferd. Hj-pocrisy is woven of a fine small thread.
Subtler than Vulcan's engine : yet, believe 't.
Your darkest actions, nay, yom- privat'st thoughts,
Will come to light.
Card. You may flatter yourself.
And take your own choice ; privately be married
Under the eaves of night
Ferd. Think 't the best voyage
That e'er you made ; like the irregular crab,
WTiich, though 't goes backward, thinks that it goes right
Because it goes its own way : but obser%'e.
Such weddings may more properly be said
To be executed than celebrated.
Card. The marriage night
Is the entrance into some prison.
Ferd. And those joys.
Those lustful pleasm-es, are like heavy sleeps
AVhich do fore-run man's mischief.
Card. Fare you well.
Wisdom begins at the end : remember it. \Exit.
Luck. I think this speech between you both was studied,
It came so roundly oft".
Ferd. You are my sister:
This was my father's poniard, do you see ?
I 'd be loth to see 't look rusty, 'cause 'twas liis.
I would have you give o'er these chargeable revels :
A i-isor and a mask are whispering-rooms
That were never built for goodness ;— fare ye well ;—
And women like ....
. variety of com-tship :
What cannot a neat knave with a smooth tale
Make a woman beUeve ? FareweU, lusty widow. {Exit.
Duck. ShaU this move me ? If all my royal k-indred
Lay in my wav unto this marriage,
I 'd make them my low footsteps : and even now,
Even in this hate, as men in some great battles,
By apprehending danger, have achiev'd
Almost impossible actions (I have heard soldiers say so),
So I tlu-ough frights and threatenings will assj.y
This dangerous venture. Let old wives report
I winked and chose a husband.— Cariola,
To thy k-no^\-n secrecy 1 have given up
More than my life— my fame.
Cari. Both shall be safe ;
For I '11 conceal this secret from the world
As warily as those that trade in poison
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[a.d. 1616
Keep poison from theii- childi-en.
Ditch . Thy protestation
Is ingenuous and heai-ty : I believe it.
Is Antonio come ?
Cart. He attends you.
Duch. Good dear soul,
Leave me ; but place thyself behind the arras,
Where thou mayst overhear us. AVish me good speed ;
For I am going into a wilderness
Where I shall find nor path nor friendly clue
To be my guide. [Cauiola ijoca behind the arras.
Enter Antonio.
I sent for you : sit down ;
Take pen and ink, and write : are you ready 'i
Ant. Yes.
Dnch. What did I say ?
Ant. That I should write somewhat.
Duch. Oh, I remember.
After these triumphs and this large expense.
It 's fit, like thrifty husbands, we inquire
What 's laid up for to-morrow.
Ant. So please your beauteous e.xoelleuce.
Duch. Beauteous!
Indeed, I thank you : I look young for your sake ;
You have ta'en my cares upon you.
Ant. I '11 fetch your grace
The particulars of youi' revenue and e.xpense.
Duch. Oh, you are
An upright treasurer : but you mistook ;
For when I said I meant to make inquiry
What 's laid up for to-morrow, I did mean
What 's laid up yonder for me.
Ant. Where f
Duch. In heaven.
I am making my will (as 'tis fit princes should,
In perfect memory), and I pray, sii', tell me,
AVerc not one better make it smiUng, thus,
Than in deep groans and terrible ghastly looks.
As if the gifts we parted with procured
That violent distraction ?
Ant. Oh, much better.
Duch. If I had a husband now, this care were quit :
But I intend to make you overseer.
What good deed shall we first remember ? say.
Ant. Begin with that first good deed began i' the world
After man's creation, the sacrament of mairiage :
I 'd have you first provide for a good husband ;
Give him all.
Duch. All?
Ant. Yes, j-our excellent self.
Duch. In a winding-sheet I-"
Ant. In a couple.
Duch. Saint Winifred, that were a strange will I
Ant. 'Twere stranger if there were no will in you
To marry again.
Duch. AATiat do you think of marriage ?
Ant. I take 't, as those that deny purgatorj' :
It locally contains or heaven or hell ;
There 's no third place in 't.
Duch. How do you affect it ?
Ant. BIy banishment, feeding my melancholy,
Would often reason thus
Duch. Pray, let us hear it.
Ant. Say a man never marry, nor have children.
What takes that from him ? only the bare name
Of being a father, or the weak delight
To see the little wanton ride a-cock-horse
Upon a painted stick, or hear him chatter
Like a taught starling.
Duch. Fie, fie, -what 's all this ?
One of J-our eyes is bloodshot ; use my ring to 't,
They say 'tis very sovereign : 'twas my wedding-ring,
And I did vow never to part w'ith it
But to my second husband.
Ant. You have jmrted with it now.
Duch. Y'es, to help your eye-sight.
Ant. You have made me stark blind.
Duch. How ?
Ant. There is a saucy and ambitious devil
Is dancing in this circle.
Duch. Kemove him.
Ant. How ?
Duch. There needs small conjuration, -when your finger
Jloy do it : thus ; is it fit 'i
\_lihc puts the ring upon hisjinr/cr : he kneels.
Ant. What said you i"
Duch. Sii',
This goodly roof of yours is too low built ;
I cannot stand upright in 't nor discoui'se.
Without I raise it higher : raise yourself ;
Or, if you please, my hand to help you : so. [liaises him.
Ant. Ambition, madam, is a great man's madness,
That is not kept in chains and close-pent rooms.
But in fair lightsome lodgings, and is girt
With the wild noise of prattling visitants,
Which makes it lunatic beyond all cure.
Conceive not I am so stupid but I aim
Whereto your favours tend : but he 's a fool
That, being a-cold, would thrust his hands i' the fire
To warm them.
Duch. So, now the ground 's broke.
You may discover what a wealthy mine
I make you lord of.
Ant. Oh, my unworthiness '.
Duch. You were iU to scU yourseU :
This darkening of your worth is not like that
Which tradesmen use i' the city ; their false lights
Are to rid bad wares off : and I must tell you,
If you will know where breathes a complete man
(I speak it without flattery), turn your eyes,
And progress tlirough j'ourself .
Ant. Were there nor heaven nor hell,
I should be honest : I have long serv'd Virtue,
And ne'er ta'en wages of her.
Duch. Xow she pays it.
The misery of us that arc born great !
We are forced to woo, because none dare woo us ;
And as a tyrant doubles with his words.
And fearfully equivocates, so we
Are forced to express our violent passions
In riddles and in di-eams, and leave the path
Of simple virtue, which was never made
To seem the thing it is not. Go, go brag
You have left me heartless ; mine is in your bosom :
I hope 'twill multiply love there. You do tremble :
JIake not your heart so dead a piece of flesh.
To fear more than to love me. Sir, be confident :
What is 't distracts you ? This is flesh and blood, sir ;
'Tis not the figure cut in alabaster
Kneels at my husband's tomb. Awake, awake, man!
I do here put oflt all vain ceremony.
And only do appear to you a young widow
That claims you for her husliand, and, like a widow,
TO A.D. 1623.'|
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253
I use but half a blush in 't.
Ant. Truth speak for me
I will remain the constant sanctuary
Of your good name.
Ditch. And 'cause you shall not come to mc in debt,
Being now my steward, here upon your lips
I sign your Quietus est. This you should have begg'd now :
I have seen children oft eat sweetmeats thus,
As fearful to devour' them too soon.
Ant. But for your brothers i
Such. Do not think of them :
A11 discord without this circumference
Is only to be pitied, and not feared :
Yet, should they know it, time will easily
Scatter the tempest.
Ant. These words should be mine.
And all the parts you hiive spoke, if some part of it
Would not have savour'd flattery.
Ditch. Kneel. [C.vriol.i comes from behhiil the arras.
Ant. Ha!
Diich. Be not amazed ; this woman 's of my counsel :
I have heard lawyers say, a contract in a chamber
Per verba presenti is absolute marriage.
[She and Antonio kneel.
Bless, heaven, this sacred gordian, which let violence
Never untwine !
Ant. And may our sweet affections, Uke the spheres.
Be still in motion !
Diich. Quickening, and make
The like soft music 1
Ant. That we maj- imitate the loving palms,
Best emblem of a peaceful marriage.
That never bore fruit, divided !
Duch. What can the church force more ?
Ant. That fortune may not know an accident,
Either of joy or sorrow, to divide
Our fixed wishes !
Duch. How can the church build faster ?
We now are man and wife, and 'tis the church
That must but echo this.
With the Duchess thus wedded to Antonio and
blindly following her will, the Fu-st Act of the play
ends ; Cariola closing the scene after theu- departure
with this comment :
Whether the spirit of greatness or of woman
Eeign most in her, I know not ; but it shows
A fearful madness : I owe her much of pity.
The Second Act opens again in the palace of the
Duchess of Malfi, where Bosola is set as the spy for
her brothers. Bosola is Ln satii-ic, scornful dialogue
with Castruccio, and with an old lady, keeping "his
old garb of melancholy." He suspects that the
Duchess is about to become a mother, and stands
ready to try her with a gift of apricots. Then he
is in dialogue with Antonio, whose relation to the
Duchess — hitherto carefully concealed from her
brothers — he does not suspect ; and next has an
opportunity of offering his apricots, which are eaten
greedily. But the Duchess suddenly fiills ill, and to
conceal the birth of her child the outer gates of the
palace are locked, that none may leave, because it is
given out that she has had an attempt made on her
life with poisoned apricots.
Delio. How fares it with the Duchess ?
Ant. She 's exposed
Unto the worst of torture, pain, and fear
DtUo. Speak to her aU happy comfort.
Ant. How I do play the fool with mine own danger !
You are this night, dear friend, to post to Kome :
My life lies in your service.
Belio. Do not doubt me.
Aiit. Oh, 'tis far from mo : and yet fear presents me
Somewhat that looks hke danger.
Dello. Beheve it,
'Tis but the shadow of your fear, no more :
How superstitiously we mind our evils ;
The throwing down salt, or crossing of a hare,
Bleeding at nose, the stumbhng of a horse.
Or singing of a cricket, are of power
To daunt whole man in us. Sir, fare you well :
I wish you all the joys of a bless'd father;
And, for my faith, lay this unto your breast, —
Old friends, like old swords, still are trusted best. [^Ezlt.
Enter Cariol.v.
Cari. Sir, you are the happy father of a son :
Your wife commends him to you.
Ant. Blessed comfort I —
For heaven's sake tend her well; I '11 presently
Go set a figui'e for 's nativity. [^Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Enter BosoL.v, w'Uli a dark lantern.
Bos. Sure I did hear a woman .slu-iek : list, h;i I
And the sound came, if I received it right.
From the Duchess' lodgings. There 's some stratagem
In the confining all our corn-tiers
To their several wards : I must have part of it ;
My intelligence wUl freeze else. List, again!
It may be 'twas the melancholy bird,
Best friend of silence and of solitariness.
The owl, that scream'd so. — Ha ! Antonio I
Enter Antonio.
Ant. I heard some noise.— "UTio 's there f what art thou ?
speak.
Bos. Antonio, put not your face nor body
To such a forc'd expression of fear :
I am Bosola, your friend.
Ant. Bosola 1 —
[Aside. '\ This mole does undei-mine me.— Heard you not
A noise even now ?
Bos. From whence ?
A III. From the Duchess' lodging.
Bos. Not I : did you ?
Ant. I did, or else I dream'd.
Bos. Let 's walk towards it.
Ant. No : it may be 'twas
But the rising of the \vind.
Bos. A'ery likely.
Methinks 'tis very cold, and yet you sweat :
You look wildly.
Ant. I have been setting a figure
For the Duchess' jewels.
Bos. Ah, and how falls your question?
Do you find it radical ?
Ant. A^^lat 's that to you ?
'Tis rather to be questioned what design,
A\'hen all men were commanded to their lodgings,
Makes you a night-walker.
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Bos. In 300th, I '11 tell you ;
Now all the court 's ask^rp, I thought the devil
Had least to do here ; I came to say my prayers ;
And if it do offend you I do so,
You are a fine courtier.
Ant. \_Askk.'\ This fellow wUl undo me. —
You gave the Duchess apricots to-day :
Pray heaven they were not poisoned !
Bos. Poisoned ! a Spanish fig
For the imputation.
Aiit. Traitors are ever confident
Till they are discovered. There were jewels stol'n too :
In my conceit, none are to be suspected
More than yourself.
Bos. You are a false steward.
Ant. Saucy slave, I '11 pull thee up by the roots.
Bos. Maybe the ruin will crush you to pieces.
Ant. You are an impudent snake indeed, sir :
Are you scarce warm, and do you show your sting ?
You libel well, sir'.
Bos. No, sii' : copy it out,
And I will set my hand to 't.
Ant. l^Aside.'] My nose bleeds.
One that wore superstitious would count
This ominous, when it merely comes by chance :
Two letters, that are wrote here for my name,
Are drowned in blood !
Mere accident. — For you, sir, I '11 take order ;
r the morn you shall be safe ; — \_asiilc] 'tis that must colour
Her lying-in ; — sir, this door you pass not :
I do not hold it fit that you come near
The Duchess' lodgings, till you have quit yourself. —
[Aside.'\ The great are like the base, nay, they arc the same,
When they seek shameful ways to avoid shame. \_E.\:it.
Bos. Antonio hereabout did drop a paper : —
Some of yom- help, false friend : — Oh, here it is.
What 's here ? a child's nativity calculated ! [^Reads.
" The Duchess wiis delivered of a son, 'tween the hours ticilec
and one in the niyht, Anno Bom. 150-1," — that's this year—
" deciim nono Bcecnibris," — that's this night, — " taken aceord-
ing to the nurldian of Malfi," — that's our Duchess: happy
discovery ! — " The lord of the first house being combust in the
ascendant, signifies short life ; and Mars being in a human sign,
joined to the tail of the Dragon, in the eighth house, doth
threaten n violent death. Cictera non scrutantnr." '
Why, now 'tis most apparent : this precise fellow
Is [go-between] : — I have it to my wish !
This is a parcel of intelUgcncy
Our corn-tiers were cased up for : it needs must follow
That I must be committed on pretence
Of poisoning her ; which I 'U endure, and laugh at.
If one could find the father now ! but that
Time will discover. Old Castruccio
I' the morning posts to Komo : by him I '11 send
A letter that shall make her brothers' galls
O'orflow their livers. This was a thrifty way.
Though lust do mask in ne'er so strange disguise,
She 's oft found witty, but is never wise. [Exit-
Now the scene changes to Rome, where Castruccio's
wife, Julia, is with the Cardinal, whose courtship has
a note of scorn in it. Next Delio lias suit to her,
speaks of her husband's hard riding to Rome, and
hears told her by a servant that Castruccio has
' The rest not searched into.
delivered a letter which seemed to put the Duke ot
Calabria out of his wits. Then we hear the Duke
and the Cardinal, the two brothers of the Duchess,
in counsel over the news sent by Bosola. The Duke
is in a tempest of passion, the Cardinal more danger-
ously quiet in his wrath at the supposed taint on the
royal blood of Arragou and Castile.
Card. How idly shows this rage, which carries you.
As men convoy'd by witches through the air.
On violent whiidwinds ! this intemperate noise
Fitly resembles deaf men's shxill discourse,
^\^lo talk aloud, thinking aU other men
To have their imperfection.
Ferd. Have not you
My palsy ?
Card. Yes, but I can be angry
Without this rupture : there is not in nature
A thing that makes man so deformed, so beastly,
As doth intemperate anger. Chide yourself.
You have divers men who never yet e.xpressed
Their strong desire of rest but by unrest,
By vexing of themselves. Come, put yourself
In tune.
Ferd. So I will only study to seem
The thing I am not. I could kUl her now,
In you, or in myself ; for I do think
It is some sin in us Heaven doth revenge
By her.
Card. Are you stark mad ?
The Act ends with a 2)assionate resolve to find the
father of the child.
At the opening of the Thii'd Act, time has elapsed.
There are two more children of the Duchess's mar-
riage to Antonio when Delio returns to Malfi, in the
train of the Duchess's brother Ferdinand. Ferdinand
is again visiting his sister, and, in the opinion of
Antonio, " doth bear himself right dangerously."
He is so quiet that he seems to sleep
The tempest oxit, as dormice do in winter :
Those houses that arc haunted are most stiU
Till the devil be up.
The character of the Duchess has suffered among
her people, Vuit they suppose only of Antonio that he
has used his office in the household to get wealth.
For other obligation
Of love or mamage between her and mo
They never di-eam of.
Delio. The Lord Ferdinand
Is going to bed.
Fntcr DrCHEss, Ferd:xa>-d, and Attendants.
Ferd. I '11 instantly to bed,
For I am weary. — I am to bespeak
A husband for you.
Duch. For me, sir ! pray, who is 't ?
Ferd. The gTcat Count IMalatesti.
Duch . Fie upon him !
A count ! he 's a more stick of sugar-candy ;
You may look quite through him. When I choose
A husband, I will marry for your honour'.
TO A.D. 1623.1
PLAYS.
Ferd. You shall do -n-eU in 't. How 13 't, worthy Antonio ':
Diich. But, sir, I am to have private conference with you
About a scandalous report is spread
Touching mine honour.
Ferd. Let me be ever deaf to 't :
One of Pasquil's paper-bullets, court calumny,
A pestilent air, which princes' palaces
Are seldom purged of. Yet say that it were true,
I pour it in your bosom my fixed love
Would strongly excuse, e.xtenuate, nay, deny
Faults, were they apparent in you. Go, be safe
In }-our own innocency.
Diich. [Aside.'] bless' d comfort!
This deadly air is purged.
\_Exeunt Duchess, Astosio, Delio, and Attendants.
Fird. Her guilt treads on
Hot-burning coulters.
Enter Bosola.
Now, Bosola,
How thrives our intelligence '?
Bos. Sir, uncertainly :
'Tis rumour'd she hath had three bastards, but
By whom we may go read i' the stars.
Ferd. Why, some
Hold opinion all things are written there.
Bos. Yes. if we could find spectacles to read them.
I do suspect there hath been some sorcery
Used on the Duchess.
Ferd. Sorcery ! to what purpose ?
Bos. To make her dote on some desertless feUow
She shames to acknowledge.
Ferd. Can your faith give way
To think there's power in potions or in charms,
To make us love whether we will or no ?
Bos. Most certainly.
Ferd. Away ! these are mere guUeries, horrid things.
Invented by some cheating mountebanks
To abuse us. Do you think that herbs or charms
Can force the wiU ? Some trials have been made
In this foolish practice, but the ingredients
Were lenitive poisons, such as are of force
To make the patient mad ; and straight the witch
Swears by equivocation they are in love.
The witchcraft lies in her rank blood. This night
I wUl force confession from her. You told me
You had got, within these two days, a false key
Into her bed-chamber.
Bos. I have.
Ferd. As I would wish.
Bos. What do you intend to do ?
Ferd. Can you guess ?
Bos. No.
Ferd. Do not ask, then :
He that can compass me, and know my drifts,
May say he hath put a girdle "bout the world.
And sounded all her quicksands.
Bas. I do not
Think so.
Ferd. 'What do you think, then, pray ?
Bos. That you are
Your own chronicle too much, and grossly
Flatter yourself.
Ferd. Give me thy hand ; I thank thee :
I never gave pension but to flatterers,
Till I entertained thee. Farewell.
That friend a great man's ruin strongly checks,
Who rails into his belief all his defects. [Exeunt.
SCENE II.
The Bed-chamber of the Duchess.
Enter Duchess, Anioxio, and C.vkiola.
Such. Bring me the casket hither, and the glaas.—
You get no lodging here to-night, my lord.
Ant. Indeed, I must persuade one.
Such. Very good:
I hope in time 'twill grow into a custom,
That noblemen shall come with cap and knee
To purchase a night's lodging of their wives.
They are idly playful, and the Duchess at Lur
di-essing-glass says presently,
I prithee,
■WTien were we so merrj' ? — My hair tangles.
Ant. Pray thee, Cariola, let 's steal forth the room,
And let her talk to herself : I have divers times
Served her the like, when she hath chafed extremely.
I love to see her angry. Softly, Cariola.
[Exeunt Axxoxio atitl CvBloL^
Such. Doth not the colour of my hair 'gin to change ':
When I wax grey, I shall have all the court
Powder their hair with an-as,' to be like me.
You have cause to love me ; I entered you into my heart
Before you would vouchsafe to call for the keys.
Enter Fermxasd behind.
We shall one day have my brothers take you napping :
Methinks his presence, being now in court,
Should make you keep your own [room] ; but you'll say
Love mix'd with fear is sweetest. I '11 assure you,
You shall [see] no more children till my brothers
Consent to be your gossips. Have you lost your tongue ?
'Tis welcome :
For know, whether I am doomed to live or die,
I can do both like a prince.
Ferd. Die, then, quickly! [Giving her a poniard.
Virtue, where art thou hid ? what hideous thing
Is it that doth ecUpse thee ?
Such. Pray, sir, hear me.
Ferd. Or is it true thou art but a bare name.
And no essential thing ?
Such. Sir,
Ferd. Do not speak.
Such. No, sir:
I wiU plant my soul in mine ears, to hear you.
Ferd. most imperfect light of human reason,
That mak'st us so unhappy to foresee
"S\Tiat we can least prevent ! Piu^ue thy wishes,
And glory in them : there's in shame no comfort
But to be past all bounds and sense of shame.
Such. I pray, sir, hear me : I am married.
Ferd. So!
Such. Happily, not to your liking : but for that,
Alas, your shears do come untimely now
To clip the bird's mngs that 's already flown !
Will you see my husband f
Ferd. Yes, if I could change
Eyes with a basilisk.
Such. Sure, you came hither
By his confederacy.
1 Arms, orris, a flower of the iris kind, its root having the scent of
violets.
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[a.d. 1616
Tlie wild fury of Ferdinand breaks out again.
The Ducliess asks,
Why might not I marrj' ?
I have not gone about in this to create
Any new world or custom.
Feril. Thou art undone ;
And thou hust ta'en that niasay sheet of lead
That hid thy }iusband's hones, and folded it
About my heart.
Dm-h. Mine bleeds for 't.
Fn-il. Thine ! thy heart !
What should I name 't unless a hollow bullet
Fill'd with unquenchable wild-fire 'i
Diich. You are in this
Too strict ; and were you not my princely brother,
I would say, too wilful : my reputation
Is safe.
Fvrd. Dost thou know what reputation is ?
I 'U tell thee, — to small pui-pose, since the instruction
Comes now too hite.
Upon a time Reputation, Love, and Death,
Would travel o'er the world ; and it was concluded
That they should part, and take three several ways.
Death told them, thoy should find him in great battles,
Or cities plagued with plagues : Love gives them counsel
To inquire for him 'mongst unambitious shepherds,
Where dowries were not talked of, and sometimes
'Mongst quiet kindred that had nothing left
By their dead parents ; " Stay," quoth Reputation,
" Do not forsake me; for it is my nature.
If once I part from any man I meet,
I am never found again." And so for you:
You have shook hands with Reputation,
And made him invisible. So, fare you well :
I will never see you more.
Ditch. Why should only I,
Of all the other princes of the world,
Be cased up, like a holy relic ? I have youth
And a little beauty.
Fcrd. So you have some virgins
That are witches. I will never .see thee more. [Exit.
lic-eiitcr Antonio «■»//; a pistol, and C.iRloLA.
Diieh. You saw this apparition ?
Aiit. Yes : we are
Betrayed. How came he hither ? I should turn
This to thee, for that.
Carl. Pray, sir, do ; and when
That )'0u have cleft my heart, you shall read there
Mine innocence.
Biieli. That gallery gave him entrance.
Ant. I would this terrible thing would come again.
That, standing on my guard, I might relate
My warrantable love. — \_8he shows the poniard.
Ha ! what means this 'i
Diieh. He left this with mo.
Ant. And it seems did wish
You would use it on yourself.
Diirh. His action
Seem'd to intend so much.
Ani. This hath a handle to 't.
As well as a point : turn it towards him.
And so fasten the keen edge in his rank gaU.
[Knocking within.
How now ! who knocks : more earthquakes ?
D/ich. I stand
As if a mine beneath my feet were ready
To be blown up.
C/rri. 'Tis Bosola.
Dnch . Away 1
misery I methinks unjust actions
Sliould wear these masks and curtains, and not we.
You must instantly part hence : I have fashion'd it already.
[Exit Antonio.
Enter BosoL.\.
Sos. The Duke your brother is ta'en up in a whirlwind ;
Hath took horse, and 's rid post to Rome.
Diifh. So late :•'
llos. He told me, as he mounted into the saddle,
You were undone.
Dueh. Indeed, I am very near it.
Bos. What 's the matter ?
Dueh. Antonio, the master of our household.
Hath dealt so falsely with me in 's accounts :
My brother stood engag'd with me for money
Ta'en up of certain Neapolitan Jews,
And Antonio lets the bonds be forfeit.
Bos. Strange ! — [Asidc.l This is cunning.
Ditch. And hereupon
My brother's bills at Naples are protested
Against. — Call up oiu- officers.
Bos. I shall. [Exit.
He-enter Antonio.
Ditch. The place that you must fly to is Ancona :
Hu'e a house there ; I '11 send after you
Jly tnsisurc and my jewels. Our weak safety
Runs u])on enginous wheels : short syllables
JIu.st stand for periods. I must now accuse you
Of such a feigned crime as Tasso calls
Mfif/naiiinia vienzot/na, a noble lie,
'Cause it must shield oui- honours. — Hark ! they arc coming.
He-enter Bosola and Officers.
Ant. Will your grace hear me ?
Diich. I have got well by you: you have yielded me
A million of loss ; I am like to inherit
The people's curses for your stewardship.
You had the trick in audit-time to be sick,
Till I had signed your quietus ; and that cured you
AVithout help of a doctor.— Gentlemen,
I would have this man be an example to you all ;
So shall you hold my favour ; I pray, let him ;
For h 'as done that, alas ! you would not think of,
And, because I intend to be rid of him,
I mean not to publish. — Use your fortune elsewhere.
Ant. I am strongly armed to brook my overthrow,
As commonly men bear with a hard year :
I wiU not blame the cause on 't ; but do think
The necessity of my malevolent star
Procures this, not her humour. Oh, the inconstant
-Vnd rotten ground of ser\-iee I you may see,
'Tis even like him, that in a -winter night.
Takes a long slumber o'er a dying fire,
-V-loth to part from 't ; yet parts thence as cold
As when he first sat down.
Ditch. We do confiscate,
Towards the satisfj-ing of your accounts,
All th,at you have.
Ant. I am all yours : and 'tis ver}- fit
All mine .should be so.
Ditch. So, sir, you have your pass.
TO A.D. 1623.]
PLAYf<.
257
Aiif. You may see, gentlemen, what 'tis to ser\-e
A piince with body and soul. [Kril.
Bos. Here 's an e.xample for extortion : what moistui-e is
drawn out of the sea, when foul weather eomes, pours down,
and nms into the sea again.
Diich. I would know what are your opinions
(If this Antonio.
6'fi'. Off. He could not abide to see a pig's head gaping : I
thought your grace would find him a Jew.
Third Off. I would you had been his officer, for your own
sake.
Fourth Off. You would hare had more money.
First Off. He stopped his ears with black wool, and to
those came to him for money said he was thick of hearing.
Sec. Off'. Some said he was an hennaphiodite, for he could
not abide a woman.
Fourth Off. How scurvy proud he would look when the
treasiiry was full ! "Well, let him go.
First Off. Yes, and the chippings of the buttery fly after
liim, to scour his gold chain.
Ihich. Leave us. [Fjreiint Officei-s.
^\'hat do you think of these 'r
Hos. That these are rogues that in 's prosperity.
But to have waited on his fortune, could have n-ished
His dirty stirrup riveted through their noses.
And foUow'd after 's mule, like a bear in a ring.
Well, never look to have the like again :
He hath left a sort of flattering rogues behind him ;
Their doom must follow. Princes pay flatterers
In their own money : flatterers dissemble their vices,
And they dissemble their lies ; that 's justice.
Alas, poor gentleman I
iJiich. Poor! he hath amply filled his coffers.
JBos. Sure, he was too honest. Pluto, the god of riches,
^\'hen he 's sent by Jupiter to any man.
He goes limping, to signifj- that wealth
That comes on God's name comes slowly ; but when he 's sent
On the devil's errand, he rides post and comes in by scuttles.
Let me show you what a most imvalued jewel
\ ou have in a wanton humour thrown away.
To bless the man shall find him. He was an excellent
Corn-tier and most faithful : a soldier that thought it
As beastly to know his own value too little
As devilish to acknowledge it too much.
IJoth his virtue and form deser\-ed a far better fortune :
His discourse rather delighted to judge itself than show
itself :
His breast was filled -n-ith all perfection,
.\ud yet it seemed a private whispering-room,
it made so little noise of 't.
Diich. But he was basely descended.
Bos. Will you make yourself a mercenarj- herald,
Rather to examine men's pedigrees than \'irtue3 r
You shall want him :
For know an honest statesman to a prince
Is like a ced;ir planted by a spring :
The spring bathes the tree's roots, the gi-ateful tree
Rewards it with his shadow : you have not done so.
r would sooner swim to the Bennoothes on
I'wo pohticians' rotten bladders, tied
Together with an inteUigencer's heart -string.
Than depend on so changeable a prince's favour.
Fare thee well, Antonio 1 since the malice of the world
Would needs down with thee, it cannot be said yet
That any ill happened unto thee, considering thy fall
*\'as accompanied with virtue.
153
Jjuch. Oh, you render me excellent music 1
Bos. Say you ':
Such. This good one that you speak of, is my husband.
Bos. Do I not dream ? can this ambitious age
Have so much goodness in 't as to prefer
A man merely for worth, without these shadows
Of wealth and painted honours :- possible ':
Luch. I have had three childi-en by him.
Bos. Fortunate lady !
For you have made your private nuptial bed
The humble and fair seminarj- of peace.
Xo question but many an unbeneficed scholar
Shall jiray for you for this deed, and rejoice
That some preferment in the world can yet
Arise from merit. The ^-irgins of yom- land
That have no dowries shall hope your example
Will raise them to rich husbands. Should you want
Soldiers, 'twould mjike the ven- Turks and Moors
Turn Chiistians, and serve you for this act.
Last, the neglected poets of your time,
In honour of this trophy of a man,
Raised by that curious engine, your white hand.
Shall thank you, in your gi-ave, for 't ; and make that
More reverend than all the cabinets
Of living princes. For Antonio,
His fame shall likemse flow from many a pen,
^^Tien heralds shall want coats to sell to men.
Diich. As I taste comfort in this friendly speech.
So would I find concealment.
Bos. Oh, the secret of my prince.
Which I will wear on the inside of my heart !
Duch. Y'ou shall take charge of all my coin and
jewels.
And follow him ; for he retires himself
To Ancona.
Bos. So.
Duch. Wliither, within few days,
I mean to follow thee.
Bos. Let me think :
I would wish your grace to feign a pilgrimage
To our Lady of Loretto, scarce seven leagues
From fair Ancona ; so may you depart
Your coimtry with more honour, and yom- flight
WiU seem a princely progress, retaining
Your usual train about you.
Duch . Sir, your direction
Shall lead me by the hand.
Cari. In my opinion.
She were better progress to the baths at Lucca,
Or go Wsit the Spa
In Germany ; for, if you will believe me,
I do not like tliis jesting with religion.
This feigned pilgrimage.
Duch. Thou art a superstitious fool:
Prepare us instantly for our departure.
Past sorrows, let us moderately lament them.
For those to come, seek wisely to prevent them.
\^E.reuiit DiCHESs ami CAiaoL.\
Bos. A politician is the devil's qiulted anrtl :
He fashions all sins on him, and the blows
Are never heard : he may work in a lady's chamber.
As here for proof. "What rests but I reveal
All to my lord •• Oh, this base quality
Of intelligencer I why, every quality i' the world
Prefers but gain or commendation :
Xow. for this act I am certain to be raised.
And men that paint weeds to the life are praised. [foit.
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The scene changes to Rome, where tlie Cardinal,
known as a warrior before he joined the churcli, is
informed by a carpet soklier, the Count Mahxtesti,
that the Emperor has joined him in commission
" with the riglit fortunate soldier the Martpiis
Pescara."
Tescfira. Bosola arrived ! what should be the business ?
Some falling-out amongst the cardinals.
These factions amongst great men, they are like
Foxes, when their lieads are divided.
They carry fire in their tails, and aU the country
About them goes to wreck for 't.
Silvio. What 's that Bosola ^
Dctio. I knew him in Padua, — a fantastical scholar, like
such who study to know how many knots was in Hercules'
club, of what colour Achilles' beard was, or whether Hector
■were not troubled with the tooth-ache. He hath studied
himself half blear-eyed to know the true symmetry of
C;esar's nose by a shoeing-horn ; and this he did to gain the
name of a spe<'ulative man.
Pes. Mark Prince Ferdinand :
A very salamander lives in 's eye.
To mock the eager violence of fire.
Sil. That cardinal hath made more bad faces with his
oppression than ever Jlichael Angelo made good ones : he lifts
up 's nose, like a foul porpoise before a storm.
I'c.i. The Lord Ferdinand laughs.
Ih/in. Like a deadly caimon
That lightens ere it smokes.
Pes. These are your true pangs of death,
The pangs of life that struggle with great statesmen.
Bc/io. In such a deformed sUenoe witches whisper their
charms.
Ciinl. Doth she make religion her riiling-hood
To keep her from the sun and tempest Y
Fcrd. That,
That damns her. Jlothinks her fault and beauty,
Blended together, show like leprosy.
The whiter, the fouler. I make it a question
Whether her beggarly brats were ever christened.
C'arrl. I will instantly solicit the state of Ancona
To have them banished.
FenL You are for Loretto :
I shall not be at your ceremony ; fare you well. —
Write to the Duke of Malfi, my young nephew
>She had by her first husband, and acquaint him
With 's mother's honesty.
Bo.s'. I will.
l-'ird. Antonio !
A slave that only smcllcd of ink and counters.
And never in 's life looked like a gentleman
But in the audit-time. — Go, go presently.
Draw me out an hundred and fifty of our horse,
And meet me at the fort-bridge. [Exctod.
SCENE IV.
Enter Two Pilgrims to the Shrine of our Ladij of Loretto.
First I'll. I have not seen a goodlier shrine than this ;
Yet I have visited many.
Seeond Pil. The Cardinal of Arragon
Is this day to resign his cardinal's hat :
His sister Duchess likewise is arrived
To pay her vow of pilgrimage. I expect
A noble ceremony.
First Pil. Ko question. — Thev come.
Mere the eerenionij of the Cardinal's instalment in the habit
of a soldier, performed in delivering up his cross, hut,
robes, and ring, at the shrine, and investing him with
sword, helmet, shield, ami spurs; then Antonio, the
DiXHESs, and their children, having presented themselves
at the shrine, are, by a form of banishment in dnmb-show
expressed towards them by the Cardinal and the state of
Ancona, banished: during all which ceremony, a ditty i^
snnif, to very solemn music, by divers churchmen : awl
then exeunt all exccjH tJie Two Pilgrims.
First Pil. Here 's a strange turn of state ! A\Tio would have
thought
So great a lady would have matched herself
TTnto so mean a person ? yet the cardinal
Bears himsidf much too cruel.
See. Pil. They arc banished.
First Pil. But I would ask what power hath this state
Of Ancona to detennino of a free prince ?
Sec. Pil. They are a free state, sir, and her brother showed
How that the Pope, fore-hearing of her looseness.
Hath seized into the protection of the church
The dukedom which she held as dowager.
First Pil. But by what justice ?
Sec. Pil. iSm-e, I think by none,
Only her brother's instigation.
First Pil. What was it with such violence he took
Off from her finger ?
Sec. Pil. 'Twas her wedding-ring ;
Which he vowed shortly he would sacrifice
To his i-ovenge.
First Pil. Alas, Antonio ! ,
If tliat a man be tlirust into a well,
Xo matter who sets hand to 't, his own weight
Win bring him sooner to the bottom. Come, let's hence.
Fortune makes this conclusion general,
All things do help the unhappy man to fall. [Fxeunt.
SCENE V.
Enter Di'chess, Axtoxio, Children, C.\uioL.\, and Servants.
P)ueh. Banished Ancona !
Ant. Yes, you see what power
Lightens in great men's breath.
Such. Is all our train
Shrunk to this poor remainder ?
Ant. Those poor men,
AVhich have got little in yanx service, vow
To take your foi-time : but your wiser buntings,
Now thoy are fledged, are g<rae.
Such. They have done wisely.
This puts me in mind of death : physicians thus,
With their hands full of money, use to give o'er
Their patients.
Ant. Right the fashion of the world :
From decayed fortunes every flatterer shrinks ;
Jlcn cease to build where the foundation sinks.
Such. I had a very strange dream to-night.
Ant. A\Tiat was 't ?
Jiiirh. ilethought I woi'e my coi-onet of state,
-\nd on a sudden all the diamonds
Were changed to pearls.
Ant. My interpretation
Is, you '11 weep shortly ; fin- to me the pearls
Do signify your tears.
Ihich. The liirds that li\-e i' the field
On the wild benefit of nature Kve
TO A.i). 1(J23.J
PLAYS.
259
Happier thuu we ; for they uiuy choose tlieir mates,
And caiol their sweet pleasures to the spring.
Enter Bosola tu'dh « Ivtter.
Bos. You are happily o'erta'en.
Dnch. From my brother?
Bus. Yes, from the Lord Ferdinanil your brother
AU love and safety.
Dnch. Thou dost bhmch mischief,
AVouldst make it white. See, see, like to calm weather
At sea before a tempest, false hearts speak fair
To those they intend most mischief. [BcmU.
" iScitd Antonio to nu- ; I wtutt his head in if buaitiess.^'
A politic equivocation 1
He doth not want your counsel, but your head :
That is, he caimot sleep tUl you be dead.
And hei-e 's another pitfall that 's strew'd o'er
With roses ; mark it, 'tis a cunning one : [Beads.
" I standenf/(t(/cd for i/oitr husband for several debts at tuples :
let not that trouble him ; I had rather have his heart than his
money .'" —
^VnJ I beUeve so too.
Bos. AVTiat do you believe ':
l)ueh. That he so much distrusts my husband's lo\'e,
lie will by no means believe his heart is with him
Until he see it : the devil is not cunning enough
To cii'cumvent us in riddles.
Bos. WiU you reject that noble and free league
Of amity and love which I present you J
Such. Their league is like that of some politic kings.
Only to make themselves of strength and power
To be our after-ruin : tell them so.
Bo:-. And what from you ;■'
Ant. Thus teU him : I wiU not come.
Bus. And what of this ':
Ant. My brothers have dispersed
Blood-hounds abroad ; which till I hear are muzzled,
No truce, though hatched with ne'er such politic skill.
Is Siife, that hangs upon our enemies' will.
I '11 not come at them.
Bos. This proclaims yoiu- breeding :
Every small thing draws a bas(; mind to fear.
As tlie adamant di-aws iron. Fare you well, sir :
You shall shortly hear from's. [Exit.
Uueh. I suspect some ambush :
Therefore by all my love I do conjure }-ou
To take your eldest son, and fly towards ililan.
Let us not venture all this poor remainder
In one unlucky bottom.
Aiit. You counsel safely.
Best of my life, farewell, since we must part :
Heaven hath a hand in 't ; but no otherwise
Than as some curious artist takes in sunder
A clock or watch, when it is out of frame,
To bring 't in better order.
Duch. I know not which is best.
To see you dead, or part with you. — Farewell, boy :
Thou art happy that thou hast not understanding
To know thy misery ; for all our wit
And reading brings us to a truer sense
Of sorrow. — In the Eternal Cliurch, sii',
I do hope we shall not part thus.
Ant. Oh, be of comfort !
JIake patience a noble fortitude.
And think not how unkindly we are nscd :
Han, like to cassia, is proved best, being bruised.
Such. Must I, like to a slave-bom Kussian,
Account it praise to sutfcr tyranuy r
And yet, O Heaven, thy heavy hand is in 't 1
I have seen my little boy oft scourge his top,
And compar'd myself to 't : naught made me e'er
Go right but heaven's scom'ge-stick.
Ant. Uo not weep :
Heaven fashioned us of nothing ; and we strive
To bring om-selves to nothing. — Farewell, Cariola,
And thy sweet armful.— If I do never see thee more.
Be a good mother to your little ones.
And save them from the tiger ; fare you well.
Bach. Let me look upon you once more, for that speech
Came from a d)-ing father : your kiss is colder
Thau that I have seen an holy anchorite
Give to a dead man's skull.
Ant. My heart is turned to a heavy lump of lead,
With which I sound my danger : fare you well.
[Exeunt AxToxio and his son.
Daeh. Jly laurel is all withered.
Cari. Look, madam, M'liat a troop of armed men
Make toward us.
Duch . Oh, they ai-e very welcome :
^Vhen Foiluno's wheel is overcharged with princes,
The weight makes it move swift : I would have my ruin
Be sudden.
He-enter BosoL.\ visarded^ icith a guard.
I am your adventure, am I not ?
Bos. You are : you must see your husband no more.
Biich. '\^^^at devil art thou that counterfeit'st heaven's
thunder ?
Bos. Is that terrible ? I would have you tell me whether
Is that note worse that frights the silly bii'ds
Out of the com, or that which doth allure them
To the nets ? you have hearken'd to the last too much.
Buch. O miserj'! like to a rusty o'ercharg'd cannon
Shall I never fly in pieces ? — Come, to what prison f
Bos. To none.
Buch. Whither, then?
Bos. To your palace.
Buch. I have heard
That Charon's boat serves to convey aU o'er
The dismal lake, but bi-iugs none back again.
Bos. Your brothers mean you safety and pity.
Buch. Pity!
With such a pity men preserve alive •
Pheasants and quails, when they are not fat enougl
To be eaten.
Bos. These are your children ?
Buch. Yes.
Bos. Can they prattle ?
Buch. No :
But I intend, since they were bom accursed.
Curses shall be their first language.
Bos. Fie, madam I
Forget this base, low fellow, —
Buch. Were I a man,
I 'd beat that counterfeit face into thy other.
Bos. One of no birth.
Buch. Say that he was born mean :
Man is most happy when 's own actions
Be arguments and examples of his virtue.
Bos. A barren, beggarly virtue.
Buch. I prithee, who is gi-eatest ? can you tcU P
Sad tales befit my woe : I 'U teU you one.
A salmon, as she swam unto the sea.
Met with a dog-fish, who encounters her
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With thi^5 rouifh liiiiijuagc ; " Why art thou so bold
To mix thyself witli our high state of floods,
lieing no eminent couilier, but one
That for the calmest and fresh tinrc o' the year
Dost live in shallow rivers, rank'st thyself
With silly smelts and shrimps !' and darest thou
Pass by our dogship without reverence J""
" Oh," quoth the salmon, " sister, be at peace :
Thank Jupiter we both hare pass'd the net 1
(!)iir value never can be truly known,
Till in the fisher's basket wo be shown :
I' the market then my price may be the higher,
Even when I am nearest to the cook and fire."
So to great men the moral may bo stretch'd ;
Jlen oft are valu'd high, when they 're most m-etch'd. —
But come, whither )'ou please. I am arm'd 'gainst misery ;
Bent to all sways of the oppressor's will :
There's no deep valley but near some great hiU. \_ExctiHt.
Here tlie Tliinl Act closes ; and the Fourth thus
opens : —
ACT IV. — SCENE I.
JInIJi, ill the Pallid: of tlw Dichess.
Enter Ferdix.ixd and BosoL.\.
FiriJ. How doth our sister Duchess bear herself
In her imprisonment !'
Sos. Xobly : I '11 describe her.
She 's sad as one long used to 't, and she seems
Rather to welcome the end of misery
Than shun it ; a behaviour so noble
As gives a majesty to adversity:
You may discern the shape of loveliness
More perfect in her tears than in her smiles :
She wiU muse four hours together ; and her silence,
Jlethinks, expresseth more than if she spake.
FiriJ. Her melancholy seems to be fortified
With a strange disdain.
Bos. 'Tis so ; and this restraint.
Like English mastiflr's that gi-ow fierce with tj-ing,
ilakes her too passionately apprehend
Those pleasures she is kept from.
Ferd. Curse upon her I
I will no longer study in the book
Of another's heart. Inform her what I told you. {Exit.
Enter Duchess.
Bos. All comfort to your grace !
Duck. I will have none.
Pray thee, why dost thou wrap thy poisoned pills
In gold and sugar ':
Bos. Your elder brother, the Lord Ferdinand,
Is come to \-isit you, and sends you word,
'Cause once he rashly made a solemn vow
Never to see you more, he comes i' the night ;
And prays you gently neither torch nor taper
Shine in your chamber : he will kiss yom- hand,
And reconcile himself ; but for his vow
He dares not see you.
Diich. At his pleasure. —
Take hence the lights. — He 's come.
Enter Fekdixaxd.
Ferd. Where are j'ou ?
Diich. Here, sir.
Ferd. This darkness suits you well.
Duch. I would ask your pardon.
Ferd. You have it ;
For I account it the honorablest revenge,
■SATiere I may kill, to pardon. — Where are your cubs ?
lliieh. "Whom:'
Ferd. Call them your children :
For though oui- national law distinguish bastards
From true legitimate issue, compassionate nature
Slakes them aU equal.
Biich. Do you ^Tsit me for this ?
You violate a sacrament o' the church
Shall make you howl in hell for 't.
Ferd. It had been weU,
Could you have lived thus always ; for, indeed,
You were too much i' the light : — but no more ;
I come to seal my peace with you. Here 's a hand
[Gives her a dead man s hand.
To which you have vowed much love ; the ring upon 't
You gave.
Dneh. I affectionately Idss it.
Ferd. Pray do, and bury the print of it in your heart.
I will leave this ling with you for a love-token ;
.\jid the hand as sure as the ring ; and do not doubt
But you shall have the heart too : when you need a friend,
Send it to him that ow'd it ; you shall see
Whether he can aid you.
Ditch. You are verv' cold :
I fear you are not well after your travel. —
Ha ! Ughts : Oh, horrible':
Ferd. Let her have lights enough. [Ejit.
Diich. 'What witchcraft doth he practise, that he hath
left
A dead man's hijnd here ?
[Here is discovered, iie hind a traverse, the artifieial figures
o/AxTOXIO and his children, appearing as if theij
xcere 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 they are dead.
Hereafter you may wisely cease to grieve
For that which cannot be recovered.
Dacli. There is not between heaven and earth one wish
I stay for after this : it wastes me more
Than were 't mj- picture, fashioned out of wax.
Stuck with a magical needle, and then buried
In some foul dunghiU ; and yond 's an excellent projierty
For a tjTant, which I woidd accoimt mercy.
Bos. What 's that •■
Biieh . If they would bind me to that lifeless tiunk.
And let me freeze to death.
Bos. Come, you must livi>.
Ihieh. That 's the greatest torture souls fe<d in lieU,
In hell, that they must live, and cannot die.
Portia, I 'U new kindle thy eoals again,
And revive that rare and almost dead example
Of a loving wife.
Bus. Oh, fie ! despair ? remember
You are a Chi-istian.
Dach. The Church enjoins fasting :
I 'U stai-ve myself to death.
Bns. Leave this vain son-ow.
Things being at the worst begin to mend : the bee
^^^len he hath shot his sting into your hand,
3Iay then play with your eye-lid.
Diieh. Good comfortable fellow.
Persuade a wretch that 's broke upon the wheel
To have all his bones new set ; entreat him live
To be executed again. 'WTio must despatch me ?
TO i.u. lu"-_'3.]
PLAYS.
261
I account this world a tedious theatre,
For I do play a part in 't 'gainst my wiU.
llvs. Come, be of comfoi-t ; I will save your life.
Zliich. Indeed, I have not leisui'e to tend
^^0 small a business.
Bos. Xow, by my life, I pity you.
l)tuh. Thou ai-t a fool, then.
To waste thy pity on a thing- so wretched
As cannot pity itself. I am full of daggers
Pirtf, let me blow these vipers from me.
Eutcr Servant.
^\^lat are you ?
Scrr. One that wishes you long life.
Ddch. I would thou wert hanged for the horrible curse
Thou hast given me ; I shall shortly grow one
( If the miracles of pity. I '11 go pray ; —
Xo, I 'U go curse.
Bos. Oh, fie !
I)iich. I could cirrse the stars.
Bos. Oh, fearful !
Ditch. And those three smiling seasons of the year
Into a Eussian winter : nay, the world
To its first chaos.
Bos. Look you, the stars shine still.
Duck. Oh, but you must
Remember, my curse hath a great way to go. —
Plagues that make lanes through largest families,
Consume them 1
Bos. Fie, lady !
Illicit. Let them, like tj-rants,
Xe'er be remembered but for the ill they 've done ;
Let all the zealous prayers of mortified
Chiu'chmen forgot them ! —
Bos. Oh, uncharitable 1
Diuh. Let heaven a little while cease crowning martyrs,
To punish them ! —
tio, howl them this, and s;iy, I long to bleed :
It is some mercy when men kill with speed. \_Exit.
Me-eiiter Fekdinaxd.
Ferd. Excellent, as I would wish ; she 's plagued in art :
These presentations are but framed in wax
By the cunous master in that quality,
Yincentio Lauriola, and she takes them
For true substantial bodies.
Bos. AXTiy do you do this ?
Ferd. To bring her to despair.
Bos. Faith, end here,
And go no farther in your cruelty :
Send her a penitential garment to put on
Xext to her delicate skin, and fui-nish her
AVith beads and prayer-books.
Ferdinand answers with passionate tlireats of more
torment to tlie mind :
-Vnd, "cause she 'U needs be mad, I am resolved
To remove forth the conunon hospifcil
All the mad-folk, and place them near her lodging ;
There let them practise together, sing and dance,
-\nd act theu' gambols to the full o' the moon :
If she can sleep the better for it, let her.
Your work is almost ended.
Bos. Must I see her again 'f
Fml. Yes.
Bos. Never.
Fcrd. You must.
Bos. Xever in mine own shape ;
That 's forfeited by my intelligence
And this last cruel lie : when you send me next,
The business shall be comfort.
Ferd. Yery likely ;
Thy pity is nothing of kin to thee. Antonio
Lm-ks about ililau : thou shalt shortly thither,
To feed a fire as great as my revenge,
AYhich never will slack till it have spent his fuel :
Intemperate agues makes xAysicians cruel. [Fxetiut.
SCENE n.
Enter Duchess and Cariola.
Liieh. AYhat hideous noise was that f
Cari. 'Tis the wild consort
Of madmen, lady, which your tyrant brother
Hath placed about your- lodging : tliis tyranny,
I think, was never practised tiU this hour.
Biiclt. Indeed, I thank him : nothing but noise and folly
Can keep me in my right wits ; Avhereas reason
And silence make me stark mad. .Sit down ;
Discom-se to me some dismal tragedy.
Cari. Oh, 'twill increase your melancholy.
hitch. Thou art deceived :
To hear of greater grief would lessen mine.
This is a prison.
Cari. Yes, but you shall Hve
To shake tins durance off.
Biieh. Thou art a fool:
The robin-redbreast and the nightingale
Xever live long in cages.
Cari. Pray dry your eyes.
AVliat think you of, madam ?
Ditch. Of nothing ;
When I muse thus, I sleep.
Cari. Like a madman, with your eyes open ?
Ditch. Dost thou think we shall know one another
In the other world 'i
Cari. Yes, out of question.
Diich. Oh, that it were possible we might
But hold some two days' conference w ith the dead !
From them I should leam somewhat, I am sure,
I never shall know here. I '11 tell thee a miracle ;
I am not mad yet, to my cause of son-ow :
The heaven o'er my head seems made of molten brass,
The earth of flaming sulphur-, yet I am not mad.
I am acquainted with sad misery
As the tanned galley-slave is with his oar ;
Necessity makes me sufl:er constantly.
And custom makes it easy. A\Tio do I look like now- ':
Cari. Like to your picture in the gallery,
A deal of life in show, but none in practice ;
Or rather Uke some reverend monument
AMiose ruins are even pitied.
Ditch . Very proper ;
And Fortune seems only to have her eye-sight
To behold my tragcdx'. — How uow [
What noise is that ':
Enter Servant.
Serv. I am come to tell you
Your brother hath intended you some sport.
A gi-eat physician, when the Pope was sick
Of a deep melancholy, presented liim
AVith several sorts of madmen, which wild object
Being full of change and sport, forced him to laugh,
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And so the iinposthume broke ; the self-Bame cure
Xhe liuko intends on you.
Such. Let them come in.
Serv. There 's a mad liuvyer ; and a secular priest ;
A doctor that hath forfeited his wits
By jealousy ; an astroloyian
That in his works said such a day o' the month.
Should he the day of doom, and, failing of 't,
lian mad ; an English tailor crazed i' the brain
With the study of new fashions ; a gentleman-usher
l,iuite beside himself witli care to keep in mind
The number of his lady's salutations
(Jr " How do you " she employed him in each morning ;
A farmer, too, an excellent knave in grain.
Mad 'cause he was hindered transportation :
And let one broker that 's mad loose to these.
You'd tliink the devil were among them.
Diich. Sit, Cariola. — Let them loose when you please,
For I am chained to endure your tyranny.
Enter Madmen.
Here by a Madman this song is sunij to a disninl hind of music.
Oh, let us howl some heavy vote,
Some deadly dogged houi,
Sounding as from the threatening throat
Of beasts and fatal fowl !
jls ravens, screech-oicls, bulls, and bears.
We Ul bell, and batcl our parts.
Till irksome noise have cloyed your ears
.And corroslved your hearts.
.At last, u'hcnas our quire ivants breath,
Our bodies being blest,
IVe ^11 sing, like swans, to tveleome death.
And die in love and rest.
Fir.it Madman. Doom's-day not come yet; I'll draw it
nearer by a perspective, or make a glass that shall set all the
world on fire upon an instant. I cannot sleep ; my pillow is
stuffed with a litter of porcupines.
Heeond Madman. Hell is a mere glass-house, where the
de\'ils are continually blowing up women's souls on hollow
irons, and the tire never goes out.
First 3Iudinan. I ha^•e skill in lirraldry.
Second Madman. Hast 'f
First Madman. You do give for your crest a woodcock's
head with the brains picked out un 't , j'ou are a very
ancient gentleman.
Third Madman. Greek is turned Turk : we are only to be
saved by the Helvetian translation.
Fi.r.^t Mailman. Come on, sir, I will lay the law to you.
i^eeond Madman. Oh, rather lay a corrosive : the law will
cat to the bone.
Third Madman. He that drinks but to satisfy natiu-e is
damned.
Fourth Madman. I have pared the devil's nails forty times,
roasted them in raven's eggs, and cured agues with them.
Third Madman. Get me tlu-ee hundred milch-bats, to make
possets to procm'C sleep.
Fourth Madman. All the college may throw their caps at
me : I have made a soap-boiler costive ; it was my master-
piece.
[Here the dance, consisting of Eight Madmen, with music
answerable thereunto ; after which, BosOLA, like an
old man, enters.
Duch . Is he mad too ?
Serv. I'ray, question liim. I '11 leave you.
[Ej'cunt Servant and Madmen.
£os. I am come to make thy tomb.
Duch. Ha ! my tomb !
Thou speak' st as if I lay upon my death-bed.
Gasping for breath : dost thou perceive me sick ?
Mos. Yes, and the more dangerously, since thy sickness is
insensible.
Duch. Thou art not mad, sure ; dost know me ?
Mos. Yes.
Duch. Who am I ?
Bos. Thou art a box of worm-seed, at best but a salvatoiy
of green mummy. What 's this flesh ? a little crudded milk,
fantastical puif-paste. Oui- bodies are weaker than those
paper prisons boys use to keep flies in ; more contemptible,
since om's is to preserve earth-worms. Didst thou ever sec a
lark in a cage Y Such is the soul in the body : this world is
like her Uttle turf of gi-ass ; and the heaven o'er om- heads,
like her looking-glass, only gives us a miserable knowledge
of the small compass of om- prison.
Duch. Am not I thy Duchess i
Bos. Thou art some great woman, sure, for riot begins to
sit on thy forehead (clad in graj' hairs) twenty years sooner
than on a merry milk-maid'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 vrith thee,
would cry out, as if thou wert the more unquiet bedfellow.
Duch. I am Duchess of Malti still.
Bos. That makes thy sleeps so broken :
Gloi'ies, like glow-woi-ms, afar off shine bright,
But, looked to near, have neither heat nor light.
Duch. Thou ai-t very plain.
Bos. Jly trade is to flatter the dead, not the li\-ing ; I am a
tomb-maker.
Duch. And thou comest to make my tomb ?
Bos. Yes.
Duch. Let mo be a little merrj- : — of what stuff wilt thou
make it ':'
Bos. Nay, resolve me first, of what fashion ?
Duch. yVhy, do we grow fantastical in our death-bed r do
we aft'ect fashion in the grave ?
Bus. Most 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 tooth-ache ; they are not carved with their eyes fi.xed
upon the stars ; but as their minds were wholly bent upon the
world, the self-same way they seem to 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 : —
Enter E.\ocutioncrs, with a coffin, cords, and a bell.
Here is a present from your princely brothers ;
And may it arrive welcome, for it brings
Last benefit, last sonow.
Duch . Let me see it :
I have so much obedience in my blood,
I wish it in their veins to do them good.
Bus. This is your last presence-chamber.
Curi. Oh, my sweet lady 1
Duch. Peace; it affrights not me.
Bos. I am the common beUman,
That usually is sent to condemned persons
The night before they suffer.
Duch. Even now thou said'st
Thou wast a tomb-maker.
TO A.D. 1623.]
PLAYS.
263
£os. 'Twas to briugj-ou
By degrees to mortification.
Listen.
Hark, now every thing is still,
The screech-owl and the whistler shrill
Call upon our dame aloud,
And bid her quickly don her shioud !
Much you had of land and rent ;
Your length in clay 's now competent
A long war disturbed your mind ;
Here your perfect peace is sign'd.
Of what is 't fools make such vain keeping ?
Sin their conception, theii- birth weeping,
Theii- life a genei-al mist of en'or.
Their death a hideous storm of tciTor.
Strew your hair with powders sweet,
Don clean linen, bathe your feet,
And (the foul fiend more to check)
A crucitix let bless your- neck :
'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day ;
End yoiu- groan, and come away.
C'aii. Hence, vill.iins, t_\Tants, murderers I alas !
A\'hat will you do with my lady ': — Call for help.
Uiic/i. To whom ': to our next neighboiu's ? thev are mad-
folks.
Bos. Remove that noise.
Iliich. Farewell, Cariola.
In my last will I have not much to give :
A many hungry guests have fed upon me ;
Thine will be a poor revei-sion.
Cnri. I will die with her.
I)mh. I pray thee, look thou giv"st my little hoy
Some sjTui) for his cold, and let the girl
Say her prayers ere she sleep.
[C.udoL.t (.V forced out hy the Executioners.
Now what you please :
VThiit death ':
Bos. Strangling ; here are your executioners.
Such. I forgive them :
Tlic apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o' tlie lungs,
Would do as mnch as they do.
Bos. Doth not death flight you ?
Duch. Who would 'be afraid on't.
Knowing to meet such excellent company
In the other world ?
Bos. Yet, methinks,
Tlie manner of your death should much afflict you :
This cord should terrify you.
Dnch. Not a whit :
AMiat 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 several 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 heaven-sake,
So I were out of your whispering. Tell my brothers
That I perceive death, now I am 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 he tedious to you.
First Execut. We are ready
Duch. Dispose my breath how please you ; but my body
Bestow upon mj- women, will j'ou ?
First Exerut. Yes.
Diiih. Full, and pull strongly, for yoiir able strength
Must pull down heaven upon me : —
\et stiiy ; heaven-gates are not so highly arch'd
As princes' palaces ; they that enter there
Must go upon then- knees [A'«(v.fo].— Come, violent death,
Servo for mandi-agora to make me sleep ! —
Go teU my brothers, when I am laid out,
They then may feed in quiet.
[7'/)c Executioners strangk the DicitEss '
Bos. WTiere 's the waiting- woman 'r
Fetch her : some other strangle the chDdren.
[C-iKioL.t ami Children nre hromjht in hy the Execu-
tioners, who presently strangle the Children.
Look you, there sleeps your mistress.
Cari. Oh, you are damned
Perpetually for this '. My tmn is next ;
Is 't not so order' d ?
Bos. Yes, and I am glad
You are so well prepar'd for't.
Cari. You are deceived, sir ;
I am not prepar'd for't, I will not die ;
I will first come to my answer, and know
How I have offended.
Boa. Come, despatch her. —
\ ou kept her counsel ; now you shall keep ours.
Cari. I wOl not die, I must not ; I am contracted
To a young gentleman.
First Execut. Here 's your wedding-ring.-
Cari. Let me but speak with the duke ; I '11 discover
Treason to his person.
Bos. Delays : — thi'ottle her.
First Execut. She bites and scratches.
Cari. If you kill me now,
I am damn'd ; I luive not been at confession
This two years.
Bos. [7o Executioners.] "When?
[r/it' Executioners strangle C.vhiol.\.
Bear her into the next room :
Let these lie still.
[Exeunt the Executioners u-ith the My of C.uiiOL.\.
Enter Feudixand.
Ferd. Is she dead ?
Bos. She is what
You 'd have her. But here begin your pity :
[Shows the Children strangled.
Alas, how have these offended i
Ferd. The death
Of young wolves is never to he pitied.
' "AH the several ports of the dreadful apparatus witli wliicli the
duchess's death is ushered in arc not more remote from the concep-
tions of ordinary vengeance tlian the strange character c! suffei-ing
which they seem to bring upon then- victim is beyond the imairiuation
of ordinary poets. As they are not like inflictions of this life, so her
language seems not of this irorld. She has lived among hoiTors till
she is become ' native and endowed unto that element.' She siieaks
the dialect of despair, her tongue has a smatch of Tartanis and the
souls in bale. What are ' Lake's iron crown.' the brazen bidl of
Pei-iUtis, Procnistes' bed, to the waxen images which coimterfeit death,
to the wild masque of madmen, the tomb-maker, the bell-man, the
living person's dirge, the mortification by degrees ! To move a horror
skUfully, to touch a soul to the quick, to lay upon fear as mnch aa it
can bear, to wean and weary life till it is, ready to diop, and then
step in with mortal instruments to take its last forfeit ; this only a
Webster can do. Writers of an inferior genins may ' upon horror's
head honors accumulate,' but they cannot do this. They mistake
quantity for quality, they ' terrify babes with painted devils," but
they know not how a soul is capable of being moved ; their terrors
want dignity, their aifrightments are without decorum." C. Lamb
("Spec, of Eng. Dram. Poets").
' Showing the roimd of the noose in the rope.
264
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. lOllj
Bos. Fix youi' c-vc here.
Fird. Constantly.
Bus. Do yoii not weep ?
( )thor sins only speak : murder shrieks out :
The element of water moistens the earth,
But blood flies upwards and bedews the heavens.
Fcril. Cover her face ; mine eyes dazzle : she died young
Bos. I think not so : her infelicity
Seemed to have years too many.
Ftrd. She and I were twins ;
And should I die this instant, I had lived
Iler time to a minute.
Bos. It seems .she was born first :
You have bloodily approved the ancient truth,
That kindi-ed conmionly do worse agree
Than remote strangers.
Fcril. Let me sec her face
Again. Why didst not thou pity her ? what
An excellent honest man mightst thou have been,
If thou hadst borne her to some sanctuary !
I )r, bold in a good cause, oppos'd thyself,
With thy advanced sword above thj- head,
Between her innocence and my revenge 1
I hade thee, when I was distracted of my wits,
tio kill my dearest friend, and thou hast done 't.
For let me but examine well the cause :
What was the meanness of her match to me ?
< )nly I must confess I had a hope,
Had she continued widow, to have gained
.\n infinite mass of treasure by her death :
.Vnd what was the main cause ? her marriage.
That drew a stream of gall quite through my heart.
For thee, as we observe in tragedies
That a good actor many times is cur.scd
For playing a villain's part, I hate thee for't.
And, for my sake, say, thou hast done much ill well.
Bos. Let me quicken your memory, for I perceive
You are falling into ingratitude : I challenge
The reward due to my service.
Ftrih I '11 tell thee"
What I '11 give thee.
Bos. Do.
Ferd. I'll give thee pardon
For this murder.
Bos. Ha !
Ferd. Y'es, and 'tis
T'he largest bounty I can study to do thee.
By what authority didst tliou execute
I'his bloody sentence ':
Bos. By yours.
Ferd. Jline I was I her judge 'i
Did any ceremonial forni of law
Doom her to not-being ': did a complete j ury
Deliver her conriction up i' the court f
Wliere shalt thou find this judgment registered,
Unless in hell •• See, like a bloody fool,
Thou'st forfeited thy life, and thou shalt die for 't.
Bos. The office of justice is perverted quite
When one thief hangs another. Who shall dare
To reveal this ':
Ferd. Oh, I 'U tell thee ;
'I'he wolf shall find her gi-ave, and scrape it up,
Not to devour the corpse, but to discover
The horrid murder.
Bos. Y'ou, not I, .shall quake for 't.
Ferd. Leave me.
Bos. I -will first receive my pension.
Ferd. You are a villain.
Bos. ^\'Tien your ingratitude
Is judge, I am so.
Ferd. O horror.
That not the fear of Him which binds the devils
Can preserfbe man obedience ! —
Never look upon me more.
Bos. Why, fare thee well.
Your brother and yourself are worthy men :
Y'ou have a pair of hearts are hollow gi'aves,
Kotten, and rotting others ; and your vengeance.
Like two chained bullets, stiU goes arm in arm :
You may be brothers ; for treason, like the plague.
Doth take much in a blood. I stand like one
That long hath ta'en a sweet and golden dream :
I am angry with mj-self , now that I wake.
Ferd. Get thee into some unknown part o" the world.
That I may never see thee.
Bos. Let me know
Wherefore I should be thus neglected. Sir
I served your tjTanny, and rather strove
To satisfy yourself than all the world :
And though I loathed the evil, yet I loved
You that did counsel it ; and rather sought
To appear true servant than an honest man.
Ferd. I 'U go hunt the badger by owl-light :
'Tis a deed of darkness. \_F.rit.
Bos. He 's much distracted. Off, my painted honour !
While with vain hopes our faculties we tire,
We seem to sweat in ice and freeze in fire.
AVhat would I do, were this to do again (
I would not change my peace of conscience
For all the wealth of Europe. — She stirs ; here 's life : —
Ketui-n, fair soul, from darkness, and lead mine
Out of this sensible hcdl: — she's wann, she breathes:^
Upon thy pale lips I wiU melt my heart.
To .store them with fresh colour. — Who 's there !
Some cordial drink '. — Alas ! I dare not call :
So pity would destroy l)ity. — Her eye opes.
And heaven in it seems to oi)e, th:it late was shut.
To take me up to mercy.
Iliie/i. Antonio!
Bos. Y'es, mad.'im, he is living; •
The dead bodies you saw were l>ut feigned statues .
He 's reconciled to your brothers ; the Pope hath wrought
The atonement.
JJuc/i. Mercy I [pities.
Bos. Oh, she 's gone again ! there the cords of life bro'Ke.
sacred innocence, that sweetly sleeps
On turtle's feathers, whilst a guilty conscience
Is a black register wherein is writ
.\11 our good deeds and had, a perspective
That shows us hell 1 That we cannot be suffered
To do good when we have a mind to it '.
This is manly .sorrow ;
These tears, I am very certain, never grew
In ury mother's milk : my estate is sunk
Below the degree of fear : where were
These penitent fountains while she was living ':
Oh, they were frozen up I Here is a sight
As direful to my soul as is the sword
Unto a wretch hath slain his father. Come,
1 '11 bear thee hence,
And execute thy last will ; that 's deliver
Thy body to the reverend dispose
Of some good women : that the cruel t\Tant
Shall not deny me. Then I '11 post to Jlikin,
TO l.D. lOi.-i.l
PLAIS.
265
Where somewhat I will speedily enact
Worth my dejection.
[-Bj'iil.
The Fifth Act opens in Mihm, mth dialogue
between Antonio and Delio, who misdoubts the
AiTagonian brethren.
For though they have sent their letters of safe-conduct
For your repair to Milan, they appear
But nets to entrap you.
The brave soklier, the Marr^uis of Pescara. under
whom Antonio holds lands, has been moved to seize
them. Delio tries the position for his friend by
asking the marquis for
the citadel of Saint Benet,
With some demesnes, of late in the possession
Of Antonio Bologna.
They are refused to him, and directly afterwards
given to the light Julia, who supports her jietition
with a letter from the Cardinal. Honest Pescara
refused Delio because
it were not fit
I should bestow so main a piece of wrong
Upon my friend.
Then in the gallery of a palace at Milan belonging
to the Duke and Cardinal, Pescara visits Ferdinand,
whose storm of passion has now laid his mind in
ruin.
Enter Pescaua a>id Doctor.
Pes. Now, doctor, may I visit j-our patient ?
Doc. If 't please your lordship : but he 's instantly
To take the air here in the gallery
By my direction.
Pes. Pray thee, what 's his disease ?
Doc. A vcr)- pestilent disease, my lord,
They call it lyeanthiopia.
Pes. AMiat "s that ?
I need a dictionaiy to 't.
Dec. I 'U tcU you.
In those that are possessed with 't there o'erflows
Such melancholy humour they imagine
Themselves to be transfoimed into wolves ;
Steal forth to churchyards in the dead of night,
And dig dead bodies up : as two nights since
One met the Duke 'bout midnight in a lane
Behind Saint Mark's Church, with the leg of a man
Upon his shoulder ; and he howled fearfully ;
Said he was a wolf, only the difference
Was, a wolf's skin was hairy on the outside.
His on the inside : bade them take their swords.
Rip up his flesh, and ti-y : .straight I was sent for.
And, ha^■ing mini.stered to him, found his grace
Very well recovered.
Pes. I am glad on 't.
Doc. Yet not without some fear
Of a relapse. If he grow to his fit again,
I '11 go a nearer way to work with him
Than ever Paracelsus dreamed of ; if
They '11 give me leave, I 'U buffet his madness out of him.
Stand aside ; he comes.
154
Enter Ferdin-.a.xu, Cardinal, JI.il.a.testi, (met Bosola.
Ferd. Leave me.
Mid. Why doth your lordship love this solitariness ?
Ferd. Eagles commonly fly alone : they are crows, daws,
and starhngs that flock together. Look, what 's that follows
me'r
Mill. Nothing, mv lord.
Ferd. Yes.
Mai. 'Tis youi- shadow.
Ferd. Stay it ; let it not haunt me.
Mai. Impossible, if you move, and the sun shine.
Ferd. I will throttle it.
\_Throu:s himself down on his shadoic.
Mill. Oh, my lord, you are angry with nothing.
Ferd. You are a fool : how is 't possible I should catch my
shadow, unless I fall upon 't ? When I go to hell, I moan to
carry a bribe ; for, look you, good gifts evermore make wa.v
for the worst persons.
Pes. Rise, good my lord.
Ferd. I am studying the art of patience.
Pis. 'Tis a noble virtue.
Ferd. To drive six snails before me from this town to
Moscow ; neither use goad nor whip to them, but let them
take their own time ; — the patient' st man i' the world match
me for an experiment ; — and I '11 crawl after like a sheep-
hiter.
Ctird. Force him up. [^Theij raise him.
Ferd. Use me well, you were best. AMiat I have done, I
have done : I 'U confess nothing.
Doe. Now let me come to him. — Are you mad, my lord ?
arc you out of your princely wits ':
Ferd. AVhat 's he V
Pes. Your doctor.
Ferd. Let me have his beard sawed off, and his eyebrows
filed more civil.
Doe. I must do mad tricks with him, for that 's the only
way on 't. — I have brought your grace a salamander's skin
to keep you from sun-buming.
Ferd. I have cruel sore eyes.
Doc. The white of a cockatrice's egg is present remedy.
Ferd. Let it be a new-laid one, you were best. — Hide me
from him : physicians are like kings,— they brook no con-
tradiction.
Doc. Now he begins to fear me : now let me alone with
him.
Curd. How now I put off your gown I
Doe he and I '11 go pelt one another
— Now he begins to fear me. — Can you fetch a frisk, sir ;- —
Let him go, let him go, upon my peril : I find by his eye he
stands in awe of me ; I '11 make him as tame as a dormouse.
Ferd. Can you fetch your frisks, sir !— I will stamp him
into a cidlis,' flay off his skin, to cover one of the anatomies
this rogue hath set i' the cold yonder in Barber- Chirurgcon's-
hall. Hence, hence! you are all of you like beasts for
sacrifice: there's nothing left of you but tongue and belly,
flattery and lechery. [Exit.
Pes. Doctor, he did not fear you thoroughly.
Doe. True ; I was somewhat too forward.
Dos. Mercy upon nie, what a fatal judgment.
Hath fallen upon this Ferdinand '.
Pes. Knows your grace
^^^lat accident hath brought unto the prince
This strange distraction ?
Card. [Aside] I must feign somewhat.— Thus they say it
grew : —
1 Ciiilis, meat jeUy, strong broth. French " coulis."
266
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1616
You have heard it rumouv'd, for these many years
Xone of our family dies but there is seen
The shape of an old woman, which is given
By tradition to us to have been mui'dered
By her nephews for her riches. Such a figure
One night, as the prince sat up late at 's book.
Appeared to him ; when crying out for help.
The gentlemen of 's chamber found his grace
All on a cold sweat, altered much in face
And language : since which apparition,
He hath grown worse and worse, and I much fear
He cannot live.
£os. Sir, I would speak with you.
Pes. Wo 'U leave yom- grace,
Wishing to the sick prince, our noble lord,
All health of mind and body.
Cni-ii. You are most welcome.
[Kveiiiit Pesc.vra, 1I.\latesti, tmd Doctor.
Are you come ? so. — [Aside.'] This fellow must not know
By any means I had intelligence
In our Duchess' death ; for, though I counselled it,
The full of all the engagement seemed to grow
From Ferdinand. — Now, sir, how fares oiu- sister ?
I do not think but sorrow makes her look
Like to an oft-dyed garment : she shall now
Taste comfort from mo. Why do you look so wildly ?
Oil, the fortune of your master here the prince
Dejects you ; but be you of happy comfort :
If you "11 do one thing for me I '11 entreat.
Though he had a cold tombstone o'er his bones,
I 'd make you what you would be.
Bos. Anji-hing;
Give it me in a breath, and let me fly to 't :
They that think long small expedition win.
For musing much o' the end cannot begin.
Enter JuLU.
Julia. Sir, will you come in to sujiper ?
Card. I am busy ; leave me.
Julia. [Aside] What an excellent shape hath that fellow I
[Exit.
Card. 'Tis thus. Antonio lurks here in Milan :
Inquire him out, and kill him. While he lives.
Our sister cannot marry ; and I have thought
Of an excellent match for her. Do this, and style me
Thy advancement.
Bos. But by what means shall I find liim out ?
Card. There is a gentleman called Delio
Here in the camp, that hath been long appi-oved
His loyal friend. Set eye upon that fellow;
Follow him to mass ; maybe Antonio,
Although ho do not account religion
But a school-name, for fashion of the world
May accompany him ; or else go inquire out
Delio's confessor, and see if you can bribe
Him to reveal it. There are a thousand ways
A man might find to trace him ; as to know
What fellows haunt the Jews for taking up
Great sums of money, for sure he 's in want ;
Or else to go to the picture-makers, and learn
■WTio bought her picture lately : some of these
Happily may take.
Boa. Well, I '11 not freeze i' the business :
I would see that -n-retched thing, Antonio,
Above aU sights i' the world.
Card. Do, and be happy. [Exit.
Bos. This fellow doth breed basilisks in 's eyes,
He 's nothing else but murder ; yet he seems
Not to have notice of the Duchess' death.
'Tis his cunning : I must follow his example ;
There cannot be a surer way to trace
Than that of an old fox.
lie-enter JvLlA.
Julia. So, sir, you are weU met.
Bos. How now !
Julia lets Bosola know liow quickly she has trans-
ferred to him her light fancies, and when she offers
to do something to i)rov8 her love, he bids her dis-
cover for him the cause of the Cardinal's melancholy.
She pi'omises to do that immediately. Let him hide
and hear.
Go get you in ;
You shall see me wind my tongue about his heart
Like a skein of silk.
The Cardinal enters, saying to his servants,
Let none, upon your lives, have conference
With the Prince Ferdinand, unless I know it. —
[Aside.] In this distraction he may reveal
The murder.
Yond 's my lingering consumption :
I am weary of her, and by any means
Would be quit of.
Julia then tries her skill in Avinning
Cardinal his secret cause of trouble.
from the
Sir, never was occasion
For perfect trial of my constancy
Till now : sir, I beseech you —
Card. You '11 repent it.
Julia. Never.
Card. It hui'ries thee to ruin : I '11 not tell thee.
Be well advised, and think what danger 'tis
To receive a prince's secrets : they that do,
Had need have their breasts hooped with adamant
To contain them. I pray thee, yet be satisfied ;
Examine thine own frailty; 'tis more easy
To tie knots than unloose them : 'tis a secret
That, like a lingering poison, may chance lie
Spread in thy veins, and kill thee seven years hence.
Julia. Now you dally ^\-ith me.
Card. No more ; thou shalt know it.
By my aiipointment the great Duchess of Malfi
And two of her young children, four nights since,
Were strangled.
Julia. heaven ! sir, what have you done !
Card. How now ? how settles this ? think j'ou yovu' bosom
Will be a grave dark and obscirre enough
For such a secret ':'
Julia. You have undone yourself, sir.
Card. AVhy?
Julia. It lies not in me to conceal it.
Card. No?
Come, I will swear you to 't upon this book.
Julia. Jlost religiously.
Card. Kiss it. [She hisses (he book.
Now you .shall never utter it ; thy curiosity
Hath undone thee : thou 'rt poison'd with that book :
Because I knew thou couldst not keep my counsel,
I have bound thee to 't by death.
TO i.D. 1623.]
PLAYS.
267
gO'
He-enter Bosola.
Bos. For pity sake, hold !
Curd. Ha, Bosola !
Jid'ui. I forgive you
This equal piece of justice 3'Ou have done ;
For I betrayed yoiu' counsel to that fellow ;
He overheard it ; that was the cause I said
It laj- not in me to conceal it.
Bos. foolish woman,
C'oiddst not thou have poisoned him ':
Julio.. 'Tis weakness,
Too much to think what should have been done. I
I know not whither. \_Dies.
Card. A\'herefore com'st thou hither 'r
Bos. That I might find a great man like yourseH,
Not out of his wits as the Lord Ferdinand,
To remember my service.
Card. I '11 have thee hewed in pieces.
Bos. Make not yourself such a promise of that life
■Which is not yours to dispose of.
Curd. AMio placed thee here ?
Bos. Her lust, as she intended.
Card. Very well :
Xow you know me for your fellow-murderer.
Bos. And wherefore should you l;iy fair marble colours
Upon your rotten purposes to me ':
Unless you imitate some that do plot great treasons,
And when they have done, go hide themselves i' the graves
Of those were actors in 't ?
Card. Ko more ; there is
A fortune attends thee.
Bos. Shall I go sue to Fortune any longer ?
'Tis the fool's pilgrimage.
Curd. I have honours in store for thee.
Bos. There are many ways that conduct to seeming honour.
And some of them very dirty ones.
Card. Throw to the devil
Thy melancholy. The fire bums well ;
^\^lat need we keep a stin'ing of 't, and make
A greater smother r Thou wilt kill Antonio 't
Bos. Yes.
Card. Take up that body.
Bos. I think I shaU
Shortly grow the common bier for churchyards.
Card. I wiU allow thee some dozen of attendants
To aid thee in the murder.
Bos. Oh, by no means. Physicians that apply horse-
leeches to any rank swelling use to cut off their taUs, that
the blood may run through them the faster : let me have no
train when I go to shed blood, lest it make me have a greater
when I go to the gallows.
Card. Come to me after midnight, to help to remove
That body to her own lodging : I '11 give out
She died 0' the plague ; 'twill breed the less inquiry
After her death.
Bas. Where 's Castruceio her hu.sband ':
Card. He 's rode to Naples, to take possession
Of Antonio's citadel.
Bos. Believe me, you have done a very happy turn.
Card. Fail not to come : there is the master-key
Of our lodgings ; and by that you may conceive
A\1iat trust I plant in you.
Bos. You shall find me ready. \_E.rit Cardinal.
Oh, poor Antonio, though nothing be so needful
To thy estate as pity, yet I find
Nothing so dangerous 1 I must look to my footing :
In such slippery ice-pavements men had need
To be frost-naUed well, they may break their nocks else :
The precedent 's here afore me. How this man
Bears up in blood ! seems fearless I Why, 'tis well :
Security some men call the suburbs of hell,
Only a dead wall between. Well, good Antonio,
I 'U seek thee out ; and all my care shall be
To put thee into safety from the reach
Of these most cruel biters that have got
Some of thy blood akeady. It may be,
I'll join with thee in a most just revenge:
The weakest ann is strong enough that strikes
With the sword of justice. Still methinks the duchess
Haunts me : there, there '. — 'Tis nothing but my melancholy.
Penitence, let me truly taste thy cup,
That throws men down only to raise them up ! [^Exif
SCENE III.
Enter Antoxio ajid Delio.
Delio. Yond 's the Cardinal's window. This fortification
Grew from the ruins of an ancient abbey ;
And to j'ond side o" the river Ues a wall.
Piece of a cloister, which in my opinion
Gives the best echo that you ever heard.
So hollow and so dismal, and withal
So plain in the distinction of our words.
That many have suppos'd it is a spirit
That answers.
Ant. I do love these ancient I'uins.
We never tread upon them but we set
Our foot upon some reverend history :
And, questionless, here in this open court,
'WTiich now lies naked to the injuries
Of stormy weather, some men lie interred
Loved the church so well, and gave so largely to 't,
They thought it should have canopied their bones
TiU doomsday ; but all things have their end :
Churches and cities, which have diseases like to men,
Must have like death that we have.
Edio. Like death that we hare.
Delio. Now the echo hath caught you.
Ant. It groan'd. methought, and gave
A very deadly accent.
Eeho. Deadly aecent.
Delio. I told you 'twas a pretty one : you may make it
A huntsman, or a falconer, a musician.
Or a thing of sorrow.
Echo. A thini/ of sorrow.
Ant. Ay, sure, that suits it best.
Echo. That suits it best.
Ant. 'Tis very like my wife's voice.
Echo. Ay, wife's voice.
Delio. Come, let us walk further from't.
I would not have you go to the Cardinal's to-night :
Do not.
Echo. Do not.
Delio. Wisdom doth not more moderate wasting sorrow
Than time : take time for't ; be mindful of thy safety.
Echo. Be mindful of thy safety.
Ant. Necessity compels me :
JIake scrutiny througho\it the passages
Of your own life, you'll find it impossible
To "fly your fate.
Echo. Oh, fly your fate .'
Delio. Hark '. the dead stones seem to have pity on yoU;
And give you good counsel.
268
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1C16
Ant. Echo, I will not talk with thee,
For thou art a dead thing.
£cho. Thou art a dead thing.
Ant. jMy Duchess is asleep now,
And her little ones, I hope sweetly : heaven,
Shall I never see her more ?
Echo. Never sec her more.
Ant. I mark'd not one repetition of the echo
Bat that ; and on the sudden a clear light
Presented me a face folded in sorrow.
DcUo. Your fancy merely.
Ant. Come, I '11 be out of this ague,
For to live thus is not indeed to live ;
Tt is a mockery and abuse of life ;
I will not henceforth save myself by halves ;
Lose all, or nothing.
Delio. Your own virtue save you !
I '11 fetch your eldest son, and second you :
It may he that the sight of his own blood
Spread in so sweet a figure may beget
The more compassion. However, fare you well.
Though in our miseries Fortune have a part,
Yet in our noble sufferings she hath none :
Contempt of pain, that we niaj- call our own. \_E.6Cunt.
SCENE IV.
Enter Cardinal, I''esc,\ii.v, JI.\latesti, RonEiiioo, and
Gkisolax.
Card. You shall not watch to-night by the sick prince ;
His grace is \-ory well recover'd.
^[al. (iood my lord, suffer us.
Card. Oh, by no nu'ans ;
The noise, and change of object in his eye.
Doth more distract him : I pray, all to bed ;
And though you hear him in his violent fit.
Do not rise, I entreat you.
Pes. So, sir ; we shall not.
Card. Xay, I must ha\-e you promise
Upon your honours, for I was enjoin'd to "t
By himself: and he seem'd to urge it sensibly.
Pes. Let our honours bind this trifle.
Card. Nor any of your followers.
Mai. Neither.
Card. It may be, to make trial of your promiso,
■ When he 's asleep, myself will rise and feign
.Some of his mad tricks, and cry out for help.
And feign myself in danger.
Mai. If your throat were cutting,
I 'd not come at you, now I hav<> protested against it.
Card. Why, I thank you.
Gris. 'Twas a foul storm to-night.
Hod. The Lord Ferdinand's cliamber shook like an osier.
Mai. 'Twas nothing but pure kindness in the devil,
To rock his own child. [Exeunt all cicept the Cardinal.
Card. The reason why I would not suffer these
.\bout my brother, is, because at midnight
I may with better jirivacy convey
.Tulia's body to her own lodging. Oh, my conscience !
I would pray now ; but the devil takes away my heart
For having any confidence in prayer.
.\bout tliis hour I appointed Bosola
To fetch the body : when he hath served my turn.
He dies.
Enter BosoL.\.
Ros. Ha : 'twas the Cardinal's voice ; I heard him name
/iosola ;md my death. Listen ; I hear one's footing.
\_Exit.
Enter Feudinaxd.
Ferd. Strangling is a very quiet death.
Bos. \_As'ide.'\ Nay, then, I see I must stand upon my
guard.
Eerd. What say to that ':' whisper softly ; do you agree
to 't ? So ; it must be done i' the dark : the Cardinal would
not for a thousand pounds the doctor should see it. \_ExH.
Bos. JIj- death is plotted ; here 's the consequence of
murder.
We value not desert nor Christian breath.
When we know bhick deeds must be cui'ed with death.
Enter Axtonio and Servant.
Here. Here stay, sir, and be confident, I pray :
I '11 fetch you a dark lantern. \_Exit.
Ant. Could I take him at his prayers.
There were hope of pardon.
Bos. Fall right, my sword ! — [Stabs him.
I '11 not give thee so much leisure as to Jiray.
Ant. Oh, I am gone ! Thou hast ended a long suit
In a minute.
Bos. What art thou ?
Ant. A most w-retched thing.
That only have thy benefit in death,
To appear mj-self.
lic-cnter Servant icith a lantern.
&rp. Where are you, sir- 'f
Ant. Very near my home. — Bosola !
Serv. Oh, misfoi'tune 1
Bos. Smother thy pity, thou art dead else. — Antonio !
The man I would have saved 'bove mine own life 1
We are merely the stars' tennis-baUs, struck and banded
Which -way please them.- — Oh, good Antonio,
I '11 whisper one thing in thy dying ear
Shall make thy heart break quickly ! thy fair Duchess
And two sweet children
Ant. Their very names
Kindle a little life in me.
Bos. Are murdered.
Ant. Some men have wished to die
At the hearing of s:id tidings ; I am glad
That I shall do 't in sadness : I would not now
AVish my wounds balmed nor healed, for I have no use
To put my life to. In aU oui- quest of greatness.
Like wanton boys, whoso pastime is their care.
We follow after bubbles blown in the air.
Pleasm-e of life, what is 't 'i only the good hours
Of an ague ; merely a preparative to rest,
To endure vexation. I do not ask
The process of my death ; only commend me
To Delio.
Bos. Break, heart !
Ant. Azid let my son liy from the coui-ts of princes. [Dies.
Bos. Thou seem'st to have lov'd Antonio ?
Serv. I brought him hither,
To have reconcih^d him to the Cardinal.
Bos. I do not ask thee that.
Take him up, if thou tender thine own life.
And bear him where the lady Julia
Was wont to lodge. — Oh, my fate moves swift !
I have this Cardinal in the forge already ;
Now I '11 bring him to the hammer. O direful misprision !
I will not imitate things glorious.
No more than base : I'll be mine own example. —
On, on, and look thou represent, for silence,
The thing thou bear 'st. [Exeunt.
TO A.r. 1623.]
PLAYS.
269
Palace of the Podest.v, I'lorence. (Fnm, a PictiLre iij Caiiulcflo.)
SCENE V.
Enter Cardinal, xtith a book.
Card. I am puzzled in a question about hell :
He says, in heU there 's one material fire,
And yet it shall not burn all men alike.
Laj' him by. How tedious is a guilty conscience !
When I look into the fish-ponds in mj' garden,
ilethinks I see a thing anncd with a rake,
That seems to strike at me.
Enter BosoLA, (iiid Servant heariiir/ AxTOXio's hoettj.
Now, art thou come ':
Thou look'st ghastly :
There sits in thy face some great determination
Jlixed with some fear.
Bos. Thus it lightens into action ;
I am pome to kill thee.
Card, Ha! — Help I our guard!
Bos. Thou art deceived ;
They are out of thy howling.
Card. Hold; and I will faithfully divide
Eevenues with thee.
Bos. Thy prayers and proffers
Are both unseasonable.
Card. Raise the watch ! we are betray'd !
Bos. I have confined your flight :
I '11 suffer your retreat to Julia's chamber.
But no further.
Card. Help 1 we are betrayed !
Enter, above, Pescara, Malatesti, Kodekigo, and Gkisolax.
Mai. Listen.
Card. My dukedom for rescue !
Mod. Fie upon his counterfeiting !
Mttl. A\Tiy, 'tis not the Cardinal.
Sod. Yes, yes, 'tis he :
But I 'U see him hanged ere I '11 go down to him.
Card. Here 's a plot upon me ; I am assaulted ! I am lost,
I-'nless some rescue !
Gris. Ho doth this pretty well ;
But it will not serve to laugh me out of mine honour.
Card. The sword 's at my throat !
come at him ; but,
\_E.eit aboi'e.
Hod. You would not bawl so loud theu.
Mai. Come, come, let 's go
To bed : he told us thus much aforehand.
Fes. He wished you should not
believe 't,
The accent of the voice sounds not iu jest :
Pll down to him, howsoever, and with engines
Force ope the doors.
Rod. Let 's follow him aloof,
.Vnd note how the Cardinal wiU laugh at liim.
[Exeimt, abore, Malatesti, Kodeuigo,
and Gkisolax.
Bos. There 's for you first,
'Cause you shall not unban-icade the door
To let in rescue. [Kills the Servant.
Card, ^^^lat cause hast thou to pursue my Hfe ?
Bos. Look there.
Card. Antonio !
Bos. Slain by my hand unwittingly.
Pray, and be sudden : when thou kili'dst thy sister,
Thou took'st from Justice her most equal balance,
-Vnd left her naught but her sword.
Cai-d. Oh, mercy !
Bos. Now it seems thy greatness was only outward ;
For thou faU'st faster of thyseH than calauiity
Can drive thee. I 'U not waste longer time ; there !
\_Stiihs him.
\^Stabs hioi again.
Card. Thou hast hurt me.
Bos. Again !
Card. Shall I die like a leveret,
Without any assistance 'r — Help, help, help !
I am slain !
Enter Fermxaxd.
Ferd. The alarum ! give me a fresh horse ;
Pially the vaunt-guard, or the day is lost.
Yield, j-ield ! I give you the honour of arms,
Shake my sword over you ; will you yield ?
Card. Help me ; I am your brother !
Ferd. The devil !
My brother fight upon the adverse paity !
l^He wounds the Cardinal, and, in the sciijte,
gives Bosol.v his death-wound.
There flies your ransom.
Card. Oh, justice !
I suffer now for what hath former bin:
Sorrow is held the eldest child of sin.
Ferd. Now you're brave fellows. C.-esar's fortune was
harder than Pompey's ; Csesar died in the arms of prosperity,
Pompey at the feet of disgrace. Y'ou both die in the field.
The pain 's nothing : pain many times is taken away witli
the apprehension of greater, as the toothache with the siglit
of the 'barber that comes to puU it out : there 's philosophy
for you.
Bos. Now my revenge is perfect.— Sink, thou main cause
[Kills Feiidixaxu.
Of my imdoing ! — The last part of my life
Hath done me best service.
Ferd. Give me some wet hay ; I am broken- winded.
1 do account this world but a dog-kennel :
I will vault credit and affect high pleasures
Beyond death.
Bos. He seems to come to himself.
Now he 's so near the bottom.
Ferd. My sister, my sister ! there 's the cause on 't.
"VMiether we fall by ambition, blood, or lust,
Like diamonds, we are cut with our own dust. \JDiei.
Card. Thou hast thy payment too.
270
CASSELL'S LIBEAEY OF ENGLISH LITERATUKE.
[A.D. 1623
Bos. Yfs, I hold my weary soul in my teeth ;
'Tis ready to part from me. I do glory
That thou, which stood'st like a huge pyramid
Begun upon a large and ample base,
Shalt end in a little point, a kind of nothing.
Enter, hclow, I'esc.iu.\, JI.iL.\TEsTi, Kodekigo, and GmsoLAX.
Pes. How now, my lord 1
Mill. Oh, sad disaster 1
Rod. How comes this '/
Bos. Kcvenge for the Duchess of Malfi murder' d
By the Arragonian brethren ; for Antonio
Slain by this hand ; for lustful Julia
Poisoned by this man ; and lastly for myself.
That was an actor in the main of all
3Iuch 'gainst mine own good nature, yet i' the end
Neglected.
Fes, How now, my lord !
Card. Look to my brother :
He gave us these large wounds, as we were struggling
Here i' the rushes.' And now, I pray, let me
Be laid by and never thought of. \_Dus.
Pes. How fatally, it seems, he did withstand
His own rescue !
3Ial. Thou wretched thing of blood,
How came Antonio by his death f
Bos. In a mist ; I know not how :
Such a mistake as I have often seen
In a play. Oh, I am gone I
We are only like dead walls or vaulted graves,
That, ruined, yield no echo. Fare you well.
It may be pain, but no harm, to me to die
In so good a quarrel. Oh, this gloomj' world '.
In what a shadow, or deep pit of darkness,
Doth womanish and fearful mankind live I
Let worthy minds ne'er stagger in distrust
To suffer death or shame for what is just :
Mine is another voyage. \_D'u's.
Pes. The noble Delio, as I came to the palace,
Told me of Antonio's being here, and showed me
A pretty gentleman, his son and heir.
Enter Delio, and Axtoxio's Son.
Mai. Oh, sir, you come too late 1
Delio. I heard so, and
Was armed for 't, ere I came. Let us make noble use
Of this great ruin ; and join all our force
To establish this young hopeful gentleman
In's motlier's right. These wretched eminent things
Leave no more fame behind 'em, than should one
Fall in a frost, and leave his print in snow ;
As soon as the sun shines, it ever melts.
Both form and matter. I have ever thought
Nature doth nothing so great for great men
As when she 's pleas'd to make them lords of truth :
Integrity of life is Fame's best friend.
Which nobly, beyond death, shall crown the end. [Exeunt.
Ill August, 1G24, the Spanish Ambassador, Count
Gondomar, protested against an English play by
Thomas Middleton, which had Ijeen acted in June
that summer, and expressed England's delight at the
failure of the Spanish marriage. The play -was called
" A Game of Chess." White and Black in the play
• Bushes formerly strewn on the floor of halls and rooms.
represented England and Spain. White wins, for the
White Knight (Charles, Prince of Wales) takes the
Black Knight (the C'onde de Gondomar) by discovery,
and checkmates the Black King. Gondomar coin-
jilained of the bringing of high personages, including
the King of England and the King of Spain, by
allegory u[)on the stage, and of the frequent insults to
Spain throughout the play. The Privy Council took
proceedings, and the play was suppressed ; but no
severe measures were taken with di'amatist or actors,
for they had duly obtained the licence of the Master
of the Re\els, and they represented the strong teei-
ing of England.
There remain two dramatists of high mark — Philip
IMassinger and John Ford — who wi'ote in the reign
of James, and produced some of their Ijost plays in
the time of Charles the First, which we have next
to ilhistrate.-
FuNERAT, Hearse of James I. (Dtsiijnci. Uj lingo Joias.)
CHAPTER YII.
Ukder Charles I. and the
A.D. 162.5 TO A.D.
Commonwealth. —
1660.
Philip INIassinger was about nineteen yeai'S old at
the time of the death of Queen Elizabeth, and had
not long passed forty when King James I. died.
' The number of plays that can he given in this volume hears, of
course, a very small iiroportion to the whole wealth of the Enprlish
drama. There are dramatists of second rank, like William Alexander,
Earl of Sfirlius, who produced four " Monarchic Trasredies " in 1603,
TO A.D. 1629.]
PLAYS.
271
iMassinger was about ten yeai's older than James
Shirley, the last of the good dramatists born under
Elizabeth. He was about ten years younger than
Ben Jonson, who still lived, with broken health, and
ranked as inaster poet, during the first twelve years
of the reign of Charles I. Ben Jonson died in 1637,
the year in which IVIilton wrote " Lycidas ; " Francis
Beaumont had died in the same year as Shakespeare
(1616) ; John Fletcher died iii the same year as
Kino- James (162.5) ; John Ford was only about
two years younger tlian Massinger. We look next,
therefore, to Massinger and Ford.
Philip Massinger.
From the PoHrait in Coieitr's Edition of h\» Plaijs (1701).
Philip Massinger, son of Arthur ^Massinger, a
gentleman of the household of the Earl of Pembroke,
at "Wilton, near Salisbury, was well educated, and
entered as a commoner of St. Alban's Hall, Oxford,
in May, 1602. Antony Wood says that his ex-
hibition was from the Earl of Pembroke, and that
he gave his mind more to poetry and romance, for
about four years or more, than to logic and ]ihilosoijliy,
which he ought to have studied, as he was |)atronised
to that end. He left Oxford without a degree abont
the year 1606, when, perhaps by the death of his
father, he seems to have been thrown npon his own
resources. An undated document, perliaps of 1614,
shows Massinger to have been poor and a jilaywright
when it was written. His first printed play was
"The Virgin Martyr," in 1622. Then followed
1604, and 1605 ; occasional plays written by true poets, like Samuel
Daniel's " Pbilotos," pi-inted in 1605 ; and single plays of considerable
literary interest, like " The Eetum from Parnassus," acted at Christ-
mas by tlie students of St. John's College, Cambridge, and printed in
1606, which the limits of this book obHge me to pass over. The hook
is not a history, but a series of specimens, with no more narrative
than is necessary to explain coherently when and by whom each
piece was written. Readers who desire fuller details m-iy receive
much help from Professor A. W. Ward's two volumes of "A Histoi-y
of EuKlisb Drarnatic Literature to the Death of Queen Anne" (Mac-
miUau, 1875), an interesting and very serviceable book, based evidently
upon honest iudepeudent reading of the works described.
" The Duke of Milan," in 1623. No other i.lays by
Massinger were printed in the reign of James L,
and the earliest work of his prmted under Charles 1.
was " The Pvoman Actor," in 1629.
jSIassinger show.s in " The Roman Actor " respect
for his art as a dramatist, and hatred of tyranny in
its most absohite form, personified by Domitian. But
his plays contain frequent traces of political opinions,
and it is evident tliat Massinger was much less
distinctly than his fellow-dramatists upon the king's
side when Charles I. came into 'contest with liis
Parliament. In 1 638, when ship-money was in (pies-
tion, Massinger produced a play — now lost — called
" King and Subject," on the story of Don Pedi-o
the Cruel. From this piece one allusion has been
quoted with the i-ecord that Kmg Charles at New-
market, with his own hand, ■wTote upon it, " This is
too insolent, and to be changed." Said the king in
the pla}', —
Monies ? We '11 raise supplies which ways we please,
And force you to suhscribe to blahks, in wliicli
We '11 mulct you as we shall think fit. The Cajsars
In Kome were wise, acknowledging no laws
But what their swords did ratify.
And now here is, according to Massinger, one of
the Cjesars in
THE liOJIAX ACTOR.
The play opens at the theatre with Paris, the
hero of the piece, and two of his fellow-actors,
Latinus and ^Eso])US.
Eemains of a Roman
Theatre at Orange
France.
(Copied h]i permisMon from FeroussonS " Hlsto-nj of.
s the Socth op
rchitecliirc," 1855.)
^^sop. Wliat do wo act to-day ?
Lnt. Agave's frenzy,
With Tentheus' bloody end.
Tiif. It skills not what :
The times are dull, and all that we receive
272
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1625.
Will hardly satisfy the day's expense.
The Greeks, to whom we owe the first invention
Both of the huskined scene and humble sock,
That reiga in every nohle family.
Declaim against us ; and our theatre,
Great Tompey's work,' that hath given full delight
Both to the ear and eye of fifty thousand
Spectators in one day, as if it were
Some unknown desert, or great Rome unpeopled,
Is quite forsaken.
Pleasures of worse natures, Latinus says, are
gladly entertained. The most censorious of the
Roman gentry will pay lavishly to buy their shame.
Far. Yet grudge us,
That with delight join profit, and endeavour
To huild their minds up fair, and on the stage
Deciijhcr to the life what honours wait
On good and glorious actions, and the shame
That treads upon the heels of vice, the salary
Of six sestertii. -
^sop. For the profit, Paris,
And mercenary gain, they are things beneath us ;
Since, while you hold your grace and power with Cjesar,
We, from your bounty, find a large supply.
Nor can one thought of want ever approach us.
Fur. Our ainr is glory, and to leave our names
To aftertime.
Lnt. And, would they give us leave.
There ends all our ambition.
JEsop. We have enemies,
And great ones too, I fear. 'Tis given out lately,
The consul Aretinus, Caesar's spy,
Said at his table, ere a month expired,
For being galled in our last comedy,
He 'd silence us for ever.
Par. I expect
No favour from him ; my strong Avcntine ■' is
That great Domitian, whom we oft have cheer'd
In his most sullen moods, will once return.
Who can repair with ease the consul'-s ruins.
Lat. 'Tis frequent in the city, he hath subdued
The Catti and the Daei, and, ere long,
The second time will enter Home in triumph.
Enter two Lictors.
Far. Jove hasten it ! With us 'i — I now believe
The consul's threats, jE.sopu3.
1 Lid. You are summoned
To appear to-day in senate.
1 Pomiici/'s Theatre in the Campus Martius was the first stone
theatre built in Rome. There had been wooden theatres, and one
built B.C. 59, a tew years before Pompey's, would hold 80,000 persons,
and had 3,000 statues betsveeu its pillars. Pompey overcame the ob-
jection to stone theatres by making the benches of his lead up .as
steps to a temple of Venus Victorious. The opening of Pompey's
Theatre, which would hold 40,000 persons, was celebrated by combats
of beasts in which 500 hons and twenty elephants were killed. "When
in this theatre the play of " Clytemnestra " was acted, six himdred
mules were introduced to give pomp to the show. The FlaviRn
Amphitheatre, called afterwards the Coliseum, was begun by Ves-
pasian and completed in Domitian's reign.
2 The salary of six sestertii. Sestertius meant two and a-half, and was
the name of a small sliver coin, equivalent to two and a-half of the
copper coins called asses, and to about twopence in English money.
Six sestertii would, therefore, mean alMut a shilling.
' Anentiiie, one of the seven hills of Rome. "My strong Aveutme,"
the strong rock I build on.
2 Liet. And there to answer
What shall be urged against j'ou.
Far. We obey you.
Nay, droop not, follows ; innocence should be bold.
We, that have personated in the scene
Tlu! ancient heroes and the falls of princes.
With loud applause ; being to act ourselves,
JIust do it with undaunted confidence.
Whate'er our sentence be, think 'tis in sport :
And, though condemned, lot 's hear it without sorrow,
As if we were to live again to-morrow.
I Zict. 'Tis spoken like yourself.
Fiiiter ^Elius L.imi.-v, Junius Rvsticus, and Palphurius
SuR.\.
Lam. Whither goes Paris ?
1 Lict. He 's cited to the senate.
Lat. I am glad the state is
So free from matters of more weight and trouble,
That it has vacant time to look on us.
Far. That reverend place, in which the affairs of kings
And provinces were determined, to descend
To the censure of a bitter word or jest
Dropped from a poet's pen ! Peace to your lordships !
Wo are glad that you are safe.
lE.eeiiHt Lictors, Paris, Latinu.s, and JEsofvs,
Lain. "WTiat times are these !
To what 's Rome fallen ! may we, being alone.
Speak our thoughts freely of the prince and state.
And not fear the informer ?
linst. Noble Lamia,
So dangerous the age is, and such bad acts
Are practised everywhere, we hardly sleep,
Nay, cannot dream with safety. All our actions
Are called in question ; to be nobly bom
Is now a crime ; and to deserve too well,
Ili'ld capital treason. Sons accuse their fathers,
Fatlicrs their sons ; and, but to win a smile
From one in grace at court, our chastest matrons
JIake shipwreck of their honours. To be virtuous
Is to be guilty. They are only safe
That know to soothe the prince's appetite,
And serve his lusts.
Sara. Tis true, and 'tis my wonder.
That two sons of so different a nature
Should spring from good Vespasian. AVe had a Titus,
Styled, justly, " the DeUght of all JIankind,''
Wlio did esteem that day lo&t in his life.
In which some one or other tasted not
Of his magnificent boimties. One that had
A ready tear when he was forc'd to sign
The death of an offender : and so far
From pride, that he disdain'd not the converse
Even of the poorest Roman.
Lam. Yet his brother,
Domitian, that now sways the jiower of things,
Is so inclini'd to blood, that no day passes
In which some are not fastened to the hook.
Or thrown down from the Gemonies.'' His freodmen
Scom the nobility, and he himself.
As if he were not made of flesh and blood,
Forgets he is a man.
* The Gemonies. *' Gemoniits " in Latin is that which is associated
with sighs and groa,ns. The Gemonies, or *' gemonire scalffi," were
steps on the Aventine Hill to which bodies of executed criminals were
dragged by hooks to be thrown into the Tiber flowing below.
I
TO A.D. 16i9.]
PLAYS.
■273
Must. In his young years
He showed what he would be when grown to ripeness :
His greatest pleasure was, being a child,
With a sharp-pointed budkin to kill flies,
Whose rooms now men supply. For his escape
In the Vitellian war, he raised a temple
To Jupiter, and proudly placed his figure
In the bosom of the god : and, in his edicts.
He docs not blush, or start, to style himself
(As if the name of emperor were base)
Great Lord and God Domitian.
<S'«i'«. I have letters
He 's on his way to Rome, and purposes
To enter with all glory. The flattering senate
Decrees him diWne honours ; and to cross it
Were death with studied torments: — for my part,
I will obey the time ; it is in vain
To strive against the torrent.
liiist. Let 's to the cuiia.
And, though unwillingly, give our suffrages
Before we are compelled.
Lnin. And since we cannot
With safety use the active, let 's make use of
The passive fortitude, with this assurance.
That the state, sick in him, the gods to friend,
Though at the worst, wiU now begin to mend. [Exeunt.
The .scene then changes to the house of the Senator
zEliiis Lamia, wJiose fair wife, Domitia, the emperor
ha.s marked out for liis ov.-n. Domitian's freedman,
Partheuius, visits her on liis master'.s errand.
JSidcr Do.MiTi.\ mill Pakthenivs.
1)0)11. To me this reverence !
Parth. I pay it, lady.
As a debt due to her that 's Csesar's mistress :
For understand with joy, he that commands
All that the sun gives warmth to, is your servant ;
Be not amazed, but fit you to your fortunes.
Think upon state and greatness, and the honours
That wait upon Augusta, for that name,
Ere long, comes to you : — still you doubt your vassal —
[Presents a letter.
But, when you 've read this letter, writ and signed
With his imperial hand, you will be freed
From fear and jealousy ; and, I beseech you.
When aU the beauties of the earth bow to you.
And senators shall take it for an honour.
As I do now, to kiss these happy feet : [Kneels.
When everj' smile you give is a preferment.
And you dispose of provinces to your creatures ;
Think on Parthenius.
iJoiii. Rise. I am transported.
And hardly dare believe what is assured here.
The means, my good Parthenius, that wrought Caesar,
Our god on earth, to cast an eye of favour
Upon his humble handmaid ?
Parth. ^^^]at, but your beauty?
When nature framed you for her masterpiece,
As the pure a1/stract of all rc^e in woman.
She had no other ends but to design you
To the most eminent place. I will not say
(For it would smell of arrogance, to insinuate
The sen-ice I have done you) with what zeal
I oft have made relation of your virtues,
Or how I 've sung your goodness, or how Ctesar
155
Was fired with the reltition of your story ;
I am rewarded in the act, and happy
In that my project prospered.
The husband enters, and the wife Ls taken from
him by a centurion and soldiers, who are at tlie
biddinc; of Parthenius.
A Roman Couple.
From a Statue in the Justinian Gallery^ Rome.
Lain. Can you, Domitia,
Consent to this ':
Dom. 'Twould argue a base mind
To live a servant, when I may command.
I now am Caesar's : and yet, in respect
I once was yours, when you come to the palace,
Provided you deserve it in your service.
You shall find me your good mistress. Wait me, Parthenius ;
And now farewell, poor Lamia. [Kremit nil but L.v.mia.
Zam. To the gods
I bend my knees (for tyranny hath banished
Justice from men) , and as they would deserve
Their altars, and our vows, humbly invoke them.
That this my ravished wife may prove as fatal
To proud Domitian, and her embraces
Afford him, in the end, as little joy.
As wanton Helen brought to him of Troy !
Tlie ne-\t scene represents the actors brought
before tlie senate, on the infonnation of Aretinns
the spy.
Aret. Cite Paris, the tragedian.
Par. Here.
Arct. Stand forth.
In thee, as being the chief of thy profession,
I do accuse the quality of treason.
As libellers against the state and Csesar.
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[i.D. 1625
rar. Jlere accusations arc not proofs, my lord :
In what are wo delinquents ';'
Arct. You are they
That search into the secrets of the time,
And, under feigned names, on the stage, present
Actions not to he touched at ; and traduce
Persons of rank and quality of hoth sexes,
And, with satirical and hitter jests,
JIake even the senators ridiculous
To the plebeians.
Par. If I free not myself,
And in myself the rest of my profession,
From these false imputations, and prove
That they make that a libel which the poet
AVrit for a comedy, so acted too,
It is but justice that we undergo
The heaviest censure.
Aret. Are you on the stage,
You talk so boldly ?
Pin-. The whole world being one.
This place is not exempted ; and I am
So confident in the justice of our cause,
That I could wish Ca;sar, in whose great name
All kings are comprehended, sat as judge.
To hear our plea, and then determine of us. —
If, to express a man sold to his lusts.
Wasting the treasure of his time and fortunes
In wanton dalliance, and to what sad end
A wi'etch that 'a so given over does arrive at,
Deterring careless youth, by his example.
From such licentious courses ; laj'ing open
The snares of bawds, and the consuming arts
Of prodigal strumpets, can deserve reproof.
Why are not aU your golden principles.
Writ down by grave philosophers to instruct us
To choose fair Virtue for our guide, not Pleasure,
Condemned unto the fire 'i
Sitrn. Thei-e 's spirit in this.
Par. Or if desire of honour was the base
On which the building of the Itoman empire
Was raised up to this height ; if, to inflame
The noble 5-outh with an ambitious heat
T' endare the frosts of danger, nay, of death,
To be thought worthy the triumphal wreath
By glorious undertakings, may deserve
Reward or favour from the commonwealth.
Actors may put in for as large a share
As all the sects of the philosophers :
They with cold precepts (perhaps seldom read)
Deliver, what an honourable thing
The active virtue is : but does that fire
The blood, or swell the veins with emulation
To be both good and great, equal to that
AVhieh is presented on our theatres ?
Let a good actor, in a lofty scene.
Show great Alcides honoured in the sweat
Of his twelve labours ; or a bold Camillus,
Forbidding Home to be redeemed with gold
From the insulting Gauls ; or Scipio,
After his victories, imposing tribute
On conquered Carthage : if done to the life.
As if they saw their dangers, and their glories.
And did partake with them in their rewards, —
All that have any spark of Roman in them.
The slothful arts laid by, contend to be
Like those they see presented.
Itiist. He has put
The consuls to their whisper.
Par. But, 'tis ui-ged,
That we coiTupt youth, and traduce superiors.
When do we bring a vice upon the stage
That does go off unpunish'd ;' Do we teach,
By the success of wicked undertakings.
Others to tread in theii- forbidden steps ?
We .show no ai-ts of Lydian panderism,
Corinthian poisons, Persian flatteries.
But mulcted so in the conclusion that
Even those spectators that were so inclined
Go home changed men. And, for traducing such
That are above us, publishing to the world
Their secret crimes, we are as innocent
As such as are born dumb. When we present
An heir that does conspii-e against the life
( )f his dear parent, numbering every hour
He lives, as tedious to him ; if there be.
Among the auditors, one whose conscience tells him
He is uf the same mould, — we cannot help it.
Or, when a covetous man 's expressed, whose wealth
Arithmetic cannot number, and whose lordships
A falcon in one day cannot fly over ;
Yet he is so sordid in his mind, so griping.
As not to afford himself the necessaries
To maintain life ; if a patrician.
Though honoui-ed with a consulship, find himself
Touched to the quick in this, — we cannot heli' it.
Or, when we show a judge that is corrupt,
And will give up his sentence as he favours
The person, not the cause ; sa-i-ing the guilty.
If of his faction, and as oft condemning
The innocent, out of particular spleen ;
If any in this reverend assemblj',
Xay, even yourself, my lord, that are the image
Of absent Caesar, feel something in your bosom,
That puts you in remembrance of things past
Or things intended, — 'tis not is rs to heli' it.
I have said, ray lord : and now, as you find cause.
Or censuie us, or free us with applause.
Lat. Well pleaded, on my life '. I never saw him
Act an orator's part before.
JEmp. We might have given
Ten double fees to Eegulus, and yet
Our cause delivered worse. \_A shout within.
Enter Pauthenivs.
Aret. What shout is that ?
Parth. Ca>sar, our lord, mari-ied to conquest, is
Returned in triumph.
Fill. Let 's all haste to meet him.
Arct. Break up the court ; we will reserve to him
The censure' of this cause.
All. Long life to CiiBsar 1 [E.rciint.
In tlie next scene, as Domitian approaclies, Jnlia,
daughter of Titus, and Crenis, who was mistress
to Vespasian, dispute precedence, which Doniitia
proudly chiims. Domitian enters in triumph with
captives, wliom he sends to prison and to execution.
He tlien lioasts of liimself as of a god.
Cifs. MTien I but name the Daei
And grey-eyed Germans whom I have subdued,
1 Censure. Latiu " ceusura," expression of opinion, favourable or
unfavourable.
TO A.D. 1629.]
PLAYS.
270
The nhost of Julius will look pale with, envj",
And i^-eat Vespasian's and Titus' triumph
(Truth must take place of father and of brother)
^V'ill be no more remembered. I am above
All honours you can give me ; and the style
Of Lord and God, which thankful subjects give me.
Not my ambition, is deserved.
Aret. At all parts
Celestial sacrifice is fit for Caesar,
In our acknowledgment.
CVr«. Thanks, Ai-etinus ;
Still hold our favour.
DOMITIAS. {From a Sladie in Oie Jiisfdiiim GaXlcrtj, Komc.)
The senators cast lives, wealth, liberties, at lus
feet, and Domitian takes openly to wife tlie wife ot
Lamia.
Lam. You are too great to be gainsaid.
Os. Let all
That fear our frown, or do affect our favour,
Without examining the reason why,
Salute her (by this kiss I make it good)
With the title of Augusta.
Dom. Still vour servant.
AU. Long live Augusta, great Domitian's empress '.
Cics. Paris, my hand.
rm: [Kissing it.'] The gods stiU honour Caesar !
C(ts. The wars are ended, and, our arms laid by,
We are for soft delights. Command the poets
To use their choicest and most rare invention
To entertain the time, and be you careful
To give it action : we'll provide the people
Pleasures of all kinds.— Jly Domitia, think not
I flatter, though thus fond.— On to the Capitol :
'Tis death to him that wears a sullen brow.
This 'tis to be a monarch, when alone
He can command all, but is awed by none.
The Second Act opens with a pieture_ of sordid
avarice in the father of Parthenius, Domitian s treed-
man. The son endeavours in vain to persuade the
father to cease from denying himself the just dues of
life. " No," says the old man, Philargus —
No ; I'll not lessen my dear golden heap,
AVhich, every hour increasing, does renew
My youth and vigour ; but, if lessened, then.
Then my poor heart-strings crack. Let me enjoy it,
And brood o'er't while I live, it being my life,
J[y soul, my all : but when I turn to dust,
And part from what is more esteemed, by me
Than aU the gods Rome's thousand altars smoke to.
Inherit thou my adoration of it.
And, Uke me, serve my idol. [Ej:it.
Pnrtli. What a strange torture
Is avarice to itself ! what man, that looks on
Such a penurious spectacle, but must
Know what the fable meant of Tantalus,
Or the ass whose back is cracked with curious viands,
Yet feeds on thistles. Some course I must take,
To make my father know what cruelty
He uses on himself.
JEiUer r.\uis.
Par. Sir, with your pardon,
I make bold to inquire the emperor's pleasure ;
For, being by him commanded to attend.
Your favour may instruct us what 's his will
Shall be this night presented.
rarth. My loved Paris,
Without my intercession, you well know,
You may make your own approaches, since his ear
To you is ever open.
Far. I acknowledge
His clemency to my weakness, and, if ever
I do abuse it, lightning strike me dead :
The grace ho pleases to confer upon me,
(Without boast I may say so much) was never
Employed to wrong the innocent, or to incense
His fury.
Parth. 'Tis confessed : many men owe you
For pro\-inces they ne'er hoped for, and their lives,
Fort'eited to his anger ;— you being absent,
I could say more.
Par. You still are my good patron ;
And, lay it in my fortune to deserve it.
You should perceive the poorest of your clients
To his best abiUties thankful.
Parth. I believe so.
Met you my father ?
Piir. Yes, sir, with much grief,
To see him as he is. Can nothing work liim
To be himself ':
Parth. Oh, Paris, 'tis a weight
Sits heavy here ; and could this right band's loss
Remove it, it shoidd off : but lie is deaf
To aU persuasion.
Par. Sir, with your pardon,
I -U offer mv advice : I once observed.
In a tragedy of ours, in which a murder
Was acted to the fife, a guilty hearer _
Forced by the terror of a wounded conscience
To make discovery of that which torture
Could not «-ring from him. Nor can it appear
Like an impossibiUty, but that
Your father, looking on a covetous m.-m
Presented on the stage as in a miiTor,
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Jlay see his own deformity aud loathe it.
Now, could you but persuade the emperor
To see a comedy we have, that 's styled
The Cure of Avarice, and to command
Your father to bo a spectator of it,
lie shall be so anatomised in the scene.
And see himself so personated, the baseness
Uf a self-torturing miserable wretch
Truly described, that I much hope the object
Will work compunction in him.
Parth. There 's yom- fee ;
I ne'er bought better counsel. Be you in readiness,
I will effect the rest.
Pur. Sir, when you please ;
We'll be prepared to enter.— Sir, the emperor. [Exit.
The emperor enters with his spy Aretinus, who
reports coninioiits of inalooiiteiits, Junius Rusticus,
Palphurius Sura, ^^lius Lamia, upon his tyranny.
But the divorce Lamia was forced to sign
To her you honour with Augusta's title.
Being only named, they do conclude there was
A Lucrece once, a Collatine, and a Brutus ;
But nothing Roman left now but in you
Tlie lust of Tarqiiin.
Cas. Yes, his fire and scorn
Of such as think that our unlimited power
Can be confined. Dares I/amia pretend
An interest to that which I call mine ;
( )r but remember she was over his,
That 's now in our possession ? Fetch him hither.
\_Exit Guard.
I '11 give him cause to wish ho rather had
Forgot his own name, than o'er mentioned hers.
Shall we be circumscribed 'i Let such as canViot
By force make good their actions, though wicked,
Conceal, excuse, or qualify their crimes !
What our desires grant leave and privilege to,
Though contradicting all divine decrees
Or laws confirmed by Romulus and Numa,
Shall be held sacred.
Arct. Y''ou should, else, take from
The dignity of Ciesar.
Cces. Am I master
Of two and thirty legions that awe
All nations of the triumphed world
Y'et tremble at our frown, to yield account
Of what 's our pleasure to a private man !
Rome perish first, and Atlas' shoulders shrink.
Heaven's fabric fall, the sun, the moon, the stars
Losing thcii' light and comfortable heat,
Ere I confess that any fault of mine
May be disputed !
Aret. So you preserve your pcwer,
As you should, equal and omnipotent here
With Jupiter's above.
[P.iuTHENirs Jcnceliiif/, ic/iispers C.Es.^it.
C'<es. Thy suit is granted,
Whate'er it bfe, Parthcnius, for thy service
Done to Augusta. Only so ? a trifle :
Command him hither, If the comedy fail
To cure him, I will minister something to him
That shall instruct him to forget his gold.
And think upon himself.
Parth. May it succeed well.
Since my intents are pious ! \_Exit.
C<es. We are resolved
What course to take ; and therefore, Aretinus,
Inquire no fiu-ther. Go you to my empress.
And say I do entreat (for she rules him
Whom all men else obey) she would vouchsafe
The music of her voice at yonder window.
When I advance my hand, thus. I will blend
\_Exit Aretixus.
My cruelty with some scorn, or else 'tis lost.
Revenge, when it is unexpected, falling
With greater violence, and hate clothed in smiles.
Strikes, and with horror, dead the wretch that comes not
I'rcpared to meet it. —
lie-enter Guai-d with L.iMiA.
Cm- good Lamia, welcome !
Lamia is mocked, insulted, and then sent to exe-
cution.
JIalice to my felicity strikes thee dumb,
Aud, in thy hope, or wish, to repossess
What I love more than empire, I pronounce thee
Guilty of treason. — Off with his head ! do you stare ?
By her that is my patroness, Minerva,
Whose statue I adore of all the gods.
If he but live to make reply, thy life
Shall answer it !
[The Guard leads ojf' Lamia, stopping his month.
My fears of him are freed now ;
And he that lived to upbraid me with my wrong.
For an offence he never could imagine.
In wantonness removed. — Descend, my dearest ;
Plui'ality of husbands shall no more
Breed doubts of jealousies in you : [E.vit Do.M. aboae.^ 'tis dis-
patched.
And with as little trouble here, as if
I had killed a fly.
Enter Domitia, ushered in bij ARETi>fus, her train borne
up 1)1/ Jf I.I.4, C.i^N'is, aud Domitilla.
Now you appear, and in
That glory you deserve ! and these, that stoop
To do you service, in the act much honour' d !
Julia, forget that Titus was thy father ;
Ca?nis, and Domitilla, ne'er remember
Sabinus or Vespasian. To be slaves
To her is more true liberty than to live
Parthian or Asian queens. As lesser stars.
That wait on Phiebe in her full of brightness,
Compar(!d to her, you are. Thus, thus I seat j-ou
By Ca'sar'.s side, commanding these, that once
AVere the adored glories of the time.
To witness to the world they are yoiir vassals,
At your feet to attend j'ou.
JJom. 'Tis your pleasure.
And not my pride. And yet, when I consider
That I am yours, all duties they can pay
I do receive as circumstances due
To her you please to honour.
He-enter Parthenius u-ith PniL.iRGus.
Parth. Caesar's will
Commands you hither, nor must you gainsay it.
Phil. Lose time to see an interlude ! must I pay too,
For my vexation ?
Parth. Not in the court :
It is the emperor's charge.
TO A.D. 1629.]
PLAYS.
277
I'hil. I shall endure
My torment then the better.
Cics. Can it be
This sordid thing, Parthenius, is thy father ?
No actor can cxjjress him : I had held
The fiction for impossible in the scene,
Had I not seen the substance. — Sirrah, sit still,
And give attention ; if you but nod,
You sleep for ever. — Let them spare the prologue,
And all the ceremonies proper to ourself.
And come to the last act — there, where the cure
By the doctor is made perfect.
The interlude is represented that shows Avarice as
in a mii-ror, and achieves its cure. But old PhUargus
is not to be cured by a play, and in spite of the en-
treaties of his son Pai-theuius, who is aghast at the
I'esult of Jiis experiment, Doinitian sends the old
man off to execution.
Plill. Pray you, give me leave
To die as I have lived. I must not part with
My gold ; it is my life : I am past cure.
Go's. No ; by Minerva, thou shalt never more
Feel the least touch of avarice. Take him hence.
And hang him instantly. If there be gold in hell.
Enjoy it : — thine here, and thy life together,
Is forfeited.
Phil. Was I sent for to this purpose ?
Parth. Mercy for all my service ; Gusar, mercy!
Cas. Should Jove plead for him, 'tis resolved he dies.
And he that speaks one syllable to dissuade me ;
And therefore tempt me not. It is but justice :
Since such as wilfully would hourly die,
Must tax themselves, and not my cruelty.
Tlie Thinl Act opens with the rebellion of Julia
and DomitUla against the pride of the new Augusta.
A EoMjx Empress (Julia, Wife of Tibeeics).
Fciiiii a Statue at Eoinc.
Stephanos, Domitilla's freedman, offers to give his
life to the achievement of revenge upon Doniitian.
Citnis enters, joins the rebellion, and tells how
Domitia, at the play of the " Cui-e of Avarice," was
fascinated by the person of the actor Paiis.
Domitil. Where is her Greatness ?
Cainis. Where you would little think she could descend
To grace the room or persons.
Jul. Speak, where is she 'i
Ctenis. Among the players ; where, all state laid by,
She does enquire who acts this part, who that,
And in what habits ? blames the tirewomen
Fur want of curious dressings ; — and, so taken
She is with Paris the tragedian's shape,
That is to act a lover, I thought once
She would have coui'tcd him.
Domitil. In the mean time
How spends the emperor his hours ?
C'lenis. As ever
He hath done heretofore ; in being cruel
To innocent men, whose virtues ho calls crimes.
And, but this morning, if 't be possible.
He hath outgone himself, having condemned,
At Aretinus his informer's suit,
Piilphurius Sura, and good Junius Eusticus,
Men of the best repute in Rome for their
Integrity of life ; no fault objected.
But that they did lament his cruel sentence
On P;etus Thrasea, the philosopher,
Their patron and instructor.
Stcph. Can Jove see this.
And hold his thunder 1
Domitil. Nero and Caligula
Only commanded mischiefs ; but our Caesar
Delights to see them.
Jul. What we cannot help,
Wc may deplore with silence.
Cmnis. We are called for
By our proud mistress.
Domitil. We awhile must suffer.
Siep/i. It is true fortitude to stand firm against
All shocks of fate, when cowards faint and die
In fear to suffer more calamity. [^Exeunt.
Scene II. — Another room in tlic same.
Enter C.e.sak mid P.^ktheniis.
Ores. They are then in fetters ?
Parth. Yes, sir, but
Ctes. But what ?
I 'U have thy thoughts ; deliver them.
Parth. I shall, sir:
But stiU submitting to your god-like pleasure,
Which cannot be instructed
Ctes. To the point.
Parth. Nor let your sacred majesty believe
Y'our vassal, that with dry eyes looked upon
His father dragged to death by your conmiand,
Can pity these, that durst presume to censure
^\^lat you decreed.
Cas. Well; forward.
Parth. 'Tis my zeal
StiU to presers-e your clemency admired,
Tempered with justice, that emboldens me
To offer my advice. Alas ! I know, sir.
These bookmen, Eusticus and Palphurius Sura,
Deserve all tortures : yet, in my opinion,
They being popular senators, and cried up
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"Witli loud upplauses of the multitude
For foolish honesty and beggarly vh-tue,
'Twould relish more of poliey, to have them
Jtade away in private, with what exquisite torments
You please,— it skills not, — than to have them drawn
To the degrees' in public ; for 'tis doubted
That the sad object may beget compassion
In the giddy rout, and cause some sudden uproar
That may disturb you.
V(cs. Hence, pale-spirited coward !
Can -n-e descend so far beneath ourself
As or to com-t the people's love, or fear
Their worst of hate ;- Can they, that are as dust
Before the whirlwind of our will and power,
Add any moment to us ? Or thou tliink,
If there ai-e gods above, or goddesses,
But wise Minerva, that 's mine own, and sui-e,
That they have vacant hours to take into
Their serious protection or care
This manj'-headed monster ? Mankind lives
In few, as potent monarchs and their peers ;
And all those glorious constellations
That do adorn the fimiament, ajipointed
Like gi'ooms with their bright influence to attend
The actions of kings and emperors.
They being the greater wheels that move the less.
Bring forth those condemned wretches ; — 'lEMt Parthenivs]
— let me see
One man so lost, as but to pity them,
And though there lay a million of souls
Imprisoned in his flesh, my hangman's hooks
Should rend it off, and give them liberty.
Caisar hath Siiid it.
Re-enter Pauthenivs, with Auetinus, and Guard: Execu-
tioners draggbi/i in Juyivs KusTicrs ami P.iLPHUKivs
SvKA, bound back to back.
Arct. 'Tis great C;esar's pleasure,
That with fixed eyes j-ou carefully observe
The people's looks. Charge upon any vaixn.
That with a sigh or murmur does express
A seeming son'ow for these traitors' deaths.
You know his will, perform it.
Vfcs. A good bloodhound.
And fit for my employments.
Saro. Give us leave
To die, feU tj-rant :
liast. For, beyond our bodies.
Thou hast no power.
Ctcs. Yes ; I '11 afflict your souls.
And force them groaning to the Stygian lake.
Prepared for such to howl in that blaspheme
The power of princes, that are gods on earth.
Tremble to think how terrible the di-eam is
After this sleep of death.
liiiat. To guUty men
It may bring terror ; not to us, that know
What 'tis to die, well taught by his example
Por whom we suffer. In my thought I see
The substance of that pirre untainted soul
Of Thrasea, our master, made a star.
That -n-ith melodious harmony invites us
(Leaving this dunghill Eome, made hell by thee)
To trace his heavenly steps, and fill a sphere
Above you crystal canopy.
1 To Hic degrees, to the steps. See Note i, page 272.
Cccs. Do invoke liim
With aU the aids his sanctity of life
Have won on the rewarders of his virtue ;
They shall not save you. — Dogs, do you grin f — Torment them.
\_Thc Executioners torment t/iciii, tluij still smiUnrj.
So, take a leaf of Seneca now, and prove
If it can render you insensible
Of that which but begins here. Now an oil,
Drawn from the Stoic's frozen principles,
Predominant over fire, were useful for you.
Again, again. You trifle. Not a groan !
Is my rage lost ? What cursed charms defend them I
Search deeper, villains. A^^lo looks pale, or thinks
That I am cruel ?
Aret. Over-merciful :
'Tis all your weakness, sir.
Parth. I dare not show
A sign of sorrow ; yet my sinews shi'ink.
The spectacle is so horrid. \_Aside.
Ctcs. I was never
O'ei-come till now. For my sake roar a little,
And .show you arc corporeal, and not tiimed
Aerial spir-its. — Will it not do 'r By Pallas,
It is unkindly done to mock his fury
Whom the world styles Omnipotent 1 I am tortured
In their want of feeling torments. Marius' story.
That does report him to have sat unmoved,
^Vhen cunning surgeons ripped his arteries
And veins, to cure his gout, compared to this.
Deserves not to be named. Are they not dead ?
If so, we wash an iEthiop.
Sara. No ; we live.
2last. Live to deride tliee, our calm patience treading
Upon the neck of tyranny. That secui-ely.
As 'twere a gentle slumber, we endure
Thy hangman's studied tortures, is a debt
We owe to gi-ave philosophy, that instructs us
The flesh is but the clothing of the soul,
AVhich growing out of fashion, though it be
Cast oft", or rent, or torn, Ukc ours, 'tis then,
Being itself divine, in her best lustre.
But unto such as thou, that have no hopes
Beyond the present, every Httlo scar,
The want of rest, excess of heat or cold.
That does inform them only they are mortal.
Pierce thi-ough and tlu-ough them.
C'(es. AVe will hear no more.
Mast. Tliis only, and I give thee warning of it :
Though it is in thy wiU to giind this earth -
As small as atoms, they thi-own in the- sea too.
They shall seem re-coUeoted to thy sense : —
And, when the sandy building of thy greatness
Shall with its own weight totter, look to see mo
As I was yesterday, in my perfect shape ;
For I 'U appear in horror.
Cics. By my shaking
I am the guilty man, and not the judge.
Drag from my sight these cursed ominous wizards.
That, as they are now, like to double-faced Janus,
A\'liich way soe'er I look, are furies to me.
Away with them ! first show them death, then leave
No memory of their ashes. I '11 mock fate.
[E.rcant Executioners a-ith Ki'sTicis and Sura.
Shall words fright him victorious armies cii'cle ?
No, no ; the fever does begin to leave me ;
* This earth — of mj- body.
TO A.D. 1629.]
PLAYS.
279
Enter DoinxiA, Julia, and C-"exis; Stephanos /oWohih/;.
Or, were it deadly, from this living fountain
I could renew the vigour of my youth,
And be a second Virbius.' O my glory !
3Iy life I command I my all !
Bom. As you to me are. \_Embracing and Jcissiinj.
I heard you were sad : I have prepared you sport
"Will banish raelanehol}-. Sirrah, C;esar,
(I hug myself for 't,) I have been instructing
The phiyers how to act ; and to cut off
All tedious impertinence, have contracted
The tragedy into one continued scene.
I have the art of 't, and am taken more
With my ability that way, than all knowledge
I have, but of thy love.
C(es. Thou art stiU thyself.
The sweetest, wittiest,
Dom. When we are a-bcd
I '11 thank your good opinion. Thou shalt see
Such an Iphis of thy Paris ! — and, to humble
The pride of DomitUla, that neglects me,
(Howe'er she is your cousin,) I have forced her
To play the part of Anaxiirete —
You are not offended with it ':
Cms. Anrthing
That does content thee yields deUght to me :
My faculties and powers are thine.
Dom. I thank you :
Prithee let 's take our places. Bid them enter
Without more circumstance.
After a sliort Jtonr'tsh, iiitir P.\Ris ns IPHIS.
How do you like
That shape ? niethinks it is most suitable
To the aspect of a despairing lover.
The seeming late-fallen, counterfeited tears
That hang upon his cheeks, was my deWce.
Cies. And all was excellent.
Dcfm. Xow hear him sjicak.
Iphis. " That she is fair, (and that an epithet
Too foul to express her,) or descended nobly.
Or rich, or fortunate, are certain truths
In which poor Iphis glories. But that these
Perfections, in no other i-irgin found,
Abused, should nourish cruelty and pride
In the divinest Ana.xarete,
Is, to my love-sick, languishing soul, a riddle ;
And with more difficulty to be dissolved.
Than that the monster Sphinx, from the steep rock,
Offered to ffidipus. Imperious Love,
As at thy ever-flaming altars Iphis,
Thy never-tired votarj-, hath presented
With scjilding tears whole hetacombs of sighs,
Preferring thy power and thy Paphian mother's
Before the Thunderer's, Neptune's, or Pluto's
(That, after Saturn, did divide the world.
And had the sway of things, 5"et were compelled
By thy inevitable shafts to jHeld
And fight under thy ensigns) be auspicious
To this last trial of my sacrifice
Of love and serince 1 "
I VirKu!:. Hippolytus is said by 'Virgil to hnve been veiitored to life
by medicinal herbs and the love of Diana, and earned to Italy, where
he was placed in the grove of Aricia, and worshipped under the name
of Virbius, meaning " twice a man.'*
iJom. Does he not act it rarely ':
Ohser%-e with what a feeling he delivers
His orisons to Cupid : I am rapt with 't.
Iphis. " And from thy never-emptied quiver take
A golden arrow, to transfix her heart,
And force her love like me ; or cure my wound
With a leaden one, that may beget in me
Hate and forgetfulness of what 's now mv idol —
But I call back my prayer ; I have blasphemed
In my rash wish : 'tis I that am unworthy,
But she all merit, and may in justice challenge,
From the assurance of her excellencies,
Not love but adoration. Yet, bear witness,
AU-knowing Powers 1 I bring along with me.
As faithful advocates to make intercession,
A loyal heart with pure and holy flames.
With the foul fires of lust never polluted.
And, as I touch her threshold, which with tears,
My limbs benumbed with cold, I oft have washed.
With my glad lips I kiss this earth, grown proud
With frequent favours from her delicate feet."
Dom. By Cnesar's life, he weeps I and I forbear
Hardly to keep him company.
Iphis. "Blest ground, thy pardon,
If I profane it with forbidden steps.
I must presume to knock — and yet attempt it
With such a trembling reverence, as if
My hands held up for expiation
To the incensed gods to spare a kingdom. —
Within there, ho ! something divine come forth
To a distressed mortal."
Enter Latints as a Porter.
Port. " Ha ! AMio k-nocks there ? "
Dom. What a churlish look this knave has !
Fort. " Is 't you, siiTah ?
Are you come to pule and whine ? Avaunt, and quickly ;
Dog-whips shall di-ive you hence, else."
Dom. Churhsh devil !
But that I should disturb the scene, as I live
I would tear his eyes out.
C'les. 'Tis in jest, Domitia.
Dom. I do, not like such jisting : if he were not
.•\ flinty-hearted slave, he could not use
Ouc of his foi-m so harshly. How the toad swells
At the other's sweet humility !
Crt-s. 'Tis his part :
Let them proceed.
Dom. A rogue's part will ne'er leave him.
Iphis. " As you have, gentle sir, the happiness
(\Mien you please) to behold the figure of
The masterpiece of nature, limned to the life
In more than human Anaxarete,
Scorn not your sen-ant, that with suppliant hands
Takes hold upon youi- knees, conjuring you,
As you are a man, and did not suck the milk
Of wolves, and tigers, or a mother of
A tougher temper, use some means these eyes,
Before they are wept out, may see your lady.
Will you be gracious, sir 'r "
Port. " Though I lose my place for 't,
I can hold out no longer."
Dom. Xow he melts.
There is some little hope he may die honest.
Port. '■ Madam I "
Enter Domitilla «.« Axaxauete.
Anar. '• "Who calls ? "UTiat object have we here ':''
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Doiii. Your cousin keejis liur proud state still ; I tliink
I have fitted her for a part.
Anax. " Did I not charge thee
I ne'er might see this thing more ! "
Iphis. " I am, indeed,
What thing j'ou please ; a worm that you may tread on :
Lower I cannot fall to show my duty.
Till your disdain hath digged a grave to cover
This body with forgotten dust ; and, when
I know your sentence, cruellest of women,
I'll, by a willing death, remove the object
That is an eyesore to you.' '
Anax. " Wretch, thou dar'st not :
That were the last and greatest service to me
Thv doating love could boast of. 'Wliat duU fool
But thou, could nourish any flattering hope
One of mj- height in youth, in birth and fortune,
Could e'er descend to look upon thy lowness,
Much less consent to make my lord of one
I 'd not accept, though offered for my slave ?
Jly thoughts stoop not so low."
Bom. There 's her true natui'e :
No personated scorn.
Anax. " I wrong my worth.
Or to exchange a syllable or look
With one so far beneath me."
Iphis. " Yet take heed,
Take heed of pride, and curiously consider,
How brittle the foundation is, on which
You labour to advance it. Niobe,
Proud of her numerous issue, durst contemn
Latona's double burthen ; but what followed ?
She was left a childless mother, and mourned to marble.
The beauty you o'crprize so, time or sickness
Can change to loath'd deformity; your wealth
The prey of thieves ; queen Hecuba, Troy fired,
Ulysses' bondwoman : but the love I bring you
Nor time, nor sickness, violent thieves, nor fate,
Can ravish from you."
Dom. Could the oracle
Give better counsel ?
Iphis. " Say, will you relent yet,
Revoking your decree that I should die ?
Or, shall I do what you command i Resolve ;
I am impatient of delay."
Anax. " Despatch then ;
I shall look on your tragedy unmoved,
Peradventure laugh at it ; for it will prove
A comedy to me."
Bom. devil 1 devil I
Iphis. " Then thus I take my last leave. All the curses
Of lovers fall upon you ; and, hereafter.
When any man, like me contemned, shall study,
In the anguish of his soul, to give a name
To a scornful, cruel mistress, let him only
Say, this most bloody woman is to me.
As Anaxarcte was to wretched Iphis !
Now feast your tyrannous mind, and glory in
The ruins you have made : for HjTnen's bands,
That should have made us one, this fatal halter
For ever shall divorce us : at your gate,
As a trophy of your pride and my affliction,
I 'U presently hang myself."
Bom. Not for the world [Starts from her scat.
Restrain him, as you love your lives !
Ca:s. AVhy are you
Transported thus, Domitia ;- 'tis a play;
Or, grant it serious, it at no part merits
This passion in you.
Far. I ne'er purposed, madam,
To do the deed in earnest ; though I bow
To your care and tenderness of me.
Bom. Let me, sir,
Entreat your pardon ; what I saw presented,
Carried me beyond myself.
C<es. To your place again,
And see what follows.
Bom. No, I am familiar
With the conclusion ; besides, upon the sudden
I feel myself much indisposed.
The Act ends with a few strokes showing the
infatuation of Domitian ; the suspicious ghmce of
the spy Aretrnus at Domitia ; and the note of
vengeance in exchange of words l.iy Stephanos anil
DomitUla.
Tlie Fovirth Act opens witli comments of the
jealous women, Julia, Domitilla, Ctenis, on the pro-
gress of Domitia's passion for the Roman actor.
Enter Pahthexius, Jvli.\, Domitilla, and C'.ENIS.
Parth. Why, 'tis impossible. — Paris !
Jid. You observed not,
As it appears, the violence of her passion,
AVhen, personating Iphis, ho pretended,
For your contempt, fair Anaxarete,
To hang himself.
Parth. Yes, yes, I noted that ;
But never could imagine it could work her
To such a strange intemperance of affection,
As to doat on him.
Bomitil. By my hopes, I think not
That she respects, though all here saw, and marked it :
Presuming she can mould the emperor's will
Into what form she likes, though we and all
The informers of the world conspired to cross it.
Ceen. Then with what eagerness, this morning, urging
The want of health and rest, she did entreat
Cfesar to leave her !
Bomitil. AATio no sooner absent,
But .she calls, " Dwarf 1 " (so in her scorn .she styles me)
" Put on my pantofles ; fetch pen and paper,
I am to write: " — and with distracted looks.
In her smock, impatient of so short delay
As but to have a mantle thrown upon her,
She sealed — I know not what, but 'twas indorsed,
" To m>i loved Paris."
Jul. Add to this, I heard her
Say, when a page received it, " Let him wait me,
And carefully, in the walk called our Retreat,
Where Cirsar, in his fear to give offence,
I'nsent for, never enters."
Parth. This being certain,
(For these are more than jealous suppositions,)
Wliy do not you, that are so near in blood,
Discover it ?
Bomitil. Alas ! you know we dare not.
'Twill be received for a malicious practice,
To free us from that slavery wliich her pride
Imposes on us. But if you would please
To break the ice, on pain to be sunk ever.
We would aver it.
Parth. I would second you.
TO A.D. 1629.]
PLAYS.
281
But that I am commanded with all speed
To fetch in Ascletario the C'hald:can ;
AVho, in his absence, is condemned of treason,
For calculating the nativity
Of C;i?sar, with all confidence foretelling.
In everj- circumstance, when he shall die
A Tiolent death. Yet, if you could aiiprove
Of my dii-eotions, I would have you speak
As much to Arctinus as you have
To me delivered : he in his own nature
Being a spy, on weaker grounds, no doubt,
Will undertake it ; not for goodness' sake,
(With which he never yet held correspondence
But to endear his vigilant observings
Of what concerns the emperor, and a little
To triumph in the ruins of this Paris,
That crossed him in the senate-house. —
Enter AuETIXUs.
Here he comes,
His nose held up ; he hath something in the wind,
Or I much err, already. M3" designs
Command me hence, great ladies ; but I leave
My wishes with you. [^Ex'd.
Arct. Have I caught )-our Greatness
In the trap, my proud Augusta ?
Domitil. AVTiat is"t wraps him ':'
Aret. And my fine Roman Actor ! Is 't even 30 f
Aretinus is prepared for action. The angry
women deliver their accusation to Domitian, antl
on peril of their lives proceed to put their accusatiou
to the proof.
The scene changes to the Empress's Retreat, a
private walk in the gardeus of the Palace.
Enter DoMiTH, P.\itis, ami Servants.
Doin. Say we command that none presume to dare
On forfeit of our favour, that is life,
Out of a saucy curiousness, to stand
Within the distance of their eyes or ears
Till we please to be waited on. [Exeunt Servants.
And, sirrah,
Howe'cr you are excepted, let it not
Beget in you an arrogant opinion
'Tis done to grace you.
Par. With my humblest service
I hut obty your summons, and should blush else
To be so near you.
I)o}n. 'Twould become you rather
To fear the greatness of the grace vouchsafed you
May overwhelm you ; and 'twill do no less.
If, when you are rewarded, in your cups
You boast this privacy.
Par. That were, mightiest empress,
To play with lightning.
Dom. You conceive it right.
The means to kill or save is not alone
In Ca'sar circumscribed ; for, if incensed.
We have our thunder too, that strikes as deadly.
Par. 'Twould ill become the lowness of my fortune
To question what you can do, but with all
Humility to attend what is your will.
And then to serve it.
Dom. And would not a secret.
Suppose we should commit it to your trust.
Scald j'ou to keep it ?
156
Par. Though it raged %vithin me
Till I turned cinders, it should ne'er have vent.
To bo an ago a-dying, and with tortui-e,
Only to be thought worthy of your counsrl
Or actuate what you command to me,
A wretched obscure thing not worth your knowledge,
Were a perpetual happiness.
Dom. We could wish
That we could credit thee, and cannot (ind
In reason, but that thou, whom oft I have seen
To personate a gentleman, noble, wise,
Faithful, and gainsome, and what virtues else
The poet pleases to adorn you with ;
But that (as vessels still partake the odour
Of the sweet precious liquors they contained)
Thou must be really, in some degi'ee.
The thing thou dost present. — Nay, do not tremble ;
We seriously believe it, and presume
Our Paris is the volume, in which aU
Those excellent gifts the stage hath seen him graced with,
Ai'e cuiiously bound up.
Par. The argument
Is the same, great Augusta, that I, acting
A fool, a coward, a traitor, or cold c)Tiic,
Or any other weak and vicious person,
Of force I must be such. Oh, gracious madam.
How glorious soever or deformed
I do appear in the scene, my part being ended
And all my borrowed ornaments put off,
I am no more nor less than what I was
Before I entered.
Domitia speaks plaiuly ; hut still Paris is discreet.
Par. Oh, madam ! hear me with a patient ear
And be but pleased to understand the reasons
That do deter me from a happiness
Kings would be rivals for. Can I, that owe
3Iy life, and all that 's mine, to Ciesar's boimties,
Beyond my hopes or merits, showered upon me.
Make payment for them with ingratitude,
Falsehood and treason 'i Though you have a shape
Might tempt Hippolytus, and larger power
To help or hurt than wanton I'luedra had.
Let loyalty and duty plead my pardon.
Though I refuse to satisfy.
Bom. You are coy.
Expecting I should court you. Let mean ladies
Use prayers and entreaties to their creatures
To rise up instruments to serve their pleasures ;
But for Augusta so to lose herself.
That holds command o'er Civsar and the world.
Were poverty of spirit. 'J'hou must — thou sh:ilt :
The violence of my passion knows no mean.
And in my punishments and my rewards
I 'U use no moderation. Take this only.
As a caution from me : threadbare chastity
Is poor in the advancement of her servants.
But wantonness magnificent ; and 'tis frequent
To have the salary of vice weigh down
The pay of i-irtue. So, without more trifling,
Thy sudden answer.
Par. In what a strait am I brought in I
Alas ! I know that the denial 's death ;
Kor can my grant, discovered, threaten more.
Yet, to die innocent, and have the glory
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Ta.d. 1625
For all posterity to report, that I
Eefuscd an empress, to preserve my faith
To my great master, in true judgment must
.Show fairer than to buy a guilty life
With wealth and honour. 'Tis the base I huild on :—
I dare not, must not, will not.
Dom. How ! contemned ?
Since hopes, nor fears, in the extremes, prevail not,
I must use a mean. \_Aslde.'] — Think who 'tis sues to thee.
Deny not that yet which a brother may
Grant to a sister : as a testimony
Enter C.TiSAit, Aretixvs, Julia, Domitilla, C.-enis, and a
Guard, behind.
I am not scorned, kiss rac ; — kiss me again :
Kiss closer. Thou art now my Trojan Paris,
And I thy Helen.
Fur. Since it is your will.
Cces. And I am Jlcnelaus : but I shall be
Something I know not yet.
Doiii. Why lose wc time
And opportunity ? These are but salads
To sharpen appetite : let us to the feast,
[Coiirtiiiff Paris icantonhj.
AVhere I shall wish that thou wert Jupiter,
And I Alcmena.
CVes. [Comes forward.'] While Amphitrio
Stands by, and draws the curtains.
Far. Oh! [Falls on his face.
Bom. Betrayed !
C<es. No ; taken in a net of Vulcan's filing,
Where, in myself, the theatre of the gods
Are sad spectators, not one of them daring
To witness, with a smile, he docs desire
To be so shamed for all the pleasure that
You 've sold your being for 1 What shall I name thee ?
Ingrateful, treacherous, insatiate, all
Invectives which, in bitterness of spirit.
Wronged men have breathed out against wicked women,
Cannot express thee ! Have I raised thee from
Thy low condition to the height of greatness,
Command, and majesty, in one base act
To render me, — that was, before 1 Kugged thee,
An adder, in my bosom, more than man, —
A thing beneath a beast ': Did I force these
Of mine own blood, as handmaids to kneel to
Thy pomp and pride, having myself no thought
But how with benefits to bind thee mine ;
And am I thus rewarded ? Not a knee,
Nor tear, nor sign of sorrow for thy fault ?
Break, stubborn silence : what canst thou allege
To stay my vengeance ?
Dom. This. Thy lust compelled me
To be a strumpet, and mine hath returned it
In my intent and will, though not in act,
To cuckold thee.
Cms. impudence ! take her hence.
And let her make her entrance into hell,
By leaving life with all the tortures that
Flesh can be sensible of. Yet stay. AMiat power
Her beauty still holds o'er my soul, that wi-ongs
Of this unpardonable nature cannot teach me
To right myself, and hate her ! — Kill her. — Hold !
Oh that my dotage should increase from that
AVhich should breed detestation ! By Jlinerva,
If I look on her longer, I shall melt,
And sue to her, my injuries forgot,
Again to be received into her favour ;
Could honour yield to it ! Carry hei to her chamber ;
Bo that her prison, till in cooler blood
I shall determine of her. [Exit Guard with Domitia.
Arct. Now step I in.
While he 's in this calm mood, for my reward. —
Sir, if my service has deserved —
Cies. Y'cs, )-es :
And I '11 reward thee. Thou hast robbed me of
All rest and peace, and been the principal means
To make me know that, of which if again
I could be ignorant of, I would purchase it
Jte-entcr Guard.
With the loss of cnipii-e. Strangle him ; take these hence too,
And lodge them in the dungeon. Could your reason.
Dull wretches, flatter you with hope to think
That this discovery, that hath showered upon me
Perpetual vexation, should not fall
Heavy on you ? Away with them ! — Stop thcii- mouths ;
I will hoar no reply.
[Exit Guard with Auetixvs, Julia, C.liXis, and
Domitilla.
— O Paris, Paris !
How shall I argue with thee ': how begia
To make thee understand, before I kill thee.
With what grief and unwillingness 'tis forced from me ?
Yet, in respect I have favoured thee, I '11 hear
What thou canst speak to qualify or excuse
Thj- readiness to serve this woman's lust ;
And wish thou couldst give me such satisfaction,
As I might bury the remembrance of it.
Look up : we stand attentive.
Far. O dread Caesar !
To hope for life, or plead in the defence
Of my ingratitude, wore again to wrong you.
I know I have deserved death ; and my suit is.
That you would hasten it : yet, that your highness,
\Vlicn I am dead, (as sure I will not live,)
5Iay pardon me, I '11 only urge my frailty.
Her will, and the temptation of that beauty
Which you could not resist. How could poor I, then,
Fly that which followed me, and Ca?sar sued for ?
This is all. And now your sentence.
Cies. Which I know not
How to pronounce. Oh that thy fault had been
But .such as I might pardon ! if thou hadst
In wantonness, like Nero, fired proud Rome,
Betrayed an army, butchered the whole senate,
Committed .sacrilege, or any crime
The justice of oiu' Koman laws calls death,
I had prevented any intercession,
And freely signed thy pardon.
F((r. But for this,
Alas ! you cannot, nay, you must not, sir ;
Nor let it to posterity be recorded.
That C:psar, imrcvenged, suffered a \^TOng
AMiich, if a private man should sit down with it,
Cowards would battle' him.
f'les. With such true feeling
Thou arguest against thyself, that it
AVorks more upon me, than if my Minerva,
The gi-and protectress of my life and empire,
1 Bii^c, treat coutemiituously. A knight was baffled by bangiug
j bim ill effi^ upside down. Old French *' beffler," to mock.
TO A.D. 1629.J
PLAYS.
2S3
On forfeit of her favour, cried aloud,
" Ca?sar, show mercy ! " and, I know not how,
I am inclined to it. Rise. I 'U promise nothing ;
Yet clear thy cloudy fears, and cherish hopes.
AVhat we must do, we shall do : we remember
A tragedy we oft have seen with pleasure,
Called The False Servant.
Far. Such a one we have, sir.
Cies. In which a great lord takes to his protection
A man forlorn, giving him ample power
To order and dispose of his estate
In 's absence, he pretending then a journey :
But yet ^vith this restraint that, on no terms,
(This lord suspecting his wife's constancy,
She ha\"ing played false to a former husband.)
The servant, though solicited, should consent.
Though she commanded him, to quench her flames.
Far. That was, indeed, the argument.
Ctes. And what
Didst thou play in it ?
Far. The Fnhc Servant, sir.
Cies. Thou didst, indeed. Do the players wait without ':
Far. They do, sir, and prepared to act the story
Your majesty mentioned.
Cies. Call them in. "Who presents
The injmx'd lord?
Enter ^soprs, L.wixrs, and a Lady.
JEsop. 'Tis my part, sir.
Cies. Thou didst not
Do it to the life : we can perform it better.
OfE with my robe and wreath ; since Xero scorned not
The public theatre, we in private may
Disport ourselves. This cloak and hat, without
■\Vearing a beard, or other property,
AViU fit the person.
^•Esop. Only, sir, a foil,
The point and edge rebated, when you act,
To do the murder. If you please to use this,
And lay aside your own sword.
Cies. By no means,
In jest or earnest this parts never from me.
We '11 have but one short scene — that, where the lady
In an imperious way commands the servant
To be unthankful to his patron : when
My cue 's to enter, prompt me : — Nay, begin,
And do it sprightly : though but a new actor,
"When I come to execution, you shall find
Xo cause to laugh at me.
lat. In the name of wonder,
What 's Ca;sar's purpose !
JEsop. There is no contending.
Ctes. Why, when ?
Far. I am armed :
And, stood grim Death now in my view, and his
Ine\-itable dart aimed at mj- breast.
His cold embraces should not biing an ague
To any of my faculties, tiU his pleasures
Were served and satisfied ; which done, Nestor's years
To me would be unwelcome. \_Asule.
Lady. " Must we entreat.
That were bom to command ? or court a servant.
That owes his food and clothing to om- boimty,
For that, which thou ambitiously shouldst kneel for f
Urge not, in thy excuse, the favom-s of
Thy absent lord, or that thou standst engaged
For thy life to his charity ; nor thy fears
Of what may foUow, it being in my power
To mould him any way."
Far. '■ As you may me.
In what his reputation is not wounded,
Xor I, his creature, in my thankfulness suffer.
I know you 're young and fair ; be ■(•irtuous too.
And loyal to his bed, that hath advanced you
To the height of happiness."
Ladij. " Can my love-sick heart
Be cured with counsel ? or durst rea.son ever
Oifer to put in an exploded plea
In the court of Venus ? My desires admit not
The least delay ; and therefore instantly
Give me to understand what I must trust to :
For, if I am refused, and not enjoy
Those ra%-ishing pleasures fi-om thee, I run mad for,
I '11 swear imto my lord, at his return,
(Making what I deliver good with tears.)
That brutishly thou wouldst have forced from me
^^^lat I make suit for. And then but imagine
"WTiat 'tis to die, with these words, slave and traitor.
With burning corsives writ upon thy forehead.
And live prepared for 't. "
Far. " This he wiU beheve
Upon her information, 'tis apparent ;
And then I 'm nothing : and of two extremes.
Wisdom says, choose the less. \_Aside.'] — Kather than fall
Under yom- imhgnation, I -n-iU j-ield :
This kiss, and this, confirms it."
JEsop. Xow, sir, now.
Ctcs. I must take them at it ?
JEsop. Yes, sir ; be but pei-fect.
Cies. villain ! thankless villain I — I should talk now ,
But I 've forgot my part. But I can do :
Thus, thus, and thus ! [Stabs Paris.
Par. Oh ! I am slain in earnest.
Cies. 'Tis true: and 'twas my purpose, my good Paris:
And yet, before life leave thee, let the honour
I ' ve done thee in thy death bring comfort to thee.
If it had been within the power of C;csar,
His dignity preserved, he had pardoned thee :
But cruelty of honour did deny it.
Yet, to confirm I loved thee, 'twas my study
To make thy end more glorious, to distinguish
5Iy Paris from all others ; and in that
Have shown my pity. Xor would I let thee fall
By a centurion's sword, or have thy limbs
Rent piecemeal by the hangman's hook, however
Thy crime deserved it : but, as thou didst live
Rome's bravest actor, 'twas my plot that thou
Shouldst die in action, and to crown it, die.
With an applause enduring to all times.
By our imperial hand. — His soul is fi-eed
From the prison of his flesh ; let it mount upward !
And for this trunk, when that the funeral pile
Hath made it ashes, we 'U see it enclosed
In a golden urn ; poets adorn his hearse
With their most ravishing soriows, and the stage
For ever mom-n him, and aU such as were
His glad spectators, weep his sudden death,
The cause forgotten in his epitaph.
\_Sad music ; the Players bear off Paris' body, C^sar and
the rest following.
The Fifth Act has for its tlieme the i-etrlbxition
upon tyriiiiny.
284
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[i.D. 1625
.Scene I. — -i Moom in the Palace^ wtth an image of Minerva.
Enter P.utTHENirs, Stephanos, ami Guard.
Parth. Keep a strong guard upon him, and admit not
Access to any, to exchange a word
Or syllable with liim, till the emperor pleases
To call him to his presence. — \_Exit Guard.] — The relation
That you have made me, Stephanos, of these late
Strange passions in Cicsar, much amaze me.
The informer Aretinus put to death
For yielding him a true discovery
(Jf the empress' wantonness ; poor Paris killed first,
And now lamented ; and the princesses
Confined to several islands ; yet Augusta,
The machine on which all this mischief moved,
Received again to grace 1
Steph . Nay, courted to it :
Such is the impotence of his affection !
Yet, to conceal his weakness, he gives out
The people made suit for her, whom they hate more
Than civil war or famine. But take heed.
My lord, that, nor in your consect nor wishes,
You lend or furtherance or favou r to
The plot contrived against her : should she prove it,
Xay, doubt it only, you are a lost man.
Her power o'er doating Ca'Sar being now
Greater than ever.
Parth. 'Tis a truth I shake at ;
.\nd, when there 's opportunity
Steph. Say but. Do,
I am yours, and sure.
Parth. I '11 stand one trial more,
And then you shall hear from me.
Steph. Now observe
The fondness of this tyrant, and her pride.
\_Thi'i/ stand aside.
Enter C-Es.iu and DoMixi.i.
Cas. Nay, aU 's forgotten.
J}oM. It may be, on yom- part.
C'tes. Forgiven too, Domitia : — 'tis a favour
That you should welcome -ivith more cheerful looks.
Can Ca'sar pardon what you durst not hope for
That did the in j ury , and yet must sue
To her whose guilt is washed oS by his mercy,
Only to entertain it Y
Bom. I asked none ;
And I should be more wretched to receive
Kemissiijn for what I hold no crime.
But by a bare acknowledgment, than if
By slighting and contemning it as now
I dared thy utmost fury. Though thy flatterers
Persuade thee tliat thy murders, lusts, and rapes
Are virtues in thee ; and what pleases CiPsar,
Though never so unjust, is right and la\\-ful ;
Or work in thee a false belief that thou
Art more than mortal ; yet I to thy teeth,
When circled with thy guards, thy rods, thy axes,
And all the ensigns of thy boasted power,
Will say, Domitian, nay, add to it Caesar,
Is a weak, feeble man, a bondman to
His violent passions, and in that my slave ;
Nay, more my slave than my affections made nie
To my loved Paris.
Os. Can I live and hear this ?
Or hear, and not revenge it :-" Come, you know
The str-rngth that you hold on me. do "not use it
With too much cruelty ; for though 'tis granted
That Lydian Omphale had less command
O'er Hercules than you usurp o'er me,
Keason may teach me to shake off the yoke
Of my fond dotage.
Dam. Never; do not hope it :
It cannot be. Thou being my beauty's captive,
And not to be redeemed, mj' empire's larger
Than thine, Domitian, which I 'U exercise
AVith rigour on thee, for my Paris' death.
And when I 've forced those eyes, now red with fury,.
To drop down tears in vain spent to appease me,
I know tliy fervoui' such to my embraces.
Which shall be, though still kneeled for, still denied thee,
That thou with languishment shalt wish my Actor
Did live again, so thou mightst be his second
To feed upon those deUcates when he 's sated.
Cms. my Minerva !
1
Seated Minekva. (Froin. a Statm at Rome.)
Dom. There she is, [points to the statae] invoke her :
She cannot arm thee with ability
To draw thy sword on me, my power being greater :
Or only say to thy centm-ions,
Dare none of you do what I sliake to think on,
And, in this woman's death, remove the Fuiics
Tliat cA'ery hour afflict me ? — Lamia's wrongs.
When thy lust forced me from him, are, in me.
At the height revenged ; nor would I outlive Paris,
But that thy love, increasing with my hate.
May add unto thy torments ; so, with all
Contempt I can, I leave thee. [E.cit
Ctes. I am lost ;
Nor am I C.-rsar. AVhen I first betrayed
The freedom of my faculties and will
To this imperious Siren. I laid down
The empire of the world and of myself
At her proud feet. Sleep aU my ireful powers ?
Or is the magic of my dotage such
That I must stiU make suit to hear those chai-ms
TO A.D. 1629.]
PLAYS.
That do increase my thi-aldom ? Wake, my anger !
For shame, break through this lethargy, and appear
With usual teiTor, and enable me,
.Since I wear not a sword to pierce her heart,
Xor have a tongue to say this. Let her die.
Though 'tis done with a fever-shaken hand,
[Pulls out a tabU-look.
To sign her death. Assist me, great ilinerva,
And vindicate thy votary ! [Writes.'] So; she 'snow
Among the list of those I have proscribed.
And are, to free me of my doubts and fears.
To die to-morrow.
Steph. That same fatal book
Was never drawn yet, but some men of rank
Were marked out for destruction. [Ej:it.
Pnrth. I begin
To doubt myself.
('as. Who waits there ?
Forth. [Cominff foricard.] Caesar.
C{es. So !
These, that command armed troops, quake at my frowns.
And yet a woman slights them. Where 's the wizard
We charged you to fetch in ;'
Parth. Read}' to suffer
What death }'0u please to appoint him.
f'as. Bring him in.
We '11 question him ourself .
Enter Tribunes, «)id Guai'd with Ascxetakio.
Xow, you, that hold
Intelligence with the stars, and dare prefix
The day and hour in wliich we are to pai-t
With life and empire, punctually foretelling
The means and manner of our violent ends ;
As you would purchase credit to j'our art,
Resolve me, since you are assured of us,
What fate attends yourself ?
Asele. I have had long since
A Certain knowledge, and as sure as thou
Shalt die to-morrow, being the fourteenth of
The kalends of October, the hour five,
Spite of prevention, this carcass shall be
Tom and devoured by dogs ; — and let that stand
For a firm prediction.
Ctes. 3Iay oiu' body, wretch,
Find never nobler sepulchre, if this
Fall ever on thee I Are we the great disposer
< 'f life and death, yet cannot mock the stars
In such a trifle ? Hence with the impostor ;
And baring cut his throat, erect a i)ile.
Guarded with soldiei-s, tiU his cur.scd trunk
Be tmned to ashes : upon forfeit of
Your life, and theirs, perform it.
Asele. 'Tis in vain ;
When what I have foretold is made apparent.
Tremble to think what follows.
Cces. Drag him hence,
[The Tribunes and Guard bear o/' AscLETAKio.
-Vnd do as I command you. I was never
Fuller of confidence ; for, baring got
The rictor}- of my pas-sions. in my freedom
From proud Domitia, (who shall cease to live.
Since she disdains to love,) I rest unmoved :
And, in defiance of prodigious meteors,
Chaldeans' vain predictions, jealous fears
Of my near friends and freedmon, certain hate
Of kindred and alliance, or all terrors
The soldiers' doubted faith or people's lage
Can bring to shake my constancy, I am armed.
That sci-upulous thing styled conscience is seared u;.,
And I insensible of all my actions
For which by moral and religious fools
I stand condemned, as they had never been.
And, since I have subdued ti-iumphant Love,
I wUl not deify pale captive Fear,
Xor in a thought receive it : for, till thou,
Wisest Uinerva, that from my first youth
Hast been my sole protectress, dost forsake me.
Not Junius Rusticus' threatened apparition,
Xor what this soothsayer but even now foretold,
Being things impossible to human reason.
Shall in a dream disturb me. Bring my couch, there :
A sudden but a secure drowsiness
Invites me to repose myself. [A eoiirh is broiirjht .«.] Let
music.
With some short ditty, second it : — [Exit P.iutue.m-.s.]— Tlic
mean time.
Rest there, dear book, which opened, when I wake,
[Lays the book under hia pi.'loir.
Shall make some sleep for ever.
[ATusie and a soiiff. C.es.ir sleeps.
Me-enter P.^kthenius and Dosiitia.
Bom. Write my name
In his bloody scroll, Parthenius ! the fear 's idle :
He durst not, could not.
Parth. I can assure nothing;
But I observed, when you departed from him,
After some little passion, but much fury,
He drew it out : whose death he signed, I know not ;
But in his looks appeared a resolution
Of what before he staggered at. \\'Tiat he hath
Determined of is uncertain, but too soon
WiU fall on you, or me, or both, or any.
His pleasure known to the tribunes and centurions,
'\\'ho never use to enquire his wUl, but serve it.
Xow, if out of the confidence of your power.
The bloody catalogue being stiU about him.
As he sleeps you dare peruse it, oi' remove it,
Tou may instruct yom-self or whiit to suffer
Or how to cross it.
Dom. I would not be caught
With too much confidence. By your leave, sir. Ha !
Xo motion 1 — you lie uneasy, sir.
Let me mend your pillow. [Tahs away the iooi.
Parth. Have you it ?
Bom. 'Tis here.
Cics. Oh:
Parth. You have waked him : softly, gracious maAmi,
'\\'hile we are unknown ; and then consult at leisure.
[Ejceunt.
Breadful mtisie. The apparitions of Junius Rusticus and
Palphukius Suua rise, with bloody swords in their hands ;
they wave them over the head of C.ksak, who seems troubled
in his sleep, and as if praying to the image of Mi.neiiva,
n:hieh they seornfully seize, and then disappear with it.
Cm. [Starting.'] Defend me, goddess, or this horrid dream
Win force me to distraction ! whither have
These Furies borne thee ? Let me rise and foUow.
I am bathed o'er with the cold sweat of death.
And am deprived of organs to pm-sue
These sacrilegious spiiits. Am I at once
Robbed of my hopes and being ? Xo, I live—
[Pases distractedly.
286
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1625
Yes, live, and have discourse, to know myself
Of ^ods and men forsaken. What accuser
Within me cries aloud, I have deserved it.
In beins' just to neither ? A\Tio dares speak this ?
Am I not Ovsar ': — How 1 again repeat it ':
Presumptuous traitor, thou shalt die ! — What traitor ?
He that hath been a traitor to himself.
And stands convicted here. Yet who can sit
A competent judge o'er Ciesar? Caesar. Y'es,
Ciesar by Cicsar 's sentenced, and must suffer ;
Minerva cannot save liim. Ha 1 where is she 't
Where is mj- goddess ? vanished 1 I am lost then.
No ; 'twas no dream, but a most real truth,
That Junius Eustious and Palphurius Sura,
Although their ashes were cast in the sea,
Were by their innocence made up again,
And in corporeal forms but now appeared.
Waving their bloody swords above my head.
As at their deaths they threatened. And methought,
Jlinerva, ravished hence, whispered that she
Was, for my blasphemies, disarmed by Jove,
And could no more protect me. Yes, 'twas so,
'[Thunder and lightning.
His thunder does confirm it, against which,
Howe'er it spare the lam-el, this proud wreath
Enter three Tribunes.
Is no assurance. Ha 1 come you resolved
To be my executioners ';
1 Trih. Allegiance
And faith forbid that we should lift an arm
Against your sacred head.
2 Trib. We rather sue
For mercy.
3 Trib. And acknowledge that in justice
Our lives are forfeited for not performing
What Csesar charged ns.
1 Trib. Nor did we transgress it
In our want of will or care ; for, being but men.
It could not be in us to make resistance.
The gods fighting against us.
Ctes. Speak, in what
Did they exjiress their anger ? we %vill hear it,
But dare not say, undaunted.
1 2'rih. In brief thus, sir :
The sentence given by your imperial tongue,
For the astrologer Ascletario's death.
With speed was put in execution.
Ores. Well.
1 Trib. For, his throat cut, his legs bound, and his arms
Pinioned behind his back, the breathless trunk
Was with all scorn dragged to the field of Mars,
And there, a pile being raised of old dry -wood.
Smeared o'er with oil and brimstone, or what else
Could help to feed or to increase the fire.
The carcass was thi'own on it ; but no sooner
The stuff, that was most apt, began to flame,
But suddenly, to the amazement of
The fearless soldier, a sudden flasli
Of lightning, breaking through the scattered clouds,
With such a liorrid violence forced its passage,
And, as disdaining all lieat but itself.
In a moment quenched the artificial fire :
And before we could kindle it again,
A clap of thunder followed with such noise
As if then Jove, incensed against manldnd.
Had in his secret purposes determined
An universal ruin to the world.
Tliis horror past, not at Deucalion's flood
Such a stormy shower of rain (and yet that word ia
Too narrow to express it) was e'er seen :
Imagine rather, sir, that with less fury
The waves rush down the cataracts of NQe ;
Or that the sea, spouted into the air
By tlie angry Ore, endangering tall sliips
But sailing near it, so falls down again. —
Y'et here the wonder ends not, but begins :
I'^or, as in vain we kiboui'ed to consume
The wizard's body, all the dogs of Rome,
Howling and yelling like to famished wolves.
Brake in upon us ; and though thousands were
Killed in th' attemjA, some did ascend the pile.
And with their eager fangs seized on the carcass.
Cics. But have they torn it ?
1 Trib. Tom it, and devoured it.
Caa. I then am a dead man, since all predictions
Assure me I am lost. Oh, my loved soldiers,
Y'om- emperor must leave you ! yet, however
I cannot grant myself a short reprieve,
I freely pardon you. The fatal liour
Steals fast upon me : I must die this morning
By five, my soldiers; that's the latest hour-
Y'ou e'er must see me living.
I Trill. Jove avert it !
In our swords lies your fate, and we will guard it.
Ctes. Oh, no, it cannot be ; it is decreed
Above, and by no strength here to be altered.
Let proud mortality but look on Ca-sar,
Compassed of late with armies, in his eyes
Carrj-ing both life and death, and in his arms
Fathoming the earth ; that would be styled a god.
And is, for that presumption, cast beneath
The low condition of a common man,
Sinking with mine own weight.
1 2'rib. Do not forsake
Yourself ; we '11 never leave you.
2 Trib. We'll draw up
More cohorts of your guard, if yon doubt treason.
Ctes. They cannot save me. The offended gods.
That now sit judges on me, from their envy
Of my power and greatness here, conspire against mo.
1 Trib. Endeavour to appease them.
Cea. 'Twill be fruitless :
I am past hope of remission. Y'et, could I
Di'cline this di-eadful hour of five, these terrors.
That drive me to despair, would soon fly from me :
And could you but till then assure me
1 Trib. \cs, sir ;
Or we'll fall with you, and make Rome the urn
In which we'll mix our ashes.
Ctes. 'Tis said nobly :
I am sonu'thing comforted: howe'er, to die
Is the full period of calamity. [E.reunt.
Scene II. — Another Room in the Fiilace.
Enter Pakthexivs, Domitia, Ji'lia, Ciixis, Domitilla,
SxErHAxos, SEjEirs and Extellvs.
Purth . Y'ou see wc arc all condemned ; there 's no evasion ;
Wo must do, or suffer.
Steph . But it must be sudden ;
The least delay is mortal.
Lom. Would I were
A man, to give it action !
TO A.D. 1629.;
PLAYS.
287
JJomitil. Could I make my approaches, though my statme
Docs promise little, I have a spiiit as diiring
As hers that e;in reach higher.
Steph. I w-ill take
That burthen from you, madam. All the art is,
To draw him from the tribunes that attend him ;
For, could you bring him but within my sword's reach,
The world should owe her freedom from a tyrant
To Stephanos.
Scj. You shall not share alone
The glory of a deed that will endui-e
To all posterit}-.
Ent. I will i)ut ia
For a part, myself.
Parth. Be resolved, and stand close.
I have conceived a way, and with the hazard
Of my life I 'U practise it, to fetch him hither.
But then no trifling.
Stcph. We 'U despatch him, fear not :
A dead dog never bites.
Forth. Thus then at all.
\_Exit ; the rest eoiiccal themselves.
Enter C-ES.ui mid the Tribunes.
Cres. How slow-paced are these minutes 1 in extremes,
How miserable is the least delay !
Could I imp ' feathers to the wings of time,
Or with a little ease command the sun
To scourge his coursers up heaven's eastern liiU,
Making the hour to tremble at, past recalling,
As I can move this dial's tongue to six ;
Jly veins and arteries, emptied with fear.
Would fill and swell again. How do I look ?
Do you yet see death about me ?
1 Trii). Think not of him ;
There is no danger : all these prodigies
That do afEright you, rise from natui'al causes;
And though you do ascribe them to yourself,
Had you ne'er been, had happened.
Cres. 'Tis well said.
Exceeding well, brave soldier. Can it be
That I, that feel myself in health and strength,
Should still believe I am so near my end.
And have my guards about me ':' Perish all
Predictions ! I grow constant they are false.
And built upon uncei'tainties.
1 Trib. This is right ;
Now Ca?sar 's heard like Ca>sar.
C'tes. We will to
The camp, and having there confirmed the soldier
With a large donative, and increase of pay,
Some shaU 1 say no more.
Re-enter P.iRTHEMUS.
Pnrth. All happiness,
Security, long life, attend upon
The monarch of the world 1
C'rrs. Thy looks are cheerful.
Parth. And my relation full of joy and wonder.
WTiy is the care of j'our imperial body,
5Iy lord, neglected, the feared hour being past.
In which youi' life was threatened ?
Cees. Is 't past five ':
Parth. Past six, upon my knowledge; and, in justice,
1 Imp, grait, from First-English " impan." A hawk's wing was said
to be imped when a stronf? feather was put in plaee of a broken one to
secure the better flight. Children are imps as grafts or buds on the
parent stock.
Your clockmaster shoidd die, that hath deferred
Yom- peace so long. There is a post new lighted.
That brings assured inteUigence that your legions
In Syria have won a glorious day
And much enlarged your empire. I have kept him
Concealed, that you might first partake the pleasure
In private, and the Semite from yourself
Be taught to understand how much they owe
To you and to your fortune.
C'tes. Hence, pale fear, then 1
Lead me, Parthenius.
1 Trib. ShaU we wait you ':"
Ctes. No.
After losses guards ai-e useful. Know your distance.
\^Exen}ii C.Es.\R a>id Pakthenius.
"2 Trib. How strangely hopes delude men ! as I live,
The hour is not yet come.
1 Trib. Howe'er, we are
To pay our duties, and observe the sequel.
\_ExeHut Tribunes. DoMiTi.i and tlie rest come forxcard.
Bom. I hear him coming. Be con.stant.
Re-enter C.F.s.ui and P.^rthenius.
C<cs. 'Wliere, Parthenius,
Is this glad messenger 'r
Steph. Make the door fast. — Here ;
A messenger of hon-or.
Ctes. Howl Betrayed?
Bom. No ; taken, tyrant.
Ctes. My Domitia
In the conspiracy !
Parth. Behold this book.
Cccs. Xay, then I am lost. Yet, though I am unarmed,
I '11 not fall poorly. \^Oeerthrows Stephanos.
Steph. Help me.
Ent. Thus, and thus ! _ | j.,^^,,^ ^^„^ j^-^^^_
SeJ. Ai-e you so long a fallmg .' J
C(es. 'Tis done basely. [Falls, ami dies.
Par. This for my father's death.
Bom. This for my Paris.
Jill. This for thy incest.
Bomitil. This for thy abuse
Of Domitilla. {They severathj stab him.
Tribunes. [TTithin.] Force the doors!
Enter Tribunes.
OMars!
■What have you done ?
Parth. What Rome shall give us thanks for.
Steph. Dispatched a monster.
1 Trib. Yet he was our prince.
However wicked ; and, in you, this murder,
^^^lich whosoe'er succeeds him will revenge :
Nor will wc, that served under his command.
Consent that such a monster as thyself,
(For, in thy wickedness, -Augusta's title
Hath quite forsook thee.) thou, that wert the gi-ound
Of iill these mischiefs, shaU go hence unpunished.
Lay hands on her, and di-ag her to her sentence.—
We will refer the hearing to the Senate,
Who may at their best leisure censure you.
Take up his body : he in death hath paid
For all his cnielties. Here 's the difference :
Good kings are moumed for after life : but iU,
And such as governed only by their will
And not theii- reason, unlamentcd fall,
No good man's tear shed at their funeral.
\Exeant ; the Tribunes bearing the body ofQ.^mu
2SS
cassp:ll's library of English literature.
[a.d. 1629
A KEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS,
printed in 1633, is a play of Massinger's, that has
hehl its phice on the stage until the present day. It
is a comedy, with the scene laid near Nottingham,
and owes its life upon the stage to a character in it
that of Sir Giles Oven-each — which actors like to
play. He is a usurer, without pity or conscience,
who lives liberally, is bold and defiant —
This Sir Giles feeds high, keeps many sen-ants,
Who must at his command do any outrage ;
Kiuh in his habit, vast in his expenses ;
Yet he to admiration still increases
In wealth and lordships.
He fights men out of their estates, and breaks
Through all the law nets made to curb ill men
As they were cobwebs. No man dares reprove him.
Such a spirit to dare, and power to do, were never
Lodged so imlui-kily.
He seeks to marry his one child, Margaret, to
Lord Lovell, and is ready to spend freely his own
money and her honour for alliance with a nolde
house. He has ruined his cai-eless nephew Wellborn,
and become possessed of his estate. Wellborn in
tattered clothes, at the beginning of the play, is the
scoff of a low innkeeper. Tom Allwoi-th, Lord
Lovell's page, and son to a rich widow. Lady
Allworth, loves Margaret Overreach, and is also
Wellborn's friend. The fathers of the two young
men had been warm friends. When Wellborn visits
Lady Allworth, for his father's sake, she forgets her
anger at his follies, and falls into hi.s Way to Pay
t)ld Debts to his uncle. She allows it to be thought
that he is favoured in suit for her hand. Sir GUes's
chief agent and steward, Marrall, falls mto the trap,
but cannot persuade his master. The usurer feasts
Lord Lovell, who is in the counsels of his page.
He also enforces basest counsel upon his innocent
daughter to secure that prize. Lady Allworth comes
to his house during the feast, as if to invite Lord
Lovell, brings Wellborn with her, and so behaves as
to secure the delusion of Sir Giles, whose comment
on the wonder is —
It makes for me ; if she prove his,
All that is hers is mine, as I will work him.
Sir Giles's coach and Sir Giles's money are sud-
denly at his nephew's service ; all Wellborn's debts
are paid, and his rich clothes are taken out of pawn.
But Marrall the steward gi'ows impatient of many
insults. In Lady Alhvorth's house. Sir Giles being
alone with Lord Lovell, opens his bad mind to the
expected son-in-law :
Ove>\ To my wish ; we are private.
I come not to make offer with my daughter
A certain portion, that were poor and tiivial :
In one word, I pronounce all that is mine,
In lands or leases, ready coin or goods.
With her, my lord, comes to you : nor shall you have
One motive, to induce you to believe
I live too long, since eveiy year I'll add
Somuthing unto the heap, which shall be yours too.
Lov. You are a right kind father.
Over. You shall have reason
To think me such. How do you like this seat r
It is well wooded, and well watered, the acres
Fertile and rich ; would it not serve for change,
To entertain your friends in a summer progress ?
What thinks my noble lord ?
Zov. 'Tis a wholosome air,
And well bailt pile ; and she that's mistress of it.
Worthy the large revenue.
Over. She the mistress !
It may be so for a time : but let my lord
Say only that he Ukes it, and would have it,
I say, ere long 'tis his.
Zor. Impossible.
Over. You do conclude too fast, not knowing me,
Nor the engines that I work by. 'Tis not alone
The Lady iUlworth's lands ; for those once Wellborn's,
(As by her dotage on him I know the}- will be,)
Shall soon be mine ; but point out any man's
In all the shire, and say thej- lie convenient
And useful for your lordship, and once more
I say aloud, they are yours.
Lov. I dare not own
A\Tiat 's by unjust and cruel means extorted ;
!My fame and credit are more dear to me
Than so to expose them to be censured by
The public voice.
Over. You run, my loi'd, no hazard.
Your reputation .shall stand as fair.
In all good men's opinions, as now ;
Nor can my actions, though condemned for ill,
Cast any foul a.spersion upon j-oui-s.
For, though I do contemn report myself.
As a mere sound, I still will be so tender
Of what concerns you, in all points of honour,
That the immaculate whiteness of your fame.
Nor your unquestioned integiity.
Shall e'er be sullied with one taint or spot
That may take from your innocence and candour.
All m)- ambition is to have my daughter
liight honourable, which my lord can make her :
And might I live to dance upon my knee
A young Lord Lovell, born 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 biiih and present state requires,
I do remove that burthen from your shoulders,
And take it on mine own : for, thougli I ruin
The country to supply your riotous waste.
The scourge of prodigals, want, shall never find you.
Lov. Are you not flighted with the imprecations
And cm-ses of whole families, made wretched
By your sinister practices ?
Over. Yes, as rocks are,
^^Tien foamy billows split themselves against
Their flinty ribs ; or as the moon is moved,
A\'hen wolves, with hunger pined, howl at her brightness.
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
^^'^^ieh fearful enemies murmured at as wrong.
Now, for these other peddling complaints
Breathed out in bitterness ; as when they call me
Extortioner, tyrant, cormorant, or intruder
On my poor neighbour's right, or grand incloser
TO A.D. 1633.]
PLAYS.
289
Of what wds common, to my private use ;
Nay, when my ears aie pierced with widows' cries,
And undone orphans wash with tears my threshold,
I only think what 'tis to have mj- 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.
Over. 'Tis for you,
My lord, and for my daughter, I am marble ;
Nay more, if you will have my character
In little, I enjoy piore true delight
In my arrival to my wealth by dark
And crooked ways, than you shall e'er take pleasure
In spending what my industry hath compass'd.
My haste commands me hence ; in one word, therefore, —
Is it a match ?
Lov. I \io\ta, that it is past doubt now.
Over. Then rest secure ; not the hate of aU mankind here,
Nor fear of what can fall on me hereafter,
Shall make me study aught but yom- advancement
One story higher : an earl I if gold can do it,
Dispute not my religion, nor my faith ;
Though I am borne thus headlong by ray will.
You may make choice of what belief you please,
To me they are equal. So, my lord, good morrow. \_E.vit.
Lov. He 's gone — I wonder how the earth can bear
Such a portent ! I, that have lived a soldier,
And stood the enemy's violent charge imdaunted,
To hear this blasphemous beast am bathed all over
In a cold sweat : yet, like a mountain, he
(Confirm' d in atheistical assertions)
Is no more shaken than Olympus is
When angry Boreas loads his double head
'With sudden drifts of snow.
This disclosure enables Lady Alhvorth to bring
Lord Lovell iiato tlie confederation for utter discom-
fiture of Sir Giles ; and he agrees to pretend that
he has married Margaret. Marrall, insulted by Sir
Giles, courts what he believes to be the rising for-
tunes of the nejjhew ; and begins to betray secrets
of his master : —
This only, in a word : I know Sir Giles
Will come upon you for securitj'
For his thousand pounds, which you must not consent to.
As he grows in heat, as I am sure he will,
Be you but rough, and say he 's in your debt
Ten times the sum, upon sale of your land ;
I had a hand in 't (I speak it to my shame)
When }-ou were defeated of it.
Well. That 's forgiven.
Mar. I shall deserve it : then urge him to produce
The deed in which j'ou passed it over to him,
Which I know he '11 have about him to deliver
To the Lord LoveU, with many other writings.
And present moneys : I '11 instruct you further
As I wait on your worship. If I play not my prize
To your full content and your uncle's much vexation.
Hang up Jack JIarraU.
Well. I rely upon thee. [Exeitiit.
Even Margaret is driven, by lier fiither's baseness
towards her, to join, as Lord Lovell counsels, in the
157
plot aganist her father. Sir Giles, being led to believe
that the lord urges a secret man-iage, proceeds to force
Ins daughter to it, and unwittingly secures her union
to the yoimg page Alhvorth, who is supposed to be
acting for his master : —
All. An 't please your honour.
For so before to-morrow I must style you,
^ly lord desires this privacy in respect
His honourable kinsmen are far off,
And his desu-es to have it done brook not
hio long delay as to expect their coming ;
And yet he stands resolved with all due pomp.
As running at the ring, plays, masks, and tUting,
To have his marriage at court celebrated
When he has brought your honour up to London.
Over. He teUs you true; 'tis the fashion, on my know-
ledge :
Yet the good lord, to please your peevishness,
ilust put it off, forsooth 1 . . .
Tempt me no further ; if you do, this goad
\_FoiiUs to his stcord.
Shall prick you to him.
Marg. I could be contented,
Were you but by to do a father's part
And give me in the church.
Over. So my lord have you.
What do I care who gives you ? since my lord
Does purpose to be private, I'll not cross him.
I know not, master AUworth, how my lord
Jlay be provided, and therefore there 's a purse
Of gold, 'twill serve this night's expense ; to-morrow
I '11 furnish him with any sums : in the meantime,
Use my ring to my chaplain ; he is beneficed
At my manor of Got' em, and call'd parson WiUdo :
'Tis no matter for a licence, I '11 bear him out in 't.
Mnrg. With your favour, sir, what wan-ant is your
ring?
He may suppose I got that twenty ways.
Without your knowledge ; and then to be refused.
Were such a stain upon me I — if you pleased, sir.
Your presence would do better.
Over. Still perverse I
I say again, I will not cross my lord ;
Yet I '11 prevent you too. — Paper and ink, there !
All. I can furnish you.
Over. I thank you, I can write then. [ Writes.
All. You may, if you please, put out the name of my
lord,
In respect he comes disguised ; and only write, —
Marry her to this gentleman.
Over. Well ad\nsed.
'Tis done; away 1— [Marg.^ret kneels.]— ^ly blessing, girl f
thou hast it.
Nay, no reply, begone :— good mastsr AUworih,
This shall be the best night's work you ever made.
All. I hope so, sir. \_Exei(nt Allwokth anil Margaket.
Over. Farewell '. — Now all 's cocksure.
Jlethinks I hear already knights and ladies
Say, Sir Giles Oven-each, how is it with
Yiiur honom-ablc daughter ? has her honour
Slept well to-night r or, will her honour please
To accept this monkey, dog, or paroqucto,
(This is state in ladies,) or my eldest son
To be her page, and wait upon her trencher ?
Mv ends, my ends are compass'd— then for Wellborn
And the lands ; were he once married to the widow
290
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[i.D. 1625
I have him here — I can scarce contain myself,
I am so full of joy, nay, joy all over. l£xlt.
So the Fourth Act ends with Sir Giles Overreach
exultant, and the ground beneath him everywhere
undermined. The Fifth Act here follows. Of the
justice Greedy who appears in it, no more need be
said than that he is an amusing person, who is on
the scent of all feasts in the play.
ScKNE I. — A room in Lady Allworth's Souse.
Enter Lord Lovell, Lady Allwokth, nnd AmkLe.
L. All. By this you know how strong the motives were
That did, my lord, induce me to dispense
A little with my gravity, to advance.
In personating some few favours to him.
The plots and projects of the down-trod Wellborn.
Nor shall I e'er repent, although I suffer
In some few men's opinions for 't, the action ;
For ho that ventured all for my dear husband,
Might justly claim an obligation from me
To pay him such a courtesy ; which had I
Coyly or over-curiously denied.
It might have argued me of little love
To the deceased.
Lov. What you intended, madam,
For the poor gentleman, hath found good success ;
For, as I understand, his debts are paid
And he once more furnished for fair employment ;
But all the arts that I have used to raise
The fortunes of yoiu- joy and mine, young Allworth,
Stand yet in supposition, though I hope well:
For the young lovers are in wit more pregnant
Than their years can promise ; and for their desires,
On my knowledge they are equal.
L. All. As my wishes
Are with yours, my lord ; yet give me leave to fear
The building, though well grounded. To deceive
Sir Giles, that 's both a lion and a fox
In his proceedings, were a work boyoijd
The strongest undertakers ; not the trial
Of two weak innocents.
Lor. Despair not, madam :
Hard things are compass'd oft by easy means ;
And judgment, being a gift derived from Heaven,
Though sometimes lodged in the hearts of worldly men
That ne'er consider from whom they receive it,
Forsakes such as abuse the giver of it.
■\ATiich is the reason that the politic
And cunning statesman, that believes he fathoms
The counsels of all kingdoms on the earth,
Is by simplicity oft over-reached.
L. All. Jlay he be so ! yet in His name to express it
Is a good omen.
Lov. May it to myself
Prove so, good lady, in my suit to you !
^\Tiat think you of the motion 'f
L. All. Troth, my lord.
My own unworthiness may answer for me ;
For had you, when that I was in my prime,
My virgin flower uncropped, presented me
With this great favour ; looking on my lowness
Not in a glass of self-love, but of truth,
I could not but have thought it as a blessing
Far, far beyond my merit.
Lov. You are too modest.
And undervalue that which is above
My title, or whatever I call mine.
I grant, were I a Spaniard, to marry
A widow might disparage me ; but being
A true-bom Englishman, I cannot find
How it can taint my honour : nay, what's more,
That which you think a blemish is to me
The fairest lustre. You already, madam.
Have given sure proofs how dearly you can cherish
A husband that deserves you ; which confirms me,
That, if I am not wanting in my care
To do you service, j-ou'll be still the same.
That you were to your Allwoi-th. In a word,
Our years, our states, oiu- births are not unequal.
You being descended nobly, and allied so ;
If then you may be won to make me happy.
But join your lips to mine, and that shall be
A solemn contract.
L. All. I were blind to my own good
Should I refuse it [A'isics lHm~\ ; j-et, my lord, receive me
As such a one the study of whose whole life
Shall know no other object but to please you.
Lor. If I return not with all tenderness
Equal respect to you, maj* I die wi'ctchcd !
L. All. There needs no protestation, my lord,
To her that cannot doubt. —
Enter Wellbokn, lianchomehj appiirilled.
Y'ou are welcome, sir-
Now you look like youi-self .
Well. And will continue
Such in my free acknowledgment, that I am
Your creature, madam, and will never hold
My life mine own when you please to command it.
Lov. It is a thankfulness that well becomes you.
You could not make choice of a better shape
To di'css j'our mind in.
L. All. For me, I am happy
That my endeavours i)rospered. Saw you of late
Sir Giles, your uncle ?
Well. I heard of him, madam.
By his minister, Marrall. He 's gi-own into strange passion*
About his daughter. This last night he look'd for
Your loi'dship at his house, but missing you.
And she not yet appearing, his wise head
Is much perplexed and troubled.
Lor. It may be.
Sweetheart, my project took.
L. All. I strongly hope.
Orer. [Within.'] Hal find her, booby, thou huge lump of
nothing,
I 'U bore thine eyes out else.
Will. May it please j-oin- lordship,
For some ends of mine own, but to withdraw
A little out of sight, though not of hearing.
You may, perhaps, have sport.
Lor. You shall direct me. \_Steps aside.
Enter OvEKUEACH, irith distraeted holes, driving in Markali.
before him, with a box.
Orer. I shall sol fa you, rogue !
Miir. Sir, for what cause
Do you use me thus ':'
Over. Cause, slave ! why, I am angry.
And thou a subject only fit for beating.
And so to cool my choler. Look to the writing ;
(
TO A.D. 1633.]
FLAYS.
291
Let but the seal be broke upon the box
That has slept in my cabinet these three years,
I '11 rack thy soul for't.
Mar. I may yet cr}' quittance,
Though now I suffer and dare not resist. \_Aside.
Over. Lady, by your leave, did you see my daughter, lady ?
And the lord, her husband ': are they in your house ?
If the}' are, discover, that I may bid them joy ;
And, as an entrance to her place of honour,
See your ladyship on her left hand, and make curtseys
When she nods on you ; which you must receive
As a special favour.
L. All. When I know, Sir Giles,
Her state requires such ceremony, I shall pay it ;
.But, in the meantime, as I am myself,
I give you to understand I neither know
Nor care where her honoiir is.
Over. "WTien you once see her
Supported and led by the lord her husband,
i'ou 'U be taught better.— Nephew.
Well. Sir.
Over. No more ?
Well. 'Tis aU I owe you.
Over. Have your redeemed rags
Made you thus insolent ?
Well. Insolent to you !
Wliy, what are you, sir, unless in your years,
At the best more than myself :
Over. His fortime swells him :
'Tis rank, he's married. \_Aside.
L. All. This is excellent I
Over. Sir, in calm language, though I seldom use it,
I am familiar with the cause that makes you
Bear up thus bravely ; there 's a certain buz
Of a stolen marriage, do you hear ': of a stolen marriage.
In which, 'tis said, there's somebody hath been cozen'd;
I name no parties.
Well. Well, sir, and what follows ?
Over. Marrj-, this ; since you are peremptory. Re-
member,
Upon mere hope of your great match, I lent you
A thousand pounds : put me in good security.
And suddenl}', by mortgage or by statute,
Of some of yoxa new possessions, or I'll have you
Dragged in 5-our lavender robes to the gaol. You know me,
And therefore do not trifle.
Well. Can you be
So cruel to your nephew, now he 's in
The waj- to rise ? Was this the courtesy
You did me in pure love, and no ends else ?
Over. End me no ends '. engage the whole estate.
And force your spouse to sign it ; you shall have
Three or four thousand more, to roar and swagger
And revel in [reckless] taverns.
Well. And beg after ;
Mean you not so ?
Over. My thoughts are mine, and free.
Shall I have security ':
Well. No, indeed you shall not ;
Nor bond, nor bUl, nor bare acknowledgment.
Your great looks flight not me.
Over. But my deeds shall.
Outbraved ! [.Both draw.
L. All. Help, murder 1 murder !
Elder Servants.
Well. Let him come on,
With aU his wrongs and injuries about him.
[Aside to Wellbors.
Arm'd with his cut-thi-oat practices to guard him!
The right that I bring with me will defend me.
And punish his extortion.
Over. That I had thee
But single in the field :
L. All. You may ; but make not
My house your quarrelling scene.
Over. Were 't in a chm-ch,
By heaven and hell, I '11 do 't.
Mar. Now put him to
The shewing of the deed.
Well. This rage is vain, sir.
For fighting, fear not, you shall have your hands full,
Upon the least incitement ; and whereas
You charge me with a debt of a thousand pounds,
If there be law (howe'er you have no conscience)
Either restore my land, or I '11 recover
A debt that 's truly due to me from j'ou.
In value ten times more than what you challenge.
Over. I in thy debt ! Oh, impudence ! did I not purchase
The land left by thy father, that rich land
That had continued in Wellborn' s name
Twentj- descents ; which, like a riotous fool.
Thou didst make sale of f Is not here enclosed
The deed that does confirm it mine ?
Mar. Now, now !
Well. I do acknowledge none. I ne'er pass'd over
Any such land. I grant, for a year or two
You had it in trust ; which if you do discharge,
Surrendering the possession, you shall ease
Yourself and me of chargeable suits in law.
Which, if you prove not honest, as I doubt it.
Must of necessity foUow.
L. All. In my judgment.
He does advise you well.
Over. Good ! good ! conspire
With your new husband, lady ; second him
In his dishonest practices ; but when
This manor is extended to my use.
You 'U speak in a humbler key and sue for favour-
L. All. Never : do not hope it.
Well. Let despair first seize me.
Over. Yet, to shut up thy mouth, and make thee give
Thyself the he, the loud lie, I draw out
The precious evidence. If thou canst forswear
Thy hand and seal, and make a forfeit of
[Opens the box, and displays the bond.
Thy ears to the pilloiy, see : here 's that wiU make
My interest clear — ha !
Z. All. A fair skin of parchment.
Well. Indented, I confess, and labels too ;
But neither wax nor words. How I thunderstruck ?
Not a syllable to insult with ? My wise uncle.
Is this your precious evidence, this that makes
Your interest clear ?
Over. I am o'ei-whclmed with wonder !
What prodigy is this :- what subtle devU
Hath razed out the inscription ? the wax
Tum'd into dust !— the rest of my deeds whole,
As when thev were delivered, and this ouly
Made nothing. Do you deal with witches, rascal ?
There is a statute for you, which will bring
Your neck in an hempen circle : yes, there is;
And now 'tis better thought for, cheater, know
This juggling shall not save you.
Well. To save thee.
Would beggar the stock of mercy.
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CASSELL'S LIBEARY OF ENGLISH LITEEATURE.
[a.d. 1625
Over. Man-all!
Mar. Sir.
Over. Though the witnesses are dead, your testimony
Help with an oath or two : and for thy master,
Thy liberal master, my good honest servant,
I know thou wilt swear anything, to dash
This cunning sleight. Besides, I know thou art
A public notary, and such stand in law
For a dozen witnesses. The deed being drawn too
By thee, ray careful Man-all, and delivered
When thou wert present, will make good my title.
WUt thou not swear this 'i \_Aside to Markall.
Mar. I ! no, I assure you :
I have a conscience not scar'd up like yours ;
I know no deeds.
Over. Wilt thou beti-ay me 'i
Mar. Keep him
From using of his hands, 1 11 use my tongue
To his no little torment.
Over. Mine own varlet
Rebel against me !
Mar. Yes, and uncase you too.
The idiot, the patch, the slave, the booby,
The property fit only to be beaten
For your morning exercise, your football, or
The unprofitable lump of flesh, your drudge,
Can now anatomise you and lay open
All your black plots, and level with the earth
Your hill of pride ; and, with these gabions guarded,
Unload my great artiUcry, and shake.
Nay pulverise, the walls j-ou think defend you.
L. All. How he foams at the mouth with rage !
Well. To him again.
Over. Oh, that I had thee in my gripe, I would tear
thee
Joint after joint !
Mar. I know you are a tearer.
But I '11 have first your fangs pared off, and then
Come nearer to you ; when I have discovered.
And made it good before the judge, what ways
And devilish jjractices, you used to cozen with
An ai-my of whole families who, yet alive
And but enrolled for soldiers, were able
To take in Dunkirk.
Well. All wUl come out.
L. All. The better.
Over. But that I will live, rogue, to torture thee,
And make thee wish, and kneel in vain, to die,
These swords that keep me from thee should fix here,
Although they made my body but one wound,
But I would reach thee !
Lov. Heaven's hand is in this :
One bandog worry the other ! \_Aside.
Over. I play the fool
And make my anger but ridiculous :
Thei-e will be a time and place, there wUl be, cowards,
When you shall feel what I dare do.
Well. I think so :
You dare do any iU, yet want true valour
To be honest and repent.
Over. They are words I know not,
Nor e'er will loam. Patience, the beggar's virtue,
Enter Greedy and Parson Willdo.
Shall find no harbour here : — after these storms
At length a calm appears. Welcome, most welcome !
There 's comfort in thy looks ; is the deed done ':
Is my daughter mari-ied ? say but so, my chaplain,
And I am tame.
Willdo. Married ! yes, I assure you.
Over. Then vanish all sad thoughts ! there 's more gold for
thee.
My doubts and fears are in the titles drowned
Of my honoiu-able, my right honoui-able daughter.
Greedy. Here will be feasting I at least for a month
I am provided : empty guts, croak no more.
You shall be stuffed like bagpipes, not with wind,
But bearing dishes. ^
Over. Instantly be here ? [ WIi isperiixj to Willdo.
To my wish ! to ray wish ! Now you that plot against me,
And hope to trip my heels up, that contemned me.
Think on 't and tremble : — [Loud imisici — they come ! I
hear the music.
A lane there for my lord !
Well. This sudden heat
May yet bo cooled, sir.
Over. Make way there for my lord !
Enter Allworth and Margaret.
Marff. Sii-, first your pardon, then your blessing, with
Youi- full allowance of the choice I have made.
As ever you could make use of your reason, [Kneeling.
Grow not in passion ; since you maj- as well
Call back the day that 's past, as untie the knot
Which is too strongly fastened : not to dwell
Too long on words, this is my husband.
Over. How !
All. So I assure you ; all the rites of mamage.
With ever}' circumstance, are past. Alas ! sir,
Although I am no lc«-d, but a lord's page,
Yom- daughter and my loved wife mourns not for it ;
And, for right honourable son-in-law, you may say,
Youi- dutiful daughter.
Over. Devil ! are they mari-ied ?
Willdo. Do a father's part, and say. Heaven give them
joy!
Over. Confusion and ruin I speak, and speak quickly.
Or thou art dead.
Willdo. They are married.
Over. Thou hadst better
Have made a contract with the king of fiends.
Than these : — my brain turns !
Willdo. MTiy this rage to me ?
Is not tills your letter, sir, and these the words ?
JIarr}- her to this gentleman.
Orrr. It cannot —
Nor will I e'er believe it, 'sdeath ! I will not ;
That I, that, in all passages I touched
At worldly profit, have not left a print
"ttTicre I have trod for the most curious search
To trace ray footsteps, should be g-ullcd by chiltli-en,
Baffled and fooled, and aU my hopes and labours
Defeated and made void.
Well. As it appears,
You are so, my grave uncle.
Over. Village niu-ses
Revenge their wrongs with curses ; I '11 not waste
A syllable, but thus I take the life
'\\Tiich, wretched, I gave to thee.
[Attempts to hill Margaret.
' " Bcan'iij7-di.s?ie.-^, solid substautial dishes portlj' viands.'
well's " Diet, of Ai-chaic aud Provincial Words.")
(H^illi-
TO A.D. 1633.]
PLAYS.
293
Lov. [CoHiiiii/ fonvard.l Hold, for yom- own sake !
Though charity to your daughter hath quite left you,
Will you do an act, though in yom- hopes lost here,
Can leave no hope for peace or rest hereafter Y
Consider ; at the best you are hut a man,
And cannot so create your aims but that
They may be crossed.
Oier. Lord ! thus I spit at thee
And at thy counsel ; and again desire thee,
And as thou art a soldier, if thy valour
Dares shew itself where multitude and example
Lead not the way, let 's quit the house and change
Six words in private.
Zov. I am ready.
L. All. Stay, sir.
Contest with one distracted !
Well. You '11 grow Hke him
Should you answer his vain challenge.
Ot'cr. Arc you pale ?
Borrow his help, though Hercules call it odds,
I '11 stand against both as I am, hcmm'd in thus. —
Since, like a Libyan lion in the toil,
My fury cannot reach the coward hunters.
And only spends itself, I '11 quit the place.
Alone I can do nothing ; but I have servants
And friends to second me ; and if I make not
This house a heap of ashes, (by my wi-ongs,
What I have spoke I wUl make good !) or leave
One throat uncut, — if it be possible,
Hell add to my afflictions ! [Rcit.
Mar. Is 't not brave sport ?
Greedij. Brave sport ! I am sure it has ta'en away my
stomach ;
I do not like the sauce.
All. Xay, weep not, dearest.
Though it express your pity ; what 's decreed
' Above, we cannot alter.
L. All. His threats move me
No scruple, madam.
Mar. Was it not a rare trick,
An it please your worship, to make the deed nothing ?
I can do twenty neater, if you please
To purchase and grow rich ; for I will be
Such a solicitor and steward for you
As never worshipful had.
Well. I do believe thee ;
But first discover the quaint means you used
To raze out the conveyance ?
Mar. They arc mysteries
Not to be spoke in public : certain minerals
Incorporated in the ink and wax. —
Besides, he gave me nothing, but still fed me
With hopes and blows ; and that was the inducement
To this conundrum. If it please your worship
To c;vU to memory, this mad beast once caused me
To urge you or to drown or hang yourself ;
I '11 do the like to him, if you command me.
Well. You are a rascal 1 he that dares bo false
To a master, though unjust, will ne'er be true
To any other. Look not for reward
Or favour from me ; I will shun thy sight
As I would do a basilisk's. Thank my pity,
If thou keep thy ears ; howe'er, I will take order
Y'our practice shall be silenced.
Greedy. I '11 commit him.
If you will have me, sir.
Well. That were to little purpose ;
His conscience be his prison. Not a word.
But instantly be gone.
Order {Lady Allworth's Steward.) Take this kick with you.
Amble [Lady Allworth's Usher.) And this.
Furnace {Lady Allworth's Cook.) If that I had my cleaver
here,
I would divide your knave's head.
Mar. This is the haven
False servants .stQl arrive at. [Exit.
Se-eiiter Overreach.
L, All. Come again !
Lov. Fear not, I am your guard.
Well. His looks are ghastly.
Willdo. Some little time I have spent, under your favours
In physical studies, and if my judgment err not.
He 's mad beyond recover}' : but observe huu.
And look to youi'selves.
Over. Why, is not the whole world
Included in myself f to what use then
Ai'e friends and servants '■: Say there were a squadron
Of pikes, Uned through with shot, when I am mounted
Upon my injuries, shall I fear to charge them?
No : I 'U thi-ough the battalia, and that routed,
[Floiirishiiiy his sword sheathed.
I '11 fall to execution. — Ha ! I am feeble :
Some imdone widow sits upon mine ann,
And takes away the use of 't ; and my sword,
Glued to my scabbard with wrong'd orphans' tears,
WUl not he drawn. Ha ! what are these ? sure, hangmen,
That come to bind ray hands, and then to drag me
Before the judgment-seat : now they are new shapes.
And do appear like Furies, with steel whips
To scourge my idccrous soul. Shall I then fall
Ingloriously, and jacld ? no ; spite of fate,
I wUl he forced to hell like to myself.
Though you were legions of accursed spirits,
Thus would I fly among you.
[Rushes fonrard, ami fimjs himself o» the yroiiiid.
Well. There 's no help ;
Disarm him first, then bind him.
Greedy. Take a mittimus.
And carry him to Bedlam.
Lov. How he foams !
Well. And bites the earth !
Willdo. Carry him to some dark room.
There try what art can do for his recoveiy.
Mary. Oh, my dear father ! [r/(fy/o)W Overreach o/.
All. You must be patient, mistress.
Lov. Here is a precedent to teach wicked men.
That when they leave reUgion and turn atheists.
Their own abiUties leave them. Pray you, take comfort.
I will endeavour you shall he his guardians
In his distractions : and for your land. Master Wellbom,
Be it good or ill in law, I '11 be an umpire
Between you and this, the imdoubted heir
Of Sir Giles Overreach. For me, here 's the anchor
That I must fix on.
All. What you shall detei-mine.
My lord, I wiU allow of.
Well. 'Tis the language
That I speak too ; but there is something else
Beside the repossession of my land
And pa)-ment of my debts, that I must practise.
I had a reputation, but 'twas lost
In my loose course ; and until I redeem it
Some noble way, I am but half made up.
294
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1626
It is a time of action. If your lordship
AVill please to confer a company upon me
In your command, I doubt not, in my service
To my king and country, Lut I shall do something
That may make me right again.
Lov. Your suit is granted,
And you loved for the motion.
IFell. yComiiir/ forward.l Nothing wants then
But your allowance — and in that our all
Is comprehended ; it being known, nor we
Nor he that wi-ote the comedy can be free.
Without your manumission ; which if you
Grant willingly, as a fair favour due
To the poet's and our labours, (as you may.
For we despair not, gentlemen, of the play :)
We jointly shall profess your grace hath might
To teach us action, and him how to write.
l^Excunt.
Actors of Comedy in Ancient Greece.
Fyo^ti J. Bfljiti'std CasflliiLs, " De Tragcedia et Comoedia.'
Jolui Ford, about two years younger than Philip
Massinger, was born in 1586, at Ilsington, in North
Devon. He was of good family. When James I.
came to the throne he was a youth of .seventeen,
who had just begun the study of law in the Middle
Temple. He joined in play-writing under James I.,
lait did not print a play of his own until 1628. He
did not look to his plays for income, but wrote them
for the pleasure he foiind in the exercise of his
genius. His first printed play, in 1628, was "The
Lover's Melancholy." Three moi-e plays of his were
printed in 1633. One of them was
THE BROKEN HEART,
of which the scene is laid in Sparta.
Act I., Scene 1. — Orgilus, son of the Counsellor
Crotolon, obtains leave from his father to quit
Sparta. Feud between this family and that of the
dead Thrasus had Ijeen turned to peace by the old
Amyclas, king of Sparta ; reconcilement was to have
been confirmed by marriage of Orgilus to the only
daughter of Thrasus, the fair Penthea. But Thrasus
had left a son, Ithocies, in whom the old spu-it of feud
survived. Ithocies forbade his sister's man-iage with
Orgilus, and forced her into union against her will
with a rich noble, Bassanes. Ba,ssanes is of a jealous
temjier. Orgilus pleads to his fiither, Crotolon, a
desire to free Penthea from the torture of her hus-
band's jealousy, by withdrawng himself to Athens,
and has leave to do so. But before leaving he ob-
tains a promise from his sister Euphranea that she
will not marry without his consent.
Scene 2. — Meanwhile King Amyclas, with his
Counsellor Armostes, uncle of Ithocies, and Pro-
philus, who is the friend of Ithocies, rejoices in the
hero of successful war with the INIesseuians.
Death-braving Ithocies brings to oui- gates
Triumphs and peace upon his conquering sword.
Laconia is a monarchy at length ;
Hath in this latter war trod under foot
Mcsseno's pride ; SIcssene bows her neck
To Lacodemon's royalty.
Calaiitha, the king's daughter, who has Euphranea,
sister of Orgilus, among her maids of honour, has
heard of the valour of Ithocies. She is present when
he returns, and, when he has received the king's
thanks, crowns him with a cliaplet :
Accept, wear, and enjoy it as our gift,
Deserved, not purchased.
Ithocies takes praise like a brave man who is
more concerned to give theii' due to others, even
to the courtiers Hemophil and Groneas, who " were
not missing, to wish their country's peace."
Scene 3. — But Orgilus has meant no flight to
Athens. In Sparta still, disguised as a scholar in
the gi'ove within the gardens of the palace, granted
by special favour lately from the king to Tecnicus,
who there gives lessons of philosophy, he watches
" Penthea's usage and Euphranea's faith " with
anger at his heart. He sees that his sister's heart
turns towards Prophilus, the friend of Ithocies,
whom he hates for having thwarted his own love ;
he overhears their innocent love-talk in the garden,
is observed by them, maintains his disguise as a poor
scholar, and calls himself Aplotes.
Eiiph. Dost thou want anything ?
Org. Books, Venus, books.
Pro. Lady, a new conceit comes in my thought,
And most available for both our comforts.
Eiiph. Sly lord, —
Pro. While I endeavour to deserve
Your father's blessing to our loves, this scholar
May daily at some certain hours attend '
What notice I can write of my success.
Here, in this grove, and give it to your hands ;
The like from you to me. So can we new^r,
BaiT'd of our mutual speech, want sure intelligence ;
And thus our hearts may talk when our tongues cannot.
Eiiph. Occasion is most favourable ; use it.
Pro. Aplotes, wilt thou wait us twice a day,
At nine i' the morning, and at four at night,
Here, in this bower, to convey such letters
As each shall send to other f Do it willingly,
Safely, and secretly, and I will furnish
Thy study, or what else thou canst desire.
TO A,D. 1633.]
PLAYS.
295
Org. Jove, make me thankful, thankful, I beseech thee,
Propitious Jove ! I will prove sure and trust}' :
Yo'i <viU not fail me books ?
Pro. Nor aught besides
Thy heart can wish. This lady's name 's Euphranea,
Mine Prophilus.
Org. I have a pretty memory ;
It must prove my best friend. — I will not miss
One minute of the hours appointed.
Pro. Write
The books thou wouldst have bought thee, in a note,
Or take thyself some money.
Org. No, no money :
Money to scholars is a spirit invisible,
AVe dare not finger it ; or books, or nothing.
Pro. Books of what sort thou wilt : do not forget
Our names.
Org. I warrant ye, I warrant ye.
Fro. Smile, Hymen, on the growth of oiu- desires :
AVe '11 feed iliy torches with eternal fires !
\_E.reiint Pro. (ind Evph.
Org. Put out thy torches. Hymen, or their light
Shall meet a darkness of eternal night !
Inspire me, Jlercury, with swift deceits.
Ingenious Fate has leapt into mine arms,
Beyond the compass of my brains. — Jlortality
Creeps on the dung of earth, and cannot reach
The riddles which are purposed by the gods.
Great arts best vnitc themselves in their own stories ;
They die too basely who outlive their glories.
Act II., Scene 1. — When lie has displayed to his
servant Phulas the mad passion of his jealousy,
Bassanes tells Penthea that they shall go to court.
Thy brother is returned, sweet, safe, and honoured
■VN'ith a triumphant victory ; thou shalt visit him ;
We will to court.
But he speaks with Ol-dissembled jealousy, and is
stung by talk of the woman GrausLs, whom he has
placed with his wife as overseer. Lords and ladies
an-ive from court, among them Prophilus, who brings
to Penthea the desire of her brother Ithocles for her
instant presence. She shall go.
Scene 2. — In the king's palace at Sparta the
victorious Ithocles is touched by amltition, for he
loves tlie king's daughter, Calantha. Crotolon, her
fathei-, cannot answer to the suit of Prophilus for
Euphranea -svithout the consent of her brother Orgilus.
Ith. Not yet
Resolved, my lord ? Why, if your son's consent
Be so available, we '11 write to Athens
For his repair to Sparta : the king's hand
Will join with our desires ; he has been moved to 't.
Arm. Yes, and the king himself importuned Crotolon
For a dispatch.
Crot. Kings may command. Their -n-ills
Are laws not to be questioned.
Ith. By this marriage
You knit an union so devout, so hearty.
Between your loves to me and mine to yours
As if mine own blood had an interest in it ;
For Prophilus is mine and I am his.
Crot. My lord, my lord !
Ith. WTiat, good sir ? speak your thought.
Crot. Had this sincerity been real once,
My Orgilus had not been now unwived
Nor your lost sister buried in a bride-bed.
Your uncle here, Armostes, knows this truth ;
For had your father Thrasus lived,— but peace
Dwell in his grave ! I have done.
Arm. You are bold and bitter.
Ith. He presses home the injury ; it smarts.— [^sirff.]
No reprehensions, uncle ; I deserve them.
Yet, gentle sir, consider what the heat
Of an unsteady youth, a giddy brain,
Green indiscretion, flattery of greatness,
Eawness of judgment, wilfulness in folly,
Thoughts vagrant as the wind, and as uncertain,
Might lead a boy in years to :— 'twas a fault,
A capital fault ; for then I could not dive
Into the secrets of commanding love ;
Since when experience, by th' extremes in others.
Hath forced me to coUect — and, trust me, Crotolon,
I will redeem those wrongs with any service
Your satisfaction can require for current.
Arm. The acknowledgment is satisfaction :
What would you more ?
Crot. I am conquered : if Euphranea
Herself admit the motion, let it be so ;
I doubt not my son's Uking.
Ith. Use my fortunes.
Life, power, sword, and heart, all are your own.
Arm. The princess, with your sister.
Enter Bassanes, Pkophilis, Cal.^xtha, Penthea,
EVI'HKANEA, ChKISTALLA, PhILEMA, and GllAVSIS.
Cal. I present you
A stranger here in court, my lord ; for did not
Desire of seeing you draw her abroad.
We had not been made happy in her company.
Ith. You are a gracious princess. — Sister, wedlock
Holds too severe a passion in your nature.
Which can engross all duty to your husband
Without attendance on so dear a mistress.
'Tis not my brother's pleasure, I presume, \_To Bass.
T' immure her in a chamber.
Bass. 'Tis her will ;
She governs her own hours. Noble Ithocles,
We thank the gods for your success and welfare :
Our lady has of late been indisposed,
Else we had waited on you with the first.
Ith. How does Penthea now ?
Pen. You best know, brother, ■
From whom my health and comforts are d.erived.
Bnss. {Aside.'] I like the answer weU ; 'tis sad and modest.
There may be tricks yet, tricks— Have an eye, Grausis !
Cal. Now, Crotolon, the suit we joined in must not
Fall by too long demur.
Crot. 'Tis granted, princess.
For my part.
Arm. With condition, that his son
Favour the contract.
Cat. Such delay is easy.
The joys of marriage make thee, Prophilus,
A proud deserver of Euphranea' s love,
And her of thy desert !
Pro. Jlost sweetly gracious !
Bass. The joys of marriage are the heaven on earth,
Life's paradise, groat princess, the soul's quiet.
Sinews of concord, earthly immortaUty,
296
CASSELL'S LIBRAEY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1625
Eternity of pleasui-es ; — no restoratives
Like to a constant woman : — {but where is she ?
'Twould puzzle all the gods, but to create
Such a new monster) [aside] — I can speak by proof,
For I rest in Elysium ; 'tis my happiness.
Crot. Euphranea, how are you resolved, speak freely.
In your affections to this gentleman ?
i:iipli. Nor more nor less than as his love assures me,
Which (if your liking with my brother's warrants)
I cannot but approve in all points worthy.
Crot. So, so! I know your answer. [To Piio.
Ith. It had been pity.
To simdcr hearts so equally consented.
Enter Hemophil.
Sem. The king, lord Ithocles, commands your presence;
And, fairest princess, yours.
Cal. We will attend liim.
Enter Groneas.
Gron. Where are the lords ? all must unto the king
Without delay ; the prince of Argos—
Cal. WeU, sir?
Gron. Is coming to the court, sweet lady.
Cal. How!
The prince of Argos ?
Gron. 'Twas my fortune, madam,
T' enjoy the honour of these happy tidings.
Ith. Penthea!
Pen. Brother.
Ith. Let me an hour hence
Meet you alone, within the palace grove,
I have some secret with you. — Prithee, friend,
Conduct her thither, and have special care
The walks be cleared of any to disturb us.
Fro. I .shaU.
Siiss. How 's that ?
It/i. Alone, pray be alone. —
I am your creature, princess. — On, ray lords.
Bassanes remains jealous even of his wife's meet-
ing alone with her brother.
Scene .3. — Having brought Penthea to the grove
in the palace gardens to await her brother, Prophilus
meets there the student Aplotes, as he believes (the
disguised Orgilus, Penthea's passionate lover), and
commits Penthea for the next hour to his care. She
pays little heed to the student until passion stirs in
the philosophy he talks.
Fenthen. Be not frantic.
Org. All pleasures are but mere imagination.
Feeding the hungry appetite with steam,
And sight of banquet, whilst the body pines.
Not relishing the real taste of food :
Such is the leanness of a heart, divided
From intercourse of troth-contracted loves ;
No horror should deface that precious figure
Sealed with the lively stamp of equal souls.
Pen. Away ! some fury hath bewitched thy tongue :
The breath of ignorance that flies from thence.
Ripens a knowledge in me of afflictions
Above all sufferance.— Thing of talk, begone.
Begone, without reply !
Org. Be just, Penthea,
In thy commands ; when thou send'st forth a doom
Of banishment, know first on whom it lights.
Thus I take off the shroud in which my cares
Arc folded up from view of common eyes.
\_l'hroics off Ids scholar's dress.
WTiat is thy sentence next ?
Pen. Kash man ! thou lay'st
A blemish on mine honour', with the hazard
Of thy too desperate life ; yet I profess,
By all the laws of ceremonious wedlock,
I have not given admittance to one thought
Of female change, since cruelty enforced
Divorce betwixt my bod)- and my heart.
Why woidd you fall from goodness thus ?
Org. Oh, rather
E.\amine me, how I could live to say
I have been much, much wronged. 'Tis for thy sake
I put on this impostm-e ; dear Penthea,
If thy soft bosom be Hot turned to marble.
Thou 'It pity our calamities ; my interest
Confirms me thou art mine stiU.
I'eji . Lend j'our hand ;
With both of mine I clasp it thus, thus kiss it,
Thus kneel before ye. [Pen. kneels.
Org. You instruct my duty. [Org. kneels.
Pen. We may stand up. \_They rise.] Have you ought else
to urge
Of new demand ? as for the old, forget it ;
'Tis buried in an everlasting silence.
And shall be, shall be ever : what more would you ?
Org. I would possess my vnic : the equity
Of very reason bids me.
Pen. Is that all ?
Org. Why, 'tis the all of me, myself.
Fen. Remove
Your steps some distance from me ; at this pace
A few words I dare change ; but first put on •
Your borrowed shape.
Org. You are obeyed; 'tis done. [He resumes his disguise.
Pen. How, Orgilus, by promise, I was thine,
The heavens do witness ; they can witness too
A rape done on mj' truth : how I do love thee
Yet, Orgilus, and yet, must best appear
In tendering thy freedom ; for I find
The constant preservation of thy merit,
By thy not daring to attempt my fame
With injuiy of any loose conceit.
Which might give deeper wounds to discontents.
Continue this fair race ; then, though I cannot
Add to thy comfort, yet I shall more often
Remember from what fortune I am fallen.
And pity mine own ruin. Live, live happy,
Happy in thy next choice, that thou may'st people
This barren age with virtues in thy issue !
And, oh, when thou art married, think on me
With mercy, not contempt. I hope thy wife,
Hearing my story, will not scorn my fall. — ■
Now let us part.
Org. Pai-t ! yet advise thee better :
Penthea is the wife to Orgilus,
And ever shall be.
Pen. Never .shall, nor will.
Orgilus depai-ts in passion ; jealous Bassanes, who
has watched his wife, enters with Grausis iu sup-
pressed wrath, but brings news.
Lady, come : your brother
Is carried to his closet ; you must thither.
TO A.D. 1633. 1
PLAYS.
i'97
Fen. Not well, my lord':'
Bass. A sudden fit, 'twill off ;
Some surfeit of disorder. — How dost, dearest ?
Pen. Your news is none o' th' best.
Enter PuorHiLvs.
Pro. The eliief of men,
The excellentcst Ithocles, desires
Your presence, madam.
Bass. We are hasting to him.
Pen. In vain we labour in this course of life
To piece our journey out at length, or crave
Respite of breath ; our home is in the grave.
Bass. Perfect philosophy !
Pen. Then let us care
To live so, that our reckonings may fall even,
When we 're to make account.
Pro. He cannot fear
Who builds on noble grounds : sickness or pain
Is the deserver's exercise ; and such
Y'our •\-ii'tuou3 brother to the world is known.
Speak comfort to him, lady, be all gentle ;
Stars fall but in the grossness of our sight,
A good man d^ang, th' earth doth lose a light.
[E.niint.
Act III., Scene 1. — Orgilus parts from liis master
Tecnicus, and leaves the gi'ove in which lie has
liidden himself under the guise of a poor student of
philosophy. Tecnicus doubts, and warns, and com-
ments upon his depai-ted pupil.
Much mystery of fate
Lies hid in that man's fortunes ; curiosity
May lead his actions into rare attempts : —
But let the gods be moderators still ;
No human power can prevent their wiU.
Enter Akmostes, with a Casket.
From whence come you ?
Arm. From King Amyclas, — pardon
My interruption of your studies. — Here,
In this sealed box, he sends a treasure.
Dear to him as his crown ; he prays your gravity.
You would examine, ponder, sift, and bolt'
The pith and circumstance of every tittle
The scroll within contains.
Tec. What is 't, Armostes ?
Arm. It is the health of Sparta, the king's life.
Sinews and safety of the commonwealth ;
The sum of what the Oracle delivered.
When last he visited the prophetic temple
At Delphos : what his reasons are, for which.
After so long a silence', he requires
Your counsel now, grave man, his majesty
Will soon himself acquaint you with.
Tec. ApoUo [,11c takes the casket.
Inspire my intellect ! — The Prince of Argos
Is entertain' d?
Arm. He is ; and has demanded
Our princess for his wife ; which I conceive
One special cause the king importunes you
For resolution of the oracle.
Tec. My duty to the king, good peace to Sparta,
And fair day to Armostes !
• Arm. Like to Tecnicus. [E.ieiiiit.
BoU, sift, separate tlie flour from the bran.
Scene 2. — In the house of Ithocles, in a room
adjoining liis sick-chamber, jealous Bassanes and
Grausis come with Penthea to her brother's cham-
ber-door. There i.s soft music and a song heard from
within.
Sonff.
Can you paint a thought ': or number
Ever)' fancy in a slumber ?
Can you count soft minutes roWng
From a dial's point by moving 'f
Can you grasp a sigh ? or, lastly,
Rob a virgin's honour chastely ?
No, oh no I yet you may
Sooner do both that and this.
This and that, and never miss,
Than by anj- praise display
Beauty's beauty ; such a glory.
As beyond all fate, all story.
All arms, all arts.
All loves, all hearts.
Greater than those, or they.
Do, shall, and must obey.
Prophilus havmg taken away Bassanes and Grausis,
The scene opens ; Ithocles is discovered in a chair, and
Penthea beside him.
Ith. Sit nearer, sister, to me ;. nearer yet ;
We had one father, in one womb took life,
Were brought up twins together, yet have lived
At distance, like two strangers ; I could wish
That the first pillow whereon I was cradled.
Had proved to me a grave.
Pen. You had been happy :
Then had you never known that sin of life
Which blots all following glories with a vengeance,
For forfeiting the last will of the dead
From whom you had your being.
Ith. Sad Penthea,
Thou canst not be too cruel ; my rash spleen
Hath with a %-iolent hand plucked from thy bosom
A love-blest heart, to grind it into dust ;
For which mine 's now a-breaking.
Pen. Not yet, heaven,
I do beseech thee ! first, let some wild fires
Scorch, not consume it I may the heat be cherished
With desires infinite, but hopes impossible !
Ith. Wronged soul, thy prayers are heard.
Pen. Here, lo, I breathe,
A miserable creature, led to ruin
By an unnatural brother !
Ith. I consume
In languishing affections for that trespass ;
Yet cannot die.
Pen. The handmaid to the wages
Of country toil drinks the imtroubled streams
With leaping kids and with the ble.iting lambs.
And so allays her thirst secm-e ; whilst I
Quench my hot sighs with tleetings of my tears.
Ith. The labourer doth eat his coarsest bread,
Earned -with his sweat, and lays him down to sleep
While every bit I touch turns in digestion
To gall as bitter as Penthea's curse.
Put me to any penance for my tyranny,
And I will call thee merciful.
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Pen. Pray kill luc,
Kid me from living with a jealous husband ;
Then we will join in fiiLudship, be again
Brother and sister. — Kill me, pr,ay ; nay, will you ?
Ith. How does thy lord esteem thee ?
Fen. Such an one
As only you have made me ; a faith-breaker,
, . . . ; — forgive me, I am one —
In act, not in desires, the gods must witness.
Ith. Thou dost bcly thy friend.
Fen. I do not, Ithoi-les;
Wilt kill me now ?
The ashes of our parents will assume
Some dreadful figure, and appear to charge
Thy bloody guilt, that hast betrayed their name
To infamy in this reproachful match.
///(. After my victories abroad, at home
I meet despair ; ingratitude of nature
Hath made my actions monstrous. Thou shalt stand
A deity, my sister, and bo worshipp'd
For thy resolved martyrdom ; wronged maids
And man-ied wives shall to thy hallowed shrine
Offer their orisons, and sacrifice
Pure turtles, crowned with mjTtle, if thy pity
Unto a yielding brother's pressure lend
One finger but to ease it.
Pen. Oh, no more !
Ith. Death waits to waft me to the Stygian banks
And free me from this chaos of my bondage ;
And till thou wilt forgive, I must endure.
Pen. Who is the saint you serve 't
Ith. Friendship or [nearness]
Of birth to any but my sister, durst not
Have moved this question ; 'tis a secret, sister,
I dare not murmur to myself.
Pen. Let me.
By your new protestations I conjure you,
Partake her name.
Ith. Her name ? — 'tis, — 'tis — I dare not !
Pen. All your respects arc forged.
Ith. They are not. — Peace !
Calantha is — the princess — the king's daughter —
Sole heir of Sparta. — Me, most miserable !
Do I now love thee ? For my injuries
Revenge thyself with bravery, and gossip
My treasons to the king's ears, do ; — Calantha
Knows it not yet, nor Prophilus, my nearest.
Pen. Suppose you were contracted to her, would it not
Split even your very soul to see her father
Snatch her out of your arms against her will.
And force her on the Prince of Argos ?
Ith. Trouble not
The foimtains of mine eyes with thine own story.
I sweat in blood for 't.
Pen. We are reconciled.
Alas, sir, being children, but two branches
Of one stock, 'tis not fit we should divide.
Have comfort ; j-ou may find it.
Ith. Yes, in thee ;
Only in thee, Ptnthca mine.
Pen. If sorrows
Have not too much dulled my infected brain,
I'll cheer invention for an active strain.
Ith. Mud man! — Why have I wrong 'd a maid so excellent?
Bassanes bursts n\>o\\ brother and sister witli
drawn sword, followed by those who would restrain
him, and the scene closes with his shame at his own
folly.
Scene 3. — At court, Nearchus, Prince of Argos,
has the consent of King Amyclas to his suit for
Calantha, who receives him courteously, and the
king reasons with Armostes and Crotolon that
The marriage
Between young Prophilus and Euphranea
Tastes of too much delay.
Crot. My lord —
Amije. Some pleasirres
At celebration of it, would give life
To the entertainment of the prince our kinsman ;
Oui' court wears gravity more than we relish.
Arm. Yet the heavens smile on all your high attempts,
Without a cloud.
Crot. So may the gods protect us !
Cat. A prince a subject ?
Near. Yes, to Beauty's sceptre ;
As all hearts kneel, so mine.
Cal. You are too courtly.
Enter Ithocles, Orgilus, and Prophilus.
Ith. Your safe return to Sparta is most welcome :
I joy to meet you here, and, as occasion
Shall grant us privacy, will yield you reasons
Why I should covet to deserve the title
Of your respected friend ; for, without compliment,
Believe it, Orgilus, 'tis my ambition.
Org. Yovir lordship may command me, your poor servant.
Ith. So amorously close 1 — so soon — my heart ! ^Aside.
Pro. What sudden change is no.xt ?
///( . Life to the king !
To whom I here present this noble gentleman,
New come from Athens ; royal sir, vouchsafe
Your gracious hand in favour of his merit.
\The King gives Org. his hand to kiss.
Crot. My son preferred by Ithocles ! lAside.
Amijc. Our bounties
Shall open to thee, Orgilus ; for instance,
(Hark, in thine ear) — if, out of those inventions
^\^Iich flow in Athens, thou hast there engrossed
Some rarity of wit to grace the nuptials
Of thy fair sister and renown our court
In th' eyes of this young prince, wo shall be dcDtor
To thy conceit : think on 't.
Org. Your highness honours me.
Near. My tongue and heart are twins.
Cal. A noble birth.
Becoming such a father. — Worthy Orgilus,
You are a guest most wished for.
Org. May my duty
Still rise in your opinion, sacred princess :
Ith. Euphranea' s brother, sir ; a gentleman
Well worthy of your knowledge.
Xear. We embrace him.
Proud of so dear acquaintance.
Amge. All prepare
For revels and disport ; the joys of Hymen,
Like Phoebus in his lustre, put to flight
All mists of dulness; crown the hours with gladness:
No sounds but music, no discourse but mirth !
Cid. Thine arm, I prithee, Ithocles. — Xay, good
My lord, keep on your way, I am provided.
Xenr. I dare not disobey.
Ith. Most heavenly lady !
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Scene 4. — In the liouse of Ciotolon, Orgilus,
retumed, since he hates Ithocles who parted hhn
from Penthea, expresses deep repugnance to his
sister's mamage with the friend of Ithocles. He
then yields, and ia the presence of Ithocles joLas
the hands of Prophilus and Euj)hi-anea, speaks for
them a bridal song, and adds to it —
If these gallants
WTll please to grace a poor invention,
B> joining with me in some slight device,
I '11 venture on a strain my younger days
Have studied for delight.
Scene 5. — In Calantha's chamber, where sad
Penthea has sought the piincess.
Cal. Being alone, Penthea, you have granted
The opportunity you sought, and might
At all times commanded.
Pen. 'Tis a benefit
Which I shall owe your goodness even in death for :
My glass of life, sweet princess, hath few minutes
Remaining to run down ; the sands are spent ;
For by an inward messenger I feel
The summons of departure short and certain.
Cal. You feed too much yoiu- melancholy.
Pen. Glories
Of human greatness are but pleasing dreams
And shadows soon decaj-ing ; on the stage
Of my mortality, my youth hath acted
Some scenes of vanity, drawn out at length
By varied pleasures, sweetened in the mixture.
But tragical in issue. Beauty, pomp.
With every sensuality our giddiness
Doth frame an idol, are unconstant friends
"When anj- troubled passion makes assault
On the unguarded castle of the mind.
C'nl. Contemn not your condition for the proof
Of bare opinion only : to what end
Reach all these moral te.\ts ?
Pen. To place before you
A perfect mirror wherein you may see
How weary I am of a lingering Ufe,
"Who count the best a miser)-.
Cal. Indeed
Ton have no little cause ; yet none so great
As to distrust a remedy.
Pen. That remedy
Must be a winding-sheet, a fold of lead,
And some untrod-on comer in the earth. —
Not to detain your expectation, princess,
I have an humble suit.
Cal. Speak, and enjoy it.
Pen. Vouchsafe, then, to be my executrix,
And take that trouble on you, to dispose
Such legacies as I bequeath, impartially ;
I have not much to give, the pains are easy ;
Heaven will reward your piety and thank it
When I am dead ; for sure I must not live ;
I hope I cannot.
Cal. Xow, beshrew thy sadness.
Thou turn" St me too much, woman. [Weeps.
Pen. Her fair eyes
Melt into passion.' [Aside. 1— Then I have assurance
Encouraging my boldness. In this paper
My will was charactered ; which you, with pardon,
Shall now know from mine own mouth.
Cal. Talk on, prithee ;
It is a pretty earnest.
Pen. I have left me
But three poor jewels to bequeath. The first is
My Youth ; for though I am much old in griefs,
In years I am a child.
Cal. To whom that ?
Pen. To ^"irgin- wives, such as abuse not wedlock
By freedom of desires, but covet chiefly
The pledges of chaste beds for ties of love.
Rather than ranging of their blood : and next
To married maids, such as prefer the number
Of honourable issue in their virtues
Before the flatter}- of delights by marriage.
May those be ever young ;
Cal. A second jewel
You mean to part with ?
Pen. 'Tis my Fame ; I trust,
By scandal yet untouched : this I bequeath
To Memorj', and Time's old daughter. Truth.
If ever my unhappy name find mention,
"When I am faU'n to dust, may it deserve
Beseeming charity without dishonour '.
Cal. How handsomely thou play'st with harmless sport
Of mere imagination ! speak the last ;
I strangely like thy wiU.
Pen. This jewel, madam,
Is dearly precious to me ; you must use
The best of your discretion to employ
This gift as I intend it.
Cal. Do not doubt me.
Pen. 'Tis long agone since first I lost ray heart :
Long have I lived without it, else for certain
I should have given that too ; but instead
Of it, to great Calantha, Sparta's heir,
By service bound and by affection vowed,
I do bequeath, in holiest rites of love,
Mine only Brother, Ithocles.
Cal. What said'st thou ?
Pen. Impute not, heaven-blest lady, to ambition
A faith as humbly perfect as the prayers
Of a devoted suppliant can endow it :
Look on him, princess, with an eye of pity ;
How like the ghost of what he late appeared.
He moves before you !
Cal. Shall I answer here.
Or lend my ear too grossly ?
Pen. First his heart
Shall fall in cinders, scorched by your disdain.
Ere he will dare, poor man, to ope an eye
On these divine looks, but with low-bent thoughts
Accusing such presumption ; as for words,
He dares not utter any but of ser\nce :
Yet this lost creature loves you.— Be a princess
In sweetness as in blood ; give him his doom,
Or raise him up to comfort.
Cal. 'V\Tiat new change
Appears in my behaviour, that thou dar'st
Tempt my displeasure ?
Pen. I must leave the world
To revel in Elysium, and 'tis just
To wish my brother some advantage here.
Yet by my best hopes, Ithocles is ignorant
Of this pui-suit : but if you please to kill Um,
Lend him one angry look or one harsh word,
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And 3-ou shall soon conL-hidc how strong a power
Your absolute authority holds over
His life and end.
Cal. You have forgot, Penthea,
How still I have a father.
Pen. But remember
I am a sister, though to me this brother
Hath been, }'ou know, unkind — oh, most unkind !
Cal. Christalla, riiilema, where are you ': — Lady,
Your check Ucs in my silence.
Enter CHuisTALL-i and Philema.
Sofh. Madam, here.
Cal. I think you .sleep, you drones : wait on Penthea
Unto her lodging.— Ithuclcs ? wrong 'd lady ! \_Aiiiih.
Pen. My reckonings are made even : death or fate
Can now nor strike too soon nor force too late. [Hxeimt.
Act IV., Scene L — Armostes, iii the chamber of
Ithocles, seeks iii vain to uuderstand his grief. As
they speak, Calantha comes.
The princess, sir.
If/i. The princess ? ha!
Ann. With lier the Prince of Ai'gos.
Enter Xeakchus, leadlnij Calantha; Amelvs, Christalla,
Phile.ma.
Near. Great fair one, grace my hopes with any instance
Of livery from the allowance of your favour;
Tliis little spark — ^Attempts to take a rini/ from her Jincjer.
Qal. A toy !
T^Uai'. Love feasts on toys,
For Cupid is a child ;^-vouchsafc this bounty :
It caimot be denied.
Cal. You shall not value.
Sweet cousin, at a price, what I count cheap ;
So cheap, that let him take it, who dares stoop for 't,
And give it, at next meeting, to a mistress :
She'll thank him for't jjcrhaps.
\CaUs the ring before Ithocles, icho takes it up.
Ameltis. The ring, sir, is
The princess's ; I could have took it up.
Ith. Learn manners, prithee. — To the blessed owner.
Upon m)' knees \^Kneels and offers it to Cal.a.xtha.
Near. You are saucy.
Cal. This is pretty !
I am, belike, " a mistress " — wondrous pretty !
Let the man keep his fortune, since he found it ;
He 's worthy on 't. — On, cousin !
\_E.reHnt Near., Cal., Chris., and Phil.
Ith. [To Ame.] Follow, spaniel ;
I 'U force you to a fawning else.
Ame. You dare not. \_E.tit.
Arm. My lord, you were too forward.
Ith. Look ye, uncle.
Some such there are, whose liberal contents
Swarm without care in everj- sort of plenty ;
Who, after full repasts, can lay them down
To sleep; and they sleep, uncle : in which silence
Their very dreams present 'em choice of pleasures,
Pleasures (observe me, uncle) of rare object :
Here heaps of gold, there increments of honours,
Xow change of garments, then the votes of people ;
Anon varieties of beauties, courting.
In flatteries of the night, exchange of dalliance ;
Yet these are still but dreams. Give me felicity
Of which my senses waking are partakers,
A real, visible, material happiness ;
And then, too, when I stagger in expectance
Of the least comfort that can cherish hfe.
I saw it, sir, I saw it ; for it came
From her own hand.
Arm. The princess threw it to yon.
Ith. True ; and she said well I remember what
Her cousin prince would beg it.
Arm. Yes, and parted
In anger at your taking on 't.
Ith. Penthea,
Oh, thou hast pleaded with a powerful language !
I want a fee to gi-atify thy merit ;
But I will do
Ann. ANTiat is 't you say ?
Ith. " In anger" ?
In anger let him part ; for could his breath.
Like whirlwinds, toss such scr%'ile slaves as lick
The dust liis footstejjs jn-int into a vapour.
It durst not stir a hair of mine ; it shoidd not ;
I 'd rend it up by th' roots first. To be anj-thing
Calantha smiles on, is to be a blessing
More sacred than a petty Prince of Argos
Can wish to equal, or in worth or title.
Quick blood is stirred between Ithocles and the-
Prince of Argos ; Orgilus stands between, afl'ecting
friendly courtesy. The philosopher Tecnicus ihea
enters with the prophetic scroll and warning of
grief to come.
Ithocles,
■OTien Youth is ripe, and Age from time doth part.
The lifeless Trunk shall wed the Broken Heart.
And to Orgilus the oracle is —
" Let craft with coui-tesy awhile confer.
Revenge proves its own executioner."
Scene 2. — Bassanes, won by the innocence of
Penthea, repents his jealousj- too late. Orgilus euter^
to him.
Orff. I have found thee.
Thou patron of more horrors than the bulk
Of manhood, hooped about with ribs of iron,
Can cram within thy breast : Penthea, Bassanes,
Cursed by thy jealousies, more, by thy dotage.
Is left a prey to words.
Briss. Exercise
Your trials for addition to my penance :
I am resolved.
Orff. Play not with misery
Past cure : some angrj- minister of fate hath
Deposed the empress of her soid, her reason.
From its most proper throne ; but — what 's the miracle
More new, I, I have seen it, and yet live !
Pass. You ma}' delude my senses, not my judgment;
'Tis anchored into a fii-m resolution ;
Dalliance of mirth or wit can ne'er unfix it :
Practise )'et further.
Orff. May thy death of love to her
Damn all thy comforts to a lasting fast
TO A.D. ISSS.]
PLAYS.
301
From everj- joy of life ! Thou barren rock !
By thee we have been split in ken of harbour.
Hiitcr Pexthea, with Iter hair loose, Ithocles, Philema, and
Chkistalla.
Ith. Sister, look up, your Ithocles, your brother
Speaks to you ; why d" you weep r dear, turn not from me. —
Here is a killing sight ; lo, Bassanes,
A lamentable object !
Org. JIan, dost see it ?
Sports are more gamesome ; am I yet in merriment ?
AATiy dost not laugh ?
Buss. Divine and best of ladies.
Please to forget my outrage ; mercy ever
Cannot but lodge imder a roof so excellent :
I have cast off that cruelty of fienzy
Which once appeared imposture, and then juggled
To cheat my sleeps of rest.
Org. Was I in earnest ?
Fen. Sure, it we were all sirens, we should sing pitifully,
And 'twere a comely music, when in parts
One sung another's knell. The turtle sighs
\\Tien he hath lost his mate ; and j'et some say
He must be dead first : 'tis a fine deceit
To pass away in a dream I indeed, I 've slept
With mine eyes open, a great while. No falsehood
Equals a broken faith ; there 's not a hair
Sticks on my head but, like a leaden plummet,
It sinks me to the grave : I must creep thither ;
The journey is not long.
Ith. But thou, Penthea,
Hast many years, I hope, to number yet,
Ere thou canst travel that way.
Bass. Let the sun first
Be wrapped up in an everlasting darkness,
Before the light of nature, chiefly formed
For the whole world's delight, feel an eclipse
So imivers;il 1
Org. Wisdom, look ye,
Begins to rave I — Art thou mad too, antiquity ?
Pen. Since I was first a wife, I might have been
Mother to many pretty prattling babes ;
They would have smiled when I smiled ; and, for certain,
I should have cried when they cried. — Truly, brother.
My father would have pick'd me out a husband.
And then my little ones had been no bastards ;
But 'tis too late for me to marry now,
I am past child-bearing ; 'tis not my fault.
Bass. Fall on me, if there be a burning MboA,
And bur)- me in flames ! sweats, hot as sulphur.
Boil through my pores :— affliction hath in store
Xo torture like to this.
Org. Behold a patience !
Lay by thj- whining gray dissimulation.
Do something worth a chronicle ; show justice
Upon the author of this mischief ; dig out
The jealousies that hatched this thraldom first
With thine own poniard I Everj- antick rapture
Can roar as thine docs.
Ith. Orgilus, forbear.
Bass. Disturb him not ; it is a talking motion
Provided for my torment. What a fool am I
To bandy passion 1 ere I '11 speak a word,
I will look on and burst. _
Pen. I loved you once. i"^" P'"'-
Org. Thou didst, wronged creature : in despite of malice.
For it I 'U love thee ever.
Pen. Spare your hand ;
Believe me, I '11 not hurt it.
Org. Jly heart too.
Pen. Complain not, though X wring it hard : I '11 kiss it ;
Oh, 'tis a fine soft palm ! — hark, in thine ear :
Like whom do I look, prithee ': — nay, no whispering.
Goodness '. we had been happy ; too much happiness
Will make folk proud, they say — but that is he —
[Pointing to IluotLES.
And yet he paid for t home ; alas '. his heart
Is crept into the cabinet of the princess ;
We shall have points and bride-laces. Remember,
^Vhen we last gather'd roses in the garden,
I found my wits ; but truly you lost yours.
That 's he, and stUl 'tis he. [Again poittting to Ith.
Ith. Poor soul, how idly
Her fancies guide her tongue I
Buss. Keep in, vexation.
And break not into clamour. [Ande.
Org. She has tutored me ;
Some powerful inspiration checks my lazincso.
Xow let me kiss your hand, giiev'd beauty.
Pen. Kiss it. —
Alack, alack, his lips be wondrous cold !
Dear soul, he has lost his colour ! have you seen
A straj-ing heart ? all crannies 1 every drop
Of blood is turned to an amethyst
WTiich married bachelors hang in their ears.
Org. Peace usher her into Elysium I
If this be madness, madness is an oracle. [Exit.
Ith. Christalla, Philema, when slept my sister.
Her ravings are so wild ?
Chris. Sir, not these ten days.
Phil. We watch by her continually ; besides.
We cannot any way pray her to eat.
Bass. Oh,— misery of miseries !
Pen. Take comfort.
You may live well and die a good old man :
By yea and nay, an oath not to be broken.
If you had join'd our hands once in the temple,
('Twas since my father died, for had he lived
He would have done 't,) I must have called you father.—
Oh, my wrecked honour ! ruined by those tyrants,
A cruel brother, and a desperate dotage.
There is no peace left for a rarished wife
Widowed by lawless marriage ; to aU memorj-,
Penthea's— poor Penthea's name is strumpeted :
But since her blood was seasoned by the forfeit
Of noble shame, with mixtures of pollution,
Her blood— 'tis just— be henceforth never heightened
"With taste of sustenance \ starve ; let that fulness
Whose pleurisy hath fevered faith and modesty-
Forgive me ; oh 1 I faint.
[Falls into the arms of her allendantt.
Arm. Be not so wilftU,
Sweet niece, to work thine own destruction.
Ith. Xature
Will call her daughter, monster I— what '. not eat ?
Refuse the only ordinary means
AVhich are ordain'd for life :- be not, my sister,
A miu-deress to thyself. -Hearst thou this, Bassjines ?
Bass. Fob ! I am busy ; for I have not thoughts
Enough to think: all shall be weU anon.
'Tis tumbUng in my head ; there is a miistery
In art, to fatten and keep smooth the outside ;
Yes, and to comfort up the vital spirits
Without the help of food, fumes or perfumes,—
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Perfumes or fumes. Let her alone ; I '11 search out
The trick on 't. [Aside.
Fen. Lead me gently ; heavens reward ye.
Griefs are sure friends ; they leave, without control.
No cm-e nor comforts for a leprous soul.
[Exit, supported by Chkis. and Phil.
Bass. I grant ye ; and wiU put in practice instantly
\VTiat you shall still admii-e : 'tis wonderful,
'Tis super-singular, not to be match'd ;
Yet, when I 've done 't, I've done 't :— ye shall all thank me.
[i:a:it.
Arm. The sight is full of terror.
Ith. On my soul
Lies such an infinite clog of massy dulness.
As that I have not sense enough to feel it. —
See, uncle, the angry thing returns again,
Shall 's welcome him with thunder ? we are haunted,
And must use exorcism to conjure down.
This spirit of malevolence.
The generous Prince of Argos, seeing that
Calantha loves the soldier Ithocles, takes warning
by "life-spent Peuthea and unhappy Orgil us." He
sends Ithocles to Calantha. But King Amyclas
suddenly is ill.
Scene 3.^To the droopmg king is presented a
box, left by the philosopher Tecnicus, who is gone
to Deljihos. Unsealed it yields the secret of the
oracle.
Read, Armostes.
Arm. The plot in which the Vine takes root
Begins to dry from head to foot ;
The stock, soon withering, want of sap
Doth cause to quail the budding grape :
But, from the neighbouring Elm, a dew
Shall drop, and feed the plot anew.
Amije. That is the oracle ; what exposition
Makes the philosopher ?
Arm. This brief one, only.
The plot is Sparta, the dried Vine the king ;
The quailing grape his daughter ; hut the thing
Of most importance, not to be reveal'd,
Is a near prince, the Elm ; the rest conceal'd.
Tecxicu.?.
Amyc. Enough ; although the opening of this riddle
Be but itself a riddle, yet we construe
How near our labouring age draws to a rest :
Bat must Calantha quail too 'i that yoimg grape
Untimely budded I I could mourn for her ;
Her tenderness hath yet deserv'd no rigour
So to be crost by fate.
Arm. You misapply, sir.
With favour let me speak it, what Apollo
Ilath clouded in hid sense; I hero conjectui'e
Her mari-iage with some neighbouring prince, the dew
Of which befriending Elm shall ever strengthen
Your subjects with a sovereignty of power.
Crot. Besides, most gracious lord, the pith of oracles
Is to be then digested, when the events
Expound their truth, not brought as soon to light
As uttered ; Truth is chUd of Time ; and herein
I find no scruple, rather cause of comfort,
With unity of kingdoms.
Amye. May it prove so,
For weal of this dear nation ! — where is Ithocles ? —
Armostes, Crotolon, when this wither'd Vine
sweet twins of my life's
Of my frail carcass, on the funeral pile.
Is fired into its ashes, let that young man
Be hedged about still with youi' cares and loves ;
Much owe I to his worth, much to his service. —
Let such as wait come in now.
Arm. All attend here !
Enter Ithocles, C.\laxth,\, Prophilus, Oroius,
EuPHRANEA, Hemophil, and C4U0XEAS.
Cal. Dear sir ! king ! father !
Ith. Oh, my roj-al master 1
Amye. Cleave not my heart,
solace.
With your fore-judging fears : there is no physic
So cunningly restorative to cherish
The fall of age, or call back youth and vigour,
As your consents in duty ; I will shake off
This languishing disease of time, to quicken
Fresh pleasures in these drooping hours of sadness :
Is fair Euijhranea married yet to Prophilus ':
Crot. This morning, gracious lord.
Orij. This very morning ;
'\\niich, with your highness' leave, you may observe too.
Our sister looks, mcthinks, mirthful and sprightly,
As if her chaster fancy could ah'cady
Expound the riddle of her gain in losing
A trifle, maids know only that they know not.
Pish I prithee, blush not ; 'tis but honest change
Of fashion in the garment, loose for straight.
And so the modest maid is made a wife.
Shrewd business — is't not, sister f
Eupk. You are pleasant.
Amye. We thank thee, Orgilus, this mirth becomes thee.
But wherefore sits the court in such a silence ?
A wedding without revels is not seemly.
Cal. Your late indisposition, sir, forbade it.
Amye. Be it thy charge, Calantha, to set forward
The bridal sports, to which I will be present ;
If not, at least consenting ; mine own Ithocles,
I have done little for thee yet.
Ith. You have built me.
To the full height I stand in.
Cal. Now or never I — [Aside.
May I propose a suit ?
Amye. Demand, and have it.
Cal. Pray, sir, give me this young man, and no further
Account him yours, than he deserves in all tilings
To be thought worthy mine ; I will esteem liim
According to his merit.
Amye. Still thou 'rt my daughter.
Still grow'st upon my heart. Give me thine hand ;
Calantha, take thine own. In noble actions
Thou 'It find him firm and absolute. I would not
Have parted with thee, Ithocles, to any
But to a mistress who is all what I am.
Ith. A change, great king, most wished for,
same.
Cal. Thou art mine. — Have I now kept my word ':
Ith. Divinely.
Org. Rich Fortune's guard, the favour of a princess,
Rock thee, brave man, in ever-crowned plenty ! —
You are minion of the time ; be thankful for it.
Ho! here 's a swing in destiny — apparent !
The youth is up on tiptoe, yet may stumble. [Aside.
Amye. On to your recreations. — Now convey me
Unto my bed-chamber ; none on his forehead
Wear a distempered look.
\To Ith.
'cause the
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303
I
I
All. The gock preserve you !
Cal. Sweet, be not from my sight.
Ith . My whole felicity !
[Amyclas is carried out. — Exeunt all but Ithocles,
detained by Okgilvs.
Org. Shall I be bold, my lord ?
Ith . Thou canst not, Orgilus.
Call me thine own ; for Prophilus must henceforth
Be all thy sister's ; fiiendship, though it cease not
In marriage, yet is oft at less command
Than when a single freedom can dispose it.
Org. Most right, my most good lord, my most great lord,
My gracious princely lord, I might add royal.
Ith. Royal! a subject royal i"
Org. Why not, pray sir ?
The sovereignty of kingdoms, in their nonage,
Stooped to desert, not birth ; there 's as much merit
In clearness of affection as in puddle
Of generation ; you ha%'e conquered love
Even in the loveliest. If I greatly err not.
The son of Venus hath bequeathed his quiver
To Ithocles to manage, by whose arrows
Calantha's breast is opened.
Ith. Can it be possible ?
Org. I was myself a piece of a suitor once,
And forward in prefei-ment too ; so forward
That, speaking truth, I may without offence, sir,
Presume to whisper, that my hopes, and (hark ye !)
My certainty of marriage stood assured
With as firm footing (by your leave), as any's.
Ith. 'Tis granted :
And for a league of privacy between us,
Kead o'er my bosom and partiike a secret ;
The princess is contracted mine.
Org. StiU, why not ?
I now applaud her wisdom : when j-our kingdom
Stands seated in your will, secure and settled,
I dare pronounce you will be a just monarch ;
Greece must admire and tremble.
Ith. Then the sweetness
Of so imparadised a comfort, Orgilus !
It is to banquet with the gods.
Org. The glory
Of numerous children, potency of nobles,
Bent knees, hearts paved to tread on !
Ith. With a friendship
So dear, so fast as thine.
Org. I am unfitting
For oiEce ; but for service —
Ith. We '11 distinguish
Our fortunes merely in the title : partners
In aU respects else but the bed. —
Org. The bed :-
Forefend it, Jove's own jealousy 1 — till lastly
We slip down in the common earth together.
And there our beds are equal ; save some monument
To shew this was the king, and this the subject —
\fioft sad Music.
List, what sad sounds are these ': extremely sad ones.
Ith. Sure fi-om Penthea's lodgings.
Org. Hark I a voice too.
A Song {within).
Oh, no more, no more, too late.
Sighs are spent ; the burning tapers
Of a life as cha.«te as fate,
Pure as are unwritten papers,
Are burnt out : no heat, no light
Kow remains ; 'tis ever night.
Love is dead ; let lovers' eyes,
Locked in endless dreams,
Th' extremes of all extremes,
Ope no more, for now Love dies.
Now Love dies, — implj-ing
Love's martyrs must be ever, ever dying.
Ith. Oh, my misgiving heart !
Org. A horrid stillness
Succeeds this deathf ul air ; let 's know the reason :
Tread softly ; there is mystery in mourning. [Exeunt.
Scene IV. — Apartment of Pesthea in the same.
Pesthea discovered in a chair, veiled; C'hrist.u,la and
Philem.a. at her feet, mourning. Enter two Servants,
with two other chairs, one icith an engine, '
Enter Ithocles and Ohgilvs.
1 Serv. [Aside to 0kg.] 'Tis done ; that on her right hand.
Org. Good '. begone. [Exeunt Servants.
Ith. Soft peace enrich this room !
Org. How fares the lady I'
Thil. Dead.
Chris. Dead!
Fhil. Starved.
Chris. Starved !
Ith. Me miserable !
Org. TeU us
How parted she from life ?
Fh il. She caUed for music.
And begged some gentle voice to tune a farewell
To life and griefs ; Christalla touch'd the lute,
I wept the funeral song.
Chris. '\\Tiich scarce was ended,
But her last breath sealed up these hollow sounds :
" cruel Ithocles, and injured Orgilus!"
So down she drew her veU, so died.
Ith. So died !
Org. Up ! you are messengers of death, go from us ;
[Chkis. and Phll. rise.
Here 's woe enough to court without a prompter.
Away ; and, — hark ye !— till you see us next,
No syllable that she is dead. — Away,
Keep a smooth hro-w.— [Exeunt Chkis. and Phil.]— My lord.—
Ith. Mine only sister 1
Another is not left me.
Org. Take that chair,
I 'U seat me here in this : between us sits
The object of our sorrows ; some few tears
We'll part among us : I perhaps can mix
One lamentable storj- to prepare them.—
There, there !— sit there, my lord.
Itk. Yes, as you please.
[Sits down, the chair closet upon him.
What means this treachery 'r
Org. Caught ! you are caught.
Young master ! 'tis thy throne of coronation,
Thou fool of greatness ! See, I take this veil off ;
Sm-vey a beauty wither'd by the flames
Of an insulting Phaeton, her brother.
Ith. Thou mean'st to kill me basely ?
Org. I foreknew
The last act of her life, and trained thee hither,
To sacrifice a tj-rant to a turtle.
' Engine, " ingeijinm." a cunniug device.
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You dreamt of kingdoms, did yoa ! liow to bosom
The delicacies of a youngling princess !
How with this nod to grace that subtle courtier,
How with that frown to make this noble tremble,
And so forth ; whilst Penthca's groans and tortures,
Her agonies, her miseries, afflictions.
Ne'er touched ui)on your thought ! as for my injuries,
Alas ! they were beneath your royal pity;
But yet they lived, thou proud man, to confound thee.
Behold thy fate ; this steel ! [Draws a dagger.
Ith. Strike home ! A courage
As keen as thy revenge shall give it welcome.
But prithee faint not ; if the wound close up,
Tent it with double force, and search it deeply.
Thou look'st that I should whine, and beg compassion,
As loath to leave the vainness of my glories.
A statelier resolution arms my confidence.
To cozen thee of honour ; neither could I,
With equal trial of unequal fortune,
By hazard of a duel ; 'twere a bravery
Too mighty for a slave intending murder.
On to the execution, and inherit
A conflict with thy hoiTors.
Org. By Apollo,
Thou talk'st a goodly language ! for requital
I will report thee to thy mistress richly ;
And take this peace along : some few short minutes
Determined, my resolves shall quickly follow
Thy wrathful ghost ; then, if we tug for mastery,
Penthea's sacred eyes shall lend new courage.
Give me thy hand— be healthful in thy parting
From lost mortality 1 thus, thus I free it. [Stabs him.
Ith. Yet, yet, I scorn to shrink.
Org. Keep up thy spirit :
I will be gentle even in blood ; to linger
Pain, which I strive to cure, were to be cruel.
[Stabs him again.
Ith. Nimble in vengeance, T forgive thee. FoUow
Safety, with best success; oh, may it prosper I —
Penthea, by thy side thy brother bleeds :
The earnest of his wrongs to thy forced faith.
Thoughts of ambition, or delicious banquet
With beautj-, youth, and love, together perish
In my last breath, which on the sacred altar
Of a long looked-for peace — now — moves— to heaven. [Dies.
Org. Farewell, fair spring of manhood '. henceforth wel-
come
Best expectation of a noble sufferance.
I '11 lock the bodies safe till what must follow
Shall be approved. — Sweet twins, shine stars for ever ! —
In vain they build their hopes, whose life is shame.
No monument la.sts but a happy name.
[locks the door, and exit.
Tlie Fifth Act ojiens in tlie house of Bassanes,
who has been seeking cure for Penthea. Orgilus
enters to him, will acquaint him with an unmatched
secret that shall set a period to his griefs, and bids
him follow. And then thus ends the play : —
Scene II. — A State Room in the Palace.
A Flourish. Enter Euphranea, led by Gkoneas and Hemo-
PHIL ; Prophili's, led by Chkistalla and Philema ;
Nearcht's supporting Calaxtha ; Ckotoi.ox and Amelus.
Cat. We miss our servant Ithocles, and Orgilus ;
On whom attend thev 'i
Crot. My son, gracious princess,
Whispered some new device, to which these revels
Should be but usher ; wherein I conceive
Lord Ithocles and he himself are actors.
Cal. A fau- excuse for absence : as for Bassanes,
Delights to him are troublesome ; Ai-mostes
Is with the king 'i
Crot. He is.
Cal. On to the dance 1
Cousin, hand you the bride ; the bridegroom must be
Entrusted to my courtship. Be not jealous,
Euphranea ; I shall scarcely prove a temptress. —
Fall to our dance.
The Revels.
Music. — Nf.akchus dances with Euphranea, Prophilx's with
Calantha, Chkistalla with Hemophil, Philema with
Groneas.
Thcg dance the first change; during which Akmostes enters.
Arm. [Whispers Cal.] The king your father's dead.
Cal. To the other change.
Arm. Is't possible?
They dance the second change.
Enter Bassanes.
Buss. [ Whispers Cal.] Oh, madam !
Penthea, jioor Penthea 's starv'd.
Cal. Beshrew thee ! —
Lead to the next.
Bass. Amazement duUs my senses.
Theg dance the third change.
Enter Orgilvs.
Org. [Whispers Cal.] Brave Ithocles is murdered, miu:-
dered cruelly.
Cal. How duU this music sounds 1 Strike up more sprightly;
Our footings are not active like our heart
Which treads the nimbler measure.
Org. I am thunderstruck !
The last change,
Cal. So ! let us breathe awhile. — [Music ceases.']— Ilath. not
this motion
Riiised fresher colours on our cheeks ?
Near. Sweet princess,
A perfect purity of blood enamels
The beauty of your white.
Cal. We all look cheerfully :
And, cousin, 'tis methinks a rare presumption
In any who prefer our lawful pleasures
Before their own sour censure, to interrupt
The custom of this ceremony bluntly.
Near. None dares, lady.
Cal. Yes, yes ; some hollow voice delivered to me
How that the king was dead.
Arm. The king is dead :
That fatal news was mine ; for in mine arms
He breathed his last, and with his crown bequeath'd you
Your mother's wedding ring ; which here I tender.
Crot. Jlost strange !
Cal. Peace crown his ashes ! We are queen then.
year. Long live Calantha 1 Sparta's sovereign queen I
All. Long live the queen !
Cut. What whisper'd Bassanes ?
Bass. That my Penthea, miserable soul.
Was starved to death.
TO l.D. 1633.]
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305
Cal. She 's happy. She hath finished
A long and painful progress. — A third murmur
Pierced mine unwilling ears.
Org. That Ithocles
Was min-dered ; — rather hutchered, had not bravery
Of an undaunted spirit, conquering terror,
Prochiimed his last act triumph over ruin.
Arm. How! laurdered I
Cal. By whose hand ':
Org. By mine ; this weapon
Was instrument to my revenge ; the reasons
Are just, and known ; quit him of these, and then
Never lived gentleman of greater merit,
Hope, or abiliment to steer a kingdom.
Crot. Fie, Orgilus !
Euph. Fie, brother!
Cal. You have done it ':
Bass. How it was done, let him report, the forfeit
Of whose allegiance to our laws doth covet
Rigour of justice ; but, that done it is,
iline eyes have been an evidence of credit
Too sure to be convinced. Amiostes, rend not
Thine arteries with hearing the bare circumstances
Of these calamities ; thou hast lost a nephew,
A niece, and I a wife : continue man still ;
Make me the pattern of digesting e%-ils.
Who can outlive my mighty ones, not shiinking
At such a pressure as would sink a soul
Into what 's most of death, the worst of horrors.
But I have sealed a covenant with sadness,
And entered into bonds without condition,
To stand these tempests calmly. Mark me, nobles,
I do not shed a tear ; not for Penthea !
E.xeellent misery !
Cul. We begin our reign
With a fii-st act of justice : thy confession,
I'nhappy Orgilus, dooms thee a sentence :
But yet thy father's or thy sister's presence
Shall be excused. Give, Crotolon, a blessing
To thy lost son ; Euphrcinea, take a farewell.
And both be gone.
Crof. [To Obo.] Confirm thee, noble sorrow.
In worthy resolution !
Euph. Could my tears speak,
My griefs were slight.
Org. All goodness dwell amongst ye !
Enjoy my sister, Prophilus; my vengeance
Aimed never at thy prejudice.
Cal. Now withdraw. [£jeKn< Crot., Puo., ««rf Ei rii.
Bloody relater of thy stains in blood.
For that thou hast reported him, whose fortunes
And life by thee are both at once snatched fi-oni him,
With honourable mention, make thy choice
Of what death likes ihee best ; there 's all our boimty.
But t . excuse delays, let me, dear cousin,
Intreat you and these lords see execution.
Instant, before you part.
Xear. Your will commands us.
Org. One suit, just queen, my last : vouchsafe your
clemency,
That by no conmion hand I be divided
From this my humble fraUty.
Cal. To their wisdoms
Who are to be spectators of thine end,
I make the reference. Those that are dead.
Are dead : had they not now died, of necessity
Thev must have paid the debt they owed to nature,
159
One time or other.— Use dispatch, my lords ;
We '11 suddenly prepare our Coronation.
[^Exeunt Cal., Phil., and CuKls.
Arm. 'Tis strange, these tragedies should never touch oa
Her female pity.
Bass. She has a masculine spirit :
And wherefore should I pule, and, like a girl,
Put finger in the eye ? let's be all toughness,
Without distinction betwuct sex and sex.
^ear. Now, Orgilus, thy choice i*
Org. To bleed to death.
Arm. The executioner ?
Org. Myself, no surgeon ;
I am well skilled in letting blood. Bind fast
This arm, that so the pipes may from their conduits
Convey a full stream ; here 's a skilful instrument :
[^Sheics hi» dagger.
Only I am a beggar to some charity
To speed me in this execution.
By lending th' other prick to th' other arm,
^^Tien this is bubbling life out.
Bass. I am for you.
It most concerns my art, my care, my credit ;
Quick, tillet both his arms.
Org. Gramercy, friendship !
Such courtesies are real, which flow cheerfully
Without an expectation of requital.
Reach me a staff in this hand. — [They give him a staff.'\ — If a
proneness.
Or custom in my nature, fi'om my cradle.
Had been incUned to fierce and eager bloodshed,
A coward guilt, hid in a coward quaking.
Would have betrayed me to ignoble flight,
And vagabond pursuit of dreadful safety :
But look upon my steadiness, and scorn not
The sickness of my fortune ; which, since Bassanes
Was husband to Penthea, has lain bed-rid.
We trifle time in words : — thus I shew cunning
In opening of a vein too fuU, too hvely.
\Pierces the vein with his dagger.
Arm. Desperate courage !
Xear. Honourable infamy !
Hem. I tremble at the sight.
Gron. 'Would I were loose !
Bass. It sparkles like a lusty wine new broach'd ;
The vessel must be sound from which it issues.
Grasp hard this other stick— I '11 be as nimble—
But prithee, look not pale.— Have at ye ! stretch out
Thine ai-m with vigour, and unshaken virtue.
[Openi the vein.
Good : oh, I en\'y not a rival, fitted
To conquer in extremities : this pastime
Appears majestical; some high-tuned poem.
Hereafter, shall deliver to posterity
The writer's glorj- and his subject's triumph.
How is't, man 'r— droop not yet.
Org. I feel no palsies.
On a pair-royal do I wait in death :
My sovereign, as his Uegeman : on my mistn ss.
As a devoted servant ; and on Ithocles,
As if no brave, yet no unworthy enemy.
Nor did I sse an engine to entrap
His life, out of a slavish fear to combat
Youth, strength, or cunning ; but for that I dm-st not
Enoage the goodness of a cause on fortune,
ByVhich his name might have outfaced my vengeance,
oil. Tecnicus, inspired with Ph<j>bus' fire !
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I call to mind thy augury, 'twas ijcrfect :
Bereiiffe proves its own MxiCiitioner.
When feeble man is bending to his mother,
The dust he was first framed on, thus he totters —
Bass. Life's fountain is di-icd up.
Org. So faUs the standard
Of my prerogative in being a creature 1
A mist hangs o'er mine eyes, the sun's bright splendour
Is clouded in an everlasting shadow :
Welcome, thou ice that sit'st about my heart,
No heat can ever thaw thee. [Dies.
Near. Speech hath left him.
Bass. He hath shook hands with time ; his funeral urn
Shall be my charge ; remove the bloodless body.
The Coronation must require attendance ;
That past, my few days can be but one mourning. \_E.':euHt.
Scene HI. — A Temple.
An Altar, covered tcith white: two lir/hts of virgin wax upon
it. — Recorders,^ during which enter Attendants, bearing
Ithocles on a Hearse, in a rich robe, with a Crown on his
head; and place him on the one side of the Altar. After
tvhieh, enter Calanth.^, in white, crowned, attended by
EuPHKAXEA, Philema, and C'hristalla, also in white:
Nearchus, Akmostes, Ckotolox, Prophilvs, Amelvs,
Bassases, Hemoi'Hil, and CrRONE.is.
CtLAXTHA kneels before the Altar, the Ladies kneeling behind
her, the rest stand off. The Recorders cease daring her
devotions. Soft Music. Calantha and the rest rise, doing
obeisance to the Altar.
Cal. Our orisons are heard ; the gods are merciful.
Now tell me, you, whose loyalties pay tribute
To us your la\vf ul sovereign, how unskilful
Your duties or obedience is, to render
Subjection to the sceptre of a virgin.
Who have been ever fortunate in princes
Of masculine and stin-ing composition 'i
A woman has enough to govera wisely
Her own demeanours, passions, and divisions.
A nation warlike, and inured to practice
Of policy and labour, cannot brook
A femiuate authority : we therefore
Command your counsel, how you may advise us
In choosing of a husband, whose abilities
Can better guide this kingdom.
Near. Eoyal lady,
Your law is in your will.
Arm. We have seen tokens
Of constancj' too lately, to mistrust it.
Crot. Yet, if your highness settle on a choice
By your own judgment both allowed and liked of,
Sparta may grow in power and proceed
To an increasing height.
Cal. Hold you the same mind ?
Bass. Alas, great mistress I reason is so clouded
With the thick darkness of my infinite woes.
That I forecast nor dangers, hopes, or safety.
Give me some comer of the world to wear out
The remnant of the minutes I must number,
1 Recorders, small flutes with a note like the music of birds, wlience
their name :
" Fair Philomel, ui^ht music of the sprinar.
Sweetly records her tuneful harmony." (Drayton.)
Where I may hear no sounds, but sad complaints
Of virgins who have lost contracted partners ;
(Jf husbands howling that their wives were ravished
By some untimely fate ; of friends divided
By churlish opposition ; or of fathers
Weeping upon their children's slaughtered carcases ;
Or daughters groaning o'er their fathers' hearses,
And I can dwell there, and with these keep consort
As musical as theirs, ^^'hat can you look for
From an old, foolish, peevish, doting man,
But craziness of age ?
Cal. Cousin of Argos.
Near. Madam.
Cal. Were I presently
To choose j-ou for my lord, I '11 open freely
AVhat articles I would propose to treat on.
Before our marriage.
Near. Name them, virtuous lady.
Cal. I would presume you would retain the royalty
Of Sparta in her own bounds ; then in Argos
Araiostes might be viceroy ; in Messene
Jlight Crotolon bear sway ; and Bassanes —
Bass. I, queen ? alas ! what I ?
Cal. Be Sparta's marshal;
The multitudes of high employments could not
But set a peace to private griefs. These gentlemen,
Gron(>as and Hemophil, with worthy pensions,
Should wait upon your person, in your chamber :
I would bestow Christalla on Amelus,
She '11 prove a constant wife ; and Pliilema
Should into Vesta's temple.
Bass. This is a testament !
It sounds not like conditions on a man'iage.
Near. All this should be performed.
Cal. Lastly, for Prophilus ;
He should be, cousin, solemnly invested
In all those honours, titles, and preferments
Which his dear friend, and mj- neglected husband.
Too short a time enjoyed.
Pro. I am unworthy
To live in your remembrance.
Eaph. Excellent lady 1
Near. Madam, what means that word, " neglected hus-
band " ?
Cal. Forgive me : — now I turn to thee, thou shadow
Of my contracted lord ! Bear witness all,
I put my mother's wedding-ring upon
His finger: — 'twas mj' father's last bequest.
[Places a ring on the finger o/' Itiiocles.
Thus I new-marry him, whose wife I am.
Death shall not separate us. Oh, my lords,
I but deceived your eyes with antic gesture.
When one news straight came huddling on another.
Of death ! and death ! and death I still I danced forward ;
But it struck home, and here, and in an instant.
Be such mere women, who, with shrieks and outcries.
Can vow a present end to all their sorrows.
Yet live to court new pleasures, and outlive them :
They are the silent griefs which cut tlu' heart-strings.
— Let me die smiling.
Near. 'Tis a truth too ominous.
Cal. One kiss on these cold lips, my last I — [Kisses Ixu.] —
crack, crack —
Argos now 's Sparta's king. Command the voices
Wliich w-ait at th' altar, now to sing the song
I fitted for my end.
Near. Sirs, the song !
I
A.D. leas.]
PLAYS.
307
DiKGE.
Cho. Glories, pleasui-es, pomps, delight, and uase,
Can but pluasu
The outward senses, when the mind
Is or untroubled, or by peace refined.
first vokc. Crowns may flourish and decay,
Beauties shine, but fade away.
Hivoik/. Youth may revel, yet it must
Lie down in a bed of dust.
Third. Earthly honoui's flow and waste,
Time alone doth change and last.
Clio. Sorrows mingled with contents, prepare
Rest for care :
Love only reigns in death ; though art
Can find no comfort for a Bkokex Heart.
.Ann. Look to the queen !
Buss. Her heart is broke indeed.
Oh, royal maid, 'would thou hadst missed this part!
1 et 'twas a brave one. I must weep to see
Her smile in death.
Arm. Wise Tecnicus ! thus said he :
^\'^len Youth is ripe, and Age from time doth part,
Tlie lifeless Trunk shiill wed the Broken Heart.
'Tis here fulfiUed.
Nvcir. I am your king.
All. Long live
Nearchus, Kng of Sparta 1
Near. Her last will
Shall never be digressed from ; wait in order
Upon these faithful lovers, as becomes us.
The counsels of the gods are never known
Till men can call the effects of them their own. {^Exeunt.
Teagedt and Comedy. (Fj-o/h a Roman iIa.s-rcIie/o/*he Jpothcosi* n/Komer.)'
The opjiosition of the Puritans to plays took its
bitterest form in tlie year of the publication of
Ford's " Broken Heart." WUliam Prynne then pub-
lished (a.d. 1633) " Histrio-mastix. The Players
Scourge, or Actors Tragcdie, Divided into Two Parts.
Wherein it is largely e\ideuced, by divers Argu-
ments. l>y the concurring Authorities and Resolutions
of sundry texts of Scripture, of the whole Primitive
Church, lioth under the Law and Gospell ; of 55
Synodes and Councels ; of 71 Fathei-s and Christian
Writers, before the year of our Lord 1200 ; of about
150 foraigne and domestique Protestant and Po])ish
Authors, since; of 40 Heathen Philosophers, His-
toi-ians. Poets, of many Heathen, many Christian
Nations, Piepubliques, Emperors, Princes, Magis-
trates ; of su7idry Apostolicall, Canouicall, Imperiall
Constitutions ; and of our owne English Statutes,
Magistrates, Vniversities, Writei-s, Preachei-s. That
pojtular Stage-playes (the very Pomps of the Divell
which we renounce in Baptisme, if we believe the
Fathers) are sinfull, heathenish, lewde, ungodly
Si)ectacles, and most pernicious Corruptions ; con-
demned in all ages, as intolerable Mischiefes to
Churches, to Republickes, to the manners, mindes,
and soules of men. And that the Profession of
Play-poets, of Stage-players ; together with the pen-
ning, acting, and frequenting of Stage-playes, are
unlaw'full, infamous, and misbeseeniing Christians.
All pretences to the contrary are here likewise fully
' For tliis cut and those figures from the mtique wliich have 'beeii
used to ilhistrate Massinger's " Roman Actor," I am indebted to the
plates in Montfuucon's " Antiqiiitre Expliquee."
answered; and the unlawful ues of acting, of behold-
ing Academicall Enterludes, briefly discussed ; Ije-
sides sundry other particulars concerning Dancuig,
Dicmg, Health-drinking, itc, of which the Table will
informe you." The mottoes on Prynne's title-page
are as lUffuse as the title itself, and the book extends
to more than a thousand pages of small quarto. The
book represented Puritan opinion upon such matters
in its narrowest and most intemperate form. All
who danced or looked on at dancing were said to
assist at a lewd service of the devil. Whoever
danced broke all the ten connnandments ; and so
forth. As the Queen danced in court masques, Prynne
was said to have insulted the Queen, and was sub-
jected to a material persecution as intemperate as
his awu shower of mere woi-ds. The sentence of the
Star Chamber on the 17th of February, 1634 (1633,
old st3de), was " That Ma.ster Pryime sliould be com-
mitted to prison dtu'ing life, pay a fine of 3.000
pounds to tlie King, be expelled Lincoln's Inn, dis-
barred, and disabled ever to exercise the pi-ofession
of a barrister ; degraded by the Univer.sity of Oxfonl
of his degi-ee there taken ; and that done, be set in
the Pillory at Westminster, with a paper on liis
head declaring the nature of his offence, and liave
one of his ears there cut off, and at another time be
set in the pillory in Cheapside, with a paper a-s
aforesaid, and there have his otlier ear cut oil"; and
that a fire shall be made before the said pillory, and
the hangman being there ready for that puri)0se,
shall publicly in disgraceful manner ca,st all the said
books which could be produced into the tire to be
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burnt, as iinfit to be seen by any hereafter." The
government that .sought thus passionately to repress
opinion might well come to an evil end. Prynne
lived to see what was for liim a day of vengeance.
The best of the Puritans — John Milton — Puritan
in the high spiritual sense, and no slave to the
naiTow prejudices of his time, knew the worth of the
stage. At this time he was at Horton, where he
wrote "L'Allegro." When the play was good, and
the stage trod by actors able to interpret it, play-
going was for him one of the social pleasures that
produce a healthy cheerfulness :
Then to the well-trod stage anon,
If Jonson's learned sock be on ;
Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child,
Warhle his native wood notes wild.
beth's Lord Keeper, who became Lord Ellesmere be-
fore his death in 1617. But his third wife held and
retained during her second widowhood the higher
title derived from her first husband, and was still
the Dowager Countess of Derby, seventy-four years
old, and within two or three years of her death, when
" Ai'cades " was written for liei'. Her second hus-
band's son by a former marriage, John Egerton, who
was made Earl of Bridgewater after his father's
death, married a daughter of hers by the Earl of
Derby, and thus became both stepson and son-in-
law. He had many children, and on some day of
family interest, these children and other de.scendants
joined in an act of loving homage to the old lady,
who lived at Haretield, about ten miles from Milton's
home at Horton. Perhaps they first took Henry
Lawes, the music-master, into council. Milton's father
Hauefield Place. (From Nichols's " Profjrcsses of Eli:abeth.")
It is worth notice that Milton wrote his masque of
" Comus " in the year after the appearance of
Prynne's " Histrio-mastix." It was a stage perform-
ance that abounded in dancing, and might serve
as an answer in kind to Prynne's intemperance of
judgment.
In 1634 Milton, born on the 9th of December,
1608, was in his twenty-sixth year. He had
already, we may suppose, pleased the family of the
Earl of Bridgewatei-, by his little domestic masque
of " Arcades," written for the Earl's stepmother
and mother-in-law, the Countess of Derby. That
old lady had been Alice, daughter of Sir John
Spencer of Althorp, when, in her youth, the poet
Spenser dedicated to her his "Tears of the Muses."
It was her rare honour to have had one jjoem dedi-
cated to her by Spenser in her youth, and another
written for her by Milton in lier age. When Spenser
dedicated to her, in 1.591, she was the wife of
Perdinando Stanley, Lord Strange, who became fifth
Eari of Derby in 1.593, and died in 1594. His
widow, as Dowager Countess of Derby, married six
years afterwards Sii- Thomas Egerton, Queen Eliza-
was a musician and friend of musicians, and it may
have been Lawes who suggested asking young John
Milton for the words that were to be said and sung.
The Countess of Derby's seat at Harefield was in a
richly-wooded district. An unobtrusive family ofler-
ing of comiiliment in verse could not be more simply
planned than Milton has planned this. The young
members of the family put on the pastoral dress, so
often in request, that it must have been as much
part of the wardrobe of a person in society as the
domino of later days. They then became Arcades,
the Arcadians. The old lady sat in the garden, the
gi-andchildren and other relatives formed procession
at the house and marched towards her. As they
turned the corner and came in sight they began to
sing —
Look, nj-mphs and shepherds, look,
AMiat sudden blaze of majesty
I.s that which we from hence descry ?
During the song they advanced until they stood
before her. Then one habited as the Genius of the
Woods about Harefield stepped forward to pay
TO i.D. 1631.]
PLAYS.
309
delicate homage to their mistress. Then the childj-en
kissed the grandmother's robe (" Approach, and kiss
her sacred vesture's hem "), and sang themselves into
a dance before her, tUl a second song called them
away. And that was all. The genius of the poet
had assisted simply at a gi-aceful utterance of family
affection and homage of youth to age.
coinjs,
produced at Ludlow Castle on the 29th of September,
1634, was, as completely a.s any human work can be,
the revei-se of a pomp of the devil. In June, 1631,
the Earl of Bridgewater became Lord President of
the West, that is to say, of Wales and the four
adjacent counties — Gloucester, Woi-cester, Hereford,
and Shropslm-e. The office was like that of the Lord
Deputy — now called Lord Lieutenant — in Ireland,
and the \-iceroyal court was held at Ludlow Castle in
Shi'opshire. The Earl of Bridgewater did not go into
residence at Ludlow before October, 1633. In 1634
his whole family had joined him, and he resolved
then to give a state entertainment, representing
royal hosjjitality, that should iuclude a masque.
Heniy Lawes, musician and music-master, was again
called into council, and John Milton, then in his
twenty-sixth year, was asked for the words. He
chose to grace the festival — at a time when hard
di'inking had come into fashion — with a genial plea
for temperance. Comus had come down from old
Greek times as the personification of unmeasured
miith, of
Midnight shout and revelry.
Tipsy dance and jollit\'.
He is that in Milton's masque. It was a recom-
mendation of the subject that there was ample range
for the mask-maker, since he had to furnish heads for
the rout of followei-s of Comus, who by intemperance
degrade themselves to beasts, and in whom,
Soon as the potion works, their human countenance,
The express resemhunce of the gods, is changed
Into some brutish form of wolf, or bear,
Or ounce, or tiger, hog, or bearded goat,
All other parts remaining as they were.
And they, so perfect is their misery.
Not once perceive their foul disfigurement.
But boast themselves more comely than before.'
^ The songs of the time of Charles I. abounded with strains iu
which excess was treated as a higher comeliness. Thus John Cleve-
land sang —
** Come let us drink away the time.
When wine runs high wit 's in the prime.
"Wine makes the soul for action fit,
Who drinks most wine hath the most wit."
And Eobert Heath —
*' 'Tis wine in love, and love in wine.
Inspires our youth with fiames divine."
And Sir John Suckling—
" The Maoedon youth
Left behind him this truth —
That nothing is done with much thinking ;
He drimk and he fought,
Till he had what he sought :
The world was his own by good drinking."
Knowing that the chief actore in the masque ai
Ludlow were to be the three youngest children of
the Lord President's family (a girl and two boys),
Milton pro^•ided them ^v-ith parts that in no way
took them out of their owi charactei-s, unless it were
by identifying them with absolute innocence and
purity. In 1634, the Earl of Bridgewater's ten living
cliildren (five others had died) were eight daughters
— Frances, Arabella, Elizabeth, Mary, Penelope,
Cathaiiue, iSIagdalen, Alice ; after whom came the
two boys, Jolm and Thomas, John being the son and
heu-, with title of Lord Brackley. Alice, the youngest
girl, about fifteen years old, was the Lady in Comus ;
and her two younger brother.s, John and Tlioma.s,
played their own parts. The three cliildren, in fact,
represented in the masque none but themselves. They
were suppo.sed to cross the stage from back to front,
to be introduced to their father and mother, who .sat
in the front row of the audience. The stage was
made to represent a wood, the old type of our world ;
and in this world of ours in the days of diaries I.,
partly an actual corruption of manners, partly a
combative desiie in the King's friends to flout the
Puritans and sliow that they were staunch, had
caused many to vaunt drunkenness and sensual ex-
cess as ^•il•tues of good fellowship and hospitality.
Such as these were the dazzling spells that Comus
hurled into the spongy air " of power to cheat the
eye ^vith blear illusion." Tliis false view of social
enjoyment was the power of the charming-rod of
Comus, that made evil appear good. Temjrtations
such as the.se beset innocent youth, and of them
Milton devised his allegoiy. Since God cares for
His children, the scene opened with the descent of
a guardian angel, or Attendant Spirit, who thus tells
his mission for the helj) of such as
By due steps aspire
To lay their just hands on that golden key
That opes the palace of eternity.
Witliin our sea-gii-t isle the Earl of Bridgewater
comes to the west to rule the Welsh — or, in other
words,
all this tract that fronts the falling sun
A noble Peer of mickle trust and power
Has in his charge, with tempered awe to guide
An old and haughty nation proud in arms :
"Where his fair oft'spring, nui-scd in princely lore,
Are coming to attend their father's state.
And new-entrusted sceptre. But their way
Lies through the perplexed paths of this drear wood.
The nodding hon-or of whose shady brows
Threats the forlorn .md wandering passenger;
And here their tender age might suffer peril,
But that, by quick command from sovran Jovo,
I was despatched for their defence and guard.
And Usten why ; for I will tell you now
What never yet was heard in tale or song.
From old or modem bard, in hall or bower.
Bacchus, that first from out the puqile grape
Crushed the sweet poison of misused wine,
After the Tuscan mariners transformed,
Coasting the Tyri-hene shore, as the winds listed.
On Circe's island fell— who knows not Circe,
The daughter of the Sun, whose ch.irmed cup
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Whoever tasted lost his upright shape,
And downward fell into a grovelling swine ?
This Nymph, that gazed upon his elustering loeks,
With ivy-berries wreathed, and his blithe youth,
Had by him, ere he parted thenec, a son
Miieh like his father, but his mother more,
Whom therefore she brought up, and C'onius named.
■WTio, ripe and frolic of his full-grown age,
Roving the Celtic and Iberian tields.
At last betakes him to this ominous wood.
And. in thick shelter of black shades embowered,
E.\cels his mother at her mighty art ;
Offering to every weaiy traveller
His orient liquor in a crystal glass.
To quench the di-ought of Phoebus ; which as they taste —
For most do taste thi-ough fond intemperate thirst —
Soon as the potion works, their human countenance,
The express resemblance of the gods, is changed
Into some brutish form of wolf, or bear.
Or ounce, or tiger, hog, or bearded goat,
All other parts remaining as they were.
And they, so perfect is their misery,
Kot once perceive their foul disfigui'cment.
But boast themselves more comely than before ;
And all their friends and native home forget,
To roll with pleasure in a sensual sty.
Tiie guaidiaii anyel comes therefore to aid tbe mno-
ceut, and puts off liis sky robes to take the shape of
A swain
That to the service of this house belongs.
Who, with his soft pipe and smooth-dittied song,
Well knows to still the wild winds when they roar.
And hush the waving woods.
While there is fitness in this association of the
heavenly guide with harmony, this and another
passage doubtless include an under-touch of com-
pliment to Henry Lawes, who acted the part of
the Attendant Spirit. Ujion the voice that speaks
of care in heaven follows the wild sound of careless
riot upon earth. Comus enters with his crew of
followers, " headed like sundry sorts of wild beasts."
They express their character in Bacchanalian song
and dance, and hide among the trees at the approach
of some chaste footing, an innocent life that Comus
waits to win into his company.
Now to my charms,
And to my wily trains. I shall ere long
Be weD stocked with as fair a herd as grazed
About my mother Circe. Thus I hml
My dazzUng spells into the spongy air.
Of power to cheat the eye with blear illusion,
And give it false jiresentments, lest the place
And my quaint habits breed astonishment.
And put the damsel to suspicious flight ;
Which must not be, for that's against my course.
I, under fair pretence of friendly ends.
And weU-placed words of glozing courtesy.
Baited with reasons not unplausible,
Wind me into the easy-hearted man.
And hug him into snares.
Comus steps aside when the Lady enters— the Lady
Alice Egeiton, who represents no other than herself,
e.xcept that by her purity of thought and word she
becomes identified with the principle to Avhich Comu.s
is opposite. Her words express absolute purity, and
faith of the ])ure soul in a jn-otecting God. Parted
from her brothers in the night, whose darkness brings
no fear, she seeks to make her voice reach them in
song. !MiIton liere gives to the Lady Alice an echo
song, and Henry Lawes would be content with such
an opportiurity of showing how his pupil had profited
by good instruction. But the Lady's song typifies,
as the after comment of Comus shows, the sacred
harmony of a pure soul, best harmony of earth, to
which Heaven seems to answer with " resounding
grace." Comus, in comment, feels the difference
between the voice of a pure innocence that aids
with a real joy, and the beguiling .strains of an
impure pleasure that takes strength away.
Can any mortal mi.xtur-e of earth's mould
Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment ?
Siu-e something holy lodges in that breast.
And with these raptures moves the vocal air
To testify his hidden residence.
How sweetly did they float upon the wings
Of Silence, thi'ough the empty-vaulted night !
At every fall smoothing the raven-down
Of Darkness till it smiled. I have oft heard
Jly mother Circe with the Sirens three.
Amidst the flowery-kirtled Xaiades,
Culling their potent herbs and baleful drugs,
Who, as they sung, would take the prisoned soul,
And lap it in Elysium ; ScyUa W(!pt,
And chid her barking waves into attention.
And fell Charybdis murmured soft applause.
Yet they in pleasing slumber lulled the sense,
And in sweet madness robbed it of itself ;
But such a sacred and home-felt delight.
Such sober certainty of waking bliss,
I never heard till now.
When Comus, disguised, tempts to what he calls his
" low, but loyal cottage," the Lady who is trustful
becomes ignorant of evil ; her final trust is the secure
one, and she follows with a prayer —
Eye me, blest Proridcnce, and square my trial
To my proportioned strength ! Shei^herd, lead on.
When the two boys, her brothers, enter ne.Kt,
searching in darkness for their sister, their thoughts
are those of innocent minds strengthened by study.
The elder, as more taught, strengthens the younger,
who is more disposed to fear, and draws aid from
Plato to faith in the strength of innocence.
So dear to Heaven is saintly chastity.
That, when a soul is found sincei-ely so,
A thousand liveried angels lackey her.
Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt.
And, in clear dream and solemn vision.
Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear;
Till oft converse with heavenly habitants
Begin to cast a beam on the outward shape.
The unpolluted temple of the mind,
And turns it by degrees to the soul's essence.
Till aU be made immortal. But when lust,
l.D. 1634.] PLAYS.
311
By unchaste looks, loose gestures, and foul talk
But most by lewd and lavish act of sin,
Lets in defilement to the inward parts,
The soul grows clotted by contagion,
Imbodies, and imbrutes, till she quite lose
The divine property of her first being.
Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp
Oft scon ip. chamel-vaults and sepulchres.
Lingering, and sitting by a new-made grave,
As loath to leave the body that it loved.
And linked itself by caraal sensuality
To a degenerate and degraded state.
See. B. How charming is diWne philosophy !
Not harsh and crabbed, as duU fools suppose,
But musical as is Apollo's lute.
And a perpetual feast of nectared sweets,
Where no crude surfeit reigns.
The divine philosopliy that on the lips of the elder
charmed the younger brother, was taken straiglit
from a passage in Plato's " Phsedo." To tlie boys
tluis communing together comes the guardian angel
mtli his aid. He is habited like a shepherd. " Oh,
Brother, 'tis my father's shepherd, sure." God's
.shepherd, and theii- Father's shepherd still. Associa-
tion of the spirit with sweet music again admits an
nuder-note of reference to Henry Lawes.
Thyrsis ! whose artful strains have oft delayed
The huddling brook to hear his madrigal,
And sweetened ever}- musk-rose of the dale.
When the brothers are warned by him of their sister's
danger, the younger asks —
Is this the confidence
You gave me. Brother 'i
J^l'l. B. Yes, and keep it still ;
Lean on it safely ; not a period
Shall be unsaid for me. Against the threats
Of malice or of sorcer)-, or that power
"Which erring men call Chance, this I hold firm, —
Virtue may be assailed, but never hurt,
Siu-prised by unjust force, but not enthralled ;
Yea, even that which mischief meant most halm
Shall in the happy trial prove most glory.
But evil on itself shall back recoil.
And mi.\ no more with goodness, when at last,
Gathered like scum, and settled to itself.
It shall be in eternal restless change
Self -fed, and self-consumed. If this fail,
The pillared firmament is rottenness,
And earth's base built on stubble.
But the boys' readiness to seek out the magician
sword in liand is met with warning of the mastery
of Comus over mere brute strength.
He with his bare wand can unthi-ead thy joints.
And crumble aU thj- sinews.
Wlien Ulys.ses in the island of Circe — who stands
for lu.sts of the flesh — went to rescue from the spells
of the enchantress his friends, whom she had trans-
formed into swine, he was met by Hermes, the god
representing intellect, and warned that he could not
resLst her power without a charm given by liim, and
that wa.s the herb moly, with a black root and white
tiower, hard to be dug by men. By this Homer
meant knowledge that comes of toU, and gives the
spnit power to i-esist enticements of the flesh.
JlUton refei-s to this passage in the "Odyssey"
when he makes his attendant spirit give to the
brothers a like lesson, and raise the herb htemony—
name froni a word meaning skilled Ijy experience ;
the experience that study brings— above moly, as far
as knowledge, quickened by Christ's teaching, is
above the knowledge of the ancient world. The
sliepherd lad in the following jiassage is any poor
■ivise man, who, tliougli of .small regard \vith men,
may hold commmiion with the angels; and the "dull
swain" is any man, poor or rich, by whom the wLsdom
bred of study Ls contemned.'
' This is the passage in the tenth book of the " Odyssej- " which
Miltou has here in mmd, and on which also he bases the references
to Cii-ce. I quote through the heautiful translation of the " Odyssey "
into Siienseriau stanza, by Philip Stanhope Worsley.
Then in two bands I mimbered all my train,
Each with its chief. One to myself I took ;
One did to fair Eiirj-lochus pertain.
Then we the lots in steely helmet shook,
And his leapt forth ; nor he the work forsook.
But passed with twain-and-twenty ranged around.
Weeping ; we after them yearned many a look
Weeping. So in the woods the house they found
Of Circe, stone well-hewn, and on conspicuous ground.
Wolves of the motuitain all around the way,
And Uons, softened by the spells divine,
As each her pliilters had partaken, lay.
These cluster round the men's advancing line
Fawning like dogs, who, when their lord doth dine.
Wait till he issues fi-om the banquet-hall.
And for the choice gifts which his hands assign
Fawn, for he ne'er forgets them — so these all
Fawn on our friends, whom much the luiwonted sights appal.
Soon at her vestibule they pause, and hear
A voice of singing from a lovely place.
Where Circe weaves her great web year by year.
So shining, slender, and instinct with grace,
As weave the daughters of immortal race.
Then said Polites, nearest, first in worth
Of all my friends ; " Hark ! through the echoing space
Floats a sweet music charming air and earth !
Call ! for some goddess bright or woman gave it birth."
Thus spake he, and they lifted up their voice
And called her. She the brilliant doors anon
Unfolding bade them in her halls rejoice ;
Who entered in not knowing, save alone
Eiirylochus, misdoubting fi-aud. Full soon
Benches and chairs in fair array she set.
And mixing meal and honey, poured thereon
Strong Pramnian wine, and with the food they ate
Beat up her baleful drugs, to make them quite forget
Their cotmtry. They recei\Tng drank, unwise.
Forthwith she smote them with her wand divine.
And drave them out, and shut them close in styes.
Where they the head, voice, fonn, and hair of swine
Took, but the heart stayed sane, as ere the wine
Confused them ; they thus to their Liirs retreat j
She food, whereon the bnitish herd might dine,
Furnished, mast, acorns, their familiar meat.
Such as earth-grovelling swine are ever wont to eat.
Then sought Enrylochus the swift black ship.
The bitter fortune of his friends to tell ;
Nor, when he came there, could he stir a lip.
Nor the thing show that in lus soul did swelL
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Cart' and utmost shifts
How to secure the lady from surprisal
Brought to my mind a curtain shtphurd-lad,
Of small regard to see to, yet well skilled
In every virtuous plant and healing herb
That spreads her verd;int leaf to the morning ray.
He loved me well, and oft %vould beg me sing,
\\'liieh when I did, he on the tender gi-ass
Would sit, and hearken even to ecstaisy,
And in requital ope his leathern scrip.
And show mo simples of a thousand names,
Telling their strange and vigorous faculties.
Amongst the rest a small misightly root,
But of divine effect, he culled me out.
The leaf was darkish and had prickles on it,
But in another country, as ho said.
Bore a bright golden tlower, but not in this soil,
Unknown, and like esteemed, and the dull swain
Treads on it daily with his clouted shoon ;
And yet more med'cinal is it than that Moly
That Hermes once to wise Ulysses gave.
He called it H;omony, and gave it me,
And bade me keep it as of sovran use
'Gainst all enchantments, mildew blast, or damp,
Or ghastly furies' apparition.
I pursed it up, but little reckonmg made,
Tin now that this extremity compelled.
But now I find it true ; for by this means
I knew the foul enchanter though disguised,
Entered the very lime-twigs of his spells.
And yet came off. If you have this about you —
As I will give you when we go — you may
Boldly assault the necromancer's hall ;
"Where if he be, with dauntless hardihood,
And brandished blade riish on him, break his glass,
And shrd the luscious liquor on the ground :
But seize his wand.
Ton^ieless he stood, beart-wouudod, wciik to quell
The ajj^ouy witllin ; a dui'k dumb rain
Of weeping ever from liis eyelids fell ;
Much did we womler aud enquire his paiu.
Till words at last he found his auguish to make i>lain.
*• Searching as tbon, Odysseus, didst command.
We a fair palace in the woodland gain,
Where one that plied the distatf with her hand
Sang sweet — divine or mortal. Thou my train
Called her, and she, the brilliant xiortals twaiu
Unfolding, bade them to her halls ; but I,
DoubtfiU of guile, without the dours remain.
There all the rest are vanished utterly ;
Sitting long time I watched ; not one could I descry."
Forthwith my silver-hilted sword I take.
Arrows and bow, aud bid him go before ;
But he with both hands clasped my kuees, and spake
Accents of wingt-d words, bewailing sore :
*' Force me not, hero, to that hated door !
Dnig me not hence to i)ei'ish ! for I know
Thou aud thy comrades will return no more.
Rather with these right quickly let us go.
And save cm' souls tlu-ough flight, aud shun the evil woe.'
But I : *• Em-ylochus, abide thou hei-e
Fast by the hollow ship, and diink and eat ;
But I will hence. Necessity severe
Constrains me." Thus I passing turued my feet
On through the glens for the divine retreat
Of Circe ; and a youth, in form and mould
Fair as when tender manhood seems most sweet,
Bpautiful Hermes, with the wand of gold.
Met me alone and there my hand in his did fold.
The Brothers, like the Lady, proceed to the house of
Comtis with a prayer for God's protection :
Thyrsis, lead on apaee, I '11 foUow thee,
And some good angel bear a shield before us.
In the next scene the Lady in the stately palace
of Comus, set amongst his revellers in the charmed
chair, from which she cannot rise, was ui the posi-
tion of many an innocent youth in the days of
Charles the First and after them, hound by what
were regarded as tlie laws of hospitality to presence
at a ch'unken revel. The dialogue between Comus
and the Lady shows us the two principles repre-
sented by them reasoning out in argument Milton's
plea for temperance. The brothers then rush in,
break the Enchanter's glass, but let Comus himself
escape. " Oh, ye mistook," the Spirit tells them,
Ye should have snatched his wand
And bound him fast. Without his rod reversed,
And backward mutters of dissevering power.
We cannot free the Lady that sits here
In stony fetters fixed and motionless.
Without reversal of the charming-rod that cheat*
the eye with false ajipearances — change of the social
ojjtnion that establishes under fair name an evil
usage — Comus will still be master of his crew. But
as the Lady must be rescued from her thraldom,
the allegory is changed to a raising of the Spirit of
Temperance, typified by pure water drops that might
have been taken from any stream, but at Ludlow
were taken from the river of Shropshire by raising
the nymph of the Severn, who undoes the charm.
Thus I sprinkle on thy breast
Drops that from my fountain pure
I have kept of precious cure.
" Whither," he said, " wouldst thou thy steps incline.
Ah ! hapless, all nnweeting of thy way ?
Thy friends lie huddling in their styes like swine :
And these wouldst thou deliver ? I tell thee nay —
Except I help thee, thou with them shalt stay.
Come, take this talisman to Circe's hall,
For I will save thee from thine iUs this day.
Nor leave like ruin on thy life to fall,
Since her pernicious wiles I now will tell thee aU.
" Drink will she mix, and in thy food will charm
Drugs, but in vain, because I give thee now
This autidote beyoud her power of hiu'm.
When she shall smite thee with her wand, do thou
Draw thy shaii> sword, and fierce design avow
To slay her. She will bid thee to her bed.
Fearing thy lifted arm aud threat euing brow.
Nor thou refuse, that so her heart be led
To loose thy luckless friends, aud on thee kindness shed
*' But by the grand oath of immortals blest
First biud her, ere thou yield, that she no wrong
Scheme for thy ruin in her secret breast,
Lest, naked and unmanned, thou linger long
Pent in vile durauce with her swinish throng."
Therewith the root he tore up from the groimd.
Black, with a milk-white flower, in heavenly tongue
Called Moly, aud its nature did expound —
Hard to be dug by men ; in gods all power is found.
Then to the far Olympus Hermes went.
Sheer through the woodland isle ; but I repau'ed
Onward to Circe's halls mngnificeut.
And with a heaving heart the danger dared.
A.D. isy.;
PLAYS.
313
Thrice upon thy finger's tip,
Thrice upon thy rubied lip ;
Next this marble, venonied seat.
Smeared wi^th gums of glutinous heat,
I touch with chaste palms moist and cold,
Now the spell hath lost its hold.
Here follow rustic dances before a scene repre-
seiitiiii; Ludlow town and castle, after which the
Attendant Spo'it brings the three chilch-en to the
front and presents them to their father and mother :
Xoble lord and lady bright,
I have brought ye new delight.
Here behold so goodly grown
Thixe fail- branches of your own.
Heaven hath timely tried their youth,
Their faith, their patience, and their truth.
And sent them here thi'ough hard assays,
M'ith a crown of deathless praise,
To triumph in victorious dance
O'er sensual folly and intemperance.
Next follow allegorical dances by the chief charac-
ter of the masque, in which the chUdi-en join, the
dance.s figuring the le.sson of the poem. All then
closes with the Spirit's epilogue, which is siunmed up
by opposing this thought to the faith of the wild
revellei-s that viitue dwells Avith sour severity while
the free life is theii-s :
llortals that would follow me.
Love \-irtue ; she alone is free.
.She can teach ye how to climb
Higher than the spheiy chime ;
Or if Virtue feeble were,
Heaven itself would stoop to her.
There is a harmless touch of the Ijacchanalian
view of fi-ee life in Thomas Randolph's "Aristippus,"
written in 1030, as a playful Cambridge interlude in
honour of good sack and in contempt of beer. Ran-
dolph died, but twenty-seven years old, in 1G34, the
year of the production of " C'omvis." He had been
e<lucated at Westmin.ster School and Trinity College,
Cambridge, wliere he took Ids M.A. degree, wa-s a
good scholar and a good wit, and wi-ote among his
five dramatic pieces one called
THE MUSES' LOOKIXG-GLASS,
in defence of plays. This Ls the oiieniug : —
Act I., Scene 1.
Enter Bran, a Fentltcrman, and Mistress Flowekdew, wife to
a Haberdasher of small wares ; the one having hromjht
feathers to the playhouse, the other pins and looking-glasses
— two of the sanctified fraternity of Blaek Friars.
Flow. See, brother, how the wicked throng and crowd
To works of vanity 1 Not a nook or comer
fn all this house of sin, this cave of filthiucss.
This den of spiritual thieves, but it is stuffed,
Stuffed, and stuffed full as a cushion
With th' kwd reprobate.
160
Bird. Sister, were there not before inns ':
Yes, I will say inns, for my zeal bids me
Say filthy inns, enough to harbour such
As travelled to destruction the broad way ;
But they build more and more, more shops of Satan.
Feostispiece op Randolph's Poems with his Pocibait.
From ihe 166i EiUion of Uis Poems.
Flow. Iniquity aboundeth, though pure zeal
Teach, preach, huff, puff, and snuff at it, yet still.
Still it aboundeth. Had we seen a church,
A new-built church, erected north and south.
It had been something worth the wondering at.
Bird. Good works are done.
Flow. I say, no works are good,
Good works are merely popish, and apocrj-phal.
Bird. But the bad abound, suiTound, yea, and con-
found.
JCo marvel now if playhouses increase.
For they are all gro«-n so obscene of late,
That one begets another.
Flow. Flat fornication I
I wonder anybody takes delight
To hear them prattle.
Bird. Nay, and I have heard
That in a tragedy I think they call it :
They make no more of killing one another,
Than you seU pins.
Flow. Or you sell feathers, brother
But are they not hanged for it r
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Bird. Law grows partial,
And finds it but chance medley ; and their comedies
Will abuse you, or mo, or anybody ;
Wc cannot put our moneys to increase
By lawful usury, nor break in quiet,
Nor put off our false wares, nor keep our wives
Finer than others, but our ghosts must walk
Uljon tlicir stages.
Flow. Is not this flat conjuring,
' To make our ghosts to walk ere we be dead ?
Bird. That's nothing. Mistress Flowerdew, they wiU
play
The knave, the fool, the devil, and all for money.
Flow. Impiety ! Oh, that men endued with reason
Should have no more grace in them !
Bird. Be there not other
Vocations as thriving, and more honest ?
.Bailiffs, promoters, jailors, and apparitors.
Beadles, and marshals' men, the needful instruments
■Of the republic ; but to make themselves
Such monsters ? for they are monsters, they are monsters,
Base, sinful, shameless, ugly, vile, deformed,
Pernicious monsters ?
Flou\ I have heard our vicar
Call playhouses the Colleges of Trausgi'ession,
Wherein the Seven Deadly Sins are studied.
Bird. Why, then, the city will in time be made
-An University of Iniquity.
We dwell by Black Friars College, where I wonder
How that profane nest of pernicious birds
Dare roost themselves there in the midst of us,
So many good and well-disposed persons.
■Oh, impudence I
Flow. It was a zealous prayer
I heard a brother make concerning playhouses.
Bird. For charity, what is it ;■'
Flow. That the Globe,
Wherein (quoth he) reigns a -whole world of vice,
Had been consumed : the Phn-nix burnt to ashes.
The Fortune whipped for a blind [trull] : Black Friars
He wonders how it 'scaped demolishing
I' th' time of Refonnation. Lastly he wished
The Bull might cross the Thames to the bear-garden.
And there be soundly baited.
Bird. A good prayer.
Flow. Indeed it something pricks my conscience
I come to sell 'em pins and looking-glasS(;s.
Bird. I have their custom, too, for all their feathers ;
'Tis fit that we, which are sincere professors,
Should gain by infidels.
Scene 2.
Filter Roscius, a Player.
Mr. Roscius, we have brought the things you spake.
Bos. WTiy, 'tis well.
Flotv. Pray, sir, what serve they for ?
Bos. We use them in our play.
Bird. Are you a player ?
Ros. I am, sir, what of that ?
Bird. And is it lawful ?
Good sister, let 's convert him.
So fond a calling ?
Flow. And so impious ?
Bird. So iiTcligious ?
Flow. So unwarrantable ?
Bird. Only to gain by vice ?
Flou: To live bv sin i
Will you use
Bos. My spleen is up. And live not you by sin ?
Take away vanity, and you both may break.
What serves your lawful trade of selling pins,
But to joint gewgaws, and to knit together
Gorgets, strips, neckcloths, laces, ribbons, mffs,
And many other such-like toys as these,
To make the baby bride a pretty puppet ?
And you, sweet featherman, whose ware, though light,
O'erweighs your conscience. What serves your trade
But to plume foUy, to give pride her wings.
To deck vainglory :•' spoiling the peacock's tail
To adorn an idiot's co.\comb : Oh, dull ignorance!
How ill 'tis understood, what we do mean
For good and honest ; they abuse our scene,
And say we live by vice : indeed 'tis true,
As the physicians by diseases do,
Only to cure them. They do Uve we see
Like cooks by pampering prodigality.
Which are our fond accusers. On the stage
We set an usurer to tell this age
How ugly looks his soul ; a prodigal
Is taught by us how far from liberal
His foUy bears him. Boldly I dare say,
There has been more by us in some one play
Laughed into wit and virtue, than hath been
By twenty tedious lectures drawn from sin
And foppish humours : hence the cause doth rise,—
Men are not won by the ears so well as eyes.
Firet see -what we present.
Flow. The sight is able
To unsanctify oui- eyes, and make 'em carnal.
Bos. Will you condemn without examination ?
Bird. No, sister, let us call up all our zeal,
And try the strength of this temptation :
Satan shall see we dare defy his engines.
Flow. I am content.
Jios. Then take youi- places here, I will come to you,
And moralise the plot.
Flow. That moralising
I do approve, it may be for instruction.
Scene 3.
Enter a Deformed Fellow.
Ihf. Roscius, I hear you have a new play to-day.
lios. We -want not you to play Mephistophelea.
A pretty natural -wizard !
Def. ^\'^lat have you there ?
Ros. A looking-glass or two.
Def. ^\'^lat things !U-e they ':
Pray let me see them. Heaven, ■what sights are hero ?
I've seen a devil. Looking-glasses call you them !•'
There is no basilisk but a looking-glass.
Ros. 'Tis j'our own face you saw.
Def. Jly own ? thou liest ;
I'd not.be such a monster for the world.
Ros. Look in it now with me, what see'st thou now ?
Def. An angel and a devil.
Ros. Look on that
Thou call'st an angel, mark it well, and tell me
Is it not like my face 'i
Def. As 'twere the same.
Ros. Why so is that like thine. Dost thou not see,
'Tis not the glass, but thy defonnit}'.
That makes this ugly shape ; if they be fair
That view the glass, such the reflections are.
This serves the body ; the soul sees her face
In comedy, and has no other glass.
1
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PLAYS.
315
Bef. Nay then, farewell, for I had rather see
HeU than a looking-glass or comedy. \_Exit Def.
£os. And yet methinks if 't were not for this glass,
Wherein the form of man beholds his grace,
We could not find another way to see
How near our shapes approach divinity.
Ladies, let those who will your glass deride,
And say it is an instrument of pride ;
I will commend you for it : there you see
If you he fair how truly fair ye be ;
'UTiere finding beauteous faces, I do know
You'U have the greater care to keep them so.
A heavenly vision in your beauty lies.
Which nature hath denied to yom- own eyes ;
Were it not pity, you alone should be
Debarred of that others are blessed to sec ;
Then take your glasses, and yom-selves enjoy
The benefit of yourselves ; it is no toy.
Though ignorance at slight esteem hath set her,
That will preserve us good, or make us better.
A country slut (for such she was, though hero
r th' city may be some, as well as there),
Kept her hands clean (for those being always seen,
Had told her else how sluttish she had been).
But had her face as nasty as the stall
Of a fishmonger, or an usurer's hall
Daubed o'er with dirt : one might have dared to say
She was a true piece of Prometheus clay.
Not yet informed ; and then her unkembed hair
Dressed up with cobwebs, made her hag-like stare ;
One day within her pail (for country lasses.
Fair ladies, have no other looking-glasses),
She spied her ugliness, and fain she woidd
Have blushed, if thorough so much dirt she could :
Ashamed, within that water, that, I say.
Which showed her filth, she washed her filth away.
So comedies, as poets do intend them.
Serve first to show our faults, and then to mend them.
Upon our stage two glasses oft there be,
The comic mirror, and the tragedy :
The comic glass is fuU of meny strife,
The low reflection of a country life.
Grave tragedy, void of such homely sports,
Is the sad glass of cities and of courts.
The play afterwards followang the doctrine of
ArLstotle, that Vii-tue is seated in the mean, and
that each vice is either the too much or too little
of a virtue, shows the Vices by characteristic dia-
logue between paii-s of extremes. After which,
Mediocrity, the Golden Mean, Mother of Vu-tue, in-
trociuces her daughter witli a long speech, and Bird
and Flowerdew are treated to a Masque of the
Vii-tues.
But angiy Puritans still wan-ed against the stage,
and as the civil troubles gathered strength the
drama suflFered more and more neglect. Young poets
who would have written many plays had they been
bom in the preceding reign, wrote songs, and each a
play or two. Shakerley Marmion published in 1632
a play called " Holland's Leaguer," and in 1633 his
" Fine Companion." Holland's Leaguer was a place
of garden entertaimnent within the moat that sur-
rounded the old Manor House of Paris Garden. Sir
John Suckling WTote " A^Iaura," " Brennoralt," and
"The Goblins'^" before his" death in 16il. William
Habmgton produced " The Queen of An-agon " in
1040. WilHam Cart\\Tight, one of the most spiritual
and accomplished of the voimg Oxford men of his
^^ .^imm i
Holland's Leagcer.
Fro.ii the Title-imgt of a Pampltlit dated ISJi.
day, a " seraphical preacher " as well as a lyric poet,
ch-amatist, and a loyal friend to the king, died of
camji-fever in 1643, when he was but th'rty-two
yeai-s old. One of his four plays was
THE ROYAL SLAVE,
first acted on the 30th of August, 1636, before the
king and queen at Oxford, by students of Cart-
wTight's own college, Christchurch, and first printed
at Oxford in 1639. The habits Persian, the scene
Sardis, its plot is founded on a notion " that 'tis
the custom of the Pereian king.s, after a conquest, to
take one of the captives and adorn him with all the
robes of majesty, gi'i'ing him all privileges for three
full days, that he may do wliat he will, and then be
certainly led to death." After a ^^ctory over the
Ephesians, from among the enslaved prisoners from
Ephesus, Cratander, who excels his fellows in nobility
of character, is chosen and invested with this three
days' royalty. Thus he becomes " the Royal Slave."
Act I., Scene 1. — Philotas, Stratocles, Leocrates,
Archippus, Ephesian captives of a baser nature,
drink and riot in their prison, and mock Molops
their gaoler.
Scene 2. — Arsamnes, King of Pei-sia, accompanied
by his four lords Praxaspes, Hydarues, Masistes, and"
drontes, with Priests, enter the prison to select the
captive who is to be the chosen sacrifice to their god,
and made royal for three days before his death.
They scorn the prisonei-s they see, " theii- blood runs
thick;" but the gaoler is sent for one whom he had
set apart as, in his opinion, "wondrous heavy and
bookish, and therefore unfit for any honour." Molojis
then brings Cratander, at whose approach Ai-samnes
says,—
h
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vSee, thure cour's one
AiTned with a serious find majestic look
As if lie'd read jihilosoijliy to a king :
We've conquered something now. What read'st thou
there 'i
Molops. I believe he's conning a hymn against the
good time.
Crataiider. 'Tis a discourse o' the Nature of the Soul,
That shows the vicious, slaves ; but the well inclined.
Free and their own, though conqxiered.
CVatander still speaks iioUy, and is asked whether, if
he had vows to pay, he would sacriiice the best or
worst. He would give the best to the gods. Then
answers Arsamnes —
Bravely said.
But 'tis pity thou hast reasoned all this while
Against thyself, for our Religion doth
Require the immolation of one captive ;
And thou hast proved that he is best bestowed
Who best dcscrveth to be spared.
Cratauder, having sworn by the sceptre to be
faithful to the state, is robed by a priest who sings —
Come from the dungeon to the throne.
To be a King and straight be none.
Reign, then, awhile th.'it thou mayst be
Fitter to faU by Majesty.
Chorus. So beasts for sacrifice wc feed ;
First they are crowned, and then they bleed.
Fi-iest. Wash with thy blood what wars have done
Offensive to our God, the Siui :
That as thou fallest we may see
Him pleased, and set as red as thee.
Enjoy the glories then of state
Whiles pleasures ripen thee for fate.
Chorus. So beasts for sacrifice we feed ;
First they are crowned, and then they bleed.
Arsaiiuies. Now then, Cratander, I do here indulge
thee
All the prerogatives of Slajcsty
For three full days ; which being expired, that then
Thou mayst fall honourahlj-, I intend
To strike the blow myself.
Cratander remains master of himself. His first
order is for the release of his fellow-captives, and for
reinforcement of battle to complete the victory over
the Ephesians. The Persian lords obey unwillingly.
Scenes 3, 4.— Atossa, Queen of Persia, talks of
the three days' kmg with the Persian lords and her
ladies, Mandane ancl Ariene. His recognised nobility
of thought and bearing causes the queen, when she
hears of it, to say —
If he do well.
And keep his virtues up until his faU,
I 'U pay a good wish to him as he 's going,
And a fair mention of him when he 's gone.
Scene .5. — Arsamnes enters to the lords after
Atossa and her ladies have departed.
Arsuinnes. How doth our new King bear his royalty ?
PraxusjKS. If he go still on thus, his thi-ee days' folly
Will till your aimals.
He draws the admiration of the noblest ; wins the
com])assion of Atossa. The promise of the three
days' royalty must be faithfully kej)t, but the Royal
Slave must be watched narrowly. Says Arsamnes^
He must live
And reign his time prescribed ; but he must not
I'erfonu the actions he intends. Let then
All tho delights and pleasui'es that a slave
Admires in kings be offered. Though an hundred
Still watchful eyes beset his head, yet there
Is one way left ; music may subtly creep
And rock his senses so that all may sleep.
Act II., Scenes 1, 2, 3. — Cratander, in a stately-
palace, scorns the lu.xuries of meat and drink, and
blandishments of music that appeal to sensual
delight. To the lords who Ijring such music he
says—
I did expect some solemn Hymn of the
Great World's Beginning, or some bra\-c captain's
Deserving deeds extolled in lofty numbers.
Those softer subjects gi-ate oui' cars. But what
Ai'e these, my lord 'f the minstrels ':
All such temptations are in vain, and from a
gallery above, Queen Atossa and her ladies have
been witnesses of Cratander's worth.
Scene 4. — The baser Ephesian captives enter in
rich Persian habits, show their baser nature, and
are carrying ofl' Atossa 's ladies, when
Scene 5. — Cratander meets them, rescues the two
ladies, and threatens the foiu- slaves, his countrymen,
with prison for their ne.\t offence. Left alone with
his high thoughts, there falls before him a gold chain
thrown by Atossa from above.
What f More temptations yet ? Ha, whence ': fi-om
whom ':"
The heavens I hope don't di-op down foUies too !
No ami out of the clouds ? A chain ! "Uliy this
Is but an exprohation of my liite
Distressed fortune. 'Tis rich yet, and royal :
It can't be th' wealth of any but the throne.
Fall out what will, I '11 wear it till I know
From whence it came.
Scene 6. — Hippias and Phocion, two disguised
fellow-citizens from Ejihesus, now find Cratander,
and use all their elocjuence to urge him through love
of his native city, to use his three days' opportunity
for its deliverance out of the hands of the Persians.
But Cratander answers that he has sworn to the
King of Persia
Faith to his sceptre and himself, and must
Ask his leave ere I do betray his country.
He holds l)y truth against all pleas of patriotism,
but his soul is shaken. " Be then," says one of the
Ephesian emissaries —
A.D. 1S36.J
PLAYS.
317
Be then thy name
Blasted to all posterity, and let
Our -m-etched nephews when their souls shall labour
L'nder the Persian yoke, curse thee, and say
This slavery ■we owe unto Cratander.
Cratander. Pray, stay, I will go with j-ou, and consider.
How am I straitened I Life is short unto me :
And th' good man's end ought still to he a business.
We must die doing something, lest perhaps
We lose our deaths : we must not yet do ill,
That we misplace not action. If I strike
On this hand, I'm a p.arricide ; if on that,
The same brand waits me too. How do •■ I tremble
Like to the doubtful needle 'twixt two loadstones,
At once inclining unto both, and neither.
Here piety calls me ; there my justice stops me.
It is resolved. Faith shall consist with both,
And aged Fame after my death shall tell.
Betwixt two sins Cratander did do well.
So ends the Second Act.
Act III., Scene 1. — The four meaner Ephesians
are drinking with Molops, who says, "You Grecians,
I think, liave sponges in your maws ; 'tis but setting
your hands to yoiu- sides and squeezing yourselves,
and presently you drink as much as before." They
fall into unmeasured mirth, with bacchanalian sing-
ing.
Thus then we chase the night
With these true floods of light.
This Lesbian wine which, with its sparkling streams
Darting diviner graces.
Casts glories round our faces,
And dulls the taper with majestic beams.
Chorus. Then laugh we, and quaff we, until our rich
noses
Grow red and contest with our chaplets of roses.
Scene 2. — Cratander enters to them with a stem
rebuke of dninkenness. When he has left them
they rebel against him as insuiferable.
Scene 3. — The Persian lords Praxa.spes and
Masistes join the angry and drunken Ephesians, and
tempt them to kill Cratander before his time. The
dead ne'er go to sacrifice; Cratander's time of royalty
must therefore be pieced out by one of the other
captives — one of themselves will have a taste of
royal pleasures. They drink as they plot assassina-
tion, and Cratander, who is watchful, overhears
them.
Scene 4 is between Cratander and Atossa. He
■will not return her chain, but finds in her favour a
pure joy that wins from her an aflection not less
pm-e. " I can di-stinguish," he says —
betwixt love and love,
'Tween flames and good intents, nay, between flames
And flames themselves : the grosser now fly up
And now fall down again, still coveting new
Matter for food, consuming and consumed.
But the pure clearer flames that shoot up always
In one continued pyramid of lustre
Know no commerce with earth, but unmixt still
And stiU aspiring upwards — if that may
Be called aspiring which is nature — have
This property of immortality.
Still to suffice themselves, neither devouring
Kor yet devoured : and such I knowledge yours.
On which I look as on refined ideas
That know no mi.xture or corruption.
Being one eternal simpleness. That these
Should from the circle of their chaster glories
Dart out a beam on me, is far beyond
All human merit, and I may conclude
They 've only their own nature for a cause,
And that they 're good, they are diffusive too.
Atossa. Your tongue hath spoke your thoughts so
nobly that
I bear a pity to your %-irtues, which
Ere night shed poppy twice o'er th' wearied world
Must only be in those two registers.
Annals and Memory. Could you but contrive
How you might live without an injury
Unto religion, you should have this glory.
To have a queen your instrument.
He a,sks her aid not in the saving of his own life,
but in securmg the well-being of both Greece and
Persia. Praxaspes and Masistes will not allow
Cratander to be tnisted with an army, telieving that
he would use it to betray the kingdom to which he ha.s
sworn fidelity. But his intent is only to perfect the
conquest of Arsamnes, and Vjy so doing benefit liLs
own countrj-. The queen promises help, with the
thought to herself as he leaves her, that —
In great designs
Valour helps much, but virtuous love doth more.
Scene .5. — Arsamnes enters to his qvieen, and
protests agamst her gift of her chain — her favour —
to a slave —
Atossa. Doth not the Sun, the Sun which yet you
worship,
Send beams to other than yourself ? Yet those
Which dwell on you lose neither light nor heat,
Coming not thence less vigorous or less chaste ?
Would you seal up a fountain i or confine
The air unto your walk i would you enjoin
The flower to cast no smell but as you pass ?
Love is as free as fountain, air, or flower.
For 't stands not in 3 point ; 'tis large, and may
Like streams give verdure to this plant, that ti-ee,
Xay, that whole field of flowers, and yet still run
In "a most faithful course towards the bosom
Of the loved ocean.
Arsamnes reasons only to become more conscious
of the simple pu)ity of 'Atossa, transparent as her
ciystal, but more spotless, and recognises in her
kindness to Cratander " not the offence, but chanty
of love." , . .
Act IV., Scene 1. — Atossa tells Mandane, Anene,
and other ladies and " women of divers sorts " that
the slaves mean, next night, to rise against their
honour and their wealth.
To tell your husbands
Were to procure a slaughter on both sides.
If we avert the riot and become
Our own defence, the honour, as the action,
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AVill be entirely ours : which may be done
Only by flj^ing to Arsamnes' Castle,
A thing so easy, that 'twill only be
To take the air for fame ; and when we do
Keturn, our husbands shall strew praises in
Our ways, which we will tread on and contemn.
Omiies. Let 's fly, let 's fly, let 's fly.
And so it is resolved.
Scene 2. — His countiymen, the Ephesians, Hip-
pias and Phocion, still urge (Jiatander to save his
own Ephesus by lireaking trust ■with Persia. Cra-
tander .says —
Oh, Phocion !
Such men as you hare made our Grecian faith
Become a proverb t' exjiress treachery.
An oath 's the same in Persia and in Greece,
And binds alike in either.
Ephesus is oppressed and weak, her allies fall from
her, slie cannot regain a perfect liberty, but might
yet live protected as a weakened friend under the
Per.sian shelter ; still keei^ing her laws and liberties.
At that mark Ci-atauder aims. " Go then," he says —
And deal discreetly with the anny ; tell them
The tempest that is falling on their head.
Unless the Persian shield them. When you have
Persuaded them to this, conduct your forces
Towards Arsamnes' Castle, where the Queen
And ladies now expect me. But be sure
You come not within sight of .Sardis.
Phociov. 'Why?
Shall we not march beyond the frontiers then ?
Crntmidcr. By no means ; for you '11 cut off all retreat.
Now, when you see the numerous Persians come.
You may securely fly without the loss
Of any. This will quell the futiu-e rising
f)f those whose forwardness is not content
Either with the calm or tempest of affairs.
"We must comply with Foi-tune now we 're conquered.
Permit the rest unto the gods and me.
Having arranged so far, C'ratander prejiares to
meet the foreknown attempt upon his life by Iiis OAVii
countrymen.
Scene .3. — " Leocrates and Archippus, after a while
Philotas and Stratocles, all four disguised in beo-o-ars'
habits, one ha^-ing a leg, another "an arm tied up :
all some counterfeitmg of such maunding people.
Leocrates and Archippus peep out of the wood's side
at several iilaces." They wait for Cratander, who, as
they have been told by Praxaspes, will pass that way.
He is not expected for an hour, yet Stratocles thinks
they have done ill to leave their- weapons yonder.
Leocrates says pish, they can fetch them as soon as
they have agreed who is to kill Cratander. He shall
do it whom the next passenger declares to be fittest
to make a Persian priest.
Scene 4. — Cratander comes upon them unex-
pectedly. They surround him as feigned beggars, and
ask which of the four is fittest to make a Persian
priest. He has servants, he .says, who can settle
their doubts ; calls his servants, orders the arrest of
the four rascals, shows that he knows all their
plotting, and bids them be led through the city, with
their- assumed rags and sores and lamenesses, to.
Molops the gaoler.
Scene 5. — Hydarnes, Orontes, Praxaspes, and.
Masistes are amazed to find that all the women are-
gone, and there is not a smooth face left at court.
They have taken arms, it is found. But whither?
A messenger arrives bidding them make haste witK
all their forces
To th' Queen and ladies in Ai-samnes' Castle :
They now are likely to be all surprised
By the remainder of the Greeks.
Prax. Cratander,
That damned villain, hath enticed them thither
Merely to entrap them. Let us to the King- :
We '11 on, although against revolted slaves.
We fought with men before, but now with vice :
He calls for death that must be conquered twice.
Act v.. Scene 1. — " Atossa, Mandane, Ariene,
with divers other women in warlike habits, dis-
covered on the castle walls, witli Cratander fully
seated in the midst." Cratander expresses gratitude
to Atossa, who does so much tliat is heroic, of which
the reward can only be to rank her in story with a
slave.
Atossa. I do 't not to the man, but to the virtue,
The deed 's reward enough unto itself.
Cratander. 'T would be a piece of exemplary in-
gratitude
To bring you into any danger hence.
You 're safe as in your court. Your subjects shall not
Eun any doubtful hazard in the chance
Of an uncertain battle ; their first .step
Shall be victorious ; and when your eloquence.
Guarded with beauty, shall procure the freedom
Of our enthi-aUed City, the Ephesians
Shall know a goddess greater than their own.
And you depose our magnified Diana,
Having shrines in every breast outshining hers.
As for myself, I shall still live in those
Good benefits my country shall .receive.
This day instating me in immortality,
"WTiile raising thus our City by my fall,
I shall go down a welcome shade, and dwell
Among the ancient fathers of my country.
Scene 2. — •" To them below Ar.samnes, Hydarnes,
Orontes, Praxaspes, IMasistes, and others in warlike
habits." They naturally niisunder.stand the position
of Cratander, when they observe —
how proudly he
Sits in the midst, hemmed in on every side
With beauties.
They cannot shoot at him without endangering the-
women. The aggrieved Arsamnes calls to Atossa — •
Credulous woman.
Descend, Arsamnes calls thee, if he bo
A name regarded when Cratander 's by.
Atossa. Most virtuous sir, you may expect, perhaps,,
Atossa' s breast grown strange and wrested from
A.D. 1636.]
PLAYS.
319
Her wonted faith : but witness, O thou Sun,
Whom with a pious eye I now behold,
That I have neither tried to untie or loosen
That sacred knot ; but what I 've condescended
To aid thus far, is only a fair likeness
Of something that I love in you.
Arsamms. If then
Tour loyalty be still entire to me.
Shew it, and yield Cratander up to us.
Atossa. As his desii'es are honourable, so
Are our intents, with which there needs must stand
A resoluteness. It cannot be virtue
Unless 't be constant too. Th' approach o' th' enemv
Forbids me to say more. On to youi- victor)',
Your wonted art to conquer. They 're the relics
Of a few scattered troops, the fragments of
The last meal that your swords made. On, and when
You have subdued them wholly, we will plant
Fresh bays unto your brows, ^nd seal unto you
A peace as everlasting as our loves.
Soldiers within. Arm, ai-m, arm, arm !
Omiics. Methi-a and victory !
Scene 5. — The King of Persia and liis foUowere
go out to battle, aud they return soon from an enemy
that fled at sight of them. Then Ar.samnes tells the
■women that their fears may sleep securely now —
Open the castle gates.
Atossa. But you must grant us some conditions first.
Arsamnes. Must we be articled with by oiu' women ?
"What is 't, an 't please the gods, that you require.
Atossa. Cratauder's life.
Cratander. It is not in your power
To grant it, great Arsamnes. Your Queen speaks.
Out of a tender pity, to no purpose.
Atossa. Hear me, Ai-s;imnes. Whom the raging sword
Hath spared, why should the peaceable destroy ?
All hate 's not ended in the field, I see ;
There 's something still more cruel after war.
Arsaiiincs. Alas, you know not what you ask. The
gods
Permit not that he live : he falls to them.
Cratander. You must not hear her, sir, against the
gods.
Who now expect their solemn feast and banquet.
Atossa. If they are gods, pity 's a banquet to them.
Whene'er the innocent and virtuous
Doth escape death, then is their festival.
Nectar ne'er flows more largely than when blood 's
Not spilt that should be saved. Do you think the smoke
Of human entrails is a steam that can
Delight the deities ? Who e'er did burn
The building to the honour of the architect,
Or break the tablet in the painter's praise ?
'Tis mercy is the sacrifice they like.
Cratander. Let not affection call a curse upon you
While you permit it to take place of your
Religion.
Arsamnes. See, he will not live, Atossa.
To do the unwilling man a courtesy
Is but a specious tyranny.
Atossa. Alas 1
He would be near the gods, ho would leave us.
You must not, shall not, kill him, my Arsamnes.
The other women plead, aud stOl the royal slave
is tirm. Men plead, Orontes aud Hydames urge
their king, and then Arsamnes says : —
Cratander, live ; we do command thee, live.
Cratander. Bear witness, ye gods, that I do sofier
This as his servant, too. And ye, the souls
Of my deceased countrjTiien, who fell
In the last battle, if there yet be sense
In the forgetful urn, know that it was
No stratagem of mine to be detained
Thus long from your society. — Now to you,
Arsamnes : Good longs equal those in laws
Whom they have overcome in war; and to
The vaUant that chief part of good to which
We are all born, sweet Uberty, is pleasing
Even in the enemy. Your queen and others
Her ladies here, with the mo.st beautiful
Part of your royal c<jurt are in my power.
But far be 't from me to injure but the meanest.
Atossa presently tells Ai'samnes that she ha.s
bound herself by gi-eat and solemn vows to dwell
in the castle until Arsamnes
grant that the Ephesians may
Still freely use their ancient customs, changing
Neither their rights nor laws, yet still reserving
This honest power unto your royal self
To conmiand only what the free are wont
To undergo ^^•ith gladness.
Arsamnes replies that it is a time of mercy, that
his queen has only ciilled forth the favours that were
freely coming. Cratander has served his country,
and of the generosity of Arsamnes he says —
There I confess a conquest, where I find
He that subdued my body gains my mind.
Scene 4. — In prison; !Molops with his prisoners the
base Ephesians, still in their base disguises, jjrepare
for a grotesque dance before Arsanmes aud (_'i-a-
tander.
Scene .5. — At court ; they dance their dance, and
the ladies of the court, still in their warlike habit
and in solenm march, then proceed to a dance of
Amazons.
Scene 6. — There enters to the festivd at couit a
priest, who says
The fire is fully kindled, and the people
All in their festival attire : there wants
Only the sacrifice and yourself to kill it.
Arsamnes. The voice of ravens in the dead of uight
Conveys not harsher notes into mine ears.
I *ve pardoned him.
Priest. You cannot : unless you
Will be more impious in preserving him
Than you were valorous in conquering.
Arsamnes pleads with the ja-ie.st u\ vain, tinds
that the gods recall his courtesy, but ])romises Cra-
tander stixtues in his honour. Cratander meets his
fate like a philosopher.
320
CASSELL'S LIBRAEY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1636
To accuse
Or gods or men 's the part of liim that would
Live longer. If I look on the desires
Of some here, wliensoevcr I shall fall
I shall be thought to have lived too little ; if
On the actions 1 have done, I 've lived enough ;
If on the injuries of Fortune, too much ;
If on mine honour and my fame, I shall
Live still : He gains hy de.ith that doth die praised.
Others have longer kept an empire, but
None better left it. To speak more were but
A .sluggard's policy to defer his sufferings.
On to the altar.
With the warm friendship of Ai-samnes, and of all
about him, tlie royal slave goes to his death.
Scene 7. — The temple ; an altar, and one Imsy
placing fire thereon. As the sacrificial procession
enters, a priest sings,
Thou, bright Sun, who scest all,
Look down upon our captive's fall !
Never was purer sacrifice :
'Tis not a man, but virtue dies.
Clionis. While thus we pay our thanks, propitious be ;
And grant lis either peace or victory.
The sacrificial knife is then solemnly presented to
King Arsamnes. Cratander kneels as a I'eady A-ictim
at the altar, and another priest sings —
But thou, Sun, mayst set, and then
In brightness rise ne.xt morn agen.
He, when he shall once leave this light,
Will make, and have, eternal night.
Chorii.f. Good deeds may pass for sacrifice ; Oh, than.
Accept the virtues and give back the man.
Then the sun is eclipsed, and a shower of I'ain dashes
out the fire. Arsamnes prepares to give the stroke,
but is interrupted by the priest :
Hold, hold, Arsamnes.
Heaven is not pleased with your sacrifice.
The glorious Sun hath veiled liis face in clouds,
Not willing to behold it, aud the skies
Have shed such numerous tears, as have put out
The fire, though fully kindled.
Atossii. Thou hast now
The voice and visage of the gods, good priest ;
The Heavens were never more serene. The gods
Have justified my case, Cratander.
The knot was worthy of the intervention of the gods.
Cratander saved, gives lialf his remaining life to
Ephesus, half to Arsamnes. Arsamnes says that
Cratander, who has proved his royal nature as a
slave, shall be really a king in Greece, and ends the
play with the thought
Let others.
When they make war, have this ignoble end,
lin them slaves ; Arsamnes gains a friend.
To
An older man than the dramatists last illustrated,
though he survived most of them, was Jame.s
Shirley, born under Elizabeth in 1594. He lived to
be seventy -two, and died in the year of the Fii-e of
London, IGGti. He had been educated at Merchant
Taylors' School, and went to St. John's College,
Oxford, when Laud was President there. Laud
olijected to his taking orders because he had a mole
on his left cheek. He then went to Catharine Hall
at Cambridge, where he did take orders. Then he
taught in the Grammar School at St. Albans, passed
over to the Church of Rome, and was for the rest
of his life dramatist or schoolmaster, but dramatist
as long as he could live by the stage. He has left
us more than thirty plays with much clever inven-
tion in them. Charles I. and his queen were good
patrons to Shirley, and when a masque called the
"Triumphs of Peace" was produced, in 1034, hy
the four Inns of Coui-t in loyal defiance of Prynne
and his " Histrio-mastix," the designer was James
Shirley, and £20,000 were said to have been spent
on its production. He held for a time a commission
in the army. In 1637 he went to Ireland with
Strafibrd. His play of " The Sisters " was one of
the last produced — a piece called " The Irish Rebel-
lion " was the last play licensed — before the closing
of the theatres by Ordinance of the Lords and Com-
mons, on the 2nd of September, 1042. The play
which ha})pened to be produced by Shirley imme-
diately after Prynne's imprisonment was " The Bird
in a Cage." Its title caused him to publish V^efore
it an ironical dedication to the prisoner. In the
play, a certain banished Philenzo, who had loved
Eugenia the daughter of the Duke of Mantua, re-
turns in disguise as Rolliardo, a wUd humourist,
when the Duke is shutting his daughter up in a
tower, guarded from approach of man, until he
wed her to a husband of his o^v^l approi'ing. Rol-
liardo talks his wildest to the Duke, who asks,
"You have your senses T' "Five," he says, "the
small birds dare not peep for 'em, I take it." There
is nothing he cannot achieve — with money. Tlie
Duke takes him at his word, and will try through
him the eflicacy of his guard upon Eugenia. Rol-
liardo shall have money at wUl for a month,
try only to come into the presence of the Duke's
daughter, and die if he fails. He finds guards incor-
ruptible, but by help of a mountebank makes his
way into the tower disguised as a great bird in a
cage of strange birds which the Duke is tempted to
send for his daughter's entertainment.
Richard Brome, who had been a servant of Ben
Jonson's, wi-ote his first play in 1632. Henry
Glapthorne was a minor dramatist of the time of
Charles I., among whose plays is one on Wallen-
.stein, printed in 1639. It was in 1641 that Sir
John Denham, born in 1G1.5, produced his one ]>lay,
" Tlie Sophy," which caused Waller to say of him
that he "broke out like the Irish rebellion, three-
score thousand strong, when nobody was aware, or in
the least suspected it." The play opens in Persia
when there is much dread of an impending battle
with the Turks. Prince Mirza, son of Abbas the
Persian kijig, is at the head of the army, and obtains
a crowning victory. The king is of a jealous and sus-
picious temper, and is led by Haly, his fevourite, to
believe that his son hates him aud desires his throne.
TO A.D. 1660.]
PLAYS.
321
After a scene of such practising an the king's mind,
Haly suggests that those who seek the favour of
the coming sovereign are ready
To make
The father's life the price of the son's favour,
To walk upon the graves of our dead masters
To our own security.
[ICiiiy starts and scratches his head.
Hull/. [Aside.'] This must take : — Does this plainness
please you, sir ?
We may be disposed also to start at tlie tragic
stage direction. The noble Prince is imprisoned, and
has his eyes burnt out, and afterwards is in passion
on the point of killing his own daughter Fatyma,
because his fiither loves her. He is turned from his
purpose by her innocent talk, in a scene artificially
natural. Then he is poisoned by Haly, who also de-
poses King Abbas. King Abbas dies tormented by
remorse for his injustice to his son, but the Prince
has left a young son, the Sofy, to be made king in
his turn, and do justice on the villains of the play.
His last words that close the piece are
Let 's study for a punishment,
A feeling one,
And borrow from our sorrow so much time
T' invent a torment equal to their crime.
There was not much left of the spirit of Shake-
speare on the English stage when the decree of the
2nd of September-, 1642, closed the theatres until
the Restoration. Sir William Davenant, who had
written plays under Charles I., defied the ordinance of
the Puritans under the Commonwealth by producing
an entertainment in recitative and song, which he
declared to be no play, but an opera. For such
entertainment he opened Rutland House, Charter-
house Yard, on the 21st of May, 1656, and there
he produced in operatic form, the first part of " The
Siege of Rhodes;" transformed into a play, with the
addition of a second part, after the Restoration.
Theatre Checks of Deuhy Lane and the Ddee's Theatre
(1671).
161
CHAPTER VIII.
Under Charles II. and James II.— a.d. 1660 to
A.D. 166'J.
Theatres were reopened at the Restoration, but
the Puritans avoided them. Patroiutge of a dissolute
but witty king and his court reduced the standard
of the drama to tlie royal level. Earnest men who
were no Puritans felt the degradation of the staf'e,
and Samuel Johnson, in his Prologue written for the
reopening of Drury Lane by Garrick in 1747, has
hardly overstated it.
The \%-its of Charles found easier ways to fame.
Nor wished for Jonson's art, or Shakespeare's flame.
Themselves they studied ; as they felt they wTit :
Intrigue was plot, obscenity was wit.
Vice always found a sympathetic friend ;
They pleased their age, and did not aim to mend.
Yet bards like these aspired to lasting praise.
And proudly hoped to pimp in future days.
Their cause was general, their supports were strong ;
Their slaves were willing, and their reign was long ;
Till shame regained the post that sense betrayed.
And virtue called oblivion to her aid.
Wit of the sensualist gives only an artificial polish
to such pictures of low life in high places as we get
from comedy after the Restoration. Apart from the
influence of the king's character, there was, directly
and through France, a growing influence of the
Sjjanish theatre on English comedy. In Spain,
comedy was formed almost exclusively upon plots
of animal love and intrigue. In England, such plots
now became general. Comedy left the fellowship of
all the Muses, to become the comrade of a satyr
dressed in a court suit. The grand sincerity that
had marked Tragedy when at her wildest in the old
poetic days, gave way to conventional artifice and
empty mouthings, to which the poet's soul had
little to contribute, and in which his ingenuity was
often much astray. French influence was established,
and the best wi-iters of tragedy looked rather to Cor-
iieille — and to Corneille in his second and worse
mamier — than to Shakespeare. When, after a time,
more substance came into our comedies, that was
due not to a deeper msight into life, but to the
influence of the great genius of Moliere. French
criticism — much amiss and holding itself faultless —
introduced shallow conceit into the judgments of the
English courtier who aspii-ed to the fashionable title
of a man of sense, or wit, or parts. It was creditable
to have such aspiration, to atiect the %-irtue of a
care for letters, and make it a fashion to encourage
wit. Unliappily there was a low conception of the
spii-it of good literature, and the formalist was critic
of its form. Every fop thought he could mend
Shakespeare. Good poets, bad poets, and men who
were no poets at all, dressed Shakespeare's plays afresh
to make them what the shallow poetasters of their
own age— the French-classical aiidases and clever
rakes-^considered to be passable. These men had no
power over the real strength of the English people,
which was as marked in the time of Charles II. as
322
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.u. 1660
in yeai-s before. They could not stop Jolui Milton
from writing " Paradise Lo.st," or John Bunyau from
writing the " Pilgrim's Progi-ess ; " but they did suc-
ceed in putting down the English drama. Sir William
Davenant thought that Shakespeare's " Tempest "
would be much improved if there were added to
its character of a woman who had never seen a man,
another character of a man who had never seen a
woman. He suggested this fine notion to Dryden,
then a younger man, who actually worked it out,
and found it necessary to include another woman
who had never seen a man, to be paired at the end
of the play with the man who had never seen a
woman, because among Shakespeare's characters
there was nobody who would serve as a wife for
him. Otway laid his hands upon Shakespeare's
" Romeo and Juliet," and gave it the " classical "
turn then in fashion, by transforming it into " The
History and Fall of Cains Marius," where Romeo
was transformed into a Marius Junior, and Juliet
into a Lavinia. Shadwell recast " Timon of Athens,"
which he said '' has the inimitable hand of Shake-
s]ieare in it, which never made more masterly strokes
than in this. Yet I can truly say, I have made it
into a play ! " Nahum Tate altered " King Lear "
and " Coriolanus." "Macbeth" was furnished by
Sir William Davenant with new songs, Locke's
music, and a liberal display of ballet dancers ; and
Dryden, who altered " Troilus and Cressida " and
"The Tempest," spent .some of his best work on a
new version of Shakespeare's " Antony and Cleo-
patra," which he understood so little — reading it
according to the sensual fashion of his day — that he
called it " All for Love, or the World Well Lost,"
when Shakespeare meant the direct opposite to that
— " All for Lust, or the World 111 Lost."
Sir William Davenant was Charles II. 's first poet
laureate. He was born in 1605, the son of an Ox-
ford innkeeper, who sent him to Lincoln College.
He became jiage to the Duchess of Richmond, and
was for a time in the household of a thoughtful ])oet
— Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke. After Lord Brooke's
murder in 1628, Da\'enant turned to the stage, be-
came jiopular at the court of Charles I. for his
masques and plays, and was made governor of the
king's and queen's company acting at the Cockpit, in
Drury Lane. In the civil war, he was knighted for
service at the siege of Gloucester. Then he was an
exile in Paris, and in 16.51 published his fragment of
an heroic poem — "Gondibert," — in which he laiddown
absolutist principles, and showed a leaning to jihilo-
sophical thought, which had won him the friendship
of Thomas Hobbes. Davenant was capable of more
than he achieved. The better mind was (lulled by a
libertine life, and repressed by the low taste (afiecting
to be finely critical) that he was bound to satLsfy, as
Charles II. 's poet laureate and the leading dramatist
in the first days after the Restoration. He became
manager of the Duke's Theatre, established first in
Portugal Row, Lincoln's Inn Fields, where he was
the first to introduce on the stage costly decorations
of scenery. Another change made after the Restora-
tion was the full introduction of women as actresses
of female parts. The cu.stom had been to train boys
for such parts, though the custom had sometimes
been broken. In " The Court Beggar," played in
1033, a Lady Strangelove says, "The boy's a pretty
actor, and his mother can play her part. The women
now are in great request." Of such actresses in
Charles I.'s time, Thomas Brand, a Puritan, wrote,
" Glad am I to say they were hissed, hooted, and
pippin-pelted from the stage." After the Restora-
tion, Thomas Killigrew was appointed manager of
the King's Theatre, which was the Cockpit in Drury
Lane xnitil the new theatre in Druiy Lane was
opened in April, 1663. It was he who, in 1661,
began the regular use of professional actresses, and
they were now so popular that in Killigrew's own
play of " The Parson's Wedding " — which turned the
Plague to comic account — Pepys was told that all
the parts, male and female, were taken by womeiL
Sir William Davenant, however, lost no time in
following Killigrew's example, in the second part of
his " Siege of Rhodes." Though living an ill life,
to which part of his nose fell a sacrifice, the touch of
deeper thought is often traceable in Davenant's
writiiifj.
Sir William Davenant. {From the Forti-ait hij John Grecnltill^
engraved for the Folio Edition of Davenant's Worlcs.)
THE SIEGE OF RHODES, '
produced under the Commonwealth as an opera, with
various scenery, was recast after the Restoration, and
enlarged by the addition of a second part in 1661.
Davenant adopted the rhymed couplets of French
tragedy — thence called " heroic," though in earlier
and better days Chaucer had established them as a
good gossiping measure, and they were known after
him as " riding rhyme." Davenant also kept some
of the music, and an incidental show of singmg and
dancing, which from his example became thenceforth
a regular feature in the " heroic play" of Charles II.'s
time. Dryden followed Davenant as chief author of
those heroic plays of which the " Siege of Rhodes " is
the fii-st pattern. Davenant attached to his play a
political lesson, on the evil of disunion, and the ad-
vantage of a form of civil government like that which
10 A.D. 1661.]
PLAYS.
323
Hobbes argvied for in his " Leviathan," with a single
absolute head, and of a single church intolerant of
sectaries. In the dedication to the Earl of Clarendon,
lie ^\Tote before his tirst printed edition of the play,
in 1663, " In this poem I have revived the remem-
brance of that fatal desolation which wa-s permitted
by Christian Princes when they favour'd the ambition
of such as defended the diversity of Religions (begot
by the factions of Learning) in Germany : whilst
tliose who would never admit Learning into their
Empire (lest it should meddle with Pieligion and
intangle it with Controversy) did make Rhodes de-
fenceless ; which was the only fortify 'd Academy in
Christendome where Divinity and Ai-ms were equally
profess 'd."
In a Preface to the Reader dated August, 16.56, Sir
William Davenant refers to his desire for a larger
theatre. The first part of the " Siege of Rhodes " was
acted within narrow bounds, all the dialogue being
written for singing in recitative, to remove the piece
outside the forbidden ground of a stage play ; and he
says, " it has been often wisht that oiu- scenes (we
having oblig'd ourselves to the variety of live changes,
acconling to the Ancient Drammatick distinctions
made for time) had not been confined to eleven foot
in height and about fifteen in depth, including the
places of passage reserv'd for the Musick. This is
so narrow an allowance for the Fleet of Solyman the
Magnificent, his army, the Island of Rhodes, and the
varieties attending the Siege of the City, that I fear
you will think we invite you to such a contracted
trifle as that of the Csesars carv'd upon a Nut." This
was the decoration of the Proscenium in aid of the
first attempt made at scenic efiect upon an English
Stage : —
The Ornament which encompass' d the scene, consisted of
several Columns of gross Rustic work ; which bore up a large
Freese. In the middle of the Freese was a Compartiment,
wherein was written Rhodes. The Compartiment was sup-
ported by divers Habiliments of War ; intermix' d with the
Military Ensignes of those sever.il Nations who were famous
for defence of that Island ; which were the French, Germnns,
and Spaniards, the Italians, Acergnois, and English : The
Renown of the English valour made the Grand Master
Villerim to select their Station to be most frequently com-
manded by himself. The principal enrichment of the Freese
was a Crimson Drapery, whereon several Trophies of Arms
were fixt. Those on the Right hand, representing such as
are chiefly in use amongst the AVestem Nations ; together
with the proper cognisance of the Order of the Ehodian
Knights ; and on the left, such as are most esteem'd in the
Eastern Countries ; and on an Antique Shield the Crescent of
the Ottomans.
The Scene before the Fikst Entry.
The Curtain being drawn up, a lightsome Sky appear'd,
discovering a Maritime Coast, full of craggy Rocks, and high
Cliffs, with several Verdures naturally growing upon such
scituations ; and afar off, the true Prospect of the City Rhodes,
when it was in prosperous estate : with so much view of the
Gardens and HiUs about it, as the narrowness of the Room
could allow the Scene. In that part of the Horizon, termi-
nated by the Sea, was represented the Turki,sh Fleet making
towards a Promontory, some few mUes distant from the
town.
The Entry is prepared by Instrumental Musick.
The First Entry.
Enter Admiral.
Admir. Arm, Arm, 1'illeriii.i, Aim'.
Thou hast no leisure to grow old ;
Those now must feci thy courage warm,
Who think thy blood is cold.
Enter ViLLEKius.
Viller. Our Admu-al from sea ?
"What stoi-m transporteth thee ?
Or bring'st thou storms that can do more
Than drive an Admiral on shore ?
The Turkish fleet is on its way to Rhodes from
Chios. Tumult of warlike preparation. Entei-s
Alphonso, a Sicilian Duke, to a,sk what the noise is
about, and is told that these bright Crescents
are yet but the fore running Van
Of the prodigious Gross of Solyman.
Enters the High Marshall of Rhodes, who joins iii
complaint that the Western Nations fight together
and leave Rhodes to its fate. Ali)honso wedded to
lanthe but a month ago, is only a guest in Rhodes ;
he is bidden to return to Sicily. " We love to lodge,
not to entomb a guest." But the brave youth wUi
stay to share the danger —
My sword against proud Solyman I draw,
His cursed Prophet and his sensual Law.
All depart from the stage, Choi-us resounding those
last words
Om- swords against proud Solyman we draw,
His cursed Prophet and his sensual Law.
Enter lanthe, with Melosile and Madina, her two
women, bearing two open caskets with jewels,
lanthe is in Sicily, but will fly to her imjierilled love
in Rhodes, and turn her jewels into anus and gun-
powder. But her maids lament the sacrifice of jewel-
lery. A soldier's chonis then ends the first entry,
after which "The scene is chang'd, and the city,
Rhodes, appears beleaguer 'd at sea and land. The
Entry is again prepar'd by instrumental musick."
Dialogue between VUlerius and the Admiral shows
that the defence of Rhodes has lasted for three
months. Duke Alphonso has by the tire of his valour
warmed the people's blood, but the nations of Europe,
torn liy their own discords and mean ambitious, leave
at Rhodes the Crescent to drive away the Cross.
Duke Alphonso, then entering, smgs the brave deeds
of the men who at Rhodes represented diflferent
nations of Europe, but adds
If Death be rest, here let us die,
Where weariness is aU
We daUy get by Victory,
Who must by Famine fall.
Great Solyman is landed now ;
AU Fate he seems to be ;
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[i.D. 1660
And brings those Tempests in his brow
Which he deserved at sea.
The defeiidera of Rliodes, resolving to do worthily,
quit the stage ; then enter Solymau the Magnificent,
and Pirrhus, his Vizier Bassa. Solyman rebukes
his Bassa for liaving been delayed so long before a
single town. " Away ! " says Solyman,
Away ! range all the Camp for an Assault !
Tell them, they tread in graves who make a halt.
" Exit Pirrhus, bowing," and Solyman sings that
the Christians, though dissolute in love and wine,
excel in war. Then Mustapha, one of his Bassas,
brings to him lanthe veOed.
SohjmttH. What is it thou wouldst show, and yet dost
shroud ?
3Ii<slnj}lin. I bring the Morning pictured in a Cloud.
The two galleys with which lanthe was coming to
Rliodes had been taken by a Turkish squadron,
though lanthe, veiled also when on board, had urged
her men to tight.
Mi<sl(ip/ia. This is lanthe, the Sicilian flower.
Sweeter than buds unfolded in a shower.
Bride to Alphonso, who in Rhodes so long
The theme has been of each heroic song ;
And she for his relief those galleys fraught ;
Both stowed with what her dower and jewels bought.
She will not unveil for Solyman because Mustapha
had sworn by the Projihet that he would convey
her veiled to lier husband at Rhodes, and that only
her husband shovdd remove the veil. But for tliat
promise she would not have lived. Solyman praises
the generous virtue of his Bassa, orders that the lady
and her galleys freighted with food for the famine
stricken be both sent with honour into Rhodes, the
Turks lowering flags and firing salutes ; and that she
and her Alplionso have safe passage back to Sicily.
The second entry then ends with a Chorus of women
who are at work with spades on the defences of
Rhodes.
Then " the further part of the scene is open'd, and
a Royal Pavilion appears display'd ; representing
SoUnians Imperial throne ; and about it are discern'd
ihe Quarters of his Bassas and inferiour Ofiicers. The
entry is again ]irepared by instrumental musick.
The Third Entry, Enter Soliman, Pirrhus, Mtistapha."
The utmost power of tlie East is to be ranged, with
the dawn, against doomed Rhodes.
Firrhus. When to all Rhodes our army does appear.
Shall we then make a sudden halt,
And give a general assault ?
S/Ujman. Pirrhus, not yet, lanthe being there :
Let them our valour by our mercy prize.
The respite of this day
To rirtuous love shall pay
A debt long due for all my victories.
Miistajyha. If virtuous beauty can attain such grace
Whilst she a captive was, and hid.
What wisdom can his love forbid
When Virtue 's free and Beauty shows her face ?
Sult/iiKDi. Dispatch a trumpet to the town;
Summon lanthe to be gone
Safe with her lord. When both are free
And on their course to Sicily,
Tlien Rhodes shall for that valour mourn
AVhich stops the haste of our return.
A host of masons have arrived from Greece. They
shall within a month build a palace for Solyman, on
Mount Philermus, within sight of the Rhodians,
where, he says, " if my anger cannot them subdue,
my patience shall out wait them."
"The scene is chang'd to that of the town besieged.
Enter Villerius, Admiral, Alpliutiso, lanthe." lanthe
is praised for her love, by which one woman has done
more for Rhodes than all the kings of Europe-. Says
the Admiral to her,
Though Rhodes no pleasure can allow,
I dare secure the safety of it now ;
All will so labour to save you
As that will save the city too.
Left alone with AJjihonso he fears that her presence
will make him for her sake a cowai'd ; but she shows
spirit, tells how Solyman had sent her to him, given
her galleys back to her.
Alphonso. O wondrous enemy !
lanthe. These are the smallest gifts his bounty knew.
Alphonso. What could he give you more ?
lanthe. He gave me you.
And you may homeward now securely go
Through all his fleet.
Alphonso. But honour says not so.
lanthe. If that forbid it, you shall never see
That I and that will disagree ;
Honour will speak the same to me.
Alphonso. This Chi-istian Turk amazes me, my dear.
lantlie presently departs, and Alphonso warbles
over his perplexity.
Then enters suddenly Solyman's wife, Roxolana,
with Pirrhus and another Bassa, Ru.stan. Solyman's
wife has heard of lanthe, had a twinge of jealousy,
and set off straight for Rhodes. And, she saj's, —
And, as a present, I
Bring vainlj' ere I die
That heart to him which he has now forsaken.
The entry then ends with a chorus of men and
women, who sing their opinion that all husbands and
wives should try to be Alphonsos and lanthes.
For the fourth entry, which is again prepared
by instrumental music, " The scene is varied to the
prospect of ]Mount Philermus: Artificers ajipearing at
work about that castle which was there, with wonder-
ful expedition, erected by Solyman. His gi-eat army
discovered in the plain below, dra\vn up in Battalia;
as if it were prepared for a general assault."
Solyman enters with Pirrhus and Mustapha,
wondering that Alphonso and lanthe have refused
TO i.D. 1661. 1
PLAYS.
325
his passport and resolve to die. He is determined to
save them iii spite of themselves.
Go, JIustapha, and strictest orders give,
Through all the camp, that in assault they spare,
And in the sack of this presumptuous town.
The lives of these two strangers with a care
Above the preservation of their own.
Alphonso has so oft his courage shown,
That he to all but cowards must be known,
lanthe is so fair, that none can be
Mistiiken, among thousands, which is she.
" The scene returns to that of the to^^^l besieged.
Enter Alp/ionso, lanthe." lanthe reasons that —
We were too proud no use to make
Of Soljinan's obliging proffer ;
For why should honour scorn to take
What honoui-'s self does to it offer.
Alplionso. To be o'ercome by his victorious sword
"WiU comfort to our fall afford :
Our strength may yield to his ; but 'tis not fit
Our virtue should to his submit ;
In that, lantte, I must be
Advanced, and greater far than he.
lanthe. He is a foe to Rhodes and not to you.
Alphonso. In Rhodes besieged we must be Rhodians too.
lanthe. 'Twas fortune that engaged you in this war.
Alphonso. 'Twaa Providence. Heaven's prisoners here
we are.
lanthe. That Providence our freedom does restore;
The hand that shut now opens us the door.
Alphonso. Had Heaven that passport for our freedom
sent,
It would have chosen some better instnunent
Than faithless Solyman.
lanthe. O say not so !
To strike and wound the virtue of your foe
Is cruelty which war does not allow :
Sure he has better words deserved from you.
Alphonso. From me, lanthe, no;
What he deserves from you, you best must know.
So Aljihonso proceeds to be jealous. lanthe is
distressed thereby, and resolves to seek her death in
the assault to-morrow. Then enter Villerius and the
Admiral, who let us know that the enemy has mined,
the Rhodians have countermined, and Duke Alphonso
has his corn-age and his reason overthrown by jealousy.
Everybody knows it. Says the Admiral — ■
Already they perceive Alphonso wild.
And the beloved lanthe grieved.
ViUcr'uis. Let us no more by honour be beguiled;
This town can never be reheved ;
Alphonso and lapthe being lost,
Rhodes, thou doat cherish life with too much cost.
Chorus proposes then a sally from the forts.
Drive back the Crescent and advance the Cross
Or sink all human empires in our loss !
Tlien enters Eoxolana, jealous, with Pirrhus, Eus-
tan, and two of her women. Solyman will not see
her before the impending assault has been delivered.
His mind, she knows, is on lanthe. . Haly entei-s to
announce the sally of the Rhodians.
Our foes appear I the assault will straight begin.
They sally out whore we nmst enter in.
Eoxolana laments for Solyman, and a chorus of
wives closes the fourth entry by smging about jealou.sy.
Then the scene is changed into a representation of a
general assault given to the town ; the greatest fuiy
of the army being discerned at the English station.
The fifth entry, again prepared by in.strumental
music, begins -ndth Pii-rhus busy. '" Traverse the
cannon ! Mount the batteries higher:" and so forth.
Then Mustapha —
Jlore ladders and reliefs to scale !
The fire-crooks are too short ! Help, help to hale !
and so forth. Solyman enters with like martial
ardour. The Turks give way. The Ehodiaus give
way.
Mustapha. Those desperate English ne'er will fly !
Their firnmess stiU doth hinder others' flight,
As if their mistresses were by
To see and praise them while they fight.
Solyman. That flame of valour in Alphonso's eyes
Outshines the light of all my victories.
Mustapha saw a vision of a fighting woman in the
English station, "fairer than woman, and than man
more tierce."
It had a dress much like the imag'rie
For heroes drawn, and may lanthe be.
The English seem to retire. Solyman advances,
seeking to conquer two whom he by force would save.
Then enters Aljihonso with his sword drawn, worried
by Solyman's edict that forbids attack upon himself
or lanthe. The Admiral entere to call him to aid ;
tells that lanthe disguised lies wounded in the
English bulwark. Rhodes calls him to the rescue of
his gi-eat master. Honom- pulls that way. Pity calls
him to the side of his suspected ^rife. Pity i)ulls
strongest, and says Alphonso —
Hence, Admiral, and to my master hie 1
I will as swiftly to my mistress fly.
Then thev go out several ways.
Pii-rhus enters repulsed. Seven ci-escents are lost.
He pours out military orders. Mustapha comes in
and pours out some more. Solyman comes in and
abuses liis people, who
prevail
But so as shoals of herrings choke a whale.
This dragon Duke so nimbly fought to day,
As if he wings had got to stoop at prey.
lanthe is triumphant, but not gone ;
And sees Ehodcs stiU beleaguered but not won.
Audacious town 1 thou keep'st thy station still ;
And so my castle tarries on that hill.
Where I will dwell till famine enter thee.
And prove more fatal than my sword could be.
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[a.d. 1661
Nor sliall lanthe from my favour run,
But stay to meet and praise what she did shun.
The scene is chang'd to that of the toicn besicg'd.
Enter Villebics, Admiral, Ianthe.
She in a night-goun ; and a chair is brought in.
lanthe is told in song that slie is not seriously
wwmdecl, and that the Ottoman attack has been
repelled, chiefly by help of Alphonso's valour ; but
Al])honso too is slightly wounded. Presently
Alphonso also enters wounded, led in by two mutes.
He is son-y he was jealous ; she is sorry that she did
resent his jealousy.
Alphonso. Accursed crime '. O let it have no name
Till I recover blood to show my shame.
lanthe. AMiy stay wo at such distance when we treat .'
As monarchs' children making love
By proxy to each other move.
And by advice of tedious councils meet.
Alphonso. Keep back, lanthe, for my strength does fail
When on thy cheek I see thy roses pale.
Draw aU the curtains, and then lead her in ;
Let me in darkness moiuTi away my sin.
So lanthe is carried out in a sedan chair, and
Alphonso is led away by the two mutes. Then
enter Solyman and Eoxolana with her women at-
tendants. Solyman tells his wife that her women
have fed her jealousy. The women say that reports
justified them, and Solyman thus ends the dialogue
of the play : —
My war with Rhodes will never have success
TiU I at home, Roxana, make my peace.
I will be kind, if you 'U grow wise ;
Go chide your whisperers and j'our spies.
Be satisfied with liberty to think ;
And when you should not see me, loam to wink.
Then all ends with a triumphant chorus of soldiere
of Rhodes. Tlie last stanza thereof, on which the
curtain falls, ynW be eight lines more than enough
of it.
You began the assault
With a very long halt ;
And as halting ye came.
So ye went off as lame ;
And have left our Alphonso to scoff ye.
To himself as a dainty
He keeps his lanthe.
Whilst we drink good wine, and you drink but coffee.
The End of the Fiith Entry.
The Curtain is let fall.
In Sir WUliam Davenant's company in April,
1662, Mistress Davenport played Roxalana, and
Mistress Saimderson played lanthe in the " Siege of
Rhodes." Among the boys who were still used to
play women's pai-ts, the most popular was Edward
Kynaston, who .grew to be a stately actor, and died
a rich man in 1712. Charles Hart, son of a player
who was the eldest son of Shakespeare's sister, was
after 1663 the best actor in the King's company
of players, under Thomas KUligi-ew. Hart withdrew
from the stage in 1679, and died soon afterwards.
In the Duke of York's company, under Sii- William
Davenant, the chief actor was Thomas Betterton,
who achieved in the " Siege of Rhodes " a great
success, and then played " Hamlet " under instruc-
tion from Su- William Davenant, who had seen how
the part was acted when it might be supposed that
Shakespeare's own Lnstiiictions to the player added
charm to the performance. Betterton did not rant,
and in later years he won the applause of Richard
Steele when acting " Hamlet " at the age of seventy-
four. In 1663, Betterton man-ied Mistress Saunder-
son, the actress of lanthe in the " Siege of Rhodes."
In respectable families, only the little girls were
then called " Miss," and no actress was so styled
before the year 1702. Bettei-ton died in 1710.
CoUey Gibber said of him, " How Shakespeare wrote,
all men who have a taste for nature may read and
know ; but with what higher rapture would he still
be read, could they perceive how Betterton played
him." He is said to have felt his part so keenly,
that on the appearance of the ghost in the third act
of " Hamlet," Betterton's naturally iiiddy face would
turn perfectly white with emotion. His wife's
Lady Macbeth was not less famous.
The new theatre designed by Sir Chiistopher Wren
for Sir WUliam Davenant soon after the Restoration
Front of the Theatre in Dorset Gardens.
'* Empvess of Morocco.")
(From Settle's
was one of several buildings on the .site of Doi-set
House, or SackvDle House, formerly Salisbury
Court, a mansion of the Bishops of SalLsbury, west
of Whitefriars. It had passed from the Bishops to
TO A.D. 1664.]
PLAYS.
327
the Sackvilles, was the house in which Thomas Sack-
^411e wrote " Fenex and Porrex," our first trauedy,
and after it had been pulled down, Davenant's new
theatre was among the houses built on its site. In
the fii-st printed copy (1673) of Elkanah Settle's
tragedy, the '' Empress of Morocco," there is a
frontispiece, showing the outside of the new Dorset
Gardens Theatre, in which the play was acted.
The same copy of Settle's play, beLug the fir.st
play-book " adorned with scidptures," shows the
cember, 1663, Dryden manied Sir Piobert Howard's
sister Elizabeth, daughter of the Earl of Berk-
shire, and in the following month, January, 1664,
THE IXDIAX QUEEX
was produced at the King's Theatre with rich scenery
and decoration.
In the Fust Act, the Inca of Peru, \-ictorious over
the Mexicans by aid of the valour of the young
stranger, Montezuma, offei-s Montezuma all rewards,
Pboscenium of the Dorset Gardens Theatre.
character of Su- William Davenant's scenery and
gi-oupmg, by giving a picture of the chief stage
scene in each of the five acts, with the proscenium of
the theatre in each case for a setting. The first
scene — a dungeon — is given here, with the pro-
scenium, to show part of the interior decorations
of the Dorset Gardens Theatre. The other scenes
will be given presently, with a veiy short sketch of
the plav they illustrated.
In February, 1663, John Diyden, then in his
thirty-second vear, produced at the King's Theatre
his first plav, a comedy called " The Wild Gallant."
It was a failure, but "he was then working with a
friend four or five years older than himself. Sir
Ptobert Howard, vounsest son of the Earl of Berk-
shire, at a play called "The Indian Queen." ''" "f^°
InDe-
and gives him his prisoner, Prince Acasis, son of Zem-
poalk, the usurping Indian Queen. Montezimia sets
Acasis free and asks the hand of the Inca's daughter
Orazia. The Inca parts in wrath. Montezuma wdl
take vengeance by carrying his sword to the side of
the Mexicans, although Acasis vainly warns him of
his nobler dutv, and refuses to accept libeity for him-
self from Montezuma. He is tied by honour to the
Inca and has felt the charm of Orazia. Says Mon-
tezuma, " Still vou are mine, his gift has made you
so " Acasis rep'lies, " He gave me to his general, not
his foe " Montezuma dej.arts to the enemy. Aca-sis
remains, and when the Inca returns with soldiei-s,
too late to seize his presumptuous general, and finds
that Acasis chooses to remain his prisoner, he sets
him free But the voung Mexican i-emains now to
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[a.d. 16M
protect the Inca and his daughter against the wrath
of Montezuma. The next scene shows the mother of
Acasis, Zerapoalla, tlie iisurping Indian Queen, with
her general, Traxalhi, who has crowned lier by slay-
ing her brother, and is encouraged in aspiration to
her love. Shouts of the Mexicans and tidings that
Montezuma, that mighty man by whom they have
been thrice overcome, now brings his ftite and valour
to their aid close the first act, with Zempoalla's vow
to sacrifice a prince to the gods if they give victory.
In the Second Act, the Inca and his daughter
Orazia first appear pursued in battle. Montezuma
dismisses the soldiers, who were about to seize them,
and has pangs of conscience in their presence. He
will turn back the tide of ruin. Traxalla, brought in
by the Mexican soldiers to the prey snatched from
them, claims the Inca and Orazia as his prisoners.
Montezuma holds by his own claim. Acasis enters.
He has often in that day's battle saved the lives of the
Inca and his daughter. Ti-axalla and the Mexicans
welcome their prince. He is made by them umpire
of the rival claims to the prisoners, and adjudges the
Inca and Orazia to ^Montezuma. The next scene
shows Zempoalla frowning on her throne because the
victorious Mexicans exalt a stranger's name above
that of their prince. When told by Traxalla that
her son Acasis has given the Inca and his daughter
to Montezuma, she requires them to be forced away,
their lives are due to the gods in payment of her vow.
Traxalla gladly departs to do her bidding. The scene
changes to a dialogue of friendship between Monte-
zuma and Acasis, who tells his grief in his mother's
usurpation of the throne after the murder of his
uncle by Traxalla. His uncle was a gentle ruler,
who left his queen, Amexia, about to be a mother.
Amexia had fled, " only with true Garrncca for her
aid," and had been vainly searched for. While the
friends speak, a messenger tells that Orazia and the
Inca have been forced from Montezuma's tent by
Traxalla.
Mont. OcffCiff fore' (1 away ! what tempests roll
About my thoughts, and toss my troubled soul .''
Can there be gods to sec, and suffer this ?
Or does mankind make his own fate or bliss,
While every good and bad happens by chance,
Kot from their orders, but their ignorance ?
But I will pull a ruin on them all,
And turn their triumph to a funeral.
Acn. Be temperate, friend.
Mont. You may as well adi-ise
That I should have less love, as grow more wise.
Aca. Yet .staj- — I did not think to have revealed
A seeret which my heart has still concealed ;
But in this cause since I must share with you,
'Tis fit you know — I love Orazia too :
Delay not then, nor waste the time in words,
Orazia's caiise calls only for our swords.
Mont. That ties my hand, and turns from thee that rage
Another way, thy blood should else assuage :
The storm on our proud foes shall higher rise,
And changing, gather blackness as it flies :
So when winds turn, the wandering waves obey,
And all the tempest roUs another way.
Acn. Draw then a rival's sword, as I draw mine.
And Uke friends suddenly to part, let's join
In this one act, to seek one destiny :
liivals ■n'ith honour may together die.
lUxeuut.
ACT III. — SCENE I.
Zempoalla appears seated apoii her Slaves in triumph, and the
Indians as to celebrate the Victory, advance in a warlike
Dance; in the midst of which triumph, Acasis and Mo.v-
TEZUMA fall in upon them.
Zempoalla descends from her triumphant Throne, and Acasis
and MoNTEZVM.-i are brought in before her.
Zemp. Shame of mj- blood, and traitor to thy own,
Born to dishonour, not command, a throne ;
Hast thou with envious eyes mj- triumph seen ?
Or couldst not see thy mother in the Queen ?
Couldst thou a stranger above me prefer 'i
Aca. It was my honour made my duty err ;
I could not see his prisoners, fore'd away
To whom I ow'd my life, and j'ou the day.
Zemp. Is that young man the warrior so renown'd ?
Mont. Y'es, he that made thy men thrice quit their ground.
Do, smile at Jlontezuma's chains ; but know.
His valour gave thee power to use him so.
Trax. Grant that it did, what can his merits be.
That sought his vengeance, not our victory ?
What has thy brutish fury gain'd us more.
Than only heal'd the wounds it gave before ?
Die then, for whilst thou liv'st wars cannot cease;
Thou may'st bring victory, but never peace.
Like a black storm thou roll'.st about us all.
E'en to thyself unquiet till thy fall. \_Ilraws to kill him,
Aca. Unthankful villain, hold.
Trax. You must not give
Him succour, sir.
Aea. Why then I must not live.
Posterity shall ne'er report they had
Such thankless fathers, or a prince so bad.
Zemp. Y^ou're both too bold to will or to deny.
On me alone depends his destiny.
Tell me, audacious stranger, whence could rise
The confidence of this rash enterprise ?
Mont. Fhst tell me how j-ou dar'd to force from me
The fairest spoils of my own ^■ictorJ• ?
Zemp. Kill him — hold, must he die ? — why let bim die ;
AVhence should proceed this strange diversity
In my resolves ': —
Does he command in chains ? what would he do,
Proud slave, if he were fi'ee, and I were so ?
But is ho bound, ye gods, or am I free ?
'Tis love, 'tis love, that thus disorders me :
How pride and love tear my di\-ided soul !
For each too narrow, yet both claim it whole :
Love as the younger must be forced away ;
Hence with the captives (General) and convey
To several prisons that — 3'oung man, and this —
Peruvian woman —
Trax. How concern'd she is!
I must know more.
Mont. Fair princess, why should I
Involve that sweetness in my destiny ?
J could out-brave my death, were I alone
To suffer, but my fate must pull yours on.
Jly breast is armed against all sense of fear.
But where your image lies, 'tis tender there.
Inca. Forbear thy saucy love, she cannot be
So low, but still she is too high for thee.
Zemp. Begone, and do as I command, away.
4
A.u. 1664.]
PLA YS.
329
Mont. I ne'er was truly ■n-retehed 'till this day.
Ora:ia. Think half your sorrows on Orazia fall,
And be not so unkind to suffer all :
Patience in cowards is tame hopeless fear,
But in hrave minds a scorn of what they hear.
\_Exit I^•CA, Montezuma, OK.izLA, Tkax.\lla.
Mother and son remain together. Acasis pleads
for honour. ZempoaHa loves her son, but is also
suddenly in love with Montezuma, and her jealousy
dooms Orazia to die with her fother. Acasis departs
with a vow that he will not survive Ora2da. Traxalla,
suddenly in love with Orazia, enters, and finds in the
next dialogue confirmation of his fear that a sudden
love of Zempoalla for !Montezuma stands betw-een him
and the tin-one. He also pleads in vain for Orazia.
Then follow^s the musical scene which, with or w-ithout
ballet, was usualh* introduced into the " heroic plays "
of the Restoration. Ismeron, a conjuroi-, is asleep;
Zempoalla comes to him for the interpretation of a
dream. He raises by musical incantation the God of
Dreams, who answers mystically. Zempoalla " sits
down sad," and then a —
SoxG is supposed sung by Aerial Spirits.
Poor mortals that are clogged with earth below
Sink under Love and Care,
"While we that dwell in air
Such heavy passions never know.
"WTiy then should mortals be
Unwilling to be free
From blood, that sullen cloud,
Which shining souls does shroud ?
Then they'll show bright.
And like us light,
"UTien lea\-ing Bodies with their care
They slide to us and Air.
In the Fourth Act the scene opens and discovers
Montezuma sleeping in piison.
Enter Traxalla leading in Orazia.
Trnx. Now take yoiu- choice, and bid him hve or die ;
To both show pity or show cruelty :
'Tis you that must condemn, I'U only act ;
Your sentence is more cruel than my fact.
Oraz. You are most cruel to disturb a mind
T^Tiich to approaching fate was so resign'd.
Trax. Reward my passions, and you'll quickly prove
There's none dare sacrifice what I dare love.
Ne.xt to thee, stranger : — ^Vake, and now resign
The bold pretences of thy love to mine.
Or in this fatal minute thou shalt find —
Mont. Death, fool ; in that thou mayst be just and kind :
'Twas I that lov'd Orazia, yet did raise
The storm in which she sinks : why dost thou gaze,
(Jr stay thy hand from giving that just stroke,
^\'^lich rather than prevent, I would provoke ?
When I am dead Orazia may forgive ;
She never must, if I dare wish to live.
Oraz. Hold, hold— Jlontezuma, can you be
So careless of j-ourself, but more of me f
Though you have brought me to this misery,
I blush to say I cannot see you die.
Mont. Can my approaching fate such pity move ?
The gods and vou at once forgive and love.
162
Xrax. Fond fool, thus to misspend that little breath
I lent thee to prevent, not hasten death :
Let her thank you she was unfortunate.
And you thank her for pulhng on your fate ;
Prove to each other your own destinies. [Draimt.
Enter Zempoalla hastibj, and sets a dagger to Okazia's
breast.
Zemp. Hold, hold, Traxalla, or Orazia dies.
0, is't Orazia's name that makes you stay ■■
'Tis her great power, not mine, that you obey.
Inhumane wietch, dar' st thou the murthci er be
Of him that is not yet condemn'd by me ?
Trax. The wretch that gave you all the pow'r you have,
May venture sure to execute a slave ;
And quench a flame your fondness would have bum,
Which may this city into ashes turn.
The nation in your guilty passion lost.
To me ungrateful, to your country most :
But this shall be their offering, I their priest.
Zemp. The wounds thou giv'st I'll copy on her breast.
Strike, and I'U open here a spring of blood.
Shall add new rivers to the crimson flood.
How his pale looks are fix'd on her ! — 'tis so.
Oh, does amazement on j-our spirit grow ?
What, is your public love Orazia's grown ?
Couldst thou see mine, and j'ct not hide thy own ?
Suppose I should strike first, would it not breed
Grief in your public heart to see her bleed ;-"
Trax. She mocks my passions, in her sparkling eyes
Death and a close dissembled fury lies :
I dare not trust her thus. — If she must die.
The way to her lov'd life through mine shall lie.
\_IIe puts her bg and steps before Orazia, and'
she runs before Montezuma.
Under this new combination Orazia and ilonte-
zuma show more clearly their love for one another.
They shall die. Zempoalla, in a passion of thwarted
feeling, sends Montezuma to a darker diuigeon, and
says-
Come, my TraxaUa, let us both forgive
And in these \vTetches' fates begin to live.
The altars shall be crowned with funeral boughs.
Peace offerings paid,— but with unquiet vows.
Orazia being left also with her conflicts of feeling,
sees the generous Acasis pass with the gaoler to
release Montezuma and restore to him his sword.
But one of the Indians says, "This shall to the
Empress," and "Exit Indian." Then Orazia is at his
bidding taken from the prison and set free, Acasis
saj-ing of himself and Jlontezuiua —
Permit we two a httle while remain
Behind, while you go softly o'er the plain.
Orazia being gone, Acasis says that he has obeyed
honour in freeing her, and now he must obey love,
and fight for her. Montezuma, unwilling to fight
with his friend, says — ■
Let fair Orazia then the sentence give.
Else he may die whom she desires to live.
But Acasis replies —
330
CASSELL'S LIBRAEY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1664,
Your greater merits tribe her to your side ;
My weaker title must by arms be tried.
And so tliey fight, and while they fight, Orazia,
who hears the chish of swords, returns. >She finds
Acasis wonnded and at the mercy of Montezuma,
both ardently her lovers ; then says —
Whoever falls, 'tis my protector still,
And then the crime's as great to die as kill.
Acasis, do not hopeless love pursue,
But live, and this soft malady subdue.
Aca. You bid me live, and yet command me die.
I am not worth your care; fly, madam, fly.
While I fall here unpitied, o'er this plain
Free from pursuit, the faithless mountains gain ;
And these I charge as they would have me think their
friendship true.
Leave me alone to serve and follow you:
Make haste, fair princess, to avoid that fate
Which does for your unhappy father wait.
Ornz. Is he then left to die, and shall he see
Himself forsaken, ere his death, by me ?
Mont. What would you do —
Oraz. To prison I'll return.
And there in fetters with my father mourn.
Mont. That saves not his, but throws j'our life away,
Oraz. Dut)' shall give what nature once must pay.
Aca. Life is the gift which Heaven and parents give,
And duty best preserves it, if you live.
Oraz. I should but further from my fountain fly,
And like an unfed stream run on and die :
Urge me no more, and do not gxieve to see
Your honour rival'd by my piety.
\_Exit. She goes softly off, and often holes back.
Mont. If honour would not, shame woidd lead the way.
I'll back with her.
Aca. Stay, Montezuma, stay —
Thy rival cannot let thee go alone,
My love will bear me, though my blood is gone.
\As they are ijobiij off,
Enter Zempoalla, Tkax.^lla, the Indian that went to tell
her, and the rest, and seizes them.
Zemp. Seize them —
Acfi. Oh, Montezuma, thou art lost.
Mont. No more, proud heart, thy useless courage boast.
Courage, thou curse of the unfortunate.
That canst encounter, not resist, iU fate.
Zemp. Acasis bleeds, —
What barbarous hand has wounded thus my son ?
Mont. 'Twas I, by my unhappy sword 'twas done.
Thou blced'st, poor prince, and I am left to grieve
My rival's fall.
Trax. He bleeds, but yet may live.
Aca. Friendship and love my failing strength renew,
I dare not die when I should live for you ;
My death were now my crime, as it would be
My guilt to live when I have set you free :
Thus I must still remain unfortunate,
Tom- life and death are equally my fate.
Orazia comes hack.
Orazia. A noise again— alas, what do I see !
Love, thou didst once give place to piety:
Now, piety, let love triumph a while ;
Here, bind my hands : come, Montezuma, smile
At fortune, since thou sufierest for my sake,
Orazia will her captives' chains partake.
Mont. Now, Fate, thy worst.
Zemp. Lead to the temple straight,
A priest and altar for these lovers wait :
They shall be join'd, they shall.
Trax. And I will prove
Those joys in vengeance, which I want iu love.
Aca. I'll quench your thirst with blood, and wiU destroy
Myself, and with myself, your cruel joy.
Now, Montezuma, since Orazia dies,
I'll fall before thee, the first sacrifice ;
My title in her death shall exceed thine.
As much as in her life, thy hopes did mine :
And when with our mixt blood the altar's dy'd,
Then our new title let the gods decide. 'iExeimt.
ACT V. — .SCENE I.
The scene opens, and discovers the Temple of the Stin, all of Gold,
and four Priests in habits of tchite and red Feathers, attend-
ing by a bloody Altar, as ready for saerijiec.
Then enter the Gaards, and ZEMP0.iLLA, and Traxalla ; Inca,
Orazia, and Montezuma bound ; as soon as they are placed
the I'riest sings.
SoxG.
You to whom victory we owe.
Whose glories rise
By sacrifice,
And from our fates below ;
Never did yet your altars shine
Feasted with blood so near divine ;
Princes to whom we bow.
As they to you.
These you can ravish from a throne,
And by their loss of j)Owcr declare your own.
Then is shown the mi.xtnre of feelings among the
\'ictims ; also in Zempoalla, who would kill Orazia
and save Jlontezuma ; in Traxalla, who would kill
Montezuma, and save Orazia; in Acasis, who "enters
weakly," and tormented with vain love for Orazia,
stabs himself, and dies calling on Orazia with love,
on his rival with friendshijj. He says, at last, as
Orazia weeps over him —
Kind death.
To end with pleasure all mj' miseries,
Shuts up your image in my closing eyes. [Dies.
Then enter in hurried succession three messengers
calling to arms. The banished Queen is in the streets
with old Garrucca, and declares that the heroic
stranger, Montezuma, is her son. The people call
him King. The city rings with his name, and all
are running to his rescue. Zempoalla rises.
I give the end of the play, retaining all peculiarities
of the old spelling and printing.
Zcuip. Can this be true ? Love 1 O Fate ! have I
Thus doated on my mortal enemy.
Trax. To my new Prince I thus my homage pay ;
Your Keign is short young King.
Zemp. Traxalla stay —
'Tis to my hand that he must owe his fate,
I will revenge at once my love and hate.
[She sets a Dagger to Montezuma's ireast.
A.D. 1664.]
PLAYS.
331
Trax. Strike, strike, the conquering enemy is near,
My guards arc press' d while you detain me here.
Zcmp. Dye then ungrateful, dye ; Amexia's Sou
Shall never triumph on Acacis Throne :
Thy death must my unhappy flames remove ;
Now where is thy defence — against my love ?
\_SIii: cuts the Cords, and gives him the Bagger.
Trax. Am I betrayed ?
[Ee draws and thrusts at Montezuma, he puts it
by and kills him.
Mont. So may all Rebels dye :
This end has Treason joyn'd with Cruelty.
Zemp. Live thou whom I must love, and yet must hate ;
She gave thee Life, who knows it brings her fate.
Mont. Life is a trifle which I wou'd not take.
But for Orazias and her Fathers sake :
Now Inca hate me, if thou canst ; for he
Whom thou hast scom'd will dye or rescue thee.
[Ashe goes to attaque the Guards with Traxalla's sword,
Enter Ajiexia, Gareucca, Indians, driving some of the other
Farty before them.
Gar. He lives, ye Gods, he lives great Queen, see here
Tour coming jovs, and your departing fear.
Amcx. Wonder and joy so fast together flow,
Their haste to pass has made their passage slow ;
Like stnigling waters in a Vessel pent.
Whose crowding drops choak up the narrow Vent.
My Son. — [She imbraces him.
Mont. I am amaz'd, it cannot he
That fate has such a joy in store for me.
Amex. Can 1 not gain belief, that this is true ?
Mont. It is my fortune I suspect, not you.
Gar. First ask him if he old Garrucca know.
Mont. BIy honoiu-ed Father, let me fall thus low.
Gar. Forbear great Prince, 'tis I must pay to you
That adoration, as my Sovereign's duo :
For from my humble Race you did not spring,
You are the Issue of our JIurthered King,
Sent by that Traytor to his blest abode,
'Whom to be made a King, he made a God :
The story is too fidl of fate to tell.
Or what strange fortune our lost Queen befel.
Amex. That sad relation longer time wiU crave ;
I liv'd obscure, he bred you in a Cave,
But kept the mighty secret from j-our Ear,
Lest heat of blood to some strange course shou'd steer
Your youth —
Mont. I owe him all that now I am.
He taught me first the noble thirst of fame.
Shewed me the baseness of unmanly fear,
TiU th' unlick'd Whelp I pluck'd from the rough Bear,
And made the Ounce and Tyger give me way,
"While fi'om their hungry Jaws I snatch'd the Prey :
'Twas he that charg'd mj' young arms first with toils,
And drest me glorious in my Salvage spoils. —
Gar. You spent in shady Forest all the day.
And joy'd returning to shew me the Prey.
To teU the story, to describe the place,
With aU the pleasures of the boasted chase ;
Till fit for arms, I rcav'd you from your sport,
To train your Youth in the Peruvian Court :
I left you there, and ever since have been,
The sad attendant of my exil'd Queen.
Zemp. Sly fatal Dream comes to my memory ;
That Lion whom I held in bonds was he,
Amexia was the Dove that broke his chains ;
MTiat now but Zempoalla's death remains ;■'
Mont. Pardon, fair Princess, if I must delay
My love a while, my gratitude to pay.
Live Zempoalla — free from dangers live.
For present merits I past crimes forgive :
Oh might she hope Orazia's Pardon too. —
Orazia. I wou'd have none condemn'd for lo\-ing you ;
In me her merit much her fault o'er powers.
She sought my Life, but she preser\''d me yours.
Amex. Taught by my own I pity her estate,
And wish her penitence, but not her fate.
Inca. I wou'd not be the last to bid her live ;
Kings best revenge their wrongs when they forgive.
Zemp. I cannot yet forget what I have been,
Wou'd you give life to her that was a Queen :
Must you then give, and must I take ; there's yet
One way, that's by refusing to be great :
You bid me live — bid me be wretched too.
Think, think, what Pride unthron'd must undergo :
Look on this youth Amexia, look, and then
Suppose him yours, and bid me live again ;
A greater sweetness on these lips there grows,
Then breath shut out from a new folded Rose :
What lovely charms on these cold Cheeks appear,
Cou'd any one hate death and see it here ?
But thou art gone —
Mont. that you wou'd believe
Aeasis Hves in me, and cease to grieve.
Zemp. Yes, I wiU cease to grieve, and cease to be,
His soul stays watching in his wound for me ;
AU that cou'd render Life desir'd is gone,
Orazia has my Love, and you my Throne :
And Death Aeasis — yet I need not dye,
You leave me Mistriss of my destiny ;
In spight of Dreams how am I pleas'd to see,
Heavens truth or falsehood shou'd depend on me ;
But I will help the Gods ;
The greatest proof of Courage we can give.
Is then to dye when we have power to live. [Kills her self.
Mont. How fatally that instrument of death
Was hid —
Amex. She has expir'd her latest breath.
Mont. But there lies one to whom all griefs is due.
Orazia. None e'er was so unh.appy and so true.
Mont. Your Pardon, Royal Sir.
Tnca. You have my Love. [Gives him Or-iz.
Amex. The Gods, my Son, your happy choice approve.
Munt. Come my Orazia then, and pay with me,
[Leads her to Acacis.
Some tears to poor Acacis memory ;
So strange a fate for Men the Gods ordain
Our clearest Sun shine shou'd be mixt with rain ;
How equally our joys and sorrows move !
Death's fatal triumphs join'd with those of Love.
Love Crowns the dead, and death Crowns him that lives.
Each gains the Conquest which the other gives.
[Exeunt omnes.
Auotlier wi-iter of these rliymed heroic i)lays was
Eoo-er Bovle, Earl of Orrery, "who may rivnk, indeed,
with Sir William Davenant as one of the introducers
of them ill the first davs of the Restoration. Drydeii
flattered the Earl of Orrery by describing his veree
as " all majesty and ease." His be.st play was
" Mustapha," iwblished with three more, " Henry V .,
the ■■' Black Prince," and " Tryphon," in 1669. Roger
332
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 166i
Boyle's rhyming is anything but majestic in modern
ears.
THE TRAGEDY OF MUSTAPHA, THE SON OF
SOLYMAN THE MAGNIFICENT,
founded upon a novel by Georges de Scuderi, begins
by showing how the might}' Solyman — whose part
was acted by Thomas Betterton — pauses when Buda
is about to fall, because the ruin of Hungary is no
more woi-thy of his sword, the war seeming too
low a thing
Against a mourning queen and infant king.
He will advance to Rome. His Bassas say that
this is well, but war is part of their religion, and
he must not leave an enemy behind. He assents,
sayiiig—
Bear then my standard before Buda's walls,
I should not stop my ears when glory calls ;
Since there the foe all his reserves does make.
In taking Buda, I the kingdom take.
"We then see Isabella, Queen of Hungary, in mourn-
ing, with her maid Cleora, two Hungarian Lords,
and attendants. The Hungarian Council, sti-uck
with fear, proposes to suiTender, and deliver up to
Solyman the infant king. The Carduial of Veradium
persuades Isabella to " tiu-u what they make necessity
to trust."
Send the crown jewels and the infant king
To Roxolana as an offering ;
Suhdue that beauty which the victor sways,
With what the great are soonest conquered, praise :
Extol her virtue, and her mercy move
By all the charms of pity and of love ;
In gaining her, you make the Sidtan sure,
A desperate ill can have no common cure.
Whilst with applause high minds you higher raise,
Y'ou make them virtuous to make good your praise.
The infant king is sent secretly through the guards
to Roxolana, with Cleora for nurse, the mother part-
ing from her child with a second kiss :
Let me but seal't again ere it does go :
Two seals th' importance of despatches show.
Then we are shown Mustapha and Zanger, the two
sons of Solyman, vowing eternal friendship to each
other. Mustapha declares that Zanger shall not die
when he becomes sovereign ; he mil break the custom
of destroying younger brothers. They are told that
Solyman has remitted to the judgment of tlie Divan
a summons to the assault of Bucla if the infant king
and the crown of Hungary be not surrendered.
The scene then changes to Roxolana — whose part
was acted by ]VL-s. Betterton— to whom Cleora has
come with the young kLug and a casket of jewels.
Roxolana is offended by the bribe of jewels. Thuricus,
the Hungarian Lord who has come with Cleora, ex-
cuses his mistress.
She makes for her offence no iU amends
When she dares trust that virtue she offends.
Roxalana keeps the child and retui'iis the jewels.
The Hungarian departs, and one of Roxolana's ladies
carries away the infant. Then comes the Vizier
Bassa Rustan, of whom Roxolana says —
He's now the Sultan's, but I raised him first.
And poisoned him with power to make him burst.
The Divan, says Rustan, has decreed the death of
the infant. It is known to have been sent to the
Queen's tent for protection. Mutes wait without for
its execution. When the Vizier Rustan ai-gues,
against the Queen's protection of the child, that it is a
gain to innocence to die, she bids the Mutes be called
to strangle the Vizier — "Dispatch ! he's such a saint as
needs not pray " — but gives him life at the interces-
sion of the eunuch Bassas Achmet and Haly, who fly
at the entrance of Solyman, to whom the Vizier has
complained. Roxolana faces all teiTors that Solyman
wears to try her constancy, holds by the infant, and
by tears conquers the conqueror. The act ends with
the infant king of Hungary become the common care
of Solyman and Roxolana.
In the Second Act the fair Queen of Hungary
comes with two of her ladies to Roxolana, full of
gratitude for the protection of her infant, that causes
her to make present also to Roxolana of the besieged
town of Buda. Roxolana, treating her generously as
a guest, commits her to the care of her son Zanger,
who falls in love with the Christian. Meanwhile
Rustan is plotting against Roxolana through Mus-
tapha, Solyman's eldest son by another wife.
I must engage her by some bold design,
In which her int'rest with great crimes may join :
The great can never love, because too high
For that which love allows, equality ;
But they to those they fear will favour show.
And they fear those who then- great mischiefs know.
Knowing her guilt, I may her favour- find :
Guilt, next to love, above all ties does bind :
Her heightened mind and nature much disdain
That Slustapha should over Zanger reign ;
I can assault her only on that side,
Jlaking her virtue vassal to her pride.
Rustan poisons the mind of Solyman by praise of
his son and successor, Mustapha, and draws Roxolana
to liis net. After Solyman has left she says —
Rox. Rustan, you must by fresh intelligence
Charge Mustapha, and with some new offence.
Must. Madam, I am engaged past all retreat.
Hox. Go, and attend me when the watch is set.
'iExeunt RrsTAX, Pyrkhtjs.
These little arts great Nature wiU forgive :
Die Mustapha, else Zanger cannot live !
Pardon, O Solyman, thy troubled wife
"V\Tio must her duty lose to save a life;
A husband venture to preserve a son.
Oh ! that's the fatal rock that I would shun :
For Solyman must Mustapha deprive
Of that loved life by which himself does live :
And Mustapha to his untimely grave
Blust hasten that his death may Zanger save.
I
TO A.D. 1667.]
PLAYS.
.333
\
Oh cruel Empire '. that docs thus ordain
Of royal race the youngest to he slain
That so the eldest may securely reign ;
Making th' imperial mother ever mourn
For all her infants in succession horn :
Excuse, Nature, what by me is done,
If it be cruel to preserve a son.
Zanger then tells in confidence of frieudsliip to lii.s
half-brother Mustapha his love for the C'hi-istian
Queen of Hungaiy :
When she her ro^-al infant did embrace
Her eyes such floods of tears showered on her face,
That then, oh ilustapha, I did admire
How so much water sprang from so much fire :
And to increase the miracle I found
At the same time my heart both burned and drowned.
Mustapha counsels his brother, and will see the
Queen of Hungaiy in hope to do something in his
concern ; that is, to save him from misfortune by
dissuading her from him. The Cardinal and the
Hungarians plot for profit to Hungai-yfrom Zanger's
love to their Queen. But when Mustapha visits the
Queen of Hungaiy he ends tlie second act by also
falling in love mth her, while the Queen herself is
moved towards him, and exclaims —
Oh Heaven ! in what wild ocean am I lost ?
The tempest rises and I see no coast.
At the begimiing of the Third Act, Mustapha is
told by Eustan and Pyrrhus that his father orders
his immediate departiue to a command in Syi-ia. He
knows that he is banished because praise of his
deeds and talk of his popularity have made Solyman
jealous, and he says —
Fortune did never in one day design
For any heart four torments great as mine :
I to my friend and brother rival am ;
She who did kindle would put out my flame ;
I from my father's anger must remove;
And that does banish me from her I love.
If, of these four, the least a burthen be.
Oh, how shall I support the other three ?
Zanger enters, and the friends and brothers leam
that they are rival.s. You, says the younger brother
to Mustapha —
You as the eldest may the sceptre bear.
You first the world did see, I first saw her.
But they are rivals in generosity, and Zanger will
intercede with his mother to get leave for Mustapha
to stay. Then Solyman has had jealous dLstrust of
Mustapha whetted by the reports of Piustan and
Pyrrhus. Pioxolana, with seeming love for Mustapha,
plays into their hands, and they at last advise that
Mustapha be suffered to remain, in order that if he
be plotting his plots may be discovered. If gi^iilty
he should die. His exile is too little or too much.
Zanger declares his love to the Queen of Hungaiy.
Mustapha finds him doing so, and there is a scene of
generous distress among the three. The Queen makes
a handsome ofler and proceeds to act upon it.
This which you beauty call so much offends
When it does rivals make of two such friends.
That I by drowning it will give relief
To your unequalled friendship and my grief. [She leeept.
When left alone, Zanger learns from a eumich
Bassa that the Emjiress has prevailed, and iMustapha
shall stay. He repeats his former vow of friendship:
Since I have this procured, you may allow
Yourself to think that I will keep my vow.
I have in friendship vowed not to survive
The fatal day on which you cease to live.
And 'tis a work more difficult and high
To help a rival than it is to die.
Must. I know you '11 keep your vow ; and I some sign
Have given that I shall faithful prove to mine.
I vo^ed, if by succession I should gain
Th' imperial sceptre, you should with me reign.
And since in love's nice interest I comply
(Whose empire is secured by jealous}-.
And where each lover strives to rule alone),
I can admit a rival in my throne.
We leam next from Cleora and Himgarian Lords
that then- Queen had again ofiered to Roxolana the
keys of Buda, which she refused to take until she
could return for it a gi-eater present. Tlie Queen of
Hungary had resolved upon sudden return, but we
see her next with the Cardinal, who ends the Third
Act by leaving her perplexed, after much rea.soning
that she should not let faithfulness to the dead
prevent her from serving her throne and coimtiy by
alliance with one of the conqueror's sons. As to
the difference of religion, says the Cardinal, " By
trusting Mustapha you '11 teach him faith." The
Queen's thoughts are in a labyrinth without a clue,
"and where even hope is of her eyes bereft."
Zeal against policy maintains debate ;
Heaven gets the better now, and now the state.
The learned do by turns the leam'd confute.
Yet all depart unaltered by dispute.
The priestly oflice cannot be denied ;
It wears Heaven's livery, and is made our guide.
But why should we be pimished if we stray,
When all our giiides dispute which is the way ?
The Fourth Act opens wth the Queen of Him-
gary and Cleora preparing for sudden flight ; but
Eoxolana entei-s with the words, " You were my
guest, but are my prisoner now," bids her dismiss
Cleora, recalls all kindness shown to her, and then
taxes her with the ruin of Zanger.
A son who never yet my will controU'd,
Till he your fatal beauty did behold :
But now, with that enchanted, is no more
By his own reason ruled nor by my power.
What my designs have built, you have o'erthrown :
And I in Zanger's ruin feel my own.
The Queen of Hungary can clear htrself by telling
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[i.D. 1661
how she was about to fly from Zanger's love, to hide
herself in a cloister, and by producing a letter asking
Roxolana's pardon, which she had meant to leave
behind. Then Roxolana kisses her, and trusts her
with her gi-eatest secret. To save her son Zanger,
who must, by custom of the country, die when
Mustajjlia succeeds Solyman, she must destroy Mus-
tapha. Zanger's love for him stands in her way. If
the Queen of Hungary will feign to encourage
Mustapha's love towards her, it may turn Zangei''s
friendship for his brother into hate.
If that which I request may not be done,
You ruin me, and Zanger, and your son.
But ere I go, assure me of your stay.
Queen. In this, because I can, I will obey. \_Exit Eox.
No Fortune aims at more than she can do ;
She takes my crown that tempts my virtue too.
I am for Mustapha's true love in debt.
Which I will never pay with counterfeit.
The Cardinal, who had desired the Queen of
Hungary's stay with the sou of Solyman, now lu-ges
her flight. Sounds of mutiny indicate danger in
staying, but she holds by her promise to Roxolana.
Zarma, one of Roxolana's women, has undertaken to
send the Queen's child into Buda. The Cardinal
advises against its removal. Shouts of the soldiere
are explained to Solyman by Rustan and Pyrrhus as
signs of delight at Mustapha's remaining, and the
fiither's mistrust of the son is fed. Zanger and
Mustapha, next in discourse, are still friends, though
Mustajiha tells Zanger the cause of a secret grief :
Your mother with the Vizier is agreed :
And she hath secretly my death decreed.
Mustajiha knows all from one to whom Roxolana's
woman, Zarma, betrays secrets through love. Of the
practising against him on his father, he says —
These false suggestions I might soon remove
Were I admitted to implore his love ;
But, oh, that rigid form which us bereaves
Of all approach without our fathers' leaves !
Zanger Avill tell his mother of the mutual vow
that joins to the death of Mustapha his own. After
a friendly scene, " Exeunt embracing."
Rustan and Pyi-rhus next appear, perplexed by
mutiny of the European and Asian horse, who refuse
their orders, and say that they conspired to banish
Mustapha. Haly and Achmet, the eunuch Bassas,
show contempt of the Vizier in distress ; but Zanna
enters, whispers to Rustan, and brings him -with
Pyn-hus to the presence of Roxolana. Rustan
has sought a government in Egypt, Pyrrhus one in
Babylon, that they may be out of danger. Roxolana
requires that they stay to confront their danger
from the fury of the soldiers, which in a day they
can turn to the death of Mustapha and the niaking
of her son Zanger the emph'e's heir. That done, she
will care for then- preferments. Zarma then enters to
say that Zanger seeks admission to his mother, and the
Fourth Act ends with Roxolana's refusal to admit him.
In the beginning of the Fifth Act, Roxolana, feign-
ing unwillmgness, assists at the resolve of Solyman
to kill his sou. Achmet is sent to invite Mustapha
with kind words to his father's tent, that he may be
taken without chance of a rescue. Mustapha has
sought to see his father, and is told :
The mighty Sultan yields to your request ;
Believes your love is in your message sent,
He trusts that love, and thinks you innocent.
Zanger mistiiists, and warns his brother. Mustapha,
before going to Solyman, seeks to release Zanger from
the rigour of his vow not to survive him. The Queen
of Hungary is told by Zarma that Solyman smiles
upon his son. The Cardinal mistrusts, and urges the
return of the Queen with her infant to Buda, which
is now assaulted also from the west by Kuig Ferdi-
nand. She declares herself tied by her promise, but
commands the Cardinal to leave her and defend the
town. Mustajjha then enters his father's tent. " The
guards and others, passing by him, shake their heads
with sorrowful looks." He sees his danger before it
appears in the fonn of " six Mutes, one of whom
advances before the rest and kneels down, delivers
Mustapha a black box with a parchment, the Sultan's
gi'eat seal hanging at it in a black ribband." The
Mute holds up a bowstring, and makes signs that
Mustapha should kneel, and submit to the Sultan's
sentence. Mustapha says his last words, and kills two
of the Mutes who, by shaking their heads, deny that
he shall speak to his father before execution. Soh'man
entei-s, refuses to hear his son, and sends him within
for execution. Then Haly desci-ibes to Roxolana
the heroic manner of Mustapha's death. Zanger
enters to Solyman — Zanger, who is now heir to the
throne. The truth becomes known ; Zanger kills
himself beside tlie dead body of Mustapha. Roxolana
finds that her plots end in misery. The Queen of
Hungaiy goes with her son to Buda, where she vnW
remain for the rest of her days in a cloister. The
Viziers confess under torture, before they are slain,
and accuse Roxolana. She confesses, and at the close
of the play is divorced and banished, Solyman saying
to her —
Farewell for ever, and to Love farewell !
I'll lock my bosom up where Love did dwell ;
I wiU to Beauty ever shut my eyes
And be no more a captive bj' surprise :
But, oh, how little I esteem a throne
When Love, the ornament of power, is gone !
The change from blank verse to rhymed couplets
in our English " heroic " plays was begun by Dave-
nant and Roger Boyle, and derived chiefly from
Pierre Corneille, who, having begun with comedies,
turned to tragedy, with his " Medea," in 1635. It
was followed by the " Cid," in 1G36, of which the
subject was suggested by study of Spanish ; Lope de
Vega (b. 1562'-d. 163.5) and Calderon (1601-1687)
having gi'eat influence on the formation of French
drama. "Horace" was produced in 1639, and a few
months later "Cimia;" then "Polyeucte." Corneille
aimed at producing impressions of the heroic, and in
TO i.D. 1667.]
PLAYS.
335
his later pieces he sought more intricacy of plot.
His plays became less simjile iii form, more declama-
tory and inflated. He turned from the theatre in
16.53 (said that his poetry was decaying with his
teeth), and between that date and 16.59 wrote his
three essays on Dramatic Poetry, including one on
the Tliree Unities. He then returned to the stage
with " CEdipe," and wrote seven or eight other weak
plays between 1660 and 1675. In 1667, the year of
the publication of " Paradise Lost," he had lately
produced " AgesUas," and then added " Attila," of
•which BoUeau wrote : —
J'ai vu I'Agesilas.
Helas!
Mais apres 1' Attila.
Hola!
'The year of Corneille's " Attila " was that of Racine's
" Andromaque." Thirty-three years younger than
Pierre Corneille, Jean Racine was born in 1639, the
year of the pi-oduction of CorneUle's " Horace." His
career a.s a poet only began in 1660, at the date of
the Restoration. Racine, in disgust at the low taste
of the public, ceased to write plays in 1677, at the
age of thii-ty-eight. Corneille died in 1681, Racine
in 1699. Moliere, born in 1622, .sixteen year.s
younger than Pierre Corneille, and seventeen years
older than Racine, protluced his first comedy at Paris
in 1658. His career, therefore, may almost be said
to have begun, like Racine's, at the time of the
Restoration, and it ended m 1673, when he died a
few hours after acting in liis own play of "Le Malade
Imaginaire." The French drama having reached its
point of gi'eatest strength at a time when many things
contrilnited to extend and stren,gthen the French
influence on EngUsh Litei-ature, our plays by friends
of the king who had been to Paris followed the
French fashion, and perhaps were not benefited by
the playgoing taste of a day when even in Paris the
" Phedi-e " of Pradon was far more in request than
the " Phedre " of Racine.
In 1661 Drydeu produced his second piece, the
" Rival Ladies," in blank verse mth some jia.ssages
of heroic couplet, and in the dedication to Roger
Boyle, Earl of On-ery, discussed his reason for having
done so. It was not, he said, a new way, so much
as an old way new revived, " for many years before
Shakespeai-e's plays was the tragedy of Queen Goi'-
boduc in English verse " (Gorboduc was a king, not
a queen, and the verse was not rhyme, but no matter).
But suj)posing it new, " shall we oppose ourselves to
the most polished and civilised nations of Europe \ "
All the Spanish and Italian tragedies he had seen
were in rhyme ; for the French, he would not name
them, because we admitted little from them but " the
basest of their men, the extravagance of their fashions,
and the frijijiery of their merchandise." Dryden
appears to have known as little of Italian and Spanish
tragedies as of Elizabethan litei-ature. Shakespeare,
he says, in this dedication, " to shun the pains of con-
tinual rhyming, invented that kind of writing which
we call blank verse, but the French more properly
Prose mesuree, into which the English tongue so
naturally glides, that in writing blank verse 'tis
hardly to be avoided." Rhyme, he said, leads to
inversions, but not in a skUful writer; and if they
be avoided, it has all the advantages of pro.se besides
Its o\\Ti. " But the excellence and dignity of it were
never fully known till Mr. Waller taught it " (O
souls of Chaucer and of Spenser ! ). " He fii-st made
writing easUy an Art : first shew'd us to conclude
the sense most commonly in distichs, which in the
verse of those before liim runs on for so many lines
together that the reader is out of breath to overtake
it." (Waller, then living, aged fifty-nine, died in
1687, aged eighty-two, much flattered by the in-
genious in the days of Charles the Second). " The
sweetness of Mr. Waller's Lyilc Poesie was after-
wards followed in the Epic by Su- John Denham in
his " Cooper's Hill " (" Cooper's Hill," an Ej.ic .' Sir
John Denham, also then \\\\ng, died in 1668); "a
poem which your lordship knows for the majesty of
the style is, and ever will be, the exact standard of
good wi-iting. But if we owe the invention of it to
Ml-. WaUer, we are acknowledgmg for the nolilest
use of it to Su- William Davenant, who at once
brought it upon the stage, and made it perfect in the
'Siege of Rhodes.'" Dryden then specified three
advantages of rhyme over blank verse : — 1. It aids
memory ; 2. Sweetness of rhyme adds gi-ace to the
smartness of a repartee ; 3. It bounds and circum-
scribes the fancy, which, without it, tends to outi-un
judgment. Instead, therefore, of being, as some .say,
an embroidery of sense to make orcUnary thought
look excellent, it is likely to bring forth the richest
and clearest thoughts, as givmg the judgment its
busiest employment. But argument and charactei-s
must be alike great and noble.
In 1666 Sir Robert Howard, Dryden's brotlier-in-
law, in his Preface to " Four New Plays," vindicated
the English manner of writing and dramatic genius,
but objected to our mixture of the sad and mirthful
in one plot. "Another way," he said, "of tlie
ancients, which the French follow and our .stage hiis
lately practis'd, is to wi-ite in rhyme ; and this is the
dispute betwixt many ingenious persons, whether
verse in rhyme or verse without the sound, which
may be called Blank Vei-se (though a hard expression)
is to be prefen-ed ? " He held both to be proper ; one
for a play, the other for a poem or copy of verses ;
" a Blank Verse bemg as much too low for one, iis
Rhyme is unnatural for the other. A poem being a
premeditated form of thought upon designed occa-
sions, ought not to be unfurnished of any harmony
in wordsor sound : the other is presented as tlie jire-
sent efiect of accidents not thought of" Then, again,
the rhyme in a repartee, which should have its charm
in sudden thought, makes it look " rather like a
design of two than tlie answer of one." It may be
said that rhyme checks a luxm-iant fancy, but that is
no argument to the question, " for the dispute is not
which way a man may wi-ite best in, but which is
most proper for the subject he wTites upon ; " and
agam, "he that wants judgment in the liberty of his
fencv may as well show the defect of it in its con-
finement." If it be said, one cannot ^^Tite lilank vei-se
now like Beaumont and Fletcher's, that is true : true,
also, that we cannot speak as good vei-ses in rhyme
as the best poets have -svi-it ; and therefore that
336
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1667
wliich seems nearest to what it intends is ever to be
preferred. Nor are great tlioughts more adorned by-
verse than verse nnbeautitied by mean ones ; so that
verse seems not only unfit in the best use of it, but
much more in the worse ; as when a sei-vant is called,
or a door bid to be shut, in rhyme. It is true Lord
Orrery's plays are all majesty and ease, meeting
every conceivable objection — " this does not convince
my reason, but employ my wonder."
In 1667 appeared Dryden's " Essay of Dramatic
Poesie," a dialogue between Eugeuius (Lord Biick-
hui-st, afterwards Earl of Dorset), Lisideius (Sir
Charles Sedley), Crites (Sii' Robert Howard), and
Neander (Dryden liimself). These friends, it is said
in the opening, went down the river towards Green-
wich to hear the noise of camion in the sea-fight
with the Dutch, June, 1666. As the sound seemed
to recede, conversation turned on tlie plague of bad
verse that would follow \ictory, in celebration of it,
and so passed into an argument upon ancient and
modern poets, soon limited to Dramatic Poesie. It
dealt with the subject of a play, " the famous niles
which the Frencli call ' Des Trois Unitez ' " — action,
plot, (fee. Lisideius spoke of the beauty of French
rhyme, and of the just reason he had to prefer that
way of writmg in tragedies befoi'e ours in blank
verse. He said he doubted not the adoption of
it would exceedingly beautify our plays, and saw
only one reason why it should not generally obtain —
that is, because our poets write so ill in it. Neander
(Dryden) having replied on other points, Crites (Sir
Robert Howard) opposed rhyme. The dramatists
before Shakespeare may have kuowai no better.
Shakespeare did not wholly forsake rliyme. Fletcher
and Ben Jonson used it in pastorals and some other
plays ; but rliyme is unnatural, or not the eftect of
sudden thought. Ai-istotle said it is best to -WTite
tragedy in that fonn of verse which is the least such,
or which is nearest to prose ; and this among the
ancients was iambic, with us it is blank verse.
These numbers are fittest for a play ; the others
for a paper of verses or a poem, l>lank verse being as
much below them as rhyme is improper for the
drama. Crites repeated also the argument against
calling a servant in rhyme to shut the door. As
for confinement, Ben Jonson is all judgment in
blank verse ; Comeille rambles in rhyme. Neander
(Dryden) replies, confessing shortcomings in his own
plays, and " with all imaginable respect and deference
both to that person (Sir R. Howard) from whom you
have borrowed your strongest arguments, and to
whose judgment, when I have .said all, I finally
submit." He excludes comedy, and confines his
argument to plays where the subject and characters
are gi-eat, and the plot unmixed with mirth. In
these, he says, rhyme is as natural as blank verse,
and more effectual. (1) The objection of Crites to
bad rhyme is as good against bad blank verse. (2)
A .skilful ■\\Titer with variety of cadence, and placing
his words naturally, produces what is not less proper
than blank verse to the poetical expression of
thought. If none speak in rhyme, so also none
speak in blank verse. The only diflerence between
the two, well used, is that one has a sweetness which
the other wants. (3) Aristotle's saying is no argu-
ment in the case, because blank vei-se is properly but
measured prose. The ancients had quantity ; when
that was lost, the sweetness of rhyme and obser-
vation of accent su]iplied its place. Quantity aban-
doned, blank verse is, at most, poetic prose, and
rhymed lines with the sense run into another line
may be so natural as to become the form of poetry
nearest to prose, or " we may u.se the benefit of the
Pindaric way practis'd in ' The Siege of Rhodes,'
where the numbers vary, and the rhyme is disposed
carelessly and far from often chiming." We may
follow the ancients in changing kind of veree with
kind of scene. (4) If it be said that we with our
rhymes cannot equal the blank vei'se of Jonson and
Fletcher : were they to rise again, they could not
equal themselves. They have iim through their
estate ; exhausted treatment of all humoui-s of men.
" This way of writing in ^erse they have only left
free to us ; our age is arrived to a perfection in it
which they never knew, and which (if we may guess
by what of theirs we have seen in vei-se, in ' The
Faithful Shepherde.ss and Sad Shepherd') 'tis
probable they never could have reached. For the
genius of every age is diflerent, and although ours
excel in this " [which assuredly it did not], " I deny
not but that to imitate Nature to that perfection
which they did in prose is a gi-eater commendation
than to write in verse exactly." (5) As for the
j)opular taste, the people are ignorant, their judg
ment a mere lottery ; it is hard for them to break an
old habit ; but the mixed audience of the populace and
the noblesse are already favourable to verse. Since
the King's return, no plays ha\e been better received
by them than the " Siege of Rhodes," the " Mustapha,"
"The Indian Queen," and "Indian Emperor" (this
was a secjuel by Dryden to "The Indian Queen").
(6) You say that rhyme is proper for epic poesie.
A sei'ious play represents nature, but nature wrought
wp to a high pitch. For this heroic rhyme is
nearest natui-e, as being the noblest modern kind of
verse. (7) Blank ver.se is acknowledged too low for
a poem — nay, more, for a paper of verses ; but if too
low for an ordinary sonnet, how much more for a
tragedy ! (8) The argument is almost as strong
against the use of rhyme in poems as in plays, for
the epic way is interlaced with dialogue. (9) "Verse,
'tis tiiie, is not the eflect of sudden thought, but this,
hinders not that sudden thought may be represented
iu the vei-se. A play to be like iiatm-e is set above
it, as statues which are placed on high are made
greater than life, that they may descend to the sight
in then- just proportions." (10) As to the con-
federacy of two and the answer of one, is it not so in
blank verse 1 Was it not so in the Greek ti-agedians-
and in Seneca, when the reply was made exactly to
fill uj) the trimeter "i So now ; rhyme being to us in
lieu of quantity to them. But gi-ant your objection.
Why is such confederacy more displeasing than in a
dance where all is well contrived 1 Wlien a poet has
found the repartee, the last perfection he can add to it
is to put it into verse. (11) As to the "shut the door"
argument. It is a good observation, but no argu-
ment. It proves only that such thoughts should be
waived, as often as may be, by the address of the
poet. When necessary, there is no need to put
TO A.D. 1671.]
PLAYS.
337
them into rhyme. They can be placed at the bejrin-
ning of a verse, or, if they want more than a line to
themselves, they can be put ia the least' vulgar
words. Our language is noble, and enables us to
clothe ordinary things as decently as in the Latin.
One would timik " Unlock the door" wa.s a thing as
vulgar as could be spoken ; and yet Seneca could
make it sound high and lofty in his Latin : —
'• Reserate clusos Kegii postes Laris." '
■{12) That the argument is not how a man may write
best; but what style is fittest. That judgment maybe
used in blank verse, and be absent in rhyme. " This
ai-gument, as you have taken it from a most acute
person, so I confess it carries much weight in it.
Judgment is indeed the master workman in a play,
but he requu-es many subordinate heads, many tools
to his assistance. And vei-se I affirm to be one
of these ; 'tis a rule and line by which he keeps his
building compact and even, which other%\'ise lawless
imagination would raise either irregularly or loosely."
As for Ben Jonson, rhyme only aids thus a luxu-
riant fancy, which his wa.s not ; " As he did not want
imagination, so none ever said he had much to spare."
la 1688 Sii- Robert Howard finished the argimient ;
in the Preface to his play, then published, of " The
Duke of Lei-ma," he said that the author of the
■" Essay of Dramatic Poesie" had taken much pains to
prove " rhyme as natural in a serious play and more
effectual than blank verse," but pursues that which he
calls natiu-al in a wrong application. The question,
he said, is, " What is nearest the natm-e of that which
it presents V " Now after all the endeavours of that
ingenious person, a play will stUl be supposed to be a
composition of several persons speaking extempore ;
and 'tis certain that goocl verses are the hardest things
that can be imagined to Vje so spoken." (2) As to
Seneca's opening a door, how would that be put in
our noble, full, and significant English f It is only "an
attempt to prove that nothing may seem something
by the help of a vei-se ; which I easily grant to be
the ill fortune of it." Sii- Robert Howard argued
that the question was mistaken, and that there were
■ecpxally gi-oss errors in the general rules laid do^vn for
plays. This argued, a very slight loss of temper was
recovered, and the rest of the Preface was vei-y polite.
While this sort of trifling appeared wise in tlie eyes
of critics trained in the French school, and Sir Robert
Howard's defence of blank verse as measure for om-
<b-amati.sts showed as dense an ignorance of its true
character as Dryden's arguing upon tlie other side,
the place of blank verse in our literatm-e was settled
for ever by the genius of John Milton. " Paradise
Lost" appeared in the same year as Dryden's " Essay
of Dramatic Poesie,"" 1667. Until that year the
only long poem in blank ver.se in om- language had
been published in 1.590 as "The Tale of Two Swans,
wherein is comprehended the original and encrease of
the River Lea, commonly called Ware River, together
with the Antiquities of sundrie places and towns
1 The liae is spoken by Theseus at the close of the first scene of the
third act of Seneca's " Hippolytus,"' immediately before the meeting
with Phaedra.
163
seated upon the same. By W. Vallens." In 1667,
whOe Dryden and his brother-in-law were Wndj-iug
small criticism, the gi-eatest epic poem in all literatm?
appeared in English blank verse. Some critics asked
of the publisher reasons for this bold innovation.
The publisher asked the poet, and Milton then gave
him three sentences to piint before his poem for the
reassurance of the critics. They ai-e these :
" THE \'ERSE.
" The measure is English Heroic Verse, without Rime, as
that of Homer in Greek, and of Virgil in Latin ; Rime being
no necessary Adjunct or true Ornament of Poem or good
Verse, in longer Works especially, but the Invention of a
barbarous Age, to set off wretched matter and lame Meeter ;
grac't indeed since by the use of some famous modern Poets,
carried away by Custom, but much to thir own vexation,
hindrance, and constraint, to express many things otherwise,
and for the most part worse than else they would have ex-
prest them. Not without cause, therefore, some both Italian
and Spanish Poets of prime note, have rejected Rime both in
longer and shorter Works, as have also, long since, our best
English Tragedies; as a thing of itself, to all judicious cares,
triveal and of no true musical deHght ; which consists only in
apt Numbers, fit quantity of Syllables, and the sense variously
drawn out from one verse into another, not in the jingling
sound of like endings, a fault avoided by the learned Aucienti
both in Poetry and all good Oratory. This neglect then of
Rime, so little is to be taken for a defect, though it may seem
so perhaps to vulgar readers, that it rather is to be esteem'd
an example set, the first in English, of ancient liberty re-
cover'd to Heroic Poem from the troublesom and modern
bondage of Rimeing."
This ended the controversy. Tlie manifest dif-
ference between blank verse as Shakespeare and
Milton wrote it, and the spoilt prose cut into length
which had of late years been written as blank vei-se,
and about which alone Dryden and Su- Robert Howard
had been arguing, could not pass imobserved by a
true poet like Dryden. In the Prefaces and Dedica-
tions to his plays he showed himself tbe manliest and
soundest critic of his day, through all the lundiimcesi
that came of his dependence upon fashion, in a time of
small critical vanities with a very low standard of ta.ste
among those who prided themselves on superior dis-
cernment. In 1668 Sir Wilham Davenant died. In
1670 Dryden succeeded him as poet laureate. In lt)75
he produced " Aureuge-Zebe ; or, the Great ilogiil,"
his last play in rhyme (excejit the opera of " Albion
and Albanius"), and said in the Prologue that he
condemned his own work in it :
Not that it's worse than what before he writ,
But he has now another taste of wit,
And to confess a truth (though out of time)
Grows weary of his long-loved mistress, rhyme.
Passion's too fierce to be in fetters bound,
And Nature flies him like enchanted ground.
"VA'Tiat verse can do he has performed in this.
Which he presumes the most correct of his.
But spite of all his pride, a secret shame
Invades his breast at Shakespeare's sacred name.
The weak extravagance of the "heroic" i)lays of
the year next following the Restoration was cleverly
33S
CASSELL'S LIBEAEY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1671.
riiliculed by George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham,
in lii.s burlesque called
THE REHEARSAL,
which was produced in 1671, but begun some years
before. At first, the hero chiefly in mind was Sir
Robert Howard, and he was called Bilboa ; then Dave-
nant, and as he was laiu-eate, Bilboa became Bayes.
Davenant was partly transformed to Drj'den when
Dryden succeeded to the bays. Mr. Baj-es is, there-
fore, Dryden chiefly, but the play rehearsed, of which
it is a part of the joke that characters come and go
without opening or de\eloping any distinct plot, is
largely made up of whimsical parodies of passages in
plays of Sir Eoliert Howard, Davenant, Dryden, and
others, as Sir William Killigi-ew, Sir William Bar-
clay, Sir Robert Stapleton, and Colonel Henry
Howard. " Tlie Rehearsal " was a plea, for good sense.
Boileau's pleas for good sense against the tasteless ex-
travagance of French writers had been appeai'ing in
his " Satires," and " L'Art Poetique," his summary
of his doctrme, was -WTitten about this time, and first
published in 1673, with a collected edition of his
works. "The Rehearsal," in its own way of carica-
ture, was an English argument in the same direction.
In the opening, Johnson of the town meets Smith
from the country, and they talk presently of plays.
Smif/i. I have heard, indeed, you have had lately many
new plays ; and our eountrj' wits commend 'em.
John. Ay, so do some of our city wits too ; hut they are of
the new kind of wits.
Sill if Ii. New kind I what kind is that ?
John. 'Why, your Wrtuosi, your civil persons, your di-olls ;
fellows that scorn to imitate nature ; hut are given altogether
to elevate and surprise.
Siiiil/i. Elevate and surprise ! prithee make me undcrsland
the meaning of that.
Jo/iii. Xay, by my troth, that's a hard matter: I don't
imderstand that myself. 'Tis a phrase they have got among
them, to express their no-meaning by. I '11 tell you, as near
as I can, what it is. Let me see ; 'tis fighting, loving, sleep-
ing, rh)-ming, dying, dancing, singing, crying; and every
thing, but thinking and sense.
Mr. 'Baxes passes over the stage.
Bayes. Your most obsequious, and most observant, very
servant, sir.
John. God-so, this is an author : I '11 go fetch him to you.
Smith. No, prithee let him alone.
John. Kay, by the Lord, I '11 have him. [Goes after him.
Here he is : I have caught him : pray, sir, now for my sake,
will you do a favour to this friend of mine ':
Bnycs. Sir, it is not within my small c^apacity to do favours,
but receive 'em ; especially from a person that does wear the
honourable title you are pleased to impose, sir, upon this—
sweet sir, your servant.
Smith. Your humble servant, sir.
John. But wilt thou do me a favour, now !
Hayes. Ay, sir : what is 't ?
John. Why. to teU him the meaning of thy last play.
Bayes. How, sir, the meaning ? do you mean the plot ?
John. Ay, ay; anything.
Bayes. Faith, sir, the intrigo 's now quite out of my head ;
but I have a new one, in my pocket, that I may say is a
virgin ; it has never yet been blown upon. I must tell you
one thing ; 't is all new wit ; and though I say it, a better than
my last ; and you know well enough how that took. " In
fine, it shall read, and write, and act, and plot, and show, ay,
and pit, box, and gallery, I' gad, with any play in Europe."
This morning is its last rehearsal, in their habits, and all that,
as it is to be acted ; and if you, and your friend, will do it but
the honour to see it in its virgin attire ; though, perhaps, it
may blush, I shall not be ashamed to discover its nakedness
unto you. I think it is in this pocket.
[Fitts his hand in his pocket.
John. Sir, I confess, I am not able to answer you in this
new way ; but if you please to lead, I shall be glad to follow
you ; and I hope ray friend will do so too.
Smith. Sir, I have no business so considerable, as should
keep me from your company.
Bayes. Yes, here it is. No, cry you mercy ; this is my
book of Drama Common-places ; the mother of many other
plays.
John. Drama Common-places ! pray what 's that ?
Bayes. ^^'hy, sir, some certain helps, that we men of art
have found it convenient to make use of.
Smith. How, sii-, helps for wit ?
Bayes. Ay, sir, that 's my position. And I do here aver,
that no man yet the sun e'er shone upon, has parts suflicicnt
to furnish out a stage, except it were by the help of these my
rules '
John. A\Tiat are those rules, I pray ?
Bayes. Why, sii', my first rule is the rule of transversion,
or Eegula Duplex ; changing verse into prose, or prose into
verse, alternative as you please.
Smith. Well ; but how is this done by a rule, sir ?
Bayes. Why, thus, sir ; nothing so easy when understood :
I take a book in my hand, cither at home or elsewhere, for
that's all one, if there be any wit in't, as there is no book
but has some ; I transverse it ; that is, if it be prose put it
into verse (but that takes up some time), and if it be verse,
put it into prose.
John, llethinks, ilr. Bayes, that putting verse into prosi
should be called transprosing.
Bayes. By my troth, sir, 't is a verj- good notion ; and hon -
after it shall be so.
Smith. Well, sir, and what d' ye do with it then ?
Bayes. Make it my own. 'T is so changed that no man can
know it. My next rule is the rule of record, by way of table-
book. Pray observe.
John. We hear you, sir ; go on.
Bayes. As thus. I come into a coffee-house, or some other
place where witty men resort, I make as if I minded nothing ;
do you mark ? but as soon as any one speaks, pop I slap it
down, and make that too my own.
John. But, Jlr. Bayes, are you not sometimes in danger
of their making you restore, by force, what you have gotten;
thus by art ?
Bayes. No, sir ; the world 's unmindful : they never take
notice of these things.
Smith. But pray. Mi-. Bayes, among all your other rules,
have you no one rule for invention ?
Bayes. Yes, sii-, that 's my third rule that I have here in
my pocket.
Smith. MTiat rule can that be, I wonder ?
He wlio writ tliis, not without pain and tbouplit.
From French and English theatres has brought
The esactest miles, by which a play is wrought.
The unity of action, place, and time ;
The scenes unbroken ; and u mingled chime.
Of Johnson's humour, with Conieille's rhyme.
(Prologue to the " Maiden Queen.*')*
A.D. 1671.]
PLAYS.
339
Eai/es. VThy, sir, when I have anything to invent, I never
trouble my head about it, as other men do ; but presently turn
over this book, and there I have, at one view, aU that Persius,
Montaigne, Seneca's Tragedies, Horace, Juvenal, Claudian,
puny, Plutarch's Lives, and the rest, have ever thought upon
this subject : and so, in a trice, by leaving out a few words,
or putting in others of my own, the business is done.
John. Indeed, Mr. Bayes, this is as sure and compendious
a way of wit as ever I heard of.
Bayes. Sir, if you make the least scruples of the efficacy of
these my rules, do but come to the play-house, and you shaU
judge of 'em by the effects.
Simth. We '11 follow you, sir. \^Exeunt.
Enter three Pla}-ers on the stage.
1 Play. Have you youi- pai-t perfect ?
2 Flay. Yes, I have it without book ; but I don't under-
stand how it is to be spoken.
3 Play. And mine is such a one, as I can't guess for my
life what humour I 'm to be in ; whether angry, melancholy,
merrv', or in love. I don't know what to make on 't.
1 Play. Phoo I the author will be here presently, and he '11
tell us all. You must know, this is the new way of writing,
and these hard things please forty times better than the old
plain way. For, look you, sir, the grand design upon the
stage is to keep the auditors in suspense ; for to guess pre-
sently at the plot, and the sense, tires them before the end of
the first act : now here, everj' line surj)rise3 you, and brings
in new matter. And then, for scenes, clothes, and dances, we
put quite down all that ever went before us ; and those are
the things, you know, that are essential to a play.
2 Play. AVeU, I am not of thy mind ; but so it gets us
rnonej-, 't is no great matter.
Then, after .some pieparatoiy talk with the playei-s,
and wit in sugge.stion that Amaryllis, who wears
armour that becomes her, is to be called in the play
Armoiu'illis, Mr. Bayes begins to explain his plot.
Bayes. Look you, sirs, the chief hinge of this play, uxion
•which the whole plot moves and turns, and that causes the
variety of all the several accidents, which, you know, are the
things in nature that makes up the grand refinement of a
pkiy, is, that I suppose two kings of the same place ; as, for
example,' at Brentford, for I love to write famOiarly. Kow
the people having the same relations to 'em both, the same
affections, the same duty, the same obedience, and all that ;
are di^-ided among themselves in point of devoir and interest,
how to behave themselves equally between 'em : these kings
differing sometimes in pai-ticular ; though, in the main, they
agree. (I know not whether I make myself well under-
stood.)
John. I did not observe you, sir ; pray say that again.
Bayes. AMiy, look you, sir (nay, I beseech you be a little
curious in taking notice of this, or else you 'U never under-
stand my notion of the thing) : the people being embarrass'd
by their equal ties to both,' and the sovereigns concem'd in a
reciprocal regard, as weU to their own interest, as the good of
the people, make a certain kind of a — you imderstand me —
upon which, there do arise several disputes, turmoils, heart-
burnings, and aU that In fine, you '11 apprehend it better
when you see it. [Exit to call the Players.
Smith. I find the author will be very much obliged to the
players, if they can make any sense out of this.
1 Two Kings of Brentford, supposed to be the two brothers, the
fcing and the duke. [Notes are fiom the " Key" published in 1710.]
Enter Bayes.
Bayes. Now, gentlemen, I would fain ask your opinion of
one thing. I have made a prologue and an epilogue, which
may both serve for either; that is, the prologue for the
epUogue, or the epUogue for the prologue 2 (do you mark :-) ;
nay, they may both serve too, I' gad, for any other play as
well as this.
Smith. Very well ; that 's indeed artificial
Bayes. And I would fain ask your judgments, now, which
of them would do best for the prologue :- for, you must know
there is, in nature, but two ways of making ver>- good pro-
logues : the one is by civihty, by insinuation, go^ language,
and all that, to— a— in a manner, steal youi- plaudit from the
courtesy of the auditors ; the other, by making use of some
certain personal things, which may keep a hank upon such
censuring persons, as cannot otherways, I' gad, in nature, be
hindered from being too free with their tongues. To which
end, my first prologue is, that I come out in a long black veil,
and a great huge hangman behind me, with a furred cap, and
his sword drawn ; and there tell 'em plainly, that if out of
good natm-e they will not like my play, I' gad, I '11 e'en
kneel down, and he shaU cut my head off. Whereupon they
all clapping — a —
Smith. Ay, but suppose they don't.
Bayes. Suppose ! sir, you may suppose what you please, I
have nothing to do with your suppose, sir ; nor am at all mor-
tified at it; not at all, sir; I' gad, not one jot, sir. Suppose
quoth a 1 — ha, ha, ha ! [ ll'alks away.
After dialogue that satiiises the de^'ices for obtain-
ing applause from an audience, we come back to tlie
prologue or epilogue.
Bayes. But pray, sir, how do you like my hangman ?
Smith. Bj- my troth, sir, I should like him very well.
Bayes. By how do you like it, sir (for I see you can judge) ?
would you have it for a prologue, or the epUogue ?
John. Faith, sir, 't is so good, let it e'en ser\'e for both.
Bayes. Ko, no; that won't do. Besides, I have made
another.
John. 'WTiat other, sir ?
Bayes. Why, sir, my other is Thunder and Lightning.
John. That 's greater ; I 'd rather stick to that.
Bayes. Do you think so '? I '11 tell you then ; though there
have been many witty prologues written of late, yet I think
you 'U say this is a non pareillo : I 'm sme no body has hit
upon it yet. For here, su-, I make my prologue to be a
dialogue ; and as in my first, you see, I strive to oblige the
auditors by eivUity, by good nature, good language, and all
that ; so, in this, by the other way, in terrorem. I choose for
the persons Thunder and Lightning. Do you apprehend the
conceit ?
John. Phoo I then you have it cock-sure. They '11 be
hanged before they 'U diire affront an author that has 'om at
that lock.
Bayes. I have made, too, one of the most delicate dainty
similes in the whole world, I' gad, if I knew but how to
apply it.
Smith. Let 's hear it, I pray you.
Bayes. 'T is an allusion to love.
So boar and so^.", when any storm is nigh.
Snuff' up, and smell it gathering in the skj' ;
Boar beckons sow to trot in chestnut groves,
And there consummate their unfinished loves :
2 See the two Prologties to the " Maiden Queen,"
340
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1671.
Pensive in mud they wallow all alone,
And snore and gxuntle to each other's moan.'
How do you like it now, ha ''.
John. Faith, 't is extraordinary fine ; and very applicahle
to Thunder and Lightning, methinks, because it speaks of a
storm.
Baycs. V gad, and so it docs, now I think on't. Mr.
Johnson, I thank you ; and I'll put it m])rofeeto. Come out,
Thunder and Lightning.
Enter Thunder and Lightning.
Thtm. I am the bold Thunder.
Bmjes. Mr. Cai-twright, pritheo speak that a little louder,
and with a hoarse voice. I am the bold Thunder : pshaw !
speak it me in a voice that thunders it out indeed : I am the
bold Thunder.
Thun. I am the bold Thunder.-
Light. The brisk Lightning, I.
Binjcs. Nay, you must bo quick and nimble. The brisk
Lightning, I. That's my meaning.
Thnn. I am the bravest Hector of the sky.
Light. And I fair Helen, that made Hector die.
Thun. I strike men down.
^ . Light. I fii'e the town.
Thun. Lot critics take heed how the}' grumble,
For then begin I for to rumble.
Light. Let the ladies allow us their graces.
Or I '11 blast all the paint on their faces,
And dry up their petre to soot.
Thun. Let the critics look to 't.
Light. Let the ladies look to 't.
Thun. For Thunder will do 't.
Light. For Lightning will shoot.
Thun. I'll give you dash for dash.
Light. I '11 give you flash for flash.
Gallants, I '11 singe your feather.
Thun. I '11 thunder you together.
Both. Look to 't, look to 't ; we '11 do 't, we 'U do 't :
Look to 't, we '11 do 't. [Tu-icc or thrice repeated.
\_Exeunt amho.
Bnye.i. There 's no more. 'T is but a flash of a prologue :
a droll.
Smith. Yes, 'tis short indeed; but very terrible.
Baycs. Ay, when the simile's in, it will do to a miracle, I'
gad. Come, come, begin the play.
Enter first Player.
1 Ting. Sir, Mr. Ivory is not come yet ; but he '11 be here
presently ; he 's but two doors ofE.^
Bages. Come then, gentlemen, let 's go out and take a pipe
of tobacco. {E.reunt.
So ends tlie Firet Act; and thus begins the
Second —
' 111 ridicule of this —
So two kind turtles, when a. storm is nigh,
Look up, and see it gathering in the sky ;
Each calls his mate to shelter in the groves,
Lea\-ing, in murmurs, their nnflnish'd loves :
Perched on some dropping branch, they sit alone.
And coo, and hearken to each other's moan.
(" Conquest of Granada," P.art ii., p. 48.)
^ I am the evening dark as night.
( " SHghted Maid," p. 48.)
» Abrahilm Ivory had formerly been a considerable actor of women's
parts ; but afterwards stupefied liimself so far, with di-inking strong
waters, that, before the first acting of this farce, he was fit for°nothing
but to go of errands ; for which, and mere charity, the company
allowed him a weekly salary.
Bayes. Now, sir, because I 'U do nothing here that ever was
done before, instead of beginning with a scene that discovers
something of the plot, I begin this play with a whisper.''
Smith. Umph ! very new indeed.
Bayes. Come, take your seats. Begin, sirs.
Enter Gentleman-LTsher and Physician.
Fhg. Su-, by your habit, I should guess you to be the
Gentleman-Usher of this sumptuous place.
Ush. And by your gait and fashion, I should almost suspect
you rule the healths of both our noble Kings, under tha
notion of phj-sician.
Phy. You hit my function right.
TJ.sh. And }-ou mine.
Thy. Then let's embrace.
Vsh. Come.
Phy. Come.
John. Praj-, sir-, who are those so very civil persons ?
Bayes. Why, su', the Gentleman-Usher and Physician of
the two Kings of Brentford.
John. But, pray, then, how comes it to pass that they know
one another no better ?
Bayes. Phoo ! that 's for the better carrying on of the
plot.
John. Ver}- well.
Phy. Sir, to conclude.
Smith. What, before he begins ?
Bayes. No, sir, you must know the}' had been talking of
this a pretty while without.
Smith. AVhere ? in the tiring-room ?
Bayes. Why, ay, sir. He 's so dull ! come, speak again.
Phy, Sir, to conclude, the place you fill has more thai*
amply exacted the talents of a wary pilot ; and all these
threat'ning storms, which, like impregnate clouds, hover o'er
our heads, will (when they once are grasped but by th&
eye of reason) melt into fruitful showers of blessings on the
people.
Bnges. Pray mark that allegory. Is not that good ?
John. Yes; that gi'asping of a storm with the eye is
admirable.
Phy. But yet some nimours great are stirring; and if
Lorenzo should prove false (which none but the great gods-
can tell) you then perhaps would find that [ Whispers.
Bayes. Now he •whispers.
Ush. Alone, do you say ?
Phy. "No ; attended with the noble [ Wh ispers.
Bayes. Again.
Ush. 'WTio, he in grey ?
Phy. Yes ; and at the head of [ TTh ispers.
Bayes. Pray mark.
Ush. Then, sir, most certain 't will in time appear.
These are the reasons that have mov'd liim to 't ;
First he [Tfh ispers.
Bnges. Now the other whispers.
Ush. Secondly, they [JThispcrs.
Bayes. At it still.
Ush. Thirdly, and lastly, both he and they [TTh ispers.
[Exeunt whispering.
Bayes. Now they both whisper. Now, gentlemen, pray
tell me true, and without flattery, is not this a very odd
beginning of a play ?
John. In troth, I think it is, sir. But why two kings of
the same place ?
* Brake Sen. Draw up our men ;
And in low whispers give our orders out.
(" Play-house to be Let," p. 100.)
See the "Amorous Prince," pp. 20, 22, 39, 69, where you will find all
the chief commands and directions ai'e given in wliispers.
i^D. 1671.]
PLAYS.
341
Baijes. Why, because it 's new, and that 's it I aim at. I
despise your Johnson and Beaumont, that borrowed all they
■nxit from nature : I am for fetching it purely out of my own
fancy, I.
Smith. But what think you of Sir John Suckling?
Bayes. By gad, I am a better poet than he.
Smith. Well, sir, but pray wh)- all this whispering?
Btnjes. "VMiy, sir (besides that it is new, as I told you
before), because they are supposed to be politicians; and
matters of state ought not to be divulged.
Smith. But then, sir, why
Batjes. Sir, if you '11 but respite your curiosity tUl the end
of the fifth act, you '11 find it a piece of patience not ill recom-
pensed. [^Gocs to the door.
Witli omission of the amusing dialogue that inter-
venes between Bayes, Smith, and Johnson, here is
the next scene.
SCENE n.
Enter the ttto Kings, hand in hand.
Bayes. Oh, these are now the two Kings of Brentford ;
take notice of their stj-le, 't was never yet upon the stage : but
if you like it, I could make a shift perhaps to show you a
whole play, writ all just so.
1 King. Did you obser^-e their whispers, brother king ?
2 King. I did, and heard, besides, a grave bird sing,
That they intend, sweetheart, to play us pranks.
Bayes. This is now famfliar, because they are both persons
of the same quality.
Smith. S'dcath, this would make a man spew.
1 King. If that design appears,
I' U lug them by the ears,
Until I make 'em crack.
2 King. And so will I, i' fack.
1 King. You must begin, ma foy.
2 King. Sweet sir, pardonnez moy.
Bayes. Mark that ; I make "em both speak French, to show
their breeding.
John. 0, 't is extraordinarj- fine !
2 King. Then spite of fate, we '11 thus combined stand.
And, like two brothers, walk stiU hand in hand.
\_Exeunt Eeges.
John. This is a majestic scene indeed.
Bayes. Ay, 'tis a crust, a lasting crust for your rogue-
critics, r gad ; I would fain see the proudest of 'em all but
dare to nibble at this ; I' gad, if they do, this shaU rub their
gums for 'em, I promise you.
And again omitting some
here are the next scenes —
intervening dialogue,
SCENE III.
Enter Prince Prettymax.
Fret. How strange a captive am I grown of late !
Shall I accuse my love, or blame my fate ?
Jly love I cannot ; that is too divine :
And against fate what mortal dares repine ? '
Enter Chloris.
But here she comes.
Sure 'tis some blazing comet I is it not? [Lies down.
Bayes. Blazing comet ! mark that, I' gad, very fine !
Pret. But I am so surprised with sleep, I cannot speak the
rest. [Sleeps.
• Compare this with Prince Leonidas in " Marriage a-la-Mode."
Bayes. Does not that, now, surprise you, to fall asleep in
the nick ? his spirits exhale with the heat of his passion, and
aU that, and swop he falls asleep, as you see. Now here she
must make a simile.
Smith. Where 's the necessity of that, Jlr. Bayes ?
Bayes. Because she 's surprised. That 's a general rule ■,
you must ever make a s imil e when you are surprised ; 't is the
new way of -nTiting.
Chloris. As some tall pine, which we on JEtna find
T' have stood the rage of many a boisfrous wind.
Peeling without that flames within do play,
Which would consume his root and sap away ;
He spreads his woorsted arms imto the skies,
SUently grieves, all pale, repines and dies :
So shrouded up, your bright eye disappears.
Break forth, bright scorching sun, and dry my tears." [Exit.
John. Mr. Bayes, methinks this simUe wants a little appli-
cation too.
Bayes. No, faith ; for it alludes to passion, to consuming,
to dj-ing, and aU that ; which, you know, are the natural
effects of an amour. But I'm afraid this scene has made
you sad ; for, I must confess, when I ^^■rit it, I wept myself.
Smith. No, truly, sir, my spirits are almost exhaled too, and
I am likelier to faU asleep.
Prince Prettymax starts up, and says —
Fret. It is resolved. [Exit.
Bayes. That 's aU.
Smith. Mr. Bayes, maj- one be so bold as to ask you one
question now, and you not be angry ?
Bayes. lord, sir, you may ask me anything, what you
please ; I vow to gad, you do me a great deal of honour ; you
do not know me if you say that, sir.
Smith. Then pray, sir, what is it that this prince here has
resolved in his sleep ?
Bayes. ^Tiy, I must confess, that question is well enough
asked, for one that is not acquainted with this new way of
writing. But you must know, sir, that to outdo all my
fellow-writers, whereas they keep their intrigo secret, till the
very last scene before the dance, I now, sir (do you mark
me ? ) — a
Smith. Begin the play, and end it, without ever opening.
the plot at all ?
Bayes. I do so, that 's the very plain truth on 't ; ha, ha,
ha I I do, r gad. If they cannot find it out themselves, e'en
let 'em alone for Bayes, I wan-ant you. But here, now, is a
scene of business : pray observe it ; for I daresay you 11
think it no unwise discourse this, nor ill argued. To tell you
true, 'tis a discourse I overheard once betwixt two gi-and,
sober, governing persons.
SCENE IV.
Enter Gentleman-Usher and Physician.
Ush. Come, sir; let's state the matter of fact, and Lay our
heads together.
Phy. Eight ; lay our heads together. I love to be merry
sometimes ; but when a knotty point comes. I lay my head
close to it, with a snuff-box in my hand, and then I fegue it
away, i' faith.
2 In iinitatiou of this passage-
As some fair tiUip, by a storm opprest,
Shrinks np, and folds its sUken arms to rest ;
And, bendins to the blast, all pale and dead,
Hears from within the wind sing round its head :
So shrouded up your beauty disappears ;
Unveil, my love, and lay aside your fears :
The storm that caused yoiu- fright is past and gone.
("Conquest of Granada," Part i.. p. ».)
342
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[i.D. .671.
Hayes. 1 do just so, I' gad, always.
Ush. The gi-and question is, whether they heard us whisper ?
•which I divide thus.
Phy. Yes, it must be di\'ided so indeed.
Smith. That 's very complaisant, I swear, Jlr. Bayes,
to he of another man's opinion before he knows what
it is.
Jlaycs. Nay, I bring in none hero but well-bred persons, I
■issure J'ou.
Ush. I divide the question into when they heard, what they
heard, and whether they heard or no.
John. Most admirably divided, I swear !
Ush. As to the when ; you say, just now : so that is
answered. Then, as for what : why, that answers itself ;
for what could they hear but what we talked of ? so that
naturally, and of necessity, we come to the last question,
videlicet, whether they heard or no.
Smith. This is a very wise scene, Mr. Bayes.
Bayes. Ay, you have it right ; they are both politicians.
Ush. Pray then, to proceed in method, let me ask you that
ijuestion.
Fliy. No, you 'U answer better ; pray let me ask it you.
Ush. Your will must be a law.
Phy. Come then, what is 't I must ask 'i
Smith. This politician, I perceive, Mr. B.iyes, has somewhat
It short memory.
Bayes. Why, sir, you must know that t' other is the main
politician, and this is but his pupil.
Ush. You must ask me whether they heard us whisper.
Phy. Well, I do so.
Ush. Say it then.
Smith. Hey day ! here 's the bravest work that ever I saw.
John. This is mighty methodical.
Bayes. Ay, sir ; that 's the way ; 't is the way of art ; there
is no other way, 1' gad, in business.
Phy. Did they hear us whisper ?
Ush. Why, truly, I can't teU; there's much to be said
upon the word whisper : to whisper in Latin is fiifiirraix,
which is as much as to say, to speak softly ; now if they heard
us speak softly, they heard us whisper ; but then comes in
the iiuomodo, the hoio ; how did they hear us whisper? why,
as to that, there arc two ways : the one by chance or acci-
dent, the other on pm-pose ; that is, with design to hear us
•whisper.
Phy. Nay, if they heard us that way, I '11 never give them
physic more.
Ush. Nor I e'er more v?ill walk abroad before 'em.
Hayes. Pray mark this, for a gi-eat deal depends upon it
towards the latter end of the plaj'.
Smith. I suppose that 's the reason why you brought in
this scene, Mr. Bayes.
Bayes. Partly it was, sir; but I confess I was not un-
willing, besides, to show the world a pattern here how men
should talk of business.
John. You have done it exceeding well indeed.
Bayes. Y'cs, I think this will do.
Phy. WeU, if they heard us whisper, they wiU turn us out,
and nobody else will take us.
Smith. Not for poUticians, I dare answer for it.
Phy. Let 's then no more om-sclvcs in vain bemoan :
We are not safe until we them unthrone.
Ush. 'Tis right:
And, since occasion now seems debonair,
1 'U seize on this, and you shall take that chair.
[They draw their swords, and sit in the tioo
yreat ehairs upon the stage.
Hayes. There 's now an odd sui-prise ; the whole state's
turned quite topsy-turvy, without any pother or stu' in the
whole world, I' gad.'
John. A very silent change of government, truly, as ever I
heard of.
Bayes. It is SO. And yet you shall see me bring 'em in
again by and by, in as odd a way every jot.
[The Usurpers mareh out, flourishing their swords.
Enter Shikly.
Shir. Hey ho! hey ho! what a change is here 'r hey day,
hey day ! I know not what to do, nor what to say.'^^ [Exit.
John. Mr. Bayes, in my opinion now, that gentleman might
have said a little more upon this occasion.
Bayes. No, sir, not at all ; for I underwrit his part on pur-
pose to set off the rest.
John. Cry you mercy, sir.
Smith. But pray, sir, how came they to depose the kings so
easily ?
Bayes. Why, sir, you must know, they long had a design
to do it before ; but never could put it in practice till now :
and, to tell you true, that 's one reason why I made 'em
wliisper so at first.
Smith. O verj- well, now I 'm fully satisfied.
Bayes. And then to show you, su', it was not done so very
easil)' neither, in the next scene you shall see some fighting.
Smith. Oh, oh ! so then you make the struggle to be after
the business is done !
Bayes. Ay.
Smith. I conceive you : that, I swear, is very natural.
[Ejeimt,
SCENE V.
Enter four Men at one door, and four at another, with their
sivords drawn.
1 Sold. Stand. AVTio goes there ?
2 Sold. A friend.
1 Sold. AVhat friend ?
2 Sold. A friend to the house.
1 Sold. Fall on. [They all kill one another. Music strikes.
Bayes. Hold, hold. — [To thcmuMc. It ceases.'] — Now here's
an odd surprise : all these dead men you shall see rise up
presenth', at a certain note that I have made, in effaat flat,
* Such easy turns of state are frequent, says the "Key;" where
we see pi-inces dethroned, aud govei-nmeuts changed, by very feeble
means, and on slight occasions : pai-ticulai'ly in " MaiTiage a-la-
Mode," a play wi-it since the first publication of this farce. Where
(to pass by the d\ilness of the state-pai-t, the obscurity of the comic,
the near resemblance Leouidas bears to our Prince Prettymau, being
sometimes a king's son, sometimes a shepherd's; and not to question
how Amalthea comes to be a i)riucess, her brother, the king's great
favonrite, being but a lord) it is worth our while to observe how easily
the fierce and jealous usurper is deposed, and the right heir placed on
the throne ; and it is thus related by the said imaginary princess ; —
Ain(\lih. Oh, gentlemen ! if you have loyalty
Or courage, show it now. Leouidas,
Broke on a sudden from his guards, aud snatching
A sword from one, his back against the scaffold,
Bravely defends himself, and owns aloud
He is our long lost king, found for this moment :
But, if your valoui'S help not, lost for ever.
Two of his guards, moved by the sense of virtue.
Are turned for him, and there they stand at bay,
Against a host of foes. (*' Man*iage a-la-Mode," p. 61.)
This shows Mr. Bayes to be a man of constancy, aud firm to his
resolution, and not to be laughed out of his own method ; agreeable to
what he says in the nest act — ** As long as I know my things are good,
what cai'e I what they say ? "
- I know not what to say, or what to think !
I know not when I sleep, or when I wake !
{" Love and Friendship," p. 46.)
My doubts and fears my reason to dismay :
I know not what to do, or what to say. (" Pandora," p. 46.)
A.D. 1671."
PLAYS.
343
and fall a dancing. Do j-ou hear, dead men ;- remember your
note in effaiit flat. Play on. {To the »h»4i>.]— Kow, now,
now!— [TAe mmic plays hU note, and the dead men rise; but
cannot get in order. '\—0 lord! lord! Out, out, out! did
ever men spoil a good thing .so I no figure, no ear, no time,
nothing ? udzookers, you dance worse than the angels in
"Harry the Eighth,'' or the fat spirits in the "Tempest,"
I' gad.
1 Sohl. AMiy, sir, 't is impossible to do anrthing in time, to
this tune.
Baijes. lord: lord! impossible! why, gentlemen, if
there be any faith in a person that's a Christian, I sat up
two whole nights in composing this air, and adapting it for
the business : for, if you observe, there are two several de-
signs in tliis tunc ; it begins swift and ends slow. You talk
of time, and lime ; you shall see me do it. Look you now:
here I am dead. — {Lies down flat on his face.'] — Now mark my
note effatit flat. Strike up, music. Now ! — [As he rises np
hastUij, he falls doun again.']— Kb., gadzookers! I have broke
my nose.
John. By my troth, Jlr. Bayes, this is a very unfortunate
note of yours, in ejfaiit.
Bayes. A plague of this stage, with your nails and
your tenter-hooks, that a gentleman can't come to teach you
to act, but he must break his nose, and his face, and the
devU and all. Pray, sir, can you help me to a wet piece of
brown paper ?
Smith. Xo, indeed, sir, I don't usually carry any about me.
2 Sold. Sir, I '11 go get you some within presently.
Hayes. Go, go then ; I foUow you. Pray dance out the
dance, and I '11 be with you in a moment. Remember you
dance like horsemen. [Exit Bayes.
Smith. Like horsemen ! "N^Tiat a plague can that be I''
[They dance the dance, hit can make nothing of it.
1 Sold. A devil ! let 's try this no longer : play my dance
that Mr. Bayes found fault with so. [Dance, and Kreiint.
Smith. 'What can this fool he doing all this while about his
nose r
John. Prithee let 's go see. [Exeunt.
Mr. Bayes reappears at the beffinnuig of tlie Third
Act with a paper on Iiis nose, this accident laeiug
designed as a suggestion of the damaged nose of
Davenant. The first scene of the act is a caricatiu'e
of Drvdeu's comic wi-iting in the " WUd Gallant."
SCENE II.
Enter the two Usurpers,' hand in hand.
Vsh. But what's become of Volscius the great ':
His presence has not graced our court of late.
Phy. I fear some ill, from emulation sprung,
Has from us that illustrious hero wrung.
Bayes. Is not that majestical ?
Smith. Yes, but who a devil is that Yolscius ?
Bayes. Why, that 's a prince I make in love with Parthenope.
Smith. I thank you, sir..
Enter CoBDELIO.
Cnr. Jly lieges, news from Yolscius the prince.
Vsh. His news is welcome, whatsoe'er it be."
Smith. How, sir, do you mean whether it be good or bad ':
Bayes. Nay, pray, sir, have a little patience : gadzookers,
' See the two kings in the " Conquest of Granada."
- AlhcH. Curtius, I 've something to deliver to your ear.
Cm: Anything? from Alberto is welcome.
(" Amorous Prince," p. 39.)
you '11 spoil all my play. Why, sir, 't is impossible to answer
every impertment question you ask.
Smith. Cry you mercy, sir.
Cor. His highness, sirs, commanded me to tell you,
That the fair person whom you both do know,
Despairing of forgiveness for her fault.
In a deep sorrow, twice she did attempt
Tpon her precious life ; but, by the caro
Of standers by, prevented was.
Smith. S'heart, what stuff 's here?
Cor. At last,
Yolscius the great this dire resolve embraced :
His servants he into the country sent.
And he himself to Piccadilly went ;
'V\Tiere he 's informed by letters that she 's dead.
tTsh. Dead ! is that possible ': dead !
Phy. ye gods! [Exeunt.
Bayes. There 's a smart expression of a passion : yc gods t
that 's one of my bold strokes, I' gad.
Smith. Yes ; but who "s the fair person that 's dead ?
Bayes. That you shall know anon, sir.
Smith. Nay, if we know at all. 't is well enough.
Bayes. Perhaps you may find too, by and by, for all this,
that she 's not dead neither.
Smith. Marry, that 's good news indeed : I am glad of that
with all my heart.
Bayes. Now here 's the man brought in that is supposed to
have killed her. [A great shout tcilhin.
SCENE III.
Enter Am.uiillis, with a hook in her hand, and attendants.
Ama. What shout triuraphant's that !'
Enter a Soldier.
Sold. Shy maid, upon the river brink, near Twickenham
to^vn, the false assassinate is ta'en.
Amn. Thanks to the powers above for this deliverance. I
hope,
Its slow beginning will portend
A forward Ex'it to all future end.
Bayes. Pish, there you are out ; to all future end I no, no :
to all future end ; you must lay the accent upon end, or else
you lose the conceit.
Smith. I see you are ven,- perfect in these matters.
Bayes. Ay, sir, I have been long enough at it, one would
think, to know something.
Enter Soldiers, dragging in an oU Fisherman.
Ama. Yillain, what monster did corrupt thy mind
T' attack the noblest soul of human kind ?
TeU me who set thee on.
Fish. Prince Prettyman.
Ama. To kill whom ';
Fish. Prince Prettyman.
Ama. "VVTiat! did Prince Prettyman hire you to kill Prince
Prettyman ?
Fish. No, Prince Yolscius.
Ama. To kill whom ?
Fish. Prince Yolscius.
Ama. "\Miat ! did Prince Yolscius hire you to kill Prince
Yolscius ?
F'lsh. No, Prince Prettyman.
Ama. So drag him hence.
Till torture of the rack produce his sense. [Exetint.
Bai/es. Mark how I make the horror of his guilt confound
his intellects; for he's out at one and f other: and that's
the design of this scene.
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[a.d. 1671.
Smith. I sec, sir, you have a several design for every
scene.
Baycs. Ay, that 's my way of writing : and so, sir, I can
dispatch you a whole play before another man, I' gad, can
make an end of his plot.
Prince Prettvman finds lie is a fisherman's son.
But he is told l.y Tliiinble—
Thim. Brave Prettyman, it is at length revealed,
That he is not thy sire who thee concealed.
Bayes. Lo' you now ; there he 's off again.
John. Admirably done, i' faith!
Bayes. Ay, now the plot thickens very much upon us.
Fret. What oracle this darkness can evince !
Sometimes a fisher's son, sometimes a prince.
It is a secret great as is the world ;
In which I, like the soul, am tossed and hurled.
The blackest ink of fate sure was my lot.
And when she writ my name she made a blot. [Exit.
Bayes. There 's a blustering verse for j-ou now.
Smith. Yes, sir ; but why is he so mightily troubled to find
he is not a fisherman's son ?
Bayes. Phoo ! that is not because he has a mind to be his
son, but for fear he should be thought to be nobod)''s son at all.
Smith. Nay, that would trouble a man, indeed.
Bayes. So, let me see.
SCENE V.
Enter Prince VoLscius, going out of town.
Smith. I thought he had been gone to Piccadill}-.
Bayes. Yes, he gave it out so ; but that was only to cover
his design.
John. What design ?
Bayes. Why, to head the army that lies concealed for him
at Knightsbridge.
John. I see here 's a great deal of plot, Mr. Bayes.
Bayes. Yes, now it begins to break, but we shall have a
■world of more business anon.
Enter Piince Volscius, Cloris, Amarillis, and Harry,
with a Ridiny-clonh and Boots.
Ama. Sir, you are cruel thus to leave the town,
And to retire to country solitude.
Clo. We hoped this summer that we should at least
Have held the honour of your company.
Bayes. Held the honour of your company ; prettily ex-
pressed : held the honour of your company ! gadzookers, these
fellows will never take notice of anything.
John. I assure you, sir, I admire it extremely; I don't
know what he does.
Bayes. Ay, ay, he 's a little envious ; but 't is no great
matter. Come.
Ama. Pray let us two this single boon obtain !
That you will here, with poor us, still remain !
Before your hors 'S come, pronounce om- fate.
For then, alas ! I fear 't wiU be too late.
Bayes. Sad !
To!. Harry, my boots ; for I 'U go range among
My blades encamped, and quit this urban thi-ong. '
1 Let my horses be brought ready to the door, for I'U go out of
town this eveuiug.
Into the country I '11 with speed,
With hoimds aud hawks my fancy feed.
• • • • •
Now I '11 away, a country life
Shall be my mistress, aud my wife.
(Both from the "English Monsieoi-," pp. 36, 38, 39.)
Smith. But pray, Jli-. Bayes, is not this a little difficult,
that you were saying e'en now, to keep an army thus con-
cealed in Knightsbridge ?
Baycs. In Knightsbridge ? Stay.
John. No, not if the innkeepers be his friends.
Bayes. His friends ! ay, sir, his intimate acquaintance ; or
else indeed I grant it could not be.
Smith. Yes, faith, 80 it might be very easy.
Bayes. Nay, if I do not make all things easy, I' gad, I '11
give you leave to hang me. Now you would think that he 's
going out of town; but you shall see how prettily I have
contrived to stop him presently.
Smith. By my troth, sir, you have so amazed me, that I
know not what to think.
Enter Parthexope.
Vols. Bless me ! how frail are all my best resolves !
How, in a moment, is my purpose changed !
Too soon I thought myself seciire from love.
Fair madam, give me leave to ask her name,^
UTio does so gently rob me of my fame :
For I should meet the army out of town.
And if I fail, must hazard my renown.
Tar. My mother, sir, seUs ale by the town-walk ;
And me her dear Parthenope she calls.
Bayes. Now that 's the Parthenope I told you of.
John. Ay, ay, I' gad, you are very right.
Tols. Can vulgar vestments high-born beauty shroud ?
Thou bring'st the morning pictured in a cloud.'
Bayes. The morning pictiu-ed in a cloud! ah, gadzookers,
what a conceit is there !
Bar. Give you good even, sir. [Exit.
Vols. O inauspicious stars ! that I was born
To sudden love, and to more sudden scorn !
Ama. I How ! Prince Volscius in love ? ha, ha, ha I *
Clo. ) [Exeunt laughing.
Smith. Sure, Mr. Bayes, we have lost some jest here, that
they laugh at so.
Bayes. ^\"hy, did you not obsen'e? he first resolves to go
out of town, and then as he 's pulling on his boots, falls in
love with her ; ha, ha, ha !
Smith. Well, and where lies the jest of that ?
Bayes. Ha ? [ Turns to Johnson.
John. \\Ti}', in the boots : where should the jest lie ?
Bayes. T gad, j'ou are in the right : it docs lie in the
boots. — [Turns to S.with.) — Your friend and I know where a
good jest lies, though you don't, sir.
Smith. Much good do 't you, sir I
Bayes. Here now, Mr. Johnson, you shall see a combat
betwixt love and honour. An ancient author has made a
whole play on 't ; * but I have dispatched it all in this scene.
\oi.scivs sits down to pull on his boots: Bates stands by and
over-acts the part as he speal-s it.
Vols. How has my passion made me Cupid's scofi I
This hasty boot is on, the other off,
And sullen lies, with amorous design,
To quit loud fame, and make that beauty mine.
Smith. Prithee mark what pains Mr. Bayes takes to act
this speech himself !
John. Yes, the fool, I see, is mightily transported with it.
2 Aud what 's this maid's name ? (" Eusjlish Monsieur," p. 40.)
* I briug the morning pictiu-ed in a cloud.
(" Siesje of Rhodes," Pai-t i., p. 10.)
* Mi-. Comely iu love ! ( " English Monsieur, p. -49. )
* Sir William Davenant's play of " Love and Honour."
1671.3
PLAYS.
34.J
Vols. 3Iy legs the emblem of my yarious thought
Shew to what sad disti-action I am brought.
Sometimes with stubborn honour, like this boot,
Jly mind is guarded, and resolved to do 't :
Sometimes again, that verj' mind, by love
Disarmed, like this other leg does prove.
Shall I to honour or to love give way ?
Go on, cries honour; ' tender love says, Xay;
Honour aloud commands. Pluck both boots on ;
But softer love does whisper, Put on none.
AATiat shall I do ! what conduct shall I find,
To lead me through this twUight of my mind ?
For as bright day, with black approach of night
Contending, makes a doubtful puzzling Ught ;
So does my honour and my love together
Puzzle me so, I can resolve for neither.
\_Goes out hoppitig, with one boot on and f other off.
John. By my troth, sir, this is as diliicult a combat as ever
I saw, and as equal ; for t is determined on neither side.
Bnijes. Ay, is 't not now, I' gad, ha r for to go oif hip-hop,
hip-hop, upon this occasion, is a thousand times better than
any conclusion in the world, I' gad.
John. Indeed, Mr. Bayes, that hip-hop, in this place, as
you say, does a verj- great deal.
Baijes. Oh, all in all, sir '. they are these little things that
mar or set you off a play.
The Fourth Act, after due critical introduction by
Mr. Bayes for the benefit of Smith and Johnson,
begins with a funeral.
Enter a funeral, with the two TTsurpers and Attendants.
Bayes. Lay it down there ; no, no, here, sir. So now
speak.
K. Ush. Set down the funeral pile, and let our grief
Eeceive from its embraces some reKef.
K. Phys. AVas 't not unjust to ravish hence her breath.
And, in life's stead, to leave us nought but death f
The world discovers now its emptiness.
And by her loss demonstrates we have less.
Bayes. Is not this good language now r is not that elevate ?
'T is my non ultra, I' gad : you must know they were both in
»love with her.
Smith. "With her! with whom ?
Bayes. AVhy this is Lardella's funeral.
Smith. Lardella 1 ay, who is she ?
Bayes. WTiy, sir, the sister of Drawcansir : a lady that was
drowned at sea, and had a wave for her winding-sheet."
tK. Ush. LardeUa, O LardeHa, from above
Behold the tragic issues of our love :
Pity us, sinking under grief and pain,
JFor thy being cast away upon the main.
Bayes. Look you now, you see I told you true.
I Smith. Ay, sir, and I thank you for it verj- kindly.
Bayes. Ay, I' gad, but you will not have patience ; honest
Mr. a you will not have patience.
John. Pray, Mr. Bayes, wio is that Drawcansir ?
Bayes. Why, sir, a fierce hero, that frights his mistress,
«nubs up kings, baffles armies, and does what he will, without
legard to numbers, good manners, or justice.'
John. A verj- pretty character '.
' But hononr says not so. (" Siege of Bhodes," Part I , p. 19. )
2 On seas I bore thee, on seas I died,
I died : and for a windiiig-slieet, a wave
I bad ; and all the ocean for my grave.
(" Conquest of Granada," Part ii., p. 113.)
3 Almanzor in Dr>-deu's '* Conquest of Granada."
164
Smith. But, Mr. Bayes, I thought your heroes had ever
been men of great humanity and justice.
Bayes. Yes, they have been so ; but for my part, I prefer
that one quality of singly beating of whole armies, above all
your moral virtues put together, I' gad. You shall see him
come in presently. Zookers, why don't you read the paper Y
[To the Players.
JS!". Phys. Oh, cry you mercy. [Goes to take the paper.
Bayes. Pish 1 nay you are such a fumbler. Come, I'll read
it myself. — [Taics a paper from off the coffin.} — Stay, it 's an
ill hand, I must use my spectacles. This now is a copy of
verses, which I make Lardella compose just as she is djing,
^vith design to have it pinned upon her co6Bn, and so read
by one of the usurpers, who is her cousin.
Smith. A very shrewd design that, upon my word, Mr.
Bayes.
Bayes. And what do you think now, I fancy her to make
love hke, here, in this paper ?
Smith. Like a woman : what should she make lore like f
Bayes. O' my word you are out, though, sir ; I' gad you are.
Smith. WTiat then, Uke a man ?
Bayes. Xo, sir ; like a humble-bee.
Suiilh. I confess, that I should not have fancied.
Bayes. It may be so, sir ; but it is, though, in order to the
opinion of some of }-our ancient philosophers, who held the
transmigration of the soul.
Smith, A'ery fine.
Bayes. I "11 read the title. To my dear couz, King Phys.
Smith. That's a little too familiar with a king, though, sir
by your favour, for a humble-bee.
Bayes. Mr. Smith, in other things, I grant your knowledge
may be above me ; but as for poetry, give me leave to say, I
understand that better : it has been longer my practice ; it
has indeed, sir.
Smith. Your servant, sir.
Bayes. Pray mark it. [Seddt.
Since death my earthly part will thus remove,
I '11 come a humble-bee to your chaste love :
With sQent wings I'll follow you, dear couz;
Or else, before you, in the sun-beams, buz.
And when to melancholy groves you come.
An airy ghost, you'U know me by my hum :
For sound, being air, a ghost does well become.*
Smith. {After a pause.) Admirable '.
Bayes. At night, into your bosom I wiU creep.
And buz but softly if you chance to sleep :
Yet in your di-eams, I wiU pass sweeping by,
And then both hum and buz before your eye.
John. By my troth, that 's a very great promise.
Smith. Yes, and a most extraordinary comfort to boot.
• In ridicule of a droning way of reading that Dryden had, and this —
My earthly part.
Which is my tyrant's right, death will remove j
I '11 come all soul and spirit to your love.
With silent steps I '11 follow yon all day ;
Or else hefore yon in the sun-heams play.
I 11 lead you hence to melancholy groves.
And there repeat the scenes of our past loves :
At night, I will within your curtains peep.
With empty arms embrace you, while you sleep.
In gentle dreams I often will he by,
And sweep along hefore your closing eye.
All dangers from your bed I will remove ;
But guard it most from any future love.
And when at last in pity you will die,
I '11 watch your birth of immortality :
Then, tiurtle like, I '11 to my mate repair.
And teach yon your first flight in open air.
(Dryden's " Tyrannic Love," p. 25.)
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CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1671.
Bayes. Your bed of love from dangers I will free ;
But most from love of any future bee.
And when with pity your heart-strings shall crack,
With empty arms I 'U bear you on my back.
Smifh. A pick-a-pack, a pick-a-pack.
Saijes. Ay, I ' gad, but is not that ttiant now, ha ? is it not
tuant ! here 's the end. —
Then at your birth of immortality,
Like any winged archer hence I 'U fly,
And teach you your first fluttering in the sky.
John. Oh rare '. this is the most natural, refined fancy that
ever I heard, I '11 swear.
Bmjes. Yes, I think, for a dead person, it is a good way
enough of making love : for being divested of her teri-estrial
part, and all that, she is only capable of these little, pretty,
amorous designs that are innocent, and yet passionate. Come,
draw your swords.
K. Phys. Come, sword, come sheath thyself within this
breast,
Which only in LardeUa's tomb can rest.
K. Ush. Come, dagger, come and penetrate this heart,
Which cannot from LardeUa's love depart.
Enter P.\LL.\S.
Pnl. Hold, stop your murd'ring hands
At Pallas's commands :
For the supposed dead, kings,
Porbear to act such deadly things.
LardcUa Uves ; I did but try
If princes for their loves could die.
Such celestial constancy
Shall, by the gods, rewarded be :
And from these funeral obsequies,
A nuptial banquet shall arise.
[The coffin opens, and a bantjiicl Is discovered.
Binjes. So, take away the coflin. Now 'tis out.
This is the very funeral of the fair person which Volscius
sent word was dead ; and Pallas, you see, has turned it into
a banquet.
Smith. Well, but where is this banquet ?
Bin/es. Nay, look you, sir, we must first hare a dance, for
joy that Lardella is not dead. Pray, sir, give me leave to
bring in my things properly at least.
Smith. That, indeed, I had forgot ; I ask your pardon.
Btii/es. O, d 'ye so, sir ? I am glad you ■n-iU confess yourself
once in an error, 3Ir. Smith.
Daxce.
K. Ush. Resplendent Pallas, we in thee do find
The fiercest beauty, and a fiercer mind :
And since to thee LardeUa's life we owe.
We 'U supple statues in thy temple grow.
£. Fhi/s. WeU, since alive Ijardella's foimd.
Let in full bowls her health go round.
[The tico Usurpers take each of them a bowl in their hands.
X. Vsh. But Where's the wine 'i
I'lil. That shall be mine.
Lo, from this conquering lance
[Fills the bowls out of her lance.
Does flow the purest ivine of France :
And to appease your hunger, I
Have in my helmet brought a pie :
Lastly, to bear a part with these.
Behold a buckler made of cheese.' [ Vanish Pallas.
> See the scene in the " Villain," p. 47, 48, 4S, 50, 51, 52, 53. Where
the host furnishes his guests with n collation out of his clothes ; a
capon from his helmet, a tansey out of the lining of his cap, cream
out of his scabhard, &c.
Bai/cs. That 's the banquet. Are you satisfied now, sir 'r
John. By my troth now, that is new, and more than I
expected.
Baycs. Yes, I knew this would please you : for the chief
art in poetry is to elevate your expectation, and then bring
you olf some extraordinarj* way.
Enter Dkawcaxsir.
K. Phys. ■fltat man is this that dares disturb our feast ?
Draw. He that dares drink, and for that drink dares die :
And knowing this, dares yet drink on, am I.-
Jolin. That is, JIi". Bayes, as nmch as to saj', that tho' he
would rather die than not drink, yet he would fain drink for
aU that too.
Bayes. Kight ; that 's the conceit on 't.
John. 'T is a marveUous good one, I swear.
Baycs. Now, there are some critics that have advised me to
put out the second dare, and print must in the place on 't ; •*■
but, I' gad, I think 't is better thus a gi-eat deal.
John. Whool a thousand times.
Bayes. Go on, then.
K. I'sli. Sir, if you please, we should be glad to know.
How long you here wiU stay, how soon you 'U go ?
Bayes. Is not that now Uke a weU-bred person, I' gad f so
modest, so gent !
Smith. Oh very Uke.
Drau: You shaU not know how long I here wiU stay ;
But you shaU know I 'U take your bowls away.''
[Snatches the bowls out of the Kings' hands, and drinls
them off.
Smith. But, Mr. Bayes, is that, too, modest and gent ?
Bayes. No, I' gad, sir, but 't is great.
K. Ush. Though, brother, this grum stranger be a clown,
He'U leave us sure a Uttle to gulp down.
Draw. WTioe'er to gulp one drop of this dares think,
I'U st.-ire away his very power to drink.^
[The tiro Kings sneak off the stage xvith their Attendants
I drink, I hufi, I strut, look big and stare ;
And aU this I can do, because I dare.'' [Exit.
Smith. I suppose, Mr. Bayes, this is the fierce hero you
spoke of ?
Bayes. Yes ; but this is nothing : you shaU see him in the
last act win above a dozen battles, one after another, I 'gad,
as fast as they can possibly come upon the stage.
John. That will be a fight worth the seeing, indeed.
Smith. But pray, Mr. Bayes, why do you make the kings
let him use them so scurvily ?
Bayes. Phoo ! that 's to raise the character of Drawcansir.
John. 0' my word, that was well thought on.
Bayes. Now, sirs, I '11 show you a scene indeed ; or rather
indeed the scene of scenes. 'Tis an heroic scene.
Smith. And pray, what 's your design in this scene ?
2 In ridicule of this —
AJmah. Who dares to interrupt my private walk ?
Alman. He who dares love, and for that love must die ;
And, knowing this, dares yet love on, am I.
(•■ Granada," Part ii., p. 114, 115.)
3 It was at first, dares die. [Ihid.)
* .4?Tnan. I would not now, if thou wouldst beg me, stay ;
But I will take my Almahide away.
(" Conquest of Granada," p. 32.)
5 In ridicule of this — ■
^iinaii. Thou dar'st not maiTy her, while I'm in sight ;
With a bent bron-, thy priest, and thee I '11 frii^ht :
And, in that scene, which all thy hopes and wishes should content,
Tlie thoutrhts of me shall make thee impotent. {Ihid., p. 5.)
^ Spite of myself, I '11 stay, fight, love, despair ;
And all this I can do, because I dare.
("Tyrannic Love," Part ii., p. S9.)
A.D. 1671.]
PLAYS.
347
Bayes. "^Tiy, sir, my design is gilded truncheons, forced
conceit, smooth verse and a rant ; in fine, if this scene don't
take, I' gad, I '11 write no more. Come, come in, Mr.
a nay, come in as many as j-ou can. Gentlemen, I
must desire you to remove a little, for I must fiU the stage.
SmUh. ■\^^ly fill the stage ?
Bayes. Oh, sir, because your heroic verse never sounds
well, but when the stage is full.
SCENE II.
Enter Prince Pretttm.\x and Prince YoLScirs.
Nay, hold, hold ; pray by your leave a little. Look you,
sir, the drift of this scene is somewhat more than ordinary ;
for I make 'em both fall out, because they are not in love
with the same woman.
Smith. Not in love ? you mean, I suppose, because they
are in love, llr. Bayes ?
Bayes. No, sir; I say not in love; there's a new conceit
for you. Now speak.
Pret. Since Fate, prince Volscius, now has found the way
For our so longed-for meeting here this day.
Lend thy attention to my grand concern.
Vols. I gladly would that story from thee leam ;
But thou to love dost, Prettyman, incline ;
Yet love in thy breast is not love in mine.
Bayes. Antithesis ! thine and mine.
Pret. Since love itself 's the same, why should it be
DiiFring in you from what it is in me ?
Bayes. Reasoning ! I' gad, I love reasoning in verse.
Vols. Love takes, chameleon like, a various dye
From every plant on which itself does lie.
Bayes. Simile I
Pret. Let not thy love the course of nature fright :
Nature does most in harmony delight.
Vols. How weak a deity would nature prove,
Contending with the pow'rful god of love !
Bayes. There 's a great verse !
Vols. If incense thou wilt offer at the shrine
Of mighty love, burn it to none but mine.
Her rosy lips eternal sweets exhale ;
And her bright flames make all flames else look pale.
Bayes. V gad that is right.
Pret. Perhaps duU incense may thy love sufiice;
But mine must be adored with sacrifice.
All hearts turn ashes, which her eyes control :
The body they consume, as well as soul.
Vols, ily love has yet a power more divine ;
Victims her altars bum not, but refine ;
Amidst the flames they ne'er give up the ghost,
But, with her looks, re^-ive still as they roast.
In spite of pain and death, they're kept aUve;
Her fierj- eyes make 'em in fire survive.
Bayes. That is as well, I' gad, as I can do.
Vols. Let my Parthenope at length prevail.
Bayes. Ci\Tl, I' gad.
Pret. I 'U sooner hope a passion for a whale ;
In whose vast bulk, tho' store of oil doth lie.
We find more shape, more beauty in a fl)-.
Smith. That 's uncivO, I' gad.
Bayes. Yes ; but as far-fetched a fancy, though, I' gad, as
«'er you saw.
Vols. Soft, Prettj-man, let not thy vain pretence
Of perfect love defame love's excellence :
Parthenope is, sure, as far above
All other loves, as above all is love.
Bayes. Ah ! I' gad, that strikes me.
Pret. To bliime my Cloris, gods would not pretend.
Bayes. Now mark.
Vols. Were all gods joined, they could not hope to mend
3Iy better choice : for fair Parthenope
Gods would themselves un-god themselves to see.i
Bayes. Now the rant 's a comiug.
Prtt. Durst any of the gods be so imci\-il,
I 'd make that god subscribe himself a devil.'
Bayes. Ay, gadzookers, that's well vrriX '.
[Scratching his hiad, his peruke falls off.
Vols. Couldst thou that god from heaven to earth
translate,
He could not fear to want a heav'nly state ;
Parthenope, on earth, can heav'u create.
Pret. Cloris does heav'n itself so far excel,
She can transcend the joys of heav'n in hell.
Bayes. There's a bold flight for you now ! 'sdeath, I have
lost my peruke. 'Well, gentlemen, this is what I never yet
saw any one could write, but myself. Here 's true spirit and
flame aU through, I' gad. So, so, pray clear the stage.
[He puts 'em off the stage.
John. I wonder how the coxcomb has got the knack of
writing smooth verse thus.
Smith. AVhy, there's no need of brain for this: 'tis but
scanning the labours on the finger ; but where 's the sense
of it ?
John. 1 for that he desires to be excused : he is too proud
a man, to creep servilely after sense, I assure you.^ But pray,
Mr. Bayes, why is this scene all in verse ?
Bayes. Oh, sir, the subject is too great for prose.
Smith. WeU said, i' faith ; I '11 give thee a pot of ale for
that answer ; 't is well worth it.
Bayes. Come, with all my heart.
I '11 make that god subscribe himself a de^-il ;
That siugle line, I 'gad, is worth aU that my brother poets
ever writ.
Let down the curtain. [Exeunt.
Thus the Fifth Act begins, with a caricature of the
interpolated singing and dancing in heroic plays.
Bayes. Now, gentlemen, I wiU be bold to say, I 'U show
you the greatest scene that ever England saw : I mean not
for words, for those I don't value ; but for state, show, and
magnificence. In fine, I '11 justify it to be as grand to the
eye every whit, I' gad, as that great scene in Harry the
Eighth, and grander too, I' gad : for instead of two bishops, I
bring in here four cardinals.
[The curtain is drawn up, the two usurping Kings appear m
state, with the four Cardinals, Prince Pkettvslix, Prince
VoLsciv.s, Amaryllis, Cloris, P.iRTKESoPE, &c., before
them. Heralds and Sergeants at arms, icith maces.
1 In ridicule of this —
Max. Thou Uest. There 's not a god inhabits there.
But, for this Christian, would all heaven forswear :
Even Jove would try new shapes her love to win.
And in new birds, and unknown beasts would sin ;
At least, if Jove could love lite Marimin.
(■' TjTannic Love." p. 17.)
2 Some god now, if he dare relate what passed ;
Sav, but he 's dead, that god shaU mortal be.
(llid., p. 7.)
Provoke my rage no farther, lest I be
Revenged once upon the gods, and thee. [p. 8.]
What had the gods to do with me, or mine. [p. 57.]
3 Poets, like lovers, should be bold, and dare ;
They spoil their business with an over-care :
And he who servilely creeps after sense.
Is safe ; but ne'er can reach to excellence.
(Dryden's Prologue to " Tyrannic Love.")
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CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1671.
Smith. Mr. Bayes, pray what is the reason two of the
cardinals arc in hats, and the other in caps ?
Jlai/fs. Why, sir, hecause By gad, I won't t-ll you.—
Your country friend, sir, grows so troublesome
X Ush. Now, sir, to the business of the day.
K. Fliys. Speak, Volscius.
Vols. Dread sovereign lords, my zeal to you must not
invade my duty to your son ; let mo intreat that great prince
Trettyman first to speak; whose high pre-eminence in all
things that do bear the name of good, my justly claim that
privilege.
lini/is. Hoi-c it begins to unfold ; you may perceive, now,
that he is his son.
John. Yes, su- ; and wc arc very much beholden to you
for that discovery.
rrct. Royal father, upon my knees I beg,
That the illustrious Volscius tirst be hoard.
Vols. That preference is only due to Amaryllis, sir.
Bayes. I 'U make her speak very well, by and by, you
shall sec.
Ama. Invincible sovereigns. \_Soft music.
K. Ush. But stay, what sound is this invades our ears ': '
K. Phtjs. Sure 't is the music of the moving spheres.
Fret. Behold, with wonder, yonder comes from far
A god-like cloud, and a triumphant ear ;
In which our two right kings sit one by one.
With virgins' vests, and laurel garlands on.
jr. Ush. Then, brother Thys, 'tis time we should be gone.
[The two Usurpers steal out of the throne, anil go uu-in/.
Baijes. Look you, now, did not I tell you that this would
be as easy a change as the other ?
Smith. Yes, faith, you did so ; though I confess I eoidd not
believe you : but you have brought it about, I see.
[The two right Kings of Bkentfokd descend in the clouds,
sinr/iiHi, in white garments ; and three Fiddlers sitting before
them, in green.
Bayes. Now, because the two right kings descend from
above, I make 'em sing to the tune and style of our modern
spirits.
1 King. Haste, brother king, we are sent from above.
2 King. Let us move, let us move ;
Move to remove the fate
Of Brentford's long united state. -
^ What various notes do my ears invade ;
And have a concert of confusion made ?
(*' Sie^e of Rhodes," p. 4,)
- In ridicule of this —
Naher. Hark, my Damilcar, we are called below.
Dam. Let us go, let us go :
Go to relieve the care,
Of longing lovers in despair.
Naker. Merry, men-y, men-y, we sail from the east,
Half tippled at a rainbow feast.
I>o,m. In the bright moonshine, while winds whistle loud,
Tivy, tivy, tivy, we moxint and we fly.
All racking along in a do^vny white cloud ;
And lest oiu leap from the sky should prove too far,
We slide on the back of a new-faUing star.
Nakt-r. And drop from above,
In a jelly of love.
Dfoii. But now the sim's down, and the element's red,
The spirits of fire against us make head.
Nftker. They muster, they muster, like gnats in the air;
Alas ! I must leave thee, my fair ;
And to my light-horsemen repair.
Dam. O stay ! for you need not to fear *em to-night ;
The wind is for us, and blows full in their sight :
And o'er the wide ocean we fight.
Like leaves in the autumn, our foes will fall down.
And hiss in the water.
Both. And hiss in the water, and drown.
1 King. Tarra, ran, tarra, fuU east and by south.
2 King. Wc sail with thunder in our mouth.
In scorching noonday, whilst the traveller stays ;
Busy, busy, busy, busy, we bustle along,
Mounted upon wai-m Phtebus's rays,
Through the heavenly throng,
Hasting to those
Who win feast us at night with a pig's petty toes.
1 King. And we '11 fall with our plate
In an oUio of hate.
2 King. But now supper's done, the serintors try,
Like soldiers, to stoi-m a whole half-moon pie,
1 King. They gather, they gather hot custards in spoons :
But, alas ! I must leave these half-moons.
And repair to my trusty dragoons.
2 King. staj-, for you need not as yet go astray ;
The tide, like a friend, has brought ships in oui- way,
And on their high ropes we wiU play
Like maggots in filbirds we '11 .snug in our shell,
We'll frisk in our shell,
We '11 frisk in our shell,
And farewell.
1 King. But the ladies have aU inclination to dance.
And the green frogs croak out a coranto of France.
Bayes. Is not that pretty now ? the fiddlers are all in green.
Smith. Ay, but they play no coranto.
John. No, but they play a tune that 's a great deal better.
Bayes. No coranto, quoth-a ! that 's a good one, with all
my heart. Come, sing on.
2 King. Now mortals that hear
How we tilt and career,
With wonder will fear
The event of such things as shall never appear.
1 King. Stay you to fulfil what the gods have decreed.
2 King. Then call me to help you, if there shall be need.
1 King. So firmly resolved is a true Brentford king,
To save the distressed and help to 'em to bring,
That ere a fuU-pot of good ale you can swallow,
He 's here with a whoop, and gone with a holla.
IB.WEH Jillips hisjinyer, and sings after 'em.
Baijcs. He 's here with a whoop, and gone with a holla.
This, sir, you must know, I thought once to have brought in
with a conjurer.^
John. Ay, that would have been better.
Bayes. No, faith, not when you consider it : for thus it is
more compendious, and does the thing every whit as wcU.
Smith. Thing! what thing .^
Bayes. Why, bring 'cm down again into the throne, sir ,
what thing would you have ?
Smith. Well; but methinks the sense of this song is not
very plain !
Bayes. Plain ! why, did you ever hear any people in clouds
speak plain ? they must be .all for flight of fancy at its full
range, without the least check or control upon it. When
Nake^'. But their men lie sectu^ly intrenched in a cloud.
And a tnimpeter-honiet to battle sounds loud.
Dam. Now mortals that spy
How we tilt in the sky.
With wonder will gaze ;
And fear such events as will ne'er come to pass.
Nakcr. Stay you to pei-form what the man will have done.
Dam. Then call me again when the battle is won.
Both. So ready and quick is a spirit of air.
To pity the lover, and succour the fair.
That silent and swift, that little soft god,
Is hei'e with a wish and is gone with a nod,
('*T>Taunic Love," p, 24, 25,)
' See "TjT.aunic Love," act iv, scene 1.
A.D. 1671.1
PLAYS.
349
once you tie up spirits and people in eluuds, to speiik plain,
you spoil all.
Smith. Bless me, what a monster 's this 1
[TAi' two Kings light out of the cluiids^nnii step into the throne.
I King. Come, now to serious counsel we '11 advance.
■1 King. I do agree ; hut first, let 's have a dance.
Baijes. Right. You did that very well, Mr. Cartwright.
lliit first, let's have a dance. Pray remember that ; he sure
you do it always just so : for it must be done as if it were
the effect of thought and premeditation. But first, let 's have
ii dance : pray remember that.
Smith. Well, I can hold no longer, I must gag this rogue,
there's no enduring of him.
John. Xo, prithee make use of thy patience a little longer,
let 's see the end of him now. [Dance a grand dance.
Sages. This, now, is an ancient dance, of right belonging
to the Kings of Brentford; but since derived, with a little
alteration, to the Inns of C'oui-t.
An alarm. Enter two Heralds.
1 King. AATiat saucy groom molests our privacies ?
1 Her. The army 's at the door, and in disguise.
Desires a word with both your majesties.
"i Her. Having from Knightsbridge hither marched by
stealth.
2 King. Bid 'em attend awhile, and drink our health.
Smith. How, Jlr. Bayes, the army in disguise '.
Bayer. Ay, sir, for fear the usurpers might discover them,
that wt.it out but just now.
Smith. Why, what if they had discovered them ?
Bages. Why, then they had broke the design.
1 King. Here, take five guineas for those warlike men.
'1 King. And here's five more; that makes the sum just
ten.
1 Her. We have not seen so much, the Lord knows when.
[Exeunt Heralds.
I King. Speak on, brave Amaryllis.
Ama. Invincible sovereigns, blame not my modesty, if at
this grand conjuncture [Ifriim heats behind the stage.
1 King. What dreadful noise is this that comes and goes ?
Enter a Soldier icith his sword drawn.
Sold. Haste hence, great sirs, your royal persons save.
For the event of war no mortal knows : '
The army, wrangling for the gold you gave.
First fell to words, and then to handy-blows. [Exit.
Biiges. Is not that now a pretty kind of a stanza, and a
handsome come-ofE ?
•1 King. O dangerous estate of sovereign power !
(Jlinoxious to the change of every hour.
1 King. Let us for shelter in our cabinet stay :
Perhaps these threatening storms may pass away.
[Exeunt.
John. But, llr. Bayes, did not you promise us just now, to
make Amaryllis speak very well ':
Bages. Ay, and so she would have done, but that they
hindered hir.
Smith. How, sir, whether you would or no?
Bayes. Ay, sir ; the plot lay so, that I vow to gad, it was
not to be avoided.
' In ridicule of this —
What new misfortunes do these cries presage ?
1 Sfffst. Haste all you can, their fury to assm^e :
Yon are not safe from their rebellious raee.
2 3Iis.=. This minute, if you grant not their desire.
They '11 seize your person, and your palace flie.
(" Granada," Part ii., p. 71.)
Smith. Marry, that was hard.
John. But pray, who hindered her?
Bayes. Why, the battle, sir, that 's just coming in at the
door.
The play rehearsed ends not only with battle, but
with an eclipse. Here is the eclipse —
Bages. Ay, sir : but liow would you fancy now to represent
an ecUpse ?
Smith. Why, that 's to be supposed.
Bayes. Supposed ! ay, you are ever at your suppose : ha,
ha, ha ! why, j'ou may as well suppose the whole phiy. Ko,
it must come in upon the stage, that 's certain : but in some
odd way, that may delight, amuse, and aU that. 1 have a
conceit for 't, that I am sure is new, and I believe to the
purpose.
John. How's that?
Bayes. ^"hy, the truth is, I took the first hint of this out
of a dialogue between Phwbus and Aurora, in the "Slighted
Maid ; " which, by my troth, was very pretty ; but I think
you 'd confess this is a Httle better.
John. No doubt on't Mr. Bayes — a great deal better.
[B.iYES hugs Johnson, then turns to Smith.
Bayes. Ah, dear rogue ! but a — ■ — sir, you have heard, I
suppose, that your eclipse of the moon is nothing else but an
interposition of the earth between the sun and moon ; as like-
wise your eclipse of the sun is caused by an interlocation of
the moon betwixt the earth and the sun.
Smith. I have heard some such thing indeed.
Bayes. Well, sir, then what do I, but make the earth, sun,
and moon, come out upon the stage, and dance the hey.
Hum ! and of necessity, by the very natiu-e of this dance, the
earth must be sometimes between the sun and the moon, and
the moon between the earth and sun : and there you have
both eclipses by demonstration.
John. That must needs be very fine, truly.
Bayes. Yes ; it has fancy in 't. And then, sir, that there
may be something in 't too of a joke, I bring 'em in all sing-
ing ; and make the moon sell the earth a bargain. Come,
come out, eclipse, to the tune of Tom Tyler.
Enter Lvn.\.
Luna. Orbis, Orbis :
Come to me, thou little rogue, Orbis.
Enter the E.\uth
Orb. Who calls terra-frma. pray ? -
Luna. Luna, that ne'er shines by day.
Orb. ■\A'hat means Luna in a veil f
Luna. Luna means to show her taU.
Bayes. There's the bargain.
Enter Sol, to the tane of Robin Hood.
Sol. Fie, sister, fie ; thou makest me muse,
Derry down, dciTy dews.
To see thee Orb .abuse.
Ltma. I hope his anger 't wUl not move.
Since I showed it out of love,
Hev down, derry down.
'■ In ridicule of this—
Pdali. Who calls the world's srreat light ?
Am. Aurora, that abhors the uiirht.
PlKti). Why does Aurora, from her cloud.
To drowsie Phcebus cry so loud ?
(" Slighted Maid," p. 8.)
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Oi-b. AVhcre shall I thy true lo\-e know,
Thou jiretty, pretty moon 'i
Liinn. To-morrow soon, ere it be noon,
On Mount Vcsuvio.'
Sol. Then I will shine. [To the tune 0/ Trenchmore, Bis.
Orb. And I will he line.
Luna. And I will drink nothing but Lippara wine.-
Omnes. And we, &c.
[As they dance the hey. B.WES speiilcs.
Hayes. Now the earth 's before the moon; now the moon 's
before the sun : there 's the eulipse again.
Smith. He's mightily taken with this, I see.
John. Ay, 't is so extraordinary, how can he choose !
Hayes. So, now, vanish eclipse, and enter t' other battle,
and fight. Here now, if I am not mistaken, you will see
fighting enough.
[A battle is fought between foot anil great hobby-horses. At last
Dkawcansib eomes in and kills them all on both sides. All
the while the battle Is fighting, Bayes is telling them when
to shout, and shouts with 'em.
Brail). Others may boast a single man to kill;
But I the blood of thousands daily spill.
Let petty kings the names of parties know :
Where'er I come, I slay both friend and foe.
The swiftest horsemen my swift rage controls,
And from their bodies drives their trembling souls.
If they had wings, and to the gods could fly,
I would pursue and beat 'em through the sky ;
And make proud Jove, with all his thunder, see
This single arm more dreadful is, than he. \E.cit.
Bayes. There 's a brave fellow for j-ou now, sirs. You may
talk of }-our Hectors, and Achilleses, and, I know not who;
but I defy all j'our histories, and your romances too, to show
mo one such conqueror as this Drawcansir.
Smith and Jolmson have liad enough. They steal
away while Bayes goes out ' to .speak to Mr. Ivory.
Bayes finding them gone departs in search of them.
Wlien he is gone, the players find a bit of paper, and
one of them reads from it —
The argument of the fifth act,
3 Play. ' ' Cloris at leng-th, being sensible of prince Prett}--
man's passion, consents to marry him; but just as they are
going to church, prince Prettyman meeting, by chance, with
old Joan the chandler's widow, and remembering it was she
that first brought him acquainted with Cloris ; out of a high
point of honour, breaks off his match ^vith Cloris, and marries
old Joan. Upon which, Cloris, in despair, drowns herself ;
and prince Prettyman, discontentedly, walks by the river-
side." — This win never do : 't is just like the rest. Come,
let's be gone.
When Baye.s comes back from his search for Smith
and Johnson, and is told that the players have gone
to dinner, he departs in a huff, and carries liis play
with liim.
In the year of the production of " The Rehearsal,"
1671, Milton published "Samson Agonistes," apply-
ing in tlie grand form of Greek tragedy the story of
Samson as a parable, from which those might take
heart who saw the degradation of the time, remem-
1 Tlie biiriiiii'_' Mouut Vesuvio. (Jbid., p. 81.)
- Drink, drink wine, Lipjmra wine. (" Ibid,.," p. 81.)
bered what their liope had been, and were half-tempted
to despair. The questioning he meant to answer is
expressed dramatically in the chorus of the captive
Israelites.
God of our fathers, what is man !
That thou toward him with hand so various —
Or might I say contrarious —
I'cmpercst thy providence through his short course ;
Not evenly, as thou rulest
The angelic orders and inferior creatures mute,
In-atio.nal and brute.
Nor do I name of men the common rout.
That, wandering loose about.
Grow up and perish, as the summer-fly,
Heads without name, no more remembered ;
But such as thou has solemnly elected.
With gifts and graces eminently adorned.
To some great work, thy glory.
And people's safety, which in part they effect.
Yet toward these thus dignified thou oft.
Amidst their height of noon,
Changest thy countenance and thy hand, with no regard
Of highest favours past
From thee on them, or them to thee of service.
Nor only dost degrade them, or remit
To life obscured, which were a fair dismission ;
But throwest them lower than thou didst exalt them high,
Unseemly falls in human eye.
Too grievous for the trespass or omission ;
Oft leavest them to the hostile sword
Of heathen and pi-ofane, their carcasses
To dogs and fowls a prey, or else captived.
Or to the unjust tribunals, under change of times,
jVnd condemnation of the ingrateful multitude.
If these they 'scape, perhaps in poverty
With sickness and disease thou bowest them down,
Painful diseases and deformed,
In crude old age ;
Though not disordinate, yet causeless suffering
The punishment of dissolute days. In fine
Just or unjust alike seem miserable.
For oft alike both come to evil end.
And the story of the play leads to this answer to
all doubting, with which Milton closed botli "Samson
Agonistes " and his own life as a poet.
All is best, though we oft doubt.
What the unsearchable dispose
Of Highest Wisdom brings about,
And ever best found in the close.
Oft He seems to hide His face.
But unexpectedly returns ;
And to His faithful champion hath in place
Bore witness gloriously ; whence Gaza mourns.
And aU that band them to resist
His uncontrollable intent.
His servants He, with new acquist
Of true experience from this great event.
With peace and consolation hath dismissed.
And calm of mind, all passion spent.
Let us now illustrate stage decoration of the Res-
toration time by the sculptures which adorned the
edition published La 1673 of Elkanah Settle's
TO A.D. 1673.]
PLAYS.
351
EMPRESS OF MOROCCO.
Act I., Scene 1 is a prison, already represented on
page 327. Miily Labas, son to the Emperor of Morocco,
appeai-s bound in chains, " condemned to fettei-s and
to scepti-es born." His father has imprisoned him.
There enters to him, bound, Morena, with whom he
had nm away from Tailalstta's court, to be pursued
bj' the arms of her father Tafialetta, and impiisoned
by his father in Morocco. They are to die wlien angiy
Talfaletta has " his standard iixt before Morocco's
walls." They are to die together ^v•ithin three days,
a fact of which Morena has been taking a heroic
view, when Laula, Empress of Morocco, the Queen-
Mother — whose part w;is played by Mrs. Bettertou
— entere weejiing. His father, she tells her sou.
Is dead just as he sate
Pronouncing yours and your Morena' s fate.
Dying, he bequeathed his throne to the condemned
son, and peaceable possession of Jlorena. Presently
enter Crimalhaz a courtier, and Hametalhaz his confi-
dant and creature, who haU jMuly Labas as Emperor
" advancing from a prison to a throne." But when
the lovers have departed from then- prison, we hear
from the Queen-Mother that she had poisoned her
husband, and would have kept her son in piison to
give hei-self and the throne to Crimalhaz, if it had
not been necessary to imdemiine Muly Hamet, a
Prince of the Blood Eoyal and brave general of the
Empii-e, before venturing to put her son out of the
way, and raise her ci'eature, Crimalhaz, to royalty.
An-angements are made at the close of the Fu'st Act
for poisoning the mind of the new sovereign against
his genei-al, Muly Hamet.
For the Second Act, " The scene opened is repre-
sented the prospect of a large river, -with a glorious
fleet of shijps, supposed to be the navy of Muly
Hamet." This was the scene :
A Fleet Of Ships. (From Settle's " Empress of Morocco.")
Muly Hamet's fleet is sailing homeward. The
general enters to the young king and queen with
his friend Abdelcador," amidst much flourishing of
trumpets. He has been victorious on sea and land.
The young queen tells him that he has now to be
employed in a more ciiiel victory ; he must meet the
invasion by her father, "and spare his blood for
his ilorena's sake." Mariamne, sister to the new
sovereign, daughter to the wicked Empre-ss, and
beloved of Muly Hamet, entere next to gi-ace the
general's -s-ictoiy, and her imperial brother bids her
love him. Next comes Crimalliaz to in\-ite the
new king to the celebration of his coronation. All
proceed to it, Crimalhaz waiting for some private
expression of his villainous designs. Then is
"The Scexe opened.
A State is presented, the King, Queen, and iilariamne
seated, Muly Hamet, Abdelcador, and Attendants.
A Moorish dance is presented by Mooi-s in several
habits, who bring in an artificial palm-tree, about
which they dance to several antick insti-uments of
musick; in the intervals of the dance [a song of
loyal homage] is sung by a Mooii.sh priest and two
Moorish women ; the choi-us of it being performed by
all the Moors."
This was the pictui-e that reproduced the scene :
A Moorish Dance. (From Settle's " Empress of 3forocco.")
That the victorious general may receive also the
congratulations of the Queen-Mother, who is with-
drawTii as mourner for her late husband, the young
king gives him a ring which will obtain for him access
to her apartments.
At the opening of the Third Act, Muly Hamet
entering the Queen-Mother's apartments in the
palace, finds her asleep with Crimalhaz, whose plume
of feathers and dra^\^l sword are on a talile. He will
conceal the queen's shame, and pimish Crimalhaz
when he is awake and can defend himself Jleanwhile,
as token of his knowledge, he takes away the sword
of Crimalhaz, and is met by the young king while
doinc so. That he should be bringing the sword of
Ciimalhaz from the Empress's chamber implies only
one fact that cannot be concealed. It becomes known
to the young king. The Queen-Mother and Ciimalhar
liiid tlie sword gone and learn that Muly Hamet;
i
352
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURK
[a.d. 1073.
has entered by virtue of the royal signet. The
Empress kills the eunuch who admitted him. Then
the confederates plot again. Crimalhaz stabs himself
in the hand, and when the king and Muly Hamet
enter, the brave general is accused of killing the
eunuch in an attempt upon the Empress, which
Crimalhaz, led by chance into the neighbourhood,
arrived in time to frustrate. Hamet is sent to prison,
whispering to the deliant Empress that a hell awaits
such treasons as hers. ]\Iariamne enters to him in the
prison, thinking him guUty, but soon knows him to
be true. She would set him free; but the young
king and queen, the Queen-Mother, Crimalhaz, and
others, come upon them suddenly. Mariamne holds
boldly to her love. Muly Hamet is banished. The
Empress plans an ambuscade that he may be murdered
as he leaves the town. When the general has been
disposed of, Crimalhaz shall boldly lead away the
army to Jlount Atlas. The Empress will send the
young king in pursuit, so that he may be taken and
killed, but when, she says to Crimalhaz —
But when your throne I on his grave have built.
Remember love was author of my guilt.
At the beginning of the Fourth Act, Crimalhaz has
taken the army to the mountains. The young king
suspects treachery, his mother beguiles him, and he
will boldly go with her, that, if there be treason,
which is doubtful, his "awful sight may check an
ungrown crime." The next scene shows a " prospect
of a clouded sky with a rainbow. After a shower of
hail, enter from within the scene, Muly Hamet and
Abdelcador," who find the hail portentous. They are
joined by Mariamne with a small attendance. They
are met next by the villain's villain, Hametalhaz, dis-
guised as a priest. They are fired at by " a company
of villains in ambush." The feigned priest draws a
sword from under his habit. There is " a very fierce
fight." Muly Hamet is conqueror, but INIariamne
is forced back to Morocco " in her own chariot."
The Queen- jNIother is next seen with the young
queen in a tent, persuading her to act in a mask
planned by Crimalhaz, whom the Emperor has found
kind and just. She consents. The young king
then learns from Hamet that Crimalhaz helped at the
poisoning of his father, and means to kill the j'ouiig
king himself that night in his bed. Now the Empres.s-
Mother becomes more des])erately wicked. She accuses
Crimalhaz to the young king in one way, to the young
queen in another way, and beguiles them both into
acting in a mask of Hell. The young queen is
warned that, at one part of the mask, as Eurydiee
.she is to be carried off by Crimalhaz with evil intent,
and must then stab him. But the mask she is de-
signed to stab, and does stab and kill, is her own
husband, the king. The Queen-Mother accuses the
young queen of the murder of her husband, and de-
clares her to be out of her wits. Here is the sculp-
ture of the mask, upon which " The scene o]iened
and presented a hell, m which Pluto Proserpine and
other women spirits appear seated, attended by
furies ; " the stage being filled on each side with
Crimalhaz, Hamet, Queen-Mother, and all the Coui-t
ie masquerade :
A Mask of Hell. {From Sellle's " Empress of Morocco.")
Morena runs mad, and Crimalhaz makes love to her.
In the Fifth Act Crimalhaz is king, and Taftaletta
storms the city. There remain only ^luly Hamet
and Mariannie of the Imperial race. Marianuie is
in prison, and Crimalliaz asks lier head from the
hand of Hametalhaz. But her eyes have made
Hametalhaz dare to be good. The young queen is
to be condemned for murder. The Queen-iNIother
is impatient for quick sentence. Crimalhaz greatly
astonishes his confederate by sending Jier to execu-
tion. She struggles, and then feigns to kneel sub-
missive to Morena, with repentant sighs, and
suddenly stabs her to the heart. She then runs to
stab Crimalhaz, but being stojiped liy the guards,
stabs herself. Now Tafl'aletta, with the help of Muly
Hamet, takes the town, and gives Muly the crowni.
IMuly is joined to Mariamne, and as for the wicked
Crimalhaz, "here the .scene opens and Crimalliaz
The Eewari. of Tkeasox. (f i-o.n SclUc's " £iiijirc6s oj Morocco.")
appears cast down on the gaunches, being hung on
a wall set with sjukes of iron."
TO i.D. 1676.]
PLAYS.
353
Elkanah Settle, bom at Dunstable in 1648, had
studied for a time at Oxford ^\^thout taking a degi'ee,
and was twenty-five yeare old when he produced
" The Empress of Morocco." He brought on himself
sharp criticism fi'om John C^rowne and others for
that piece, and he did not sustain his success. John
Crowne, son of an Independent minister in Xova
Scotia, was also then at the outset of his career as
thi\matist, having begun in 1671 with the tragi-
comedy of "Juliana." In 1674, when Milton died,
Dryden was forty-three yeai-s old, and active as a
dramatist. He showed his genuine respect for Milton's
genius by an odd way of bi-inging it into fashionable
notice ; for he tiuTied in that year " Paradise Lost "
into an opera — " The State of Innocence and FaD of
Man." It w;is not acted, but wa.s written with an
eye to spectacle. Ese's innocence, in Dryden's rhyme,
is of the obtrusive kind that might have its point of
•*-iew in the life of Charles II. 's coui-t. In the
same year, 1674, Sir Robert Howard had ceased
to wiite plays, Sii' William Davenaut and Sii- .John
Denham had been sis years dead, and Thomas
Killigi-ew had yet ten yeare to live. Besides Settle
and Crowne, the new dramatists were Thoma.s Shad-
weU, then thirty-four yeai's old, who had begim his
career as cU-amatist five yeai-s before with the tragi-
comedy of the " Royal Shejiherdess," and had produced
in 1671 an English vei-sion of Moliere's " L'Avai-e,"
and 'Wdliam Wycherley, a thamatist of higher mark,
who profited more than Shadwell by an admiration
of the genius of Moliere. Wycherley was of the
same age as Shadwell ; both were bom in 1640.
Wycherley's first play, " Love in a Wood," said to
have been ■svnitten at the age of nineteen, was firet
produced when he was thii-ty-two years old, in 1672,
two yeai's before the death of Milton. Aplu-a Behn,
who was two years younger than Wycherley and
Shadwell, produced her firet play in the year before
Wycherley's "Love in a Wood." In 1674, when
ililton died, Thomas d'TJrfey, Lee, Otway, and
Southeme had not yet appeared as cb-amatists.
D'Urfey may be named and dismissed ; he was a wit
of about KUligrew's level of genius, and of about
Dryden's age. He did not begin to \vTite tiU he was
forty-six, two years after the death of Milton.
Nathaniel Lee and Thomas Otway, nearly of the
same age — one born in 1650, the other in 16.51 —
were alxjut twenty j'ears youuger than Diyden and
ten yeai's younger than Wycherley and Shadwell.
Both began writing plays in the same year, 167.5,
the year after the death of jNIUton. Nahum Tate,
who wi-ote plays of no gi-eat mark, was nearly of the
same age as Lee and Otway — he was bom in 1652.
About ten yeai-s younger than Lee and Otway, born
in 1660, was Thomas Southeme, whose fii'st ti-agedy,
" The Loyal Brother," was acted in 1682. Sii-
Charles Sedley, the Lisideius of Di-j'den's " Essay of
Dramatic Poesie," had represented court wit on the
stage by a tragedy on " Antony and Cleopatra," just
written when Diyden produced that essay, though
not printed until 1677; b\- his comedy of "The
Mulbeii-y Garden " in 1668 ; and by his best comedy,
" Bellamira, or the Mistress," in 1687. He lived to
be an old man, and died about 1728. But perhaps
the best reflection of the low wit and bad manners
165
of the coiut of Charles II. is in the three comedies
of Sir George Etherege, " The Comical Revenge,
or Love in a Tub," published in 1664; "She
Would if She Could" in 1668; and "Sir- Fopling
Flutter, or the Man of !Mode." in 1676. It is hardly
worth while to add that John Lacy, a Yorkshire-
man, who began life as a dancing-master, then wore
uniform as a soldier, then went upon the stage, was
a handsome man, reputed a good comic actor, and
wrote four comedies. The fii-st, " The Dimib Lady,"
published in 1672, was a spoiling of two comedies by
MoUere; the last, " Sawney the Scot," defiled Shake-
speare's " Taming of the Shrew." His other two
plays, "The Old Troop, or Monsieur Raggou " (a
sketch of camp life during the Civil Wai-s), and "Sir
Hercules Buffoon, or the Poetical Squire," are, so to
speak, original.
When the wit in ftishion bound itself to sensuality
the soul of ]ioetry went out of English comedy, and even
in tragedy mock passion replaced the fire of the old
plays which, in theii- utmost iiTegidarity, had glowed
^^•ith a real emotion, and thro\\-n light on the diviner
life of man. I shall not dwell long upon records of
the degradation of the English stage. Divorced
fi'om poetiy the drama ceases to belong to literature.
The completeness of the divorce may be indicated
by a description of the last play of Sir George
Etherege —
THE MAS OF MODE; OR, SIK FOPLIXG
FLUTTEE.
The Man of Mode is Dorimant, type of the fasci-
nating man of parts and fashion at the coiui; of
Charles II. Sir Fopling Flutter is the fool to
him — an aper of fashions, who brings second-hand
airs and graces out of France. Dorimant is a
selfish scoundrel and Sii' Fopling is a fool. But the
dramatists of the Re.stoi'ation painted Dorimants as
honoiu'ed leadei's of society — foimd something dis-
tinguislied ui their baseness ; and though they did
not pronoimce e^"il to be good, accepted it as their
good most unblushingly. The court was the chief
patron of the stage, and sins under royal patronage
must be set forth as gentlemanlj' at the verv least.
Dorimant quotes lines of plays to show his education,
walks and bows gi-acefully, has iiTesistible ways ;
he is fii'st in reputation as a lady-killer, and is jealous
of any stain upon that ; he leads the fashion and is
a brute, coarsely abusive to his inferiors, meanly
treacherous to his friends, an unmanly mocker of
his \ictims : yet he is hero of the piece, and at its
close triumphant master of the situation, marrj-ing a
fortune and still keeping at his call the women
whom he has insulted. It may be said that such
comedies as tliis did hold the miiTor up to life, and
might therefore have meant to make its baseness
felt. But the breath of poetiy had not given to
their mirror its magic power. Playgoei's saw and
liked on the .stage what they were used to see and
like in the world, to whose pattem they were
anxious to confoi'm themselves. How intensely un-
poetical these plays were is amusingly suggested by
the printing of the dialogue of Etherege's plays as if
thev were written in verse. A cutting into lengths
of its unmitigated prose mil no more make vei-se of
354:
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.o. 1676
its language than any liuman reasoning upon its
substance can turn one of its thouglits to poetry.
Thus it begins —
ACT I. SCENE I.
Scene, a Dressing Room, a Table covered with a Toilet,
Cloaths laid ready.
Eiil r DoRiMAXT in his Goiin and Slippers, with a Xote in his
Sand made up, repeating Verses.
Dor. Xow for some Ages had the Pride of Spain,
JIudt,- the Sun shine on half the World in vain.
[Then looking on the Note.
For llrs. LovEiT.
WTiat a dull insipid thing is a BiUet-doux written in cold
Blood, after the Heat of the Business is over ? It is a
Tax upon good Nature which I have here been labouring
To pay, and have done it, but with as much Regret,
As ever Fanatic paid the Royal Aid, or Chui-ch Duties ;
'Twill have the same Fate, I know, that all my Notes to her
Have had of late, 'twill not be thought kind enough. Faith,
Women are i' the right when they jealously examine our
Letters, for in them wi> always first discover our Decay
Of Passion.
Tlien he calls iiis man Haudy, coarsely abuses his
servants, admits an inmioral orange-woman, who tells
him of a handsome gentlewoman lately come to town
with her mother, and they in their ignorance have
taken lodgings at the orange-woman's house. They
!'re recognised by his friend Medley, who enters,
embracing him as " Doiimant, my life, my joy, my
darling sin." They must be Lady Woodvil, who is
gi'eatly afraid of the wickedness of London, .and
especially of Dorimant, and her daughter Harriet,
who is wild and beautiful and vastly rich. Lady
Woodvil ha-s come out of Hampshire to mairv
Harriet to young Bellair. But young Bellau-, who
enters after a coarse dialogue between Dorimant and
his shoemaker, has planted his love elsewhere, and
means marriage witli EmUia, who is under his Aunt
Townley's care. He is asked by Medley how he
will answer his ^-isit to his honotirable misti-ess,
because
'Tis not her interest you
Should keep Companj- with Jleu of Sense, who will be
Talking Reason.
Medley uses his " reason " against mamage, and
when Bellair is called away for a few minutes, this bit
of dialogue indicates the way in which comedy of the
Restoration u.sually took for granted the sevei-ance
of " wit," or " .sense," or " parts "—words often in
use — from morality —
.ifd. A v( ry pretty Fellow this.
Dor.- Tie 's Haudsom, well Bred, ;md by much the most
Tolerable of all the voung ilen that do not abound in
Wit.
^ JLd. Ever well Dress'd, always Complais-int, and
Seldom Impertinent ; you and he are grown very intimate,
I see.
Dor. It is our mutual Interest to be so : it makes the
Women think better of his Understanding, and judge
More favourably of my Reputation ; it makes him pass
I'pon some for a man of very good Sense, and I upon
Others for a very civil person.
Young Bellair's Emilia is a discreet maid with the
best i-eputation in town. Dorimant has found her
iniassailable, but hopes to attack her with success
when she is married. For he believes " nothmg can
corrupt her but a husband." The dialogue of this
act shows further that Sir Fopling has come to to^^^l ;
that Dorimant is pledged to a lady whom he has met
masked at the play (Belinda, bosom friend of his
mistress, Mrs. Loveit), to win her on condition that
he will prove his love to her by insulting Mrs.
Loveit in her presence. For that reason he had
written the billet-doux, to excuse himself for two
days' absence on the plea of business, and say that
he is coming to her in the afternoon. Before his
coming, Belinda Ls to raise Mrs. Loveit^s jealousy
against Doiimanfc, that her anger may be an excuse
for his insvilts, and he will then profess also to be
jealous of her attention to Sir FoplLng Flutter, \\ honi
he knows she hates. The act ends, as it began, with
the Man of Mode's coai-se bullying of his servants.
In the Second Act it ap^xrars that old Bellair, who
has come to marry hLs son to Harriet Woodvil, has
taken lodgings in the same house v^ath Emilia, whom
his son designs to marry ; and is himself falling in
love with her. Old Bellair is Lady Townley's brother,
and Lady Townley aids Emilia's designs. <)1<1
Bellair is tive-and-lifty, mixes '' a-dod " with all his
dialogue, uses a few countrified expressions, and tlirts
with Emilia by calling her a rogue and aflection-
ately traducing her, a-dod. Medley calls on Lady
Townley and Emilia. They delight themselves with
scandal. Belinda calls on her dear friend ^Irs.
Loveit, and works her up to a rage of jealousy
against Dorimant before Dorimant entei-s, and. ac-
cording to compact, wins Belinda by being insolent
in hi-r presence to Mrs. Loveit.
The Third Act opens at Lady Woodvil's loilgings
with Harriet, and Busy, her woman. Harriet
shakes her curls out of order, and scorns to be as
precise as ugly Lady Dapper. She has come to
London to see London, only for that reason ati'ecting
willingness to be brought to town and married to
young Bellair. She has seen. Mr. Dorimant, and
has been charmed by him. When young Bellair
enters, they agree not to marry each other, but for
the present to deceive their parents. Then there is
a fashionable crush at Lady Townley's in which Sir
Fojiling Flutter airs himself, and has his follies
played upon by Dorimant and Medley for the enter-
tainment of the company. Then there is the Mall,
with all the company abroad, where Dorimant falls
" in love " with Harriet, and has set Sii' Fopling upon
Mrs. Lo\eit, in order that she may insult him
becans.e Dorimant stands by, but Mi's. Loveit. mean-
ing tv) give Dorimani a twinge of jealousy, to his
chagrin, encourages the fop. They adjoiini to a
dance at Lady Townley's. Lady Wood\il and
Harriet are to be there ; and as Lad}' Woodvil has
heard of Dorimant, and Ls in gi-eat dread of his
company, he is invited to meet her in the character
of a Mr. f'oui'tage, known as an admirer of quality,
" who flatters the very meat at honourable tables,
TO A.D. 1677.]
PLAYS.
355
and never offers love to a woman below a lady
grandmother." " This," says Dorimant, " is Harriet's
contrivance — wild, witty, lovesome, beautiful, and
young — come along, Jledley." But before another
sun sets Dorimaut must have bis revenge for Mrs.
Loveit's slight of him.
The Fourth Act opens with the fiddler plapng a
couutrj' dance at Lady Townley's. Old Bellair
dances up to Emilia, and Dorimant, as JLr. Coiutage,
fascinates Lady Woodvil. Sir FopUng coming by,
and hearing fiddles, enters with masquers. It Ls
daylight when they part. Old Bellaii- gets wine to
finish the night, and Dorimant has slipped away
to keep his appointment with Belinda, who had
jiromised to come to his lodgings at five in the
morning. The scene changes to the lodgings as
Belinda is lea^-ing, Dorimant promising to forsake
!Mi-s. Loveit. Sir Fopling and other revellera come
upon them suddenly. Belinda hurriedly escapes by
a back-stair into a sedan-chair, and, omitting to give
directions, is set down in the Mall near All's. Loveit's
door, Doi-imant's chaii-men having been accustomed
to that route. Belinda is seen bv her friend's maid,
and obliged to profess she has come to pay a
call. She invents a lie ; says she was out so early
because cousins from Wales pressed her to go with
them to buy flowers and fruit early at Covent Garden.
She had instructed the chairmen to say that they
took her \\n in the Strand, near Covent Garden.
In the Fifth Act Mrs. Loveit's suspicions are set
at rest by this tale of her fi-iend's, when Dorimant is
announced ; Belinda becomes agitated, and withdraws
into another room. He has come to win back his
[)0wer over Mrs. Loveit, that she may make public
amends for the slight in the ilall by taking the next
ojiportunity of insulting Sii- Fopling before his
friends. Belinda comes out upon them, with re-
proaches that Mrs. Loveit faintly understands. Tlie
scene changes to Lady To^^ailey's house, where Mr.
Smii'k, a domestic chaplain, with Lady Townley's
connivance, has privately married young Bellair to
Emilia, and is shut up in a cupboard when old
Bellair and othei's enter. Old Bellair has the
writings ready for his own marriage to Emilia,
Dorimant has ofl'ered to bend himself to mamage
with Harriet. As he had explained to young Bellair,
who had told him he would be obliged to marry
Harriet, " I may fall into the snare too, But
The wi.se will find a difference in our Fate,
Tou wed a Woman, I a good Estate.
When Mr. Smirk, the chaplain, is taken out of the
cupboard to marry old Bellair to Emilia, he reports
that he has man-ied the lady once already that
morning. The father is laughed at ; the young couple
.are pardoned. Dorimant is to marry an estate, and
Iwill prove his sincerity by even going down to
iHampshii-e to pay court to it, while he contrives at
Ithe same time by a lie or two to keep both Belinda
and Mrs. Loveit at his call. Dryden's Epilogue to
the play dwells entirely on Sir Fopling as a picture
of the shallow airs and gi'aces of fools of the day.
Tliere is notliing in the tone or structiu-e of the play.
and not a word in the Epilogue, to fi.x a deeper con-
demnation upon Dorimant. Dorimant and Sir
Fopling might be taken, by any court scoundrel like
Dorimant who might be present at the play, for the
dramatist's companion pictures of the true and the
false leaders of polite society. The author of tliis
play was knighted, to enable him to marry a rich
elderly widow; and he lost his life in 1G88 by
tumbling down-stairs when he was dnink.
The sort of life painted by Etherege reappears m the
comedies of Thomas Shad well, who wrote seventeen
plays before his death in 1692, when he was fifty-
two years old. But Shadwell, coarse and abusive as
a Whig partisan, hasty and slipshod as a writer, was
really the ablest man to be foimd on the Whig side,
when, after the Revolution, Dryden refused to take
the oaths, and a new poet laureate had to be chosen.
Without first-rate powers, he had some fertility of
invention as a dramatist, and sense enough to take
Ben Jonson for liis ma,ster. He tried to paint
humours of Ufe in Ben Jonson's way; but Ben
Jonson was a poet — a great poet, with the poet's
loftiness of aim, and Shadwell was no poet at all.
He painted, like Etherege, the body of life, with
conventional opLoion of liis day to stand for its
spiritual truths. For like reason I leave Mrs.
Aphi'a Behn unrepresented.
With all the faults in his work separable or in-
separable from writing for the stage as it then was,
the chief poet after Milton's death was the chief
di-amatist. Dryden's plays were as much above the
work of liis contemporary dramatists as they were
below the work of many of his predecessors. In
two plays — " The Orphan " and " Venice Preserved "
— he was approached in power and excelled in
genuineness of feeling by Thomas (Jtway. In two
plays he was fellow-writer with Nathaniel Lee —
" CEdipus," in 1679, and " The Duke of Guise," in
1683. From 1684 to 1688 Lee was a madman in
Bedlam. After he came out he wrote two more
plays before his death at the age of forty. The
deep feeling of Otway and his touches of tenderness
ai-e not in Lee ; but Lee had instincts of a poet, and
excelled in a sonorous tragic style that helped the
ti-ansition from the heroic play of the type ridiculed
in " The Eeheai-sal " to the variety of the same thing
burlesqued b}" Hemy Carey in " Chrononliotontho-
logos," and by Henry Fielding in '-Tom Thumb."
Here, for exam] le, from Lee's i)lay of " Lucius .Junius
Brutus," is a bit of dialogue between father and sou,
Lucius Junius Brutus and Titus —
Bnif. Titus, as 1 remember.
You told me you were married.
T'7. Jly lord, I did.
£ii(/. To Teraminta, Tarquin's natimil daughter.
Tit. Jlost tnic. my lord, to that poor virtuous maid.
Your Titus, sir, your most unhapiiy son.
Is joined for ever. -i
Brut. Xo, Titus, not for ever :
Not hut I know the virgin 's beautiful,
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For I did oft converse her when I seemed
Not to converse at all. Yet more, my son,
I think her chastely good, most sweetly framed,
Without the smallest tincture of her father :
Yet, Titus — Ha ! what, man ? What, aU in tears !
Art thou so soft that only sa)Tng Yet
Has dashed thee thus ? Nay, then I 'U plunge thee down,
Down to the bottom of this foolish stream
Whose brink thus makes thee tremble. No, my son.
If thou art mine, thou art not Teraminta's ;
Or if thou ai-t, I swear thou must not be —
Thou shalt not be hereafter.
TU. O li.e Gods !
Forgive me, blood and duty, all respects
Due to a Father's name — not Teraminta's !
Brut. No, by the Gods I swear, not Teraminta's !
No, Titus, by th' eternal Fates that hang
1 hope auspicious o'er the head of Rome,
I 'U gi-apple with thee on this spot of earth
About this theme till one of us fall dead ;
I'll struggle with thee for this point of honour,
And tug with Teraminta for thy heart,
As I have done for Rome.
And in like
tugging follow.s.
Lee'.s play of
strain a considerable amount of
THE KIVAL QUEENS; OE, ALEXANDER THE
GREAT
was produced in 1677, and i-emained popular for
many years. It is the piece with wliich his iiinie is
most associated, and yields, from the notion of a tug.
one of the familiar quotations current in English
speech, with a little modification of its words into
"when Greek meets Greek then comes the tug of
war." Lee wrote " when Greeks joined Greeks then
was the tug of war." The Rival Queens are Statii-a,
daughter of Darius, married to Alexander, and Roxana,
daughter of Chortanus. Passion storms through
every act. The scene is at Babylon, and the First
Act opens with Hephestion, Alexander's friend, and
Lysimachus his kmsman, separated by Clytus as they
are fighting for Parisatis, sister to Statii-a. Alexander
lias given her to Hephestion ; she prefers Lysimachus.
Alexander is coming to peaceful triumph in Babylon,
but the old soldier Clytus, Alexander's sturdy frienil,
who saved his life at the Granicus, would not have
the young men forget themselves for a woman, as
Alexander has forgotten himself for two women.
Two wives he takes, two rival queens distm-b
The court ; and while each hand does Beauty hold,
Where is there room for Glory ?
Mephcst. In his heart.
C/i/tns. Well said.
You are his favomite, and I had forgot
Who I was talking to
Sysigambis, mother of Statira and Parisatis, is
appealed to by the young lovers, but the question
between them is left for Alexander to decide. Then
the conspirators against the life of Alexander have
possession of the scene. Cassander, son of Antipater,
heads the conspiracy. Thunder is in the air and
portents are abroad. Thessalus the Median, and
Philip, brother to Cassander, bring letters from
Antijjater rebuking the slowness of Cassander.
Let him not live a day — He dies to-night ;
And thus my father but forestals my purpose :
Why am I slow then 't If I rode on thunder,
I must a moment have to fall from heaven,
Ere I could blast the growth of this Colossus.
Polyjiei'chon, commander of the Phalanx, joins
the conspii'ators. They dwell upon Alexander's
cruelty, and tyranny, and pride, in moments of pas-
sion. As Cassander begms to disclose his plot, the
ghost of Philip, shaking a truncheon at them, walks
over the stage. Recovered from the shock caused
by the prodigy, they return to the business.
Cass. As I was saying, this Roxana, whom,
To aggravate my hate to him, I love,
Jleeting him as he came triumphant from
The Indus, kept him revelling at Snsa ;
But as I found, a deep Repentance since
Turns his ^Vifections to the Queen Statira,
To whom he swore (before he could espouse her)
That he would never bed Roxana more.
I'd!. How did the Persian Queen receive the Ne'.\a
Of his Revolt ?
Tliess. With Grief incredible !
Great Sysigambis wept, but the young Queen
Fell dead among her Maids ;
Nor could their Care
Witli richest Cordials, for an Hour or more.
Recover Life.
Cass. Knowing how much she lov'd,
I hop'd to turn her all into Medea ;
For when the first Gust of her Grief was past,
I enter'd, and with Breath prepar'd did blow
The dvTng Sparks into a towring Flame,
Describing the new Love he bears Roxana,
Conceiving, not unlikely, that the Line
Of dead Darius in her Cause might rise.
Is any Panther's, Lioness's Rage
So furious, any Torrent's falls so swift
As a wrong'd Woman's Hate ? Thus far it helps
To give him Troubles ; which perhaps may end liim,
And set the Court in universal Uproar.
The conspirators depart as they see Sysigambis
entering with both her daughters, and Statiiu in
desperate rage crying out,
Crive mc a Knife, a Draught of Poison, Flames ;
Swell Heart, break, break thou stubborn thing ;
and she ends the Act by vowing solemnly that she
will .shut herself up for ever from Alexander and
the world within the Bowers of Semiramis.
The Second Act opens with " Noise of Ti-umpets
somiding far off. The Scene draws, and discovers
a Battle of Crows or Ravens in the Air ; an Eagle
and a Dragon meet and fight ; the Eagle drops down
with all the rest of the Birds, and the Dragon flies
away. Soldiers walk oflT, shaking their heads. The
Conspirators come forward." They tell of more
portents and of the ghosts abroad. They rejoice at
A.i). 1677.]
PLA YS.
357
the sufFei-iiig iu store for Alexander, plagued between
Roxana's rage and Statii-a's vowed divoi'ce. When
Alexander enters, Aj'istander, a soothsayer, seeks to
warn him, and all pay him on their knees divine
honour, excejjt Clytus. He greets his friends. Again
portents are reported. Lysimachus pleads for Pari-
satis, given by AJexander to Hephestion, incurs the
king's auger by his urgency, but is pardoned at the
intercession of old Clytus. Then AJexander is told
by the queen-mother and Parisatis of Statira's vow.
Ijvsimachus thinks that like suffering may raise a
fellow feeling, and again fiercely urging his suit for
Parisatis, is sent off to be eaten by a lion :
Perdiccas, give this Lion to a Lion ;
Nor speak for Mm, fly, stop his mouth, away.
Alexander closes the act in a tit of love sickness.
The Third Act opens upon Lysimachus being led
to the lion, and taking his leave of Parisatis, with a
bold hope yet :
Live, Princess, live, howe'er the King disdain me,
Perhaps, unarmed and fighting for your sake,
I may perfonn what shall amaze the World,
And force him yet to give you to my aims.
Then enters Eoxana, with Cassander and Poly-
pei-chon, who are working her into a rage of
jealousy —
liox. Away, be gone, and give a AATiirl^\'ind room,
Or I will blow you up like Dust ; avaimt :
gladness but meanly represents my ToLL
lioxana and Statira, they are Names
That must for ever jar : eternal Discord,
Fury, Revenge, Disdain, and Indignation
Tear my swoll'n Breast, make way for Fire aad Tem-
pest.
My Brain is burst. Debate and Reason quench'd,
The Storm is up, and my hot bleeding Heart
Splits with the Raek, while Passions Uke the Winds,
Rise up to Heaven, and put out all the Stars.
WTiat saving Hand, or what almighty Arm
Can raise me sinking ?
Cass. Let your own Arm .save j'ou,
'Tis in your Power, your Beauty is almighty :
Let all the Stars go out, your Eyes can light 'em.
Wake then bright Planet that should rule the World,
Wake, like the Jloon, from j-our too long Eclipse,
And we with all the Instruments of War,
Trumpets and Drums, will help yout glorious Labour.
Fol. Put us to act, and with a Violence
That fits the Spirit of a most wrong'd Woman ;
Let not Medea's dreadful Vengeance stand
A Pattern more, but draw your own so fierce,
It may for ever be original.
Cnss. Touch not, but dash with strokes so bravely
bold,
Till you have form'd a Face of so much Horror,
That gaping Furies may nm frighted back ;
Tliat Envy may devour herself for Jladness,
And sad Medusa's Head be turn'd to Stone.
Hax. Yes, we will have Revenge, my Insti-umcnts;
For there is nothing you have said of me^
But comes far short, wanting of what I am.
When in my Nonage I at Zogdia liv'd,
Amongst my she Companions I wou'd reign ;
Drew 'em from Idleness, and little Arts
Of coining Looks, and laying Snares for Lovers,
Broke aU then- Glasses, and their Tires tore.
Taught 'em, like Amazons, to ride and chase
Wild Beasts in Desarts, and to master ilen.
Cass. Her Looks, her Words, her every llotion fires
me.
Eox. But when I heard of Alexander's Conquest;
How with a handful he had Millions slain,
SpoU'd all the East, their Queens his Captives made.
Yet with what Chastity, and godlike Temper
He saw their Beauties, and with Pity bow'd ;
Mcthought I himg upon my Father's Lips,
And wish'd him tell the wondrous Tale again :
Left all my Sports, the Woman now return' d.
And Sighs uncall'd wou'd from my Bosom fly ;
And aU the Night, as my Adraste told me.
In slumbers groan'd and murmui''d Alexander.
Cass. Curse on the Name, but I will soon remove
That bar of my Ambition and my Love.
ICox. At last to Zogdia this Triumpher came,
And cover'd o'er with Laurels forc'd our City:
At Night I by my Father's Order stood,
With fifty Virgins waiting at a Banquet.
But Oh how glad was I to hear his Court,
To feel the Pressui-e of his glowing Hand,
And taste the dear, the false protesting Lips !
Cass. Wormwood and Hemlock henceforth grow
about 'em.
When Roxana has been further raised to anger,
Statira enters with her niotlier. She is on lier way
to her vowed .seclusion in the Bower of Semiramis,
and now the Rival Queens are face to face. Roxaua
first jiities Statira and admii'es her fortitude, then
triumphs over her, then stirs the spii'it of the gentler
queen to dare her to duel for the empii-e over AJex-
ander :
I '11 see the King in spite of all I swore,
Tho' cui'st, that thou may'st never see him more.
The King entering with Perdiccas, Sysigambis,
and others, humbles himself in pleading to Statira.
Statii-a .shows her power, causes her rival to be
openly set aside, and when Alexander thinks she
is returning to him, offers only a last kiss before
she proceeds to the fulfilment of her vow. But this
so nearly kills Alexander, that Statira's love prevails,
and she returns to liim witli all former afiection.
Wherefore all shall revel out the day.
Act the Fourth shows Clytus resolved to go to
the revel in his Macedonian habit, refusmg the
Persian robes, loving the king, determined not to
flatter him, and a little afraid of the plainness there
may be in his speech when the wine works. Then
Parisatis pleads to Alexander for Lj'simachus, and
at a word from Statira the s^vift order is sent to save
him from the lion. Happy Statira will withdraw
to the Bower of Semiramis, adorn it as a chamber
of love, and there await her lord. As AJexander is
leaving, Roxana meets him with passionate words,
and is slighted. In her wrath she is again practised
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[a.d. 1677.
upon by Cassander. The last slight has swelled her
soul beyond all boiuids. " Oh," she cries,
Oh that it had a Space might answer to
Its infinite Desire, where I might stand
And hurl the Spheres about like sportive Balls.
She cannot be tempted to aid in the death of
Alexander, she meets with immeasurable scorn Cas-
sander's offer of a shelter in his love. But she is
temjited easily to hasten to the Bower of Semiramis
to stab her rival before Alexander comes to her:
Pol. She was committed to Eiimems charge.
Rox. Eiimenes dies, and all that are about her,
Nor shall I need your Aid, yoxi '11 love again ;
I '11 head the Slaves my self, with this di-awn Dagger,
To carry Death that 's worthy of a Queen.
A common fate ne'er rushes from my Hand,
'Tis more than Life to die by my Command:
And when she sees
That to my Arm her Ruin she must owe.
Her thankfid Head will straight be bended low,
Her Heart shall leap half-way to meet the Blow.
\_ExU KoxAXA.
Then the conspii-ators arrange their plan. PhiHii
holds the king's cup at the banquet. He shall drop
into it a poison that begins to work five hours after
it is taken, and then causes death, with extreme
torture —
O we shall have him tear
(Ere yet the Sloon has hoilf her Journey rode)
The World to Atoms ; for it scatters Pains
All Sorts, and thro' all Xerves, Veins, Arteries,
Ev'n -nath Extremity of Frost it bums ;
Drives the distracted Sold about her House,
Which runs to all the Pores, the Doors of Life,
Till she is forc'd for Air to leave her Dwelling.
Fol. By I'/iito's self, the AVork is wondrous brave.
Indeed it is, for it allows Nathaniel Lee a fine
range of rhetorical agonies. The killing of Clytus
at the feast, and a description of Lysimachus's
fight -with the lion are thrown in to heap the scale,
and the five hours' interval before the working of
the poison allows Alexander his full I'un of agonies
over the murder of Statira, before the pain in his
bowels causes him to "tear the world to atoms," and
so end the piece. "Paradise Lost" had been ten years
imblished, and Lee makes Cassander, content with
his sclieme, say in seven lines what Milton had made
another conspiiator say in one,
hell than serve in heaven " :
Better to reign in
Now by the Project lab' ring in my Brain.
'T is nobler far to be a King in Hell,
To head infej-nal Legions, Chiefs below.
To let 'em loose for Earth, to call 'em in.
And take account of what dark Deeds are done.
Than be a Subject-God in Heav'ii unblcst.
And without Jlischief have eternal rest.
The scene draws, and shows Alexander at the
feast with all his commanders about liim. Lvsi-
maclms is brought in bloody. The king's order
for his deliverance had been too late, but Clytus
describes how the young hero, unarmed, except a
pair of gauntlets on his hands, had slaiu the lion.
The king embraces him. The feast goes on. The
poison is quietly given. The wine works. Clytus
angers Alexander by refusing to flatter, and, in his
cups, tells dangerous truths. It is here that the
much-quoted line occurs :
Beph. I think the Sun himself ne'er saw a Chief
So truly gi-eat, so fortunately brave.
As Alexander ; not the fam'd Alcides,
Kor fierce Achilles, who did twice destroy.
With their aU-conqu'ring Arms, the famous Troy.
Lifs. Such was not Ci/riis.
Ahx. O 5'ou flatter me.
Clii. They do indeed, and yet ye love 'em for it.
But hate old Clytus for his hardy Virtue.
Come, shall I speak a JIan more brave than you,
A better General, and more expert Soldier ?
Alex. I should be glad to leam ; instruct me, Sir.
Cly. Your Father I'hilip — I have seen him march,
And fought beneath his dreadful Banner, where
The stoutest at the Table would ha' trembled :
Nay, fi-own not, Sir-: you cannot look me dead.
"WTicn Greeks join'd Greeks, then was the Tug of War,
The laboured Battel sweat, and Conquest bled.
"\\Tiy should I fear to speak a Truth more noble
Than e'er your Father Jupiter Aiiinimi told you 'f
riiilq) fought ilen, but Alexamhr Women.
Then follows Alexander's killing of Clytus in a
storm of vvTath; then his stonn of repentance; upon
which bursts, at the close of the Act, a cry "To arms,"
with news of Eoxana's attack on the guards at the
Bower of Semiramis, anil Statira's peril. Alexander
leaps up to lead the rescue, and the act ends with
another often quoted line —
'Tis Beauty calls, and Cllory shews the way.
The Fifth Act begins with a song of the ghosts
of Darius, her father, and her mother Sysigambis, who
hold ominous daggers over Statira while she is sleeping
in the Bower of Semiramis. Statira, when awake,
passes out of her dream to happy expectation of
Alexandei'. Then enters " Roxana with Slaves and
a Dawger." There is another dialogue between the
Rival Queens, closed by the announcement of slaves
that the king, with all his captains and his guards,
is forcing his way in. Then Roxana stabs her rival
twice, and Alexander comes only to find her dying.
With him are Cassander and Poly))erchon. Statira
before dying takes her share in a love parting, and
asks Alexander to spare Roxana's life. " 'Twas love
of you that caused her give me death." Roxana
then pleads passionately for Alexander's love, first
humbly, and then, as she is quitting him in wi-ath,
with these tall words to give her a sonoi'ous exit :
If there be any Majesty above.
That has Revenge in stoi-e for perjur'd Love,
Send Heaven the swiftest ruin on his Head,
Strike the Destroyer, lay the Victor dead ;
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359
Kill the Triumphcr and avenge my wrong;,
In height of Pomp, while j 2 is warm and young ;
Bolted with Thunder let him rush iilong,
And when in the last Pangs of Life he lies,
Grant I may stand to dart him with my Eyes :
Xay, after Death
Pursue his spotted Ghost, and shoot him as he flics.
The ErvAL Qieess.
i_Fi-oin a Frontispiece iti. Lee's " Drainatick Woflts" {17.34.)
Tlie last pangs of Alexander are at hand, but first
Perdiccas comes to say that great Sysigambis is dead,
and in dying gave the Princess to Lysimachus ;
that also Hephestion
. Having drank too largely
At your last Feast, is of a Surfeit dead.
Alexander orders Hephestion's doctor to be cntcified
immediately. It remains now only for the poison
to work and for the hero to die raving.
the Due de Slontaiisier, said to be the original of
Moliere's " Misanthrope," which was again the
original of Wycherley's " Plain Dealer." "Wycherley
came to England again at the Restoration, aged
twenty, and brought with him his tirst play, " Love
in a Wood," then just written. He was for a short
time at O.^ford, was re-converted to Protestantism,
wrote his second play, "The Gentleman Dancing-
Master," entered himself at the Middle Temple, and
used what knowledge he got of law in his " Plain
Dealer," written at the age of twenty-five. At
thirty -two, in IGVl', his last play — "The Country
Wife " — was \\Titten, and his first — " Love in a Wood "
— produced upon the stage. Then followed the acting
of the other three — "The Gentleman Dancing Master"
in 1673, "The Country Wife" in 1675, and "The
Plain Dealer" in 1677. He was then only mid-
way in life, but he wrote no more plays, although he
lived to the year 1715, and as an old man who
had been a wit in Charles II.'s days, was one oi
young Pope's fi-iends inider Queen Anne.
Lee's " Rival Queens " and the last of William
Wycherley's four comedies — " The Plain Dealer " —
were produced in the same year — 1677. Wycherley,
the son of a gentleman of Shropshire, was bom in
1640, at Clive near Shrewsbury, and sent, when a
boy of fifteen, to France. He there became a
Homan Catholic, entered Frejich society, and knew
■William Wycherley. (From the Portrait lij Sir Peter Lelij.)
THE PLAIN DEALER,
suggested by " The Misanthrope " of Moliere, lias for
its hero Captain Manly, described in the list of cha-
racters as "of an honest, surly, nice Humour, supposed
first, in the Time of the Dutch War, to have procured
the Command of a Shi]i, out of Honour, not Interest;
and choosing a Sea-life only to avoid the World."
There is a glance at the name of this character in
Drvden's recognition of " the satire, wit, and strength
of Manly Wycherley." Manly is a I'oughly outspoken,
fighting sea captain, who scorns " knaves of business "
and "the spaniels of the world;" he believes only
in one woman, Olivia, his mistress, and in one man,
Vernish, his bosom friend, who both prove to be
utterly base. When he last went to sea he had left
half bis fortune with Olivia, and taken the other half,
five or six thousand pounds, with him, intending to
settle somewhere in tlielndies, andleave his lieutenant.
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[a.d. 1677
Freeman, "a well-educated gentleman of a broken
fortune, but a coniplier with the age," to bring the
shiiJ back. Olivia had won him by atfecting to share
liis misanthropy, and was to follow him out to the
Indies, where they would live with a wide sea between
them and the corruptions of society. But on his way
out, Manly had been attacked by the Dutch, had
fought desperately, and sunk his ship, with all his
money in it, rather than sutler it to be taken. He
had then been rowed to land in the old leaky long-
boat, and when one of the sailors who had helped to
sa^e him welcomed him ashore, he boxed his ears
and called liim fawning water-dog. The play opens
with Manly, attended by two sailors, in London
lodwings again, impatiently getting rid of a smooth
Lord Plausible, bidding his sailors hold his doors
against all comers, and impatient of their friendly
jests. He upholds his humour for plain dealing
with his lieutenant. Freeman, who is ready to serve
him, and he is impatient of professions of affection
from a young volunteer who had made part of his
crew, and had shown cowardice in the fight, the volun-
teer being a young lady. .She is Fidelia Grey, an
only chiki, whose father had left her two thousand a
year, and who for love of Captain ]Manly has gone
to sea with him as a boy, and still follows him
about as a young man devoted to his service. He
was too much enamoured of worthless 01i\'ia to
have eyes for her as Fideliii Grey, so she had chosen
that way of being near him, and awaits the time
when his eyes may be opened to Oli%-ia's character,
and she may show her truer love by faithful service.
Mr. Novel, " a pert railing coxcomb, and an admu-er
of novelties," and Major Oldfox, " an old imper-tinent
Fop, given to scribbling," the sailors do succeed in
keeping outside Manly's door : but they camiot keep
out Mrs. Blackacre. " a petulant, litigious Widow,
always in law, and Mother to Squire Jerry." Sfpiire
Jeny was the fii'st of a race of Toiiies that multi-
plied in English comedy, Congreve's Ben Legend,
Steele's Humphry Gubbin, and Goldsmith's Tony
Lumpkin being the most famous of the later mem-
bers of the family. Widow Blackacre and her son
Jei-ry, " a true raw Scpiire, under age and his mother's
government, bred to the law," are original additions
to the play that enrich it gi-eatly. They are skilfully
joined to the story, although Wycherley's ingenuity
stopi)ed short of making them contriliute to the
development of its plot, so that there does arise a
technical objection that the best scenes of the play
are those which lie entirely outside the main action.
The objection is, however, only technical ; for in
comedy of the Restoration the line of the main
action is usually of such sort that it is a comfort
to the modern reader to escape from it. Wiilow
Blackacre, the daughter of a great attorney, is made
part of the story by being called a kinswoman of
Olivia's. Lieutenant Freeman describes her as "that
litigious she-pettifogger, who is at law and difference
with all the world; but," he says, "I wish I could make
her agree with me in the clnu'ch. They say she has
fifteen hundred pounds a year jointure, and the care
of her son, that is, the destruction of his estate."
" Her lawyers, attornej-s, and solicitore," says Manly,
" have fifteen hundi'ed pounds a year, whilst she is
contented to be poor, to make other people so." This
is the manner of her fii-st appearance on the scene.
Enter "Widow Bl.\ck.\cre with a mnittle, and a green bug, and
several papers in the other hand : Jerry Blackacre, in a
goicn, laden with green bags, following her.
TFid. I never had so much to do with a judge's doorkeeper, '
as with yours ; hut
Man. But the incomparable 01i%'ia, how does she since I
went ?
Wid. Since you went, my suit
Man. Olivia, I say, is she well ?
Wid. My suit, if you had not returned
Man. Damn your suit I how does your cousin Olivia?
Wid. My suit, I say, had heen quite lost : but now •
Man. But now, where is Olivia? in town? for^
Wid. For to-morrow we are to have a hearing.
Man. Woidd )"0u would let mc have a hearing to-day !
Wid. But why won't you hear mo ?
Man. I am no judge, and you talk of nothing but suits;
but, ijray toll me, when did you see 01i\-ia ?
Wid. I am no visiter, but a woman of business : or if I ever
visit, 'tis only the Chancory-lane ladies, ladies towards the
law ; and not any of your lazy, good-for-nothing Hirts, who
cannot i-ead law-French, though a gallant writ it. But, as I
was telling j-ou, ray suit
Man. Damn these impertinent vexatious people of business,
of all sexes ! they are still troubling the world with the
tedious recitals of their lawsuits : and one can no more stop
thoir mouths than a wit's when he talks of himself, or an
intelligencer's when ho talks of other people.
Wid. And a [plague] of all vexatious, impertinent lovers 1
they are still perplexing the world with the tedious nan-ations
of their lovo-suits, and discoursos of their mistresses 1 \ ou
are as troublesome to a poor widow of business, as a young
coxcombly rhyming lover.
Man. And thou art as troublesome to me, as a rook to a
losing gamester, or a young putter of cases to his mistress or
sempstress, who has love in her head for another.
Wid. Nay, since you talk of putting of eases, and will not
hear me speak, hoar our Jerry a little ; let him put our case
to you, for the trial 's to-morrow ; and since j-ou are my chief
witness, I would have your memory refreshed and yom- judg-
ment informed, that you may not give your evidence im-
properly. — Speak out, child.
Jer. Yes, forsooth. Hem '. hem 1 John-a-Stiles
Man. You may talk, young lawyer, but I shall no more
mind you, than a hungry judge does a cause after the clock
has struck one.
Free. Nay, you '11 find him as peevish too.
Wid. No matter. Jen-y, go ou. — Do you observe it then,
sir ; for I think I have seen you in a gown once. Lord, I
could hear our Jcit}- put cases all day long. — JIark him, sir.
Jer. John-a-Stiles — no — there .are first, Fitz, Pere, and
Ayle, — no, no, Ayle, Pere, and Fitz; Ayle is seised in fee
of Blaokacre ; John-a-Stiles disseises Ayle ; Ayle makes claim,
and the disseisor dies ; then the Ayle — no, the Fitz
Wid. No, the Pere, sirrah.
Jer. Oh, the Pere 1 ay, the Pere, sir, and the Fitz — no, the
Ayle, — no, the Pere and the Fitz, sir, and
Man. Damn Pere, Mere, and Fitz, sir I
Wid. No, you are out, child. — Hear me, captain, then.
There are Ayle, Pore, and Fitz ; Ayle is seised in fee of
Blackacre ; and, being so seised, John-a-Stiles disseises the
Ayle, Ayle makes claim, and the disseisor dies ; and then the;
Pere re-enters, the Pere, sirrah, the Pore — [to .Terkv] and
the Fitz enters upon the Pere, and the Ayle brings his writ
4J). 1677.]
PLAYS.
361
of disseisin in the post : and the Pere brings his writ of
disseisin in the Pere, and
Mail. Canst thou hear this stuff, Freeman ? I could as
soon suffer a whole noise of flatterers at a great man's levee
in a morning : hut thou hast servile complacency enough to
listen to a quibbling statesman in disgrace, nay, and he before-
hand with him in laughing at his dull no-jest : but I
[Offer iiiff to I/O out.
Wid. Xay, sir, hold ! A^Tiere 's the subpcena, Jerry ? I
must serve you, sir. Vou are required by this, to give your
testimony
Man. I '11 he forsworn to be revenged on thee.
[£("!/, throichig away the sitlipceiia.
Wid. Get you gone, for a lawless companion ! — Come,
Jerr)-, I had almost forgot, we were to meet at the master's
at three : let us mind our business still, child.
The Fii-st Act wa.s in Manly's Lodging, the Second
Act is in 01i™'s, and i.s a ^eiy clever but very un-
pleasant picture of fashional>le frivolity, insincerity,
and con-uption. Oli'N-ia, with her maid Lettice m
attendance, begins by aifecting to her cousin Eliza
hati-ed of the world, and avereion for all its ways.
Eliza. But is it possible the world, which has such variety
of charms for other women, can have none for you 'r Let 's
see — fii-st, what d'ye think of dressing and fine clothes ':
Oliv. Dressing! Fy, fy. 'tis my aversion. — [To Lettice.]
But come hither, you dowdy ; methinks you might have
opened this toure better ; O hideous '. I cannot suffer it I D'ye
see how 't sits ?
Eliza. Well enough, cousin, if dressing be your aversion.
Oliv. 'Tis so : and for variety of rich clothes, they are more
my aversion.
Let. Ay, 'tis hecausc your ladyship wears 'em too long ;
for indeed a gown, like a gaUant, grows one's aversion by
having too much of it.
Olii;. Insatiable creature I I '11 be sworn I have had this not
above three days, cousin, and within this month have made
some six more.
Eliza. Then your aversion to 'em is not altogether so great.
Oliv. Alas ! 'tis for my woman only I wear 'em, cousin.
Let. If it be for me only, mfidam, pray do not wear 'em.
Eliza. But what d'ye think of visits — balls ?
Oliv. O, I detest 'em I
Eliza. Of plays?
Olir. I abominate 'em ; filthy, obscene, hideous things.
Eliza. "What say you to masquerading in the winter, and
Hyde-park in the summer ?
Oliv. Insipid pleasures I taste not.
Eliza. Xay, if you are for more solid pleasures, what think
you of a rich young husband ?
Oliv. horrid I marriage I what a pleasure' you have found
out I I nauseate it of all things.
Let. But what does your Ladyship think then of a liberal
handsome young lover ''
Oliv. A handsome young fellow, you impudent ! begone
ont of my sight. Xame a handsome young fellow to me !
foh, a hideous handsome young fellow I abominate I [Spits.
Eliza. Indeed! But let's see — will nothing please you?
what d'ye think of the court ?
Olif. How, the court ! the court, cousin ! mj' aversion, my
aversion, my aversion of all aversions !
Eliza. How, the court ! where
Oliv. "WTiere sincerity is a quality as much out of fashion
and as unprosperous as bashfulness : I could not laugh at a
166
quibble, though it were a fat privy-counsellor's; nor praise
a lord's ill verses, though I were myself the subject ; nor an
old lady's young looks, though I were her woman ; nor sit to
a vain young smile-maker, though he flattered me. In short.
I could not glout upon a man when he comes into a room,
and laugh at him when he goes out : I cannot rail at the
absent to flatter the standers-by ; I
Eliza. Well, but railing now is so common, that 'tis no
more malice, but the fashion ; and the absent think they are
no more the worse for being railed at, than the present think
they 're the better for being flattered. And for the court
Oliv. Nay, do not defend the court; for you'll make me
rail at it like a trusting citizen's widow.
Eliza. Or like a Holbom lady, who could not get in to the
last ball, or was out of countenance in the drawing-room the
last Sunday of her appearance there. For none rail at the
court but those who cannot get into it, or else who are ridi-
culous when they are there; and I shall suspect you were
laughed at when you were last there, or would he a maid of
honour.
Oliv. I a maid of honour ! To be a maid of honour, were
yet of all things my aversion.
Eliza. In what sense am I to understand you? But in
fine, by the word aversion, I 'm sure you dissemble ; for I
never knew woman 3-et used it who did not. Come, our
tongues beUe our hearts more than our pocket-glasses do our
faces. But methinks we ought to leave off dissembling, since
'tis grown of no use to us ; for all wise observers understand
us now-a-days, as they do dreams, almanacs, and Dutch
gazettes, hy the contrary : and a man no more believes a
woman, when she says she has an aversion for him, than
when she says she 'U cry out.
Oliv. filthy ! hideous ! Peace, cousin, or your discourse
will be my aversion : and you may believe me.
Eliza. Yes ; for if anything be a woman's aversion, 'tis
plain dealing from another woman : and perhaps that 's your
quiirrel to the world ; for that will talk, as your woman says.
Olir. Talk? not of me sure ; for what men do I converse
with ? what visits do I admit ?
Enter Boy.
Boij. Here 's the gentleman to wait upon you, madam.
Oliv. On me! }-ou little imthinking fop ; d'ye know what
you say ?
Boy. Yes, madam, 'tis the gentleman that comes every day
to you, who
Oliv. Hold your peace, you heedless little animal, and get
you gone. — [Exit Boy.] This country boy, cousin, takes my
dancing-master, tailor, or the spruce milliners for visitors.
Let. No, madam; 'tis Mr. Novel, I 'm sure, by his talking
so loud : I know his voice too, nuidam.
Oliv. You know nothing, you bufile-headed stupid creature
you : you would make my cousin believe I receive visits. But
if it be Mr. — what did you call him ?
Let. Mr. Novel, madam ; he that
Oliv. Hold your peace ; I 'U hear no more of him. But if
it be your Mr. — (I cannot think of his name again) I suppose
he has followed my cousin hither.
Eliza. No, cousin, I will not rob you of the honour of the
visit : 'tis to you, cousin ; for I know him not.
Oliv. Nor did I ever hear of him before, upon my honour,
cousin, besides, han't I told you, that visits, and the business
of -s-isits, flatter)- and detraction, are my aversion? D'ye
think then I would admit such a coxcomb as he is ? who
rather than not rail, will rail at the dead, whom none speak
iU of ; rather than not flatter, -will flatter the poets of the
age, whom none will flatter ; who affects novelty as much as
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[a.d. 1677
the fashion, and is as fantastical as changeable, and as well
known as the fashion ; who likes nothing but what is new,
nay, would choose to have his friend or his title a new one.
In fine, he is my aversion.
Mizn. I find you do know him, cousin ; at least, have heard
of him.
Oliv. Yes, now I remember, I have heard of him.
Eliza. Well ; but since he is such a coxcomb, for heaven's
sake, let him not come up. TeU him, ilrs. Lettice, your lady
is not within.
OHi'. No, Lettice, tell him my cousin is here, and that he
may come up. For notwithstanding- 1 detest the sight of him,
you m.-iy like his conversation ; and though I would use him
scurvily, I will not bn rude to you in my own lodging : since
he has followed you hither, let him come up, I say.
£liza. Very fine ! pray let him go to the devil, I say, for
me : I know him not, nor desire it. Send him away, Mrs.
Lettice.
O/lv. Upon my word, she shan't : I must disobey your
commands, to comply with your desires. Call him up,
Lettice.
Eliza. Nay, I "11 swear she shall not stir on that errand.
[Holds Lettice.
Oliv. WeU then, I'll call him myself for you, since you
will have it so. — [Calls out at the door.'] Mr. Novel, sir, sir !
Enter Novel.
Nov. Madam, I beg your pardon ; perhaps you were busy :
I did not think you had company with you.
Ehza. Yet he comes to me, cousin ! [Aside to Ohvia.
Ohv. Chaii's there. [They sit.
Nov. Well ; but, madam, d'ye know whence I come now :
Oliv. From some melancholy place, I warrant, sir, since
they have lost your good company.
Ehza. So!
Nov. From a place where they have treated mo at dinner
with so much civility and kindness, a plague on them 1 that
1 could hardly get away to you, dear madam.
Oliv. You have a way with you so now and obliging, sir I
Eliza. You hate flattery, cousin 1 [Apart to Olivh.
Nor. Nay, faith, madam, d'ye think my way new ? Then
you are obliging, madam. I must confess, I hate imitation,
to do anj-thing like other people. All that know me do me
the honom- to say, I am an original, faith. But, as I was
saj-ing, madam, I have been treated to-day with all the
ceremony and kindness imaginable at my lady Autumn's.
But, the nauseous old woman at the upper end of her table
Oliv. Revives the old Grecian custom, of scr\-ing in a
death's head with their banquets.
Nov. Ha! ha! fine, just, i' faith, nay, and new. 'Tis like
eating with the ghost in the Libertine : she would frighten a
man from her dinner with her hollow invitation, and spoil
one'.s stomach
Oliv. To meat or women. I detest her hollow cherry
cheeks : she looks lilce an old coach new painted ; affecting
an unseemly smugness, whilst she is ready to drop in pieces.
Eliza. You hate detraction, I see, m\\&\n.[Apart to Olivi.\.
Nov. But the silly old fury, whilst she affects to look like
a woman of this age, talks
Oliv. Like one of the last : and as passionately as an old
courtier who has outlived his office.
J\oi'. Yes, madam ; but pray let me give you her character.
Then she never counts her age by the years, but
Oliv. By the masques she has lived to see.
Nov. Nay then, madam, I see you think a little harmless
railing too great a pleasure for any but yourself ; and there-
fore I 've done.
Oliv. Nay, faith, you shall tell me who you had there at
dinner.
Nov. If you would hear me, madam.
Oliv. Most patiently ; speak, sir.
Nov. Then, we had her daughter
Uliv. A}', her daughter ; the very disgrace to good clothes,
which she always wears but to heighten her deformity, not
mend it : for she is stiU most splendidly, gallantly ugly, and
looks like an iU piece of daubing in a rich frame.
Nov. So ! But have you done with her, madam ? and cr.n
you spare her to me a little now ?
Oliv. Ay, ay, sir.
Nov. Then, she is like
Oliv. She is, you 'd say, like a city bride ; the greater for-
tune, but not the greater beaut)', for her dress.
Nov. Well : yet have you done, madam ? Then she
Oliv. Then she bestows as unfortunately on her face aU the
graces in fashion, as the languishing eye, the hanging or
pouting Hp. But as the fool is never more provoking than
when he aims at wit, the ill-favoui'cd of our sex are never
more nauseous than when they would be beauties, adding to
their natural deformity the artificial ugliness of aft'ectation.
Eliza. So, cousin, I find one may have a collection of all
one's acquaintance's pictures as well at your house as at Mr.
Lely's. Only the difference is, there we find 'em much hand-
somer than they are, and like ; here much uglier, and like :
and you are the first of the profession of picture-drawing I
ever knew without flattery.
Oliv. I draw after the life ; do nobody wrong, cousin.
Eliza. No, you hate flattery and detraction.
Oliv. But, Mr. Novel, who had you besides at dinner ?
Lord Plausible joins Mr. Novel at Olivia's lodging.
jNIanly, Freeman, and Fidelia enter heliind ; and Manly
hears himself ridiculed by the one woman in whom
he had believed, and in whose hands he has placeil
all the fortune that remains to him. He makes his
presence known, and is .scoffed by her ojienly in
l)resence of her ''spaniels of the world." But mean-
while she looks with an eye of favour on the gii-1 in
male dress, Fidelia, and tells Manly, "If you should
ever have anything to say to me hereafter, let that
young gentleman there be your messenger." When
Manly and Fidelia have departed, " Enter Widow
Blackacre, led in by Major 01dfo.\, and Jerry Black-
acre following, laden witli green bags." The invalid
major pays obsequious suit to the widow, and Free-
man, who has remained, attacks her boldly, hoiking
to carry her by storm ; but the widow's heart is with
the papers in lier green liag, and she first gi\"es a
piece of her mind to Major Oldfox in rejecting him,
with terms of contempt that delight Freeman, until
she turns upon him and gives liiui as roundly her
oi)inion of his character also.
The Third Act is in Westminister Hall, whither
iNIanly, still accompanied by Freeman and the two
sailors, has been brought by force of Widow Black-
acre's subpcena. Traders e.\;pose their wai-es in the
Hall, lawyers are moving to and fro between the
courts, and the worhl is ali-^e there in various forms.
When Freeman has left Manly, and is looking among
the lawyers for the widow, Fidelia joins him, and is
required to aid him in a plot against Olivia, or never
see him again. She is to pay suit for Olivia's favour as
the lad who had caught her fancy, and what couc^uest
TO A.D. 1681.]
PLAYS.
363
she makes Manly is to use by a trick. He will thus get
satisfaction and revenge. The rest of the Act shows
ill ^Manly's case, under various forms, a world quick
at profession, but quicker in avoidance of all service
that involves the least self-sacritice ; and follows the
underplot of Freeman's attack on the Widow Black-
acre's money, which he is to get by forcing her to
marry him. His way is to inspu-e Jerry with the
spirit of rebellion, give Mm money, that he spends
in Westminster Hall on toj^s, take possession of the
I ■widow's bag of papers left in faithless Jerry's charge,
and cause Jerry to nominate himself, Lieutenant
Freeman, as his guardian.
The Foiu-th Act has its scene partly in Manly's
lodging, partly in 01i-s"ia'.s. Fidelia tells jManly that
01i^■ia had called him ten thousand ruffians, biiites,
sea-monsters, and even surly coward, and had urged
an assignation on herself, the supposed youth, an
assignation in the dark to hide the young man's
blushes. Manly requires Fidelia to keep it, and wiU
also be there unseen. " I'll go with you," he says.
" and act love while you shall talk it only." Major
Oldfox enters with Widow Blackacre, while the room
is empty, and tries to read to her some of the fruits
of his leisure, the ovei-flowings of his fancy and pen.
Freeman brings Jerry Blackacre, whom he has
spirited to revolt, and wonderfully arrayed in an old
gaudy suit with red military breeches. The widow,
tinding that Jerry has made Freeman his guardian,
and that Freeman holds her papei-s, endeavours to
carry the estate on to her next son. Bob, by declaring
that Jerry was not bom in wedlock. In 01i\ia's
lodging Lord Plausible and Novel meet to discover
that Olivia has written, ■\\-itli only change of names,
identical letters to them both, flattering each of them
and abusing the other. Vernish, the false friend wdio
has defrauded Manly and manied the false mistress
Olivia, returns to find his room dark, and 01i^^a
mistaking liim for another. She recovers herself bj-
a falsehood, and sends him out immediately to take
Manly's cabinet of jewels from the goldsmith with
whom they were lodged in Olivia's name, in order to
secure the plunder. Then Manly enters with Fidelia,
canies out his plan of revenge, and leaves ; but before
Fidelia has left, Yemish returns, has his WTatli, at
finding a man in his wife's rooms, changed to another
passion upon discoveiing the man to be a woman.
Disturbed by the arrival of an alderman with money,
he thrusts Fidelia into a side room and locks the
door.
In the Fifth Act 01i\ ia, belie\-ing her infamy to
have been discovered by her husband, has fled from
liim and taken refuge in Eliza's lodging. When
Veniish, her husband, comes with friendly face and
tells her that he has found the man in her rooms to be
a woman, she supposes lum to have been tricked, and
assumes airs of injm-ed innocence. Then the scene
changes to "The Cock" in Bow Street, where JManly
is with Fidelia in a private dining-room, and requires
that another assignation be made for that evening by
deputy, at which he intends to bring upon her public
shame. Yernish, whom lie still belie%-es to be a
true friend, and whom he does not know as Olivia's
husband (though Olivia had told him, in ca.sting him
off, that she was manied secretly to some one whose
name she still reserved), Yernish now comes to play
upon Manly, and, while obliged to keep his own counsel,
hears of the shame his wife has brought him to. We
may take all the rest for granted. Everybody in.
the play is base. Widow Blackacre comes to " The
Cock " with two knights of the post to forge moi'e
signatures, and her bag of papers is found to include
many forgeries. Lieutenant Freeman, as guardian
to JeiTy, turns these forgeries to his private advan-
tage, arrests the Widow, and lets her olF upon
consideration of the payment of his debts and four
himdi-ed a year out of her estate. The profligacy of
Olixia does not excuse Manly's low revenge upon a
woman he had loved. Fidelia's participation in it
stains her, though she wins by it her place as Manly's
wife. Yemish is, of course, utterly base ; and Lord
Plausible, Novel, and INIajor Oldfox make a back-
gi'ound of fashionable folly to a pictiu-e of fashionable
■\"ice. There is vigorous wit in Wycheiiey, and satii-e
upon folly. But the coiTuption of what called itself
polite society is not shown from a point of view
outside itself. The low animal stii- of the court of
the Restoration has nowhere its true natm-e shown,
even by a chance flash of light out of the higher life
of man.
John Diyden produced, on the 1 7th of November,
1681, his famous satire "Absalom and Achitophel."
In December, after Shaftesbury's escape from the
king's stroke at his life, there was a second edition
with some added lines. In March, 1682, Dryden
published his satii-e of "The Medal," upon the medal
sti-uck to commemorate Shaftesbury's escape ; and
in October, 1682, he punished Shadwell for a gi-oss
personal attack upon Ids character, with the masterly
satire called " MacFlecknoe." Dryden contriliuted
two hundred lines to Nahum Tate's second part of
" Aljsalom and Achitophel." published in November,
1682; and in that month appeared also his poem,
suggested by the religious controversy of the day,
" Eehgio Laici." It was just before this period of
greatest intellectual energy that Dryden produced —
in the spring or siuumer of 1681 — •
THE SPAI^^SH FELAE, OE THE DOUBLE
DISCOA'EEY,
a play in which a comic imderplot is associated ^^ith
a "heroic" stoiy. Sir Walter Scott has echoed
Dr. Johnson's praise of the skill with which the two
plots of tliis play are interwoven, and it is usually
reckoned among Diyden's best. But although
Dryden has kept Aiistotle in mind, and taxed
his ingenuity to bring each of his two plots to a
revolution caused by a discoveiy, and one to a
double discoveiy, he has not even attempted
to make one plot necessaiy to the other. The
Spanish friar who gives to the play its title is
no more concerned with its main action than the
Widow Blackacre is concerned ^\ith the main action
of "The Plain Dealer." He is richly paiated — in
fact, Dryden's masteqiiece in comedy — but he and all
the incidents with which he is concerned might be
left out of the play without causing the slightest loss
to its main story. Points of contact are cleverly
364
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. KSl.
tViuml for liim, as they are found for the Widow
Bluckacre, but that is all. The want of unity is
well disguised ; but the two plots are certainly not
interwoven.
The scene of the play is in Saragossa, where
Sancho, the old and amiable King of Arragon, has
been confined in a dmigeon and his children have
been murdered by the father of the heroine of the
play, Leonora. Leonora is now Queen ; her father on
his\leath-bed had bidden lier marry young Bertran,
son of one who had helped to make him gi-eat. The
Moor Abdalla had suit also for Leonora, and is now
outside Saragossa bringing fierce war against Bertran,
whom he has three times beaten in the field. The play
opens with a dialogue between two noble Spaniards,
Alphonso and Pedro, through whom this is told,
and it is added that the hope of the soldiers is
in yoimg Torrismond, supposed to be the son of
Raymond, Alphonso's brother. Wliile Bertran talks
largely within Saragossa to the sound of drums and
cries to arms, news comes that Torrismond is in hot
battle with the Moors. The Queen passes to tlie
Cathedral to invoke saints, and presently Alphonso's
son Lorenzo enters from the battle with news of a
crowning victoiy.
Alphonso. Thou reviv'st me.
Pedro. By my computation now, the Victory was gain'd
before the Procession was made for it ; and yet it will go hard
l)ut the Piiests will make a Sliraele on 't.
Lorenzo. Yes, Faith ; wc came like bold intruding Guests ;
And took 'era unprepar'd to s'vo us welcome :
Their Scouts we kill'd ; then found their Body sleeping:
And as they lay eonfus'd, we stumbl'd o'er 'em ;
And took what Joint came next ; Arms, Heads, or Leggs ;
Somewhat undecently : But when Men want Light
They make hut bungling work.
Birtrriii. I '11 to the Queen,
And bear the News.
Fcdro. That 's young Lorenzo's duty.
Bertran. I '11 spare his trouble. —
This Torrismond begins to grow too fast ;
He must be mine, or ruin'd. \_Asidc.
Lorenzo. Pedro, a, word.: — \_WIusper.] [^.rti Bertran.
Alphonso. How swift he shot away ! I find it stung him.
In spight of his dissembling.
[To Lorenzo.'] How many of the enemy arc slain ?
Lorenzo. Troth, sir, we were in haste ; and eou'd not stay
To score the men we kill'd : But tlicre thoy lie.
Lorenzo, home from war, is in search of women.
Hence the under] )lot. Elvira, the young wife of a
jealous old banker, Gomez, j)uts herself in his way.
He is attracted by her, and makes use of her con-
fessor. Father Dominic, in getting access to her.
Father Dominic is the Spanish Friar. He is fat,
greedy, venal, capable of all ill, even lightly suggest-
ing murder ; and with a cloak of hypocrisy, and the
power of the Church at his back, wiiuung trust and
authority in the families he is quite ready to corruiit
and betray. The incidents of the intrigue are various
and full of humour, but they show only the complicity
of a corrupt friar in an animal intrigue that is in
good time brought to an end by the discovery that
Elvira is Lorenzo's sister, who had been married
from the nunnery to which she had been sent as a
young girl. This discovery is ime.xpected, but en-
tirely beside the main action of the play, and there-
fore unimportant. The two secrets, of which the
successive disclosures, and the revolutions caused by
them, give the play its second title of " The Double
Discovery," belong to the main action, but here tlie
chief secret might, j)erhaps, have been more strictly
kept. Torrismond dai-es to love the Queen. He comes
into conflict with Bertran her designated husband,
and is sununoned to her presence for affronting liim
within the precincts of the coui-t.
The Scene draws ; and shews the Queen sitting in state,
Bertrax standing next her : then Teresa, &c.
She rises and comes to the front.
Q/i. Leonora. [To LSert.} I blame not you, my Lord, my
Father's WiU,
Your own Deserts, and all my People's Voice,
Have plac'd you in the \-iew of .Sovereign Pow'r.
But I wou'd learn the cause, why Torrismond,
Within my Palace Walls, within my hearing,
Almost within my sight, affronts a Prince
^V^lo shortly shall command him.
Jicrt. He thinks you owe him more than you can pay,
And looks as he were Lord of Humane kind.
JSuter Torrismond, Alphonso, Pedro. Torrismond boivs
low : then looks carnestli/ oh the Queen, and keeps at
distance.
Teresa. Madam, the General.
Qh. Lot me view him well.
My Father sent him early to the Frontiers ;
I have Dot often seen him ; if I did.
He pass'd nnmark'd by my unheeding Eyes.
But where 's the fierceness, the disdainful Pride ;
The haughty Port, the fiery Arrogance ':'
By all these Marks, this is not sure the Man.
Bert. Yet this is he who fill'd your Court with Tumult,
WTiose fierce Demeanour', and whose Insolence
The Patience of a God cou'd not support.
Qn. Name his Offence, my Lord, and he shall have
Immediate Punishment.
Bert. 'Tis of so high a nature, shou'd I speak it.
That my Presumption then wou'd equal his.
Qii. Some one among you sjjeak.
I'ed. [Asidcl Now my Tongue itches.
Qii. AU dumb 1 on your Allegiance, Torrismond,
By all j'our hopes, I do command you, speak.
Tor. [Xneclinr;.'] O seek not to convince me of a Crime
Which I can ne'er repent, nor can you pardon.
Or if you needs wiU know it, think, oh think,
That he, who thus commanded dares to speak,
Unless commanded, would have dy'd in silence.
But you adjured me. Madam, by my hopes!
Hopes I have none ; for I am all Despair :
Friends I have none ; for Friendship follows Favour.
Desert I 've none ; for what I did, was Duty :
that it were ! that it were Duty all !
Qii. \\Tiy do you pause r proceed.
Tor. As one condemn'd to leap a Precipice,
A\Tio sees before his Eyes the Death below,
Stops short, and looks about for some kind Shrub
To break his dreadful Fall — so I ; —
But whither am I going i if to Death,
A.D. 16S1.T
PLAYS.
365
He looks so lovely sweet in Beauties Pomp,
He draws me to his Dart. — I dare no more.
£ert. He 's mad be\'ond the Cui'e of Millcborc.
^ATiips, Darkness, Dungeons, for this Insolence. —
Tor. Mad as I am, yet I know when to bear. —
Qii. You 're both too bold. You, Torrismond, withdraw :
I '11 teach you all what 's owing to your Queen.
For you. My Lord, —
The priest to-morrow was to join oui- hands;
I '11 try if I can live a Day without you.
So, both of you depart ; and Uve in Peace.
Alphonso. Who knows which way she points!
Doubling and turning like a hunted Hare.
Find out the Meaning of her Jlind who can.
Fed. WTio ever found a Woman's ! backward and forward,
The whole Sex in every word
\_ExcuHt all bitt the Queen anil Teres.\.
Qii. Haste, my Tmsii, haste ; and call him back.
Tcrc. Whom, Madam ?
Qk. Him.
Terc. Prince Bertran ?
Qii. Torrismond.
There is no other he.
So Tonismond is raLsed to Hope iii the Second
Act. In the Third Act, Bertran shows to the
Queen Ms jealousy, and she speaks to him rashly, but
alters her tone thus : —
Qii. Bertran, stay ,
\_Aside.'\ This may produce some dismal Consequence
To him whom dearer than mj' Life, I love.
[To him.'] Have I not manag'd my Contrivance weD,
To trj' your Love, and make you doubt of mine ?
Bert. Then was it but a trial ?
Jlethinks I start as from some dreadful Dream ;
And often ask mj'seU if yd I wake.
[Aside.'] This turn's too quick to be without Design :
I '11 sound the bottom of 't 'ere I believe.
Qii. I find your Love ; and wou'd reward it too.
But anxious Fears soUicit my weak Breast ;
I fear my People's Faith :
That hot-mouth'd Beast that bears against the Curb,
Hard to be broken even by lawful Kings ;
But harder by Usurpers :
.ludge then, my Lord, with all these Cares opprest,
If I can think of Love.
Bert. Believe me. Madam,
These Jealousies, how ever large they spread.
Have but one Root, the old, imprison'd King ;
Whose Lenity first pleas'd the gaping Crowd :
But when long tried, and found supinely good,
Like ^TCsop's Logg, they leapt upon his Back : .
Your Father knew 'em well ; and when he mounted.
He rein'd 'em strongly and he spurr'd them hard ;
And, but he durst not do it all at once.
He had not left alive this patient Saint,
This An-i-il of Affronts, but sent him hence,
To hold a peaceful Branch of Palm above,
.■Vnd hymn it in the Quire.
Qii. You've hit upon the verj- String, which touch' d.
Echoes the Sound, and Jars within my Soul ;
There lies my Grief.
Bert. So long as there 's a Head,
Thither will aU the mounting Spirits fly ;
Lop that but off ; and then —
Qii. My Vertue shi-inks from such an horrid Act.
Bert. This 'tis to have a A'ertue out of season.
Mercy is good ; a very good dull Vertue ;
But Klings mistake its timing ; and are mild,
When manly Courage bids 'em be severe '.
Better be cruel once, than anxious ever :
Remove this threat' ning danger from your Crown ;
And then securely take the Man you love.
Qii. [ Wnlk'uig aside] Ha ! let me think of that : the Man
I love J
'Tis true, this Murther is the only means
That can secui'e mj- thi-one to Torrismond.
Kay more, this Execution done by Bertran,
Makes him the Object of the People's Hate.
Bert. [Aside.] The more she thinks 'twill work the stronger
in her.
Qu. [Aside.] How eloquent is Mischief to persuade 1
Few are so ■wicked as to take delight
In Crimes unprofitable, nor do I :
If then I break divine and humane Laws,
No Bribe but Love cou'd gain so bad a Cause.
Bert. You answer nothing !
Qu. 'Tis of deep Concernment,
And I a woman ignoi'ant and weak :
I leave it all to you, think what you do,
You do for him I love.
Bert. [Aside.] For him she loves ?
She nam'd not me ; that may be Torrismond,
WTiom she has thrice in private seen this Day :
Then I am faii'ly caught in my own snare.
I 'U think again. — Madam, it shall be done ;
And mine be all the blame. [Exit Bert.
Qu. O, that it were ! I wou'd not do this Crime,
And }-et, like Heaven, permit it to be done.
The Priesthood gi'osly cheat us with Free-will :
Will to do what, but what Heaven first decreed ?
Our Actions then are neither good nor ill,
Since from eternal Causes they proceed :
Oui' Passions, Fear and Anger, Love and Hate,
Meer senseless Engines that are mov'd by Fate ;
Like Ships on stormy Seas without a Guide,
Tost by the Winds, and driven by the Tide.
Enter TouuisMoxD.
Tor. Am I not rudely bold, and press too often
Into your presence, JIadam 'i If I am —
Qu. Xo more ; lest I should chide you for your stay :
Where have you been? and. How cou'd you suppose
That I could live these two long Hours without you ?
Tor. 0, words to charm an Angel from his orb 1
Welcome, as kindly showers to long parch'd Earth !
But I have been in such a dismal place
Where Joy ne'er enters, which the Sun ne'er cheers :
Bound in with Darkness, over-spread with Damps :
WTiere I have seen (if I cou'd say, I saw)
The good old King, majostick in his Bonds,
And 'midst his Griefs most venerably Great :
Bj' a dim winking Lamp, which feebly broke
The gloomy Vapours, he lay stretch' d along
Upon the unwholesome Earth ; bis E3-es fix'd upward :
And ever and anon a silent Tear
Stole down, and trickl'd' from his hoary Beard.
* TnckVd. In quotations from " The Spanish Friar" I reproduce all
peculiarities of spelling, punctuation, &c. This word *' trickl'd " is a
good example of the absolutely unmtelligeut manner in which the
letter e is continually, and even to this d.ay, replaced hy an apostrophe
in i^rinting verse which scans perfectly when the word so mangled is
spoken in the usual way.
3C,C,
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.u. 1081.
Qii. Heaven, what have I done ! my gentle Love,
Hevo end thy sad Diseour.se, and, for ray sake,
Cast off these fearful melaneholy Thoughts.
Tor. My Heart is withrr'd at that piteous sight,
As early Blossoms arc with Eastern blasts :
He sent for me, ami, while I rais'd his Head,
Ho threw his aged Arms ahout mj- neck ;
And, seeing that I weirf, he press'd me close :
So, leaning Cheek to Check, and Eyes to Eyes,
Wc mingled Tears in a dumb Scene of Sorrow.
Qii. Forbear : you know not liow you Avound my Soul.
Tor. Can you have Grief, and not have Pity too f
He told me, when my Father did return,
Uc had a wondrous Secret to disclose :
He kiss'd me, bless'd me, nay, he call'd me Son ;
He prais'd my Courage, pray'd for my Success :
J [e was so true a Father of his Country,
To thank me for defending ev'n his Foes,
Ueoause they were his Subjects.
Qii. If they be ; then what am I ?
Tor. The Sovereign of mj- Soul, my Earthly Heaven.
Qii. And not your (Jneen :■'
Tor. You are so beautiful,
So wondrous fair, you justitic Rebellion :
As if that faidtlcss Face could make no Sin,
Iiut Heaven, with looking on it, must forgive.
Qx. The King must die, lie must, my Tdrriamond ;
Though Pity softly jilr'ad within my Soul.
Yet he must die. tliat I may niako you C4reat,
And give a C'rown in dowry with my IjOvc.
Tor. l'eri.sh tliat (_'iown — on any Head but your.s ; —
() recolhx.'t your Thoughts I
Shake not his Hourglass, when his hasty Sand
Is ebbing to the last :
A little longer, y(>t a little longer,
And Nature drops him down, without your Sin,
Like mellow Fruit, without a Winter Storm.
Qii. Let me but do this one Injustice moi'e :
His Doom is past ; and, for your sake, he dies.
Tor. Wou'd you, for me, have done so ill an Act,
And will not do a good one 'f
Now, by yoin' Joys on Earth, your Hopes in Heaven,
<) spare this tireat, this Good, this Aged King ;
And spare your Soul the Crime.
Qii. Tlie Crime 's not mine ;
'Twas first propos'd, and must be done, by Bertran,
Fed with f.alse hopes to gain my Crown and Me :
I, to inlianec his Ruin, gave no leave ;
But barely bad him thiiilc, and then resolve.
Tor. In not forl)iilding, you command the Crime ;
Tliink, timely think, on the last dreadful Day;
How will you tremble there to stand expos'd,
And foremost in the rank of guilty Cihosts
That nmst be doomed for TMurther ; tliink on Blurther :
Tliat Troop is plae'd apart from common Crimes ;
Tlie damn'd themselves start wide, ;ind shun that Band,
As far more black, and more forlorn than they.
Qii. 'Tis terrible, it shakes, it staggers me :
I knew this Truth, but I rcpell'd that Thought ;
Sure there is none but feai-s a future state :
And, when the most obdui-ate swear they do not,
Thfir trembling Hearts belie their boasting Tongues.
Eiitvr Tf.kes.\.
Send speedily to Birlrini ; charge him strictly
Not to pnu-eed, but wait my farther pleasure.
Tere. Mad.-nn, he sends to tell you, 'Tis performed. lExit.
Tor. Ten thousand Plagues consume him, Furies drag him,
Fiends tear him : Blasted be the Arm that strook,
The Tongue that order'd ;— Only She be spar'd
That hindred not the Deed. O, where was then
The Power that guards the sacred Lives of Kings ?
AVhy slept the Lightning and the Thunderbolts,
Or bent tlii'ir idle rage on Fields and Trees,
When Vengeance call'd 'em here?
Qii. Sleep th;it Thought too,
'Tis done, and since 'tis done, 'tis past recall:
And since 'tis past recall, must bo forgotten.
Tor. O, never, never, shall it be forgotten ;
High Heaven will not forget it, after Ages
Shall with a fe.arful Curse remember ours ;
And Bhiod shall never leave the Nation more!
Qii. His Body shall be EoyaUy intcn-'d.
And the last Funeral Pomps adorn his Hearse ;
I will myself (as I have cause too just)
Be the chief IMourner at his Obsequies :
And Yearly fix on the revolving Day
The solemn marks of Mourning, to atone
And expiate my Offences.
Tor. Nothing can,
But bloody Vengeance on that Traitor's Head,
Wliieh, dear departed Spirit, here I vow.
Qii. Here end our Sorrows, and begin our Joys :
Love calls, my Torrisnioin! ; though Hate has rag'd
And rul'd the Day. yet Love will rule the Night.
The spiteful Stars have shed their Venom down.
And now the peaceful Pl.ancts take thi'ir turn.
This Deed of liirfran's has remov'd all Fears,
And giv'n nu' just occasion to refuse him.
AVhat hinders now but that the holy Priest
In secret join our mutual Vows ':' and then
This Night, this liappy Night, is yom-s and mine.
Tor. Bo still my Son-ows ; and be loud my Joys.
Fly to the utmost Circles of the Sea,
Thou furious Tempest that has toss'd my Jlind,
And leave no Thought, but Leonora, there. —
"WTiat's this I feel a-boding in my Soul ?
As if this Day were fatal ; be it so ;
Fate shall have but the Leavings of my Love :
My Joys are gloomy, but withal are great ;
The Lion, though he see th(> Toils are set.
Yet, pinch'd with raging Hunger, scours away, v
Hunts in the face of Danger all the Daj-; >
At Night, with sullen pleasure, grumbles o'er bis Prey. '
The hero h.iving made his .simile, this triplet
closes the Third Act, and we are now ready for the
doiilile discovery. The first discovery is the matter
of the Fourth Act, when Raymond, the sujiposcd
father of Torrismond, arrives at Saragossa to tintl
the murder of King Saucho common talk. S.nys the
Queen to Bertran,
Bury'd in private, and so suddenly!
It cro.sses my design, wliieh was f allow
The Rites of Funeral fitting his Degree,
With all the Pomp of Mourning.
Hat. It was not safe :
Objects of pity, when the Cause is new,
Would work too fiercely on the giddy Crowd :
Had Cirsnr'x Body never been expos'd,
Brntiia liad gained his Cause.
Raymond sees with satisfaction the repudiation of
A.D. 1681.J
PLAYS.
367
Bertran by the usurping Queen, and urges his
.seizure.
Yet one way
There is to ruin Bertrun.
Qii. O, there 's none ;
E.xcept au Host from Heaven can make such haste
To save my Crown as he will do to seize it :
You saw he came surrounded with his Friends,
And knew besides oui- Army was remov'd
To quarters too remote for sudden use.
litnjm. Yet you may give Commission
To some Bold Man, whose Loyalty you trust.
And let him raise the Train-bands of the City.
Qh. Gross-feeders, Lion-talkers, Lamb-like fighters.
En y III. You do not know the Virtues of your City,
AVhat pushing force they have ; some popular Chief,
Jlore noisy than the rest, but cries Halloo,
And in a trice the bellowing Herd come out ;
The Gates are barr'd, the Ways are barricado'd,
And One and All 's the Word ; true Cocks of th' game.
That never ask for what, or whom, they fight ;
But turn 'cm out, and show 'cm but a Foe,
<'ry Liberty, and that's a Cause of Quarrel.
Qh. There may be danger in that boist'rous Kout :
Who knows when Fu'es are kindled for my Foes,
But some new Blast of Wind may turn those Flames
Against my Palace Walls Y
Kill/Ill. But still their Chief
?Iust be .some one whose Loyalty you trust.
Qii. And who more proper for that trust than you.
Whose interests, though unknown to you, are mine ':'
^lljjhoiino, Fe(/ro, haste to raise the liabljle.
He .shall appear to head 'em.
£111/111. [Aside to Aljj/ionso and P<v//-o.] First seize Bertran,
And then insinuate to them that I bring
Their lawful Prince to place upon the Throne.
Alp/i. Our lawful Prince.
Mai/iii. Fear not, I can i)roduce him.
The hxwful Prince is, of course, Torrismond. When
Eayniond finds Queen Leonora's love for Torrismond,
who has been brought up as his son, he seeks first to
stir in Ton-ismond a zeal against tisurpation ; but
Torrismond holds by the Queen. He then tells him
that
there yet survives the lawful Heir
Of Siiiiclio's Blood, whom when I shall produce,
I rest assured to see you pale with Fear
And Trembling at his Xame.
Tor. He must be more than ilan who makes me tremble :
I dare him to the Field with all the odds
Of Justice on his side, against my Tyrant ;
Produce your lawful Prince, and you shall see
How brave a Rebel Love has made your Son.
Rin/iii. Read that : 'Tis with the Royal .Signet sign'd.
And given me by the King when time shou'd serve
'To be perus'd by you.
Turrisiiiond reads.
1 t/ic Kiiirj.
Mij ijoiiiigest and alone surviviwj Sou
Jteportcd dead to 'scape rebellious rage
Till happier Times shall call his Courage forth
To break iim Fetters or revenge my Fate
I irill that RajTnond educate as his,
And call him Torrismond
If I am he, that Son, that Torrismond,
The world contains not so forlorn a wretch !
Raymond urges upon him his duty to see his
Father's death revenged.
Tor. Why, 'tis the only bus'ness of my Life ;
JMy Order's issued to recall the Ai-my,
And Bertran' s Death's resolv'd.
liagm.. And not the Queen's ; O she 's the chief Offender !
.Shall Justice turn her Edge within your Hand ?
No, if she 'scape, you are yourself the Tyrant,
-\nd ilurtherer of youi- Father.
Tor. Cruel Fates:
To what have you reserved me I
liai/in. Why that Sigh ?
Tor. Since you nmst know, but break, O break my Heart,
Before I tell my Fatal Story out,
Th' Usui-per of my Throne, my House's Ruin,
The 3Iurtherer of my Father, is my Wife 1
LTpon the tragic distress of this revolution in the
story, caused by the first discovery, the Fourth Act
clcses.
The Fifth Act begins by developing the distress.
Torrismond has withdrawn himself from the endear-
nient.s of the wife he had so lately mariied. The
sudden unexplained change throws her into deep
distress. A passionate scene between them ends with
his giving her the paper that reveals the secret of his
birth.
Filter Lorenzo.
Lor. Ann, ai-m, my Lord, the City Bands are up.
Drums beating. Colours flying. Shouts conf us'd ;
^Vll clust'ring in a heap like swai'ming Hives,
And rising in a moment.
Tor. With design
To punish Bertran and revenge the King,
'Twas ordered so.
Zor. Then you're betray' d my Lord.
'Tis time they block the Castle kept by Bertran,
But now they cry, Down with the Palace, Fire it,
Pull out th' usurping Queen.
Torrismond defends the Palace against his foster-
father, Raymond, against his friends and the pt^ople,
with Lorenzo whom he persuades to fight on his side
— though on the other side there is Lorenzo's father.
Says Torrismond,
By Heaven I '11 face
This Tempest, and deserve the Xame of King.
O, Leonora, beauteous in thy Crimes,
Never were Hell and Heaven so match'd before !
Look upward, Fair, but as thou luok'st on me ;
Then all the blest will beg that thou may'st live.
And even my Father's Ghost his Death forgive.
Torrismond, Lorenzo, and their followers make
prisoners of Raymond, Alphonso, and Pedi'O, but
after all there remains the ditticulty that it is to be
got rid of by the revolution following the second jiart
of the Douljle Discovery. Says Torrismond,
368
CASSELL'S LIBRAEY OF ENGLISH LITEEATURE.
[a.d. 1681
Leonora I what can love do more ?
1 have oppos'd your ill Fate to the utmost ;
Combated Heaven and Earth to keep you mine :
And yet at last that Tyrant Justice '. Oh
Full dramatic use is made of this complication ;
even the inexorable Raymond being moved to tears
by the wi-ench it causes. But the expert spectator
or reader of the play is less interested, because, at
least from the time when it appeared that Sancho's
body was not forthcoming, probably earlier, he has
been taking for gi-anted the other part of the Dis-
coveiT, though Dryden evidently meant it to remain
a secret to the close. This is the clo.se :
Eiito- ToKKisMoxn, Leoxok.v, Bertr.\s, Eaymosd,
Teues.\, &c.
Tor. He lives '. he lives '. my Royal Father lives !
Let every one partake the general Joy.
Some Angel with a golden trumpet sound,
King Saucho lives '. and let the echoing Skies
From Pole to Pole resound. King Samho lives.
Bcrtran, O ! no more my Foe, but Brother :
One act like this blots out a thousand Crimes.
Serf. Bad Men, when 'tis their Interest, may do good :
1 most confess, I counsel'd Sancho's Murther ;
And urg'd the (Jueen by specious Arguments :
But still suspecting that her Love was chang'd,
I spread abroad the Rumour of his Death,
To soimd the very Soul of her Designs ;
Th' Event, j-ou know was answering to my Fears :
She threw the Odium of the Fact on me,
And publicly avow'd her Love to you.
Rfi'jm. Heaven guided all to save the Innocent.
Bert. I plead no merit, but a bare Forgiveness.
Tor. Not only that, but Favour : Snncho's Life,
A\'hether by Vertue or Design preserv'd,
Claims aU within my power.
Qii. Jly Prayers are heard ;
And I have nothing farther to desire.
But Sancho's leave to authorize our JIarriage.
Tor. Oh I fear not him I Pity and he are one ;
So merciful a King did never live ;
Loth to revenge, and easie to forgive.
But let the bold Conspirator beware.
For Heaven makes Princes its peculiar Care.
[Exeunt Omses.
Tliomas Otwav, son of a rector of Woolbeding,
near ilidhurst, in Sussex, was bom in 16-51. After
education at Winchester School and Christ Chirrch,
Oxford, he left the University without a degree,
failed as an actor, got a commi.s.sion as comet of
horse in levies for Flanders, came back and began his
career as a dramatist with "Alcibiades" in 167.5.
He transfoi-med " Romeo and Juliet," accorthng to
the bad taste of the day, into a play called " Caius
Marius," that he might put Marius and Sylla for
Montague and Capulet, and an-ay Romeo in a toga
as llarius Junior. He formed a play " Titus and
Berenice " from Racine's Berenice, and adapted from
Moliere Les Foitrheries de Sca/nn. Upon two clever
books by a contemporarj' French writer, the Abbe
de St. Real, Otway based" two of his plays, one " Don
Carlos" in 167.5 from a book published by St. Real
in 1672; the other " Venice Preserved," founded
upon a book published by St. Real in 167-1.
"Venice Preserved" in 1682 had been preceded by
"The Orphan" in 1680, and these are the two best
of Otway's plays. In April, 1685, Otway died in
extreme poverty, neglected by the king to whom he
had been loyal in his veree, though in his " Oi-phan "
he had expressed indii-ectly bitter consciousness of
the corruption of the time.
■.X
Thomas Otway. {From the Portrait engraved for the Edition of his
(Carte put>!i«hed in 1812J.
" The Orphan " and " Venice Preserved " are two
of the veiy best plays of their time. They are
admix-ably constructed, and the incidents are so
honestly felt, that we escape in them from the con-
ventional passion and emotion of what in their day
was called heroic drama. If Diyden had clearlj-
realised to himself the character of Qvieen Leonora
in his "Spanish Friar," bad felt his subject deeply
enough to know what sort of love there could be in
a woman who had been keeping old King Sancho in
a dimgeon, and was prompt to suggest his murder
when it seemed to smooth the way to gi-atification of
her " tender " passion towards Torri.smond, he would
scarcely have wi-itten the play as we have it. His
mind was far more in the art he exercised than in
the matter it was shaping wdth a master's ingenuity.
But in " The Orphan " and " Venice Presen-ed "
Otway felt what he wrote, and expressed the grace
and tenderness of his own nature. " The Oi-jihan "
was the first tragedy of mark in which the dignity of
royal birth was dispensed with, as a means of giving
elevation to the subject ; and sometimes, by riglit of
it, Otway has been called founder of the domestic
drama. Its story has a defect of the time, that the
love of the two brothers, by which Monimia is
plunged into uttei-most distress, is mainly animal.
But, only the more for that, the sorrows of Monimia
are deep and real, and Otway wins real sympathy
for innocence and beauty in distress.
10 A.D. 16S2.]
PLAYS.
369
VENICE PEESERA^ED
owes much of its cliarm to the same generosity and
gentleness of feeling, and as the hero and heroine
have been for three years husband and -wife when
the play opens, theii- love has a breadth and depth not
usually to be found in the dramatic passions of the
reign of Charles II.
The husband is Jaffeir, a Venetian gentleman of
broken fortime ; the wife is Belvidera, daughter to
Priuli, a Venetian Senator. The marriage has been
frowned upon by Belvidera's father, and when the
jilay ojjens, Jaffeu-, become biuikiiipt, in vain seeks
assistance from PriulL
Enter Priuli and Jaffeir.
Pri. No more ! I 'U hear no more ; be gone and leave me.
Jttff. Not hear me ; by my sult'ei-ing but you shall !
My lord, my lord ! I 'm not that abject wretch
Vou think me : patience ! where 's the distance throws
Me back so far, but I may boldly speak
In right, though jiroud oppression will not hear me '.
Fri. Have you not wronged me r
Jaff. Could my nature e'er
Have brooked injustice, or the doing wrongs,
I need not now thus low have bent myself,
To gain a hearing from a cruel father I
AVronged you ':
Pri. Yes ! wronged me ; in the nicest point,
The honour of my house, you have done me wiong.
You may remember, (for I now will speak,
And urge its baseness : ) when you first came home
From travel, with such hopes as made you looked on
By all men's eyes, a youth of expectation ;
Pleased with your growing %'irtue, I received you :
Courted, and sought to raise you to your merits :
My house, my table, nay, my fortune too.
My verj" self, was yours ; you might have used me
To your best service : like an open friend,
I treated, trusted you, and thought you mine ;
A^^len in requital of my best endeavours,
You treacherouslj' practised to undo me.
Seduced the weakness of my age's darling.
My only child, and stole her from my bosom :
Oh, Belvidera '.
Jaff. 'Tis to me you owe her.
Childless you had been else, and in the grave
Your name extinct, no more Priuli heard of.
"iou may remember, scarce five years are past.
Since in your brigantin you sailed to see
The Adriatic wedded by a duke,
And I was with you : your unskilful pilot
Dashed us upon a rock ; when to your boat
You made for safety ; entered first yourself ;
The affrighted Belvidera following next.
As she stood trembling on the vessel's side,
Was by a wave washed off into the deep ;
\Vhen instantly I plunged into the sea.
And buffeting the billows to her rescue,
Redeemed her life with half the loss of mine.
Like a rich conquest in one hand I bore her.
And ■with the other dashed the saucy waves.
That thronged and pressed to rob me of my prize :
I brought her, gave her your despairing arms :
Indeed j-ou thanked me : but a nobler gratitude
Rose in her soul : for from that hour she loved me,
167
Till for her life she paid me with herself.
Fri. You stole her from me ; like a thief you stole her
At dead of night ; that cursed hour you chose
To rifle me of all my heart held dear.
May all your joys in her prove false like mine ;
A sterile fortune, and a barren bed,
Attend you both ; continual discord make
Your days and nights bitter and grievous : still
May the hard hand of a vexatious need
Oppress, and grind you ; till at last you find
The curse of disobedience all your portion.
Jaff. Half of your curse you have bestowed in vain :
Heaven has already crowned our faithful loves
With a young boy sweet as his mother's beauty :
May he live to prove more gentle than his grandsire.
And happier than his father !
Fri. Rather live
To bait thee for his bread, and din yoirr ears
With hungry cries : whilst his unhappy mother
Sits down and weeps in bitterness of want.
Jaff'. You talk as if 'twould please you.
Fri. 'Twould, by heaven.
Once she was dear indeed ; the drops that fell
From my sad heart, when she forgot her duty.
The fountain of my life was not so precious :
But she is gone, and if I am_a man
I will forget her.
Jaff. Would I were in my grave !
Fri. And she too with thee ;
For, living here, you 're but my curst remembrances
I once was happy.
Jaff. You use me thus because you know my soul
Is fond of Belvidera : you perceive
My life feeds on her, therefore thus you treat me !
Oh ! could my soul ever have known satiety ;
Were I that thief, the doer of such wrongs
As you upbraid me with, what hinders me.
But I might send her back to you with contumely.
And court my fortune where she would be kinder !
Fri. You dare not do 't.
Jaff. Indeed, my lord, I dare not,
My heart that awes me, is too much my master :
Three years arc past since first our vows were plighted.
During which time the world nr ust bear me witness,
I 've treated Belvidera like your daughter.
The daughter of a senator of Venice ;
Distinction, place, attendance, and observance,
Due to her birth, she always has commanded :
Out of my little fortune I 've done this ;
Because (though hopeless e'er to win your nature)
The world might see I loved her for herself.
Not as the heiress of the great Priuli
Fri. No more I
Jaff. Yes ! all, and then adieu for ever.
There 's not a wretch that lives on common charity
But 's happier than me : for I have known
The luscious sweets of plenty : every night
Have slept with soft content about my head,
And never waked but to a jo\-ful morning ;
Yet now must fall like a fuU ear of com,
Whose blossoms scaped, yet 's withered in the ripening.
Fri. Home and be humble, study to retrench :
Discharge the lazy vermin of thy hall.
Those pageants of thy folly.
Reduce the ghttering trappings of thy wife
To humble weeds, fit for thy little state :
Then to some suburb cottage both retire ;
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CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.u. 1682.
Drudge to feed louthsomu life ; ijet brats, and starve-
Home, home, I say. [l.iit.
Jiiff. Yes, if my hinirt would let me—
This proud, this swelling heart : home I would go,
But that my doors are hateful to mine eyes,
Filled and dammed up mth gaping creditors
Watchful as fowlers when their game will spring ;
I 've now not fifty ducats in the world.
Yet still 1 am in love, and pleased with ruin.
Oh, Belvidera 1 Oh ! she is my wife—
And we will bear our wayward fate together,
But ne'er know comfort more.
WliPii Jaffeir is in this mood of despair there
comes \\\m\\ him his friend Pierre, who has deep dis-
content a.n;ainst society. Pierre is angered by the
yielding of his mistress, tlie Greek courtesan Aquilina,
to the suit of a rich and foolish senator, Aiitonio; and
he is one of a number of rash discontented men who
have become tools in the hands of Bedamar, the
Spanish Ambassador. They are deep in a conspiracy
for killing the senators, burning Venice, and placing
tliemselves at the liead of a reconstituted city that
will rise out of its ashes. Pierre, who has seen Jaffeir's
goods seized, descrilies to him the ruin of his home,
and the distress of Belvidera.
Pier. I pass'd this very moment by thy doors.
And found them guarded by a troop of villains ;
The sons of public rapine were destroj-ing :
They told me, by the sentence of the law.
They had commission to seize all thy fortune :
Nay more, Priuli's cruel hand had sigTied it.
Hero stood a ruffian with a horrid face
Lording it o'er a pile of massy plate.
Tumbled into a heap for public sale :
There was another making villanous jests
At thy undoing ; he had ta'cn possession
< If all thy ancient most domestic ornaments,
IJich hangings, intermi.\ed and wrought with gold ;
The very bed, which on thy wedding night
Received thee to the arms of Belvidera,
The scene of all thy joys, was violated
By the coarse hands of filthy dungeon villains,
And thrown amongst the common lumber.
Jaff. Now thank Heaven
tier. Thank Heaven ! for what ?
Ji'ff. That I 'm not worth a ducat.
Tlir. Cui-se thy dull stars, and the worse fate of Venice,
Where brothers, friends, and fathers, all are false ;
Where there 's no trust, no truth ; where innocence
Stoops under vile oppression ; and vice lords it :
Hadst thou but seen, as I did, how at last
Thy beauteous Belvidera, like a wretch
That 's doomed to banishment, came weeping forth,
Shining through tears, like April suns in .showers
That labour to o'ercome the cloud that loads 'em ;
Whilst two young virgins, on whose arms she leaned.
Kindly looked up, and at her grief grew .sad.
As if they eatched the sorrows that fell from her :
K'en the lewd rabble that were gathered round
To see the sight, stood miite when they beheld her ;
Governed their roaring throats, and grumbled pity :
I could have hugged the greasy rogues : they pleased me.
Jaf. I thank thee for this story, from my soul.
Since now I know the worst that can befall me :
Ah, Pierre ! I have a heart, that could have borne
The roughest wTong my fortune could have done me :
But when I think what Belvidera feels,
The bitterness her tender spuit tastes of,
I own myseU a coward : bear my weakness,
If throwing thus my arms about thy neck,
I play the boy, and blubber in thy bosom.
Oh ! I shall drown thee with my sorrows 1
Pier. Bum 1
First bum, and level Venice to thy ruin.
What, starve like beggars" brats in frosty weather.
Under a hedge, and whine ourselves to death 1
Thou, or thy cause shall never want assistance,
Whilst I have blood or fortune fit to serve thee ;
Command my heart : thou 'rt ever)' way its master.
Jaff. No, there 's a secret pride in bravely dying.
Pivr. Eats die in holes and corners, dogs run mad ;
Man knows a braver remedy for sorrow.
Revenge ! the attribute of gods ; they stamp it
With their great image on om- natui-es. Die !
Consider well the cause that calls upon thee :
And if thou 'rt base enough, die then : remember
Thy Belvidera suffers : Belvidera !
Die — damn first — what, be decently interred
In a churchyard, and mingle thy brave dust
With stinking rogues that rot in winding-sheets.
Surfeit slain fools, the common dung o' th' soil I
Jaff. Oh!
Pur. Well said, out with 't, swear a little
Jaff. Swear 1 by sea and air ! by earth, by heaven, and
heU,
I will revenge my Belvidera's tears I
Hark thee, my friend — Priuli — is — a senator !
Pier. A dog !
Jaff. Agi-eed.
Pier. Shoot him.
Jaff. With all my heart.
No more : where shall we meet at night ?
Wrought upon thus, and by pictures of the
wretchedness of Venice and the indolent iiijustice of
the benators, JafFeir is drawn by liis friend Pierre to
the point of joining the conspiiacy ; and the First Act
ends witli a scene between Jafteir and Behidera,
showing her finu in love to liim through all his
distres.ses.
Belv. Oh, I will love thee, even in madness love thee.
Though my distracted senses should forsake me,
I 'd find some interi-als, when my poor heart
Should 'swage itself, and be let loose to thine.
Though the bare earth be all our resting-place,
Its roots our food, some chft our habitation,
I '11 make this arm a pillow for thy head ;
And as thou sighing- licst, and swelled with sori'ow,
Creep to thy bosom, pour the balm of love
Into thy soul, and kiss thee to thy rest ;
Then praise our God, and watch thee "till the morning.
Jaff. Hear this, you Heavens, and wonder how you ni.lde
her :
Reign, reign, ye monarehs that divide the world,
Busy rebellion ne'er will let you know
Tranquillity and happiness like mine ;
Like gaudy ships, th' obsequious billows fall
And rise again, to lift you in your pride ;
They wait but for a storm, and then devour you :
A.D. 1682.]
PLAYS.
371
I. in my private bark, already wrecked.
Like a poor merchant driven on unknown land,
That had by chance packed up his choicest treasure
In one dear casket, and saved only that.
Since I must wander further on the shore.
Thus hug my little, but my precious store ;
Resolved to scorn, and trust my fate no more. [Exeunt.
The Second Act opens between Pierre and Aquilina,
with his strong jealousy of the Senator Antonio,
whom she detests, although she likes his money.
The conspiratoi-s will meet at night in Aqiiilina's
house. Then Jaffeu- is met by Pien-e on the Rialto.
helped with a purse from his fiiend, and fully drawn
into the plot.
Pier. Xay, it 's a cause thou will be fond of, Jaifeir,
For it is founded on the noblest basis,
Our liberties, our natural inheritance :
There 's no religion, no hypocrisy in 't ;
AVe 'U do the business, and ne'er fast and pray for 't :
t'penly act a deed the world shall gaze
With wonder at, and envy when "tis done.
Jaf. For liberty !
Pia: For liberty, my friend I
Thou shalt be freed from base Priuli's tyranny.
And thy sequestered fortunes healed again.
I shall be freed from those opprobrious wrongs
That press me now, and bend my spirit downward.
All Venice free, and everj* growing merit
Succeed to its j ust right : fools shall be pulled
From Wisdom's seat ; those baleful unclean birds.
Those lazy owls, who (perched near Fortime's top)
Sit only watchful with their heavy wings
To cufi down new-fledged virtues, that would rise
To nobler heights, and make the grove harmonious.
Jff. AVhat can I do ?
Pier. Can'st thou not kUl a senator ?
Jijf. Were there one wise or honest. I could kill him
For herding with that nest of fools and knaves.
By all my wrongs, thou talk'st as if revenge
Were to be had, and the brave storj- warms me.
Pier. Swear then !
Jnjf. I do, by all those glittering stars
And yon great ruling planet of the night !
By all good powers above, and ill below I
By love and friendship, dearer than my life !
Ko power or death shall make me false to thee.
Pier. Here we embrace, and I '11 unlock my heart.
A council 's held hard by, where the destruction
Of this great empire's hatching: there I 'U lead thte '.
But be a man. for thou 'rt to mix with men
Fit to disturb the peace of all the world.
And rule it when it 's wildest
./"ff". I give thee thanks
For this kind warning : yes, I '11 be a man.
And charge thee, Pierre, whene'er thou seest my fears
Betray me less, to rip this heart of mine
Out of my breast, and show it for a coward's.
Come, let 's be gone, for from this hoiu- I chase
All little thoughts, all tender human follies
Out of my bosom : vengeance shall have room :
Eevenge !
, Pier. And liberty I
Jaff. Eevenge ' revenge ! [£i emit.
Tlie scene then changes to the meeting of the
conspirators in Aquilina's house. Bedamar, the
Spanish Ambassador, is there to prompt. There is
Renault, an old Frenchman with a leading voice, -n-ith
Eliot, an Englishman, and many Italians. The hour
of revenge, long delayed, is at hand.
Bed. Now if any
Amongst us that owns this glorious cause.
Have friends or interest he 'd wish to save.
Let it be told ; the general doom is sealed :
But I 'd forego the hopes of a world's empire.
Rather than wound the bowels of my fi-iend.
Pier. I must confess, you there have touched my weakness
I have a friend ; hear it, such a friend I
My heart was ne'er shut to him. Nay, I '11 tell you.
He knows the very business of this hour ;
But he rejoices in the cause, and loves it :
W 'ave chang'd a vow to live and die together,
And he 's at hand to ratify it here.
Hen. How 1 all betrayed r
Pier. No — I 've dealt nobly with you ;
I 've brought my all into the public stock ;
I 'd but one friend, and him I '11 share amongst you ?
Receive and cherish him : or if, when seen
And searched, you iind him worthless ; as my tongue
Has lodged this secret in his faithful breast.
To ease your fears I wear a dagger here.
Shall rip it out again, and give you rest.
Come forth, thou only good I e'er could boast of.
Enter .Jaffeir nitli n Doijrjer.
Bed. His presence bears the show of manly virtue '
Jiiff. I know you 'U wonder a"ll, that thus imcaUed,
I dare approach this place of fatal coimciLs ;
But I 'm amongst you, and, by Heaven, it glads me,
To see so many virtues thus imited.
To restore justice and dethrone oppression.
Command this sword, if you would have it quiet.
Into this breast ; but if you think it worthy
To cut the throats of reverend rogues in robes.
Send me into the cursed assembled Senate ;
It shrinks not, though I meet a father there.
Would you behold this city flaming P here 's
A hand shall bear a lighted torch at noon
To th' Arsenal, and set its gates on tire.
Sen. You talk this well, sir.
■Toff. Nay — by Heaven I '11 do this.
Come, come, I read distrust in all your faces,
Vou fear me a villain : and indeed it '.s odd
To hear a stranger talk thus at first meeting.
Of matters that have been so well debated ;
But I come ripe with wrongs, as you with councils ;
I hate this senate, am a foe to 'Venice :
A friend to none, but men resolv'd like me.
To pu.sh on mischief. Oh, did you but know m' ,
I need not talk thus !
Bed. Pierre ! I must embrace him.
My heart beats to this man as if it knew him.
Ren. I never loved these buggers.
.Taff. Still I see
The cause delights me not. Tour fiiends siirvc} ine
As I were dangerous — but I come armed
Against all doubts, and to your trust will give
A pledge, worth more than all the world can pay loi.
ilv Beh-idera ! ho ! mv Beh-idera I
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Bed. What wonder 's next ?
Jaf. Let me intreat you,
As I have henceforth hopes to call ye friends,
That all but the ambassador, and this
Grave guide of counsels, with m)' friend that owns me,
Withdi-aw a while, to spare a woman's blushes.
[^Exctiiit all but Bed., Ren., Japp., Piek.
Bed. Pierre, whither will this ceremony lead lis ?
Jaff. My Belvidera ! Belvidera !
Enter Belvidera.
Beh. "\Mio,
Who calls so loud at this late peaceful hour ?
That voice was wont to come in gentle whispers,
.\nd fill my ears with the soft breath of love :
Thou hom-ly image of my thoughts, where art thou ?
The Second Act then closes with a scene in which
Jaffeir commits Belvidera to the care of Renault, and
a dagger vifith her as a pledge of his fidelity.
The Third Act opens with a scene between Aqui-
liua and the very foolish Senator Antonio, who visits
her. Then Belvidera enters in distress, because
Renault liad proved fiilse guardian, and sought her
with evil desire. Jaffeir meets her in her sorrow ;
tlie scene of distress between them leads to her desii-e
to know his secret.
Beh. AVhy -was I last night delivered to a villain ?
Jaff. Hah, a villain !
Belv. Yes ! to a villain ! why at such an hour
Meets that assembly, all made up of wretches,
That look as hell had drawn 'em into league ?
Why, I in this hand, and in that a dagger.
Was I delivered with such di-eadful ceremonies ?
" To you, sirs, and to youi- honour I bequeath her,
And with her this : whene'er I prove unworthy,
You know the rest, then strike it to her heart ? "
Oh, why 's that rest concealed from me ':' must I
Be made the hostage of a hellish trust ?
For such I know I am ; that 's all my value !
But by the love and loyalty I owe thee,
I '11 free thee fi-om the bondage of these slaves ;
Straight to the Senate, tell 'em all I know.
All that I think, all that m)' fears inform me.
Jiiff. Is this the Roman virtue ! this the blood
That boasts its purity with Cato's daughter !
Would she have e'er betray'd her Brutus ?
Belv. No,
For Brutus trusted her : wert thou so kind.
What would not Belvidera suffer for thee ?
Jaff. I shall undo myself, and tell thee all.
Belv. Look not upon me as I am woman,
But as a bone, thy wife, thy friend ; who long
Has had admission to thy he.art, and there
Studied the virtues of thy gallant nature ;
Thy constancy, thy courage, and thy truth.
Have been my daily lesson : I have learned 'em,
-Vnd bold as thou, can suffer or despise
The worst of fates for thee ; and with thee share 'cm.
Jaff. Oh, you divinest powers ! look down and hear
3Iy prayers ! instruct me to reward this virtue !
Yet think a little, ere thou tempt me further.
Think I 've a tale to tell wiU shake thy nature,
iMelt all this boasted constancy thou talk'st of
Into vile tears and despicable sorrows :
Then if thou should' st betray me !
lielv. Shall I swear ?
Jiiff. No, do not swear : I would not violate
Thy tender nature with so rude a bond :
But as thou hop'st to see me live my days.
And love thee long, lock this within thy breast ;
I 've bound myself by all the strictest sacraments
Divine and human
Belv. Speak 1
Jaff. To kiU thy father
Belv. My father I
Jaff'. Nay the throats of the whole Senate
Shall bleed, my Belvidera : he amongst us
That spares his father, brother, or his fi'iend.
Is damned. How rich and beauteous will the face
Of ruin look, when these wide streets run blood ;
I, and the glorious partnei's of my fortune
Shouting, and striding o'er the prostrate dead.
Still to new waste ; whilst thou far off in safety
Smiling, shalt see the wonders of our daring ;
And when night comes, with praise arid love receive me.
Beh: Oh!
Jaff'. Have a care, and shrink not even in thought.
For if thou dost
Belr. I know it, thou wilt kUl me.
Do, strike thy sword into this bosom : lay me
Dead on the earth, and then thou wilt be safe.
JIurder my father ! though his cruel nature
Has persecuted mo to my undoing ;
Driven me to basest wants ; can I behold him.
With smiles of vengeance, butchered in his age ?
The sacred fountain of my life destroyed 'i
And canst thou shed the blood that gave me being ?
Na}', be a traitor too, and sell thy countr}' ?
Can thy great heart descend so vilely low,
Mix with hired slaves, bravoes, and common stabbors.
Nose-slitters, alley-lurking villains, join
With such a crew, and take a ruffian's wages.
To cut the throats of wretches as they sleep ?
Jf'ff. Thou wrong'st me, Behndera ! I 've engaged
With men of souls fit to reform the ills
Of all mankind : there 's not a heart amongst them.
But 's stout as death, yet honest as the nature
Of man first made, ere fraud and vice were fashions.
Belv. What 's he, to whose curst hands last night tliou
gav'st me ?
Was that well done ? Oh ! I could tell a story
Would rouse thy lion-heart out of its den.
And make it rage with terrifj-ing fury.
Jaffeii^'s resolve is shaken by wliat he hears. He
cannot lie away from Belvidera, will return to her at
midnight. When Belvidera has left him, Jafleii" is
met by his friend Pierre, to whom he tells what he
has heard of Renault. Pierre shares his anger.
Renault next enters, and in a short dialogue with
him Jaffeir points darkly to the cause of his passion.
The other conspirators follow close upon those who
had first arrived, quarrel is checked, and the whole
cruelty of the plot is then revealed in the arrange-
ments made for the sack and burning of Venice before
morning. Jatieii-, shocked by all that he hears, and
not the less because he hears these details from the
lips of Renault, leaves the room hurriedly to keep his
promise to Belvidera. When he is gone, Renault
accuses him of treason ; his life is in uttennost
danger, and he is saved by the brave devotion of
his friend Pierre, who has absolute faith in him.
A.D. 1682.]
PLAYS.
373
So ends the Third Act. The Fourth opens with
JafFeir, nnder the spell of his love for Beh-ideva,
yielding himself to her influence, by which Venice is
PreseiTed. The natiu-e of Jaffeii', weakly yielding to
the influence of passion, had enabled his fi'iend to
draw him into the plot ; but there is new cause of
passion in Renault's insult to Belvidera, and the
whole power of her love over him is used by his wife
for the sa-^-ing of her father and her country. Jaifeir's
mind is shaken by conflicting emotions, but he yields
to Belvidera.
Jajf. By all Heaven's powers, prophetic truth dwells in thee.
For every word thou speak'st strikes through my heart
Like a new light, and shows it how 't has wandered.
Just what th' hast made me, take me, Beh^idera,
And lead me to the place where I 'm to say
This bitter lesson ; where I must betray
My truth, my virtue, constancy and friends : —
Must I betray my friend 1 ah, take me quickly.
Secure me well before that thought 's renewed ;
If I relapse once more, aU 's lost for ever.
£elv. Hast thou a friend more dear than Belvidera ?
Jaff. Xo ; thou art my soul itself, wealth, friendship,
honour ;
All present joys, and earnest of all future.
Are summed in thee : methinks when in thy arms
Thus leaning on thy breast, one minute 's more
Than a long thousand years of vulgar hours.
Why was such happiness not given me pure ?
Why dashed with cruel wrongs, and bitter warnings ?
Come, lead me forward now like a tame lamb
To sacrifice. Thus in his fatal garlands
Decked fine, and pleased, the wanton skips and pLiys,
Trots by th' enticing flattering priestess' side.
And much transported with its little pride.
Forgets his dear companions of the plain ;
'Till by her bound he 's on the altar lain ;
Yet, then too, hardly bleats, such pleasure 's in the pain.
Enter OflScer and six Guards.
OJl. Stand, who goes there ?
£elv. Friends.
JaJ'. Friends, Belvidera I hide me from my friends.
By Heaven, I 'd rather see the face of hell,
Than meet the man I love.
Ofl. But what friends are you ?
Beh: Friends to the Senate and the state of Venice.
Offi. My orders are to seize on all I find
At this late hour, and bring 'em to the Council,
Who now are sitting.
J^iff. Sir, you shall be obeyed.
Hold, brutes, stand off, none of your paws upon me.
Now the lot 's cast, and. Fate, do what thou wilt.
^Exeunt giiariled.
SCENE II.
The Senate Souse. Where appear sittini;, the Duke o/ Venice,
Pkuli, Antonio, and eight other Senators.
Duhe. Antony, Priuli, Senators of Venice,
Speak, why are we assembled here this night ?
What have you to inform us of, concerns
The state of Venice' honour, or its safety ?
Fri. Could words express the story I "ve to tell you,
Fathers, these tears were useless, these sad tears
That fall from my old eye ; but there is cause
We all should weep, tear off these purple robes.
And wrap ourselves in sackcloth, sitting down
On the sad earth, and crj- aloud to Heaven.
Heaven knows if yet there be an hour to come
Ere Venice be no more.
All Sen. How:
Pri. Nay, we stand
Upon the very brink of gaping ruin.
Within this city "s formed a dark conspiracy,
To massacre us aU, our wives and children.
Kindred and friends ; our palaces and temples
To lay in ashes : nay, the hour too fixed ;
The swords, for aught I know, drawn e'en this moment.
And the wOd waste begun. From unknown hands
I had this warning : but if we are men
Let 's not be tamely butchered, but do something
That may inform the world in after-ages,
Oui- virtue was not ruined, though we were. \_A noise without.
Room, room, make room for some prisoners
Sen. Let 's raise the city.
Enter Officer and Guard.
Fri. Speak, there, what disturbance ?
Offi. Two prisoners have the guard seized in the streets,
Who say, they come to inform this reverend Senate
About the present danger.
Enter Jaffeiu and Belvidera, guarded.
All. Give 'em entrance. ^ — Well, who are you ?
Jaff. A villain.
Ant. Short and pithy.
The man speaks well.
Jaff. Would every man that hears me
Would deal so honestly, and own his title.
Duke. 'Tis rumoured, that a plot has been contrived
Against this state ; that you have a share in 't too.
H you are a villain, to redeem your honour.
Unfold the truth, and be restored with mercy.
Jaff. Think not that I to save my life come hither ;
I know its value better ; but in pity
To all those wretches, whose unhappy dooms
Are fixed and sealed. You see me here before you.
The sworn, and covenanted foe of Venice.
But use me as my dealings may deserve ;
And I may prove a friend.
Duke. The slave capitulates.
Give him the tortures.
Jaff. That you dare not do.
Your fears won't let you, nor the longing itch
To hear a story which you dread the truth of.
Truth, which the fear of smart shall ne'er get from me.
Cowards are scared with threatcnings : boys are whipt
Into confessions : but a steady mind
Acts of itself, ne'er asks the body counsel.
Give him the tortures ! Name but such a thing
Again, by Heaven, I 'U shut these lips for ever ;
Not all )-our racks, your engines, or your wheels.
Shall force a groan away — that you may guess at.
Ant. A bloody-minded fellow I 'U warrant ;
-V damned bloody-minded fellow.
Duke. Name your conditions.
Jaff. For mj-self full pardon.
Besides the lives of two and twenty friends, [Delivers a list.
T\Tiose names are here enrolled : nay, let their crimes
Be ne'er so monstrous, I must have the oaths
And sacred promise of this reverend Council,
That in a full assembly of the Senate
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The thing I ask he ratified. Swear this,
And I '11 unfold the secrets of your danger.
All. We '11 swear.
J)iike. Propose the oath.
Oaf. By aU the hopes
Ye have of peace and happiness hereafter,
Swear.
All. We all swear.
Jnjf. To gr.ant me what I 'vc asked.
Ye swear.
All. AVe swear.
.Tnff. And as ye keep the oath,
May you and your posterity he blest,
Or curst for ever !
All. Else be curst for ever !
Jiif. Then here 's the list, and with 't the full disclose
Of all that threatens you. [^Delivers another paper.
Now, Fate, thou haat caught me.
Upon Jaifeir's mfonnation the conspii-ators are
arrested. They disdain pardon, and ask for death.
The Council breaks up, leaving Jafieir free, and the
rest waiting for judgment. Then Jaflek seeks to
justify himself to his friend Piei-re, but is struck aside
and scorned as traitor, villain, coward.
Pier. And wouldst thou have me live on terms like thine ':
Base as thou 'rt false
Jnff. No, 'tis to me that "s granted.
The safety of thy life was all I aimed at.
In recompense for faith and truth so broken.
Pier. I scorn it more, because jjrcserved by thee :
And as when first my foolish heart took pity
On thy misfortunes, sought thee in thy miseries.
Relieved thy wants, and raised thee from thy state
(Jf wretchedness, in which thj- fate had jilunged thee ;
To rank thee in my list of noble friends ;
All I received in surety for thy truth.
Were unregarded oaths ; and this, this dagger.
Given with a worthless pledge thou since hast stolen ;
So I restore it back to thee again.
Swearing by all those powers which thou hast violated.
Never from this cursed horn- to hold communion.
Friendship, or interest with thee, though our years
Were to exceed those limited the world.
Take it — farewell — for now I owe thee nothing.
Jnjf. Say thou wilt live, then.
Pier. For my life, di.spose it
Just as thou wilt, because 'tis what I 'm tired with.
Jnff. Oh, Pierre !
Pier. No more.
J"ff. My eyes won't lose the sight of thee.
But languish after thine, and ache ^^'ith gazing.
Pier. Leave me— nay, then thus, thus I throw thee fi-om
me;
And curses great as is tliy falsehood catch thee. [£«v7.
Jaff. Amen.
He 's gone, my father, friend, preserver.
And here 's the portion he has left me. [Holrh the daejger ap.
This dagger, well remembered, with this dagger
[ gave a solemn vow of dire importance ;
Parted with this and Belvidera together.
Have a care, memory, drive that thought no farther ;
No, I '11 esteem it as a friend's last legacy.
Treasure it up within this wretched bosom,
AMiere it may gi-ow acquainted with my heart.
That when they meet, they start not from each other.
So ; now for thinking : a blow, called traitor, villain,
Coward, dishonoui'able coward, fough !
Oh, for a long sound sleep, and so forget it !
Down, busy devil
Enter Belvideka.
Pclr. Whither shall I fly ?
Where hide me and my miseries together ?
'WTiere's now the Roman con.staney I boasted ?
Sunk into trembling fears and desperation 1
Nor daring now to look to that dear face
Which used to smile even on my faults, but down
Bending these miserable eyes on earth.
Must move in penance, and implore much mercy.
Jaff. Mercy 1 kind Heaven has surely endless stores
Hoarded for thee of blessings yet untasted ;
Let WTCtches loaded hard with guilt, as I am,
Bow with the weight, and groan beneath the burthen.
Creep with a remnant of that .strength th' have left.
Before the footstool of that Heaven th' have injui-ed.
Oh, Belvidera ! I 'm the wretched'st creature
E'er crawled on earth : now if thou 'st virtue, help me.
Take me into thy arms, and speak the words of peace
To my dirided soid, that wars within me,
And raises every sense to my confusion ;
By Heaven, I 'm tottering to the very brink
Of peace ; and thou art all the hold I 've left.
Bclr. Alas ! I know thy sorrows are most mighty ;
I know th' hast cause to mourn, to mourn, my JafEeir,
With endless cries and never-ceasing wailing.
Thou 'st lost
Jaff. Oh I 've lost what can't be counted :
Jly friend too, Belvidera ; that dear friend,
^^'^lo, next to thee, was aU my health rejoiced in.
Has used me like a slave ; shamefully used me ;
'Twould break thy pitj-ing heart to hear the stor}-.
What shall I do 'i Resentment, indignation.
Love, pity, fear, and memory how I 've wronged him.
Distract my quiet with the very thought on 't.
And tear my heart to pieces in my bosom.
Bilr. '\\Tiat has he done ':
Jaff'. Thou'dst hate me, should I tell thee.
Brlr. ■Why:-
Jaff. Oh, he has used me! — yet, by Heaven, I bear it;
He has used me, Belvidera — but first swear
That when I 've told thee, thou wilt not loath me utterly.
Though vilest blots and stains appear ujion me ;
But still at least -ivith charitable goodness.
Be near me in the pangs of my affliction ; —
Not scorn mo, Belvidera, as he has done,
Belv. Have I then e'er been false, that now I 'm doubted P
Speak, what 's the cause I'm grown into distrust ?
Why thought unfit to hear my love's complaining ?
Jaff. Oh!
lieh'. Tell me.
Jaff. Bear my failings, for they 're many.
Oh, my dear angel ! in that friend I 've lost
All my soul's peace ; for every thought of him
Strikes my sense hard, and deads it in my brains ;
Would 'st thou believe it \ —
Bclr. Speak.
Jaff. Before we parted.
Ere yet his guards had led him to his prison.
Full of severest sorrows for his sufferings.
With eyes o'erflowing, and a bleeding heai-t.
Humbling myself almost beneath my natiu-e ;
As at his feet I kneeled, and sued for mercy,
Forgetting all our friendship, aU the deamcss
A.D. ItJSi.i
PLAYS.
375
In which we 've lived so many years together,
With a reproachful h;ind he dashed a blow :
He struck me, Belvidera : by Heaven, he struck me,
Buffeted, called me traitor, villain, coward.
Am I a coward 't am I a villain ? tell me :
Th' art the best judge, and mad'st me, if I am so.
Damnation ! coward !
Bdf. Oh, forgive him, Jaffeir.
And if his sufieiings wound thy heart already,
"What will they do to-morrow 'i
J off. Hah! "
Bdt. To-morrow,
When thou shalt see him stretched in all the agonies
Of a tormenting and a shameful death ;
His bleeding bowels and his broken Umbs
Insulted o'er by a vile butchering villain ;
What will thy heart do then ? Oh sure 'twUl stream
Like my eyes now.
Joff. \\"hat means thy dreadful story ?
Death, and to-morrow ': broken limbs and bowels ?
Insulted o'er by a vile butchering villain 't
By all my fears I shall start out to madness
With barely guessing, if the truth 's hid longer.
Belv. The faithless senators, 'tis they 've decreed it :
They say, according to our friend's request,
They shall liave death, and not ignoble bondage :
Declare their promised mercy all as forfeited :
False to their oaths, and deaf to intercession ;
Warrants are passed for jjublic death to-moiTow.
J off'. Death 1 doomed to die \ Condemned imheard 1 un-
plcaded !
Belv. Isiy, cruell'st racks and tonnents are preparing.
To force confessions from theii- dying pangs.
Oh, do not look so terribly upon me ;
How your lips shake, and all your face disorder'd I
What means my love ':
Jaff. Leave me, I charge thee leave me — strong tempta-
tions
Wake in my heart.
Bdv. For what ?
Jnff. Xo more, but leave me.
Belv. "Why?
Jaff. Oh ! by Heaven, I love thee with that fondness,
I would not have thee stay a moment longer,
Xear these curst hands : are they not cold upon thee ?
\Fidh the daijger out of Ith dosom, and puta it back of/aiu.
- Bvlv. Iso : everlasting comfort 's in thy arms.
To lean thus on thy breast is softer ease
Than downy pUlows decked with leaves of roses.
Jnff. Alas ! thou think 'st not of the thorns 'tis fiUed with :
Fly, ere they gall thee : there 's a lurking serpent
Ready to leap, and sting thee to thy heart :
Art thou not terrified ?
Belv. No.
Jaff. Call to mind
What thou hast done, and whither thou hast "brought me.
Belt-. Hah!
Jaff. "Where 's my friend ': mj' friend, thou smiling mis-
chief ?
Naj-, shrink not, now 'tis too late, thou should 'st have fled
When thy guilt first had cause ; for dire revenge
Is up, and raging for my friend. He groans I
Hark how he groans, his screams are in my ears
Already ; see, they 've fixed him on the wheel.
And now they tear him — ilurther I perjured Senate I
JIurther — Oh ! — hark thee, traitress, thou hast done this ;
Thanks to thy tears and false jjersuading love.
How her eyes speak ! oh, thou bewitching creatmx- 1
[^Fiimhllng for his dagger.
Madness can't hurt thee : come, thou little trembler.
Creep even into my heart, and there lie safe ;
'Tis thy own citadel — hah — yet stand off.
Heaven must have justice, and my broken vows
Will sink me else beneath its reaching mercy ;
I 'U wink, and then 'tis done
Belv. What means the lord
Of me, my life and love f what 's in thy bosom,
Thou graspest at so ': nay, why am I thus treated ?
\^Drati-8 the dagger^ offers to stab her,
\\'hat wilt thou do ': Ah, do not kill me, Jaffeir :
Pity these panting breasts, and trembling limbs,
That used to clasp thee when thy looks were milder.
That yet hang heavj- on my unpm-ged soul :
And plunge it not into eternal darkness.
Jaff'. No, Belvidera, when we parted last,
I gave this dagger with thee as in trust.
To be thy portion, if I e'er jiroved false.
On such condition was my truth believed :
But now 'tis forfeited, and must be paid for.
l^Offers to stab her again.
Belt. Oh, mercy ! [Kneeliiig.
Jaff. Xay, no struggling.
Belv. Now then, kill me,
\^Leaj)s upon his ncch, and hisses him.
WbUe thus I cling about thy cruel neck.
Kiss thy revengeful lips, and die in joys
Greater than any I can guess hereafter.
Jaff. I am, I am a coward ; witness. Heaven,
Witness it, earth, and every being, witness ;
'Tis but one blow ! yet, by inmiortal love,
I cannot longer bear a thought to harm thee.
[He throws away the dagger and embraces her.
The seal of pro^dence is sure upon thee ;
.\nd thou wert bom for yet unheard-of wonders:
Oh, thou wert either bom to save or danm me !
By all the power that 's given thee o'er my soul.
By thy resistless tears and conquering smiles.
By the victorious love that still waits on thee ;
Fly to thy cruel father ; save my fi-iend.
Or all our futui-e quiet 's lost for ever :
Fall at his feet, cling round his reverend knees ;
Speak to him with thy eyes, and with thy tears
Melt his hard heart, and wake dead nature in him.
Crush him in th' arms, torture him ^^^th thy softness.
Nor, 'till thy prayers are granted, set him free.
But conquer him, as thou hast conquered me. [Exeunt.
The Fifth Act opens vnth. Belvidera pleading to
lier father, the Senator Prinli, who is softened b_v
tender recollections of her mother and the .sight ol
her distress.
Pri. How my soul 's c.atched !
Belv. Lay me, I beg you. lay me
By the dear ashes of my tender mother.
She would have pitied me. had fate yet spared her.
Pri. By Heaven, my aching heart forebodes much mischiet
Tell me thy stor)-, for I 'm stiU thy father.
Belv. No, I 'm contented.
Pri. Speak.
Belv. No matter.
Pri. TeUme.
By yon blessed heaven, my heart nms o'er with fondness.
Belv. Oh!
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Pet. Utter 't.
Selv. Oh, my husband, my dear husband
Carries a dagger in his once kind hosom,
To pierce the heart of your poor Bolvidcra.
rri. Kill thee:
JSclv. Yes, kill me. ANTien he passed his faith
And covenant against your State and Senate ;
lie gave me up as hostage for his truth :
With me a dagger, and a dire commission,
AVTiene'er he failed, to plunge it through this hosom.
I learnt the danger, chose the hour of love
T' attempt his heart, and bring it back to honour-.
( ircat love prevailed, and blessed me with success ;
He oame, confessed, betrayed his dearest friends.
For promised mercy. Now they 're doomed to suffer.
(Jailed with remembrance of what then was sworn,
If they are lost, he vows t' appease the gods
With this poor life, and make my blood th' atonement.
Fii. Heavens I
Jic/v. Think you saw what passed at our last parting ;
Think you beheld him like a raging lion,
Pacing the earth, and tearing up his steps,
Fate in his eyes, and roaring with the pain
Of burning fury ; think you saw his one hand
Fi.xcd on my throat, whilst the extended other
Grasped a keen, threatening dagger ; oh ! 'twas thus
We last embraced ; when trembling with revenge,
He dragged me to the ground, and at my bosom
Presented horrid death ; cried out, my friends.
Where are my friends 'f swore, wept, raged, threatened,
loved ;
For yet he loved, and that dear love preserved me
To this last trial of a father's pity.
I fear not death, but cannot liear a thought
That dear hand should do th' unfriendly office.
If I was ever then your care, now hear mo;
Fly to the Senate, save the promised lives
Of his dear friends, ere mine be made the sacrifice.
Pri. Oh, my heart's comfort I
Belv. Will you not, my father ?
Weep not, but answer me.
Pri. By Heaven, I will.
Not one of 'em but what shaU be immortal.
Can'st thou forgive me all my follies past,
I '11 henceforth be indeed a father; never.
Never more thus expose, but cherish thee,
Dear as the vital warmth that feeds my life,
Dear as these eyes that weep in fondness o'er thee.
Peace to thy heart. Farewell.
Jlelv. Go, and remember
'Tis Belvidera's Ufe her father pleads for. [E.>rHnt.
The next scene shows the passion of Aquilina, who
threatens the life of the old Senator Antonio, if he
<lo not swear to .save her lover Pierre. Death with
torture is jireiiared for Pierre and the conspirators
whom Jaff'eir had delivered up. The senators break
]ironiise, and Jafi'eii- will not survive his friend.
There is a last parting from Belvidera.
Jnf. Nay, Belvidera, do not fear my cruelty.
Nor let the thoughts of death perplex thy fancy ;
But answer me to what I shall demand, "
With a firm temper and unshaken spuit.
Seh. I wiU, when I 've done weejiing. —
Jaff. Fie, no more on 't —
How long is 't since that miserable day
We wedded first ?
Belv. Oh ! h— h !
Jaff. Nay, keep in thy tears,
Lest they unman me too.
lielv. Heaven knows, I cannot;
The words you utter sound so very sadly,
These streams will follow
Jaff. Come, I '11 kiss 'em dry then.
Pelv. But was 't a miserable day ?
Jaff. A curst one.
£eh'. I thought it otherwise; and you 've oft sworn
In the transporting hours of warmest love,
When sure you spoke the truth, you 've sworn you blessed it.
Jaff'. 'Twas a rash oath.
Jielv. Then why am I not curst too ?
Jaff. No, Belvidera, by th' ctomal truth,
I doat with too much fondness.
Hilv. StiU so kind :
Still then do you love me ?
Jaff. Nature, in her workings,
Inclines not with more ardour to creation,
Than I do now towards thee : man ne'er was blessed.
Since the first pair first met, as I have been.
Helv. Then sure you will not curse me.
Jaff. No, I '11 bless thee.
I came on purpose, Belvidera, to bless thee.
'Tis now, I think, three years we 've lived together.
Selv. And may no fatal minute ever part us,
'Till reverend grown, for age and love, we go
Down to one gi-ave, as our last bed, together ;
There sleep in peace 'till an eternal morning.
Jf/ff: When will that be? [Siffhi)/^.
Sell'. I hope long' ages hence.
Jaff. Have I not hitherto (I beg thee tell me
Thy very fears) used thee with tender' st love ^
Did e'er my soul rise up in wrath against thee ?
Did I e'er frown when Beh-idera smiled.
Or, by the least unfriendly word, betray
Abating passion ■" have I ever wronged thee ?
£e/v. No.
Jaff. Has my heart, or have my eyes e'er wandered
To any other woman ?
Helv. Never, never —
I were the worst of false ones, should I accuse thee.
I own I 've been too happy, blessed above
My sex's charter.
Jaff. Did I not say I came to bless thee ?
£c'/v. Yes.
Jaff'. Then hear me, bounteous Heaven ;
Pour down your blessings on this beauteous head, •
^Vherc everlasting sweets are always springing, '"
With a continual gi^-ing hand : let peace.
Honour, and safety always hover round her ;
Feed her with plenty, let her eyes ne'er see
A sight of sorrow, nor her heart know mourning :
Crown all her days with joy, her nights with rest.
Harmless as her own thoughts ; and prop her virtue
To bear the loss of one that too much loved.
And comfort her with patience in our parting.
Jlc/v. How, parting, parting 'f
Jaff. Yes, for ever parting ;
I have sworn, Belvidera, by yon Heaven,
That best can tell how much I lose, to leave thee.
We part this hour foi ever.
Bih: Oh, call back
Vour cruel blessing ; stay witli me and curse me!
Jaff. No, 'tis resolved.
A.D. 1682.]
PLAYS.
377
Belv. Then hear me too, just Heaven:
Pour down your curses on this wretched head
AVith never-ceasing vengeance ; let despair,
Danger, or infamy, nay all surround me ;
Starve me with wantings ; let my eyes ne'er see
A sight of comfort, nor my heart know peace ;
But dash my days with sorrow, nights with horrors,
\\'ild as my own thoughts now, and let loose fury
To make me mad enough for what I lose,
I f I must lose him. If I must ! — I will not.
Oh turn and hear mo.
J",lf. Now hold, heart, or never.
Bdv. By aU the tender days we've lived together,
By all our charming nights, and joys that crowned 'em.
Pity my sad condition ; speak, but speak.
./«/." Oh, h— hi
Bdv. By these arms that now cling round thy neck.
By this dear kiss, an,d by ten thousand more,
By these poor streaming eyes
Jdjf. IMurther ! un-hold me :
By the immortal destiny that doomed me \_Draws his dagger.
To this curs'd minute, I '11 not live one longer ;
Kcsolve to let me go, or see me fall
Bch\ Hold, sii', be patient.
Jnjf. Hark, the dismal bell \_Piissing-bcU tolls.
Tolls out for death ! I must attend its call too ;
For my poor friend, my dying Pierre expects me ;
He sent a message to require I'd see him
Before he died, and take his last forgiveness.
Farewell for ever.
Be/t'. Leave thy dagger with me.
Bequeath me something Not one kiss at parting ?
Oh my poor heart, when wilt thou break ?
\_Goijig out, looks back at her.
Jaf. Yet stay.
We have a child, as yet a tender infant.
Be a kind mother to him when I am gone,
Breed him in virtue and the paths of honour,
But let him never know his father's story ;
I charge thee guard him from the wrongs my fate
Jlay do his future fortune, or his name.
Now — nearer j-et — • [Approaching each other.
Oh that my arms were riveted
Thus round thee ever 1 but my friends ! ni}' oath I
This, and no more. [Kisses her.
Belr. Another, sure another.
For that poor little one you 've ta'en such care of.
I'll give 't him truly.
JnJf'. So, now farewell.
Belt: For ever r
JnJf. Heaven knows, for ever. AU good angels guard thee.
[&;c.
Br/r. All ill ones sure had charge of me this moment.
Curst be my days, and doubly curst my nights,
^^'^uch I must now mourn out in widow'd tears ;
Blasted be every herb, and fruit, and tree ;
Curst be the rain that falls upon the earth.
And may the general curse reach man and beast I
Oh give me daggers, fire or water !
How I could bleed, how bum, how drown ; the waves
Huzzing and booming round my sinking head,
'Till I descended to the peaceful bottom !
Oh there 's aU quiet, here all rage and fury :
The air 's too thin, and pierces my weak brain :
I long for thick substantial sleep : heU ! heU !
Burst from the centre, rage and roar aloud.
If thou art half so hot, so mad as I am !
168
Uiiter Pkiuli and Servants.
Who 's there ? [They seize her.
Fri. Run, seize, and bring her safely home.
Guard her as you would life : alas, poor creature !
Belv. What ! to my husband ? then conduct me quickly ;
Are all things ready 'i shall we die most gloriously ?
Say not a word of this to my old father :
Murmming streams, soft shades, and spi-inging flowers.
Lutes, laurels, seas of milk, and ships of amber. [Exeunt.
Scene opening, discovers a Scaffold and a whed prepared for the
Executing of Pierre ; then otter Officers, Pierre and
Guards, a Friar, Executioner, and a great rabble.
Offi. Room, room there — stand all by, make room foi'
the prisoner.
Pier. Jly friend not come )'et ?
Fath. Why are you so obstinate ?
Fier. Why you so troublesome, that a poor wretch
Can't die in peace.
But you, like ravens, will be croaking round him ?
Fath. Yet Heaven
Fier. I tell thee, Heaven and I are friends :
I ne'er broke peace with 't yet by cruel murthers.
Rapine or perjury, or vile deceiving :
But lived in moral justice towards all men ;
Nor am a foe to the most strong believers,
Howe'er mj' own short-sighted faith confine me.
Fath. But an all-seeing Judge
Fier. Y'ou say my conscience
Must be my accuser : I have searched that conscience.
And find no records there of crimes that scare me.
Fatit. 'Tis strange you should want Faith.
Fier. You want to lead
My reason blindfold, like a hampered Uon,
Checked of its nobler vigour ; then when baited
Do\vn to obedient tameness, make it couch,
And show strange tricks, which you call signs of Faith.
So silly souls are gulled, and you get money.
Away, no more : captain, I 'd have hereafter
This fellow write no lies of my conversion,
Because he has crept upon my troubled hours.
Fntcr Jaffeiu.
Jaff. Hold : eyes be dry ;
Heart, strengthen me to bear
This hideous sight, and humble me to take
The last forgiveness of a dying friend,
Betrayed by my vile falsehood to his ruin.
Oh, Pierre !
Pier. Yet nearer.
Jeiff. Crawling on my knees.
And prostrate on the earth, let me approach thee :
How shall I look up to thy injured face.
That always used to smile with friendship on me ?
It darts an air of so much manly virtue,
That I, methinks, look little in thy sight.
And stripes are fitter for me, than embraces.
Pier. Dear to my arms, though thoii'st undone my fame.
I can't forget to love thee : pr'ythee Jaffcir,
Forgive that filthy blow my passion dealt thee ;
I am now preparing for the land of peace.
And fain would have the charitable wishes
Of all good men, like thee, to bless my journey
Jaff. Good ! I am the vilest creature, worse than e'er
Sufi'ered the shameful fate thou 'rt going to taste of.
Why was I sent for to be used thus kindly ?
Call, call me -i-illain, as I am ; describe
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[i.D. 1682
The foul complexion of my hateful deeds ;
Lead me to th' rack, and stretch mo in thy stead,
I 'vc crimes enough to give it its fuU load.
And do it credit : thou wilt but sijoil the use on 't.
And honest men hereafter bear its figure
About 'em as a charm from treacherous friendship.
OJti. The time grows short, your friends are dead ali'eady.
Jaff. Dead!
Pier. Yes, dead, Jaffeir ; they 've all died like men too.
Worthy their character.
Jtiff. And what must I do ?
Pier. Oh, Jafi'eir !
Jaf. Speak aloud thy burthened soul,
.Ind tell thy troubles to thy tortured friend.
Pier. Friend! could'st thou yet be a friend, a generous
friend,
I might hope comfort from thy noble sorrows.
Heaven knows I want a friend.
Jaf. And I a kind one.
That would not Urns scorn my repenting vii-tue,
Or think when he 's to die, my thoughts are idle.
Pier. No ; live, I charge thee, Jaffeir.
Jciff. Yes, I will live.
But it shaU be to sec thy fall revenged
At such a rate, as Venice long shall groan for.
Pier. Wilt thou ?
Jaf. I wiD, by Heaven.
Pier. Then still thou 'rt noble,
And I foi-give thee. Oh — yet — shall I trust thee ?
Jaff. No, I 've been false ah-eady.
Pier. Dost thou love me ?
Jaff. Rip up my heart, and satisfy thy doubtings.
Pier. Curse on this weakness. [He weeps.
Jaff. Tears ! amazement ! tears !
I never saw thee melted thus before ;
And know there 's something labouring in thy bosom
That must have vent : tliough I am a villain, tell me.
Pier. See 'st thou that engine ? [Pointing to the ic/ieel.
Jaf. Why?
Pier. Is 't fit a soldier, who has liv'd with honour.
Fought nations' quarrels, and been crowned with conquest.
Be exposed a common carcass on a wheel i'
Jaff. Hah!
Pier. Speak ! is 't fitting ?
Jaff. Fitting?
Pier. Is 't fit a soldier, who has liv'd with honour ;
Fought nations' quarrels, and been crowned with conquest.
Be exposed a common carcass on a wheel ?
Jaff: Hah!
Pier. Speak ! is 't fitting ?
Jaff: Fitting?
Pier. Yes, is 't fitting ?
Jaff. What 's to bo done ?
Pier. I 'd have thee undertake
Something tliat 's noble, to preserve my memory
From the disgrace that 's ready to attaint it.
Of. The day grows late, sir.
Pier. I 'II make haste !— Oh Jaffeir !
Though thou 'st beti'ayed me, do me some way justice.
Jaf. No more of that ; tliy wishes shall be satisfied ;
I have a wife, and she shall bleed ; my child too
Yield up his little throat, and all
T' appease thee \_Goiiig awai/, Pierre holds him.
Pier. No— this — no more !
Jaff. Hah ! is 't then so ?
Pier. Most certainly.
Jaff. I '11 do 't.
IHe whispers J.a.i'feir.
Pier. Remember.
Offi. Sir.
Pier. Come, now I 'm ready.
[Se and Jaffeir ascend the scaffold.
Captain, you should be a gentleman of honour,
Keep off the rabble, that I may have room
To entertain my fate, and die with decency.
Come ! [Ta/ccs off' his goion. Executioner prepares to bind him.
Path. Son!
Pier. Hence, tempter !
Offi. Stand oft', priest.
Pier. I thank you, sir.
You '11 think on 't. [To J.vffeik.
Jaff. 'Twon't grow stale before to-morrow.
Pier. Now, Jaft'eir ! now I am going. Now ;
[Executioners havinij bound kiiii.
Jaff: Have at thee,
Thou honest heart ! Then — here — _ [Stabs him.
And this is well too. [Then stabs himself.
Path. Damnable deed !
Pier. Now thou hast indeed been faithful.
This was done nobly — we have deceived the Senate.
Paff: Bravely.
Pier. Ha, ha, ha ! — oh, oh 1 [Dies.
Jaff: Now, ye cui-s'd rulers.
Thus of the blood y 'ave shed I make libation,
And sprinkle 't mingling : may it i-est upon you,
And all your race ! Be henceforth peace a stranger
Within your walls ; let plagues and famine waste
Your generation ! — Oh, poor Belvidera !
Sir, I have a wife, bear this in safety to her.
A token, that with my djang breath I blessed her,
And the dear little infant left behind me.
I am sick — I am quiet [Jaffeir dies.
Offi. Bear this news to the Senate,
And guard their bodies till there 's farther order :
Heaven grant I die so well [Scene .shuts upon them.
Soft music. Pilfer Belvidera distracted, led bij tico of her
Women, Priuli and Servants.
Pri. Strengthen her heart with patience, pitying Heaven !
Selv. Come, come, come, come, come, nay come to bid,
Pr'ythee my love. The winds ; hark how they whistle ?
And the rain beats : oh, how the weather shi-inks me !
You are angry now, who cares ? pish, no indeed.
Choose then, 1 say you shall not go, you shall not.
^Vhip your ill-nature ; get you gone then ; oh !
[Jaffeiu's ghost rises.
Ai'c yoxi returned ? See, father, here he 's come again.
Am I to blame to love him ? oh thou dear one. [Ghost sin/cs.
Why do you fly me ? Are you angry still then ?
Jaffeir, where art thou ? Father, why do you do thus ?
Stand off, don 't hide him irom me. Pie 's here somewhere.
Stand off I say : what, gone ? remember 't tjTant !
I may revenge myself for this trick one day.
I '11 do 't — I 'U do 't. Renaidt 's a nasty fellow ;
Hang him, hang liim, hang him I
Enter Officer and others.
Pri. News, what news ? [Officer uhispers VwwiA.
Offi. Most sad, sir.
Jaft'eir, upon the scaft'old, to prevent
A .shameful death, stabbed Pierre, and ne.\t, himself ;
Both fell together.
Pri. Daughter.
Pelr. Ha, look there !
[T!ie ghosts o/ Jaffeir and Pierre rise together both bloody.
TO A.D. 1685.]
PLAYS.
379
My husband 'blood}-, and his friend too ! murthcr !
Who has done this 'i sjjcak to me, thou sad vision ;
[Ohoais sink.
On these poor trembling knees I beg it : vanish 'd — ■
Here they went down; oh I I 'U dig, dig the den up.
You shan't delude me thus. Hoa, JafEeir, Jaffeir.
Peep up and gire me but a look. I have him !
I've got him, father : oh ! how I'll smuggle him !
My love ! my dear ! my blessing ! help me ! help me !
They have hold on me, and di-ag me to the bottom '.
Nay — now they pull so hard — farewell \_She dies.
Jliiid. She 's dead,
Breathless and dead.
Pri. Then guard me from the sight on't :
Lead me into some place that 's fit for mourning ;
Where the free air, light, and the cheerful sun
May never enter : hang it roimd with black ;
.Set up one taper that may last a day.
As long as I 've to live : and there all leave mc :
Sparing no tears when you this tale relate,
But bid aU cruel fathers dread my fate. \_Ci(rt(!i» falla.
Our last illustration of the Later Stuart Drama
shall be a comedy written by John Crowne in ac-
cordance ^vith a suggestion of diaries the Second.
John Crowne, was who the son of an independent
minister in Nova Scotia, began his career as dramatist
in London in 1G71, with the tragi -comedy of
"Juliana," and closed it with the tragedy of " Cali-
gula," in 1698, having produced eighteen plays. His
comedy of "City Politics," piinted in 1675, attacked
the Whigs, and made him enemies. When he sought
of the king some ofBce that would ensure him main-
tenance without constant exertion as a dramatist, the
king promised to help him when he had written one
play more, as a farewell to the stage. It was to be a
comedy, and written, by his Majesty's command, on
the plot of a Spanish play by Moreto, No Fuede ,Ser
(It Cannot Be), founded on the Mayor Imposible of
Lope de Vega. An English play had already been
formed on the same theme, called " Tarugo's Wiles,"
which had failed ; but Crowne took pains to satisfy
the king with wit that would ensure his worldly com-
fort for the future, and his twelfth play, the comedy
" Sir Courtly Nice," was the i-esult. But the king
had an apoplectic .stroke on the last day of its re-
hearsal, and died three days afterwards, on the 6th
of February, 168.5. The play, therefore, was pro-
duced at the begiiming of the reign of James the
Second
SIR COURTLY NICE, OR IT CANNOT BE,
takes its second title .straight from Moreto. What
cannot be is the shutting up of a woman from a suitor
whom she favom-s and who is deterniined to have
access to her. Lord Belguai-d is resolved to keep all
men away from his sister Leonora, except Sir Courtly
Nice, whom he intends that she shall many. He
sets as guards over her, an aunt aged fifty, and Hothead
and Testimony, one "a choleric Zealot against
Fanatics," the other " a canting hypocritical Fanatic,"
who, being fierce opponents, cannot unite to deceive
him, and will serve, he believes, as checks on each
other in the watching of the lady. Leonora has for
ally a damsel, Violante, whom her brother. Lord
Belguard, desires to marry and who is ready, for her
own sake as well as her friend's, to confound his plans
for the safe custody of women ; because, she says,
"whilst he has this disease upon him so mortal" to
liberty, I dare venture on him no more than if he
had the plague, or any other distemper dangerous to
life. For what is life without liberty 1 To be his
wife is worse than to be a ghost, for that walks and
enjoys a little chat sometimes, but I must be laid
by a conjuror called a husband for my whole life."
Leonora can have liberty only on terms.
Viohntfe. AVhat terms ?
Leonora. Mamage with such a coxcomb, you know him —
Sir Courtly Nice.
Vio. A tempting man, he has a vast estate.
Leo. But incumbered.
Vio. With what ?
Leo. A fop. 'Tis mortgaged to a thousand expensive follies.
If it were not, I would not diink water for the sake of a fine
bowl chained to the well.
Leonora loves a youth with a fair and free estate,
Mr. Farewel, but he is forbidden. There has been
family feud since the Concj[uest between her family
and that of the Farewels. Because she showed none
of the proper bitterness, Leonora's father had left her
fortune tied by condition of her brother's assent to
her marriage. The First Act, after opening the story
in dialogue between Violante and Leonora, shows
next the two guardians Hothead and Testimony, one
a fanatical Church and State man, the other a fanatical
Puritan, in feud together. Hothead, who is my lord's
cousin, is offended at the bringing of Testimony into
the household. Another part of Lord Belguard's method
is to allow no handsome servants in the house. " I
believe," says Leonora to her friend when the two
fanatics have left her for a time, " I believe they are
now all together in the pantiy, and my aunt among
'em, distributing their breakfasts — the monsters \vill
be worth seeing — ojaen the door."
" The scene is drawn, and a company of crooked,
withered, Hi-looked fellows are at breakfast, and Aunt
with them." The humours of Aunt are then set forth
before Lord Belguard enters, and closes the Act in
dialogue with his sister and Violante, wherein he
maintains his doctrmethat " woman like china should
be kept with care."
The Second Act opens in Violante's lodging, with
encoiu'agement to Farewel to be bold, and with his
declaration that Leonora's brother could not keep him
out, " though guards were set on guards, till their
confounded coxcombs leached the skies," for he has
leagued with a witch ; '■ at least a young fellow that
has more tricks than a witch." This is Crack, once a
poor student of (!)xford, but expelled for his wild
ways, thoiigh no offence could ever be fixed upon
him. He enters presently ; and comes ready to put
out his wits on hire.
Fnreioel. Mr. Crack, your servant.
Crack. Your servant, sir, your humble servant, madam.
Tiolnntc. Your servant, sir ; I am told you have been an
Oxford scholar.
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[i.D. 1G85
Cracli. A scholar, madam ? A scholar's egg— emptied by
old suck-eggs of all that nature gave me, and crumbled f uU
of essences, hypostases, and other stuff o' their baking.
For what he has undertaken he answers shortly,
" I'll do't. The lady's yours. Give me some money."
Next it Ls agreed between Violante and Farewel that
Mr. Surly shall be played off against Sii- Coui-tly
Nice. " Fii-e and water are not so contrary. Sii-
CoiU'tly is so civil a creature, and so respectful to
everything belonging to a gentleman, he stands bai-e
to his own periwig. Surly uncovers to nothing but
his own nightcap, nor to that if he be drank, for he
sleeps in his hat. Sir Courtly is so gentle a creatm-e,
he writes a cliallenge in the style of a hilkt doux.
Surly talks to his mistress as he would to a Hector
that wins his money. Sir Courtly is so pleased with
his own person, Ms daily contemplation, nay, his
salvation is a looking-glass, for there he finds eternal
happiness. Sui-ly's heaven, at least his priest, is his
claret glass, for to that he confesses all his sins, and
from it receives aljsolution and comfort. But his
damnation Ls his lookiug-glass, for there he finds an
eternal fii-e ia his nose." Siu-ly, after his own
fashion, pays suit to Violante, often visits her, and
can be turned by her to aid in breaking the match
desu-ed by Lord Belguard between his sister and Sir
Courtly. Surly enters and shows his peculiar
Inmioui'. Then Violante tells him that Lord Bel-
guard's low opinions of love and women have caused
her to be angry that she ever had a good thought of
him.
Surhj. Good.
Violante. I look upon his address to me as an affront, and
will avenge it.
Snrhj. Better and better.
Tio. And you shall do it.
Surhj. Best of all.
Vio. Do not you know Sir Courtly Nice ?
Surly. That you should join knowledge with such a fop !
'Tis a question to be put to a boy. I may know philosophy ;
but to ask a man if he knows a hornbook — for such a thing
is this fop — gilded on the outside, on the inside the criss-
cross-row, and always hanging at the girdle of a girl.
Vio. You have described him right. This fop has my
Lord Belguard enticed to accept his sister with no fortune
but hor birth and beauty. Now, if you'U break the match,
you'll be to me the most amiable creature in the world.
The next scene is in Lord Belguard's house, and
opens with hot controversy between the two fanatics ;
the ground of dispute being whether a tailor who is
at the street door shall be allowed to enter, the sub-
stance of the dispute being abuse of each other.
Aimt is brought in by the sound of strife, and
claims the supreme right of deciding that the tailor
be admitted. The tailor is Crack, wlio professes to
have been sent to the aunt by her o^vn tailor, Mr.
Stitch.
Aunt. How chance he came not himself ?
Crack. He's sick, madam.
Aunt. And can you work well, for wo are very hard to
please. There's scarcely a tailor in town can make me
endure to see myself.
Leonora {aside). The fault lies in — fifty — fifty —
Crack. Indeed, madam, I must needs say my counti-ymen
are not the best tailors in the world. Heaven makes the
women angels, and tailors make 'em hedgehogs ; 'tis a sad
sight to see 'em. Now, I'll make an angel of a crooked pin.
Aunt. Aj' ! where did j'ou learn your skill ?
Crack. In France, madam.
TestimoHi/. In France ? Then, friend, I believe you are a
Papist.
Motheacl. Sirrah, I believe you are a Presbyterian.
Test. Friend, if you be a Papist, I'll ha' you before a
justice.
Soth. Sirrah, if you be a Presbyterian, I'll kick you down
stairs.
Test. "What are you, friend ?
Hoth. Ay ! what are you, sirrah ?
Crack. "\\Tiat am I ? why I'm a tailor. I think the men
are mad.
Testimony and Hothead are got rid of, the Aunt's
eyes are fixed upon stufls brought for her inspection,
and to Leonora Mr. Farewel's picture is presented.
Before there has been time to give a letter also. Lord
Belguard enters, but Crack ls too clever for him,
though he watches suspiciously, and the letter is
delivered wthout his knowledge, mider his own
eyes.
The Third Act opens in Covent Garden Square —
the characters of the play all li\'ing in Covent Cnrden
— with Farewel made happy by Crack's report of his
case, and the appearance of Surly, driuik, who knocks
at the door of Sir Comtly Nice. " Is Nice within "?"
he asks. "Nice, Sii-?" "Ay, Nice, Sii- ; is not
your master's name Nice ? " " "Tis Sir Courtly Nice."
" Well, Sir, if I have a mind to clip his name, 'tis
not treason, is it, su-rah?" "I believe not. Sir."
'' Then get you in, and tell your master I'd speak
with him." We are next shown Sir Courtly at his
toilet, bowing out with compliments musicians who
have bored him, and asking that they will do liim
the favour to accept of a small collation, " because,"
as he explains to his wondering servant, " don't you
know what belongs to a gentleman ? Complaisance
is the very thing of a Gentleman ; the thing that
shows a Gentleman. Wherever I go, all the world
cries, ' That's a Gentleman, my life on't, a Gentle-
man ! ' and when y'ave said a Gentleman, j'ou have
said all." " Is there nothiug else, sir, that belongs
to a Gentleman ] " the servant asks. " Yes, bmiiie
mine, fine hands, a mouth well furnished — " " With
fine language*?" "Fine teeth, you sot. Fine lan-
guage belongs to pedants and poor fellows that live
by their wits. Men of Quality are above wit. 'Tis
true, for our diversion sometimes we write, but we
ne'er regard wit. I write, but I never writ any
wit." " How then, sivl" "I write like a Gentleman,
soft and easy." Presently Surly enters with drunken
familiarity, after walking for a quarter of an houi' in
Sir Courtly's i-ooms and fouling them all -with his
dirty shoes. He embraces Sir Courtly, belching as
he does so ; asks where they shall dine. " Really,
sii-," Sir Courtly answers, " I don't know. I can't
put my head into one o' your beastly eating houses, nor
swallow the fUthy meat you eat there, if you'd give
me a hundi-ed pound." " FUthy meat ! " cries Surly ;
i.D. 1685.]
PLAYS.
381
" Sii", I eat as good meat as you do." " Oh, dear
Mr. Surly, no doubt the meat in its own nature may
be very innocent ; but when once it has committed
familiarity with the beastly fists of cooks and
butch ei-s, 'tis to me an unpardonable sinner. My
butcher cuts up all his meat with a fork." " Does he
cut up an ox with a fork 1 " " Ay, and he cuts up an
ox as neatly as a lady does a partridge." " Well,
then, I'll accept o' thy dinner." Sir Courtly makes
polite excuse that he feai-s all things are not ready.
His salt certainly was forgotten, and the butler has
ridden post forty miles to Sir Courtly's country
house to fetch it, because the salt in London has
been all touched by the imclean hands of butlers and
waiters. Wlien a ghiss of wine is suggested, says
Sir Courtly Nice, " Oh, dear, Mr. Surly, if you name
%vine, you make me throw up my soul. I have
abhorred wine ever since I wa-s in France, and saw
what barbarous education they gave that generous
creature. Deuce take me, sir, if the clowns don't
press all the grapes with theii- filthy naked feet. Oh,
Iseastly, nasty dogs ! no wonder we are poisoned with
their wine." "Prithee, what of that! The ^\'ine
purges before it comes over." "Oh, Lord, Mr. Surly,
what a phrase is there ? You'll pardon my freedom,
sir." Ale is sent for. Surly then worries Sir
Courtly by professing to be in love with Leonora,
and when the ale comes he tlu'ows away one of the
glasses, professing that friends share the same glass.
" What misery is this beast imposing on me t " says
poor Sir Courtly to himself. " He coughs in the
glass, too." A honible kiss is the climax of Sii-
Courtly's misery before Surly departs with a " Well,
honest iSTice, fai-ewell to thee," and the gentleman
whose complaisance has suffered so extreme a trial
is left crying, " Wlio's there ? I'm sick to death —
to death — lead me in — get my bed ready — and a
bath — and some perfumes — I'm sick to death — I'm
dead." The scene then changes to Lord Belguard's
house, where the watcliful brother is in fury because
he has found Farewel's picture in his sister's room.
Leonora ls supported by her maid in assertion that
it was picked up by the maid in Westminster Abbey.
Aunt, Hothead, and Testimony are all in commotion
again. Tlien comes a man to the door who says he
is from the East Indies, and brings a letter from
Lord Belguard's uncle Rich. "He comes in a
stomi," says Belguard ; he will find worse weather
here than any he met at sea. But I'll- endeavoiu' to
compose myself. Admit him."
There enters a man dressed like a merchant, pro-
fessing to be Mr. Waytewell, an old retainer of his
lordship's father, who had been sent some years ago
to the East Indies in the sei-vice of his lordship's
noble uncle, Mr. Rich. He has returned witii a
small competency of his own, and says also —
I have brought your lordship gome letters from your noble
uncle, and a small present of some threescore thousand
pounds.
Bel. How?
.V((n. Only the trouble of it, my lord. Yoiu* uncle con-
tracted in the Indies an intimate friendship with Sir Nicho-
las Calico, President for the East India Company. Sir
Nicholas died, and left most part of his estate (which was
noar a hundred thousand poimd), to his only son, Sir
Thomas. But poor Sir Thomas happened in his father's
lifetime to fall into a distemper, which gave him a scurvy
flaw in his brain, that Sir Nicholas left him and all his estate
to your uncle's guardianship. Now your noble uncle, per-
ceiving that his aifau-s are like to detain him many years in
th' Indies, and fearing, if he should die, poor Sir Thomas
might be cheated of all ; he has, like a worthy and honest
gentleman, sent Sir Thomas and all his estate to your lord-
ship's care, as these letters will testify. I suppose your lord-
ship is well acquainted with your uncle's hand and seal ':
By forged letters and such a story, Crack is intro-
duced into the house as a lunatic Sii- Thomas from
India, who has the oddest phrases and ways with
him, and " wiU needs be attended like a great Indian
Mandarin or Lord. And has brought with him
several Siahiites and Bantam mere, that serve him as
slaves, in the ridiculous ch-esses and modes of their
own country." Ci-ack, also in ridiculous dress, talks
extravagantly, professes that he has been bewitched,
so that he abhors women and falls into agonies when
he sees women. Leonora peeps, and knows Crack
in hLs disguise. A hint of the state of afiairs in the
household is enough for him. He soon convinces
Belguai-d that his sister's story was true, and gets
her out of difliculty by supporting one lie with
another.
Crack: I 've iu the Indies a delicate piece of my father's
rib,
I beg your lordship to adrise me in the disposal.
£i;l. Oh, dispose it how you please, sir.
Crack. Tis a sister I mean.
hcl. Oh, that's something.
Crack. She's sweet and slender as a dove, and is worth two
millions o' coxcombs. Three hundred of 'em comes to three
farthings ; 'tis a Chinese money. This money makes her
much sought in maniage. The great Hobbommoccoes o' the
Indies come galloping upon elephants, camels, rhinoceroses,
and oxen to see her. Now, my father was under the circum-
stances of great obligation to a gentleman in England ; and
out o' gratitude to him, ordered me on his deathbed to bestow
my sister on his son and heir, if his actions have any sort o'
smile in 'em to his incompatible father, which is the query.
Pray resolve it.
Bii. First let me know the gentleman.
Crack. You shall. I 'U give you a map of his face, or
picture contained in my pocket — ha! — I ha' lost it, — I ha'
lost it.
Bel. Tell me his name, sir.
Crack. I ha' diopt it out o' my pocket.
Bel. Ay, but his mtme 1
Crack. I ha' dropt it out o' my pocket.
Bel. Ha' you dropt his name out o' your pocket? His
name, sir !
Crack. Oh, his name ! I'll tell you both his name and cog-
name. His name is Andrew, his cogname, Farewel.
Bel. Farewel ? What comes into my head ? Sir, can you
guess where you might lose this picture ?
Crack. A guess may be obtained — by the prayer of
mariners.
Bel. No other way ? Those I seldom hear of.
Crack. I was drawn down — sta\', let me see — remembrance
begins to be idle — has London no place in the west ?
Bel. Ay, no doubt.
382
CASSELL'S LIBKARY OF ENGLISH LITEllATUEE.
•[a.d. 1685
CracI;. Ay, but something vcrj- west ? Something callti.1
AVest ;-
Bel. Yes ; there's West Smithfield.
Crack. That's not th' appellative. Is there no monster in
the west, called West Monster 'i
Bel. AVestminster, I believe you mean.
Crncl-. You've nicked it. To Westminster I rode, to
behold the glorious cireumstances of the dead; and diving
into my pocket, to present the representer with a gratifica-
tion, I am fully confirmed I then lost it ; for my eyes and
the picture had never rencounter since.
Thus the Tliird Act ends with the brother de-
luded, and the Fourth opens with Leonora and Vio-
lante laughing together, and presently worrying Lord
Belguard, who still sticks to las principle : " No wife
or sister of mine shall dabble in conversation with
any man." Lord Belguai'd apologises to Hothead
and Testimony for having accused them of careless-
ness, and the humours of Aiuit and the two fanatics
precede the arri\al of another man at the house-door.
This time it is Sir Courtly in his bravest attire, who
comes a-courtiug, and lias been kept waiting at the
door while Hothead and Testimony quarrelled wiih
each other over the announcement of him, and were
too busy in attack upon each other to say what they
came to say. Sir Courtly enters, bowing to the page
who introduces him. Aunt is |irofuse in politeness
to him, can hardly leave him, but when he is left at
last with Leonora, playfully resolved to plague him
for his jilaguing of her, the covirtship begins. " Now,
madam, is the glorious opportunity come, which my
soul has long wished, to express how much I admii-e,
adore — — " " Oh, Sir Courtly ! " " Extravagantly
adore " "Oh, Sir Courtly, I cannot receive all
this " " Oh ! madam, is there anything on the
earth so chamiing ? I never saw anything so tine as
your ladyship since I was born." " Fie, Su- Courtly."
"Never since I was born." "You'll kill me with
blushing." " I speak my soul ! Heavens ! what
divine teeth there are ! " " Fie, fie ! I shall never
open my mouth more." "Then you'll undo all the
world. Oh ! there's nothing so charming as admira-
ble teeth. If a lady fastens upon my heart it must
be with her teeth." Presently Leonora plays upon
Sir Courtly liy affecting to be as fastidiously nice as
he. Sir Courtly allows no hands but those of his
own gentleman to make his bed. " He has a delicate
hand at making a bed ; ho was my page, I bred him
up to it." " To making beds 1 " " Ay, madam, and
I believe he'll make a bed with any gentleman in
England." "And my woman," says Leonora, "has a
gi-eat talent " " Is it possible 1 Ladies commonly
employ ordinary chambermaids, with tilthy aprons on,
made by sluttish women that spit as they — spin —
foh!" Leonora echoes "Foh!" Sir Courtly goes on,
I' Your ladyship will pardon me, my linen is all made
in Holland, by neat women that dip their tingers
in rosewater at my charge." "Delicate." "And
all washed there." " And so is mine ; at Haarlem."
"At Haarlem 1 I hold a constant correspondence
with all the eminent washers there." " That's deli-
cate, and agrees wonderfully with my hiimour."
" Oh ! happy ! " cries Sii- Courtly, " we shall be fond
to an iiifinite degi-ee." Then, to the gi-eat horror of
the complaisant gentleman, there enters Mr. Surly,
this time in bad humour, i)rofessing himself Sir
Courtly's rival in suit for the hand of Leonora.
Sur/i/. Sure, madam, a woman o' your sense will not choose
him before me. He has more land ; not more improved land.
His acres run up to one groat weed — I mean himself ; and
there it blossoms in periwigs and ribbons. Oh, but he has a
finer person. That's a cheat ; a false creed imposed on you
by a general council of tailors, milliners, and seamstresses.
Let my hat expound his face, and you'll see what a piece o'
simple stuff it is.
Sir C. N. Horrid ! He has piit his beastly hat upon my
head ! Pray, sir (to a servant), do me the favour to remove
it, or I shall grow very sick —
Surly's insults, met with extreme politeness, at
last force Sir Courtly to challenge him, and the
challenge is delivered in these terms : " Mr. Surly,
I have received some favours from you, sii', and I
desii'e the honour of your company, sir, to-moi'row
moruLug, at Barn Elms, sir. Please to name your
weapon, sir." " A scjuirt." " A squirt ! " " Ay, for
that will go to thy heart, I'm sure." The Act ends*
in the garden of Lord Belguard's house with anothei-
of Crack's devices. There is a noise outside of four
men setting upon one. Ciuck, as the lunatic Sir
Thomas, IjIows tantivy on a horn, opens the garden
door for a rescue, and while Lord Belguard and the
rest rush oiit, lets Farewel in.
The Fifth Act op(^ns with Farewel and Leonoi'a
happy, so far, in the success of Mi'. Crack's devices,
l)ut Lord Belguard coming suddenly upon them,
Fai'ewel is hidden in another room, and Crack I'oUs
on the iioor as the bewitched Sir Thomas Calico, in
agonies because the curiosity of Leonora has caused
a woman to look in upon him. But the Aunt know.s
more. Crack has to account for Farewel's presence
in the house, and again succeeds in making Lord Bel-
guard think himself in the wrong and make apolo-
gies to Leonora. He begs her pardon, will at once
begone iqjon her business, to fetch Sir Coiu"tly Nice.
"Your servant, sister."
Lio. Oh, your servant, sir — ha ! ha ! — he runs — I may
chance, sir, to run as nimbi}' from you, if Crack's wit do not
fail him — here he comes. \_Enfer Crack.] Thou admirable
fellow, what hast thou done with Sir. Farewel ?
Crack. He's in the street, staying for j'ou.
Leo. Staying for me ? and canst thou convey me to him ?
Craek. D'j'e qiiestion it ': Put on a vizard and something
over your clothes.
Leo. Sweet rogue I
Creick. Nay, nay, be gone.
Leo. Delicate rogue !
Crack. Nay, nay, he stays for you. i
Leo. Incomparable rogue !
Crack. Pshaw ! Put on your vizard.
Leo. Most excellent rogue !
Crack. Oones 1 Put on yoiu' vizard.
Leo. I wiU, I wiU— ha ! ha ! Toll-loll-dcroll—
Crack ffoes out ; and as Leonora is going out, singing and
dancing, she is met by Belgvard and Sir Courtly.
Bel. Oh! Sister, j'our tune's altered.
Sir Co. Oh ! madam 1 I'm happy to find your ladyship in
so gay a humour.
TO A.D. 1697.]
PLAYS.
383
Leo. (aside) You will not Mnd it so —
Bel. Sir Courtly, I'll betray her to you. I loft her in
tears upon an unhappy occasion, and at parting told her I
would bring you. Kow you are come, I find her in joy.
Xothing else could cause the change.
Then follows another scene of Sir Courtly's couit-
.ship, (hiring which he becomes absorbed iu the con-
templation of himself in the glass. .This gives Leo-
nora her opj)ortunity of slipping away, and before
Sir Com-tly has linished his studies in the mirror,
Aunt has entered, and the neat, pretty things he
says are received by her as intended for herself.
When he turns I'ound and sees who is in the room,
lie resolves to improve the opportimity. The Aunt
governs the niece. Her consent to his suit for
Leonora will be of considerable value. She may
help to make him hapj^y. " Well, madam," he asks,
■" shall I have your consent to my happiness, my
glory %" " Oh, dear, sir ! is it possible to answer you
fio soon % " " So soon, madam, you know my passion
has been long." The dialogue is ambiguous enough
to end in the belief of Sir Courtly that Aunt is
going to put Leonora masked in a coach to be mar-
ried to him at the nearest chui'ch, and in the Aunt's
belief that it is she who is to be, in such wise, im-
mediately married. Then Crack contrives that Leo-
nora, in her vizard, shall be hustled out of the house-
<loor by Hothead and Testimony as a strange woman,
who had slipped in for an evil piu-pose. Once out of
the house, Farewel is married to Leonora, and Sir
Courtly finds that Aunt has become Lady Courtly
Nice. Belguard is laughed at by Violante, and
yields up his faith in the art of conserving women.
Violante requires that he shall consent to see her
kissed by Mr. Surly, in witness to liLs abaudormient
of all false jealou.sy. But when Surly is about to
take the kiss, his ears are boxed and Lord Belguard
is made as happy as his sister. But Sir Courtly's
complaisance has found a limit. .He will not take
Ids old woman home.
Theatke Checks or the beginnisg of the Reign of James II.
(168i, Old Stile.)
CHAPTER IX.
From the English Eevolutiox to the French
Revolution. — a.d. 1G89 to a.d. 1789.
The comedies of William Wycherley were all jno-
duced in the reign of Chai'les II. ; those of William
Congreve in the reign of William III., Congreve
being thiity-two years younger than Wycherley.
He was the second son of a Staffordshire gentleman,
Richard Congreve, of Congreve and Stretton ; was
educated at Kilkenny and at Trinity College, Dublin,
having at each place among his companions Jonathan
Swift, who was about two years his senioi'. From
Dublin Congreve came to London, entered himself
of the Middle Temple, went into society, and pub-
lished when twenty-one a novel written at the age of
seventeen. At the same age of twenty -one, in 1693,
Congreve saw his first play acted at Drury Lane.
It was " The Old Bachelor," which he said he had
written " several years before to amuse himself in
a slow recovery from a fit of sickness." Dry den
said he had never seen such a fii'st play. Betterton
and four chief actresses of the day appeared in it.
Charles Montague, afterwards Lord Halifax, re-
warded the young wit with the office of a com-
missioner for licensing hackney-coaches. Some
twenty years later he oljtained also a place in the
Pipe Office, and then another place, wliich was in the
Customs and worth six hundred a year. Congi'eve
lived on his private means and the income derived
from such patronage, with addition for some years
from the theatre, although he professed to write
plays only for his amusement. " The Double
Dealer" was produced in 1694, with less success
than "The Old Bachelor." In 1G95 Betterton and
other good actors seceded fi'om Drury Lane, and
opened a new theatre within a tennis-court in
Lincoln's Imi Fields. They niiule their start with a
new comedy by Congreve, " Love for Love," which
had a brilliant succes.s. The actors of the new
com])auy gave Congreve a share in the profits of the
hou.se, besides his author's profits, on condition of
his writing for them only, and furnishing a \A-A.y a
year if his health was good enough. His next play
was a tragedy, "The Mourning Bride," produced m
1697 — which opens with the often quoted line,
" Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast " —
and this was even more successful than the comedy.
His last comedy was " The Way of the World," in
1700, a comedy excellent of its kind, that fell short
of the usual success. A short masque of " The
Judgment of Paris," and an opera, " Semele," were
written a few years later. He died in January,
1729, aged fifty-seven, and although he published
nothing during the last eighteen years of his life,
partly, perhaps, because the act of writing was made
difficult to him by great weakness of sight, he main-
tained the foremost reputation among wits and critics.
He was kindly. Gay speaks of him as " friendly
Congreve, unreproachful man;" and if fashionable
life of the day had been a little wiser than it wa.s,
tliere might have been some gentler feeling joined to
the hard, worldly wit of comedy from the man who,
in writing a paper for Steele's " Tatler " on the
384
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1697
character of Lady Elizabeth Hastings, said that " to
love her is a liberal education." The sort of love
from which men should be saved by a liberal educa-
tion, had so completely become the material of
comedy, that many women of true refinement who
had intellectual pleasure in the drama, felt themselves
shut out of the theatre wlien comedies were acted,
and went to the tragedies, which at least sought to
represent the nobler side of life. There is a clear
indication of this when, in Crowne's comedy, Sir
Coui-tly Nice talks of his play-going. Comedies, he
says to Leonora, are " always crammed with our
odious sex — that have not always the most inviting
smell — Madam, you'll pardon me. Now at tragedies
the house is all lined with beauty, and then a gentle-
man may endure it."
THE MOURNING BRIDE,
in Congreve's tragedy, is the Princess Almeria,
daughter of Manuel, Ivipg of Granada. The fii-st
scene opens the story fully, and explains the title of
the play.
ScEXE I. — A Room of State in the Talace.
The curtain rising slowly to soft music, discovers Almekia in
mourning, Leonora waiting in mourning. After the music,
Almeuia rises from her chair ami comes forward.
Aim. Music hath charms to soothe a savage hreast,
To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.
I've read that things inanimate have moved.
And, as with living souls, have been infoi-med.
By magic numbers and persuasive sound.
"What tlien am I ? Am I more senseless grown
Than trees or flint ? O force of constant woe !
'Tis not in harmony to calm my griefs.
Anselmo sleeps, and is at peace ; last night
The silent tomb received the good old king ;
He and his sorrows now are safely lodged
Within its cold but hospitable bosom.
Why am not I at peace ?
Leon. Dear madam, cease,
Or moderate your griefs ; there is no cause —
Aim. No cause ! peace, peace ; there is eternal cause,
And misery eternal will succeed.
Thou canst not teU — thou liast indeed no cause.
Zeon. Believe me, madam, I lament Anselmo,
And always did compassionate his fortune :
Have often wept to see how cruelly
Your father kejit in chains his feUow-king :
And oft at night when all have been retired,
Have stolen from bod, and to his prison crept ;
Where, while his jailor slept, I through the grate
Have softly whispered, and inquired his health ;
Sent in my sighs and prayers for his deliverance ;
For sighs and prayers were all that I could offer.
Aim. Indeed thou hast a soft and gentle nature,
That thou couldst melt to see a stranger's wrongs.
O Leonora, hadst thou known Anselmo,
How would thy heart have bled to see his sufferings !
Thou hadst no cause, but general compassion.
Zeon. Love of my royal mistress gave me cause,
My love of you begot my grief for him ;
For I had heard that when the chance of war
Had blessed Anselmo's arms with •(•ictory,
And the rich spoil of all the field, and you.
The glorj- of the whole, were made the prey
Of his success ; that then, in spite of hate.
Revenge, and that hereditary feud
Between Valentia's and Granada's kings,
He did endear himself to your affection.
By all the worthy and indulgent ways
His most industrious goodness could invent ;
Proposing by a match between Alphonso
His son, the brave Valentia prince, and you,
To end the long dissension, and unite
The jan-ing crowns.
Aim. Alphonso ; O Alphonso !
Thou too art quiet — long hast been at peace —
Both, both — father and son are now no more.
Then why am I 'r* when shall I have rest ?
Why do I live to say you are no more ?
Why are all these tilings thus ? — Is it of force ?
Is there necessity I must be miserable ?
Is it of moment to the peace of heaven
That I should be afflicted thus •■—If not.
Why is it thus conti-ived ? Why are things laid
By some unseen hand so, as of sure consequence.
They must to me bring curses, grief of heart.
The last distress of life, and sure despair!
Zeon. Alas, you search too far, and think too deeply !
Aim. Wliy was I can-ied to Anselmo's court ?
Or there, why was I used so tenderly ?
Why not iU-treated like an enemy ':'
For so my father would have used his child.
Alphonso ! Alphonso !
Devouring seas have washed thee from my sight,
No time shall rase thee from my memory ;
No, I v/iH live to be thy monument ;
The cruel ocean is no more thy tomb :
But in my heart thou art interred ; there, there,
Thy dear resemblance is for ever fi.\ed ;
My love, my lord, my husband still, though lost.
Zeon. Husband ! O heavens !
Aim. Alas ! what have I said ?
My grief has hurried me beyond all thought :
1 would have kept that secret ; though I Icnow
Thy love and faith to me deserve all confidence.
But 'tis the wretch's comfort stiU to have
Some smaU reserve of near and inward woe.
Some unsuspected hoard of darling grief.
Which they unseen may -wail, and weep and mourn.
And, glutton-like, alone devour.
Zeon. Indeed
I knew not this.
Aim. O no, thou know'.st not half,
Know'st nothing of my sorrows. — If thou didst—
If I should tell thee, wouldst thou pity me ?
Tell me ; I know thou wouldst, thou art compassionate.
Zeon. Witness these tears I
Aim. I thank thee, Leonora,
Indeed I do, for pitying thy sad mistress ;
For 'tis, alas 1 the poor prerogative
Of greatness, to be wretched and unpitied.
But I did promise I would tell thee — what ?
BIy miseries ? thou dost already know 'em ;
And when I told thee thou didst notliing know.
It was because thoxi didst not know Alphonso :
For to have known my loss, thou must have known
His worth, his truth, and tenderness of love.
Zeon. The memory of that brave prince stands fair
In all report —
And I have heard imperfectly his loss '.
But fearful to i-enew your troubles past,
I never did presume to ask the story.
A.D. 1697.]
PLAYS.
385
Aim. If for my swelling heart I can, I'll tell thee.
I was a welcome captive in Vulentia,
Even on the day when Manuel my father
Led on his conquering troops, high as the gates
Of king Anselmo's palace : which in rage,
And heat of war, and dire revenge, he fired.
The good king flying to avoid the flames,
.Stalled amidst his foes, and made captivity
His fatal refuge. — Would that I had fallen
Amid those flames I — but 'twas not so decreed.
Alphonso, who foresaw my father's cruelty,
Had borne the queen and me on hoard a shin
Ready to sail ; and when this news was brought,
We put to sea ; but being betrayed by some
Wlio knew our flight, we closely were pursued.
And almost taken ; when a sudden storm
Drove us, and those that followed, on the coast
Of Afric ; there our vessel struck the shore,
And bulging 'gainst a rock was dashed in pieces !
But Heaven spared me for yet much more afiliction !
Conducting them who followed us to shun
The shoal, and save me floating on the waves,
Wliile the good queen and my Alphonso perish'd.
Leon. Alas ! were you then wedded to Alphonso ?
Aim. That day, that fatal day, our hands were joined.
For when my lord beheld the sliip pursuing.
And saw her rate so far exceeding ours,
He came to me, and begged me by my love,
I would consent the priest should make us one ;
That whether death or victory ensued,
I might be his beyond the power of fate :
The queen too did assist his suit — I granted ;
And in one day, was wedded and a widow.
Zeoii. Indeed, 'twas mournful.
Aim. 'Twas as I have told thee;
For which I mourn, and wUl for ever mourn :
Nor will I change these black and dismal robes.
Or ever di-y these swollen and watery eyes ;
Or ever taste content, or peace of heart,
^\^lile I have life, and thought of my Alphonso.
Leon. Look down, good Heaven, with pity on her sorrows,
And grant that time may bring her some relief.
Aim. Oh, no, time gives increase to my afflictions.
The circling hours, that gather aU the woes
Wlaich are diffused through the revolving year.
Come, heavy-laden with the oppressing weight,
To me ; with me, successively, they leave
The sighs, the tears, the groans, the restless cares,
And all the damps of grief, that did retard their flight ;
They shake their downy wings, and scatter all
The dii-e collected dews on my poor head ;
Then fly with joy and swiftness from me.
Leon. Hark I
The distant shouts proclaim your father's triumph.
[flhonts at a distance.
Oh, cease, for Heaven's sake, assuage a little
This torrent of your grief ; for much I fear
'Twill urge his wrath to see you drowned in tears
A\"hen joy appears in every other face.
Aim. And joy he brings to every other heart.
But double, double weight of woe to mine ;
For with him Garcia comes — Garcia, to whom
I must be sacrificed, and all the vows
I gave my dear Alphonso basely broken.
No, it shall never be ; for I will die
Fir.st, die ten thousand deaths! — Look down, look down,
[Kneels.
169
Alphonso, hear the sacred vow I make ;
One moment cease to gaze on perfect bliss,
And bend thy glorious eyes to earth and me ;
And thou, Ansolmo, if yet thou art arrived.
Through all impetliments of purging fire.
To that bright heaven where my Alphonso reigns,
Behold thou also, and attend my vow.
If ever I do yield, or give consent,
By any action, word, or thought, to wed
Another lord, may then just Heaven shower down
Unheard-of curses on me, greater far
(If such there be in angry Heaven's vengeance)
Than any I have yet endured. — And now \Itisinff.
My heart has some relief ; having so well
Discharged this debt, incumbent on my love.
Yet one thing more I would engage from thee.
Leon. My heart, my life, and will, are only yours.
Aim. I thank thee. 'Tis but this ; anon, when all
Are wrapped and busied in the general joy.
Thou wilt withdraw, and privately with me
Steal forth, to visit good Anselmo's tomb.
Leon. Alas I I fear some fatal resolution.
Aim. No : on my life, my faith, I mean no HI,
Nor violence. I feel myself more light.
And more at large, since I have made this vow.
I'erhaps I would repeat it there more solemnly.
'Tis that, or some such melancholj' thought.
Upon my word, no more.
Leon. I will attend you.
Almeuia, Leonoe.4, and Aloxzo.
Alon. The lord Gonsalez comes to tell your highness
The king is just arrived.
Aim. Conduct hini in. [Exit Alonzo.
That 's his pretence ; his errand is, I know,
To fill my ears witli Gareia's vaUant deeds.
And gild and magnify his son's exploits.
But I am armed with ice around my heart,
Not to be waiTued with words, or idle eloquence.
Gonsalez describes the coming pomp of INIanuel's
return in triumph, and adds a word on his own son
Gareia's courage in the war. Then enters Manuel
after a symphony of martial music, with guards, and
files of prisoners in chains. Among those who attend
on him is Garcia. Manuel, when his daughter kneels
to him, condemns her mourning on liis day of joy.
It is, she says, still part of
The year whi<li I have vowed to pay to Heaven
In mourning and strict life for my deliverance
From wreck and death.
Manuel is angry, accuses her of mourning for the
hated Anselmo and the cursed Alplionso.
My daughter should have revelled at his death,
She should have made these palace- walls to shake,
And all this high and ample roof to ring
With her rejoicings. What ! to mourn and weep ;
Then, then to weep, and pray, and gi-ieve ! By Heaven,
There's not a slave, a shackled slave of mine.
But should have smiled that hour, through aU his care,
And shook his chains in transport and rude harmony !
Gon. \Vhat she has done was in excess of goodness ;
Betrayed by too much piety to seem
As if she had offended. — Sure, no more.
386
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1697.
Man. To seem is to commit, at this conjuncture.
I wo' not have a seeming sorrow seen
To-day. — Ketire, divest yourself with speed
Of that offensive black ; on me be all
The violation of your vow : for you,
It shall be your excuse, that I command it.
Gar. \_KneeUng.'] Your pardon, sir, if I presume so far.
As to remind you of your gracious promise.
Man. Rise, Garcia — I forgot. Yet stay, Almeria.
Aim. My boding heart 1 — What is your pleasure, sir 'i
Man. Draw near, and give your hand ; and, Garcia,
yours :
Receive this lord, as one whom I have found
Worthy to be your husband, and my son.
Gar. Thus let me kneel to take — oh, not to take —
But to devote, and yield myself for ever
The slave and creature of my royal mistress !
Gon. Oh, let me prostrate pay my worthless thanks
Man. No more ; my promise long since passed, thy
services.
And Garcia's well-tried valour, all oblige me.
This day we triumph ; but to-morrow's sun,
Garcia, shall shine to grace thy nuptials.
Aim. Oh! [Faints.
Gar. She faints ! help to support her.
Gon. She recovers.
Man. A fit of bridal fear; how is 't, Almeria 'i
Aim. A sudden chillncss seizes on my spirits.
Your leave, sir, to retire.
Man. Garcia, conduct her.
[Garcia leads Almekia to the door and returns.
This idle vow hangs on her woman's fears.
I '11 have a priest shall preach her from her faith,
And make it sin not to renounce that vow
Which I'd have broken. — Now, what would Alonzo ?
Alon. Your beauteous captive, Zara, is arrived.
And with a train as if she still were wife
To Abucacim, and the Moor had conquered.
Man. It is our wlU she should be so attended.
Bear hence these prisoners. Garcia, which is he.
Of whose mute valour you relate such wonders ?
[Prisoners led off.
Gar. Osmj-n, who led the Moorish horse ; but he,
Great sir, at her request, attends on Zara.
Man. He is your prisoner ; as you please dispose him.
Gar. I would oblige him, but he shuns my kindness,
And with a haughty mien, and stem civility,
Dumbly declines all offers : if he speak,
'Tis scarce above a word ; as he were bom
Alone to do, and did disdain to talk ;
At least, to talk where he must not command.
Man. Such suUenness, and in a man so brave,
Must have some other cause than his captivity.
Did Zara, then, request he might attend her?
Gar. My lord, she did.
^an. That, joined with his behaviour.
Begets a doubt. I 'd have 'em watched ; perhaps
Her chains hang heavier on him than his own.
Zara and O-smyn enter bound, with a ti-ain that pays
homage to Zara. Manuel liimself removes her
bonds, saying,
Thus I release you ;
And by releasing you, enslave myself.
She returns proud thanks. When Osmyn also is
unbound he looks downward gloomily, and Manuel
asks —
Man. Whence comes it, valiant Osmyn, that a man.
So great in arms, as thou art said to be,
So hardly can endure captivity.
The common chance of war ?
Osm. Because captivity
Has robbed me of a dear and just revenge.
Man. I understand not that.
Osm. I would not have you.
Zara. That gallant Moor in battle lost a friend,
Whom more than life he loved ; and the regret
Of not revenging on his foes that loss
Has caused this melancholy and despair.
Man. She does excuse him ; 'tis as I suspected.
[To GONSALEZ.
Gon. That friend may be herself ; seem not to heed
His arrogant reply : she looks concern'd.
Man. I '11 have inquiry made ; perhaps his friend
Yet lives, and is a prisoner. His name ?
Zara. Heli.
Man. Garcia, that search shall be your care :
It shall be mine to pay devotion here ;
At this fair shrine to lay my laurels down.
And raise Love's altar on the spoils of war.
Conquest and triumph, now, are mine no more :
Nor wQl I victory in camps adore :
For, Hngering there, in long suspense she stands,
Shifting the prize in unresolving hands :
Unused to wait, I broke through her delay.
Fixed her by force, and snatched the doubtful day.
Now late I find that war is but her sport ;
In love the goddess keeps her awful court :
Fickle in fields, unsteadily she flies.
But rules with settled sway in Zara's eyes. [Exeunt.
The scene of the Second Act i.s the aisle of a
temple. Heli is brought by Garcia and Perez to
find there Osmyn, who is said there to be mourning
his friend's supposed death. They leave him in the
temple, and await another opportunity of watcliing
Osmyn, that the king's jealou.sy of Zara may be con-
firmed and cleared. Almeria has come with Leonora
to the temple to repeat her vows at the tomb of
Alphonso. Sound as of a distant voice has startled
her.
No, all is hushed, and still as death. — 'Tis di-eadful I
How revei-end in the face of this tall pile.
Whose ancient pUlars rear their marble heads.
To bear aloft its arched and ponderous roof.
By its own weight made steadfast and immovable,
Looking tranquillity 1 It strikes an awe
And terror on my aching sight ; the tombs
And monumental caves of death look cold,
And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart.
Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice ;
Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear
Thy voice — my own affrights me with its echoes.
But Almeria holds by her purpose, and requires
Leonora to leave her when she has led her to
Anselmo's tomb. The scene opening, then discovera
a place of tombs, with one monument, fronting the
view, greater than the rest. Heli seeking Osmyn
enters, and, at sound of a distant voice of complaint,
A.D. 1 (
PLAYS.
387
follows it. Almeria is brought to the great tomb by
Leonora.
Leon. Behold the sacred vault, within whose womb
The poor remains of good Anselmo rest ;
Yet fi-esh and unconsumed hy time or worms !
What do I see ? Heaven ! either my eyes
Are false, or still the marble door remains
Unclosed : the iron gates that lead to death
Beneath, are still wide- stretched upon their hinge,
And staring on us -with unfolded leaves.
Aim. Sure 'tis the friendly yawn of death for me ;
And that dumb mouth, significant in show.
Invites me to the bed where I alone
Shall rest ; shows me the grave, where nature, weary
And long oppressed with woes and bending cares.
May lay the burden down, and sink in slumbers
Of peace eternal. Death, grim death, will fold
Me in his leaden arms, and press me close
To his cold claj'ey breast ; my father then
WUl cease his tyranny ; and Garcia too
' Will flj' my pale deformity with loathing.
My soul, enlarged from its vile bonds, will mount,
And range the starry orbs and milky ways
Of that refulgent world where I shall swim
In liquid light, and float on seas of bliss
To my Alphonso's soul. O joy too great !
O ecstacy of thought ! Help me, Anselmo ;
Help me, Alphonso : take me, reach thy hand ;
To thee, to thee I call, to thee, Alphonso :
Alphonso !
Almeria, Leonora. Osmyn ascending from the tomb.
Osm. Who calls that wretched thing that was Alphonso ?
Aim. Angels, and all the host of heaven, support me !
Osm. Whence is that voice, whose shrillness, from the
'" grave.
And growing to his father's shroud, roots up
Alphonso ?
Aim. Mercy ! Providence ! oh, speak !
Speak it quickly, quickly ! speak to me.
Comfort me, help me, hold me, hide me, hide me,
Leonora, in thy bosom, from the light.
And from my eyes 1
Osm. Amazement and illusion !
Rivet and nail me where I stand, ye powers,
[Cominff forward.
That motionless I may be stiU deceived.
»Let me not stir, nor breathe, lest I dissolve
That tender, lovely form of painted air.
So like Almeria. Ha ! it sinks, it falls ;
1 'U catch it ere it goes, and grasp her shade.
'Tis life ! 'tis warm ! 'tis she I 'tis she herself !
Nor dead nor shade, but breathing and alive !
It is Almeria, 'tis, it is my wife 1
Almeria, Leonora, Osmy.v, and Heli.
Zeon. Alas, she stirs not yet, nor lifts her eyes!
He too is fainting. — Help me, help me, stranger.
Whoe'er thou art, and lend thy hand to raise
These bodies.
Sell. Ha ! 'tis he ! and with Almeria !
O miracle of happiness ! joy
Unhoped for ! Does Almeria live ?
Ostn. Where is she ?
Let me behold and touch her, and be sure
'Tis she ; show me her face, and let me feel
Her lips with mine. — 'Tis she, I'm not deceived;
I taste her breath, I warmed her and am wanned.
Look up, Almeria, bless me with thine eyes ;
Look on thy love, thy lover, and thy husband.
Aim. I 've sworn I '11 not wed Garcia : why d'ye force me ?
Is this a father ?
Osm. Look on thy Alphonso.
Thy father is not here, my love, nor Garcia :
Nor am I what I seem, but thy Alphonso.
Wilt thou not loiow me ? Hast thou then forgot me ?
Hast thou thy eyes, yet canst not see Alphonso ?
Am I so altered, or art thou so changed.
That seeing my disguise thou seest not me ?
Aim. It is, it is Alphonso ! 'tis his face,
His voice ! I know him now, I know him all.
Oh, take me to thy arms, and bear me hence.
Back to the bottom of the boundless deep.
To seas beneath, where thou so long hast dwelt.
Oh, how hast thou returned ? how hast thou charmed
The wildness of the waves and rocks to this ?
That thus relenting, they have given thee back
To earth, to light and life, to love and me.
Osm. Oh, I '11 not ask, nor answer how, or why
We both have backward trod the paths of fate.
To meet again in life ; to know I have thee.
Is knowing more than any circumstance
Or means by which I have thee.
To fold thee thus, to press thy balmy lips,
And gaze upon thy eyes, is so much jo}',
I have not leisure to reflect, or know.
Or trifle time in thinking.
Aim. Stay a while —
Let me look on thee, yet a little more.
Osm. What wouldst thou ? thou dost put me from thee.
Aim. Yes.
Osm. And why ? what dost thou mean ? why dost thou
gaze so ?
Aim. I know not ; 'tis to see thy face, I think —
It is too much 1 too much to hear and live '
To see him thus again is such profusion
Of joy, of bliss — I cannot bear — I must
Be mad — I cannot be transported thus.
Osm. Thou excellence, thou joy, thou heaven of love!
Aim. Where hast thou been ? and how art thou alive ?
How is all this ? All-powerful Heaven, what are we !
Oh, my strained heart I — let me again behold thee,
For I weep to see thee. — Art thou not paler '^
Much, much ; how thou art changed !
Osm. Not in my love.
Aim. No, no; thy griefs, I know, have done this to thee.
Thou hast wept much, Alphonso ; and I fear.
Too much, too tenderly, lamented me.
Osm. Wrong not my love, to say too tenderly.
No more, my life; talk not of tears or grief;
ASliction is no more, now thou art found.
MTiy dost thou weep, and hold thee from my arms ;
Mj' arms which ache to fold thee fast, and gTow
To thee with twining ? Come, come to my heart.
Aim. I will, for I should never look enough.
They would have married me ; but I had sworn
To Heaven and thee, and sooner would have died.
Osm. Perfection of all faithfulness and love I
Aim. Indeed I would. — Nay, I would tell thee all.
If I could speak ; how I have mourned and praj-ed ;
For I have prayed to thee as to a saint :
And thou hast heard my prayer, for thou art come
To my distress, to my despair, which Heaven
Could only by restoring thee have cured.
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Osm. Grant mo but life, good Heaven, tut length of
days,
To pay some part, some Uttlc of this debt.
This countless sum of tenderness and love.
For wliich I stand engaged to this all-excellence ;
Tlien bear mo in a whirlwind to my fate.
Snatch mc from life, and cut me short unwarned ;
Then, then 'twill bo enough !— I shall be old,
I shall have lived beyond all eras then
Of yet unmeasured time ; when I have made
This exquisite, this most amazing goodness.
Some recompense of love and matchless truth.
Aim. 'Tis more than recompense to see thy face ;
If heaven is greater joy, it is no happiness,
For 'tis not to be borne. — What shaU I say ?
I have a thousand things to know, and ask.
And speak. — That thou art here, beyond all hope,
All thought ; that all at onco thou art before me.
And with such suddenness hast hit my sight.
In such surprise, such mystery, such ecstasy ;
It hurries all my soul, and stuns my sense.
Sure from thy father's tomb thou didst arise.
Osm. I did ; and thou, my love, didst call me ; thou.
Aim. True ; but how camest thou there ? Wert thou
alone ?
Osm. I was, and lying on my father's lead,
When broken echoes of a distant voice
Disturbed the sacred silence of the vault.
In murmurs round my head. I rose and listened,
And thought I heard thy spirit call Alphonso ;
I thought I saw theo too ; but oh, I thought not
That I indeed should be so blest to see thee !
Aim. But stiU, how camest thou hither ? how thus ?
—Ha!
What 's he, who like thyself is started here
Ere seen ?
Osm. Where ? ha ! what do I see ? Antonio ?
I 'm fortunate indeed 1 — my friend too, safe !
Beli. Most happily, in finding you thus bless'd.
Aim. More miracles ! Antonio too escaped !
Osm. And twice escaped, both from the rage of seas
And war : for in the fight I saw him fall.
Sell. But feU unhurt, a prisoner as yourself,
And as yourself made free ; hither I came
Impatiently to seek you, where I knew
Your grief would lead you, to lament Anselmo.
Osm. There are no wonders, or else all is wonder.
Mdl. I saw you on the ground, and raised j-ou up ;
When mth astonishment I saw Almeria.
Osm. I saw her too, and therefore saw not thee.
Aim. Nor I ; nor could I, for my eyes were yours.
Osm. What means the bounty of all-gracious Heaven.
That persevering still with open hand,
It scatters good, as in a waste of mercv !
Where will this end ? but Heaven is infinite
In all, and can continue to bestow
When scanty number shall be spent in telling.
Leon. Or I 'm deceived, or I beheld the glimpse
Of two in shining habits cross the aisle ;
W'ho by their pointing seem to mark this place.
Aim. Sure I have dreamt, if we must part so soon.
Osm. I wish, at least, our parting were a dream,
Or we could sleep till we again were met.
Sell. Zara with Selim, sir ; I saw and know 'em ;
Tou must be quick, for love will lend her wings.
Aim. What love ? who is she ? why are you alarm'd ?
Osm. She 's the reverse of thee ; she 's my unhappiness.
Harbour no thought that may disturb thy peace ;
But gently take thyself away, lest she
Should come, and see the straining of my eyes
To foUow thee. I '11 think how we may meet
To part no more. My friend wiU tell thee aU ;
How I escaped, how I am here, and thus ;
How I 'm not called Alphonso now, but OsmjTi ;
And he Heli. All, all he will unfold.
Ere ne.xt we meet.
Aim. Sure, we shall meet again
Osm. We shall : we part not but to meet again.
Gladness and warmth of evex--kindling love
DwcU with thee, and revive thy heart in absence.
Then tipon O.smyn's happiness comes Zara, \vith
the eunuch Selim ; Zara, who had saved him when
he was cast dying on her shore. The reproaches of
her love are at first unheard, because his mind is
still upon Almeria.
Zara. Thou hast a heart, though 'tis a savage one;
Give it me as it is ; I ask no more
For all I've done, and all I have endured ;
For s;iving thee, when I beheld thee first,
Driven by the tide upon my country's coast,
Pale and expiring, drenched in briny waves.
Thou and thy friend, till my compassion found thee ;
Compassion ! scarce will 't own that name, so soon,
So quickly was it love ; for thou wert godlike
Even then. Kneeling on eai-th, I loosed my hair,
And with it dried thy watery cheeks ; then chafed
Thy temples, tUl reviving blood arose.
And Uko the morn vermilioned o'er thy face.
O Heaven ! how did my heart rejoice and ache,
WTion I beheld the day-break of thy eyes,
And felt the balm of thy respiring lips !
Osm. Oh, call not to my mind what you have done ;
It sets a debt of that account before me,
^Vhich shows me poor, and bankrupt even in hopes.
Zara. The faithful Selim and my women know
The dangers which I tempted to conceal you.
You know how I abused the credulous king ,
^Vhat arts I used to make you pass on him,
WTien he received you as the Piince of Fez ;
And as my kinsman, honoui'ed and advanced you.
Oh, why do I relate what I have done ?
What did I not ? Was 't not for you this war
Commenced ? not knowing who you were, nor why
You hated Manuel, I urged my husband
To this invasion ; where he late was lost,
Where all is lost, and I am made a slave.
Look on me now, from empire fallen to slavery ;
Think on my sufferings first, then look on me ;
Think on the cause of all, then view thyself :
Reflect on Osmj-n, and then look on Zara,
The fallen, the lost, and now the captive Zara,
And now abandoned — say, what then is Osmyn?
Zara still offers love :
W^e may be free ; the conqueror is mine ;
In chains unseen I hold him by the heart.
And can unwind or strain him as I please.
Give me thy love, I 'U give thee liberty.
Her offer is in vain. Her passion becomes anger.
In the moment of her anger the king enters, and she
f
i.D. 1C97.]
PLAYS.
389
seeks revenge and accuses Osmyn of daring to be
rival to the king. Thus she commits him to a prison
and departs with Manuel.
The scene of the Third Act is the prison in which
Osmyn lies.
Osmyn. But now, and I was closed within the tomb
That holds my father's ashes ; and but now,
Where he was prisoner, I am too imprisoned.
Sure 'tis the hand of Heaven that leads me thus.
And for some purpose points out these remembrances.
In a dark comer of my cell I found
This paper ; what it is this light will show.
If mij Alplionao — ha 1 — [^Reading.
If my Alphonso live, restore him, Heaven ;
Give me more weight, crush my declining years
With bolts, with chains, imprisonment and want ;
But bless my son, visit not him for me.
It is his hand ; this was his prayer — yet more :
Let every hair, which sorrow by the roots [^Reading.
Tears from my hoary and devoted head,
Be doubled in thy mercies to my son :
Not for myself, but him, hear me, all gracious
'Tis wanting what should foUow — Heaven should follow.
But 'tis torn off — Why should that word alone
Be torn from his petition ?
Osmyn is visited by Heli, for whom, through
Almeria's influence, admission has been obtained. He
tells that AJmeria hei-self ^\^1I vLsit him at midnight ;
that Manuel's troops are in mutiny because the king's
avarice defrauds them of theu- share of plunder ; and
that the news of this has caused Alphonso's subjects
in Valentia to rise again.st the tyrant for recovery
of Uberty. Osmyn's (Alphonso's) spirit rises : —
What not Almeria could
Revive, or raise, my people's voice has wakened.
O my Antonio, I am all on fire,
3Iy soul is up in arms, ready to charge
And bear amidst the foe, with conquering troops.
But how shall he free himself from his bonds, and
lead his people on to liberty 1 Heli advises liim that
Zara, the cause of his re.straint, may be the means
of fi-eedom. When she comes, let him. abate of his
aversion.
Osm. I hate her not, nor can dissemble love :
But as I may, I '11 do. I have a paper
Which I would show thee, friend, but that the sight
Would hold thee here, and clog thy expedition.
Within I found it, by my father's hand
'Twas writ ; a prayer for me, wherein appears
Paternal love prevailing o'er his sorrows ;
Such sanctity, such tenderness so mixed
With grief as would draw tears from inhumanity.
Heli. The care of Providence sure left it there.
To arm your mind with hope. Such piety
Was never heard in vain : Heaven has in store
For you those blessings it withheld from him.
In that assurance live ; which time, I hope.
And our next meeting will confirm.
Osm. Farewell,
My friend ; the good thou dost deserve attend thee.
Presently Zara comes, veiled, to the prison, and for
a moment is mistaken for Almeiia. The generosity
within her passionate nature, and a perception that
Osmyn's imprisonment witldiolds him from some
work that he aspii-es to do, make her i-esolve to free
him. She returns after a time with the king's signet,
which she will use as warrant for setting Osmyn free ;
but comes, when Almeria is with him. Then her
anger rises to its highest ; she warns the guards that
the public safety requires his strictest imprLsonment ;
that none, no, not the princess, shall be suffered to
see or speak with him ; and leaves him at the close
of the Act with the warning that
Heaven has no rage Hke love to hatred tiimed,
JTor hell a fury like a woman scorned.
The scene of the Fourth Act is a room of state in
the palace. This is the first dialogue : —
Z.iRA and Selim.
Zara. Thou hast already racked me with thy stay,
Therefore require me not to ask thee twice ;
Reply at once to all. What is concluded ?
Sel. Your accusation highly has incensed
The king, and were alone enough to urge
The fate of Osmyn ; but to that, fresh news
Is since arrived of more revolted troops.
'Tis certain Heli too is fled, and with him
(Which breeds amazement and disti-action) some
Who bore high offices of weight and trust.
Both in the state and army. This confirms
The king, in fuU belief of all you told him
Concerning Osmyn and his correspondence
With them who first began the mutiny.
AVTierefore a warrant for his death is signed.
And order given for public execution.
Zara. Ha ! haste thee ! fly ! prevent his fate and mine ;
Find out the king, tell him I have of weight
More than his crown to impart ere OsmjTi die.
Sel. t needs not, for the king wiU straight be here.
And as to your revenge, not his own interest,
Pretend to sacrifice the Hfe of Osmjii.
Zara. What shall I say ? Invent, contrive, adwse,
Somewhat to blind the king, and save his life
In whom I Hve. Spite of my rage and pride,
I am a woman, and a lover still.
Oh, 'tis more grief but to suppose his death
Than still to meet the rigour of his scorn.
From my despair my anger had its source ;
When he is dead I must despair for ever.
For ever 1 that's despair — it was distrust
Before ; distrust will ever be in love,
And anger in distrust, both short-lived paios.
But in despair, and ever-during death.
No term, no bound, but infinite of woe.
torment, but to think ! what then to heart
Not to be borne. — De\'ise the means to shun it,
Quick, or by Heaven this dagger drinks thy blood '.
Sel. My Ufe is yours, nor wish I to preserve it,
But to serve you. I have already thought.
Zara. Forgive my rage ; I know thy love and truth.
But say, what 's to he done ? or when, or how.
Shall I prevent, or stop the approaching danger ?
Sel. You must still seem more resolute and .ixed
On Osmyn's death ; too quick a change of mercy
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[A.D. 1097.
Might breed suspicion of the cause. Advise
That execution may be done in private.
Zara. On what pretence ?
ggl_ Your own request 's enough.
HowBver, for a colour, tell him, you
Have cause to fear his guards may be corrupted,
And some of them bought off to Osmyn's interest,
Who, at the place of execution, wUl
Attempt to force his way for an escape.
The state of things will countenance all suspicions.
Then offer to the king to have him strangled
In secret by your mutes, and get an order
That none but mutes may have admittance to him.
I can no more, the king is here. Obtain
This grant — and I 'U acquaint you with the rest.
Manuel hears from Gonsalez that papers have been
found leading to the belief that Alphonso is alive
and arming in Valentia. He adds rumour of his
having been saved upon the coast of Africa. Zara,
hearing this, at once suspects that Osmyn is Al-
phonso.
Heaven ! a thousand things occur at once
To my remembrance now, that make it plain.
O certain death for him, as sure despair
For me, if it be known ! — if not, what hope
Have I ? Yet 'twere the lowest baseness, now
To yield him up. — No, I will still conceal him,
And try the force of yet more obligations.
Zara then acts upon Selim's counsel, adding that
one who called himself Alphonso was cast on her
coast, but had secretly departed to Spain, and that
Heli and Osmyn were in league with him. Therefore
Osmyn must die ; but certain guards have conspired
to rescue him. Let him be given up to her, to be
strangled by her mutes. Order is given that none
have admittance to the prison except Zara's mutes,
or such as bring her warrant.
Zara. They and no other, not the princess' self.
Ferez. Your majesty shall be obeyed.
Man. Retire.
Gon. \Aside.'\ That interdiction so particular.
Pronounced with vehemence against the princess.
Should have more meaning than appears barefaced :
The king is blinded by his love, and heeds
It not. — [ jTo Zara.] Your majesty sure might have spared
That last restraint : you hardly can suspect
The princess is confederate with the Moor.
Zara. I 've heard hor charity did once extend
So far, to visit him, at his request.
Gon. Ha!
Man. How ? she visit Osmyn '. "N^Tiat, my daughter ?
Sel. Madam, take heed ; or you have ruined all.
[Aside to Zara.
Zara. And after did solicit you on his
Behalf.
Man. Never. You have been misinformed.
Zara. Indeed ? Then 'twas a whisper spread by some.
Who wished it so ; a common art in courts.
I wiU retire, and instantly prepare
Instructions for my ministers of death.
Gonsalez suggests to King Manuel doubts arising
from the fitful actions of Zara, and the king has
conjured up a doubt of his own, that if Almeria
visited Osmyn in his prison she must be in the plot
acainst him. Almeria is seen coming, and Gonsalez
If what I fear be true, she 'U be concerned
For OsmjTi's death, as she 's Alphonso's friend.
Urge that, to try if she '11 solicit for him.
In the next scene the distress of Almeria, and the
misapprehending of her father's words —
I 'm not to learn that cursed Alphonso lives ;
Nor am I ignorant what Osmyn is,
cause her to become herself unconsciously the be-
trayer of her husband's secret. The king believes
her to be raving ; but after he has left her, the truth
is in other words more clearly repeated by her, and
becomes known to Gonsalez, who for his son's sake,
that Garcia may yet wed Almeria, resolves not to
tell the king.
If I should tell the king-
Things come to this extremity: his daughter
Wedded already — what if he should yield ?
Knowing no remedy for what is past.
And urged by nature pleading for his chUd,
With which he seems to be already shaken.
And though I know he hates beyond the grave
Ansclmo's race ; yet if — that If concludes me.
To doubt, when I may be assured, is folly.
But how prevent the captive queen, who means
To set him free ? Ay, now 'tis plain ; oh, well
Invented tale ! He was Alphonso's friend.
This subtle woman will amuse the king
If I delay. — 'Twill do — or better so. —
One to my wish. — Alonzo, thou art welcome.
Gonsalez and Alonzo.
Alon. The king expects your lordship.
Gon. 'Tis no matter.
I 'm not i' the way at present, good Alonzo.
Alon. If 't please your lordship, I 'U return, and say
I have not seen you.
Gon. Do, my best Alonzo.
Yet stay, I would — but go ; anon will serve —
Yet I have that requires thy speedy help.
I think thou wouldst not stop to do me service.
Alon. I am your creature.
Gon. Say thou art my friend.
I 've seen thy sword do noble execution.
Alon. All that it can, your lordship shall command.
Gon. Thanks ; and I take thee at thy word ; thou 'st seen
Among the followers of the captive queen,
Dumb men, who make their meaning known \iy signs f
Alon. I have, my lord.
Gon. Couldst thou procure with speed
And privacy, the wearing garb of one
Of those, though purchased by his death, I 'd give
Thee such reward as should exceed thy wish.
Alon. Conclude it done. Where shall I wait your lord-
ship?
Gon. At my apartment. Use thy utmost diligence ;
And say I 've not boon seen — haste, good Alonzo.
\livit Alonzo.
So, this can hardly fail. Alphonso slain,
The greatest obstacle is then removed.
■■]
PLAYS.
391
Almeria widowed, yet again may wed ;
And I yet fix the crown on Grajcia's head.
[Exit.
The scene of the Fifth Act is at first still in the
palace. Thus it opens : —
Manuel, Perez, and Aloxzo.
Man. Xot to be found r in an ill hour he 's absent.
Xone, say you, none ? what, not the favourite eunuch i
Nor she herself, nor any of her mutes,
Have yet required admittance .''
.P'"". None, my lord.
Man. Is Osmyn so disposed as I commanded ?
P«-. Fast bomid in double chains, and at full length,
He lies supine on earth ; with as much ease
She might remove the centre of this earth,
As loose the rivets of his bonds.
Man. 'Tis well.
[A Mute appears, and seeing the King retires.
Ha ! stop, and seize that mule ; Alonzo, follow him.
Entering he met my eyes, and started back.
Frighted, and fumbling one hand in his bosom,
As to conceal the importance of his errand.
[Ahoyzo folloics Aim, and returns with a paper.
Alon. Oh, bloody proof of obstinate fidelity !
Man. \Miat dost thou mean ?
Alon. Soon as I seized the man,
He snatched from out his bosom this, and strove,
With rash and greedy haste, at once to cram
The morsel down his throat. I catched his arm,
And hardly wrenched his hand to wring it from him ;
Which done, he drew his poniard from his side,
And on the instant plunged it in his breast.
Man. Remove the body thence ere Zara see it.
Alon. [Aside.l I 'U be so bold to borrow his attire;
'TwUl quit me of my promise to Gonsalez.
Maxuel and Pekez.
Fer. Whate'er it is, the king's complexion turns.
[Aside.
Man. How 's this ? my mortal foe beneath my roof ?
[Having read the letter.
give me patience, all ye powers ! no, rather
Give me new rage, implacable revenge,
And trebled fury. — Ha ! who's there ?
Per- My lord !
Man. Hence, slave ! how darest thou 'bide, to watch and
pry
Into how poor a thing a king descends,
How like thyself, when passion treads him down 'i
Ha ! stir not, on thy life ! for thou wert fixed
And planted here to sec me gorge this bait.
And lash against the hook. — By Heaven, you 're aU
Rank traitors I thou art with the rest combined ;
Thou knew'st that Osm\-n was Alphonso, knew'st
My daughter privately with him conferred ;
And wert the spy and pander to their meeting.
Fcr. By all that 's holy, I 'm amazed
Man. Thou Uest !
Thou art accomplice too with Zara : here
WTiere she sets down — Still will I set thee free —
[Reading.
That somewhere is repeated — I have power
O'er them that are thy guards.— 'Mark that, thou traitor '.
Per. It was your majesty's command, I should
Obey her order
Man. [Reading.] And still will I set
Thee free, Alphonso. — Hell ! cursed, cursed Alphonso !
False and perfidious Zara ! Strumpet daughter 1
Away, begone, thou feeble boy, fond love !
All nature, softness, pity and compassion !
This hour I throw ye off, and entertain
Fell hate within my breast, revenge and gall.
By Heaven, I 'U meet and counterwork this treachery !
Hark thee, villain, traitor — answer me, slave !
Fer. My service has not merited those titles.
Man. Darest thou reply ? take that— thy service ? thine ?
[Strikes him.
What's thy whole life, thy soul, thy all, to my
One moment's ease •' Hear my command ; and look
That thou obey, or horror on thy head.
Drench me thy dagger in Alphonso's heart :
A\Tiy dost thou start ? Resolve, or
-P"'- Sir, I will.
Man. 'Tis weU — that when she comes to set him free.
His teeth may grin and mock at her remorse.
[Perez going.
Stay thee— I 've farther thought— I 'U add to tliis,
And give her eyes yet greater disappointment :
When thou hast ended him, bring me his robe ;
And let the ceU where she 'U expect to see him
Be darkened so as to amuse the sight.
I 'U be conducted thither — mark me well —
There with his turbant and his robe arrayed.
And laid along as he now lies supine,
I shall convict her to her face of falsehood.
When for Alphonso's she shall take my hand,
And breathe her sighs upon my lips for his.
Sudden I 'U start, and dash her with her guilt.
But see she comes ; I 'U shun the encounter ; thou.
Follow me, and give heed to my direction.
Zara then sees the king pa.ss her with averted eye.
The mute is not returned. She feai-s that Sehm's
plotting is seen through.
O fate of fools ! ofiicious in contriving ;
In executing puzzled, lame and lost.
Selim pledges his life for his fidelity,
then for herself, and says to Selim —
She resolves
Regard me well ; and dare not to reply
To what I give in charge ; for I 'm resolved.
Give order that the two remaining mutes
Attend me instantly, with each a bowl
Of such ingredients mixed, as wiU with speed
Benumb the living faculties and give
Most easy and inevitable death.
Yes, Osm)-n, yes ; be Osmyn or Alphonso,
I '11 give thee freedom, if thou darest be free :
Such liberty as I embrace myself
Thou shalt partake. Since fates no more afford,
I can but die with thee to keep my word.
The scene then changes to the [irison ; and this is
the close of the play : —
Goxsalez alone, disguised like a Mute, icith a dagger.
Nor sentinel, nor guard ! the doors unbarred !
And all as still as at the noon of night !
Sure death already has been busy here.
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[i.D. 1697.
There lies my way, that door too is unlocked. [Looks in.
Ha I sure he sleejjs— all 's dark within, save what
A lamp, that feehly lifts a sickly flame.
By fits reveals. — His face seems t\irned, to favour
The attempt. I '11 steal, and do it unperceived.
What noise ! Somebody coming 'i 'st Alonzo ?
Nohody ? Sure he '11 wait without— I would
'Twere done— I 'U crawl, and sting him to tho heart :
Then cast my akin, and leave it there to answer it.
\J}oes in.
Garcia a»d Alonzo.
Gnr. Where? where, Alonzo? where 's my father?
where
Tho king ? Confusion ! all is on the rout 1
-VU 's lost, all ruin'd by surprise and treachery.
Where, where is he ? why dost thou thus mislead me ?
Alon. My lord, he entered but a moment since,
And could not pass me unperceived — What, ho !
My lord, my lord ! what, ho ! my lord Gonsalez !
Garcia, Alonzo, Gonsalez hUodij.
Gon. Pei-dition choke your olamoiu-s! — whence this
rudeness ?
Gaxcia !
Gar. Perdition, slavery and death.
Are entering now our doors. Where is the king ?
What means this blood ? and why this face of horror ?
Gon. No matter — give me first to know the cause
Of these your rash and ill-timed exclamations.
Gar. The eastern gate is to tho foe betrayed,
Who, but for heaps of slain that choke the passage,
Had entered long ere now, and borne down aU
Before 'em, to the palace walls. Unless
The king in person animate our men,
Granada's lost : and to confirm this fear,
Tho traitor Perez and the captive Moor
Are thi'ough a postern fled, and join the foe.
Gon. Would all were false as that ; for whom you call
The Moor, is dead. That Osmyn was Alphonso ;
In whose heart's blood this poniard yet is warm.
Gar. Impossible, for Osmyn was, while flying.
Pronounced aloud by Perez for Alphonso.
Gon. Enter that chamber and convince your eyes
How much report has wronged your easy fate.
[Garcia goes in.
A/on. My lord, for certain truth, Perez is fled;
And has declared the cause of his revolt
AVas to revenge a blow the king had given him.
He-enter Garcia.
Gar. Ruin and horror ! heart-wounding sight !
Gon. AVTiat says my son? what ruin ? ha, what horror ?
Gar. Blasted my eyes, and speechless be my tongue !
Rather than or to see or to relate
This deed. — O dire mistake ! fatal blow !
The king
Gon. Alon. The king 1
('or. Dead, weltering, drowned in blood.
See, see, attired like Osmyn, where he lies! [They look in.
Oh, whence, or how, or wherefore was this done ?
I'ut what imports the manner, or the cause ?
Nothing remains to do, or to require,
But that we all should turn our swords against
Oui-selves, and expiate with our own his blood.
Gon. wretch I cursed, and rash, deluded fool!
< In me, on me, turn your avenging sword !
I, who have spilt my royal master's blood.
Should make atonement by a deatn a.s horrid.
And fall beneath the hand of my own son.
Gar. Ha ! what ? atone this murder with a greater ?
The horror of that thought has damped my rage.
Tho earth already groans to bear this deed ;
Oppress her not, nor think to stain her face
With more unnatm-al blood. Murder my father !
Better with this to rip up my own bowels.
And bathe it to the hilt, in far less damnable
Self-murder.
Gon. Oh, my son ; from the blind dotage
Of a father's fondness these ills arose :
For thee I 've been ambitious, base, and bloody :
For thee I 've plunged into this sea of sin ;
Stemming the tide with only one weak hand.
While t' other bore the crown (to wreath thy brow),
Wliose weight has sunk me ere I reached the shore.
Gar. Fatal ambition ! Hark ! the foe has entered.
[Shout.
The shrillness of that shout speaks 'em at hand.
We have no time to search into the cause
Of this sui-prising and most fatal error.
What 's to be done ? the king's death known, wiU strike
The few remaining soldiers with despair.
And make 'em jdeld to mercy of the conqueror.
Alon. My lord, I've thought how to conceal the body:
Require me not to tell the means till done,
Lest you forbid what then }-ou may approve.
[Goes in. Shout
Gon. They shout again! Whate'er he means to do,
'Twere fit the soldiers were amused with hopes ;
And in the meantime fed with expectation
To see the king in person at their head.
Gar. Were it a truth, I fear 'tis now too late ;
But I 'U omit no care, nor haste, to try
Or to repel their force or bravely die.
Gonsalez and Alonzo.
Gon. What hast thou done, Alonzo ?
Alon. Such a deed
As but an hour ago I 'd not have done.
Though for the crown of universal empire.
But what are kings, reduced to common clay ?
Or who can wound the dead ? I 've from tho body
Severed the head, and in an obscure corner
Disposed it, mufiled in the mute's attire.
Leaving to view of them that enter next.
Alone the undistinguished trunk
Which may be still mistaken by tho guards
For Osmyn, if in seeking for the king
They chance to find it.
Gon. 'Twas an act of horror;
And of a piece with this day's dire misdeeds.
But 'tis no time to ponder or repent.
Haste thee, Alonzo, haste thee hence with speed,
To aid my son. I 'U follow with the last
Reserve to re-enforce his ai-ms : at least,
I shall make good, and shelter his retreat.
Zaua, followed h;j Selim, and two Mutes bearinij the bowh.
Zara. Silence and solitude are everywhere !
Through all the gloomy ways and iron doors
That hither lead, nor human face nor voice
Is seen or heard. A dreadful din was wont
To gi'ato the sense, when entered here ; from gi'oans
And howls of slaves condemned, from clink of chains,
-Vnd crash of rusty bai-s and creaking hinges ;
I
I
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A.D. 1697.]
PLAYS.
393
And ever and anon the sight was dashed
With frightful faces, and the meagre looks
Of grim and ghastly executioners.
Yet more this stillness terriiies my soul,
Than did that scene of complicated horrors.
It may be that the cause of this my errand
And iiurpose, being changed from life to death,
Has also wrought this chilling change of temper.
Or does my heart bode more ': what can it more
Than death ?
Let 'em set down the howls, and warn Alphonso
That I am here — so. You return and find
\_Miites go in.
The king: tell him, what he required I've done,
And wait his coming to approve the deed.
Z.\UA fn/t/ flutes.
Zara. ^^'hat have you seen ? Ha I wherefore stare you
thus [T/ie Mutes return and look affrighted.
With haggard eyes ? why are your arms a-cross ?
Your heavy and desponding heads himg down ?
Why is 't, you more than .speak in tlie.se sad .signs ?
Give me more ample knowledge of this mourning.
[^T/iei/ fjo to the seene^ tvhiek opening, she per-
ceives the hodtf.
Ha ! prostrate I bloody I headless ! Uli —I 'm lost !
Osmyn ! O Alphonso ! Cruel fate !
Cruel, cruel, oh, more than killing object !
1 came prepared to die. and see thee die —
Nay, came pi-epared myself to give thee death —
But cannot bear to find thee thus, my Osmyn —
Oh, this accursed, this base, this treacherous king !
Zara, Selim, and Mutes.
Sel. I 've sought in vain, but nowhere can the king
Be found.
Zara. Get thee to hell, and seek him there !
[^Stabs him.
His hellish rage had wanted moans to act,
But for thy fatal and pernicious counsel.
Sel. You thought it better then — but I 'm rewarded :
The mute )ou sent by some mischance was seen,
And forced to yield your letter with his life :
I found the dead and bloody body stripped —
My tongue falters, and my voice fails — I sink —
Drink not the poison — for Alphonso is \_Dies.
Ziira. As thou art now — and I shall quickly be.
'Tis not that he is dead; for 'twas decreed
We both should die. Nor is 't that I survive ;
I have a certain remedy for that.
But oh, he died unknowing in my heart I
He knew I loved, but knew not to what height :
Nor that I meant to fall before his eyes,
A mart_\T and a victim to my vows :
Insensible of this last proof, he 's gone.
Yet fate alone can rob his moital part
Of sense ; his soul still sees, and knows each purpose,
And fixed event of my persisting faith.
Then, wherefore do I pause 'i give me the bowl.
[A Mute kneels and gives one nf the bowls.
Hover a moment, yet, thou gentle spirit,
.Soul of my love, and I will wait thy flight I
This to oirr mutual bliss when joined above. \^Drinks.
Oh, friendly draught, already in my heart !
Cold, coldl my veins are icicles and fiost.
I '11 creep into his bosom, lay me there ;
170
Cover us close— or I shall chill his breast,
And fright him from my arms — See, see, he slides
StUl further from me ! look, he hides his face !
I cannot feel it — quite beyond my reach—
Oh, now he's gone, and all is dark [i)«,j
[^The Mutes kneel and mourn over her.
Almeria, Leonora, and Mutes.
Jim. C)h, let me seek him in this horrid cell ;
For in the tomb, or prison, I alone
Must hope to find him.
Leon. Heavens 1 what dismal scene
Of death is this :- The eunuch Selim slain !
Aim. Show me, for I am come in search of death ;
But want a guide ; for tears have dimmed my sight.
Leon. Alas, a little farther, and behold
Zara all pale and dead I two frightful men,
"WTio seem the murderers, kneel weeping by,
FecHng remorse too late for what they 've done.
But oh, forbear — lift up your eyes no more ;
But haste away, fly from this fatal place
Where miseries are multiplied ; return.
Return ! ajid look not on : for there 's a dagger
Ready to stab the sight, and make your eyes
Rain blood.
Aim. Oh, I foreknow, foresee that object.
Is it at last then so ? is he then dead ':
What, dead at last ! quite, quite, for ever dead !
There, there I see him ! there he lies, the blood
Yet bubbling from his wounds — Oh, more than savage '
Had they or hearts or eyes, that did this deed ?
Could eyes endure to guide such cruel hands ';
Are not my eyes guilty alike with theirs.
That thus can gaze, and yet not turn to stone ?
I do not weep ! The springs of tears are dried
And of a sudden I am calm, as if
All things were well : and yet my husband 's murdered !
Yes, yes, I know to mourn ; I '11 sluice this heart.
The source of woe, and let the torrent loose.
Those men have left to weep : they look on me !
I hope they murder aU on whom they look.
Behold me well ; youi- bloody hands have erred.
And wrongfully have slain those innocents ;
I am the sacrifice designed to bleed ;
And come prepared to yield my throat — they shake
Their- heads, in sign of grief and innocence,
[^The Mutes point at the boui on the ground.
And point — what mean they ? Ha ! a cup. Oh, well
I understand what medicine has been here.
Oh, noble thirst 1 yet greedy to drink all —
Oh, for another draught of death. — What mean they ?
[The Mutes 7»!«^ at the other cup.
Ha ! point again ? 'tis there, and full, I hope.
Thanks to the liberal hand that filled thee thus :
I '11 drink my glad acknowledgment
Leon. Oh, hold.
For mercy's sake I upon my knee I beg
Aim. With thee the kneeling World should beg in vain.
Secst thou not there ? behold who prostrate lies.
And pleads against thee ;- who shall then prevail ?
Yet I will take a cold and parting leave
From his pale lips ; I '11 kiss him, ere I drink.
Lest the rank juice should bli.ster on my motith
And stain the colour of my last adieu.
Horror ! a headless trunk 1 nor lips nor face,
[^Coming nearer the bodij, starts and lets fall the cup.
But spouting veins, and mangled flesh ! Oh, oh !
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[A.I.. 1697
Almekia, Leonora, ALrHONso, Heli, Perez, with Garcia
prisoner, Guards and Attendants.
Alph. Away, stand o£E ! where is she ? let me fly.
Save her from death, and snatch her to mj' heart.
Aim. Oh!
Alph. Forbear ; my arms alone shall hold her up,
Warm her to life, and wake her into gladness.
Oh, let me talk to thy reviving sense.
The words of joy and peace ! warm thy cold beauties,
With the new-flushing ardour of my cheek !
Into thy lips pour the soft trickling balm
Of cordial sighs ! and re-inspire thy bosom
With the breath of love ! Shine, awake, Almeria !
Give a new birth to thy long-shaded eyes.
Then double on the day reflected light !
Aim. Where am I 'i Heaven ! what does this dream
intend ?
Alph. Oh, mayst thou never dream of less delight,
Nor ever wake to less substantial joys !
Aim. Given me again from death ! O all ye powers,
Confirm this miracle ! Can I believe
My sight, against my sight 'i and shall I trust
That sense, which in one instant shows him dead
And living ? Yes, I will ; I 've been abused
With apparitions and affrighting phantoms :
This is my lord, my life, my only husband :
I have him now, and we no more will part.
My father too shall have compassion
Alph. Oh, my heart's comfort 'tis not given to this
Frail hfe, to be entirely blessed. Even now,
In this extremest joy my soul can taste.
Yet am I dashed to think that thou must weep ;
Thy father fell, where he design' d my death.
Gonsalez and Alonzo, both of wounds
Expiring, have with their last breath confessed
The just decrees of Heaven, which on themselves
Has turned their own most bloody purposes.
Nay, I must grant, 'tis fit you should be thus-
[Almekia weeps.
Let 'em remove the bodj- from her sight.
lU-fated Zara ! Ha ! a cup 'i Alas 1
Thy error then is plain ; but I were flint
Not to o'erflow in tribute to thy memorj'.
Garcia,
Whose virtue has renounced thy father's crimes,
Seest thou how just the hand of Heaven has been f
Let us, who through our innocence sur^dve.
Still in the paths of honour persevere.
And not from past or present ills despair ;
For blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds ;
And though a late, a sure reward succeeds.
[Exeunt omnes.
Though in clear sharp wit Congreve excels all
other writers of what has been called the later Prose
Comedy of Manners, he had a nature better than the
manners that he jminted, and I have jweferred to
show his wit in the ingenious construction of the
l)lot of his one tragedy, which was the most success-
ful of his plays. Full as it is of the conventional
Jieroics of the playhouse that had now superseded
the fresh utterances of poetic thought, it shows clear
evidence of taste and culture, and of a style not un-
influenced by Shakespeare and Milton. Recollections
of Shakespeare are frequent in the plav, and one can
hardly doubt that the poet had read Milton with
enjoyment, who gave such lines as these to his Zara: —
Distrust will ever be in love,
And anger in distrust, both short-lived pains.
But in despair and ever-during death,
No term, no bound, but infinite of woe.
Oh, torment but to think ! what then to bear !
Not to be borne.
Tlie decay of comedy by corruption of the mate-
rial in which it worked, is well shown ui Thomas
Southeme's " Oroonoko," which was produced in
1696, the year before " The Mourning Bride." It is
founded on the best of the short tales, or " novels," of
Aphra Behn, which set forth the noble spu-it of a
negro slave in Surinam, a king in his o^vn country,
and a royal man when subjected to the worst wrongs
of slavery. Southerne dramatised the novel with
alteration of details, and suicide in place of the
original incidents of death by cunnuig torture, in-
flicted by the white masters and borne by Oroonoko
with umioved fortitude. He jmt a generous spii-it
into the tragic incidents, but relieved them with an
underplot of comedy that ha,s not the least relation
to the main plot, e.xcept that in one scene its cha-
racters show a friendly interest in Oroonoko. The
comedy thus entwined with Southerne's best tragedy
turns on intrigues of two sisters, Charlotte and Lucy
Welldon, who have come to Surinam, one of them in
man's clothes, to find husbands, with the catching of
a rich widow by the sister in man's clothes for a cer-
tain Jack Stanmore ; all the material being as unfit
for true comedy as Thames mud for the sculptor's
chisel.
Thomas Southerne was a very reputable dramatist,
and praised by Dryden for his purity. He was born,
in the year of the Restoration, and began to write
plays at the age of twenty-two, Dryden furnishing
for his first work both Prologue and Epilogue. He
entered the army early in James II.'s leigii, and
beuig a good man of business, he set an example to
other dramatists, which raised considerably the trade
value of a play. It was he who established the claim
of an author to the profits of three nights out of the
first nine, instead of one. He discovered that more
could be made by sale of the right of publication to
a bookseller than had been formerly obtained. For
one of his plays he got £150 from the bookseller.
Dryden, who had often been satisfied with £100 as
the whole profit of a piece, once asked his friend
Southerne how much his last play had brought him.
Southerne replied that he was really ashamed to
say. Dryden pressed him, and he confessed that
he had made £700 by it. But a considerable part
of Southerne's profit was made by such industrious
traffic among friends and jiatrons in the sale of tickets
for each of his three author's nights, as Dryden and
many another man could not have attempted.
Southerne retired upon his earnings, and lived to the
year 1746. Nine yeai-s before his death the poet
Gray wrote to Horace Walpole from Burnham, in.
Buckinghamshire, in September, 1737 : — "We have
old Mr. Southerne at a gentleman's house a little way
ofl", who often comes to see us ; he is now seventy-
TO i.D. 1705.]
PLAYS.
395
seven yeai-s old, and has almost wholly lost his
memory, but is as agi'eeable an old man as can be —
at least, I persuade myself so when I look at him,
and think of Isabella and Oroonoko." Isabella was
the heroine of Southeme's " Fatal Marriage," a play
with good pathetic interest, which also was adul-
terated, for the sake of popularity, with incidents
supposed in those days to be comic.
Cougi-eve's " Mourning Bride " was produced in
the same year as the first of the comedies written by
Sir John Vanbrugh, " The Relajise." John Van-
brugh, born about the year 1G66, was the son of a
Giles Vanbrugh, who is said to have made money as
a sugar-baker at Chester, before establishing himself
as a gentleman in London. John was the second of
his eight sons. He was liberally educated, went to
France at the age of nineteen, was there for a few
years, then entered the English army as an ensign.
In 1695, when he was about twenty-nine years old,
he was made secretary to the Commission for en-
dowing Greenwich Hospital. Vanbrugh was about
six yeai'S older than Congi'eve, began to write about
four years later, and continued to wi-ite for six
years longer. He wrote comedies, therefore, luider
William III. and Queen Anne. His fii-st play,
" The Relapse," was produced at Drury Lane in
1697 ; his second, " The Provoked Wife," in 1698 at
the theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields, which had been
opened by Betterton with Congi-eve's " Love for
Love," in 1695. Vanbrugh's thii-d play, ".^sop,"
partly from the French of Boursault, was acted in
the same year, 1698, at Drury Lane. It was in
March of this year, 1698, that Jeremy CoUier, a divine
who had suffered after the Revolution as non-juror,
published "A Short View of the Immorality and
Profaneness of the English Stage : Together with the
Sense of Antiquity upon this Argument." Though
not temperate enough to be altogether fail-, Jeremy
Collier was an able man with a real ground of com-
plaint; more than a match, therefore, for abler men
who replied to him, but had a bad cause to defend.
Congi'eve replied with "Amendments of Mr. Collier's
False and Imperfect Citations, &c., fi-om the 'Old
Batchelour,' ' Double Dealer,' ' Love for Love,'
' Moiu-ning Bride,' By the Author of those Play.s."
Other men wi-ote on each side of the question, and
Dryden, who died in 1 700, stood alone, as became his
intellectual rank, in generous submission to so much
of the accusation as was just. In the preface to
his " Fables," published about two months before
his death, Dryden wrote, of Collier's citations from
plays of his own, " I shall say the less, because in
many things he has taxed me justly ; and I have
pleaded guilty to all thoughts and expressions of
mine which can be tiiily argued of obscenity, pro-
faneness, or immorality, and retract them. If he be
my enemy, let him triumjjh ; if he be my friend, as
I have given him no personal occasion to be other-
ynse, he will be glad of ray repentance. It becomes
me not to draw my pen in defence of a bad cause,
when I have so often drawn it for a good one."
In 1702 John Vanbrugh produced a comedy on a
Spanish plot, " The False Friend," and also began his
distinguished career as an architect, \vith the design
for Castle Howard, in Yorkshire. Its owner, being
then Deputy Earl Marshal, rewarded him vnth the
office of Clarencieux King-at-AiTns. Vanbrugh next
undertook to buUd a theatre for Bettei-ton's company,
and to join Congi-eve in supplying it with plays. Its
site was that of the present Opera House in the Hay-
market. It proved too large for its purpose, and un-
suitable for spoken dialogue. The theatre was opened
with opera, then Vanbiiigh produced his comedy of
" The Confederacy," followed by versions of three of
the plays of Moliere. But in 1706 Vanbi-ugh gave
up the battle, and as he was at that time employed
as architect of Blenheim — the palace voted hj the
nation to the Duke of Marlborough for his gi-eat
victory of 1704 — he quitted the stage, and thence-
forth throve as an architect. As dramatist he was
John Vanbinigh — he was not knighted until the
accession of George I., in 1714, and he died in 1726.
A Dr. Evans suggested for his epitaph : —
Under this stone, reader, survey
Dead Sir John Vanbrugh's house of clay :
Lie hea-s-j- on him, earth ! for he
Laid many heavy loads on thee !
George Farquhar's career as a dramatist was as long
as Vanbnigh's, and almost exactly contemporai-y with
it, though he was by twelve years a younger man,
and died nineteen years earlier. Vanbrugh died in
1726, aged sixty ; Farquhar in 1707, aged twenty-
nine ; but Vanbiiigh's career as a dramatist extended
from 1697 to 1706, and Farquhar's from 1698 to
1707. Greorge Farquhar was a clergyman's son,
who left Trinity College, Dublin, to appear as an
actor on the Dublin stage. He then obtained
a commission in the Earl of OiTery's regiment in
Ireland, became Captain Farquhar, and brought out
at Druiy Lane, in 1698, his first comedy, " Love and
a Bottle." This was followed in 1700 by his " Con-
stant Couple ; or, a Trip to the Jubilee," to which,
in 1701, his " Sii- Han-y Wildaii- " was a sequel. In
May, 1700, Farquhar was at Dryden's fimeral. Far-
qiUiar's four other comedies, which belong to the
Literature of Queen Anne's reign, were " The Incon-
stant ; or, the Way to Win Him" (1703); "The
Twin Rivals" (1705); "The Recruitijig Officer"
(1706) ; and " The Beaux Stratagem " (1707). This
last play was written in six weeks, under disappoini>
ment, sickness, and poverty. Farquhar died when it
was in the height of its success. He had been tempted,
by an empty promise of something better, to sell his
commission, and was tricked into marriage by a
penniless woman, who loved him and falsely pro-
fessed to be an heiress. It is said that he never
uttered a word of reproach for the trick she had
played on him. He left his wife in extreme poverty
and two daughters, one of whom married a small
tradesman, and the other became a maid-servant.
Vanbrugh's j^lay of
THE CONFEDERACY,
produced in 1705, at the theatre built by himself in
the Haymarket, is a good example of his skill in t)ie
constiiiction of a plot that develops easily through
a series of lively scenes, and is not wholly without a
396
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[i.D. 170;..
toucli of earnest in its satii-e on the vices of society.
The confederacy is of two citizens' wives against
their husbands. The wives, Clarissa and Araminta,
are frivolous imitators of the more worthless airs of
"quality." The husbands, Gripe and Moneytrap,
are rich money sci'iveners.
Tlic First Act opens with a dialogue in Covent
Garden, between Mi-s. Amlet and her neighbour,
Mrs. Cloggit. Mrs. Amlet is a widow. The late Mr.
Amlet was hanged for robbing a chui'ch ; his widow
trades on the vanity of the line ladies in town, who
ne\er make two words iqion the price of her goods ;
all they haggle about is tiie day of payment. '• Would
you lieiieve it, ilrs. Cloggit, I have worn out four pair
of pattens with following my old Lady Youtiiful, for
one set of false teeth, and but three pots of paint.
3frs. C. Look you there, now ! Mrs. A. If they
would but once let me get enough by 'em to keep a
coach to carry me a-dnnning after 'em, there would
be some conscience in it." But, says Mrs. Cloggit
presently, " Now we talk of quality, when did you
hear of your son Richard, Mrs. Amlet '\ My daughter
Flipp says she met him t' other day in a laced coat,
with three fine ladies, his footman at his heels, and as
gay as a bridegroom. Mrs. A. Is it jjossible] Ah,
the rogue ! Well, neighbour, all 's well that ends
well ; but Dick will be hanged." Dick Amlet is a
handsome scamp, whose mother is proud of his
figure ; " he 's a hopeful young man to look on," but
in fact he has already been .sentenced to the gallows.
Nevertheless he is flourishing in fine clothes, making
money at the gaming-tal)le, calling himself Colonel
Shapely, and laying siege to a young heiress of six-
teen, Corinna, daughter to Gripe by a former wife,
and step-daughter to Clarissa. This venture of his is
developed in the second scene, which is between Dick
Amlet and his old schoolfellow, shopfellow, and com-
rade. Brass, who now aids him by playing the part of
his valet before the world. But he must be quick,
Bi-ass tells him. He has but this thi-ow left, for his
moral.s begin to be pretty well known about the town.
Brass will aid him by sending a letter to the young
lady through Flippanta, Clarissa's maid. From
dialogue between Brass and Flippanta we learn that
Dick Amlet, as Colonel Shapely, has advised Gripe's
wife, Clarissa, to set up a basset-table in her own
house, instead of going abroad for play. By help
of a purse to Flippanta the letter is on its way to
delivery. The next scene show.s the citizen wife
Clarissa, who has been in bed till two in the after-
noon, about to begin her day.
Clay. No messages this morning from anybody, Flippanta f
Lard, liow dull that is ! Oh, there 's Brass !— I did not see
thee, Brass. What news dost thou hring ?
ISi-ni's. Only a letter from Araminta, madam.
Clir. Give it me.— Open it for me, Flippanta, I am so lazy
^o-i^y. [Silting down.
Brass. [Asirlc to Flippanta ] Be sure now you deliver my
master's as carefully as I do this.
FUp. Don't trouble thyself, I 'm no novice.
Clnr. [ To Brass.] 'Tis well ; there needs no answer, since
slie '11 be here so soon.
£>ass. Your ladyship has no farther commands, then ?
C'lar. Not at this time, honest Brass.— -[iaj< Bkass.] Flip.
panta !
Flip. Madam.
Clar. My husband 's in love.
Flip. In love !
C'/ar. With Araminta.
Flip. Impossible.
C/ar This letter from her is to give me an account of it.
F/ip. Methinks you are not very much alarmed.
Cltir. No ; thou knowest 1 'm not much tortured with
jealousy.
Flip. Nay, you are much in the right on't, madam, for
jealousy 's a city passion ; 'tis a tiling unknown amongst
people of quality.
Clar. Fie ! a woman must indeed be of a mechanic mould
who is either troubled or pleased with anything her husband
can do to her. Prithee mention him no more ; 'tis the dullest
theme.
Flip. 'Tis splenetic indeed. But when once you open your
basset-table, I hope that will put him out of your head.
Clnr. Alas, Flippanta ! I begin to gi'ow weary even of the
thoughts of that too.
Flip. How so ?
Clar. "\\1iy, I have thought on 't a day and a night already ;
and four-and-twenty horn's, thou knowest, is enough to make
one weary of anything.
F/ip. Now, by my conscience, you have more woman in
you than all your se.x together : you never know what you
would have.
Clar. Thou mistakest the thing quite. I alwaj's know
what I lack, but I am never pleased with what I have. The
want of a thing is perplexing enough, but the possession of
it is intolerable.
Then, although she does as she pleases, so far as her
husband is concerned, she is only a citizen's wife, and
dares not affront people as if she were a real woman
of quality. " In short, I dare not so much as bid
my footman kick the people out of doors, though
they come to ask me for wliat I owe 'em. Flip. All
this is veiy hard indeed. Clar. Ah, Flippanta, the
pei-quisites of quality aie of an unspeakable value."
Then comes the practical question : How shall she
get ready money to set her basset-table agoing. She
has tried her husband with a story of the loss of her
diamond necklace, which has put him in a ]iassion;
and now there is no money to be raised by selling it,
because he has left its description with all the gold-
smiths in the town. Then j\Irs. Amlet is announced,
who is known to come for money, and Clarissa boldly
proposes to her maid to raise money from her.
" Mrs. Amlet must lend me some money ; where
shall I have any to jiay her else?" Mrs. Amlet is
graciously received with a prompt question of, " How
much am I indebted to you, Mrs. Amlet ? Mrs. A.
Nay, if your ladysliip desires to see your bill, I believe
I may have it about me. There, madam, if it ben't
too much fatigue to you to look it over. Clar. Let
me see it, for I hate to be in debt — (Aside.) where
I'm obliged to pay. — (Reads.): Imprimis. For
bolstering out the Countess of Cramp's lefc l.ip — oh,
fy ! this does not belong to me. Mrs. A. I beg your
lady.shi|)'s pardon. I mistook, indeed; 'tis a coun-
tess's bill I have wi-it out to little purpose. I ftu--
uished her two years ago with three j)airs of hips,
and am not paid for 'em yet." Clarissa's bill is fifty-
uD. 1705.1
PLAYS.
397
six pounds. She borrows a huncli-ed poimds from
Mrs. Amlet by fiawning to her the diamond necklace
supposed to be lost ; deducts the tifty-sLx pounds,
and receives the rest. Dick, during the negotiations,
tinds his mother in the house, and urges her to be
quiet concerning him. If theii- relationship remain
luidiscovered, he will bring her home a daughter-in-
law in a coach and six.
The Second Act shows Clarissa getting the purse
from her friend's husband through Flippanta, who
says, " I don't know what you '11 do ^\-ith him. Clar.
I '11 e'en do nothing with him at all [Yawn'mg], Flijj-
panta. Flij}. Madam. Clar. My hood and scarf,
and a coach to the door. Flip. Why, whither are
you going ? Clar. I can't tell yet, but I wovdd go
spend some money, since I have it. Flip. Whj', you
want notliing that I know of. Clar. How awkward
an objection now is that ! as if a woman of education
bought things because she wanted 'em. Quality
always distinguishes itself, and therefore as the
mechanic people buy things because they ha-\e occa-
sion for 'em, you see women of rank always buy
things because they have not occasion for them. Now
there, Flippanta, you see the diflerence between a
woman that has breeding and one that has none.
Oh, ho ! here 's Araminta come at last. " From Aja-
minta she has learnt that her own husband is as
attentive to Araminta as Araminta's husband is to
her. Each can be made to open his purse-strings to
his neighbour's wife, but not to his own. The two
wives accordingly form a Confederacy, which gives
its name to the play. Each will draw money from
the other's husband, and they will go halves in the
spoil. Flippanta prepares Clarissa's step-daughter,
Corinna, for the addresses of Dick Amlet as the
Colonel. The yoimg lady appears fresh from a scold-
ing by lier father. "Flip. Why, what is't he finds
fault with? Cor. Nay, I don't know, for I never
mind him ; when he has babbled for two hours to-
gether, methinks I have heard a mill going, that 's
all. It does not at all change my ojjinion, Flippanta,
it only makes my head ache." She is weary of
"perpetual solitude, with no other company but a
parcel of old fumbling masters to teach me geography,
arithmetic, philosophy, and a thousand useless tilings ?
Fine entertainment, mdeed, for a young maid at six-
teen ! " She is ready enough for other teaching.
" Come," says Flippanta, " examine vour strength a
little. Do you think you durst venture upon a hus-
band 1 Cor. A hu.sband ! why, a — if you would but
encourage me. Come, Flippanta, be a true friend,
now. I '11 give you advice when I have got a little
more exprience. Do you, in your very conscience and
soul, think I am old enough to be married 1 Flip.
Old enough ! why, you are sixteen, are you not ?
Cor. Sixteen ! I am sixteen, two months, and odd
days, woman. I keep an exact account. Flip. The
deuce you are ! Cor. Why, do you then, truly and
sincerely, think I am old enough ? Flip. I do, upon
my faitii, child Cor. Why, then, to deal as fairly
with you, Flippanta, as you do with me, I have
thought so any time these three years." Corinna
readily receives Dick Amlet's letter and suit to her
for her money. The rest of the Act shows the old
fools, Moneytrap and Gripe, each plagued liy the
extravagance and indifl'erence of his own wife, and
played upon by Flippanta.
says : —
To Gripe, Flippanta
Flip. You fancy you have got an extravagant wiie, is 't
not so 'i
Gripe. Prithee change mt that word fancy, and it is so.
Flip. "Why, there 's it. Men are strangely troubled with
the vapours of late. You '11 wonder now, if I teU you, you
have the most reasonable wife in town ; and that all the dis-
orders you think you see in her, are only here, here, here, in
your own head. [Thuiiipiiip his forehead.
Gripe. She is then, in thy opinion, a reasonable woman ?
Flip. By my faith, I think so.
Gripe. I shall run mad '. — Name me an extravagance in
the world she is not guilty of.
Flip. Name me an extravagance in the world she is guilty
of.
Gripe. Come then : does not she put the whole house in
disorder ?
Flip. Not that I know of, for she never comes into it but
to sleep.
Gripe. 'Tis very well : does she employ any one moment of
her lite in the government of her familj- ?
Flip. She is so submissive a wife, she leaves it entirely to
you.
Gripe. Admirable ! Does she not spend more money in
coach-hire and chair-hire than would maintain six children ?
Flip. She 's too nice of your credit to be seen daggling in
the streets.
Gripe. Good ! Eo I set eye on her sometimes in a week
together ?
Flip. That, sir, is because you are never stirring at the
same time ; you keep odd hours ; you are always going to
bed when she's rising, and rising just when she's coming to
bed.
Gripe. Yes truly, night into day, and day into night,
that 's her trade 1 But these are trifles :
has she not lost her diamond necklace 'i Answer me to that.
Trapes.
Flip. Yes ; and has sent as many tears after it as if it had
been her husband.
Gripe. Ah 1 — the plague take her 1 but enough. 'Tis re-
solved, and I will put a stop to the course of her life, or I
\v\]X put a stop to the course of her blood, and so she shall
know the first time I meet with her. — \_Asifle.'] "Wliich,
though we are man and wife, and lie under one roof, 'tis very
possible may not be this fortnight. \^Exit.
Flip. Nay, thou hast a blessed time on 't, that must be con-
fessed. "What a miserable devil is a husband ! Insupportable
to himself, and a plague to everything about them. Their
wives do by them as children do by dogs, tease and provoke
'em, till they make 'em so curst, they snarl and bite at
everything that comes in their reach. This wretch here is
grown perverse to that degree, he 's for his wife's keeping
home, and making hell of his house, so he may be the devil
in it, to torment her. How niggardly soever he is, of all
things he possesses, he is willing to purchase her misery, at
the expense of his own peace. But he *d as good be still, for
he '11 miss of his aim. If I know her (which I think I do)
she '11 set his blood in such a ferment, it shall bubble out at
every pore of him ; whilst hers is so quiet in her veins, her
pulse shall go like a pendulum. [Exit.
In the opening of the Third Act, the scene opens in
Mrs. Amlet's house, where the necklace, skilfully re-
called to mind at the close of the Second, is stolen
398
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
Ta.d. 1705.
from tlie strong box of hi.s admiring mother by Dick
Amlet, who per.suades her still to keep secret the
relationship between them, because he is on the point
of marrying a city fortune, who " cares not a fig for
your vartue, she '11 hear of nothing but quality." The
.scene changes to Gripe's house, where Dick Amlet is
active in his endeavour to win Corinna, and Mrs.
Amlet appears again in great excitement.
Mrs. A. Ah, my dear Jlrs. Flippanta, I'm in a furious
fright !
Flip. Why, what 's come to you ':
Mrs. A. Ah, mercy on ua all!— Madam's diamond neck-
lace
Flip. What of that ?
Mrs. A . Are you sure you left it at my house ?
Flip. Sure I left it ! a very pretty question truly !
Mrs. A. Nay, don't be angry ; say nothing to madam of it,
I beseech you. It will be found again, if it be Heaven's good
will. At least, 'tis I must bear the loss on 't. 'Tis my rogue
of a son has laid his birdlime fingers on 't.
Flip. Your son, Mrs. Amlet ! Do you breed your children
up to such tricks as these, then ?
Mrs. A. What shall I say to you, Mrs. Flippanta ? Can
I help it ? He has been a rogue from his cradle, Dick has.
But he has his deserts, too. And now it comes in my head,
mayhap he may have no ill design in this neither.
Flip. No iU design, woman ! He 's a pretty fellow if he can
steal a diamond necklace with a good one.
Mrs. A. You don't know him, Mrs. Flippanta, so well as I
that bore him. Dick 's a rogue, 'tis true, but — mum !•
Flip. What does the woman mean ?
Mrs. A. Hark you, Mrs. Flippanta, is not here a young
gentlewoman in your house that wants a husband ?
Flip. Why do you ask ?
Mrs. A. By way of conversation onl)- ; it does not concern
me ; but when she marries, I may chance to dance at the
wedding. Eemember I teU you so — I who am but Mrs.
Amlet.
Flip. You dance at her wedding ! you !
Mrs. A. Yes, I, I ; but don't trouble madam about her
necklace ; perhaps it majTi't go out of the family. Adieu,
Mrs. Flippanta. [Fxit.
Flip. What — what-rwhat does the woman mean ? Mad !
What a capilotade' of a story 's here ? The necklace lost ;
and her son Dick ; and a fortune to many ; and she shall
dance at the wedding ; and— she does not intend, I hope, to
propose a match between her son Dick and Corinna ? By my
conscience I believe she does. An old beldam !
Dick Amlet is not yet .suspected. Money is ex-
tracted from Moneytrap by Flippanta, on the plea
that payment of gambling debts will put her mistress
in good humour with him.
Mo». Shall I try if I can reason her husband out of twenty
pounds, to make her easy the rest of her life ?
Flip. Twenty pounds, man!— 7>-hy, you shall see her set
that upon a card. Oh, she has a great soul !— Besides, if her
husband should oblige her, it might, in time, take off her
aversion to him, and by consequence, her inclination to you.
No, no, it must never come that way.
Mo)i. ■\Vhat shall we do then ?
' Capiiolade, hash. A French word.
Flip. Hold still — I have it. I '11 tell you what you shall
do.
Mon. Ay.
Flip. You shall make her — a restitution — of two hundred
pounds.
3Io>i. Ha ! — a restitution !
Flip. Yes, yes, 'tis the luckiest thought in the world;
madam often plays, you know, and folks who do so meet now
and then with sharpers. Now you shall be a sharper.
Mon. A sharper !
Flip. Ay, ay, a sharper, and having cheated her of two
hundred pounds, shall be troubled in mind, and send it her
back again. Y'ou comprehend me.
Mo?i. Yes, I — I comprehend, but a — won't she suspect if it
be so much '^
Flip. No, no, the more the better.
Mon. Two himdred pound !
Flip. Yes, two hundred pound — or let me see — so even a
sum may look a little suspicious — ay — let it be two hundred
and tliirty ; that odd thirty will make it look so natural, the
devil won't find it out.
Mon. Ha!
Flip. Pounds, too, look I don't know how ; guineas, I fancy,
were better — ay, guineas, it shall be guineas. You are of
that mind, are you not ?
Mon. Um — a guinea, you know, Flippanta, is
Flip. A thousand times genteeler ; you are certainly in the
right on 't ; it shall be as you say, two hundred and thirty
guineas.
Mon. Ho — well, if it must be guineas, let 's see, two hun-
dred guineas.
Flip. And thirty ; two hundred and thirty : if you mistake
the sum, you spoil all. So go put 'em in a purse, while it's
fresh in yo)ir head, and send 'em to me with a penitential
letter, desiring I '11 do you the favour to restore 'em to her.
3Ion. Two hundred and thirty pounds in a bag !
Flip. Guineas, I say, guineas !
Mon. Ay, guineas, that 's true. But, Flippanta, if she
don't know they come from me, then I give my money for
nothing, you Icnow.
Flip. I'hu ! leave that tome; I '11 manage the stock for you,
I'll make it produce something, I'll warrant you.
Mon. Well, Flippanta, 'tis a great sum indeed; but I '11 go
try what I can do for her. You say two himdred guineas in
a purse ?
Flip. And thirty, if the man's in his senses !
Mon. And thirty, 'tis true ; I always forget that thirty.
[F.vU.
So the confederacy between the wives proves lucra-
tive. The smaller confederacy between Dick Amlet
and Brass, who acts as his valet, is tried by the pros-
pect of Dick Amlet's success in his heiress-huntLng.
" Good words," says Brass, " or I betray you ; they
have already heard of one Mr. Amlet in the house."
Brass. In short, look smooth, and be a good prince. I am
your valet, 'tis true ; your footman sometimes, which I 'm
enraged at ; but you have always had the ascendant, I con-
fess. When we were schoolfellows, you made me carry your
books, make your exercise, own your rogueries, and some-
times take a whipping for you. 'WTien we were fcUow-pren-
tices, though I was your senior, you made me open the shop,
clean my master's shoes, cut last at dinner, and eat all the
crust. . . . Nay, in our punishments you still made good
your post ; for when once upon a time I was sentenced but to
A. a. 1705.]
PLAYS.
399
he ivhipped, I cannot deny but you were condemned to be
hanged. So that in all times, I must confess, your inclina-
tions have been greater and nobler than mine : however, I
cannot consent that you should at once fix fortune for Ufe,
and I dwell in my humilities for the rest of mj- days.
Hick. Hark thee, Brass, if I do not most nobly by thee,
I 'm a dog.
Brass. And when ?
Dicf;. As soon as ever I am married.
Brass. Ah, the [plague] take thee I
Dick. Then you mistrust me'^
Brass. I do, by my faith ! Look yon, sir, some folks we
mistrust because we don't know 'em ; others we mistrust
because we do know 'em : and for one of these reasons I
desire there may be a bargain beforehand. If not — ISaisinff
/lis roifc] — look ye, Dick Amlet
Did: Soft, my dear friend and companion. — [Asic/e.^ The
dog will ruin me ! — [Aloud.} Say, what is 't will content thee ?
Brass. Oh, ho !
Dick. But how canst thou be such a barbarian ?
Brass. I learned it at Algiers.
Dick. Come, make thy Turkish demand then.
Brass. You know you gave me a bank bill this morning to
receive for you.
Dick. I did so, of fifty pounds ; 'tis thine. So, now thou
art satisfied, all 's fixed.
Brass. It is not, indeed. There's a diamond necklace you
robbed your mother of e'en now.
Dick. Ah, you Jew !
Brass. Ko words.
Dick. My dear Brass !
Brass. I insist.
Dick. My old friend '.
Brass. Dick Amlet — [JfnwiK^ his voice.} I insist.
Dick. Ah, the cormorant ; — Well, 'tis thine ; but thou 'It
never thrive with 't.
Brass. When I find it begins to do me mischief, I '11 give
it you again. But I must have a wedding suit.
Dick. WeU.
Brass. Some good lace.
Dick. Thou shalt.
Brass. A stock of linen.
Ditk. Enough.
Brass. Not yet ; a silver sword.
Dick. Well, thou shalt have that too. Now thou hast
everj-thing.
Brass. God forgive me ! I forgot a ring of remembrance :
I would not forget all these favours for the world. A spark-
ling diamond will be always playing in ray eye, and put me
in mind of 'em.
Dick. [Aside.} This unconscionable rogue 1 — [Aloud.}
WeU, I '11 bespeak one for thee.
Brass. Brilliant ?
Dick. It shall. But if the thing don't succeed after all ? —
Brass. I 'm a man of honour, and restore : and so the treaty
being finished, I strike my flag of defiance, and fall into my
respects again. [Taking off his hat.
In the Fourth Act, Dick Amlet still seems to be
prospering. Gripe prepares for an out-pouring of
^Tath upon his ■nife, watches his opportunity, and
storms at her. She receives all his rage with the
blandest equanimitv, has met it for a purpose of her
own. She has planned to keep a basset^table in the
house, so stipulates that if he will be always in good
Lumour, she will be always at home.
Flip. Look you there, sir, what would you have more ?
Gripe. WeU, let her keep her word, and I 'U have done
quarrelling.
Clar. I must not, however, so far lose the merit of my con-
sent, as to let you think I'm weary of going abroad, mj
dear. What I do is purely to oblige you ; which, that I
may be able to perform without a relapse, I 'U invent what
ways I can to make my prison supportable to me.
Flip. Her prison ! pretty bird ! her prison ': don't that
word melt you, sir .*■
Gripe. I must confess I did not expect to find her so reason-
able.
Flip. Oh, sir, soon or late wives come into good humour.
Husbands must only have a Uttle patience to wait for it.
Clar. The innocent little diversions, dear, that I shaU con-
tent myself with, wiU be chiefly play and company.
Gripe. Oh, I 'U find you emplojTnent, your time shan't Ue
upon your hands ; though if you have a mind now for such a
companion as a — let me see— Araminta, for example, why, I
shan't be against her being with you from morning tUl
night.
Clar. You can't obUge me more, 'tis the best woman in the
world.
Gripe. Is not she ?
Flip. Ah, the old satyr ! [Aside.
Gripe. Then we 'U have, besides her, maybe sometimes —
her husband ; and we shaU see my niece that writes verses,
and my sister Fidget; with her husband's brother that's
always merry ; and his little cousin, that 's to marrj- the fat
curate; and my uncle the apothecary, with his wife and aU
his children. Oh, we shaU divert ourselves rarely !
Flip. Good! [Aside.
Clar. Oh, for that, my dear child, I must be plain with
you, I 'U see none of 'em but Araminta, who has the manners
of the court ; for I 'U converse with none but women of
quaUty.
Gripe. Ay, ay, they shaU aU have one quality or other.
Clar. Then, my dear, to make our home pleasant, we U
have concerts of music sometimes.
Gripe. Music in my house I
Clar. Yes, my chUd, we must have music, or the house
wiU be so duU I shaU get the spleen, and be going abroad
again.
Flip. Nay, she has so much complaisance for you, sir, you
can't dispute such things with her.
Gripe, Ay, but if I have music
Clar. Ay, but, sir, I must have music
Flip. Not every day, madam don't mean.
Clar. No, bless me, no ; but three concerts a week ; three
days more we 'U play after dinner, at ombre, picquet, basset,
and so forth, and close the evening with a handsome supper
and a balL
Gripe. A baU !
Clar. Then, my love, you know there is but one day more
upon our hands, and that shaU be the day of eonver.s;ition ;
we'U read verses, talk of books, invent modes, teU lies,
scandaUse our friends, be pert upon religion ; and, in short,
employ every moment of it in some pretty witt)- exercise or
other.
Flip. What order you see 'tis she proposes to live in 1 a
most wonderful regularity I
Gripe. Regularity with a [plague] I [Aside.
Clar. And as this kind of life, so soft, so smooth, so agree-
able, must needs invite a vast deal of company to partake of
it, 'twiU be necessary to have the decency of a porter at our
door, you know.
Gripe. A porter I — a scrivener have a porter, madam !
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[a.d. 1705.
Clar. Positively, a porter.
Gripe. 'UTiy, no scrivener since Adam ever had a porter,
woman !
Clar. You mil therefore be renowned in storj- for having
the first, my life.
Brass is then shown ingeniously getting money out
of Gripe for Araminta. Then Dick Amlet is in per-
plexity. His suit for the young gentlewoman, being
in the cliaracter of a rich Colonel Shapely, has ])een
made known by Flippanta to her mistress, and is to
be now regularly projiosed to the father as an eligible
offer. There will be question of settlements and a
discovery of all. The lady must be run away with
before any such question arises : but Dick has no
money. Brass has taken in advance all that he had,
as a confedei-ate's share of the prize-money. Brass,
when appealed to, quarrels with Dick's luck, his
hempen fortune, but to give him one more chance,
■will raise money for the elopement by pawning the
diamond necklace.
In the Fifth Act, Corinna is easily persuaded that
she must elope. Mrs. Gripe is at home, with her
husband and lier friend Araminta, and her friend's
huslianil, Moueytrap; each scrivener believing that he
has hooilwinked tlie other, and the two wives laugh-
ing at them Ijoth. Suddenly enters Mr. Clip, the
goldsmith. A descri[)tion of the missing necklace
had been given to all the goldsmiths in the town. It
has been offered in pawn to Mr. Clip by Brass. Mr.
Clip has imjiounded it and brought it. Brass enters
and is accused of theft. A constable is fetched.
Clarissa point-blauk disowns the necklace. But Mrs.
Amlet happens to be the next person who enters
th(^ house, and the whole truth then comes out. She
compels her son Dick to acknowledge her.
Mrs. A. Do but look at him, my dames : he has the coun-
tenance of a cherubim, but he 's a rogue in his heart.
Clar. AVhat is the meaning of all this, Mrs. Amlet ?
Mrs. A. The meaning, good lack! Why, this all-to-be-
powdered rascal here is my son, an 't please you. — Ha, Cirace-
less ! Now I '11 m;ike you own your mother, vermin !
filar. AXTiat, the colonel your son 'i
Mrs. A. 'Tis Dick, madam, that rogue Dick I have so often
told you of, with tears trickling down my old cheeks.
Aram. The woman 's mad, it can never be.
Mrs. A. Speak, rogue, am I not thy mother, ha ? Did I
not bring thee forth ■- say then.
Bicli. What will you have me say ? you had a mind to ruin
me, and you have done 't ; would you do any more •'
Clar. Then, sir, you are son to good Mrs. Amlet 'i
Aram. And have had the assurance to put upon us all this
■while I
Flip. And tlie confidence to think of marrying Corinna?
Brass. And the impudence to hire me for your servant,
•who am as well horn as yourself ?
Clar. Indeed I think he should be corrected.
Aram. Indeed I think he ileserves to be cudgelled.
Flip. Indeed I think he might bo pumped.
Brass. Indeed I think he will be hanged.
Mrs. A. flood lack a-day ! Good lack a-dayl there's no
need to be so smart upon him neither : if he is "not a gentle-
man, he's a gentleman's fellow.— Come hither, Dick, they
shan't run thee down neither; cock up thy hat, Dick, and
teU 'em, though Mrs. Amlet is thy mother, she can make
thee amends with ten thousand good pounds to buy thee some
lands, and build thee a house m the midst on 't.
All. How!
Clar. Ten thousand pounds, Mrs. Amlet !
Mrs. A. Yes, forsooth, though I should lose the hundreil
you pawned your necklace for. Tell 'em of that, Dick.
Cor. Look you, Flippanta, I can hold no longer, and I liate
to see the young man abused. And so, sir, if you please,
I 'm your friend and servant, and what 's mine is yours ; and
■when our estates arc put together, I don't doubt but we shall
do as well as the best of 'em.
Dick. Sayest thou so, my little queen ? MTiy, then, if
dear mother will give us her blessing, the parson shall give
us a tack. We '11 get her a score of grandchildren, and a
meny house we '11 make her. [Tlifij Inicvl to Mrs. Amlet.
Mrs. A. Ah — ha! ha! ha! ha! the pretty jjair, the pretty
pair ! Rise, my chickens, rise, rise and face the proudest of
'cm. And if madam does not deign to give her consent, a fig
for her, Dick ! — Why, how now 'i
Clar. Pra)', Mrs. Amlet, don't be in a passion ; the girl is
my husband's girl, and if you can have his consent, upon my
word you shall have mine, for anj-thing belongs to him.
Flip. Then all 's peace again, but we have been more lucky
than wise.
Aram. And I suppose for us, Clarissa, we are to go on with
oiu" dears, as we used to do.
Clar. ,Tust in the same tract, for this late treaty of agree-
ment with 'em was so urmatural, you see, it could not hold.
But 'tis just as well with us as if it had. Well, 'tis a strange
fate, good folks ! But while you live, everj-thing gets well
out of a broil but a husband. \^Exeu»t oimies.
George Farquhar in
THE BEAUX-STRATAGEM
makes the chief action turn upon fortune-hunting in
the marriage market. Aimwell and Archer are two
Beaux of broken fortunes, who have but two hundred
pounds left, with their horses, clothes, rings, &c.,
when they disappear fi-om London, leaving it to be
supposed that they have gone to Brussels. But they
have gone heiress-hunting among English country
towns, with the tmder.standing that as they go from
towh to town they shall take turns in playing the
parts of master and man. At Lichfield, where they
airive at Boniface's inn when the i)lay opens, Aim-
well is master. If no heire.ss be caught tliere, tluy
will try Nottingham, and there Archer will be in
command. If that fail, they go to Norwich, where
Aimwell again will have a chance ; and if all these
fail, Norwich will be their last .stage. " We '11 em-
bark for Holland, bid adieu to Venus, and welcome
Mars." Thus the play opens : —
Scene I. — A Hooin in Boniface's Inn.
Enter Boniface running.
Boh. Chamberlain ! maid ! Cherry ! daughter Cherry ! all
asleep I- all dead 'i
Enter Ciieruy riinninif.
Cher. Here, here 1 why d'ye bawl so, father ? d'ye think
we have no ears 'i
Bon. You deserve to have none, you young minx ! The
company of the Warrington coach has stood in the hall this
hour, and nobody to show them to their chambers.
TO A.D. 1707.]
PLAYS.
401
Cher. And let 'em wait, father; there's neither red-coat in
the coach, nor footman behind it.
Bon. But they threaten to go to another inn to-night.
Vher. That they dare not, for fear the coachman should
overturn them to-morrow. — Coming! coming! Here's the
London coach arrived.
Enter Coach-passengers with trunks, bandboxes, and other
luggage, and cross the stage.
Bon. Welcome, ladies I
Cher. Very welcome, gentlemen ! — Chamberlain, show the
Lion and the Rose. \_Exit with the compang.
Enter AiMWELL and Archer, the latter carrying a portmantle.
Bon. This way, this way, gentlemen !
Aim. [To Archer.] Set down the things ; go to the stable
and see my horses well rubbed.
Arch. I shall, sir. \_Exit.
Aim. You're my landlord, I suppose ?
Bon. Yes, sir, I'm old Will Boniface, pretty well known
upon this road, as the saying is.
Aim. Mr. Boniface, your servant !
Bon. sir ! — What wiU your honour please to drink, as
the saying is ?
Aim. I have heard your town of Lichfield much famed for
ale ; I think I'll taste that.
Bon. Sir, I have now in my cellar ten tun of the best ale in
Staffordshire ; 'tis smooth as oil, sweet as milk, clear as amber,
and strong as brandy ; and will be just fourteen year old the
fifth day of next March, old style.
Aim. You're very exact, I find, in the age of your ale.
Bon. As punctual, sir, as I am in the age of my children.
I'll show you such ale ! — Here, tapster, broach number 1706,
as the saying is. — Sir, you shall taste my Anno Domini. — I
have lived in Lichfield, man and boy, above eight-and-fifty
years, and I believe have not consumed eight-and-fifty ounces
of meat.
Aim. At a meal, you mean, if one may guess your sense by
your bulk.
Bon. Not in my life, sir : I have fed purely upon ale ; I
have eat my ale, drank my ale, and I always sleep upon ale.
Enter Tapster with a bottle and glass, and exit.
Now, sir, you shall see I — [^Pours out aglass.'\ Your worship's
health. — Ha ! delicious, delicious ! fancy it burgundy, only
fancy it, and 'tis worth ten shillings a quart.
Aim. [Drinks.l 'Tis confounded strong !
Bon. Strong ! it must be so, or how should we be strong
that drink it ?
Aim. And have you lived so long upon this ale, landlord ?
Bon. Eight-and-fifty years, upon my credit, sir — but it
killed my wife, poor woman, as the saying is.
Aim. How came that to pass ?
Bon. I don't know how, sir ; she would not let the ale take
its natural course, sir ; she was for qualifying it every now
and then with a dram, as the saying is ; and an honest gentle-
man that came this way from Ireland, made her a present of
a dozen bottles of usquebaugh — but the poor woman was
never well after : but, howe'er, I was obliged to the gentle-
man, j-ou know.
Aim. Why, was it the usquebaugh that killed her ?
Bon. Mj' Lady Bountiful said so. She, good lady, did what
could be done ; she cured her of three tympanies, but the
fourth carried her off. But she's happy, and I'm contented,
as the saying is.
Aim. "WTio's that Lady Bountiful you mentioned ?
Bon. Ods my life, sir, we'll drink her health. — \_Drinks.']
My Ladv Bountiful is one of the best of women. Her last
171
husband, Sir Charles Bountiful, left her worth a thousand
pound a year ; and, I b 'eve, she lays out one-half on't in
charitable uses for the good of her neighbours. She cures
rheumatisms, ruptures, and broken shins, in men ; green-sick-
ness, obstructions, and fits of the mother, in women ; the
king's evil, chincough, and chilblains, in children : in short,
she has cured more people in and about Lichfield within ten
years than the doctors have killed in twenty ; and that's a
bold word.
Aim. Has the lady been any other way useful in her gene-
ration ?
Bon. Yes, sir ; she has a daughter by Sir Charles, the finest
woman in all our country, and the greatest fortune. She has
a son too, by her first husband. Squire SuUen, who married a
fine lady from London t'other day ; if you please, sir, we'll
drink his health.
Aim. What sort of a man is he ?
Bon. Why, sir, the man's well enough ; says little, thinks
less, and docs — nothing at all, faith. But he's a man of great
estate, and values nobody.
Aim. A sportsman, I suppose ?
Bon. Yes, sir, he's a man of pleasure ; he plays at wisk
and smokes his pipe eight-and-forty hours together some-
times.
Aim. And married, you say ?
Bon. Ay, and to a curious woman, sir. But he's a — he
wants it — here, sir. [Pointing to his forehead.
A im. He has it there, you mean ?
Bon. That's none of my business ; he's my landlord, and so
a man, you know, would not— But — ecod, he's no better than
— Sir, my humble service to you. — [Brinks.'] Though I value
not a farthing what he can do to me ; I pay him his rent at
quarter-day ; I have a good running trade ; I have but one
daughter, and I can give her — but no matter for that.
Aim. You're very happy, Mr. Boniface. Pray, what other
company have you in town ?
Bon. A power of fine, ladies ; and then we have the French
officers.
Aim. Oh, that's right, j'ou have a good many of those
gentlemen : pray, how do you like their company ':*
Bon. So well, as the saying is, that I could wish we had as
many more of 'em ; they're full of money, and pay double
for everything they have. They know, sir, that we paid good
round taxes for the taking of 'em, and so they are willing to
reimburse us a little. One of 'em lodges in my house.
Re-enter Archer.
Arch. Landlord, there are some French gentlemen below
that ask for you.
Bon. I'U wait on 'cm. — [Aside to Archer.] Does your
master stay long in town, as the sajnng is ?
Arch. I can't tell, as the saying is.
Bon. Come from London ?
Arch. No.
Bon. Going to London, mayhap ?
Arch. No.
Bon. [Aside.] An odd fellow this.— [ To Aimweil.] I beg
your worship's pardon, I'll wait on you in half a minute.
[Exit.
When Boniface returns, after a dialogue betvi'een
Archer and Aimwell that sets forth their scheme, it
is with the question —
Bon. What wiU your worship please to have for support
Aim. What have you got ?
402
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
Fa.d. 1707.
Bon. Sir, we have a delicate piece of beef in the pot, and a
pig at the inre.
Aim. Good supper-meat, I must confess. I can't oat beef,
landlord.
Arch. And I hate pig.
Aim. Hold your prating, sirrah ! do you know who you
are ?
Bon. Please to bespeak something else ; I have everj-thing
in the house.
Aim. Have you any veal ?
Bon. Veal ! sir, we had a delicate loin of veal on Wednes-
day last.
Aim. Have you got any fish or wildfowl ?
Bon. As for fish, truly, sir, we are an inland town, and indif-
ferently provided with fish, that's the truth on't ; and then
for wildfowl — we have a delicate couple of rabbits.
Aim. Get me the rabbits fricasseed.
Bon. Fricasseed ! Lard, sir, they'll eat much better
smothered with onions.
Arch. Psha ! damn your onions
Aim. Again, sirrah I — Well, landlord, what you please.
But hold, I have a small charge of money, and your house is so
full of strangers, that I believe it may be safer in your custody
than mine ; for when this fellow of mine gets drunk he minds
nothing. — Here, sirrah, reach me the strong box.
Arch. Yes, sir. — [Aside.J This wUl give us a reputation.
[Gives AiMWELL a box.
Aim. Here, landlord; the locks are sealed down both for
your security and mine ; it holds somewhat above two hundred
pound ; if you doubt it, I'll count it to you after supper ; but
be sure you lay it where I may have it at a minute's warning ;
for my affairs are a little dubious at present ; perhaps I may
be gone in half an hour, perhaps I may be your guest till
the best part of that be spent ; and pray order your ostler to
keep my horses always saddled. But one thing above the
rest I must beg, that you would let this fellow have none of
your Anno Domini, as you call it ; for he's the most insuffer-
able sot. — Here, sirrah, light me to my chamber.
[Exit, lighted by Aecher.
Bon. Cherry I daughter Cherry !
Re-enter Cherry.
Cher. D'ye call, father ?
Bon. Ay, child ; you must lay by this box for the gentle-
nan ; 'tis full of money.
Cher. Money ! all that money ! why, sure, father, the
gentleman comes to bo chosen parliamentman. Wlio is he ?
Bon. I don't know what to make of him ; he talks of keep-
ing his horses ready saddled, and of going perhaps at a
minute's warning, or of staying perhaps till the best part of
this be spent.
Cher. Ay ': Ten to one, father, he's a highwayman.
Bon. A highwayman ! upon my life, girl, you have hit it,
and this box is some new-purchased booty. Now, could we
find him out, the money were ours.
Cher. He don't belong to our gang.
Bon. What horses have they ?
Cher. The master rides upon a black.
Bon. A black ! ten to one the Man upon the Black Mare ;
and since he don't belong to our fraternity, we may betray
him with a safe conscience : I don't think it lawful to'harbour
any rogues but my own.
Boniface bids Cherry get tlie traveller'.s secret of
the footman, whom she is ill-disposed to come near ;
but Archer, as footman, makes bold love to her with
so much forgetting of the footman's ways, and natural
following of what were called the manners of a gentle-
man, that her heart is more than half won.
In the Second Act, Dorinda the unman-ied daughter
of Lady Bountiful, and her sister-in-law Mrs. Sullen,
show their views of life in discourse together, the
scene being in Lady Bountiful's house. Mi-s. Sullen
pauats the misery of marriage to Lady Bountiful's son,
a sottish country squire, who presently appears and
gives examjile of his boorishness. 'Tlie continued
dialogue between the .sisters shows that Mrs. Sullen,
wretched at home, has found attractions in a French
count, one of the prisoners of war in Lichfield. Then
Aimwell proposes to go to church in search of his
heiress. Archer says —
Arch. You are so well dressed, Tom, and make so handsome
a figure, that I fancy you may do execution in a country
church ; the exterior part strikes first, and you're in the right
to make that impression favourable.
Aim. There's something in that which may turn to ad-
vantage. The appearance of a stranger in a country church
draws as many gazers as a blazing-star ; no sooner he comef
into the cathedral, but a train of whispers run buzzing round
the congregation in a moment ; Who is he ? Whence
eomes he ? Do you know him ? Then I, sir, tips me the verger
with half-a-crown ; he pockets the simony, and inducts me
into the best pew in the church ; I pull out my snuff-box,
turn myself round, bow to the bishop, or the dean if he be
the commanding officer ; single out a beauty, rivet both my
eyes to hers, set my nose a-bleeding by the strength of ima-
gination, and show the whole church my concern by my
endeavouring to hide it ; after the sermon, the whole town
gives me to her for a lover, and by persuading the lady that
I am a-dying for her, the tables are turned, and she in good
earnest fulls in love with me.
Arch. There's nothing in this, Tom, without a precedent ,
but instead of riveting your eyes to a beauty, try to fix 'em
upon a fortune ; that's our business at ■present.
Aim. Psha I no woman can be a beauty without a fortune.
Let me alone, for I am a marksman.
Arch. Tom!
Aim. Ay.
Arch. When were you at church before, pray ?
Aim. Um! I was there at the coronation.
Arch. And how can you expect a blessing by going to
church' now ?
Aim. Blessing ! nay, Frank, I ask but for a wife. [Exit.
Then comes to Boniface's inn his confederate Gibbet
the highwayman. He brings plunder, which is given
in charge of Cherry. Archer, who calls himself
Martin, is sounded by Boniface and Gibbet, who still
hold to the belief that he and his friend must be
brother highwaymen. Cherry, at the end of the act,
is fairly won hj Archer's fascinations, and as she
cannot believe him to be a footman, he tells her that
he was born a gentleman, had a liberal education,
and took service because he was ruined. Thereuj)on
she oilers herself and two thousand pounds (money
of the highwaymen left in her charge) if he will
marry her before he sleeps. She hints that she has
discoveries to make. " In the meanwhile be satisfied
that no discovery I make shall ever hurt you, but
beware of my father ! " (Exit.) " So," says Archer,
A.D. i7or.
PLAYS.
40^
" we're like to have as many adventures in our inn as
Don Quixote had in his. Let me see — two thousand
pounds — if the wench would promise to die when the
money were spent, egad, one would marry her ; but
the fortune may go off" in a year or two, and the wife
may live — Lord knows how long. Then an urn-
keeper's daughter ! "
The Thii-d Act opens with Mrs. Sullen and Dorinda,
who have seen Aimwell at church, where Dorinda
fomid his ej'es to be " sprightly but not wandering ;
they seemed to view, but never gazed on anything
but me." The country servant. Scrub, who is butler
every Sunday, is set to make himself acquainted
with the distinguished stranger's splendid footman,
and discover who his master is. In the inn we find
that Aimwell has set his mind on Dorinda. Archer,
as jMi\ Mai-tin, is duly invited by Scrub to see Lady
Bountiful's cellar ; Aimwell is engaged in dialogue by
Gibbet the highwayman, and another visitor appears,
an Irish rascal, who affects to be a Frenchman, calls
himself Foigard, and is chaplain to the French prisoners
of war in Lichfield. They go to dinner in the inn.
Archer and Scrub, meanwhile, make merry in Lady
Bountiful's cellars. Scrub is enamoured of Gipsy, the
lady's maid, but has a formidable rival in M. Foigard,
while the French count is laying siege to Mrs. Sullen.
Scrub would know more, he says, " but they take care
to pi-event my curiosity, by giving me so much busi-
ness that I'm a perfect slave. What d'ye think is
my place in tliis family?" "Butler, I suppose."
" Ah, Lord help you ! I'll tell you. Of a Monday I
drive the coach, of a Tuesday I drive the plough, on
Wednesday I follow the hounds, a Thursday I dun
the tenants, on Friday I go to market, on Saturday
I draw warrants, and a Sunday I draw beer." The
ladies come in, as if accidentally, and are told by
Scrub, "This is the strange gentleman's servant that
you see at church to day ; I understood he came from
London, and so I in\"ited him to the cellar, that he
might show me the newest flourish in whetting my
knives." Dorinda has already been told by Gipsy,
who listened to part of the talk between Scrub and
Archer, that Mr. Martin described his master as the
Lord Viscount Aimwell, who, after wounding a man
in a duel, had withdrawn from London till he heard
whether the wounds were mortal. " I have heard
my brother talk of my Lord Aimwell," says Mrs.
Sullen to her sister ; " but they say that his brother
is the finer gentleman." " Tliat," says Dorinda,
" that is impossible, sister." " He's vastly rich, but
very close, they say," adds Mrs. Sullen. " No matter
for that," Dorinda says. " If I can creep into his
heart, I'll open his breast, I wan-ant him." Then
the two sisters talk with the servant, and the beau
in footman's livery flies so high in polite compliment
to Mrs. Sullen — sings her a song too, and refuses
money — that when Dorinda takes for granted he must
be a friend of Lord Aimwell's whom his lordship has
pitched upon for his courage, fidelity, and discretion, to
bear him comjiany in this dress, and who ten to one
was his second too, ]\Irs. Sullen I'eplies, " It is so, it
must be so, and it shall be so ! — for I like him."
The Third Act closes with a device of Mrs. Sullen's
to awaken feeling in the sottish squire. She causes
his sister Dorinda to persuade him to conceal himself
where he may hear how his wife is addr-essed by
the French count. But although the Count Bellair
receives his lesson on the honesty of Englishwomen
and quits the field politely humming a song, Squii-e
Sullen's native brutality only becomes more consjii-
cuous.
The Fourth Act introduces Lady Bountifid herself,
whose name has become English for the character
she represents, almost as completely as Boniface has
become a common synonym for landlord. The Beaux'
Stratagem for getting admission to the house consists
in taking advantage of the lady's readiness to apply
remedies to all ills of the flesh. Mrs. Sullen is un-
happy. There enters a country-woman.
Worn. I come, an't please your ladyship — vou're my Lady
Bountiful, an't ye ?
Mrs. Sul. Well, good woman, go on.
TFom. I come seventeen long mail to have a cure for my
husband's sore leg.
Mrs. Sul. Your husband ! what, woman, cure your husband !
TFom. Ay, poor man, for his sore leg won't let him stir
from home.
Mrs. Sul. There, I confess, you have given me a reason.
Well, good woman, I '11 tell you what you must do. You
must lay your husband's leg upon a table, and with a chop-
ping-knife you must lay it open as broad as you can, then
you must take out the bone, and heat the flesh soundly with
a rolling-pin, then take salt, pepper, cloves, mace, and ginger,
some sweet-herbs, and season it very well, then roll it up
like brawn, and put it into the oven for two hours.
JFoiH. Heavens reward your ladyship 1 — I have two little
babies too that are piteous bad with the gi'aips, an 't please ye.
Mrs. Sul. Put a little pepper and salt in their bellies, good
woman.
Enter Lady Bountiful.
I beg your ladyship's pardon for taking your business out of
your hands ; I have been a-tampering here a little with one
of your patients.
Zndi/ Boun. Come, good woman, don't mind this mad
creature; I am the person that you want, I suppose. What
would you have, woman ?
Mrs. Sill. She wants something for her husband's sore leg.
Lady Boun. What's the matter with his leg, goody ?
Worn. It come first, as one might say, with a sort of dizzi-
ness in his foot, then he had a kind of laziness in his joints,
and then his leg broke out, and then it swelled, and then it
closed again, and then it broke out again, and then it festered,
and then it grew better, and then it grew worse again.
Presently Archer, as Mi-. Martin, enters in ex-
citement. His master is subject to fits ; has had a
fit just at the gate of the house, and they have ven-
tm-ed to bring him in. Lady Bountiful is happy.
Lady Boun. Here, here, let's see the hartshorn drops.—
Gipsy, a glass of fair water! His fit's very strong.— Bless
me, how his hands are clinched !
Arch. For shame, ladies, what d'ye do? why don't you
help us? — [To DoRiN-DA.] Pray, madam, take his hand, and
open it, if you can, whilst I hold his head.
[DouiMD.i takes his hand.
Dor. Poor gentleman !— Oh I— he has got my hand within
his, and squeezes it unmercifully
Lady Bonn. 'Tis the violence of his convulsion, child.
40-t
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1707
Arch. Oh, madam, he's perfectly possessed in these cases — ■
he'll bite if you don't have a care.
Dor. Oh, my hand ! my hand 1
Zadi/ Boun. AVhat's the matter with the foolish girl ? I
have got this hand open, you see, with a great deal of ease.
Arch. Ay, but, madam, your daughter's hand is somewhat
warmer than your ladyship's, and the heat of it draws the
force of the spirits that way.
Mrs. Sill. I find, friend, you're very learned in these sorts
of fits.
Arch. 'Tis no wonder, madam, for I'm often troubled with
them myself ; I find myself extremely ill at this minute.
[^Lookiiig hard at Sirs. Sullen.
Mrs. Sill. I fancy I could find a way to cure you. \_Aside.
Ladij Bonn. His fit holds him very long.
Arch. Longer than usual, madam. — Pray, young lady, oiien
his breast, and give him air.
Larlij Boun. "V\Tiere did his illness take him first, pray ?
Arch. To-day at church, madam.
Ladij Boun. In what manner was he taken ?
Arch. Very strangely, mj' lady. He was of a sudden
touched with something in his eyes, which at the first he
only felt, but could not tell whether 'twas pain or pleasure.
Lady Bonn. Wind, nothing but wind !
As the Fourth Act closes, the plot thickens. Both
ladies are in love with the beaux. Scrub, always
jealously watching the relations between Gipsy and
Foigard, overhears an agreement between them, by
which Gipsy, for a consideration, shall conceal the
Frencli count in a closet beside Mrs. Sullen's chamber.
When his heart happens to have been opened by a
guinea sent from " Lord Aimwell," he tells this to
Archer. Archer, who more than suspects Foigard
to be an Irishman, affects a brogue, claims to be his
cousin, causes him to convict himself, then tells him
that he can bring him to the gallows as a British
subject taking service with the enemy, because he is
acting as chaplain to the French. He is to be spared
only on condition that he substitutes Archer for the
French count in the closet by Mrs. Sullen's chamber.
Lastly Boniftice, Gibbet, and the highwaj-nien find
the night favourable for the burglary at Lady Bounti-
ful's house, which was the business that had brought
Gibbet to Lichfield.
"With all this work afoot, the Fifth Act of the
Beaux-Stratagem opens in Boniface's inn, with the
arrival after dark of Sir Charles Freeman in a coach
and six. Sir Charles is Mrs. Sullen's brother, come
to see about a separation between his sister and the
squire. The squire, who spends his nights at the
tavern, enters drunk, and unconsciously makes his
character and the position of his wife most manifest
to his wife's brother. Then Cherry, who has been
himtmg for Archer and cannot find him, knocks at
Aimwell's door to tell him that " this very minute a
gang of rogues are gone to rob my Lady Bountiful's
house." " How V "I dogged 'em to the very door,
and left 'em breaking in." " Have you alarmed any-
body else with the news 1 " " No, no, sir ; I wanted
to have discovered the whole plot, and twenty other
things, to your man Martin ; but I have searched
the whole house, and can't find him : where is he 1 "
" No matter, child ; will you guide me immediatelv
to the house 1 " " With all my heart, sir ; my Lady
Bountiful is my godmother, and I love Mrs. Dorinda
so well " — " Dorinda ! the name inspires me, the
glory and the danger shall be all my own. — Come,
my life ! let me but get my sword."
Archer, meanwhile, is inside the house. When he
leaves his hiding-place, and is on the point of carry-
ing off Mrs. Sullen, he is met by Scrub, in desperate
fear, with an alarm of thieves, and is himself mistaken
for one of them. He hurries to the rescue, and soon
has Gibbet upon the floor vnth a pistol at his breast.
Gibbet is bound in the cellar. Hounslow and Bag-
shot are haling in Lady Bountiful and Dorinda,
when Aimwell arrives to complete the rescue. The
highwaymen are taken. Sir Charles Freeman then
arrives. As a gentleman in society he will recognise
the two beaux immediately, and make it known that
Aimwell is no lord, but a yoimger brothei-. By the
help of Foigard as chajilain, Dorinda must be mariied
before Sir Charles appears. She is ready, but accepts
the hasty marriage with such innocent words, that
Aimwell at the last moment refuses to play the
villain, sends Foigard away, and tells Doi-inda that
he is all counterfeit except his passion. But then
comes, as a crown to the artificial life of the play,
what is regarded as for Aimwell the happy discovery
that his brother is dead. There is not a woi'd of
regret for the dead brother; everybody looks only
to the happy transference of his title and lands.
Archer now claims the fulfilment of the bargain
with Aimwell, that whichever won the heu'ess sliould
give half to his confederate. Dorinda's fortune is ten
thousand pounds. Aimwell offers his friend the
money or the lady, knowing of course that Archer
will take the ten thousand. That is the exact
amount of the fortune received by Squire Sullen with
the wife from whom he is now to be divorced, and
which he will not give up. But says Archer, " This
night's adventure has proved strangely lucky to U3
all — for Captain Gibbet in his walk had made bold,
Mr. Sullen, with your study and escritoii-e, and had
taken out all the writings of your estate, all the
articles of marriage with your lady, bills, bonds,
leases, receipts, to an infinite value ; I took 'em from
him, and I deliver 'em to Sir Charles." As for
Boniface's daughter Cherry, who was ready to be her
dear Martin's " faithful friend till death," Archer's
friendship for her is summed up in the request to
Aimwell, " Pray, my lord, persuade your bride to
take her into her service instead of Gipsy."
Since the time of Farquhar no writer of high mark
has based his reputation upon writing for the stage.
The number of men who have devoted themselves to
play-writing has been considerable, but they have
seldom aimed at anything higher than a safe
ephemeral success. Successive waves of thought
that stir the whole surface of literature, pass through
the plays of successive generations so distinctly that
tlie history of opinion might be illustrated very fully
from dramatic entertainments of tlie eighteenth
centui'y, and of the nineteenth as far as it has gone.
Like other works with little independent thought to
give them weight, tliey serve as straws to show
which way tlie wind is blowing. But the traditions
and conventionalities of the theatre itself have become
so limited tliat men of genius have been unable to
submit to them. Plays have been written since
TO i.D. 1713.J
PLAYS.
405
Farquhar's time that form a part of English litera-
ture, but the writers have been men who put much
of their best strength into other forms of woi'k.
Richard Steele, after publishing "The Christian
Hero," began his literary career as a dramatist, in
the days when Vanbrugh and Farquhar were writing.
His first comedy, "The Funeral ; or. Grief a la Mode,"
was acted in 1 702, and was followed in the next two
years by "The Tender Husband" (1703), and " The
Lying Lover" (1704). These comedies abound in wit
and genial humour, while they aie distinguished from
all others of their time by generosity of feeling, and
a thorough jDurity of tone ; but Steele found on the
stage of his day no room for the main labour of an
earnest life. He created a new form of literature,
for aid in healing the sickness of his time, associated
his name for ever with the Tathr and Spectator, and
lisked his fortune in a fearless battle against dangers
to English liberty that were not the less real because
they were happily averted. Steele cared about the
players, as all men must care about them who love
literature — it is the noblest form of human literature
that lies dormant with them now — and he made it
one part of his life's work to endeavour to restore
health to the stage. If Steele had given his whole
genius to play-wi-iting he would have humanised the
Prose Comedy of Planners, and become its foremost
representative; but the acceptance in the play-house
of the idler about tovra as the arbiter of taste, had
already in his day deprived the stage of its old
grandeur and power. The noble aims of a ti-ue
intellectual life could be better attained without help
of the playei-s, and Steele, after 1702, 1703, and 1704,
■^vrote no more plays until, in 1722, he produced his
fourth and last, " The Conscious Lovers."
CoUey Gibber, whom Pope made the hero of his
" Dunciad " in its last form, was actor and dramatist,
and nothing more. For, although he died Poet
Laureate, he was no poet. He was born in 1671.
His father, Gabriel, a native of Hoi stein, came to
England as a sculptor, and produced among other
works the bas-relief on the pedestal of the Monu-
ment raised to commemorate the Fire of London.
His mother was granddaughter of Sir Anthony
GolJey, of Glaiston in Rutlandshire, who, as a faith-
ful Royalist during the civil wars, had reduced his
estate to a tenth of its original value. After
education at the Grantham Grammar-school, Colley
Gibber joined the force raised for William of Orange
by the Earl of Devonshire, upon whose estate at
Chats worth, Gabriel Gibber was then employed in
decorative work. After the Revolution he attached
himself to the theatre, paid at first only by liberty
of the free list, and rising to a salary of ten
shillings a week, after about nine months of such
service. He married in 1693 upon an income of
twenty pounds a year spared by his father, and
twenty shillings a week from the theatre during the
acting season- In 1696, Ciblier produced his first
comedy, " Love's Last Sluft ; or, the Fool in Fashion."
Vanbrugh honoured him by writing a sequel to it,
" The Relapse," and asking him to continue the act-
ing of his fool, Sir Novelty Fashion, who appeared in
the sequel as newly created Loi'd Foppington. From
that time Gibber's rise was rapid. From 1711 to
1733, Gibber had a share in the patent of Drury
Lane. He died in 17.57, eighty-six years old, and in
his latter days as an actor is said to have been paid
as much as fifty guineas a night, not very long after
James Quin had been tempted from Govent Garden
to Drury Lane by an ofler of five hundred pounds a
year, when John Rich, the Covent Garden manager,
declared that three hundred a year was the utmost
value of an actor. Gibber's activity as a dramatist
extended from 1696 to 1729. His "Nonjuror," an
adaptation of Moliere's " TartufTe " to an attack on
the opponents of the Revolution, was suggested by
the Rebeljiou of 171.5, and first printed in 1718.
The crowning infamy of his Tartuffe, Doctor Wolf,
is that he is not only an agent of the Pretender, but
proves to be a Roman Catholic in disguise. The in-
sult to Roman Catholics in the play was a chief cause
of Pope's dislike of Cibber.
John Dennis, the critic, had produced a play on
"Appius and Virginia" in 1709, when he found in
young Pope's " Essay on Criticism," published in
the spring of 1711, a glance at his own critical
temper : —
But Appius reddens at each word you speak,
And stares tremendous, with a threatening eye,
Like some fierce tj-rant in old tapestry.
Appius lost no time in declaring the " Esisay on
Criticism" to be a bad poem.
A much better dramatist than John Dennis was
Nicholas Rowe,wlio was born in Bedfordshire in 1673,
and was, therefore, about two years younger than
Colley Cibber. Rowe was the son of a lawyer, who
educated him at Westminster School, and, designing
him for the bar, entered him a student of the
Middle Temple. But his father's death having left
him free to follow his own inclinations, Rowe pro-
duced in 1 700 his tir.st play, a tragedy — " The
Ambitious Stepmother." He wrote eight plays
between 1700 and 1715, the most successful being
"Jane Shore," in 1713. We are indebted to
Nicholas Rowe for a collection of all he could learn
about Shake.speare in a "Life" prefixed to an
edition of his plays published by Rowe in seven
octavo volumes in 1709 and 1710. This was the
first edition of the plays of Shakespeare after the
four foUos of 1623, 1632, 1664, and 1685.
Susanna Centlivre wrote nineteen plays — seven-
teen of them comedies — between the years 1700 and
1701. She was born Susanna Freeman, of a family
that had sided strongly with the Parliament during
the Civil Wars, and .she was a good \Vhig in her
writing. She had been twice a widow when she
married Mr. Joseph Centlivre, the queen's cook,
who was fascinated by her acting in a play at court,
and she died in 1723.
Another contribution to the minor literature of
the drama was a version of Racine's " Andromaque,"
under the name of " The Distrest Mother," produced
in 1711 by Addison's friend, Ambrose Philips, and
recommended by the friendly over-praise of Addison
in the " Spectator."
The gi-eat success of its time was Addison's own
tragedy of " Cato," produced at Drury Lane in 1713
406
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1672
The theatre in Drury Lane, which had been opened
by the King's company on the 8th of April, 1662,
was burnt in January, 1672; fifty or sixty neighbour-
ing houses being burnt with it, or blown up to pre-
vent the spread of the tire. The Duke of York's
company at that time had just entered the house
sumptuously adorned in Dorset Gardens,^ which had
been planned for Sir William Davenant, but was not
opened until November, 1671, three years after Sir
William's death. Tliis house maintained the reputa-
tion Davenant had first established for magnificence
of scenery and stage effect, whOe Drury Lane was
being rebuilt from designs by Sir Christopher Wren.
It was the "King's Theatre," and the king had
desired that in the rebuilding there should be no
lavish expense on ornament. Dryden's prologue,
written for the opening of the new house on the
26th of March, 1674, drew a lesson from the contrast
between the magnificence at the Dorset Gardens
Theatre and the plain walls of Drury Lane.
A plain-built house, after so long a stay,
"WUl send you half unsatisfied away,
he began; then pleaded poverty, and said of the
Dorset Gardens company,
They who are by your favours wealthy made.
With mighty sums may carry on the trade ;
We, broken hankers, half destroyed by fire.
With our small stock to humble roofs retire :
Pity our loss, while you their pomp admire.
He urged also the king's will 'in justification of
the plainness of the house, and ended with a lesson
on the danger that has unhappily gi'own with suc-
ceeding years, and become one cause of the leanness
of the modern drama — the spending of money upon
that which is not bread : —
'Twere folly now a stately pile to raise,
To build a pla)^house while you throw down plays.
While scenes, machines, and empty operas reign.
And for the pencil you the pen disdain.
I would not prophesy our house's fate :
But while vain shows and scenes you over-rate,
'Tis to be feared
That as a fire the former house o'erthrew,
Slachines and tempests will destroy the new.
Tlie Drury Lane management was, however, so
far from relying on the wortli of its productions for
success, that it procured the aid of Thomas Duffet,
a burlesque-writing milliner of the New Exchange,
to ridicule the pomp of "The Tempest" at the
Duke's Theatre, with a piece called "The Mock
Tempest," and the "Psyche of Shadwell " (1675),
which was written for the express purpose of giving
employment to the best scene-painters, dancers, and
musicians, with the mock opera of " Psyche De-
bauched." Tlie appeals to the eye at the Dorset
Gardens (or Duke's) Theatre still carried all before
» See pages 326, 327, 351, 352.
them, but were so costly that while they ruined the
other house they yielded little gain to their pro-
moters. The chief actors at Dniry Lane, Charles
Hart and Edward Kynaston, on the 1 4th of October,
1681, entered into an agreement with Charles Davg-
nant. Sir WOliam's eldest son (a Doctor of CivU
Law, who inherited his father's interest in the
Duke's Theatre), also with William Smith and with
Thomas Betterton, the chief actor at Dorset Gardens,
of which the purpose was to bring about a union of
the two companies. Charles Hart, who excelled in
two characters so unlike as Hotspur and Sir Fopling
Flutter, and of whose Alexander in " The Rival
Queens " a nobleman is said to have declared " that
his action in that character was so excellent that no
prince in Europe need be ashamed to learn depoi-t-
ment from him," joined Kynaston in transfer of his
services from Drury Lane to the Duke's Theatre,
stipulating that he should have two pounds a week
as consideration for the share in Druiy Lane that
he gave up. His salary as an actor is said to have
been three pounds a week, with a certain share in
the profits of the season. With the same addition of
a share of profits, Betterton, the greatest actor of his
time, never received more than four pounds a week
as salary. Tlie result of the secession of Hart and
Kynaston was the breaking up of the management
under which the new house at Di-ury Lane had
opened, the closing of the Dorset Gardens Theatre
(though it was used for occasional performances by
the united company until about the end of the cen-
tury), and the removal of the strengthened Dorset
Gardens company to Drury Lane in 1682. The old
Duke's company took in other actors who were
thrown out of employment by the suppression of the
other house, and itself adopted the name of the
King's Company. Charles Davenant then assigned
his interest in the theatre, in 1687, to Alexander
Davenant, who sold it in 1690 to Christopher Rich.
Betterton, finding him an insufierable master, re-
volted, obtained a new separate licence from the
king, and on the .30th of April, 169.5, opened a new
theatre at Lincoln's Inn Fields, as we have seen,
with Congi-eve's " Love for Love."- The monopoly
at Drury Lane obtained by the union of the two
companies — the King's and Duke's, originally headed
by 'Thomas Killigrew and Sir William Davenant —
having lasted thirteen years, there were again two
rival houses, in Drury Lane and Lincoln's Inn. The
lawyers objected to the disturbance caused by
thronging of coaches into Lincoln's Inn Fields ; they
began a lawsuit, which was one cause of the abandon-
ment of the small house in Lincoln's Inn, Another
cause was the desire for a more magnificent theatre,
and the desire was satisfied when Betterton's com-
pany moved to the theatre built in the Haymarket
by Sir John Vanbrugh, on the site of tliat wliich
is now known as " Her Majesty's." Vanbrugh's
theatre was opened on the 9th of April, 170."). Its
failure as a home for the drama has been already
described.^ In 1706, it was let to Owen !McS\viney,
who had been an under-manager to Clu-istopher Rich
2 See page 323.
3 See page 393.
TO A.D. 1713.]
PLAYS.
407
at Drury Lane, at a rent of £5 for eveiy acting day,
provided that the whole rent did not exceed £700 a
year. In 1 708 the actors were again gathered into
one house as Drury Lane,' and the theatre in the Hay-
market under Owen McSwiney was formally devoted
to Italian operas. Of the applause with which the
opera of " Pyrrhus and Demetrius," translated from
the Italian of Scarlatti by McSwiney, was produced
at his theatre on a Saturday, in Api-il, 1 709, Pdchard
Steele wrote in his " Tatler " on the Tuesday follow-
ing : " This intelligence is not very acceptable to us
friends of the theatre ; for the stage being an enter-
tainment of the reason and all our faculties, this way
of being pleased with the suspense of them for thi-ee
hours together, and being given up to the shallow
satisfaction of the eyes and eare only, seems to arise
rather from the degeneracy of our understanding,
than an improvement of our diversions." The success
of this opera was due to the first appearance in it of
the Neapolitan soprano singer, Cavalier Nicoluio
Grimaldi, known as Nicolini, before an English
atidience. Within a year Christopher Rich had again
driven his chief actors into rebellion, and in the year
of Nicolini's success, 1709, Colley Gibber, Robei-t
Wilks, and Thomas Doggett proposed to join Owen
McSwiney in the Haymarket, and there alternate
plays with operas. In June, 1709, an order of the
Lord Chamberlain closed Diury Lane, and the seceders
proceeded to make such alterations in Vanbrugh's
building as were necessary to secure a distinct hear-
ing of the words of actors. Before Christmas, plays
were acted in the Haymarket with fair success, and
as the Lord Chamberlain held, at the beginning of
next season, by his interdict upon performances at
Drury Lane, there was again only one theatre open,
until William Collier, a la^vyer and Member of
Parliament who had a .share in Diniry Lane, used his
influence to obtain for himself the licence that was
refused to Christopher Rich, took a lease of the house,
and entered into forcible posse.ssion of it. Rich then
set about the rebuilding of the theatre in Lincoln's
Inn Fields, but did not live to raise any question about
opening it himself. After his death it was opened
by his .son in 1714.
Meanwhile ilr. Collier's first season was not pros-
perous, but the actors and singers in the Haymarket
were doing well. Mr. Collier therefore used his in-
fluence at court to contrive an exchange of theatres,
upon the ground that opera and drama should be in
separate houses. He went over to the Haymarket,
• " In til e year 1706 or 1707, the concerns of the play-b ouse were thought
of so little worth, that Sir Thomas Skipwith, who had an equal right
with Rich in the management of Drury Lane Theatre, in a frolic, made
a present of his share to Colonel Brett, a gentleman of fortune, who
soon afterwards forced himself into the management much against the
inclination of his partner. In 1708, he effected a reunion of the two
companies, and brought about an agreement that the theatre in the
Haymarket should be appropriated to operas, aud that in Drury Lane
to plays. The one was given to Swiuey by the Lord Chamberl.-iin. and
the other was continued with Rich and Brett. The colonel, by con-
ducting the business of the theatre in a different manner from what it
had heretofore been, brought it to so good a state, that Sir Thomas
Skipwith repented of bis generosity, and applied to Chancery to
have the property he had given away restored to him again. Colonel
Brett, offended at this treatment, relinquished his claim ; and Mr. Rich
again possessed himself of allthepowersof thepatent." (Introduction
to the " Biogi-aphia Dramatica,"* by David Erskine Baker, 17G4.)
as director of opera, while McSwiney ajid the actors
were transferred to Drury Lane. For a short time
Collier under-let the opera to Aaron Hill, at the time
when Handel, in 1710, paid his first visit to England.
Aaron Hill at once be.spoke of the great composer an
opera on a subject of his own sketching, from the
story of Rinaldo and Armida in Tasso's " Jerusalem
Delivered." " Rinaldo" was brought out on the 24th
of February, 1711, had a run of fifteen nights, and is
accounted one of the be.st of thirty-five opei-as, com-
posed by Handel for the English stage. Mr. Collier
then procured a return of McS^viney to the operatic
house, and took his place at Drury Lane, where the
actors were prospering, and having done that, he
retired from dramatic speculation and all active
management with an income of six hundred a year
from the theatre as patentee.
This was the state of things at Drury Lane when
Addison's
CATO
was produced in Api-il, 171.3. It was the work of a
man of genius, not of a dramatist, and although from
accidental causes the most famous play of its time, it
has not a spark in it of real dramatic fire. The re-
putation of Addison was sustained by frequent gi-aces
of style. In days when dramatic critics talked of the
three unities, the unities were well and duly observed,
— the unity of place in its one scene, " a large Hall in
the Governor's Palace of Utica ; " the unity of time,
the limit of a single day, was marked by the direct
suggestion of morning in the opening lines : —
The dawn is overcast, the morning lowers
And heavily in clouds brings on the day.
The great, th' important day, Kg with the fate
Of C'ato and of Rome ;
and suggestion of evening in the close ; and there
was unity of action in the series of incidents all lead-
ing to the death of Cato. "Our father's death," says,
in the ojaenLug, Fortius to JIarcus —
Our father's death
TVould fill up all the guilt of civil war.
And close the scene of blood.
Tlie opening dialogue between the two brothers —
Fortius, of a steady temper ; Marcus, more passionate
— shows Cato pent up in Utica ^^■ithstanding the arms
of Caesar ; shows also the brothers both lovei-s of
Lucia, daughter to Lucius, a senator who is among
Cato's friends : but Fortius conceals from his more
impulsive brother the fact that they are rivals, and
seeks to di.ssuade him from the weakening power of
love. Behold, he says —
Behold young Juba, the Xumidian Prince 1
With how much care he forms himself to glory,
And breaks the fierceness of his native temper
To copy out our father's bright example.
He loves our sister JVIarcia, greatly loves her.
His eyes, his looks, his actions all betray it :
But still the smothered fondness bums within him.
408
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1713.
Seiupronius, a senator, who hides treason to Cato
under show of a fervid enthusiasm for his cause,
enters, and Marcus withdi-aws, that he may not be
seen under emotion. Sempronius embraces Fortius,
who says to him —
My father has this morning called together
To this poor hall his little Roman Senate,
The leavings of Pharsalia, to consult
If yet he can oppose the mighty torrent
That bears down Rome and all her gods before it,
Or must at length give up the world to Ciesar.
It is in this scene that Fortius speaks the often-
quoted lines
'Tis not in mortals to command success,
But we'll do more, Sempronius, we'U deserve it.
Sempronius urges the son of Cato, with a show of
fiery zeal ; and, when he has left, says —
Curse on the stripling ! How he apes his sire !
Ambitiously sententious !— But I wonder
Old Sj'phax comes not ; his Numidian genius
Is well disposed to mischief, were he prompt
And eager on it ; but he must be spurred
And every moment quickened to the course.
Cato has used me ill; he has refused
His daughter Marcia to my ardent vows.
Besides, his bafHed arms and ruined cause
Are bars to my ambition. Ca;sar's favour,
That showers down greatness on his friends, will raise me
To Rome's first honours. If I give up Cato,
I claim in my reward his captive daughter.
But Syphax comes
Syphax reports his Numidians rife for revolt,
weary of Cato's discipline. But young Juba, the
Numidian prince, has his thoughts full of Cato's vir-
tues, and is uncorrupted. Says Sempronius —
Be sure to press upon him every motive;
Juba's surrender, since his father's death,
Would give up Afric into Ciusar's hands.
And make him lord of half the burning zone.
Syphax. But is it lime, Sempronius, that your Senate
Is called together ? Gods 1 Thou must be cautious !
Cato has piercing eyes, and will discern
Our frauds, unless they're covered thick with guile.
Scmpr. Let me alone, good Syph.'ix, I'U conceal
My thoughts in passion, 'tis the siu'est way ;
I'll bellow out for Rome and for my country.
And mouth at Cajsar till I shake the Senate.
Meanwhile he will inflame mutiny among his
Roman soldiers. The old Numidian general Syphax
is then shown practising upon young Juba, who looks
up to the Roman civilisation, reverences Cato's
virtues, and loves Cato's daughter Marcia. She
enters while he praises her, and Sypha.Y leaves him.
Marcia turns her ear away from words of love in
time of peril, and will only nerve Juba for the field.
Juba. Marcia, let me hope thy kind concerns
And gentle wishes follow me to battle !
The thought will give new vigour to my arm.
Add strength and weight to my descending sword,
And drive it in a tempest on the foe.
Marcia. My prayers and wishes always shall attend
The friends of Rome, the glorious cause of Virtue,
And men approved of by the Gods and Cato.
Juba. That Juba may deserve thy pious cares,
I'll gaze for ever on thy godlike father.
Transplanting, one by one, into my life
His bright perfections, till I shine like him.
Marcia. My father never at a time like this
Would lay out his great soul in words, and waste
Such precious moments.
Her friend Lucia marvels that Marcia can look so
sternly on her lover, and tells of her own bewilder-
ment between Marcia's brothers, who both love her.
Her heart is given to Fortius, but
Fortius himself oft falls in tears before me.
As if he mourned his rival's ill success.
Then bids me hide the motions of my heart,
Nor show which way it turns. So much he fears
The sad effects that it would have on Marcus.
Marcia bids her friend leave the end to the gods,
and closes the Act, as each of the first three Acts is
closed, with a simile in rhyme:
So the pure limpid stream, when foul with stains
Of rushing torrents and descending rains.
Works itself clear, and, as it runs, refines ;
Till by degrees the floating mirror shines.
Reflects each flower that on the border grows,
And a new heaven in its fair bosom shows.
The Second Act presents Cato surrounded by the
little senate of which Fope wrote in the prologue
furnished by him to the play.
While Cato gives his little Senate laws,
WTiat bosom beats not in his country's cause ?
Lines that he afterwards echoed in another sense
when, under irritation, touching on the defects of the
character of Addison, as one who
Like Cato gives his little Senate laws
And sits attentive to his own applause.
The " like Cato " was meant to apply to the second
as well as the first line of the couplet ; for the cool
self-content with which Cato accepts all the deifica-
tion he gets is a half-comic feature of the play. It
is due to the want of real dramatic force in the paint-
ing of character. Throughout the play the " manners"
are laid on in cold blood according to rule, with
literary skill and more concession to what were in
Addison's time the conventional ideas of Roman
virtue and the dignity of suicide than accorded well
with the didactic pui-pose of the tragedy.' In the
' Wten Addison's cousin. Eustace Budgell, afterwards drowned
himseU, he left a paper on his table sayiu,? that there could he no
wrong in a way of escape from misfortune " that Cato practised and
Addison approved."
i.D. 1713.]
PLAYS.
409
senate Sempronius blusters for war, Lucius counsels
peace, and Cato would appear " nor rash nor diffi-
dent," not yielding until compelled.
Twill never be too late
To sue for chains and own a conquei-or.
WTiy should Rome fall a moment ere her time ?
No, let us draw her term of freedom out
In its fuU length, and spin it to the last.
So shall we gain still one day's liberty ;
And let me perish but in Gate's judgment,
A day, an hour, of virtuous liberty
Is worth a whole eternity in bondage.
Then comes old Decius, once Cato's friend, with a
herald from Cfesar's camp. Caesar would know the
price of Cato's friendship.
Cato. Bid him disband his legions.
Restore the commonwealth to liberty,
Submit his actions to the public censure,
And stand the judgment of a Roman Senate ;
Bid him do this, and Cato is his friend.
Dee. Cato, the world talks loudly of your wisdom
Cato. Nay more, though Cato's voice was ne'er em-
ployed
To clear the guilty and to varnish crimes.
Myself will mount the rostrum in his favour,
And strive to gain his freedom from the people.
Dec. A style like this becomes a conqueror.
Cato. Decius, a style like this becomes a Roman.
Dec, What is a Roman that is Csesar's foe ?
Cato. Greater than Cajsar, he 's a friend to virtue.
When Decius has been dismissed, Sempronius
loudly flatters Cato, talks in false rapture about
liberty, and accuses Lucius of lukewarmness in the
cause. Tlie senate resolves to hold Utica till time
gives better prospects. Juba, who enters after the
breaking up of the assembly, is told by Cato of the
decision, and suggesting the fidelity of his Numidians.
and asks,
Had we not better leave this Utica
To arm Numidia in our cause, and court '
The assistance of my father's powerful friends ?
Did thej' know Cato, our remotest kings
Would pour embattled multitudes about him.
Cato will not fly before Csesar to become " a vaga-
bond in Afric." Juba hints at his love for Cato's
daughter, and is sternly left with the warning,
It is not now a time to talk of aught
But chains or conquest, liberty or death.
Syphax enters to the young prince in his discomfi-
ture, and seeks again tt) tempt him from the path of
honour, but is obliged to fall back upon dissimula-
tion, after he has stin-ed Juba's generous soul to anger
against him. Syphax easily escapes from the sus-
picion he had raised, and is left wholly Cwsar's, with
the small remaining care he had for Juba given to
the winds. At the close of the Act he plots with
Sempronius, who has sent word to Caesar of the
mutiny prepared in Utica. Witliin an hour the
"l72
Roman soldiers, under influence of Sempronius, will
storm the Senate House ; meanwhile Syphax will be
getting his Numidians ready, and when all is done
Sempronius shall have Marcia. Says Syphax, ending
the Act with a simile,
I laugh to think how your unshaken Cato
Will look aghast, while unforeseen destruction
Pours in upon him thus from every side.
So, where our wide Numidian wastes extend,
Sudden, th' impetuous hurricanes descend,
Wheel through the air, in circling eddies play.
Tear up the sands, and sweep whole plains away.
The helpless traveller, with wild surprise.
Sees the dry desert all around him rise,
And, smothered in the dusty whirlwind, dies.
The Third Act opens with a scene between Cato's
sons Marcus and Fortius, bound in love to each other,
and both loving Lucia. Marcus, not knowing of
his brother's passion, urges him to plead for him
to Lucia. Lucia enters ; and, says Marcus,
I '11 withdraw.
And leave you for a while. Remember, Fortius,
Thy brother's life depends upon thy tongue.
In the scene with Fortius, distracted Lucia tells
him that she sees
Thy sister's tears.
Thy father's anguish, and thy brother's death.
In the pursuit of our ill-fated loves.
And, Fortius, here I swear, to Heaven I swear —
To Heaven, and all the powers that judge mankind-
Never to mix my plighted hands with thine
While such a cloud of mischief hangs about us,
But to forget our loves, and drive thee out
From all my thoughts, as far — as I am able.
Fort. 'What hast thou said ? I 'm thunder-struck.
Recall
Those hasty words, or I am lost for ever.
Tliis situation is worked up before Lucia leaves
the scene, and Marcus enters to learn how his brother
has thriven in suit for him. He finds Fortius looking
" like one amazed and terrified," is stirred to passion
by hearing only that Lucia compassionates his pains
and pities him. Both brothers in their excitement
pant for battle as an outlet to their feelings. Then
the mutineers are led by Sempronius to the scene to
beat down and bind Cato. Cato enters with Lucius
and his sons to face the mutineers, who flinch and
droop before him. Seeing this, Sempronius turns
against them, and to save himself, secures their im-
mediate execution. He then arranges with Syphax
for an aftergame, a flight of the Numidian troops
to Cse.sar's camp led by Sempronius, who will force
Marcia with him.
Semp. But how to gain admission? for access
Is given to none but Juba and his brothers.
Syph. Thoushalt have Juba's dress, and Juba's guards:
The doors wiU open when Numidia's prince
Seems to appear before the slaves that watch them.
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[i.D. 1713
This is arranged, and Sempronius closes the Act
with a rhymed simile.
The Fourth Act opens with dialogue between
Lucia and Marcia. Marcia does not like Sempronius,
but says,
While Cato lives his daughter has no right
To lore or hate, but as his choice directs.
Lticia. But should this father give you to Sempronius ?
Marcia. I dare not think he will : but if he should —
Wh)- wilt thou add to all the griefs I suffer
Imaginar)- ills, and fancied tortures ?
I hear the sound of feet ! The}' march this way !
Let us retire, and try if we can di-own
Each softer thought in sense of present danger.
When love once pleads admission to our hearts.
In spite of all the virtue we can hoast.
The woman that deliberates is lost.
That much-quoted line closes the scene between
the friends. They quit the room as Sempronius
enters, dressed like Juba, with Numidian guards.
He is hunting for Marcia, but meets Juba himself,
and when he strikes at Juba, Juba kills him, and
leaves him dead upon the floor, while carrying the
rest as prisoners to Cato. Then re-enter Lucia and
Mai-cia, wlio liad lieard the clash of .swords, and
Marcia seeing one lie dead, with muffled face, but
wearing Julja's robes, pours out her love within the
hearing of Juba liimsclf, who has returned. Juba
comes forward, and there is ecstasy between the lovers.
Tlien Cato is master of the scene. He has lieard
the treason of Sempronius. His son Fortius enters
to tell him of the iliglit of Syphax with the Numi-
dian horse through the south gate, on his way to
Csesar. At the south gate Marcus had watch.
Cato. Perfidious men ! But haste, my son, and see
Thy hrother Marcus acts a Roman's part, [^jji Fortius.
— Lucius, the torrent bears too hard upon me :
Justice gives way to force: the conquered world
Is Cfesar's : Cato has no business in it.
Lucius. WhUc pride, oppression, and injustice reign,
The world will still demand her C;esar's presence.
In pity to mankind, submit to Caisar,
And reconcile thy mighty soul to life.
Cato. Would Lucius have me live to swell the number
Of C:tsar's slaves, or by a base submission
Give up the cause of Kome, and own a tyrant ?
Lucius. The victor never will impose on Cato
Ungenerous terms. His enemies confess
The virtues of humanity arc Cajsar's.
Cato. Curse on his virtuosi They've undone his
country.
Such popular humanity is treason
But, see, young Juba ! the good youth appears
Full of the guilt of his perfidious subjects.
Tlie downcast Juba receives with joy the praise
of Cato, but Fortius tlien enters liastily, to tell how
liis brother Marcus had pierced the heart of tlie
revolted Syphax, but had fallen in brave resLstance to
tlie host of traitors. Tlie dead Marcus is born in
upon the shields of Ms surviving soldiers, and laid at
his father's feet. Cato moralises over it upon the
beauty of deatli earned by virtue.
Let not a private loss
Afflict your 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 t>'rants of the earth,
And set the nations free, Kome is no more.
O liberty ! O ™tue ! my country !
Juba. \_Aside.'\ Behold that upright man ! Rome fiUs
his eyes
With tears that flowed not o'er his own dead son.
Cato looks now to the saving of his friends, bids
Fortius retire to his paternal seat, the Sabine field,
with a comment yielding one more of the often-
quoted passages from Cato: —
When vice prevails, and impious men bear sway,
The post of honour is a private station.
Ships are prepared for the escape of Cato's friends,
and Cato bids them all farewell.
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 Ca'sar never shall approach us more.
There the brave youth, with love of \Trtue fired,
[Foiiitiiig to the body of his dead son
Who greatly in his country's cause expired,
Shall know he conquered. The firm patriot there,
AVho made the welfare of mankind his care,
Tho' still by faction, vice, and fortune crost,
Shall tind the generous labour was not lost.
The Fifth Act opens with " Cato alone, sitting in
a thoughtful posture : in his hand Flato's book on
the Immortality of the Soul. A di-awn sword on the
table by him.'
It must be so^ — Plato, thou reasonest well !
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire.
This longing after immortality ?
Tlie rest of the Act is an elaboration of the suicide
of Cato, whose last words are these —
Portius, come near me — are my friends embarked ?
Can anything be thought of for their service ?
Whilst I yet live, let me not live in vain.
— O Lucius, art thou here ? — Thou art too good ! —
Ijct tliis our friendship live between our children ;
jMakc Portius happy in thy daughter Lucia.
Alas, poor man, he weeps ! — JIarcia, mj- daughter —
— O bond me forward ! — Juba loves thee, JIarcia.
A Senator of Rome, while Rome survived.
Would not have matched his daughter with a king,
Bvit Cipsar's arms have thrown down all distinction ;
A\'hoc'cr is lirave and virtuous is a Roman
— I'm sick to death — Oh, when shall I get loose
From this vain world, th' abode of guilt and sorrow I —
— And yet methinks a beam of light breaks in
On my departing soul. Alas, I fear
I've been too hasty. O ye powers, that search
The heart of man, and weigh his inmost thoughts.
If I have done amiss, impute it not ! —
The best may eiT, but you are good, and — oh '. [JJies.
TO A.D. 1729]
PLAYS.
■Ill
Lucius. There fled the gi-eatest soul that ever warmed
A Koman breast.
The great success of " Cato " was due partly to
the genius of Addison, partly to his reputation
among Whigs, and the belief that the play about
Eoman Hberty was fuU of subtle allusions to
the English politics of the day. Whigs claimed
to love liberty as much as Tories. The Whigs
upheld Marlborough by finding him in Cato ;
the Tories who opposed the influence of Marl-
borough found him in Caesar. The factions vied
in applause of the play at the theatre. It was
recited in homes, read, talked of, written of. The
author of " Cato Examined " found it in every part
tme to the laws of ArLstotle ; John Dennis under-
took to show its faults and absurdities occasioned by
not observing many of the rules of Aristotle, and
Our Scene precariously subsists too long
On French Translation and Italian Song.
Dare to have sense yourselves ; Assert the Stage ;
Be justly warmed by your own Native Rage.
Such plays alone should please a British ear,
As Cato's self had not disdained to hear.
Barton Booth's success as " Cato " caused him to
ask for a .share in the management of Drury Lane,
and this he obtained by help of Bolingbroke, Doggett
retiring.
The death of Queen Anne on the 1st of Augu.st,
1714, caused the lapse of tlie patent at Druiy Lane.
Under the new sovereign the Whigs were in power,
and Mr. Collier, as a Tory Member of Parliament,
was not likely to obtain a renewal of his govern-
ment of the theatre. Tlie players, therefore, with
Old asd New Haimjrket Thzaike.
those occasioned by observing several of the rules
without any manner of judgment or discretion.
" A Gentleman of Oxford " represented the political
stir caused by the play in a pamphlet entitled
" Mr. Addison turn'd Tory; or, The Scene Inverted :
Wherein it is made to appear that the Whigs have
misunderstood that Celebrated Author in his ap-
plauded Tragedy called ' Cato,' and that the Duke
of M 's Character, in endeavouring to be a
General for Life, bears a much greater resemblance
to that of C(esar and S'jphax, than the Heroe of his
Play. To which are added. Some Cursory Remarks
upon the Play itself." Bolingbroke, in the theatre,
liad taught the Tories that view of the play by
sending between the acts for Booth, who represented
Cato, and presenting him ostentatiously with fifty
guineas, "for defending the cause of liberty so well
against a perpetual Dictator." Tlie greater part of
the play had been written long before, with little
reference to English party cries, and this way of
taking it did not promise mucli for the regenei'ation
of the stage by the gl•o^vtll of such WLsdom among
the audiences as Pope pleaded for in the last Unes of
his Prologue : —
success, made interest to have Richard Steele named
in his place.
The theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields, which
Christopher Rich had been restoring, his son, John
Rich, was allowed to open on the 18th of December,
1714. John Rich was a clever mimic, and after a
year or two he found it to his advantage to compete
with the actors in a fashion of his own. He was the
inventor of the modem English form of pantomime,
with a serious part that he took from Ovid's Meta-
morphoses or any fabulous history, and a comic
addition of the court.ship of harlequin and colum-
bine, with surprising tricks and transformations.
He introduced the old Italian characters of panto-
mime under changed conditions, and beginning -Nvith
"Harlequin Sorcerer" in 1717, continued to pro-
duce these entertainments until a year before his
death in 1761. Tliey have since been retained as
Christmas shows upon the English stage.
In 1720 a new theatre was built in tlie Hay-
market by a speculative cai-penter named Potter^
as a house that might be hired for occasional per-
formances ; and in 1729, in spite of local opposition,
another theatre was built in Goodman's Fields by a
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[a.d. 1723.
Mr. Odell, who formed a company and made a
succe.ssful beginning, but was driven out by con-
tinued oppcsition. But the Goodman'.? Fields
Theatre was revived by a new proprieter in a
luxurious form, and opened in October, 1732, with
Shakespeare's " King Henry IV."
In the next year (1733) there was a secession of
leading actors from the manager who then had chief
control of Drury Lane, and they rented the house
built by Mr. Potter in the Haymarket, which was
tlien known as the Little Theatre in the Haymarket.
A sketch made of the present Haymarket Theatre
when it was newly built shows the preceding "Little
Tlieatre " still standing beside it.
The actors in the Haymarket succeeded. The
unjiopular manager at Drury Lane retired, and his
successor, Charles Fleetwood, won the revolters back
Theatres multiplied and actors, but meanwhile the
literature of the drama was declining steadily. The
laboured artificial utterance of tragic actors, with
gasps and abrupt senseless changes between shout
and whisper, found no corrective in the conventional
style of the conventional tragedy scenes. Edward
Young, the author of the "Night Thoughts," did
not contribute to a reform by the tone of his
" Busiris " (1719), and " The Revenge " (1721). He
was a man of genius who would in no case have
succeeded as a dramatist. Richard Steele caused
the higher comedy to flash out again in Novem-
ber, 1723, when he produced at Drury Lane
THE CONSCIOUS LOATERS.
This comedy was skilfully formed upon the
"Andria" of Terence, and was written with the
Part of Old Ceateh Hodse, Site of the Olympic Theatre.
to Drury Lane. But in the year of their secession
(1733) yet another theatre had been opened. John
Rich left the old building in Lincoln's Imi's Fields
(which was occupied for the next two years by the
manager from Goodman's Fields), and moved into
the new house then ready for him in Covent Garden.
There were then Fleetwood at Drury Lane and Rich
at Covent Garden, with Giffard at Lincoln's Inn
Fields, and two other houses — Goodman's Fields and
the Little Theatre in the Haymarket — available for
acting, besides the Great Theatre in the Haymarket
for opera. The centre of dramatic life was Drury
Lane. The theatre was named from its locality, and
the locality from the great house of the Drury
family, built by Sir William Drury, whose son. Sir
Robert, gave at one time a home in it to the poet
Donne. The house afterwards passed to William,
Lord Craven (afterwards Earl Craven), who rebuilt
it. Then it became known as Craven House. In
course of time it degenerated into a public-house,
and passed through other changes before its dis-
appearance. It stood on the site of the present
Olympic Theatre.
earnest purpose characteristic of Steele's work, as
one more stroke from him against the false code
of honour that supported duelling. It is noticeable
that the actor Barton Booth, who had achieved
fame and fortune as a tragedian in Addison's
" Cato," made his last conspicuous success in
comedy as Young Bevil in Steele's " Conscious
Lovers," and had been turned in his youth from
study for the church to study for the stage by
the extraordinary apjjlause he earned at Westmin-
ster School as Pamjihilus — the original of Young
Bevil — in the " Andria." In the preface to " The
Conscious Lovers," Steele said he made no difficulty
to acknowledge " that the whole was writ for the
sake of the scene of the Fourth Act, wherein Mi\
Bevil evades the quarrel with his friend, and hope
that it may have some effect upon the Goths and
Vandals that frequent the Theatres, or a more polite
Audience may supply their absence." It is indeed
upon a resolve to draw the best minds to the theatre,
and let the worse minds follow instead of lead, that
the recovery of life to the stage nmst depend.
Leonard Wellsted's prologue to " The Conscious
.13. 1723.]
PLAYS.
413
Lovers " condemned the u.sual low appeals to public
favoui-, and said of " The Poet of To-night " —
Fain -would he give more just applauses rise
And please by wit that scorns the aid of \-ice :
The praise he seeks from worthier motives springs,
Such praise, as praise to those who give it brings.
The First Act opens in the house of Sir John
Be\'il on what should be the day of his son's
■wedding to Lucinda, the daughter by liis second wife
of a rich merchant, Mr. Sealand. Sii* John Be\'il
is in kindly dialogue with his man Humphrey, who
having served him forty years, is attached equally
to father and son. Father and son are warmly
attached, each careful to avoid paining the other,
and though young Bevil, since he came of age, has
had, by inheritance of his mother's estate, an in-
dependent fortune, he has never valued himself upon
that, but has shown honour and obedience to his
father. Young BevO's character had caused old
Sealand, the gi-eat India merchant, to offer him his
only daughter and sole heiress to his vast estate. But
a difficulty has arisen. At the last masquerade the
elder Bevil had been among the company in an old-
fashioned dress, and was impertinently followed and
teased by a fop di'essed a.s a clo%vn. Young Bevil
was there also masked, with a lady in an Indian
mantle ; he knew his father, who was wearing his
gi'andf;ither's clothes, and interfered to protect him
from impertinent pursuit. A quarrel ensued, his
mask was torn ofl", and the lady who was vnth him
swooned. His care for her, the modest familiarity
with which she hung upon him when recovering, were
noticed by the company. Old Sealand took alann,
and on the day before the wedding called on Sii- John
Be^'il to say that he thought himself disengaged from
their bargain, being credibly infonned that his son
was already married or worse to the lady of the mas-
querade. Now Sir John wishes his son to marry a
fortune, and also wishes his son to do what will make
him happy. He proposes therefore to find out how
far yomig Bevil is engaged to the lady of the mas-
querade, by insisting upon hLs marriage, without hint
of any difficulty in the way. Humphrey may learn
something perhaps from young Bevil's man Tom.
Tom is old Humphi-ey's nephew fetched up raw from
the country not long since, and now transformed into
a footman of fashion, who pays fashionable court to
Lucinda's Phillis, a lady's-maid of fasliion.
There is pleasant contrast of the faithful service
of the antique time with airs of a gentleman's gentle-
man in the dialogue between Humphrey and Tom.
Then Tom plays the fine gentleman to PhillLS, for
whom he has brought a letter from his master, the
bridegioom, which is to be given at fittime to Lucinda,
the bride. The scene changes to the lodgings of Bevil
junior, from whom we learn that his letter to the lady
»'as to ask her to refuse to marry him. There were
two reasons for the request : one, his own love for
Indiana, the lady of the masquerade ; the other his
knowledge that Lucinda prefers, and is loved by his
friend Myrtle. Young Bevil is visited by his father,
and receives him with quick affection, but, expecting
Lucinda's refusal of his hand, puzzles the old gentle-
man in a tone of raillery with phlegmatic protests of
a readiness to marry ; ascribes to his experience the
prudential way of marrying by bargain and sale, aa
something he has learnt to be better than the pas-
sionate way of his own youth and the love that has
brought him grief for a wife's loss, " for, as you wiO.
judge, a woman that is espoused for a fortune is yet
a better bargain if she dies ; for then a man still en-
joys what he did marry, the money ; and is disen-
cumbered of what he did not marry, the woman."
Su- John Bevil's roundabout way of getting at his
son's inclinations fails, and he ffiids himself obliged
to check his son's readiness to go to Lucinda; for
young BevU mu.st not come near Lucinda's father till
Sii- John has brought him into better temper. Sir
John leaves Humphrey with his son, and the old
servant's simple fidelity gets from the young man his
secret.
Bev.jun. You may remember, Humphrey, that in my last
travels, my father grew uneasy at my making so long a stay
at Toulon.
Humph. I romember it ; he was apprehensive some woman
had laid hold of you.
Bev.jun. His fears were just; for there I first saw this
lady. She is of English birth : her father's name was Danvers,
a younger brother of an ancient family, and originally an
eminent merchant of Bristol ; who upon repeated misfortunes
was reduced to go privately to the Indies. In this retreat,
Providence again grew favourable to his industry, and, in six
years' time, restored him to his former fortunes : on this he
sent directions over, that his wife and little family should
follow him to the Indies. His wife, impatient to obey such
welcome orders, would not wait the leisure of a convoy, but
took the first occasion of a single ship, and with her husband's
sister only, and this daughter, then scarce seven years old,
imdertook the fatal voyage. For here, poor creature, she lost
her liberty, and life ; she, and her family, with all they had,
were unfortunately taken by a privateer from Toulon. Being
thus made a prisoner, though, as such, not iU-treated, yet the
fright, the shock, and the cruel disappointment, seized with
such violence upon her unhealthy frame, she sickened, pined
and died at sea.
Humph. Poor soul ! Oh, the helpless infant !
Bev.jun. Her sister yet survived, and had the care of her.
The captain, too, proved to have humanity, and became afather
to her ; for having himself married an English woman, and
being childless, he brought home, into Toulon, this her little
coimtry-woman ; presenting her, with all her dead mother's
movables of value, to his wife, to be educated as his own
adopted daughter.
Humph. Fortune here seemed again to smUe on her.
Bec.jutt. Only to make her frowns more terrible; for in
his height of fortune, this captain too, her benefactor, unfor-
tunately was kUled at sea, and d}-ing intestate, his estate fell
wholly to an advocate, his brother, who coming soon to take
possession, there found (among his other riches) this blooming
virgin, at his mercy.
Humph. He durst not sure abuse his power !
Bev.jun. No wonder if his pampered blood was fired at the
sight of her — in short, he loved ; but when all arts and gentle
means had failed to move, he offered too his menaces in vain,
denouncing vengeance on her cruelty ; demanding her to ac-
count for all her maintenance, from her childhood; seized on
her little fortune, as his own inheritance, and was dragging
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CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
,iA.D. 1723.
her hy violence to prison ; when Providence at the instant
interposed, and sent me by miracle, to relieve her.
Htimph. "Twas Providence indeed; but pray, sir, after aU
this trouble, how came this lady at last to England ?
Bcv. jim. The disappointed advocate, finding she had so
unexpected a support, on cooler thoughts, descended to a
composition; which I, without her knowledge, secretly
discharged.
Humph. That generous concealment made the obligation
double.
Bev.jun. Having thus obtained her liberty, I prevailed, not
•without some difficulty, to see her safe to England ; where we
no sooner arrived, but my father, jealous of my being impru-
dently engaged, immediately proposed this other fatal match
that hangs upon my quiet.
Humph. I find, sir, you are irrecoverably fi.xed upon this
lady.
Bev.jun. As my vital life dwells in my heart— and yet you
see — what I do to please my father : walk Ln this pageantry
of dress, this splendid covering of sorrow — but, Humphrey,
you have your lesson.
Humph. Now, sir, I have but one material question
Bev.jun. Ask it freely.
Humph. Is it, then, your own passion for this secret lady,
or hers for you, that gives you this aversion to the match your
father has proposed you ?
Bev.jun. I shall appear, Humphrey, more romantic in my
answer, than in all the rest of my story : for tho' I dote on
her to death, and have no little reason to believe she has
the same thoughts for me ; yet in all my acquaintance, and
utmost privacies with hor, I never once directly told her that
I loved.
Humph. How was it possible to avoid it ?
Bev.jun. My tender obligations to my father have laid so
inviolable a restraint upon my conduct, that 'till I have his
consent to speak, I am determined, on that subject, to be
dumb for ever
Humph. Well, sir, to your praise be it spoken, you are
certainly the most imfashionable lover in Great Britain.
These, then, are " The Conscious Lovers." Bexil
supplies Indiana with all that she has, treats her
with tenderest respect, but never has named love
to her. Each is conscious of the other's love, but
not a word of it is spoken. The First Act ends
with Bevil's friend Myrtle about to enter.
The Second Act, still in young Bevil's lodging,
shows the friends together. Myrtle is despondent,
but assured by Bevil that he has no rival in him,
although a dangerous one in the rich fop Cimberton,
whom Luciiida's mother, Mrs. Sealand, has resolved,
to marry to her daughter, unless it be true — and
Mrs. Sealand is taking counsel's opinion whether
it be true — that Cimberton can make no settlement
on a wife without the concurrence of his great uncle.
Sir- Geoffry, in the west. The counsel consulted
are Sergeant Bramble and old Target, neither of
them known to the family. "What if ]\Iyrtle him-
self and young Bevil's man Tom, a lively rogue
and a good mimic, slipped on wigs and gowns, and
carried their opinions to the lady? Tom couldn't
fail to talk like old Target, who does nothing but
stutter. So it is agreed. The next scene shows
Indiana in her simple innocence of love, under the
care of Isabella, a kind-hearted old maid, who cannot
credit young Bevil with simple generosity, and then
in dialogue with young Bevil himself, who visits her,
and keeps so clear of direct words of love, that Indiana
fears he has done all for her out of the mere pleasure
in doing good. Isabella says, " I will own to you
that thei-e is one hopeful symptom, if there could
be such a thing as a disinterested lover ; but it 's all
a perple.xity, till— till— till— " "Till what?" "Till
I know whether Mr. Myrtle and Mr. Bevil are really
friends or foes — and that I will be convinced of
before I sleep."
The Third Act opens between Tom and Phillis,
with passages of courtship.
Tom. Ah! too well I remember, when, and how, and on what
occasion I was first surprised. It was on the first of April,
one thousand seven hundred and fifteen, I came into Mr. Sea-
land's service ; I was then a hobble-de-hoy, and you a pretty
little tight girl, a favoui'ite hand-maid of the housekeeper.
At that time, we neither of us knew what was in us ; I
remember I was ordered to get out of the window, one pair
of stairs, to rub the sashes clean. The person employed on
the innerside was your charming self, whom I had never
seen before.
Fhil. I think I remember the silly accident : what made
yc, you oaf, ready to fall down into the street ?
Tom. You know not, I warrant you. You could not guess
what surprised me. Y'ou took no delight when you im-
mediately grew wanton in your conquest, and put your lips
close and breathed upon the glass, and when my lips ap-
proached, a dirt)- cloth you rubbed against my face, and
hid your beauteous form , when I again drew nenr, you
spit, and rubbed, and smiled at my undoing.
Tom is there to receive Lucinda's answer to
young BevU's letter, of which Phillis tells him,
" Never was a woman so well pleased with a letter
as my young lady was with his, and this is an
answer to it." Tom departs and Lucinda enters.
" I thought I heard him kiss you. Why do you
suffer that?'-' Phillis replies, "Why, madam, we
vulgar take it to be a sign of love ; we servants, we
poor people, that have nothing but our persons to
bestow, or treat for, are forced to deal and bargain
by way of sample ; and therefore as we have no
parchments, or wax necessary in our arguments, we
squeeze with our hands, and seal with our lips, to
ratify vows and promises." " But can't you trust
one another, without such earnest down ? " " We
don't think it safe, any more than you gentry, to
come together without deeds executed." " Thou art
a pert merry hussy." " I ^vish, madam, your lover
and you were as happy as Tom and your servant
are." Then follows kindly dialogue between mistress
and maid, with dread of the fop of the family,
Mr. Cimberton, who, says Phillis, " is your mother '.s
kinsman, and three hundred years an older gentle-
man tlian any lover you ever had ; for which reason,
with that of his prodigious large estate, she is re-
solved on him, and has sent to consult the lawyers
accordingly." Presently appear Mre. Sealand and
Mr. Cimberton, between whom, in the argument of
marriage, Lucinda counts as nothing ; indeed, says
this right honourable fop, who talks of Lacjiedomo-
nians, and has the girl set in a proper light, that he
may look her over, as a picture, " as for the young
A.ij. 17:^.]
PLAYS.
415
woman, she is rather an impediment th;in a lielji to
;i man of letters and speculation." Lucinda at last
leaves the room in a rage, Mrs. Sealand worships her
kinsman, and says for her daughter, who is tlu-own
into the bargain of the marriage settlement, like the
mansion-house in the sale of an estate, " I cannot
help her, cousin Cimberton ; but she is, for aught
I see, as well as the daughter of anybody else."
Then Myrtle and Tom aiTive as Bramble and Target,
;ind there is a lively caricature scene, in which Tom,
whose part as Target is only to stutter, makes fine
2Jlay with the terrible word Grimgribber.
Mrs. Seal. The single question is, whether the intail is
such, that my cousin, Sii- Geoffry, is necessary in tliis aifair ?
Bram. Yes, as to the lordship of Tretriplet, but not as to
the messuage of Grimgribber.
Tar. I say that Gr — gr — that Gr — gr — Grimgribber,
Grimgribber is in us. That is to say, the remainder thereof,
as well as that of Tr—tr— Triplet.
Bram. You go upon the deed of Sir Kalph, made in the
middle of the last centur)', precedent to that in which old
Cimberton made over the remainder, and made it pass to the
heirs general, by which your client comes in ; and I question
whether the remainder, even of Tretriplet is in him — but we
are willing to waive that, and give him a valuable considera-
tion. But we shall not purchase what is in us for ever, as
Grimgribber is, at the rate as we guard against the contingent
<if Jlr. Cimberton having no son. Then we know Sir Geoffry
is the first of the collateral male line in this family; yet
T(ir. Sir, Gr — gr — ber is
JSriim. I apprehend you very well, and your argument
might be of force, and we would be inclined to hear that in
all its parts ; but, sir, I see very plainly what you are going
into. I tell you it is as probable a contingent that Sir Geoffry
may die before Mr. Cimberton, as that he may outlive him.
Tar. Sir, we are not ripe for that yet, but I must say
Bram. Sir, I allow you the whole extent of that argument;
but that will go no farther than as to the claimants under
old Cimberton. I am of opinion, that according to the in-
structions of Sir Ralph, he could not dock the intail, and
then create a new estate for the heirs in general.
Tar. Sir, I have no patience to be told that, when
Gr — gr — ber
Bram. I will allow it you, Mr. Sergeant ; but there must
be the word heirs for ever, to make such an estate as you
pretend.
Ciinb. I must be impartial, though you are counsel for my
side of the question. Were it not that you are so good as to
allow him what he has not said, I should think it very hard
you should answer him without hearing him. But, gentle-
men, I believe you have both considered this matter, and are
firm in youi- different opinions ; 'twere better, therefore, you
proceeded according to the particular sense of each of you,
and give your thoughts distinetl)' in writing. And do you
see, sirs, pray let me have a copy of what you say, in English.
Bram. ^Vhy, what is all we have been saying ? — In English !
Oh ! but I forgot myself ; you 're a wit. But, however, to
■please you, sir, you shall have it, in as plain terms as the
law will admit of.
C'iiiii. But I would have it, sir, without delay.
Bram. That, sir, the law will not admit of; the courts are
sitting at Westminster, and I am this moment obliged to be
at every one of them, and 'twould be wrong if I .should not
be in the Hall to attend one of 'em at least, the rest would
take it ill else. Therefore, I must leave what I have said to
3Ir. Sergeant's consideration, and I will digest his arguments
on my part, and you shall hear from me again, sir.
l&it Bramble.
Tar. Agreed, agreed.
Cimb. Mr. Bramble is very quick. He parted a little
abruptly.
Tar. Ho could not bear my argument ; I pinched him
to the quick, about that Gr — gr — ber.
The Fourth Act contains the earnest scene for
which the play was written. Myrtle, hearing that
young Bevil has wi-itten to Lucinda and received an
answer, becomes violently jealous, believes his friend
to be false, and sends a challenge. One of many
noble aims of Steele's Ufe, by which he held firmly
throughout, was to do all that was in his power to
turn public opinion away from tlie false notions of
honour associated with the duel. He could say for
himself what he makes young Bevil say, " I liave often
dared to disapprove of the decisions a tyrant custom
has introduced, to the breach of all laws, both divine
and human." Stirred by insult, young Bevil loses
self-control for a few minutes, recovers it, and by
defiance of the worldly code recovers the friend he
should have sought to kill. In showing what
Lucinda -vvrote to him he breaks the letter of her
wish, to make her and his friend happj-. Then in a
.scene of blended wit and earnestness we have the
two fathers in dialogue about their children. The
unknown lady is Sealand's only objection to young
Bevil. "I am therefore resolved," he says, "this
very afternoon to visit her. Now, from her behaviour
or appearence, I shall soon be let into what I may '
fear or hope for." This points to the crowning scene
in the Fifth Act. At the close of the Fourth Act
Mr. Myrtle resolves to take the advice of Phillis, and
find his way to Lucinda in the character of old Sir
Geofliy, who is described to him as half blind, half
lame, half deaf, half dumb ; though, as to his passions,
as warm and ridiculous as when in the heat of youtli.
The Fifth Act opens with the Inimours of Myrtip
in Sealand's liouse as old Sir Geofliy, and closes
with a scene of tenderness in which Mrs. Oldfield
as Indiana drew more tears than some of the critics
tliought consistent with a comedy. Indiana, visited
by Sealand with a harsh construction of her attribtue
shows the innocent tenderness that is her character
throughout the play, and is discovered to be Sealand's
daughter by his former wife. He was the Bristol
merchant Danvers, who had believed his daughter
to be drowned, and had acquired his wealth under
another name ; and Isabella, his child's friend and
companion, is Sealand's sister. The happy revelation
caused by this discovery leads to a true comedy close.
Young Bevil, in marrying Indiana, marries Sealand's
daughter. Lucinda, with half her worldly fortune
gone, through discovery of an elder sister, ceases to
be a match for Cimberton. So Myrtle, wliose care
for the lady is not lessened with her fortune, drops
suddenly out of his part of old Sir Geoffry, and is
made as happy in his way as the two fathers are in
the contentment of their children.
In 172.5 Allan Ramsay, born a poor child among
the workers at Lord Hopetoun's lead mines, pro-
41G
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1728.
duced, apart from all connection with the theatre, a
pastoral play, " The Gentle Shepherd," which is rich
in lyric grace and tenderness of humour, and to this
day is to be seen acted in barns by the Scottish
peasantry. In 1728 John Gay made his great
success with the " Beggar's Opera," and in the same
year Henry Fielding began his career in literature
as a writer for the stage. James Thomson was then
leai)ing to fame with his " Seasons," and was tempted
by the profits of the stage to try his fortune as a
dramatist. He produced his first play, " Sophonisba,"
in 1729. Jonathan Swift had suggested to Gay that
he should write a Newgate pastoral. Gay thought
over the suggestion, and preferred a burlesque on
Italian opera, with a Newgate hero and hei'oine to
match. Neither Swift nor Pope, who was a hearty
friend of Gay's, and born in the same year, 1688,
expected success. Congreve read the piece, and said
it would either take greatly or fail utterly. The
Drury Lane managers declined it ; Rich took it and
produced it on the 29th of January, 1728, with a
success recorded in one of the notes of the " Dunciad"
as the greatest ever known. " Besides being acted in
London sixty-three days without interruption, and
renewed the next season with equal applause, it
spread into all the great towns of England ; was
played in many places to the thirtieth and fortieth
time ; at Bath and Bristol fifty, ifec. It made its
jjrogress into Wales, Scotland, and Ireland, where it
was performed twenty-four days successively. The
fame of it was not confined to the author only. The
ladies carried about with them the favourite songs of
it in fans, and houses were fuinished with it in screens.
The person who acted Polly, till then obscure, became
all at once the favourite of the town ; her pictures were
engraved, and sold in great numbers ; her life written,
books of letters and verses to her published, and
pamphlets made even of lier sayings and jests.
Furthermoi-e, it drove out of England (for that season)
the Italian opera, which had carried all before it for
ten years."
THE BEGGAR'S OPERA
is so called because in the Introduction a beggar
offers his piece to the players.
"The i)iece," he says, " I own was originally writ for the
celebrating the marriage of James Chanter and MoU Lay,
two most excellent ballad singers. I have introduced the
similes that are in all your celebrated operas : the Swallow,
the Moth, the Bee, the Ship, the Flower, &c. Besides, I have
a prison scene, which the ladies always reckon charmingly
pathetic. As to the parts, I have observed such a nice
impartiality to our two ladies, that it is impossible for either
of them to take offence."
The first of its three Acts opens in the house of
Peachum, who fosters a gang of thieves, acts as
receiver of theii- stolen goods, and gets forty pounds
out of each of them when he is past work "or other-
wise objectionable, as the informer's reward for getting
him hanged, or her. This good gentleman isshowii
in his home as a man of business, over his accounts,
and as a family man. He learns from Mrs. Peachum
that the agreeable and gallant highwayman, Captain
Macheath, is very fond of theii- daughter Polly, and
that Polly thinks him a very pretty man. There is
no harm in that, if they don't marry. " My daughter,"
says Mr. Peachum, "to me should be like a court
lady to a minister of state, a key to the whole gang."
But the boy Filch, who is being trained to life with
INIr. and Mrs. Peachum, and already doing well as a
pickpocket, is wheedled by Mi-s. Peachum into telling
what he knows about Captain Macheath and Polly,
and the result is that father and mother are horrified
by the discovery that the Captain and Polly are
already man and wife. Polly is scolded, but her
father sees his way out of the difficulty, and bids her
take comfort. Captain Macheath has much plunder.
She is his wife, and must not remain so. He shall be
informed against at once, and hanged. Polly will
then take all, as his widow. Polly loves the Captain,
and demui-s, but is duly admonished. " Away, hus.sy.
Hang your husband, and be dutiful." Polly has not
far to go to find Macheath, and ends the Act by
warning him of his danger.
The Second Act opens among the men of Mac-
heath's gang and their ladies, in a tavern near
Newgate. Macheath joins them. They " were just
breaking up to go upon duty," and depart amidst
music of Handel's, the march in " Rinaldo," with
drums and trumpets.
Let us take the road.
Hark ! I hear the sound of coaches !
The hour of attack approaches,
To your arms, brave boys, and load.
See the ball I hold!
Let the chymists toil like asses,
Our fire their fire surpasses,
And turns all our lead to gold.
The ladies are left, Mr.s. Coaxer, Dolly Trull, Mrs.
Vixen, Betty Doxy, Jenny Diver, Mrs. Slammekin,
Suky 'Tawdry, and ]\Iolly Brazen ; Macheath cannot
leave them, and is betrayed by them into the hands
of Peachum and the constables, after which they
dispute over the blood-money. The scene changes
to Newgate, where Macheath is received as an old
lodger by Lockit the turnkey, and sought out by
Lockit's daughter Lucy, whom he has jiromised to
marry. He persuades her that he is not married to
Polly. Peachum and Lockit, the two prudent fathers,
are then seen together over their accounts. They
have agreed to "go halves in Macheath," but over
other matters of information-money quarrel and make
friends again, for, says Peachum, " Brother, brother —
we are both in the wrong — we shall be both losei'S in
the dispute — for you know we have it in our power
to hang each other." Lockit gives some paternal advice
to the disconsolate Lucy. Macheath in his pi'ison
then has Lucy and Polly both claiming him at the
same time, and he has both to jiacify. He is obliged
to disown each to the other, but especially Polly to
Lucy, for Lucy, as the turnkey's daughter, can get him
out of Newgate, and she does so at the end of the
Second Act. It is in this scene that Macheath sings —
A.U. 1728.]
PLAYS.
417
I
How happy could I he with tither,
Were t'other dear charmer away !
But while you thus teaze me together,
To neither a word will I say,
But tol de rol, Sec.
lu tlie Third Act Lucy confesses to her father that
she let Mi'cheath out of jwison ; but she is wild with
jealousy because she believes liim to have gone to
Polly. Lockit believes that Peachuiu intends to out-
wit him, and will go ply him vnth liquor. Macheath
goes to a gambling-house, where he tinds two of his
gang, and is liberal to them, not a mere court friend ;
Hs he sings to the aii- of " Lillibulero : "
The modes of the Court so common are grown,
That a true friend can hardly he met ;
Friendship for interest is but a loan.
Which they let out for what they can get.
Tis time you find
Some friends so kind.
Who will give you good counsel themselves to defend.
In sorrowful ditty,
They promise, they pity,
But shift you for money from friend to fi-iend.
Peachum and Lockit are then seen in friendly
busmess confabulation over ^vine, brandy, pipes, and
tobacco. They are visited by Mre. Diana Trapes, a
customer for stolen goods, and learn from her Vjy
accident where they will find Macheath. Lucy, in
Newgate, is very unhappy, and has prepared rat's-bane
for PoDy. PoUy comes, and is al.so unhappy, for
she has not seen Macheath. Rat's-bane is otfered in
a friendly drop of cordial, which Polly has much doubt
about taking, but drops the glass when suddenly she
sees Jlacheath brought in again, and cries, " Now
every glimmering of happiness is lo.st! " Macheath,
who will have no second chance of breaking jnison,
t«?lls Lucy and Polly that "this affair will soon be
at an end without my disobliging either of you."
But ilr. Peachum looks at the argument from its
business side, and says, " The settling of this point.
Captain, might prevent a lawsuit between your two
widows." Polly and Lucy kneel in vain to their
fathers. Macheath is conveyed at once to the Old
Bailey, and seen next in the condemned cell, where
he comforts himself in solitude to the time of ten
several airs, and takes leave of two comrades as the
jailor tells him, " Miss Polly and Miss Lticy intreat
a word with you." While they sing theii- parting
in a trio, four more wives are announced. " What,"
says the Captain, " foiu- wives more ! This is too
much. Here, tell the Sheriff's officers I am ready."
[E.i.it Macheath, guarded.]
Here the " Beggar's Opera " comes to an eud ; but
the Player of the Prologue tells the Beggar that this
sort of ending will not do, " this is a downright deep
tragedy. The catastrojihe is manifestly wrong, for
an opera must end happily."
" Your objection, sir," the Beggar answers, " is very just
and easily removed, for j-ou must allow that in this kind of
iJrama 'tis no matter how absurdly things are brought about.
So — you rabble there — run and cry a reprieve ; let the prisoner
be brought back to his wives in triumph."
173
Player. AU this we must do, to comply with the taste of
the town.
Beggar. Through the whole piece you may observe such a
similitude of manners in high and low life, that it is difficult
to determine whether (in the fashionable vices) the fine
gentlemen imitate the gentlemen of the road, or the gentle-
men of the road the fine gentlemen. Had the play remained
as I at first intended, it would have carried a most excellent
moral; 'twould have shown that the lower sort of people
have their vices in a degree as well as the rich, and that they
are punished for them.
So the reprieve is cried, and the play ends with a
dance to the tune of "Lumps of Pudding." Macheath
takes Polly for his partner, whispering to her, " and
for life, you slut ; for we were really married."
The success of the " Beggar's Opera " was said to
have "made Gay rich, and Rich gay." Gay wrote a
sequel called " Polly," the pei-formauce of which was
forbidden ; but he derived large profit from a sub-
scription for the book of it. In " Polly " the satu-e
upon coiTuptions of society is intensified, and the
piece lies in the direct line of the reaction against a
corrupt civilisation that was in France already pre-
jmiing the way for revolution. Bernard Mandeville's
social satire of "The Grumbling Hive " in 1714, ex-
panded, with prose commentaiy, into " The Fable of
the Bees" in 1723, did not more distinctly point in
the direction of the new revolt of thought than Gav's
"Polly" in 1729. Polly's father, Peachum, has been
hanged, and Macheath transported. Polly, with a
devoted love for the Captain, has heard that he has
become a famous pirate chief. She leaves England
in search of him, and arrives at the West Indies.
There her adventures show her sunounded by the
taint of an utterly rotten civilisation, which suflers
attack by Macheath's pii-ates, and also by the savage
Indians. Civilised society and the society of thieves
are undistinguishable in their baseness, and ai-e con-
tra.sted by help of the Indians with the tnitli and
honour of the noble savage. It was the fonn of
thought then growing among ardent yoimg French
phihisophes, was soon to be spread through Europe
by the eloquence of Rousseau, and be associated with
hLs speculations on the social contract.
Tri^"ial forms of the false convention of the time
had possession of the stage. C'ometly reproduced the
low life of the men of fashion ; tragedy rolled with a
pomp of empty sound through scenes of artificial
passion. But against the foi-mal tragedy a spirit of
rebellion was abroad. Allien Thomson, in the Second
Scene of the Third Act, made Massinissa say —
I have for love a thousand thousand reasons,
Dear to the heart, and potent o'er the soul.
3Iy ready thoughts all rising, restless all.
Are a perpetual spring of tenderness ;
Oh ! Sophonisba, Sophouisba, oh !
Somebody echoed from the pit, " Oh ! Jemmy Thom-
son, Jemmy Tliomson, oh !" to the delight of the
audience ; and it was echoed by Fielding in his
418
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1728
TOJI THUMB,
as " Oil ! Huncamunca, Huncamunca, oli !"
Hemy Fielding, thrown upon his own resources
in London, produced his fii-st comedy, " Love in
Several Masques," in 1728. Li 1730 he produced,
and altered in 1731, "The Tragedy of Tragedies; or,
the Life and Death of Tom Thumb the Great." It
was printed " with the annotations of H. Scriblerus
Secundus," that in a delightful vein of irony played
with the solemn quackery of the dramatic critics of
the day, and gravely introduced in notes many of
the passages burlesqued. Doodle and Noodle hail
a day such as was never seen, tins day, indeed, a
day we never saw before. When the mighty Thomas
Thumb victorious comes, bringing captive millions of
giants, King Arthur cries —
Let nothing Ijut a face of joy appear ;
The man who frowns this day shall lose his head,
That he may have no face to frown withal.
Smile DoUaloUa — Ha 1 what wi-inkled sorrow
Hangs, sits, lies, frowns upon thy knitted brow ?
Whence flow those tears fast down thy blubber'd cheeks.
Like a swoln gutter, gushing through the streets ?
Queen. Excess of joy, my lord, I 've heard folks say,
Gives tears as certain as excess of grief.
King. If it be so, let all men cry for joy,
Till my whole court be drowned with their tears ;
Nay, thl they overflow my utmost land.
And leave me nothing but the sea to rule.
Doodle. My liege, I a petition have here got.
King. Petition me no petitions, sir, to-day ;
Let other hours be set apart for business.
To-day it is our pleasm-e to be drunk,
And this our queen shall be as drunk as we.
Tom Thumlj does not enter with the millions of
giants —
Without the castle gates they stand.
The castle gates too low for their admittance.
One giantess, Glumdalca, he does bring, for as she
was a foot shorter than the rest they made a shift to
hale her through the town. The king observes her
with admiration. I feel, he says —
I feel a sudden pain within my breast.
Nor know I whether it arise from love
Or only the wind-choUc. Time must show.
Oh, Thumb ! what do we to thy valour owe !
Ask some reward, great as we can bestow.
He asks for the king's daughter, Huncamunca.
The queen, smitten with love for Tom Thumb, would
refuse. The king assents. The hero is enraptured :
Whisper ye winds that Huncamunca's mine !
Echoes repeat that Huncamunca's mine !
Lord Grizzle loves Huncamunca. The Queen plots
with Lord Grizzle to stay Huncamunca's marriage
with Tom Thumb. Huncamunca yields to Grizzle's
flattery, but while he goes to fetch a licence, marries
lorn Thumb. There is rebellion and heroic war.
ihe ghost of Tom Thumb's father appears to his old
tnend. King Arthur.
King. But say, thou dearest au-, oh say, what dread
Important business sends thee back to earth ^
G/iost. Oh 1 then prepare to hoar — which but to hear
Is full enough to send thy spuit hence.
Thy subjects up in arms, by Grizzle led.
Will, ere the rosy-fingered morn shall ojie
The shutters of the sky, before the gate
Of tliis thy royal palace, swai-ming spread.
So have I seen the bees in clusters swarm,
So have I seen the stars in frosty nights,
So have I seen the sand in windy days.
So have I seen the ghosts on Pluto's shore.
So have I seen the flowers in spring arise,
So have I seen the leaves in autumn fall,
So have I seen the fruits in summer smile.
So have I seen the snow in winter frown.
King. Damn all thou hast seen ! — Dost thou beneath the
shape
Of Gaffer Thumb, come hither to abuse me
With similes, to keep me on the rack 'f
Hence — or by all the torments of thy hell,
I '11 run thee through the body, though thou 'st none.
Ghost. Ai'thur, beware ! I must this moment hence,
Not frighted bj' your voice, but by the cocks !
Arthur, beware, beware, beware, beware.
Strive to avert thy yet impending fate ;
For if thou 'rt killed to-day.
To-morrow aU thy care will come too late.
Fielding does not forget in his jest at artificial
similes the practice, followed by Addison, of ending
an act of tragedy with an elaborated simile in rhyme.
Burlesque similes of the accepted pattern occur whim-
sically at critical points, and this is the last. Noodle,
as messenger, has brought to court the terrible news :
Oh ! monstrous, dreadful, ten-ible ; oh 1 oh I
Deaf be my ears ! for ever bhnd my eyes !
Dumb be my tongue ! feet lame ! all senses lost !
Howl, wolves ! grunt, beai's ! hiss, snakes ! shriek, all ye
ghosts !
Tom Thumb has been swallowed by " a cow of
larger than the usual size."
Noodle. Her Majesty the Queen is in a swoon.
Queen. Not so much in a swoon but I have still
Strength to reward the messenger of ill-news.
[Kills Noodle.
Clcora. My lover 's killed, I will revenge him so.
[Kills the Queen.
Sunenmunea. My mamma killed I vile murderess, beware.
[Kills Cleoka.
Doodle. This for an old grudge to thine heart !
[Kills Hi:nc.\mi'Nca.
Mustacha. And this
I chive to thine, Doodle 1 for a new one. [Kills Doodle.
King. Ha! murderess vile, take that ! [A'JWs Mustacha.
And take thou this. [Kills himself, and falls.
So when the child, whom nurse from danger guards.
Sends Jack for mustard with a pack of cards.
Kings, queens, and knaves, throw one another down,
Thl the whole pack lies scattered and o'ertlu'own;
So all our pack upon the floor is cast,
And all I boast is— that I fall the last. [Dies.
TO A.D. 1736.]
PLAYS.
419
CHROXONHOTONTHOLOGOS.
There was another clever caricature of the strut
and empty sound of tragedy in its decHne by Henry
Carey the musician, of whom it was said, " He led a
life free from reproach, and hanged himself October
4th, 1743." His " Dramatiek Works" were pub-
lished in that year by subscription. They were
operas, burlesque and ballad operas, and " Chronon-
hotonthologos, the Most Tragical Tragedy that ever
was TragecUz'd by any Company of Ti-agedians."
Thus it begins in an ante-chamber of the Palace.
Enter Rigdivm Fiumidos and AkUborontiphosco-
phornio :
Eig. Fun. Aldiborontiphoscophomio I
Where left you Chrononliotonthologos ?
Aldi. Fatigued with the tremendous toils of war,
Within his tent, on downy couch succumbcnt,
Himself he unfatigues with gentle slumbers.
Lulled by the cheerful trumpet's gladsome clangour,
The noise of drums, and thunder of artillery,
He sleeps supine amidst the din of war ;
And yet 'tis not definitively sleep.
His majesty, when he appears, is in high passion
with Sonmus, the God of Sleep, who is warned not
to sport with him.
For if thou dost, by all the waking powers,
I '11 tear thine eyeballs from their leaden sockets,
And force thee to outstare eternity.
"WTien next he appears, it is with
His cogitative faculties immersed
In cogibundity of cogitation.
He will banish Somnus out of his dominions.
There shall be incessant pageantry and pantomime
to keep mankind awake. A pantomime begins,
and in the midst of it a guard cries —
To arms 1 to arms ! great Chrononhotonthologos !
Th' Antipodean powers from realms below
Have burst the solid entrails of the earth ;
Gushing such cataracts of forces forth
The world is too incopious to contain 'em.
Triumphant Chi'ononhotonthologos makes prisoner
the King of the Antipodes, who walks with his
head where his legs should be. Invited to take
wine in the tent of his general, Bombardinion, he
desii'es also to eat a little bit. Says Bombardinion,
therefore, to the cook —
See that the table constantly be spread
With all that Art and Nature can produce.
Traverse from pole to pole ; sail roimd the globe.
Bring ever)- eatable than can be eat :
The king shall eat, though all mankind be starved.
Passion rises,
his general.
The king kills the cook and strikes
Bomb. A blow ! Shall Bombardinion take a blow ?
Blush ! blush, thou sun ! Start back thou rapid ocean !
HiUs 1 Vales 1 Seas ! Mountains ! All commixing crumble.
And into Chaos pulverize the world ;
For Bombardinion has received a blow,
[Braics.
And Chrononhotonthologos shall die.
Eiiiff. 'What means the traitor ?
Sumb. Traitor in thy teeth !
Thus I defj- thee ! {They fight— Iw kills the King.
Ha 1 what have I done ?
Go, call a coach, and let a coach be called ;
And let the man that calls it be the caUer ;
And in his calling, let him nothing call
But coach ! coach ! coach 1 Oh 1 for a coach, ye gods !
\_Exit raving. Returns with a Doctor.
Bomb. How fares your majesty 'i
JDoct. My lord, he 's dead.
Bomh. Ha ! Dead ! Impossible ! It cannot be !
I 'd not believe it though himself should swear it.
Go, join his body to his soul again.
Or, bj- this light, thy soul shall quit thy body.
Doct. My lord, he 's far beyond the power of physic ;
His soul has left his body and this world.
Bomb. Then go to t'other world and fetch it back.
{Kills him.
And if I find thou triflest with me there,
I '11 chase thy shade through myriads of orbs,
And drive thee far beyond the verge of nature.
Ha ! — Call'st thou, Chrononhotonthologos ?
I come ! your faithful Bombardinion comes !
He comes in worlds unknown to make new wars.
And gain thee empires num'rous as the stars.
{Kills himself.
Enter Queen aitil Others.
Aldi. O horrid ! horrible and horrid'st hoiTor !
Our King ! our General ! our Cook ! our Doctor !
All dead ! stone dead ! irrevocably dead !
O h ! {All groan — a tragedy groan.
In 1730 George Lillo, who was born near jMoor-
gate in 1G93, and began life as a jeweller, produced
his first piece at the Lincoln's Inn Theatre, a ballad
opera called " Sihda." It was not very successful, but
in the following year came his tragedy, called " The
London Merchant ; or, the History of .George Bam-
well," founded upon an old English ballad. It was
written in jsrose, and ridiculed by critics as a Newgate
Tragedy, but it represented a reaction against the
conventional rodomontade of kings and heroes, and
was acted for twenty nights in the hottest jiart of
the year to crowded houses.
Hemy Fielding, while his power as the greatest
English novelist remained to be discovered, and he
looked to the stage for maintenance, attempted to
-^vin new ground for the drama. He took, in 1736, the
Little Theatre in the Haymarket, gathered actors
about him, whom he called "The Great Mogul's
Company of Comedians," and opened with " Pasquin :
a Dramatic Satire on the Times," in the form of a
mock rehearsal of two plays, a comedy called "The
Election " and a tragedy called " The Life and Death
of Common Sense." It had a run of fifty nights,
and in his fu-st season Fielding also introduced to
the public a new play of Lillo's, again on a domestic
subject, "The Fatal Curiosity." Fielding always
waged war with critics of the school that thought
a subject like that of George Barnwell " low," because
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CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1736
its interest centered in the crime of a man who was
only a London apprentice. " The Fatal Curiosity "
had for its suljject the crime of an old man and his
wife at Penrhyn, in Cornwall, who, being desi)erate
through poverty, kill a sailor returned from the
Indies, who is their guest, for the sake of wealth in
a casket, and find that they have murdered their
own son. It is Lillo's best play. Fieldiiag took
pains with its production, and wrote a Prologue, Ln
which he pleaded for the piece —
No f u.stian hero rages here to night ;
No armies fall to fi.x a tyrant's right :
From lower life we draw our scene's distress.
Let not your equals move your pity less.
As the run of the play was short in 1736, Fielding
reproduced it in his next season, and acted it after
On whose horizon smiles a dawning Prince
Of Edward's worth and virtues.
It was in the followuig year, 1740, that Thomson
and his friend David Mallet produced before Frederick
Prmce of Wales their joint work, "Alfred the Great :
a Drama for Music." It was acted in the gardens
at Clifden on the 1st of August, the birthday of
the Princess Augusta, with " Rule, Britannia " —
wi'itten, probably, by Mallet — for one of its songs.'
In 1741 David Garrick made his first appearance
as an actor, under the assumed name of Lyddal, in
the theatre at Ipswich, and to secui'e disguise in case
of failure, took a part in which his face was blacked,
that of the negro Aboan in Southerne's " Oroonoko."
Garrick's success was great, and his genius broke
through the formalism upon which Fielding and
others had thrown ridicule. Instead of the tragic
The THEiTKE in Tankarb Street, Ipswich, in which Gakrick Tibst Actep.
the dramatic satire then jjroduced by him, called
"The Historical Register for 1736." The satire
against political corruption oifended the Ministry of
the day. A Bill was introduced requiring that every
dramatic piece before representation should obtain
the licence of the Lord Chamberlain ; and what had
been occasional interference to stay the performance
of obnoxious pieces received legislative definition
and extension. Since 1737 the interference of the
Lord Chamberlain, first invoked to shelter political
corruption from the wit of Fielding, has imposed
upon our modern stage the weight of a stupidity
beyond its own. In 1739 the Lord Chamberlaiii
forbade the jjerformance of James Thomson's
" Edward and Eleonore," because its hero was a
Prince of Wales, and George the Second and his son
Frederick being in opposition to each other, political
significance would be given— and were, no doubt,
■to such lines as these :
meant to be given
Whatever woes, of late, have clouded England,
Yet must T, Glostcr, call that nation happy
gasps, the laboured speech, and abrupt changes of
voice, that had come to be thought tragic, those who
heard Garrick heard a man's tiue voice, ■with all the
play of natural emotion in it. The charm of this
ujion the stage was real as well as new. Before the
end of 1741 he made his first appearance in London
at the Goodman's Fields Theatre, taking Richard III.
for his first character. As his fame rapidly grew,
Quin, who had been the leading tragedian, said,
" Garrick was a new religion : Whitefield was fol-
lowed for a time, but they would all come to church
again;" and of his acting, "that if the young fellow
was right, he and the rest of the players had been all
wi'ong."
Risen to sujireme fame as an actor, Gan-ick
became joint patentee of Drury Lane in the spring
of 1747, and began his management by speaking a
prologue, which he had asked his old friend and
tutor, Samuel Johnson, to write for him. Part of it
was quoted on page 321. It recognised the decline
• See " Shorter Englisli Poems," page 383
TO A.D. 1749.]
PLAYS.
421
of the stage since the Restoration, and looked with
hope to Garrick's endeavour towards its revival.
Garrick, before he came to London, had beenfora short
time Johnson's pupil, while he was endeavouring to
form a school at EtUal, near Lichtield. There was
small promise in the school, and Johnson, knowing
that he must look to literature for his bread, had in
the intervals of his school-teacliing begun a tragedy,
" L'ene," wliieli, if acceiit^d, mis;ht jrive him a lirst
David Gabbick. (from the roitraU hij Jiioi.ius Hudson. I
liold upon his future profession. It had not been
accepted, but now that Garrick had a tii'st voice in
the counsels of Druiy Lane, he was resolved to serve
a friend whom he loved and honoured, and whose
intellectual powers he well knew. Johnson's one
jjlay, •' Irene," was therefore performed at Drury
Lane in 1749, and Ganick, wlio played in it the
part of Demetrius, casting the parts of the two
lieroine-s, Aspasia and Irene, to Mrs. C'ibber and INIrs.
Pritchard, forced the piece to a run of nine nights,
that Johnson might receive all author's profit it
would yield. Johnson's genius was true, but not
dramatic, and tlie play did not greatly succeed, but
it produced to Johnson £19.5 17s. for the thi-ee
author's nights, besides £100 for the right of
publishing the ])lay book, though in the same year
the same publisher gave only £1-5 for Johnson's
"Vanity of Human Wishes," a didactic poem in
which he put forth his native strength. The scene of
IRENE
is in Constantinople, immediately after its capture
and sack by the Turks in 14.53. There remain
two patriotic Greeks in the town, disguised in
Turkish dress, Demetrius (]ilayed by Garrick) and
Leontius. Aspasia, beloved of Demetrius, has beenlost
by him in the thronir, but found in the church of St.
Sophia by soldiers of the Turkish Sultan Mahomet,
whom the prisoner has made her captive, and who
bids her renounce her faith and be the Queen of
Turkey. The young Greeks leam this from the first
Vizier, Cali Bassa, who is plotting the deatli of the
Sultan, and has a ship ready moored in a creek.
After the Sultan has been killed, he may escape to
Asia, whicli lately blessed his gentle government,
there rear a throne for himself upon the ruin of
Mahomet's, and then, withdrawing all the Turkish
force from Europe, leave Greece at peace. With
such hopes before them, he looks to the Greeks to
man his ship and secure his escape. Asj^asia, true
to her love and to her coiuitry, had refused the offered
throne ; but another Greek maiden, Irene, had after-
wards been taken. Her charm was yet greater in
the Sultan's eyes : to her he had transferred his
offers, and she, less firm to resist the temptations
of wealth and power, hesitated. Mahomet is in her
rooms ; and there he shall be slain. The Sultan's
mind is possessed with love for Irene, but also with
a passion of war, and when the treacherous vizier
asks leave to depart and make pilgrimage to Mecca,
he Ls told that there is yet no time for sloth.
MTien ev'ry storm in my domain shall roar,
^V^len every wave shall beat a Turkish shore.
Then, Cali, shall the toils of battle cease —
Then dream of prayer, and pilg:rimage, and peace.
This is the matter of the First Act, and the rest of
the play abounds in dramatic material, chosen -with
a soimd critical perception of tlie conditions of a tale
of passion, but developed without real dramatic
power.
In the Second Act, Aspasia, loyal to her country
and to love, seeks to dissuade Irene from the perils
of a false ambition. A conspirator, accidentidly dis-
covered, seized, and tortured, reveals the treachery of
Cali, and gives certain proof of it. Mahomet suspends
sentence upon him, and still tempts Irene. When
she cries, still irresolute, " Forbear— do not urge
me to my ruin ! " he replies
To state and power I court thee, not to ruin :
Smile on my wishes, and command the globe.
In the Third Act, Abdalla, one of Call's fellow
conspirators, declares himself enthralled by a hopeless
jjassion for Aspasia. To Demetrius and Leontius
Cali pronounces his plot to be ripe, and all ready for
to-morrow. The answer of Demetrius may serve to
illustrate the didactic spirit of tlie play :
To-morrow's action '. Can that hoary widow
Bome down with years, still dote upon to-morrow,
That fatal mistress of the young, the lazy.
The coward and the fool, condemned to lose
An useless life in waiting for to-morrow—
To gaze with longing eyes upon to-morrow
Till interposing death destroys the prospect 1
Strange, that this general fraud, from day to day.
Should fill the world with wretches undetected '.
The soldier labouring through a winter's march,
Still sees to-morrow drest in robes of triumph ;
Still to the lover's long-expecting arms,
To-morrow brings the visionary bride.
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[a.d. 1749
But thou, too old to bear another cheat,
Learn, that the present hour alone is mun's.
The same night is fixed. At dusk Leontius shall
steer
The appointed vessel to yon shaded bay,
Formed by tliis garden jutting on the deep ;
There, with your soldiers armed, and sails expanded,
Await our coming, equally prepared
For speedy flight, or obstinate defence.
CaH allows to Demetrius access to Aspasia before
the hour of danger. Abdalla thereby is stii'red to
iiiigci' against Cali. Mahomet is in the meantime
tempting the irresolute Irene through
each traitor inclination
That raises tumult in the female breast.
The love of power, of pleasure, and of show.
Cali joms in the temptation, for he wishes to hold
Mahomet firmly in his snare. Again, in a scene
between Irene and Aspasia, the noliler maiden seeks
to cherish the true fire in her fi'iend's bi'east. Irene
urges that as Queen of Turkey she could save her
fellow Greeks, but is answered by A.spasia :
Be virtuous ends pursued by virtuous means.
Nor think th' intention sanctifies the deed.
Irene dwells still upon power to which high am-
bition reaches. Demetrius has his love-scene with
Aspasia, liut Abdalla comes to shorten it, and, on the
pleas of danger and of duty forces them to part.
TJie Fourth Act opens between Demetrius and
Aspasia. She has now been told the plot afoot, and
assents to it if the blow against Mahomet be struck
for Greece, and for the rights of nature without
thought of interest, love, or vengeance. But Aspasia
sees a new danger from Abdalla.
This open friend, this undesigning hero.
With noisy falsehoods forced me from your arms
To shock my virtue with a tale of love.
And as she thinks on, she thinks who are her lover's
associates, and that God frowns on perjury, revenge,
and murder. The patriot may thus share the traitor's
danger. Demetrius will seek to save Greece, and if
he fail, Aspasia will be content to live with him,
obscure upon a foreign coast.
Content with science, innocence, and love.
Cali i)arts them. Tiie decisive hour is at hand.
Leontius reports the boat ready in the appointed bay,
and armed Greeks, elate with" hope, upon the beach.
Leontius and Demetrius retire to the sliip, Demetrius
to return after moonrise and strike the delivering
blow, when there is moonlight to guide their flight into
Asia. Cali feels himself already supreme. But there
is still A bdalla's jealousy, and when they next meet,
and " the bowl shall circle to confirm their league,"
Abdalla has a poison for Demetrius. Meanwhile,
Mahomet defers his stroke, though every turn in the
treachery of Cali is known to him. Two faithful
captains, Hassan and Caraza, " pursue him through
the labyrinths of treason." The treason of Abdalla
is discovered. Mahomet orders his seizure. Demetrius
he will not touch, for in the assault on Constantinople
Mahomet had for a time been in the hands of Greeks
who would have killed him, had not Demetrius
" scorned the mean revenge." Then, says Hassan, let
the gift be repaid :
Profuse of wealth, or bounteous of success.
When Heaven bestows the privilege to bless.
Let no weak doubt the generous hand restrain ;
For when was power beneficent in vain f
The Fifth Act opens with the last struggle of
Aspasia to save her friend Irene, who has sunk under
the temptation of a crown. Demetrius enters hastily.
All is lost. Irene leaves them to speak together. The
manner of dialogue recalls that of a Greek jilay :
Aspasia. Yet tell.
Demetrius. To tell or hear were waste of life.
Aspasia. The life, which only this design supported,
Were now well lost in hearing how you failed.
Demetrius. Or meanly fraudulent, or madly gay,
Abdalla, while we waited near the palace,
With ill-timed mirth, proposed the bowl of love.
Just as it reached my lijis, a sudden cry
Urged me to dash it to the ground untouched,
And seize my sword with disencumbered hand.
Aspasia. What cry f The stratagem ? Did then
Abdalla—
Demetrius. At once a thousand passions fired his
check !
" Then all is past 1 '' he cried, and darted from us ;
Nor at the call of Cali deigned to turn.
Aspasia. AVliy did you stay, deserted and betrayed ?
What more could force attempt or art contrive ?
Abdalla returned with soldiers. Cali was seized as
a traitor, and carried away to death. Demetrius
escaped. Then enters Abdalla to take Aspasia. The
situation is dramatic. Abdalla turns from combat
with Demeti-ius to bring janissaries for his arrest.
Irene comes forward with purpose of treachery
towards her friends. By holding them in dialogue,
she may delay their flight, secure the ari-est of Deme-
trius, and by so doing prove herself a faithful queen,
and win new favour from the Svdtan. She has sent
a messenger to ask for troops to check the escape of
Demetrius. They urge her to fly with them, and
abandon her false choice of wealth and jjower with a
stain on conscience. Demetrius, seizing her hand,
would tlraw her with him to the galley that awaits
the fugitives. She jn-oudly assumes the Queen, and
is left. Demetrius and Asj)asia make good their
escape. Irene remains : and in place of the ])omp to
which she had sacrificed all, has sudden death for her
portion. Dying Cali had named Irene's chamber as
the place appointed for the murder of the Sidtan.
Mahomet's love turns to a fury of wratli, and he
commands Irene's death. Abdalla, knowing Irene
to have discovered all his treason, seciu-es pi'ompt
execution of the sentence. Murza.the tardy messenger
from Irene, finds Mahomet standing o\'er her dead
body. He had been seized by the armed Greeks, and
TO A.D. 17o0.1
PLAYS.
423
detained until the safe arrival of Demetrius and
Aspasia. Tlie Sultan learns Irene's fidelity to him.
In his new pas.sion he bids the guards hew down
Hassan and Caraza the overdiasty miinsters of venwe-
gance. They jjlead that they had heard, pitied, and
wished to save ; Init Abdalla had brought her final
doom, and hurried her destruction while she called in
vain on Mahomet. Mahomet then, in a last burst of
wrath condemns Abdalla to uttermost tortui-e. The
play closes with the Hues,
So sure the fall of greatness raised on crimes,
So fixed the justice of all-conscious Heaven ;
When haughty guilt exults with impious joj'.
Mistake shall blast, or accident destroy ;
Weak man with erriug rage may throw the dart,
But Heaven shall guide it to the guilty heart.
One of the most popular tragedies of the year next
following after the production of Johnson's " Irene "
was the " Douglas " of the Rev. John Home, who
had been ordained minister of Athelstaneford, in East
Lothian, six years before his " Douglas " was pro-
<luced in Edinburgh. By writing a play he oflended
the Presbyteiy. To avoid Church censure, he resigned
his living, and wrote other tragedies — "Alfred,"
" Alonzo," " The Fatal Discovery," " The Siege of
Aquileia," and " Agis," in which Gan-ick played the
part of Lysander. In Home's play of
DOUGLAS,
Matilda, daughter of Sii- Malcolm, had been secretly
married to the son of Lord Douglas, hereditary
enemy of her house. Her brother had saved the
life of young Douglas in battle ; the young men had
become fi-iends. Douglas had been brought as an
imknown friend to Sir Malcolm's house by Sir Mal-
colm's son. Matilda had loved him, and with only
her brother's knowledge and assent had married him.
Then the young men departed, and Matilda next
heard that both her brother and her husband had
been slain in the wars. " In the first days," she
says—
In the first days
Of my distracting grief, I found myself
As women wish to he who love their lords.
The priest who married her, who had been her
brother's tutor, and who was the only other wtness
to the marriage, also fell in the battle. After the
child was born, eighteen years ago, her nurse, her
only confidant, disappeared with it, when on her
way to her sister's on a December night, with a
flooded river to cross. Sir Malcolm had died,
Matilda, his sole heiress, had been compelled by
circumstances to a marriage with Lord Eandolpli,
who had rescued her from a villain, Glenalvon, who,
though -s-illain, is Piandolph's heir. Tlie marriage of
Matilda \\-ith Lord Randolph, gave him the lands
that should have made Douglas a baron ; and Glen-
alvon, with his eye on the succession to the lands,
thinks that Lord Randolph has Uved too long. That
is the story of the First Act. At the beginning of the
Second, Lord Randolph retul-ns to his home with a
young man who has saved him from assassination by
tour armed men ui a valley. When Lord Randolph
asks who is his deliverer, he says he is
A low-born man, of parentage obscure.
Who nought can boast but his desire to be
A soldier, and to gain a name in arms.
Lord Randolph credits him with nature's nobility,
and he replies —
My name is Norval : on the Grampian Hills
My father feeds his flocks ; a frugal swain,
^^^lose constant cares were to increase his store,
And keep his only son, myself, at home.
The speech thus beginning was recited from stools
and tables by tragedians between the ages of six and
fifteen tlu-ough two or three generations, and thus bore
testimony to the reputation of Home's tragedy of
"Douglas," which attracted the more notice because its
author was a Scottish clergyman, whom the Presbytery
had driven out into the layman's wilderness because he
wrote a play. The presence of young Norval excites,
of course, emotion in Lady Randolph ; for she is in
the Third Act to discover that he is her son, the son
of Douglas, and Sir- Malcolm's heir, received by Lord
Randolph into the house and treated by him with
honour and aflectiou, as Glenalvon's equal. But
when mother and son know the tie that binds them,
Glenalvon moves Lord Randolph to jealousy at their
meetings, causes Lord Randolph to attack tiie youth,
and himself comes behind to secure the death of both,
and win the inheritance. Norval (Douglas) kills
Glenalvon, but is himself wounded to deaUi. Lord
Randolph, learnmg the truth too late, rei)roaches
himself as a nuu-derer. Lady Randolph raves, and
throws herself from a jtreeipiee.
A play by a man of genius like Samuel Johnson,
even though he be no dramatist, is of more abiding
interest than jdays by dramatists who are not men of
genius. They are dramatists in a limited sense. Their
comedy often amuses with good humour and drollery,
the ready aptitude for jest and caricature that is
common to thousands of men who beget mii-ih in
their neighboiu's. They touch none of the dee|)er
springs of life, are wholly wanting in the .sympathetic
insight that gi\-es worth to the work of men of genius.
The great master of caricature upon the stage, in the
time of which we now speak, was Samuel Foote,
born at Truro, educated at Worcester College, Oxford,
and for a time student in the Temjtle. In 1747
he opened the Little Theatre in the Haymarket
as actor and author, with a piece called " The
Diversions of the Morning," in which he caricatured
with skilful mimicry of voice and manner several
well-known jjeople. The Justices of Westminster
objected, but their opposition was silenced. Foote
changed his form of entertainment to " Gi\'ing Tea to
his Friends." Next year he had " An Auction of
Pictures," and, by rapid changes of dress, he himself
played all the characters in which the town liked
best to see kno^vn men mimicked. Somebody told
Samuel Johnson that Foote was preparing to set him
up for a butt. " He had better not," said Johnson,
42-1
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1750
with a significant grasp of his stick ; and Foote did
not. Foote acted at one theatre or another every
season from 17.52 to 1761, usually appearing each
year in a new piece of his own. From 1762, until
his death in 1777, the Little Theatre in the Hay-
market was his dramatic home. In his own way
Foote was wonderfully clever ; there are flashes even
of genius in his work, though it belonged to a low
form of art.
Irishmen were frequent among the minor drama-
tists of London, in and aftei- the middle of the last
century. Charles Macklin, a clever comic actor,
began to write ])lays in 1746, and one of them, " The
True-horn Scotchman," was very popular in Ireland,
Macklin himself acting its chief character. It con-
tained more satire on English political life than the
Lord Chamberlain liked, and its pei'formance in
London was forbidden. After some time it was
recast as " The Man of the World," and produced in
London in 1781. The satire on political servility
has made the character in it of Sir Pertinax Mac-
sycophant a ])opular one to this day, and one of our
best actors, Samuel Pheljis, subsequently excelled in
it. Another of these Irishmen was Isaac Bicker.staff,
who produced plays between 1756 and 1771, of which
the most popular has been his vei'sion of Moliere's
" Tartuffe," or rather his version of Cibber's version,
" The Nonjuror," as " The Hypocrite," produced at
Drury Lane in 1769. Arthur Mui'phy, who became
a successful barrister, was another of the Irish
dramatists of this time. He wrote both traaedies
and comedies, between the years 1756 and 1777.
His comedy of "The Way to Keep Him," produced
at Drury Lane, in three acts, in 1760, was a lesson
to wives on their own power of making homes happy
and husbands kind and true. He reproduced it in
the following year, 1761, expanded to five acts by
interweaving two new charactei-s, a husband and
wife, in further enforcement of his lesson. The
husband. Sir Bashful Constant, was afraid to let the
world know that he loved his wife, and, in society,
affected tyranny towards her. Paul Hiffernan,
another Irish dramatist, began to write plays in
1759. But Ireland, which had given us Farquhar,
did not let her genius for comedy die out among
minor writers. To her also we owe Goldsmith and
Sheridan, with whom the story of an acted English
drama living in immediate association vnth true
literature for the present ends. There has been a
pause — a long pause — since the time of Sheridan.
Oliver Goldsmith's first comedy, " The Good-
natured Man," was produced in 1768, and his other
comedy, "She Stoops to Conquer," in 1772 — two
years before his death. " The Good-natured Man "
was produced by George Colman, who in 1768 be-
came one of the joint patentees of Covent Garden,
and remained so until he sold out in 1775. In 1777
he succeeded Foote at the Haymarket. George
Colman was born abroad in 1 733, his father being
British Envoy at the court of the Grand Duke of
Tuscany. He was educated at Westminster School,
and at Christchurch, Oxford, ,gi-aduated as M.A. in
1758, and was afterwards called to the bar. He
inherited money, and was drawn to the stage by
choice, not by necessity, making liis mark as an
essayist in "The C'onnoisseur," and beginning to
write comedies in IIW, obtaining in 1761 a marked
success with " The Jealous Wife," and publishing
also in 176-5 a translation of the comedies of Terence.
George Colman died in 1794, and the reputation
attached to his name was continued by his son,
George Colman the Younger, born in 1762, educated,
like his father, at Westminster and Christchurch,
also at King's College, Aberdeen, and entered, like
his father, at Lincoln's Inn. George Colman the
Younger was one of the liveliest men of his time.
He began as dramatist with great success in 1784,
was specially successful in 1787 with the opera of
" Incle and Yarico," founded upon Steele's pathetic
tale in the Spectator, succeeded after his father's
death to the management of the Little Theatre in
the Hajnnarket, and included among his more suc-
cessful works " The Iron Chest " — a drama in tlu-ee
acts, in which John Kemble played the part of Sir
Edward Mortimer — and the comedy of " John Bull."
Goldsmith's first comedy was not as successful
with its au<lience as it deser\'ed to be ; l)ut it was
jilayed for ten conseeuti\'e nights ; thi'ee of them — the
third, .sixth, and ninth — being the author's nights ;
and produced him five hundred pounds — an em-
barrassing lump of money, which he got rid of
promptly by l^uying and furnishing chambers in
Brick Court, Middle Temple. The sedate Blackstone,
then finishing the fourth volume of his " Commen-
taries," had chambers under Goldsmith's, and suflereil
much disturbance from the jovial noises of Gold-
smith's companions overhead.
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN
of Goldsmith's play is young Mr. Honey wood, nephew
to Sir William Honeywood, a man of political and
social importance, who has been employed in Italy
ujion the ]iublic service. Young Honeywood, de-
siring to please all, is just to none, and has to learn
that " he who seeks only for applause from without,
has all his happiness in another's keeping." At the
opening of the play. Sir AVilliam has returned. The
nephew has, in the name of numificence, become
security for a fellow whom he scai'cely knew, and
who has absconded. The uncle, whose return is yet
unknown, has bought the security, means to play
creditor, and, by way of lesson, involve the young
man in fictitious distress before he has plunged him-
self in real calamity. Honeywood, with nothing
said between them, loves and is loved by Miss Rich-
land, an heiress, who has Mr. Croaker for her
guardian. The character of Croaker was suggested
to Goldsmith by the Suspirius of Johnson's fifty-
ninth BanMer. He is one of the screech-owls,
whose great business in life is to complain. When,
in the last act of the play, something that seems to
be real trouble falls upon him, he takes it quietly,
and says, " There 's the ailvantage of fretting away
our misfortunes beforehand : we never feel them
when they come." Mr. Croaker desires to marry
his son Leontine to his rich ward Miss Richland,
and asks the good-natured Honeywood to use his
influence with the lady.
TO i.D. 1768.]
PLAYS.
425
do. Ah, 3Ir. Honeywood, a little of your fine serious
adWce to the young lady might go far: I know she has a
verj- exalted opinion of your understanding.
Hon. But would not that be usurping an authority that
more properly belongs to yourself ?
Cro. Jly dear friend, you know but little of my authority
at home. People think, indeed, because they see me come
out in a morning thus, with a pleasant face, and to make my
friends merry, that all 's well within. But I have cares that
would break a heart of stone. My wife has so encroached
upon every one of my privileges, that I'm now no more
than a mere lodger in my own house.
Hon. But a little spirit e.xerted on your side might perhaps
restore your authority.
Cro. No, though I had the spirit of a lion ! I do rouse
sometimes. But what then ? always haggling and haggling.
A man is tired of getting the better before his wife is tired
of losing the victory.
Bon. It 's a melancholy consideration indeed, that our
chief comforts often produce our greatest anxieties, and that
an increase of our possessions is but an inlet to new dis-
quietudes.
Cro. Ah, my dear friend, these were the very words of
poor Dick Doleful to me not a week before he made away
•with himself. Indeed, Mr. Honeywood, I never see you but
you put me in mind of poor Dick. Ah, there was merit
neglected for you ! and so true a friend ; we loved each other
for thirty years, and yet he never asked me to lend him a
single farthing.
Eon. Pray what could induce him to commit so rash an
action at last 'i
Cro. I don't know ; some people were malicious enough
to say it was keeping company with me ; because we used
to meet now and then and open our hearts to each other.
To be sure I loved to hear him talk, and he loved to hear
me talk ; poor dear Dick ! He used to say that Croaker
rhymed to joker ; and so we used to laugh. — Poor Dick !
[Going to cry.
Hon. His fate affects me.
Cro. Ay, he grew sick of this miserable life, where we do
nothing but eat and grow hungry, dress and undress, get up
and lie down ; while reason, that should watch like a nurse
by our side, falls as fast asleep as we do.
Hon. To .say truth, if we compare that part of life which
is to come, by that which we have passed, the prospect is
hideous.
Cro. Life at the greatest and best is but a froward child,
that must be humoured and coaxed a Uttle till it falls asleep,
and then all the care is over.
Hon. Xery true, sir, nothing can exceed the vanity of our
existence, but the foUy of our pursuits. We wept when we
came into the world, and every day tells us why.
Cro. Ah, my dear friend, it is a perfect satisfaction to be
miserable with you. My son Leontine shan't lose the benefit
of such fine conversation. I '11 just step home for him. I
am willing to show him so much seriousness in one scarce
older than himself. — And what if I bring my last letter to
the Gazetteer on the increase and progress of earthquakes ?
It will amuse us, I promise you. I there prove how the late
earthquake is coming round to pay us another \-isit from
London to Lisbon, from Lisbon to the Canary Islands, from
the Canarj- Islands to Palmyra, from Palmyra to Constanti-
nople, and so from Constantinople back to London again.
[Exit.
Hon. Poor Croaker 1 his situation deser\-es the utmost pity
I shall scarce recover my spirits these three days. Sure, to
live upon such terms is worse than death itself. And yet,
174
when I consider my own situation, a broken fortune, a hope-
less passion, friends in distress ; the wish but not the jiower
to serve them (pausing and sighing).
But Honeywood is now visited by Miss Richland,
with Mrs. Croaker, who is as merry as her lord is
glum, and with bis usual good-natured complaisance
he accommodates himself promptly to her mood, and
becomes loud in laughter.
Meanwhile, Croaker's son Leontine, having been
sent to bring home from Lyons a sister who has been
ten years away for her education, has brought home
from Paris a young lady with whom he has fallen in
love, and until lie can contrive a marriage he has
established her at home as liis sister Olivia.
Miss Richland, in the Second Act, finds the truth
of this from her maid. She knows, and Croaker
knows, that if she refuse Lecjutine she will lose to
him that large part of her fortune which depends
on the admission by the Treasury of a claim on the
Government. It is safe, therefore, to bewilder him
by an acceptance. Mr. Croaker hears from his sister
at Lyons that his daughter Olivia has piivately con-
tracted herself to a man of large fortmie. " Pleasant
news ; but Olivia has lieen sly in having been at
home all these days, and said nothing of it." Mr.
Ijofty then appears upon the scene — a pompous pre-
tender to political and social influence, who professes
to be furthering Miss Richland's interests at the
Treasury, and who would not mind snapping up the
heii-ess.
Enter French Serv'ant.
Ser. An express from Jlonsieur Lofty. He vil be vait upon
your honours insbimmant. He be only giving four five in-
struction, read two three memorial, call upon von ambassadeur.
He %t1 be ^■id you in one tree minutes.
Mrs. Cro. You see now, my dear. What an extensive de-
partment ! Well, friend, let yotrr master know, that we are
extremely honoured by this honour. Was there anything ever
in a higher style of breeding I AU messages among the great
are now done b}' express.
Cro. To be sure, no man does little things with more
solemnity, or claims more respect, than he. But he 's in the
right on 't. In our bad world, respect is given where respect
is claimed.
Mrs. Cro. Never mind the world, my dear : you were never
in a pleasanter place in your life. Let us now think of re-
cei-vang him with proper respect— (.1 loud rappitin at the door)
and there he is, by the thundering rap.
Cro. Ay, verily, there he is : as close upon the heels of his
own express, as an endorsement upon the back of a bill. AV ell,
I 'U leave you to receive him, whilst .1 go to chide my Uttle
Olixaa for intending to steal a marriage without mine or her
aunt's consent. I must seem to be angry, or she too may
begin to despise my authority. [ExU.
Enter Lofty, speaking to his Servant.
Zof. "And if the Venetian Ambassador, or that teasing
creature the Jlarquis, should call, I 'm not at home. Dam'me
I'll be pack-horse to none of them.'' My dear madam, I have
just snatched a moment— " And if the expresses to his Grace
be ready, let them be sent oft'; they 're of importance." Madam.
I ask a thousand pardons.
Mrs. Cm. Sir. this honour
Lof. " And, Dubardieu : if the person calls about the com-
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CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. ]7u8.
mission, let him know that it is made out. As for Lord Cum-
hercourt's stale request, it can keep cold ; you understand
me." Madam, I ask ten thousand pardons.
Mrs. Cm. Sir, this honour
Zof. " And, Dubardieu ! if the man comes from Cornish
borough, you must do him; you must do him, I say."
Madam, I ask ten thousand pardons. " And if the Russian-
ambassador calls : but he vdll scarce call to-day, I believe."
And now, madam, I have just got time to e.^press my happi-
ness in having the honour of being permitted to profess
myself your most obedient humble servant.
Mrs. Cro. Sir, the happiness and honour are all mine ; and
yet, I 'm only robbing the public while I detain you.
Lof. Sink the public, madam, wlien the fair are to be at-
tended. Ah, could all my hours be so charmingly devoted !
Sincerely, don't you pity us poor creatures in affairs ? This
it is eternally ; solicited for places here, teased for pensions
there, and courted everywhere. I know you pity me. Yes, I
see you do.
3Irs. Cro. Excuse me, sir. " Toils of empires pleasures are,"
as "Waller says.
Lof. Waller, Waller ; is he of the house ?
Mrs. Cro. The modem poet of that name, sir.
Lof. Oh, a modem ! We men of business despise tlie
moderns ; and as for the ancients we have no time to read
them. Poetry is a pretty thing enough for our wives and
daughters ; but not for us. Why now, here I stand that know
nothing of books. I say, madam, I know nothing of books ;
and yet, I believe upon a land-carriage fishery, a stamp act
or a jaghire, I can talk my two hours without feeling tho
want of them.
Mrs. Cro. The world is no stranger to Mr. Lofty's eminence
in every capacity.
Lof. I vow to gad, madam, you make me blush. I 'm
nothing, nothing, nothing in the world ; a mere obscure
gentleman. To be sure, indeed, one or two of the present
ministers arc pleased to represent me as a formidable man.
I know they arc pleased to bespatter me at all their little
dirty levees. Yet, upon my soul, I wonder what they see in
me to treat me so ! Measures, not men, have always been my
mark ; and I vow, by all that's honourable, my resentment
has never done the men, as mere men, any manner of harm —
that is, as mere men.
Mrs. Cro. What importance, and yet what modesty !
Lof. Oh, if you talk of modesty, madam ! there I own I 'm
accessible to praise : modesty is my foible : it was so the Duke
of Brentford used to say of me. " I love Jack Lofty," he
used to say: " no man has a finer knowledge of things ; quite
a man of information ; and when he speaks upon his legs, by
the Lord he 's prodigious, he scouts them ; and yet all men
have their faults; too much modesty is his," says his Grace.
Olivia urges upon Leoutine openness of trutli, and
resolves to tell Croaker all. Croaker believes that lie
knows all, and from his manner of sjieaking she be-
lieves so too. Leontine joins them, and kneels for his
father's blessing in his marriage to Olivia; upon
which cries Croaker, " Marrying Olivia ! marrying
Olivia ! marrying his own sister ! Sure the boy is out
of his senses. His own sister ! " So the act ends
with nothing e.xplaincd, and Leontine's resolve on a
runaway match. They will be off to Scotland the
same evening.
The Third Act shows Honey wood making the best
of bailifis, Miss Richland coming to pay his debt,
meeting Sir William, and learning what he is about.
Sir William says he has, unasked, been her solicitor at
the Treasury. She thanks him, but has already the
service of another gentleman — Mr. Lofty. Then Mr
Lofty enters, in Sir William'fi presence professes a
familiar acquaintance with him, and has the way
prepared for his humiliation. For the journey to
Scotland money was needed, and the Good-natured
Man has given his name on a liill to help his friend.
In the Fourth Act Mr. Lofty leads Honeywood to
suppose that he was the unknown benefactor who
paid out the bailiffs. Then he engages him to press
the suit of Mr. Lofty on Miss Richland. Olivia and
her maid are at the inn waiting for money, without
which they cannot .start for Scotland. Leontine was
to start at the same time by another road to visit an
uncle to whose house he hoped to take his bride.
Honeywood's bill on the city was not worth a rush,
and has only caused delay. The old man Jarvis, who
was to be Olivia's escort, suggests that he had seen
Leontine receive forty pounds from his father. They
must write him a note and ask for twenty. Olivia is
too agitated, and she says to her maid, " Do you wi-ite,
Garnet ; and, upon second thought, it will be better
from you." — "'rruly, madam, I wiite and indite but
jioorly. I never was kute at my learning. But I'll
do what I can to please you. Let me see. All out of
my own head, I suppose! " — " Whatever you please." — ■
" ' Muster Croaker ' — twenty guineas. Madam ? " — ■
" Ay, twenty will do."— " ' At the bar of the Talbot—
till called for. Expedition — Will be blown up — All oi
a flame — Quick despatch — Cupid, little god of love ' —
I conclude it, madam, with Cupid ; I love to see a
love-letter end like poetiy. " Mr. Honeywood's butler
is sent with the note to young Mr. Croaker. Not
being sober, Mr. Honeywood's butler drops it before
he has gone ten yards. Old Mr. Croaker picks it up,
and then
Enter Cro.\kee.
Cro. Death and destruction ! All the horrors of air, fire,
and water, to be levelled onlj' at me 1 Am I only to be singled
out for gunpowder-plots, combustibles, and conflagration I
Here it is — an incendiary letter dropped at my door. " To
Muster Croaker, these with speed." .^.y, ay, plain enough
the direction : all in the genuine incendiary spelling, and as
cramp as the devil. "With speed." Oh, confound your
speed. But let me read it once more. (Reads.) " Muster
Croaker as sone as j'owe see this leve twenty guineas at the
bar of tho Talboot tell called for or yowe and yower experetion
will be al blown up." Ah, but too plain. Blood and gun-
powder in every line of it. Blown up ! murderous dog ! All
blown up ! Heavens ! what have I and my poor family done,
to be all blown up ! (Reads.) " Our pockets are low, and
money we must have." Ay, there's the reason ; they '11 blow
us up, because they have got low pockets. [Reads.) " It is
but a short time you have to consider ; for if this takes wind,
the house will quickly be all of a fl.amc." Inhuman monsters 1
blow us up, and then burn us. The earthquake at I>isbon
was but a bonfire to it. {Reads.) " Make quick dispatch,
and so no more at present. But may Cupid, the little god of
love, go with you wherever you go." The little god of love!
Cupid, the little god of love, go with me ! Go you to the
devil, you and your little Cupid together ; I'm so frightened,
I scarce know whether 1 sit, stand, or go. Perhaps this
moment I 'm treading on lighted matches, blazing brimstone,
and barrels of gunpowder. They are preparing to blow m»
A.D. 17
PLAYS.
427
up into the clouds. Murder ! We shall be all burnt in our
beds ; we shall be all burnt in our beds !
Unter Miss Eichlan'D.
Miss Rich. Lord, sir, what's the matter?
Cro. Murder 's the matter. We shaU be all blown up in
our beds before morning.
Miss Rich. I hope not, sir.
Cro. What signifies what you hope, madam, when I have
a certificate of it here in my hand ? Will nothing alarm my
family ? Sleeping and eating, slccjiing and eating is the only
work from morning till night in my house. My insensible
crew could sleep, though rocked by an earthquake ; and fry
beaf-steaks at a volcano.
Miss Rich. But, sir, you have alarmed them so often
already, we have nothing but earthquakes, famines, plagues,
and mad dogs from year's end to year's end. You remember,
sir, it is not above a month ago, you assured us of a
conspiracy among the bakers to poison us in our bread ; and
so kept the whole family a week upon potatoes.
Cro. And potatoes were too good for them. But why do I
stand talking here with a girl, when I should be facing the
enemy without ? Here, John, Nicodemus, search the house.
Look into the cellars, to see if there be any combustibles
below ; and above, in the apartments, that no matches be
thrown in at the windows. Let all the fires be put out, and
let the engine be drawn out in the yard, to play upon the
house in case of necessity. \^Exit.
Honeywood, in his good nature, makes suit to Miss
Richland on behalf of Lofty, which she encourages
until she finds that he is not sjjeaking for himself.
He then accommodates himself to the opposite views
of Mr. and Mrs. Croaker on the danger signified by
the incendiary letter. •' A plague of plagues!" cries
Croaker, " we can't both be right. I ought to be
sorry or I ought to be glad. My hat must be on my
head or my hat must be off." — " Certainly," says
Mrs. Croakei-, " in two opposite opinions, if one be
perfectly leasonable, the other can't be perfectly
right." — " And why may not both be right, madam?"
asks Honeywood ; " Mr. Croaker in earnestly seeking
redress, and you in waiting the event with good
humour 1 Pray let me see the letter again. I have
it. This letter requires twenty guineas to be left at
the bar of the Talbot Inn. If it be indeed an
incendiary letter, what if you and I, sir, go there ;
and when the writer comes to be paid his
expected booty, seize him." — " My dear friend, it's
the very thing, the very thing."
So in the Fifth Act, while Olivia waits for money
at the inn, Leontine hajjpily comes, moved by
anxiety to see that she is out of danger, and at the
critical moment of starting, Leontine's father is
brought upon the scene by Honeywood, Leontine's
friend. All becomes known to Mr. Croaker, who
bears the disclosure with unexpected calm. "There,"
he says, ''There's the advantage of fretting away
our misfortunes beforehand, — we never feel them
when they come." Miss Richland, who has learned
from her maid what is passing, brings Sir William
to the inn. Sir William knows all about Olivia,
and can give an excellent account of her. The
lovers are made happy. Lofty, following Miss
Ricldand to the inn liecause he has heard of the
concession of her claim on the Treasury, professes to
have procured settlement of the matter, and sufi"ers
due humiliation. Honeywood still thinks that he
owed his release from the bailifl's to Mr. Lofty's
generosity, but, says Lofty, '• 'Sir. Honeywood, I'm
resolved upon a reformation as well as you. I now
begin to find that the man who first invented the art
of speaking the truth was a much cunninger fellow
than I thought him. And to prove that I design to
speak truth for the future, I must now assure you,
that you owe your late enlargement to another, as,
upon my soul, I had no hand in the matter. So now,
if any of the company has a mind for preferment, he
may take my place; I'm determined to resign."
Honeywood then learns that it was Miss Richland
who had sought to be his unknown helper, and ends
the play by taking her hand and his luicle's counsel.
I have preferred to illustrate Goldsmith by the
comedy which, having been less frequently acted, is
known somewhat less familiarly tlian " She Stoops to
Conquer."
Hannah Parkhouse, born m 1743, daughter of a
bookseller at Ti^'erton, married, at tweuty-fi\"e, ]\Ir
Cowley, an officer in the East India Company's
service. In 1776 she sat at the theatre with him,
where he was amused by a poor play. "So delighted
with this?" she said — "why, I could write as well
myself." Next morning .she sketched the first act of
" The Runaway." The comedy was finished, and
was acted with success. Other plays followed, both
comedy and tragedj', among them " The Belle's
Stratagem," in 1780. Mrs. Cowley was educating
her daughter in Paris in the year before the French
Revolution, and gave her views of the young
Frenchmen of the day, in the A La Greque, of "A
Day in Turkey."
'There was, in the movement of thought leading to
the French Revolution, a large place for the sentiment
awakened by thinkers and writers of whom Rous-
seau may be taken as the representative. Reaction
against foi'malism, and the decrees of a dead authoritj'
that confounded good and bad within the limits of
its own mean life, emj)loyed all energies of man.
There was a revolt of intellect, led in France by
Voltaire, a revolt of the emotions expressed strongly
in the writings of Rous.seau. After 1760, when
Rousseau published his " Nouvelle Heloise," and
1762, when he produced- " Emile" and the " Contrat
Social," a flood of " sentiment" began to pour through
European literature. " Let the heart guide you,"
said Rousseau ; and imaginative literature, escaped
from the restraints of formalism, expatiated over the
emotions and the sympathies of life. What strong
men felt strongly the weak felt weakly, and expressed
by imitation of the voices then most lieard. We should
never liave had Sterne's " Sentimental Jom-ney" in
1768 if France had not had the "Nouvelle Heloise"
and "Emile" in 1760 and 1762. Thus "sentiment"
found its way into English life and literature, and so
strongly touched our plays that when Goldsmith's
" Good-natured Man" had but a hardly earned, and at
first half doubtful, success, a forgotten i)lay by a for-
gotten author, Hugh Kelly's " False Delicacy,' had just
been the rage of the to\\ii. Three thousand copies of
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CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[a.d. 1768
it were sold before two o'clock on the morning of its
publication, anil a public breakfast was given to the
author. For acting at Paris it was translated into
French by Marlame Riccobini, and into French by
another hand for acting at the Hague, into Portu-
gese by command of the Marqnis de Pombal for
acting at Lisbon ; it was translated also into Italian
and German. The new utterances of the heart were
the strength of a few men and the cant of thouands.
In Sheridan's "School for Scandal," the tone of
the time is reproduced. The cant of sentiment, lightly
touched in the Lydia Languish of " The Rivals,"
is associated in the " School for Scandal " with the
knave of the piece, with Joseph Surface, while his
brother Charles, with follies and extravagances in
abimdance, is, in a surface way, true-hearted and
unaffected. The contrast between the bi-others has a
certain resemblance to that between Tom Jones and
Blitil in the greatest of all English novels. But
Fielding's implied ideal of life, untouched by cant,
was throughout higher than Sheridan's ; his morality
was more robust. Slieiidan was a true writer of
comedy. All that is most worth record in the history
of our acted drama for the pi-esent ends with him.
He had a more natural sense of life than is to be
found in the plays of Wycherleyor Congreve,but there
are no depths in his comedy. A light-hearted, plea-
sure-loving young man of the world, honest and
generous, but in a way that would be dishonest if he
were less shallow and more capable of thought ; with
follies and vices better for not having a cant of virtues
to conceal them, and, on occasion, a frank, unaffected
disposition to reform, of which something may or
may not come ; suggests no very high view of life to
those who are charmed by the wit of the " School for
Scandal."
KlCHARD BuiNSLEY ShebIDAN.
(From the Portrait bij Sir Joshua Reiimlds.)
Richard Brinsley Sheridan wa^ grandson to a
witty friend of Swift's, who lost promotion in the
Church liy forgetting what was expected from him
m a sermon on the first of August, the day of the
accession of George I., and taking at random an
unpolitical sermon, which happened to have as its
text " Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."
Thomas, the third son of that Dr. Sheridan, became
an actor and a lecturer on elocution, and he was the
father of Richard Brinsley Butler Sheridan, who
was born in Dublin in September, 1751. When his
father came afterwards to England, Sheridan was
sent to school at Harrow, where the limited range of
studies gave no room for the expansion of his
powers ; he was, out of school, one of the cleverest
among the boys, in school a hopeless dunce. From
school he went to Bath with his parents, and entered
society there, where he saw much of the low life of
the polite which he has painted in the " School for
Scandal." At the age of twenty-one he eloped from
Bath with Miss Linley, aged eighteen. She was a
public singer who had for the last two years been
flattered for her beauty, had got £3,000 for
breach of promise from one lover, and taken
laudanum over her distresses with another. That
other was a man'ied man, vriih whom the young
husband presently fought two duels. He would
not sufl'er his wife to sLiig in public. Though
she was engaged at the price of a thousand
pounds for twelve nights to sing at the Worcester
festival, he caused the engagement to be cancelled.
In 1775, on the 17th of January, Sheridan began to
seek fortune as a dramatist ; his age being then only
a few months over twenty-three. His first play was
" The Rivals," produced at Covent Garden. Its
immediate success was not great, but it very soon
made way with the public, and was followed in
November of the same year by the opera of
" The Duemia," also at Covent Garden. Garrick
appreciated Sheridan. The gi-eat actor, then sixty
years old, was retiring from stage management. He
had a just sense of the genius of the young drama-
tist, in whom comedy seemed to live again, and upon
Garrick's retirement Sheridan obtained, by purchase,
a part of Garrick's share in the theatre, with charge
of the management. As manager he proved but a
bad man of business. He was not always sober, he
was always in debt ; he left letters by heap.s
unopened, and then burnt them, for although some
might contain money, more asked for it. His
treasurer saw on Sheridan's table a letter of his own,
enclosing ten pounds, which had been sent imme-
diately upon urgent request. The request had been
made and forgotten ; the letter in reply to it had not
been opened. Actors caught the manner of the
manager, and it might happen sometimes tliat
three actors of leading parts had not troubled
themselves to come to the theatre, and left the play
to be produced with makeshifts in their places.
The new management began in February, 1777,
with a new ver.sion, by Sheridan, of Vanbrugh's
comedy, " Tlie Relapse," under the new name of "A
Trip to Scarborough." This failed. An attempt was
then made to kill time with Shake.speare's "Tempest,"
with parts of Dryden'.s version, and songs by Sheri-
dan's father-in-law, Thomas Linley, the composer,
who had joined in buying Garrick's share of the
theatre. The new manager did not seem to be suc-
ceeding, but he was preparing, by the best use of his
TO A.D. 1777
PLAYS.
429
energies, to conquer fortune, and on the 8th of May,
1777, he produced his masterpiece, "The School for
Scandal." It had been caretuUy UTitten and re-
written, and lay by him unlinished when the
necessities of the theatre forced hiin to finish it
quickly.
In 1779, Sheridan produced in "The Critic" the
last of the witty caricatures of conventional tragedy
which have a place in literature. In 1780, through
the friendship of Charles James Fox, he became
member for Stafford, and began his political career.
His career as dramatist was over, although some
years later he translated Kotzebue's " Pizarro."
In the " School for Scandal," Charles and Joseph
Surface are two brothers left, by the death of their
father, to the guardianship of Sir Peter Teazle, but
made independent by liberal allowances from their
uncle, Sir Oliver, who has become rich in India.
Sir Peter has a ward, Maria, whom Joseph Surface
desires for her money, and Charles Surface loves for
herself. Elderly Sir Peter has lately married a
young beauty, the daughter of a country squire.
He has brought her to London from the dulness
of a country house, and she is indulging herself
with all the novelties of fashion. She takes her place
in the fashionable world, exercising her wit with it
in the way of scandal.
Sir Pet. Lady Teazle, Lady Teazle, I '11 not tear it !
Lady Tea:. Sir Peter, Sir Peter, you may bear it or not, as
you please ; but I ought to have my own way in everything,
and, what 's more, I will too. What ! though I was educated
in the country, I know very well that women of fashion in
London are accountable to nobody after they are married.
Sir Pet. Very well, ma'am, verj' well ; so a husband is to
have no influence, no authority ?
Lady Teaz. Authority 1 No, to be sure: — if you wanted
authority over me, you should have adopted me, and not
married me ; I am sure you were old enough.
Sir Pet. Old enough ! — ay, there it is. Well, well. Lady
Teazle, though my life may be made unhappy by your
temper, I '11 not be ruined by your extravagance !
Lady Teaz. My extravagance ! I 'm sure I 'm not more
extravagant than a woman of fashion ought to be.
Sir Pet. Jfo. no, madam, you shall throw away no more
sums on such unmeaning luxury. 'SUfe ! to spend as much
to furnish j-our dressing-room ^'ith flowers in winter as
would suflice to turn the Pantheon into a greenhouse, and
give a. fete champetre at Christmas.
Lady Teaz. And am I to blame, Sir Peter, because flowers
are dear in cold weather ? You should find fault with the
climate, and not with me. For my part, I 'm sure I wish it
was spring all the year round, and that roses grew under our
feet !
Sir Pet. Oons I madam — if you had been bom to this, I
shouldn't wonder at j-our talking thus : but you forget what
your situation was when I married you.
Lady Teaz. No, no, I don't ; 'twas a very disagreeable one,
or I should never have married you.
Sir Pet. Tes, yes, madam, you were then in somewhat a
humbler style — the daughter of a plain country squire. Re-
collect, Lady Teazle, when 1 saw you first sitting at your
tambour, in a pretty figured linen gown, with a bunch of
keys at your side, your hair combed smooth over a roll, and
your apartment hung round with fruits in worsted, of your
own working.
Lady Teaz. Oh, yes ! I remember it very well, and
a curious life I led. My daily occupation to inspect the
dairy, superintend the poultry, make extracts from the family
receipt-book, and comb my aunt Deborah's lapdog.
Sir Pet. Yes, yes, ma'am, 'twas so indeed.
Lady Teaz. And then you know, my evening amusements !
To draw patterns for ruffles, which I had not materials to
make up : to play Pope Joan with the curate ; to read a sermon
to my aunt ; or to be stuck down to an old spinet to strum
my father to sleep after a fox-chase.
■Si)- Pet. I am glad )-ou have so good a memory. Yes,
madam, these were the recreations I took you from ; but now
you must have your coach — vis-a-vis — and three powdered
footmen before your chair ; and, in the summer, a pair of
white cats to draw you to Kensington Gardens. No recol-
lection, I suppose, when you were content to ride double,
behind the butler, on a docked coach-horse.
Lady Teaz. No — I swear I never did that : I deny the
butler and the coach-horse.
Sir Pet. This, madam, was your situation ; and what have
I done for you ? I have made you a woman of fashion, of
fortune, of rank — in short, I have made you my wife.
Lady Teaz. Well, then, and there is but one thing more
you can make me to add to the obligation, that is
Sir Pet. My widow, I suppose ?
Lady Teaz. Hem '. hem !
Sir Pet. I thank you, madam — but don't flatter yourself ;
for, though your ill conduct may disturb my peace of mind,
it shall never break my heart, I promise j-ou : however, I am
equally obliged to you for the hint.
Lady Teaz. Then why will you endeavour to make yourself
so disagreeable to me, and thwart me in every little elegant
expense ?
Sir Pet. 'Slife, madam, I say, had you any of these little
elegant expenses when you married me ?
Lady Tea:. Lud, Sir Peter I would you have me be out of
the fashion ?
Sir Pet. The fashion, indeed I what had you to do with the
fashion before you married me ?
Lady Teaz. For my part, I should think you would like to
have your wife thought a woman of taste.
Sir Pet. Ay — there again — taste ! Zounds ! madam, you
had no taste when you married me !
Lady Tea:. That 's verj' true, indeed, Sir Peter ! and, after
having married you, I should never pretend to taste again, I
allow. But now. Sir Peter, since we have finished oiu- daily
jangle, I presume I may go to my engagement at Lady
Sneerwell's.
Lady Sneerwell, with a fancy of her own for
Cliarles Surface, uses the powers of scandal to secure
his separation from Sir Peter's ward, Maria, and
therein aids Joseph. Sir Peter believes Joseph to
be a model for the young men of the age. " He is a
man of sentiment, and acts up to the sentiments he
professes." Uncle Oliver, veturned from India,
makes his presence known only to an old servant,
Eowley, and to his old friend, Su- Peter, while it is
agreed between them that he puts the met^il of the
two youths to a test. In the character of a money-
lender, Mr. Premium, he is witness to the reckless
extravagance of Charles, who is ready to sell all the
family portraits, but is restrained by personal affec-
tion from allowing Uncle Oliver's to go with the
rest.
430
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[A.D. 1777
£iit<r Charles Surface, Sir Oliver Surface, Moses, rmd
Careless.
Chas. Surf. Walk in, gentlemen, Jiray walk in ; — here
are, the family of the Surfaces, up to the Conquest.
Sir Oliv. And, in my oijinion, a goodly collection.
Chas. Surf. Ay, ay, these are done in the true spirit of
portrait-painting; no volonticre grace or expression. Not
like the works of your modern Raphaels, who give you the
strongest resemblance, yet contrive to make your portrait
independent of )"0U ; so that you may sink the original and
not hurt the picture. No, no ; the merit of these is the
inveterate likeness — all stiif and awkward as the originals,
and like nothing in human nature besides.
Sir Uliv. Ah ! we shall never see such figures of men
again.
Chas. Surf. I hope not. Well, you see, Master Premium,
what a domestic character I am; here I sit of an evening
surrounded by ray family. But come, get to your pulpit,
Mr. Auctioneer ; here 's an old gouty chair of my grand-
father's will answer the purpose.
Care. Ay, ay, this will do. But, Charles, I haven't a
hammer ; and what 's an auctioneer without his hammer ?
Chas. Surf. Egad, that 's true. What parchment have we
here? Oh, our genealogy in full. [Taking pedigree down.']
Here, Careless, you shall have no common bit of mahogany,
here 's the family tree for you, you rogue ! This shall be
your hammer, and now you may knock down my ancestors
with their own pedigree.
Sir Oliv. [Aside.] What an unnatural rogue ! — an ex post
facto parricide !
Care. Yes, yes, here's a list of your own generation in-
deed ; — faith, Chai-les, this is the most convenient thing you
could have found for the business, for 'twill not only serve
as a hammer, but a catalogue into the bargain. Come, begin
—A-going, a-going, a-going !
Chas. Surf. Bravo, Careless ! Well, here 's my great-uncle.
Sir Richard Raveline, a marvellous good general in his day,
I assure you. He served in all the Duke of Jlarlborough's
wars, and got that cut over his eye at the battle of Malpla-
quet. \Vliat say you, Mr. Premium ? look at him— there 's
a hero ! not cut out of his feathers, as your modem clipped
captains are, but enveloped in wig and regimentals, as a
general should be. What do you bid ?
Sir Oliv. [Aside to Moses.] Bid him speak.
Mas. Mr. Premium would have 5'ou speak.
Chas. Surf. Why, then, he shall have him for ten pounds.
and I 'm sure that 's not dear for a staff-officer.
Sir Oliv. [Aside.] Heaven deliver me 1 his famous uncle
Richard for ten pounds '.—[Aloud.] Very well, sir, I take him
at that.
Chas. Surf. Careless, knock down my uncle Richard.
Hero, now, is a maiden sister of his, my great-aimt Deborah,
done by Kncller, in his best manner, and esteemed a very
formidable likeness. There .she is, you see. a shepherdess
feeding her flock. You shall have her for five pounds ten—
the sheep are worth the money.
Sir Ohr. [Aside.] Ah ! poor Deborah ! a woman who set
such a value on hcrsAi\~[Aload.] Five poimds teu-she's
mine.
Chas. Surf Knock down my aunt Deborah ! Here, now,
are two that were a sort of cousins of theirs.
But plague on 't ! we shall be all day retailing in this manner •
do let us deal wholesale : what say you, little Premium I"
iTive me three hundred pounds for the rest of the family in
the lump.
Care. Ay, ay, that will be the best way.
Sir Oliv. Well, well, anything to accommodate you ; they
are mine. But there is one portrait which you have always
jiassed over.
Care. What, that ill-looking little fellow over the settee 'i
Sir Oliv. Yes, sir, I mean that ; though I don't think him
so ill-looking a little fellow, by any means.
Chas. Surf. What, that? Oh; that's my uncle Oliver!
't was done before he went to India.
Care. Your uncle Oliver ! Gad, then you '11 never be
friends, Charles. That, now, to me, is as stern a looking-
rogue as ever I saw ; an unforgiving eye, and a damned dis-
inheriting countenance ! an inveterate knave, depend on 't-
Don't you think so, little Premium?
Sir Oliv. Upon my soul, sir, I do not ; I think it is as
honest a looking face as any in the room, dead or alive. But
I sujipose uncle Oliver goes with the rest of the lumber ?
Chas. Surf No, hang it ! I '11 not part with poor Noll.
The old fellow has been very good to me, and, egad, I 'U
keep his picture while I 've a room to put it in.
Sir Oliv. [Aside.] The rogue's my nephew after all! —
[Aloud.] But, sir, I have somehow taken a fancy to that
picture.
Chas. Surf. I'm sorry for't, fur you certainly will not
have it. Oons, haven't you got enough of them ?
Sir Oliv. [Aside.] I forgive him everything! — [Aloud.]
But, sir, when I take a whim in my head, I don't value
money. I '11 give you as much for that as for all the rest.
Chas. Surf. Don't tease me, master broker ; 1 tell you
I '11 not part with it, and there 's an end of it.
Sir Oliv. [Aside.] How like his father the dog is !
Ill the character of a poor relation, Mr. Stanley
(to whom Charles sends at once a hundred pounds of
the money paid for his ance.stors), Sir Oliver see.s
the hardness under the smooth words of Joseph,
and hears his own character for liberality traduced
to furnish his nephew with an excuse for giving
nothing. While Sir Peter believes in Joseph,
Joseph is seeking Maria for her money, and urging
a treacherous suit also upon Sir Peter's wife.
Humourous forms of the fashionable love of scandal
are delightfully contrasted and grouped in Sir Ben-
jamin Backbite, Crabtree, I^ady Sneerwell, Mr.s.
Candour, and others, each of wliom is well inter-
woven with the ])lot. The unmasking of the knave
in the Fourth Act unites the chief characters in one
of the most dramatic passages in our prose comedy ;
and although the chief interest is then over, the
Fifth Act brings the several lines of the story to
their common end so pleasantly that not a word of
it appears to be superfluous. It was, in fact, added
very hastily to work of which e\ei'y pi-eceding detail
had been subject to frequent revision. The play
was announced for representation before copies of
their pai'ts were in the ])rom])ter's hands for dis-
tribution to the actors. On the last leaf of the one
rough draft of the last act, in the original MS.,
Sheridan wrote, " Finished at last, -thank God : "
under which, the prompter added, "Amen : W.
Hopkins."
CHAPTER X.
Since the French Revolution of 1789.
After the French Revolution, the strong tide of
sentiment rolled on. Authority was everywhere
TO i.D. 1799.]
PLAYS.
431
questioned. Bonds and ordinances of society were
reconsidered. Tlie thoughts of men
Turned inward, to examine of what stuff
Time's fetters are composed ; and life was put
To inquisition long and profitless.
By pain of heart — now checked — and now impelled —
The intellectual power, through words and things
Went sounding on, a dim and perilous way.'
Such speculations had one of their sickliest forms
in the German dramas of the close of the eighteenth
centurj", and translations of these abounded. Goethe's
" Stella " — where a problem of the heart is settled
web of unwholesome sentiment into a problem like
that of " Stella " or Captain Macheath's " How happy
could I be with either, were t'other dear charmer
away." In this case, however, the solution is not
as in " Stella," but thus : —
Malvina. ITurnhiff to Adelaide icith reserve and affection.]
I have prayed for you and myself — let us be sisters.
Adelaide. Sisters! [Seems fur ii moment buried in reflection.]
Sisters ! — Good girl ! you awake in me a consoling thought.
Yes. Sisters let us be, if this man wiU be our brother. As
we cannot share him, neither of us must possess him. We,
as sisters, will dweU in one hut — he, as our brother, in
another. He will assist us in educating our chUdien.
Interior ov Dhcry Lane Theatre, 1794-1811.
by the consent of two wives to shai'e Count Ferdinand
between them — -was translated in 1 798, and ridiculed
by Canning and his friends of " The Antijacobin "
in " The Rovers ; or, The Double Arrangement,"
Schiller's " Robbere " being included in the satii-e."
Plays of Kotzebue and Iffland were in request. In
Kotzebue's " La Perouse," acted at Drury Lane in
1 799, the married hero is wrecked on a lonely
paradise in the South Seas. There abandoning all
hope of return to civilisation, he gives his heart and
hand to MalvLna. a lady of the '-child of nature"
type then popular as a sentimental contrast to the
false conventioiLS of what some called over-civilised
society. He and she and a little son Charles have
the island to themselves. After eight years there
comes a shij), and there lands from it Madame La
Perouse, with a little son Henry, and Clairville,
Madame's brother. The dramatist then weaves his
* "Wordsworth's " Excursion," Book III.
2 See the volnme of this Library containing " Shorter English
Poems," pa^es 4.31, 432.
During the day we will form one happy family, and the
evening shall part us. The mothers shall remain with their
chOdren — the father in his hut. — Do }-ou consent to this,
Malvina — and you, Perouse ?
Malvina. Willingly, if I may but see him.
Feronse. With all my heart, if you be thereby satisfied.
Clairville. Brother, I wish }ou joy. The treaty is con-
cluded. Take each other's hands, and ratify it by a warm
embrace.
Adelaide. [Goes towards Perouse with outstretched arms.]
A sister's embrace.
Clairville. As you please, I don't dispute about expressions.
Malvina. My friend I My brother !
Perouse. [Holding them both in h is arms.] My sisters !
Charles. [Creeping to M.vlvixa.] My mother is happy.
Henry. [Hanijing on Adelaide.] My mother smiles again.
Clairville. The paradise of innocence ! [The curtain falls.
A very foggy paradise. The Drary Lane in
which this play was acted was a handsome theatre.
The house, for the opening of which Samuel Johnson
432
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
Li.D. 1799
wrote his prologue, had been rebuilt in 1794, but the
new building lasted onlyseventeen years. It was burnt
down in 1811. The present theatre succeeded it,
the fourth on the same site, and was opened on the
lOch of October, 1812, with a prologue by Lord
Byron. Clever burlesques of the style of the chief
poets of the day, by James and Horace Smith, were
jtublished at the opening of the theatre as " Rejected
Addresses," sent in answer to an advertisement pub-
lished on the 14th of August, 1812, for an opening
address, to be supplied by " a fair and free competi-
tion." Although, as Byron wrote in his prologue,
Dear are the days which made our annals bright,
Ere Gamck iJcd, or Brinsley ceased to write,
and although we are still waiting for tlie restoration
of the stage to its old union with true literature, we
wait with hope. Tlie fall has been great,
But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom
That only waste their odours o'er the tomb.
The chief ground of hope is iir the fact that litera-
ture, since the sixteenth century, has never drawn
more closely to the drama than now in these later
days, when the stage is closed against it. There
remains also, in Henry Irving and othei-s, yet some-
thing of the genius of the actor that, when worthily
exerted, deserves only the higher present honour
because his work does not, like that of kindred artists
— poet, painter, sculi)tor, or musician — survive its
fresh utterance, and speak for itself to after time.
Sarah, John, and Charles Kenible were children of
Roger Kemble, a country manager. Sarah was born
in 175.5, John in 1757, and Charles, who was the
youngest of the family of twelve children, in 1775, the
year in which his sister Sarah first appeared at Drury
Lane. Sarah began as a child to act and sing ; .she
l)layed Ariel in the "Tempest" when only thirteen. In
her nineteenth year, in 177.3, when her parents gave
up a somewhat long resistance to the match, she
married for love a poor player of the company, named
Siddons, who had been a Birmingham apprentice.
Soon afterwards, as Mrs. Siddons, Sarah Kemble ob-
tained fame as an actress, within the world of fashion
at Cheltenham, especially for her Belvidera in " Venice
Preserved." Garrick went to Cheltenham to see lier,
and engaged her for Drury Lane at five pounds a week.
This was at tlie close of Garrick's theatrical life. Next
season Sheridan was manager, and Mrs. Siddons was
not re-engaged. She then acted for some time at York
and at Bath, where her genius was fully appreciated.
In 1782 she came to London again, having a family
to earn for — a good woman, with the depth of
character that enabled her to get to the heart of a ]5oet's
work, and the sensitive temperament that gave her
genius power of interpreting its lights and shades. She
reapjieared on the 10th of October, 1 782, as Isabella in
Southerne's " Fatal Marriage." An eight-year-old son
held her by the hand at the side scenes before she went
on the stage. Her success was very great ; other
successesfollowed.and her triumph was made comjilete
by her acting of Otway's Belvidera. She became the
fashion, and remained unspoilt by flattery. In 1785
her Lady Macbeth gave her a tir.st place among in-
terpreters of highest poetry. We are indebted to a
Scottish Law Professor, George Joseph Bell, brother
of Sir Charles Bell, the surgeon, for an actual record
of lier acting. He followed her through the text of
t'
^
^ m
i
Z^ '*'
1^^^
'tfHpBpP
■p^^
m
*
Im
w, '^'.
l///^
Mrs. Siddons. {From a Portraii by Sirjoshtia Reynolds,)
the play with skilful observation of shades of expres-
sion and changes of manner in her interpretation of
its words. His notes upon her Lady JNIacbeth have
been published,' and they furnish precise evidence of
an insight into Shakespeare's poetry that jilaces her
above all Lady Macbeths of whose powers we have
in our day any certain knowledge. jNIrs. Siddons
retired in 1812, but reappeared in 1816 for the bene-
fit of her brother Charles. Her brother John, who
began his London career with immediate success
as Hamlet in 1783, retired from the stage in 1817.
There is no evidence that he had a genius like his
sister's. He was less sensitive, and seems to have
acted with a somewliat formal dignity, but the dig-
nity had its root in a fine character. When he was
manager he sought to improve and elevate the .stage,
and he has left a name most honourable in its annals.
TIk! youngest of the family, Charles, first acted in
London in 1794. When John Kemble bought a
share in Covent Garden in 1803, and was manager
till the bui-ning of the theatre in 1808, he had liis
brother Charles as well as his sister Mrs. Siddons in
the company. Charles succeeded more slowly ; shone
at last in such characters as Shakespeare's Mercutio,
and maintained the credit of his family as actors with
a fine and high sense of their art, until his retirement
from the stage in 1836. He reappeared for a few
nights in 1840, and died in 1854.
Kdinund Kean, thirty years younger than John
Kemble, was the son of a scene carpenter, and
' By Prof. Fleeming Jcukiu in " The Niueteeutb Century " for
Pekruary, 1878.
TO A.D. 1S15.]
PLAYS.
43.'^
educated to tlie stage under Jolin Kemble's influence.
He acted in Yorkshire when a boy of thirteen, found
a friend who sent him for thi-ee years to Eton, then
at sixteen acted again, phiyed Hamlet in Edinburgh
to crowded houses. He tii-st appeared in London at
Drury Lane on the 26th of January, 1814, playing
Shylock. Success followed success ; Othello and Sir
Giles Overreach brought him increase of fame. His
bui-sts of natural passion seem to have contrasted
with John Kemble's rhetoric almost as much as Gar-
rick's natural speech with the laboured eloquence of
Quin. But Edmund Kean wanted John Kemble's
another raised upon its site has since been burnt
down and rebuilt. The Little Theatre in the Hay-
market was closed in 1820, and tlie present theatre,
buUt close to its site, was opened in July, 1821.
The old Lyceum Theatre was formed in 1790, out
of a room built in 1765 for the Society of Arts. It
was bui-nt down in 1830. In that year the Princess's
Theatre was rebuilt, and the Lyceum was rebuilt in
1834. The Covent Garden Theatre that Rich opened
was burnt down in 1808, rebuilt, and again burnt
down in 1856, to be succeeded by a third building,
which was opened as an Italian Opera House on the
iNTEr.IUR OF THE HaY^IAKEET THEATRE, ]8:21. {Sec the (fOOdc'f 0>i i"-"je 411.)
dignity of character. His life was ill governed and
his great successes wei'e but fitfully sustained. He was
manager of the Richmond Theatre when he died, on
the 15th of May, 1833.
The next chief of the poetic drama was William
Charles Macready, who, on the night of his owai benefit,
in May, 1836, produced Thomas Noon Talfourd's
"Ion" with success. Talfourd's two other plays, " The
Athenian Captive " and " Glencoe," were also successful,
but the writing of dramatic poetry was not his work in
life. He was a lawyer, and he died a judge. It was Mr.
Macready also who, in 1843, put on the stage a play
by Robert Browning, " A Blot in the 'Scutcheon,"
which, although pathetic, appears to be injured by
concession to a taste less healthy than the author's
own. Macready died in 1873, aged 80.
Actors have multiplied, and theatres, during the
[>resent centuiy. Sir John Vanbi-ugh's theatre in
the Havmarket was burnt down in 1789, and
i75
15th of May, 1858. Since that time theatre has
risen after theatre. There is all the machinery of a
drama ; there are houses in plenty, actors in plenty,
many of them well skilled, and caring for tlieir art :
but there are no plays. Good actors waste them-
selves in clever fooling, or when serious, cause to
be warmed up some half-deodorised French garljage
with a piquant flavour of corruption. Meanwhile
throughout the century there has been growing
steadily a vigorous dramatic literature parted from
the stage. Byron produced plays — " IManfred " in
1817, "Marino Faliero," " Sardanapalus," "The
Two Foscari," " Cain," in 1821, " Werner," in 1822
— without a thought of actors for them. In 1819
Shelley produced "The Cenci." Henry Hart Mil-
man's fii-st play, "Fazio," was acted in 1815. In
1819 appeared his " Fall of Jerusalem," a dramatic
poem. Sheridan Knowles, who claimed kindred
with Richard Brinsley Sheridan, produced and acted
434
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
[to a.d. 1878.
plays with a good aim at literature in them, and feeble
echoes of Elizabethan speech. His tirst play was "Cains
Gracchus," acted at Belfast in 181.5. " Vii-ginius,"
" William Tell," " The Hunchback," " The Love
Chase," and othei-s followed. " Virginius " and the
" Hunchback " are two of the best acted play.s of our
century. Lord Lytton also obtained good successes
in " The Lady of Lyons " and " Richelieu." Lord
Lytton (Bulwer) was clever in many things, though
no great poet, and after brilliant success as a
novelist, produced, in 1836, the year after his novel
of " Rienzi," a partly successful comedy, " The
Duchess of La Valliere ; " then, after two more
successful novels — " Ernest Maltravers," in 1837,
and "Alice," in 1838 — came, in the same year, 1838,
his chief success upon the stage, " The Lady of
Lyons," followed next yeai-, 1839, by another
success, " Richelieu," and a half success, " The Sea
Captain." There followed, in 1840, the comedy of
" Money ; " the first of all these plays being written
when he was thu-ty-one years old, the last when he
was thirty-five. The plays of Henry, afterwards Sir
Henry, Taylor, showed that sound literature was still
holding by the drama. " Isaac Comnenus " appeared
in 1832, "Philip van Artevelde" in 1834— a fine work
that was allowed to grow into an overlong dramatic
poem, a bad modern form of drama that could only
arise from breach of the alliance between literature
and the stage. " Edwin the Fair" followed in 1842,
and "The Virgin Widow," in 1850. In that year also,
18.50, appeared as a posthumous work, a wild play,
musical throughout with grand echoes of Elizabethan
thought and passion, the " Death's Jest Book," of
Thomas Lovell Beddoes, who died young in 1849.
Robert Browning, essentially a dramatic poet,
although he has won a lasting name, would yet have
made his genius more deeply felt if there had been a
stage to write for. He has been turned, as far as the
nature of a man of genius can be turned, from his true
calling, and (except "In a Balcony," in 1855) has
added nothing to the fine series of dramatic writings
produced between 1841 and 1846. That series in-
cluded two plays, "Luria," and "The Return of the
Druses," tliat will surely live and breathe for the fit
audiences who wll not be few, whenever our true
English drama comes to life again within its proper
home. There is an ediicated puJjlic able to support the
stage, and ready with the quick appreciation that alone
gives due praise to the actor, and can alone help him
to win for his art the honour it deserves. Our
younger poet, Algernon S\vinburne, first won fame
in 1864, by putting the music that is in him into the
shape of such a play as would have charmed an
audience in ancient Athens, " Atalanta in Calvdon."
Our elder poet, Alfred Tennyson, has in his maturest
days turned to the drama. His "Queen Mary,"
published in 1875, and ^witten with the usual sense
of a complete alienation of the modern English stage
from all the best thought of its time, paid no regard
to the limits of an acted play. When imexpectedly
acted in April, 1876, it was shortened for represen-
tation by excision of its more dramatic part, and
became almost a monologue for a weak actress. Fine
play as it was, it needed to have been either written
or re^vritten for the stage, with all the harmonies of
its original conception in their due relation to each
other. Lopping limbs ofl' is called maiming in life,
and a poem by a man of genius is a whole of which
all parts are as much dependent iipon one another
as if they were made of flesh and blood. In 1877
appeared Mr. Temiyson's second play, "Hai-old," fitly
proportioned for the stage, and actable whenever the
time shall come, as it will come, when Englishmen
again are asked to wear their best minds in the
theatre.
Not this the End, though long the pause ;
Our giant sleeps. As from the dead
He shall arise, again applause
Of nations echo to his tread :
And yet again his upward call
Shall place ns where our fathers stood,
Though still the voice once true to all
That lifts the sense of earthly good ;
Again shall flash with poet's mirth.
And wrath that makes rough places plain,
The eye that brought do'rni heaven to earth
And glanced from earth to heaven again.
They have been oiu-s ; they shall not die !
Have we not that of which were wrought
The step, the voice, the flash of eye,
The limbs alive with stir of thought ?
Be ours again a mirth above
The wit of fools, a happy strife.
The laughter born of human love
At war with all that sullies life.
Be ours again, all iimocent,
A force above this world's control,
Pity, God's whitest angel, sent
To guard the heaven within the soul.
Our Drama lives ; it shall not die,
Xor languish under witless praise.
Nor with companions from the stye
Serve Circe. What helps English Plays ?
■^'in but the best we win the rest,
With mind to find what aU may seek,
When, God possessed, through sigh and jest,
With Shakespeare we shall dare to speak.
With Shakespeare, with the noble strain
Of men who stand for. all their land.
Our giant's reign begins again
"•Alien ENGL.iXD takes him bv the hand.
Pautted Ceiling over the Pit of Goodman's Fields Theatee, in whiih
Gakeick first acted in London (Oct. 19, 1741).
INDEXES.
I.-IXDEX TO PLAYS AND DRAMATISTS.
[Karnes of Works reproduced in this Volume, or described and quoted from, are printed in Itahcs.}
Actors : — Massingei-"s Roman Actor, 271—287 ; Parish Clerks
and Members of Guilds, 2, 3 ; Servants of Great Houses,
18 ; University Men and Public Schoolboys, 21, 22, 315 ;
Lawyers of the Temple, 47—49, 320 ; Servants of the Earl
of Leicester, l>4 : Children of the Chapel and of Paul's, lU,
105, 128 : First Patent to a Dramatic Company, 100 ; The
Lord Chamberlain's Company, 1.57 ; Richard Tarlton, 178,
179 ; James Burbage, 178. 179 ; Edward Alleyn, 179 ;
Prynne's Histrio-mastix, 307, 308, 320 ; Women's Parts :
First Actresses, 322 ; Mrs. Saunderson, Mrs. Davenport,
Edward Kynaston, Charles Hart, Thomas Betterton, 326,
406 ; Thomas Betterton, 383, 406, 407 ; CoUey Cibber,
James Quin, 405. 407 ; Salai-y of a Roman Actor, 272, note
2,— of Cibber and of Quin, 405 ; Robert Wilks, Thomas
Doggett, 407 ; Barton Booth, 411 : John Rich, 411 ; David
Garrick, 420, 421 : Mrs. Cibber, Mrs. Pritcliard, 421 ;
Charles Macklin, 424 ; Samuel Foote, 423, 424 ; John
Kemble, 424 ; .Tohn and Charles Kemble, 4.32 ; Sarah
Siddons, 432 ; Edmund Kean, 432, 433 ; William C. 3Iac-
ready, 433 ; Samuel Phelps, 424.
Addison, .Joseph, 405 ; his Cato, 407 — 411.
.Sschylus, 1.
jEsop, John Vanbrugh's, 395.
Agesilas, Comeille's, 335.
Ages, The Four, by Thomas Heywood, 247.
Aglam^, Sir John Suckling's, 3i.5.
Ajax and Ulysses, 100.
Albion and Albanius, Dryden's, .337.
Alchemist, Ben Jonson's, 211.
Alfred the Great, by .James Thomson and David Mallet, 420.
All Fools, by George Chapman, 232.
Alphonsus, King of Arragon, by Robert Greene, 142.
Ambitious Stepmother, The, by Nicholas Rowe, 40.5.
Andromaque, Racine's, 335 ; as the Distrest Mother, by Am-
brose Philips, 40.5.
Antigono, by the Conte di Monte Vicentino, 89.
Antonio and Mellida, by John Marston, 178 ; Antonio's Re-
venge, 198.
Antony and Cleopatra, Shakespeare's, 211 ; altered by Drydcc.
322.
■ -, Sir Charles SetUey's, 353.
Appius and A'irginia, by John Dennis, 405.
Ariosto, Comedies of, 21, 89 ; his Suppostti translated by
George Gascoigne, 89 — 100.
Aristippus, by Thomas Randolph, 313.
Arraiynment of Pans, George Peele's, 104 — 110.
As You Like It, Shakespeare's, 142, 167 —177.
Atheist's Tragedy, Cyril Toumeur s, 247.
Athenian Captive, Thomas Noon Talfourd's, 433.
Attila, Comeille's, 335.
Auction of Pictures, by Samuel Foote, 423.
Aurenge-Zebe, John Dryden's, 337.
B.
Beaumont, Francis, and John Fletcher, 216 ; their Philaster,
216—232.
Beaux Stratagem, The, by George Farquhar, 395, 400^04.
Beddoes, Thomas LoveU, 4.'}4.
Beggar's Opera, The, by John Gay, 416, 417.
Behn, Aphra, 35^3, 355.
BeUamira, Sir Charles Sedley's, 3.53.
Belle's Stratagem, The, by Hannah Cowley, 427.
Bickerstaff, Isaac, 424.
Bird in a Cage, James Shirley's, .320.
Black Prince, The, by Roger Boyle, 331.
Blind Beggar of iUe.xandria, The, by George Chapman, 178.
Blot in the Scutcheon, A, by Robert Bro^vlling, 433.
Boiardo. 21.
Boyle, Roger, Earl of Orrery, 331, 332 ; his Mustapka, 332—
334.
Brennoralt, Sir .John Suckling's, 315.
Broken Heart, The. by .John Ford, 294—307.
Brome, Richard, 320.
Browning, Robert, 433, 434.
Bnsiris, Edward Young's, 412.
Bussy d'Ambois, The Revenge of, by George Chapman, 232—247.
436
CASSELL'S LIBRAEY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
Byron, The Conspiracy of Charles, Dvike of, by George Chap-
man, 232.
-, George Gordon, Lord, 433.
C.
Cain, Lord BjTon's, -433.
Caius Gracchus, by Sheridan Knowles, 434.
Marius, by Thomas Otway, 322.
Calderon de la Barca, Pedro, 334.
Cambyses, by Thomas Preston, 65 — 74.
Campaspe, John Lyly's, 128.
Captives, Pl.autus's, 21.
Carey, Heniy, 419 ; his ChrononhotoiUholorjos, 419.
CaiTetto, Galotto del, 21.
Cartwright, William, his Boi/nl Slave, 315—320.
Catherine, Miracle Play of Saint, 2.
Catiline, Ben Jonson's, 211.
Catinia, by Secco Polentone, 21.
Cato, Joseph Addison's, 407 — 411.
Cenci, Shelley's, 433.
Centli\Te, Susanna, 405.
Chapman, George, 178, 211, 232 ; his Revenge of Bussi/d'Amhois,
232—247.
Chester Mysteries, The, 2, 3.
Christmas Plays at the Temple, 48, 49.
Chrotwnhotontholorios, by Henry Carey, 419.
Gibber, Colley, 40.5.
Cid, Corneille's, 3)34.
Cinna, Corneille's, 334.
City Politics, John Crowne's, 379.
Cloridon and Radiamanta, 100.
Colman, George, the Elder and the Younger, 424.
Comedy of Errors, Shakespeare's, 15C, 137.
Comical Revenge, The, or Love m a Tub, by Sir George
Etherege, 353.
Comus, Milton's, 309—313.
Confederacy, The, by John Vanbrugh, 395 — 400.
Congreve, William, 383, 384 ; his 31<»n-iiinfi Bride, 384—394.
CoTtscious Lovers, Tlie, by Richard Steele, 412 — 415.
Constant Couple, The, by George Farqnhar, 39.5.
Coriolanus, Shakespeare's, 211 ; altered by Nahiun Tate, 322.
Corneille, Pierre, 321, 334, 33.5.
Counti-y Wife, The, by AVUliam Wycherley, 359.
Court Beggar, The, 322.
Coventry Mysteries, The, 4.
Cowley, Hannah, 427.
Critic, The, by Richard Brinsley Sheridan,
Crowne, John, 353, 379 ; bis .Sir Courtly Nice, 379—382.
Cymbeline, Shakespeare's, 211.
Cynthia's Revels, Ben Jonson's, 179.
D.
Damon and Pythias, by Thomas Edwards, 74 — 88.
Davenant, Sir William, 321, 322, 337, 3.53 : his Sieae of Rhodes,
322-320.
Day in Turkey, A, by Hannah Cowley, 427.
Death's Jest Book, by Thomas LoveU ISeddoes, 434.
Dekker, Thomas, 178, 197 ; Satiromastix, by Dekker and
Marston, 198—210.
Denham, Sir John, 320, 353 ; his play of The Sophy, 320, 321.
Dennis, John, 405.
Dido, by Thomas Preston, 65.
Distrest Motlier, The, by Ambrose Philips, 40.5.
Diversions of the Morning, Samuel Foote'.s, 423.
Dolce, Lodovico, his Giocmta, translated by George Gascoigne,
89, 99, 100.
Double Dealer, WiUiam Congreve's, 383.
Dryden, John, 327, 355 ; his Indian Queen, with Sir Robeii
Howard, 327—331 ; Ai-gument concerning Rhyme and
Bl.ank Verse in Plays, Essay of Dr.amatic Poesie, 334—
337 ; his Spanish Friar, 363—368 ; Dryden and Jeremy
CoUier, 395.
Duchess of La VaUi&re, The, by Bulwer Lytton, 434.
■ Mal,1i, by John Webster, 248—270.
Didie of Guise, The, by Nathaniel Lee and John Diyden, 355.
Dumb Lady, The, by John Lacy, 353.
D'Urfey, Thomas, 3.53.
E.
Eastward Hoe, by Jonson, ULai-ston, and Chapman, 211.
Edward and Eleonore, .J.ames Thomson's, 420.
Edwar.ls, Richard, 74 ; his Damon and Putkias, 74—88.
Edwm the Fair, by Sii- Henry Taylor, 434.
Ennius, 2.
Epicene, Ben Jonson's, 211.
Etherege, Sir George, 353 ; his Man of Mode ; or. Sir Fopling
Flutter, 353—355
Eton Plays, 21.
Eunuch, Terence's, 21.
Euripides, 1, 89.
Evei-y Man in his Humour, Ben Jonson's, 178, 179, 211.
Ezekias, Nicholas Udall's, 22.
F.
Fair Slaid of the Exchange, Thomas Heywood's, 247.
False Delicacy, by Hugh Kelly, 427, 428.
Friend, The, by John Vanbrugh, 395.
Farqidiar, George, 395 ; The Beaux-Stratayem, by, 400 — 404.
Fatal Curiosity, The, by George Lillo, 420.
Marriage, The, by Thomas Southeme, 395 ; Mrs. Sid-
dons in, 432.
Faust us, The Tragical History of D>:,hj Chnatoi:iheT Marlowe,
114—128.
Fcrrcx and Porrcx, by Sackville and Norton, 47 — 64, 327.
Fielding, Henry, 418—420; his Tragedy of Tragedies, Ton
Thumb, 418, 419.
Fine Comp.anion, The, by Shakerley Marmion, 315.
Fletcher, John, and Francis Beaumont, 216; theiv Philanter,
216—232.
Foote, Samuel, 423, 424.
Ford, John, 294 ; The Broken Heart, by, 294—307.
Four P's, The, an Interlude by John Heywood, 14 — 21.
Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay, by Robert Greene, 142.
Funeral, The, by Richard Steele, 405.
G.
Game of Chess, The, by Thomas Middleton, 270.
Garrick, David, 420, 421.
Gascoigne, George, his Version of Ariosto ; The Supposes,
89—100.
Gay, John, 416 ; The Beggar's Opera, by, 416, 417.
Gentleman Dancing Master, William Wycherley 's, 359.
Gentle Shepherd. Allan Ramsay's, 416.
George-a-Green, the Pinner of Wakefield, 142.
Barnwell, by George Lillo, 419.
Glapthorne, Hemy, 320.
Glencoe, by Thomas Noon Talfourd, 433.
Goblins, The, by Sii' .John Suckling, 315.
Goldsmith, Oliver, 424 ; The Good-natured Man, by, 424.
Gorboduc, Sackville and Norton's, 47 — 64, 335.
Gosson, Stephen, 101, 102.
Greene, Robert, 141, 142, 156; A Looking-glass for London
and Eiuiland, by Robert Greene and Thomas Lodge,
142-155.
H.
Habington, William, 315.
Hamlet, Shakespeare's, 1.57.
Handel's Operas, 407.
Harlequin Sorcerer, by .John Rich, 411.
Harold, by Alfred Tennyson, 434.
Heautontimoroumenos, Terence's, 232.
Heywood, John, The Four P's, 18—21.
, Thomas. 247.
Hiffernan, Paul, 424.
Hilarius, 2.
Historical Register for 1736, Henry Fielding's, 420.
Histrio-mastbc, Pi-ynne's, 307.
Holland's Leagiier, by Shakerley Marmion, 315.
Horace, Corneille's, 334.
Howard, .Sir Robert, and John Dryden, The Indian Queen, by,
327 — 331 ; Argument concerning Rhyme and Blank Verse
in Plays, .3.34-:?46, 353.
Humorous Day's Mirth, A, by George Chapman, 178.
Hunchback, The, by Sheridan Knowles, 434.
Hyc/ie-Scorner, a Moralitii Play. 12 — 18.
Hypocrite, The, by Isaac Bickerst.atf, 424.
I.
Iffland, August, 431.
Imlier Aureus, by Antonio Tilesio, 21.
Incle and Yarico, by Geoi'ge Colman the Younger, 424.
Inconstant, The, by George Farquhar, 39-5.
Interludes, 18—21.
Ion, by Tliomas Noon Talfourd, 433.
Iphigenia, 100.
Irene, Samuel Johnson's, 421 — 423.
Irish Rebellion, The, by James Shirley, 320.
Iron Chest, The, by George Colman the Younger, 424.
Isaac Comnenus, by Sir Hem-y Taylor, 434.
INDEX TO PLAYS AND DRAMATISTS.
437
J.
James IV., The Scottish History of, by Robert Greene, 142.
Jane Shore, by Nicholas Kowe, 405.
Jealous Wife, The, by George Colnian the Elder, 424.
Jurufta, by George Gascoigne and Francis Kinwelm.irsh, 89.
Jolmson, Samuel, his Prologue on opening Driu-y Lane, 321 ;
his Irene, 421 — 424.
Jonson, Ben, 178, 179, 180 ; The Foetagtei; by, 180—197 ; his
Masque of Queeiia, 211 — 214.
Juliana, by John Crowne, 3-53, 379.
Julius Ca3sar, .Shakespeare's, 211.
K.
Kelly, Hugh, 322, a53.
KiUigrew, Thomas, 322.
Kiiii/ Caiiibi/ses, by Thomas Preston, 6.5 — 74.
Edward IV. , by Thomas Heywood, 247.
Henry IV., Shakespeaie's, 157.
v., by Shakespeare, 157 ; by Roger Boyle, 381.
\a, Parts II., III., 157.
VIII., Shakespeare's, 211.
John, Shakespeare's, 157, 100—167.
Lear, Shakespeare's, 179 ; recast by Nahum Tate, 322.
Kinwelmai'sh, Francis, his Jocasta, with George Gascoigne, 99,
100.
Knowles, Sheridan, 433, 434.
Kotzebue, August Friedrich Ferdijiand von. Translation of his
PizaiTO by Sheridan : Ti-anslation of his La Pcrouse, 429,
431.
Kyd, Thomas, 155, 156.
Lacy, .Tohn, 353.
Lady Barbara, 100.
of Lyons, Eulwer Lytton's. 434.
Im Peroiise, Translation of Kotzebue's, 431.
Lee, Nathaniel, 353, 355, 356 ; The Rival Quccm, by, 3.56 —
359.
LiUo, George, 419.
Li\*ius .A.ndronicus, 2.
Lodge, Thomas, 142 ; A Lookinff-rilass for London and England,
by Thomas Lodge and Robert Greene, 142 — 155.
Love and a Bottle, by George Farquhar, 39.5.
Chase, The. by Sheridan Knowles, 434.
for Love, William Congreve's, 395.
in a Wood, William Wycherley's, 353, 359.
Lems La'jour's Lost, Shakespeare's, 156, 157, 159, 160.
Last Shift, by CoUey Gibber, 405.
Metamorphosis, by .John Lyly, 128.
Loyal Brothers. The, by Thomas Southeme, .353.
Subject, The, by Thomas Heywood, 247.
Lucius Jtiniiig Brutus, Nathaniel Lee's, 355, 356.
Luria, Robert Browning's, 434.
Ljring Lover, The, by Richard Steele, 405.
Lyly, John. 128 ; his Endiimion, 128 — 141.
Lj-tton (BiUwer), Lord, 434.
JL
Macbeth, Shakespeare's, 211 : altered by Sir William Davenant,
322.
Machiavelli's Comedies, 21.
Macklin, Charles, 424.
Maid's Metamoq>hosis, The, by John Lyly, 128.
Malade Iniaginaire, Moliere's, 335.
Mallet, David, 420.
Manfred, Lord Byron's, 433.
Man of Mode, The: or. Sir Fopling Flutter, by Sir George
Etherege, 3.53 — .3.55.
of the World, Charles Macklin's, 424.
M.aiino Faliero, Lord Byion's, 433.
Marlowe, Christopher, 113—115, 156, 168, 178 ; his Faustus,
116—128.
Marmion, Shakerley, 31.5.
Marston, John, 178, 197, 211 ; Satiromastix, by Dekker and
Marston, 198-210.
Masques, 48, 49, 54 ; BeH Jonson's Masque of Queens, 211 —
215 ; James Shirley's Triumphs of Peace, 320 ; Congreve's
.Judgment of Paris, 383.
Massin'-er. Philip, 270, 271 ; The Roman Arfor. by, 271—287;
A 'New Wait to Pap Old Debts,^ by, 288—294.
Measure for IVIeasiU'e, Shakespeare's, 211.
Medea, ComeUle's, .334.
Men^chmi of Plautus, 1.56.
Merchant of Venice, Shakespeare's, 1.57, 1-58.
Men-y Wives of Windsor, Shakespeare's, 157.
Middleton, Thomas, 178, 247, 270.
Midsummer Night's Dream, Shakespeare's, 157.
Milton, John, oOS ; his Comun, 309—313; re-establishes Blank
"S erse, 337 ; Samson Agonistes, 350.
Blir.acle Plays, 2—12.
Mis.anthrope, MoUfere's, as Wycherley's Plain Dealer, 359—362.
Miser, The, Shadwell's Version of Molifere's L'Avare 353
Moliere, 321, 335, 353, 3.59, 405.
Money, by Bulwer Lord Lytton, 434.
Monsieur d'Olive, by George Chapman, 232.
MoraUties, 2, 12-18.
Mourning Bride, The, by William Congreve, 383—394.
Much Ado About Nothing, Shakespeare's, 157.
Mulberry Garden, The, by Sir Charles Sedley, 353.
Murphy, Arthur, 424.
Muses' Looking-glass, The, by Thomas Randolph, 313—315.
Mussato, Albertino, *21.
Mustapha, by Roger Boyle, 332—334.
Narcissus, 100.
Nash, Thomas, 156.
Ifeie Wail to Pay Old Debts, A, by Philip Massinger, 288—294.
Noblemsin, The, by Cyril Tourneur, 247.
Nonjiuor, CoUey Gibber's, 40.5.
Norton, Thomas, 47 ; Gorboduc, by Sackville and Norton,
47-64.
O.
ffidipus, by John Dryden and Nathaniel Lee, 355.
Old Bachelor, The, by William Congreve, 383.
Law, The, by Thomas Middleton and William Rowley, 178.
AVives' Tale, The, by George Peele, 112.
Opera, The First Italian, 248 ; Fii'st Italian in London, 407 ;
Congreve's Semele, 383 ; Handel's Operas, 407.
Orlando Furioso, The History of, by Robert Greene, 142.
Oroonoko, by Thomas Southeme, 394.
Orjihan, 'The, by Thomas Otway, 355, 368.
Othello, Shakespeare's, 211.
Otway, Thomas, 322, 3.53, 355, 368; his Venice Preserved,
369—379.
P.
P's, Interlude of the Four, by John Heywood, 18 — 21.
Palamon and Ai'cyte, by Richard Edwards, 100.
Paufila, 21.
Pantomime, The Old Italian, 248 ; introduced into London by
John Rich, 411.
Paris and Vienna, 100.
Parson's Wedding, The, by Thomas Killigrew, 322.
Pasquin, by Henry Fielding, 420.
Peele, George, 104, 105, 150 ; The Arrair/nmcnt of Paris, by,
104—110 ; The Old Wives' Tale, by, 112.
Phaeton, by Thomas Dekker, 178.
Phedre of Racine, — of Pradon, 335.
Philaster, by Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher, 216—232.
Philips, Ambrose, 405.
Philip van Artevehle, by Sir Henry Taylor, 434.
Plain Dealer, The, by William AVycherley, 359—362.
Plautus, 2, 21, 49, 89, 156, 157.
Pliiy of Plays, The, by Stephen Gosson, 104.
Plays: — Defined, 1; as written by Shakespeare, 1.58 — 177;
Blank Verse in. 114, 334 — .336 ; opposed by the Puritans,
307, 308 : suppressed, 320 ; restored, 321, 322 ; Contro-
versy on the Immorality of, 393 ; placed imder Censor-
ship of the Lord Chamberlain, 420.
Poetaster, The, by Ben Jonson, 180—197.
Polentone, Secco, 21.
Polyeucte, Corneille's, 334.
Preston, Thomas, his King Ca^nbiises, 65 — 74.
Provoked Wife, The, by Sir John Vanbrugh, 395.
Q.
Queen of An-agon, The, by William Habington, 31.5.
Mary, by Alfred Tennyson, 434.
Racine, .Jean, .335.
Ralph Roister Duister. by Nicholas Udall, 21—47.
Ramsay, Allan, 415, 416.
Recruiting Officer. The, by George Farquhar, 395.
Rehearsal, The, by George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham,
3:38—3.50.
Relapse. The, by Sir John Vanbrugh, 305, 405 ; altered by
R. B. Sheridan into The Trip to Scarborough. 428.
Return of the Druses, The, by Robert Eromiing, 434.
438
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
Revenge of Bussy d'Aniboise, The, by George Chapman, 232—
247.
Eevenger's Trage(!y, The, by CjTil Toumeur, 247.
Kichard II., Shakespeare's, 157.
III., Shakespeare's, 157.
Crookback, Beu Jonson's, 179.
Richelieu, by Bulwer LorJ Lj'tton, 434.
Rinaldo and Armida, Handel's Opeiu of, 407.
Rival Ladies, The, by John Dryden, 335.
• Qitecns, The, by Nathaniel Lee, 356 — 359.
Rivals, The, by Richard Brinsley Sheridan, 428.
Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare's, 157, 158 ; recast by Thomas
Otway, 322.
Rowe, Nichohis, 405.
Rowley, "William, 178.
Royal Shepherdess, The, by Thomas Shadwell, 353.
Slave, The, by William Cartwilght, 315—320.
Runaway, The, by Hannah Cowley, 427.
S.
Sackville, Thomas, Lord Buckhurst, 47.; his Gorboduc, viixh.
Thomas Norton, 47 — 64.
Samson Aijonistcs, John Milton's, 350.
Sappho and Phao, by John Lyly, 128.
Sardanapalus, by Lord Byron, 433.
Sawney the Scot, John Lacy's, 3.53.
Schiller's Robbers, 431.
School for Sea ndul. The, by Richard Brinsley Sheridan, 429, 430.
Sea Captain, The, by Bulwer Lord Lytton, 434.
Sedley, Sir Charles, 353.
Sejanus, Ben Jonson's, 210, 211.
Seneca, 2, 21, 49, 1.57.
Settle, Elkanah, 327, 350, 353 ; The Empress of Morocco, by,
351, 352.
Seven DeaiUy Sins, The, by Richard Tarlton, 179.
Shadwell, Thomas, 322.
Shakespeare, William, 101, 111—113 ; 156—178, 211 ; the Four
Folios, 405 ; Life and Works, by N. Rowe, 405.
Shelley, Pei-cy Bysshe, 433.
Shepherd's PJnii, in the Wakefield Jlysteries, .3 — 12.
Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, 428, 429 ; The School for Scandal,
by, 429, 430.
She Stoops to Conquer, by Oliver Goldsmith, 424.
— 'Would if She Could, by Sir George Etherege, 353.
Shirley, James, 320.
Sidney, Sir Philip, on Early Elizabethan Plays, 102—104.
Siege of Rhodes, The, by Sir William Davenant, 321—326.
Silvia, by George Lillo, 419.
Sir Courtlii mre, by John Crowne, 379 -383.
Harry Wildair, by George F.arquhar, 395.
Sisters, The, by James Shirley, 320.
Sofonisba, Trissino's, 21.
Sophocles, 1.
Sophouisba. James Thomson's, 416, 417.
Sophii, The, by Sir John Denbam. 320, 321.
Southerne, Thomas, 353, 394, 395.
Spanish Friar, The, by John Dryden, 363—368.
Tragedy, Thom.as Kyd's, 155, 1.56, 179.
Steite of Innocence, The, by John Dryden, 353.
Steele, Sir Richard, 405 ; The Conscious Lovers, by, 412—415
Suckling, Sir John, 315.
Summer's Last WiU and Testament, by Thomas Nash, 156.
Supposes, The, by.George Gascoigne, 89--99.
T.
Talfourd, Tliomas Noon, 433.
Tamburlaine, Marlowe's, 113, 114.
Taming of the Shrew, Shakespeare's, altered by John Lacy,
Tartuffe, Moliere's, as Colley Gibber's Nonjuror, 405 ; as Isaac
Eickerstaff's Hypocrite, 424.
Tarugo's Wiles. .'579.
Tate, Nahum, 353.
Taylor, Sir Henry, 434.
Temi>est, Shakespeare's, revised by Sii- William Davenant, 322.
Tender Husband, The, by Kichard Steele, 405.
Tennyson, Alfred, 4'^.
Terence, 2, 21, 49, 89, 232.
Theatres : — Roman, 272. note 1, 271 : in Inn Yards. 64, 65 ;
the Fii-st buUt in Italy, 89 ; the Fu-st Patent, 100 ; First
Theatres in London, the Theatre and the Curtain, 101 ;
Blackfriars later, 440 ; the Whitefriars, Paris Garden,
Rose. Hope, Swan, Globe, 104 ; Globe, 157 ; Rose and
Blackfriars, 179 ; Red Bull, 247 ; Theatres closed by the
Puritans, 320 ; Sir W. Davenant at Rutland House, 321 ;
Duke's Theatre, King's Theatre ; Cockpit, Drury Lane,
322 ; Scenery, 322, 323, 406 ; Dorset Gardens, 326, 406 ;
Drury Lane, Lincoln's Inn Fields, 383, 395 ; Vanbrugh's in
Haymarket, 395, 406 ; Drury Lane burnt in 1672, 406 ;
Dorset Gardens, Drury Lane rebuilt, Lincoln's Inn Fields,
395, 406 ; HajTnarket and Drury Lane, 407 ; Drury Lane,
Lincoln's Inn Fields, 411, 412 ; Covent Garden, 412 ;
Olympic, 412 ; Goodman's Fiehls, Dniry Lane, 420, 421 ;
Little Theatre in the Haymarket, 423, 424, 4-25 ; Covent
Garden, 424 ; Draiy Lane rebuilt in 1794, 321 ; burnt
again in 1811, and rebuilt 1812, 432 ; rebuUdings of Hay-
market Opera House, 433 ; of the Little Theatre in the
H.aymarket, 433 ; of Covent Garden, 433 ; Lyceum, 433.
Thomson, James, 416, 420.
Tilesio, Antonio, 21.
Timone, Boiardo's, 21.
Timon of Athens, Shakespeai'e's, recast by Thomas Shadwell,
322.
Titus Amlronicus, 157.
Tom Thumb, the Tragedy of Tragedies, hj Kerary Fielding, 418,
419.
Tourneur, Cyril, 247.
Trissino, Giovan Giorgio, 21.
Triumphs of Peace, a Masque by James Shirley. 320.
Troilus .and Cressida, Shakespeare's, altered by Dryden, 322.
Tryi<hon, by Roger Boyle, 331.
Twin Rivals, The, by George Farquhar, 395.
Two Foscari, The, by Lord Byron, 433.
Gentlemen of Verona, The, Shakespeare's, 156, 157, 158.
U.
Udall, Nicholas, 21, 22 ; his Ralph Roister Doister, 21—47.
■Vanbrugh, Sir John, 395 ; The Confederacy, by, 395—400.
Vega, Lope de, 334.
Venice Preserved, by Thomas Otway, 3.55, 369 — 379.
Villiers, George, Duke of Buckingham, The Rehearsal, by,
338—350.
Virginius, by Sheridan Knowles, 434.
Virgin Widow, The, by Sir Henry Taylor, 434.
Volpone, Ben Jonson's, 211.
W.
Wakefield Mysteries, Shepherd's Play in the, 3-12.
Way to Keep Him, The, by Arthur Murjjhy, 424.
of the World, The, by WUliam Congieve, 383.
Webster, John, 178, 247, 248 ; his Duchess of MaJfi, 248—270.
Werner, by Lord Byi*on, 433.
White Devil, The, or Vittoria Corombona, John Webster's,
248.
William Tell, by Sheridan Knowles, 4:U.
Witch, The, by Thomas Middleton, 247.
Woman in the Moon, The, by John Lyly, 128.
■ Killed with Kindness, A, by Thomas Heywood, 247.
Wycherley, William, 353, 359 ; The Plain Dcaler,by. 359—363,
;}83.
Yelverton, Clu-istopher, 99.
'Young, Edward, 412.
INDEX TO NOTES.
439
IL-IXDEX TO NOTES.
IZarffe Figures indicate Pages, and Small Figures give the numbers of the Notes upon them.-]
A fon), 35, 1
Ahy. -.9; by, 8,5; abye, 31,2
Aajts, 150, 5
A^in say, 4,8
A^ppa, Cornelias, 117, 5
Albany, 60, «
Albertns Magmns, 117, »
Alestake, 17.2
Alexander, William, Earl of Stir-
ling, 270, 2
Alle wights, 5, '
Alliance (kindred), 82, 3
Allow (approve), 52, "
Almain (a dance), 107, i
mtters, 117, «
Alter idem, 78, '
Amazed, 42, *
Anchors on the pike, 147, »
Ancient (ensi^), 67, '
And (if), 4,'; 8,*; 24,'- 25 *■
27,'; 35.'; 36,2; 40, t'; 43'3!
73, 3 ; 180, 1
Angel (coin), 144,'
Antwerp, Siege of, in 1585;
117, •
Apostrophe, Misuse of the, 365, '
Ariosto's "I Suppositi," 89,2-
91, ' ; 96, '
Aristippus, 74, ^
Arras (orris), 265.'
Ascham, Roger, 79 '
As t>-te. 11, IS
" As Ton Like It," Date of, 168, '
Aventine, 272,'
Awro, 5, '
B.
Baekare, 24, '
Bacon, Roger, 117, »
Baffle, 282. '
Balmv froth, 194, «
Ban. "11. IS
Banks his horse, 200, '
Bam (child), 10, w
Batoon, 197, 2
Bearing dishes, 292, '
Bedene, 76
Beelzebub. US,'
Benste, 4, "
Bent, 5, '»
Bere (noise), 9, *
Bescumbers, 195, ♦
Bevers. 123, '
Bias, IM. 1 ; 162, '
the Sage, 181,5
Billiments, 30, 5
Bills (official writings), 116, '
Bise, 149,2
Black Saunce, Tune of the, 135, '
Bodkin, Cloth of, 229. 2
Bolt (in archery), 76, • ; 297, '
Bonner, Edmund, 73,2
Bonnets (a sea term), 149, 1
Borde (jesti, 8,«; 27,«; 38,'
Borrow, 42, •
Bouche of court 84 2
Brack, 239, 1
Braid (start), 60, 1
Brentford, The Two Kings of,
339. 1
Brim (furious), 41, >, (adverb)
41,3 '
Brize, 187, '
Bum troth (by my troth), 83, <
Busk (bush), 28, 1
But (unless), 39, ! ; 46,"
By and by (at once) 44.2; 39,5.
67, 3 ; 75, 2 ; 81, 2 ; 86. 2 ; 98, 2 .
By mine one, 4, "; by thine own,
9,3
Callet, 148. 1
Cambyses" vein, 67, «
Canidia, 211,2
Can thee thank, 40, " ; 83, 2
Cast, A false, 9, 10
Cates, 147, 2
" Cato," Addison's, 40S, 1
Cease of, 129, 1
Censure, 167, ' ; 274, ■
Ceres for Seres, 131, 1
Ceylle, 10,8; cele, 10 '8
Chad (I had), 27,2; chave, 71,5-
chonld, 84, 2 ; che trow cha!
Charis, 7, "
Ch.irm of birds, 105, ', 181 2
Chefe, 8,22,
Chepe, 58, "
Chevril, 182, '
Choploge, 3;}, 2
Christmas. Grand, 4S, 2
"Cii-ce," Homer's, 307,'
Clem, 182, 2
Clok, 4, i«
Cloth of bodkin, 229, 2
Clown in old play, 114, '
Clumsy, 195
Clutch, 195, 3
Cockles, Hull and cry, 229 *
Cockscomb, Ut, i
Coddled, 229, 5
Coil, it), 1
CoUocavit (a paU), 42, =
Contrived (passed away), 77, 1
Convey, 14, »
Convince, 72, 2
Corpse, 62.9; gy <
Cothumal buskins,' 194, *
Cotton (succeed), 71, '
Counterpane (copy), 143, 1
Cranes, The Three, of the Vintrv,
85,1 •'■
Cretise with a Cretan, 83, *
Crispinus, 183. 3.«
Crostfpaid), 185,3
Cmsado (a coin), 93, '
CtUlis, 265, >
Curried coat, 26,2
Cust (kissed), 27, '
D and t run together, 4.' ; 56. " •
59," . . . . ,
Dance in a fetter, 14, '
Daniel. Samuel, 270, 2
Darius. luterlude of King, 188 3
Dede (death), 11,15
Dekker and Jonson, 185, 3
Demons, The seven orders of,
118, '
Devocate, 67, 5
Disease, 10, ' ; 80, • ; 203, 1
Dogberry and Verges, 135, 2
Dold, 3, •
Dotj-poll, 16, 1 ; 90, 1
Dowe, 131, '
Drablers, 149, '
Drift, 126, 2
Drinking Songs, 309, 1
Dryden burlesqued, 340, 1 ; 341, 2
E.
Ear of Dionysius, 77, 2
Ed mute after t, 4, ', 59, "
Ee, 6, 12
Eft quytc. 7, 1«
Embden, The Signory of, 120, 2
Emrods, 334, 1
Eughle, 181, 2 ; 184, ♦
Engine, 303, 1
Eutwite, 31, '
Erring stars, 122, 1
Ethnics, 150. 2
Expectless, 236, 1
F.
Fardle, 96, • ; 199, '
Fast (safe). 8,10
Fautor, 241. 3
Favel, 15, 1
Feft, 11, 1*
Ferdegews, 30, 5
Fere, 4, 22 ; 17, 1
Festination, 71, 2
Fey, in fey, 36, i
Fitte, 30, «
Flavian Amphitheatre, The 272 '
Flayed (frightened), 8,i5
Flayn, 8,3
Fletcher, Jack, 76, 1
Flyte, 11, IS
Foist (barge), 229,3
Fond, 41, 2 ; fondly, 81, 1 : fond-
ness, 82, 5
Fool in Old Plays, The, 114 1
Foore, 6, '
Force, no force, 39, ♦ ; 41, s . of
force, 80, 1 ; 992 '
Foreset, 56, '
Fon-akid, 7, s
Forspoken, 11, 13
Fortaxid, 4, 2
Forthihkis me, 5, 's
Fortune Theatre, 188, 2
Forwakid, 7, *
Forgieldis, 5, i'
Fot, 10, -
Fowre (fared), 5, «
Foyne, 7, 12
From (away from), 217, 1
Fnge, 93, 2
Fun (found), 4, 19
G.
Gar, 11, 11
Ganay, 11, 3
Gassampine, 150, 1
Gaudis, 5, 21 ; gawd, 11, '
Gemonies, 272, ♦
Genitive his for 's, 66, i
GU, 72, 5
Gin (snare), 8, "
Glase (pursuit), 8, 2
Glibbery, 194, »
Glose, 9, 5
Go by, jeronimo, 201, 2
Golls, 193, 2 ; 230, 1
Good heart helps when things go
badly, 80,3 ^ «
"Gorboduc," The unauthorised
test of, 51—61
Gossippis, 11, 1
Gramercies, 23, 2
Gulch, 187, •
GmngoUs, 230, 1
H.
Hack (sing out of tune), 10, 2
Had I wist, 4,21
Hamid, 4, '
Happid, 3, 3
Hard sted, 4, 'e
Hamis (brainsi, 6,S; 8,2"
Hat (be named), 11, '
Hatters (spiders). 10,12
Hawthorn, Counting sheep under
the, 8, 22
Hay in his horn, 190, 2
Haj-t, 6, 18
Haze (have us), 35, 2 ; 39, 3
Head mass penny, 7, '
Heck. 7. 19
Heidegges, 136, ■
Hell, "myself am hell," 119,3
Hermogenes, 183, *
Hest, 118, 6
Hippings, 10, ■■
His, for genitive 's, GQ. 1
Hoball, 33, *
Hogs (sheep), 9,"
Homo fuge, 120, '
Horbury shrogs, 9. n
Hours of Prayer, "Tlie Canonical.
5,23
Howleglas, 187, '
" Hull and Cry Cockles," 229, *
Husband, 4,5; 26,3
Huswife, 7, 17
Hyue, 5, n
Hyrdes, 9, '
I (ay), 129,2; 132,12; 134 1
Iche, 6, 9
Imp, 287, 1
Incubus, 194, s
Infract, 90, 3
Intrinsecate. 194, 7
Ivory, Abraham, 340, 3
Iwis, 11,<^; 25,1; g7_2. Igj^ «
J.
Jelot, 8, 1
Jones, Inigo, 211, ' ; 214, 1
Jonson, Ben, translation from
Ovid, 180, 3
Martial, l&t, 1
■ Horace. 195. ^
his translating, 190, '
Marston and Dekker
on, 200,1; 201,1,2; 206 ■ ♦
Jut, Give him a, 33, '
Ka (quotha), 24, «
KeU, 229, 5
" Ken me thank." 83, ' : 40, ■'
Key to the " Rehearsal," notes
on.pages 338—350
Kippis, 10, 18
Knave (boy), 8, 9 ; 10, is
Lacan, 6, 2»
Lagh (laugh), 11,12
Lake (play), 5, i" ; lakis, 9, '
Lamb, Charles, on " The Duchess
of Malfi," 263, ■
Langid, 4, 12
Laudes, 5, 23
Leather Captain, 202, 1
Ledyr hyne, 5, » ; letherly, 5, 19
Lee (lie), 11,2
Leeseflose).-23, 1
Legs (bows), 182, 3
Lene, 6, 13
Lere, 7, "
Let (hinder), 8«, 1
Levy, 43, 1
Lexiphanes.Lucian's, 196, ' ; 197, '
Lilbume, 33, *
List rave, 5, 12
Lloegria, 60, <
Lobcock, 33, ♦
Loke, 6, 1*
Lombard's touch, 30, 2
Lordfast, 4, ♦
Lote, 9, *
Loten, 4, 23
Lucifer, 119, «
Luskie, 90, 2
Lyly, John, 133, 1 ; 141, 1
M.
Ma^iiicate, 195, 2
Mail a hawk, 230, 3
Mak, as a clown's name, 6, 2
Manchet, 154, 1
Masque at Court. Inigo Jones's
design for a, 214, 1
Mass. By the, 46, 3
Mate (confound), 116, 1
Mends, 11. •
Mene, 6, is ; 11, ■«
Mephistophele?, 118,'
Methinketh, 99, 1
Mich, 205, 1
Mo, 6, 3
Mome, 33. 1
More and less (men of all ranks),
22, 1
•140
CASSELL'S LIBRARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.
Morrow, 3, ^
Mortimer and Ms sow, 24, '
Mould (.mole), 98, '
N.
Namely (especLiUy), 8, "
Nawre, 8. ^~
Neckverse, 14, ^
Neemly, 7. ^
Nesh, 10,"
Neven. 6, *
NiU, 85, «
Ningle, 198, =
Nois (reputation), 6, '«
Nominate, 194, ^
Oblight, 72, 1
Ofslogh, 8, "
On (one), 72,'
Or (ere), 4, " ; or ever, 68, ^ ;
82, •
Otranto taken Ijy the Turks, 90, ^
Ovid's " Medea," 181, >
Owe (own), 155, ^ ; owes, 166, '
P.
Paislie, 48,=
Pantolabus, 181, »
Parma, Alexander Fame?e,
Prince of. 117, * '
Pastanoe. 30, '
Paved (pleased). 9, ^
Pliilotus. Daniel's, 270, =__
Pike, Anchors on the, 147, '
Pistriuum, 102, '
Plot (space of gn'ound), 78,*
Pompey's Theatre, 272, '
?o (peacock), 4, '"
Prayer, Canonical Hours of, 5, ^
Prease, 130. 3
Precisian, 118, ^
Prerogative, Eoyal, Sir T. Sack-
ville on, 147, *
Prest, 147, ' 150, *
Pretenced, 66. ^ ; pretence, 69, '
Pretended, 56, >": pretend, 147,*
Pudding tobacco, 199, =
Q.
Quaking Custard, 196, '
Quick, 128,1; 225, 3; quick-buried,
237,'
Quiddity, 118, '
Quiutain, 170, i
Qiiyte,-7, 's
B.
Eace of Ginger, 146, '
Eack, 119,3
Ead, 5, -o
Eaik, 7,=^
Eaisid (vexed), 7,"
Kamid, 4, =
Eamp, 194, '
Eaps (snatches), 241,^
Eave(rove), 5, '=
Eaw (row), 5. =
Bay (row), 41,6; ^_2
Eebate, 142, '
Eecorders, 306, '
Eede, 11, '^
Bed (make ready), 8, ^
Eegals (small organ), 83, '
Eeille, 7, "'
Rek 7 ='
Remor'a, 187, =>
Eetrograde, 194, '
Eetm-u from Parnassus, The,
270,?
Rich, Christopher, 407, '
Eiches, 124, "
Boil, 30, »
Borid, 202, '
Bounding (whispering), 27, ^
Eout (strike), 41, ' •
Bowue, 7, 6
Boystine, 22, 3
Eushes on Floors, 270, >
Butters, Almoin, 117, '
S.
S, Northern plural in, 3, ' ; 10, ^
Sad, 40,->; sadly, 46,2
Sagh(say), 11, 'o
Salary, A Roman actor's, 272, '
Sam in a stede, 11, '*
Satiromastis, 200, '
Saunce, Tuue of the Black, 135, '
Saynt, 6, ">
Scorn, 5, ^
Serine, 42, *
Scroyle, 190, '
Sectour, 34, '
Seek, to seek (wanting), 42, =
Seen, well seen (skilled), 117,*
Senecal-man, 241, '
Sennet, 123, "
Sepber, 155, '
Sere ( claw), 243, ■
Shakespeare, Some critics of,
170, 2
-Stratford portrait of.
164,'
Shekyls, 4, ':
Sheut, 24, 1 ; 74, 3
Sbo (she), 6,"
Shotclog, 181, 3
Shi-ews, 5, 8 ; 6, •»
Shroggs, 9,;"
SiUy, 3,'; 147,2
Sins, Pageantry of the Seven,
122,3
Skeldering, 180, '
SkiU, 30,3
Sleep with either ear, 77, '
SUthis, 5, s
Sneck, 7, »
Snottery, 194, «
Soil (teed high), 229, >
Sort (company), 26, ' ; 62, ^
Souls, My three, 193, '
Sound (swoon), 34,*
Sour loten, 4, ^3
Speculation, 120, '
Spill (destroy), 37, = ; 39,=
SquirUity, 83, 3
Stalk, 8, "
Stai-ne (star), 11,'
Stede, 11, ■•
Stem (mdder),62,'2
StUUng, 72, 3
Store-farm, 9, '
Straightly, 71, 3
Strain (constrain), 85, ^
Surcingle, 230, =
Suspowse, 10, •'
Sweven, 8, '^
Swinge, 235, '
Swink, 147,= ; swinkis, 5, '*
Tale, Every shepherd tells his,
8,==
" Tambnrlaine," Marlowe's, 203, =
TaiTe on, 166, '
Tell (count), 182,3
Tene, 11, "
Teston (coin), 201, *
Tharmis, 8, ''■•
Thar (need), 7,='
"Tbarnis me, 6, *
There (where), 10,'
The (thrive), 9, '3
Tbole, 7, =»
Thou, Dost thou thou me ? 16, = ;
44,'
Threap, 5, "
Thwang, 6, "
Tired on (pulled at), 189,'
Titivile, 22, *
Tityrus, tillage, .ffinee, 180, *
Tobacco, 199, =
To mom at next, 7, =
Toom, 10, "
To (tiU), 5,'; 7,"; 8,'; 9,'*
Train (draw deceitfully), 235, =
Trickl'd, 365, '
Trow, 10, '
Troy, 106, 1
Tumeraris, 118, ^
Tyte, 11, "
U.
Uneth, 37, '
Uuton, Sir Henry, 54, 3
Ure, 4, '»
Vailed, 167, »
Valdes, 117, =
Vatter (fatter), 71, ^
Venies at wasters, 225, ' ; vennie,
246,'
Via Sacra, 184, = ; 189, =
Vice, The, in Morality Plays,
66, 3 ; 114, 1
Vii-bius, 279, '
W.
■War (worse), 7, ' ; waur, 8, >
Wary, 4, 3
"Wasters, 255, '
Wayt, 6, "
Weathers, 3, =
"Well (intensive), 6,3
"Welner, 8, '»
"Weniand, "Walk in the, 9, 3
"Whereas (where), 116,3
"Whispers, Stage, 340, ♦
Winkis, 5, '^
Wist. 46, =
Wit (know), 9,1*
Witches, 212,',=
Won, 105,= ; wonis, 10,'
Wood (mad), 8, '=
Words ridiculed by Ben Jousou,
194, '-» ; 195, '-*
Worsley's "Odyssey," 311, '
Worth, woe worth, 85, *
Writhis, 5, "
Wyatt, Sir Thomas, 37, '
Wyoman, 6, ^
Temf ul, 80, =
Yode, 6, ' ; 10, ♦ ; yede, 8, "
You and thou, 44, ' ; 16, »
Ywis, 25, 1 ; see " iwis."
III.-INDEX TO SPECIMENS OF ENGLISH.
Host of the jiassages from'old plays in this Volume have $uch of their u-ords as are still current English spelt in the way that least diverts attention from the
thoughts they stand for ; but in the followiuff pieces all accidents of spelling, Ax., have been left untouched, that they may serve as illustrations of the
language in successive periods ; —
SIXTEENTH CENTURY. ^^^^
King Cambyses, by Thomas Preston 67—74
Endymion, by John Lyly 128—141
SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.
Dedication to "The Revenge of Bossy d'Ambois," by George Chapman 232
Preface to " The Siege of Rhodes," by Sir William Davenant .323
Close OP " The Indian Queen," by .John Dryilen 330,331
The Rival Queens, by Nathaniel Lee 3.56— .•i59
The Spanish Fkiar, by John Drj-den 364—368
NOTE.
In a privately printed dissertation, dated 1874, which I had not seen when page 101 was written, Mr. Halliwell shows reason for
belie\-ing that the Blackfriars Tlieatre was not opened until about twenty years after "The Theatre " and " The Curtain."
Printed dv Cassell & Companv. Limited, La Belle Sauvage, London, E.G.
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY
Los Angeles
This book is DUE on the last date stamped below.
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